As I understand it now he meant: Help yourself! The Lord helps those who
help themselves!
As I said before, Rubinstein never played for me the works I had to
study. He explained, analysed, elucidated everything that he wanted me
to know; but, this done, he left me to my own judgment, for only then,
he would explain, would my achievement be my own and incontestable
property. I learned from Rubinstein in this way the valuable truth that
the conception of tone-pictures obtained through the playing of another
gives us only transient impressions; they come and go, while the
self-created conception will last and remain our own.
Now, when I look back upon my study-days with Rubinstein, I can see that
he did not so much instruct me as that I learned from him. He was not a
pedagogue in the usual meaning of that word. He indicated to me an
altitude offering a fine view, but how I was to get up there was my
affair; he did not bother about it. "Play with your nose!" Yes--but when
I bumped it till it fairly bled where would I get the metaphorical
handkerchief? In my imagination! And he was right.
To be sure, this method would not work with all pupils, but it is
nevertheless well calculated to develop a student's original thought and
bring out whatever acumen he may possess. If such a one succeeded by his
own study and mental force to reach the desired point which the great
magician's wizardry had made him see, he had gained the reliance in his
own strength: he felt sure that he would always find that point
again--even though he should lose his way once or twice, as every one
with an honest aspiration is liable to do.
I recall that Rubinstein once said to me: "Do you know why piano-playing
is so difficult? Because it is prone to be either affected or else
afflicted with mannerisms; and when these two pitfalls are luckily
avoided then it is liable to be--dry! The truth lies between those three
mischiefs!"
When it was settled that I should make my Hamburg debut under his baton
with his own D-minor Concerto, I thought the time had come at last to
study with him one of his own works. So I proposed it, but Rubinstein
disposed of it! I still see him, as if it were but yesterday, seated in
the greenroom of the Berlin Philharmonic during an intermission in his
concert (it was on a Saturday) and telling me: "We shall appear together
in Hamburg on Monday." The time was short, but I knew the Concerto and
hoped to go through it with him some time in the remaining two days. I
asked his permission to play the Concerto for him, but he declined my
urgent request, saying: "It is not necessary; we understand each other!"
And even in this critical moment he left me to my own resources. After
the last (and only) rehearsal the great master embraced me before the
whole orchestra, and I--well, I was not in the seventh, but in the
"eighth" heaven! Everything was all right, I said to myself, for
Rubinstein, Rubinstein was satisfied! The public simply had to be! The
concert went off splendidly.
After that memorable debut in Hamburg, which was on March 14, 1894, I
went directly to see Rubinstein, little dreaming that my eyes would then
see him for the last time. I brought with me a large photograph of
himself, and, though fully aware of his unconquerable aversion to
autographing, my desire for the possession of his signature overruled my
reluctance and I made my request.
He raised both fists and thundered, half-angry and half-laughing: "_Et
tu, Brute?_"
But my wish was granted, and I reproduce the portrait in this article.
Then I asked him when I should play for him again, and to my
consternation he answered: "Never!"
In my despair I asked him: "Why not?"
He, generous soul that he was, then said to me: "My dear boy,
I have told you all I know about legitimate piano-playing and
music-making"--and then changing his tone somewhat he added: "And if you
don't know it _yet_, why, go to the devil!"
I saw only too well that while he smiled as he said it he meant it
seriously, and I left him.
I never saw Rubinstein again. Soon after that he returned to his villa
in Peterhof, near St. Petersburg, and there he died on November 19,
1894.
The effect that his death had upon me I shall never forget. The world
appeared suddenly entirely empty to me, devoid of any interest. My grief
made me realise how my heart had worshipped not only the artist in him
but also the man; how I loved him as if he were my father. I learned of
his death through the English papers while I was _en route_ from London
to Cheltenham, where I was booked for a recital on the twentieth. The
B-flat minor Sonata by Chopin happened to be on the programme, and as I
struck the first notes of the Funeral March the whole audience rose from
their seats as if by command and remained standing with bowed heads
during the whole piece--in honour of the great departed.
A singular coincidence occurred at my concert on the preceding day--the
day of Rubinstein's death.
On this day I played for the first time in public after my seven years'
retirement (excepting my Hamburg debut). It was in London. In this
concert I played, as a novelty, a Polonaise in E-flat minor which
Rubinstein had but recently written in Dresden and dedicated to me. He
had included it in the set called "Souvenirs de Dresde." This piece has
throughout the character of a Funeral March in all but the
time-division. Little did I dream while I was playing it that day that I
was singing him into his eternal rest, for it was but a few hours later
that, in the far East of Europe, my great master passed away, suddenly,
of heart failure.
Two years later I played this same Polonaise for the second and last
time. It was on the anniversary of his death, in St. Petersburg, where
in honour of his memory I gave a recital, the proceeds of which I
devoted to the Rubinstein Fund. Since then I have played this piece only
once, at home and to myself, excluding it entirely from my public
repertoire. For, though it was dedicated to me, the time and
circumstances of its initial performance always made me feel as if it
still belonged to my master, or, at best, as if it were something
personal and private between us two.
Indispensables in Pianistic Success
I
"The Indispensables in Pianistic Success? Are not the indispensables in
all success very much the same? Nothing can take the place of real
worth. This is especially true of America, in which country I have lived
longer than in any other, and which I am glad to call my home. Americans
are probably the most traveled people of the world, and it is futile to
offer them anything but the best. Some years ago a conductor brought to
this country an orchestra of second-class character, with the idea that
the people would accept it just because it bore the name of a famous
European city which possessed one of the great orchestras of the world.
It was a good orchestra, but there were better orchestras in American
cities, and it took American audiences just two concerts to find this
out, resulting in a disastrous failure, which the conductor was man
enough to face and personally defray. The American people know the
best, and will have nothing but the best. Therefore, if you would make a
list of the indispensables of pianistic success in this country at this
time you must put at the head of your list, REAL WORTH.
"Naturally, one of the first indispensables would include what many term
'the musical gift.' However, this is often greatly misunderstood. We
are, happily, past the time when music was regarded as a special kind of
divine dispensation, which, by its very possession, robbed the musician
of any claim to possible excellence in other lines. In other words,
music was so special a gift that it was even thought by some misguided
people to isolate the musician from the world--to make him a thing apart
and different from other men and women of high aspirations and
attainments.
"It is true that there have been famous prodigies in mathematics, and in
games such as chess, who have given evidence of astonishing prowess in
their chosen work, but who, at the same time, seem to have been
lamentably under-developed in many other ways. This is not the case in
music at this day at least, for, although a special love for music and a
special quickness in mastering musical problems are indispensable, yet
the musicians are usually men and women of broad cultural development if
they desire it and are willing to work for it.
"Nor can I concede that a very finely developed sense of hearing is in
all cases essential. The possession of what is known as absolute pitch,
which so many seem to think is a sure indication of musical genius, is
often a nuisance. Schumann did not possess it, and (unless I am
incorrectly informed) Wagner did not have absolute pitch. I have it, and
can, I believe, distinguish differences of an eighth of a tone. I find
it more disturbing than beneficial. My father had absolute pitch in
remarkable fashion. He seemed to have extremely acute ears. Indeed, it
was often impossible for him to identify a well-known composition if he
heard it played in a different key--it sounded so different to him.
Mozart had absolute pitch, but music, in his day, was far less
complicated. We now live in an age of melodic and contrapuntal
intricacy, and I do not believe that the so-called acute sense of
hearing, or highly developed sense of absolute pitch, has very much to
do with one's real musical ability. The physical hearing is nothing;
the spiritual hearing--if one may say so--is what really counts. If, in
transposing, for instance, one has associated the contents of a piece so
closely with its corresponding tonality that it is hard to play in any
other tonality, this constitutes a difficulty--not an advantage.
II
"Too much cannot be said about the advantage of an early drill. The
impressions made during youth seem to be the most lasting. I am certain
that the pieces that I learned before I was ten years of age remain more
persistently in my memory than the compositions I studied after I was
thirty. The child who is destined for a musical career should receive as
much musical instruction in early life as is compatible with the child's
health and receptivity. To postpone the work too long is just as
dangerous to the child's career as it is dangerous to overload the pupil
with more work than his mind and body can absorb. Children learn far
more rapidly than adults--not merely because of the fact that the work
becomes more and more complicated as the student advances, but also
because the child mind is so vastly more receptive. The child's power
of absorption in music study between the ages of eight and twelve is
simply enormous; it is less between twelve and twenty; still less
between twenty and thirty, and often lamentably small between thirty and
forty. It might be represented by some such diagram as:
---------------------------------------------------------------
30 to 40 years of age Limited Receptivity Limited Results
---------------------------------------------------------------
20 to 30 } Still Less Accomplishment
years of age }
---------------------------------------------------------------
12 to 20 } Less Accomplishment
years of age }
---------------------------------------------------------------
8 to 12 }
years } Greatest Receptivity
of } Greatest Accomplishment
age }
---------------------------------------------------------------
"Of course, these lines are only comparative, and there are exceptional
cases of astonishing development late in life, due to enormous ambition
and industry. Yet the period of highest achievement is usually early in
life. This is especially true in the arts where digital skill is
concerned.
"All teachers are aware of the need for the best possible drill early in
life. The idea one so often hears expressed in America: 'Since my
daughter is only beginning her studies--any teacher will do,' has been
the source of great laxity in American musical education. If the father
who has such an idea would only transpose the same thought to the
building of a house he would be surprised to find himself saying: 'Since
I am only laying a foundation, any kind of trashy material will do. I
will use inferior cement, plaster, stone, bricks, decayed wood and cheap
hardware, and employ the cheapest labor I can procure. But when I get to
the roof I shall engage the finest roofmakers in the world!'
"The beginning is of such tremendous importance that only the best is
good enough. By this I do not mean the most expensive teacher
obtainable, but someone who is thorough, painstaking, conscientious,
alert and experienced. The foundation is the part of the house in which
the greatest strength and thoroughness is required. Everything must be
solid, substantial, firm and secure, to stand the stress of use and the
test of time. Of course, there is such a thing as employing a teacher
with a big reputation and exceptional skill, who would make an excellent
teacher for an advanced student, but who might be incapable of laying a
good foundation for the beginner. One wants strength at the
foundation--not gold ornaments and marble trimmings and beautiful
decorations, fretwork, carving. Just as in great cities one finds firms
which make a specialty of laying foundations for immense buildings, so
it is often wise to employ a teacher who specializes in instructing
beginners. In European music schools this has almost always been the
case. It is not virtuosity that is needed in the makeup of the teacher
of beginners, but rather sound musicianship, as well as the
comprehension of the child psychology. Drill, drill, and more drill, is
the secret of the early training of the mind and hand. This is indicated
quite as much in games such as tennis, billiards and golf. Think of the
remarkable records of some very young players in these games, and you
will see what may be accomplished in the early years of the young
player.
"In all arts and sciences, as one advances, complications and obstacles
seem to multiply in complexity until the point of mastery is reached;
then the tendency seems to reverse itself, until a kind of circle
carries one round again to the point of simplicity. I have often liked
to picture this to myself in this way:
[Illustration]
"It is encouraging for the student to know that he must expect to be
confronted with ever-increasing difficulties, until he reaches the point
where all the intense and intricate problems seem to solve themselves,
dissolving gradually into the light of a clear understanding day. This
is to me a general principle underlying almost all lines of human
achievement, and it appears to me that the student should learn its
application, not only to his own but to other occupations and
attainments. This universal line of life, starting with birth, mounting
to its climax in middle life, and then passing on to greater and greater
simplicity of means, until at death the circle is almost completed, is a
kind of human program which all successful men would appear to follow.
Perhaps we can make this clearer by studying the evolution of the steam
engine.
"The steam engine started with the most primitive kind of apparatus. At
the very first it was of the turbine type. Hero of Alexander (Heron, in
Greek) made the first steam engine, which was little more than a toy.
According to some historians, Heron lived in the second century before
Christ, and according to others his work was done in the latter half of
the first century. He was an ingenious mathematician who often startled
the people of this time with his mechanical contrivances. It is
difficult to show the principle of his engine in an exact drawing; but
the following indicates in a crude way the application of steam force
something after the manner in which Heron first applied it.
[Illustration]
"A is a retort containing water, which is heated to steam, which issues
from the tube at B and is caught in the wheel in such a manner that the
wheel revolves. The principle is simplicity itself; and the noteworthy
fact is that--primitive as it is--it has the characteristic principle
involved in the turbine engine of to-day. After Heron many others
attempted to use controlled steam to produce force, until, in 1764,
James Watt made discoveries which paved the way for the modern steam
engine, constituting him virtually the inventor of the type. Thereafter,
the machinery became more and more complicated and enormous in size.
Double, triple and quadruple expansion types were introduced until, at
the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, in 1876, a giant engine was
exhibited by Corliss--a marvelous engine, with many elaborate details.
Then, having reached the maximum curve of complexity, engine
construction became more and more simple, and now we have turbine
engines, such as the Parsons engines, which are all far smaller and
simpler than their grandfathers of the seventies, but at the same time
vastly more powerful and efficient.
III
"In the art of piano playing we have much the same line of curve. At
first there was childlike simplicity. Then, with the further development
of the art, we find the tendency toward enormous technical
accomplishment and very great complexity. Fifty years ago technic was
everything. The art of piano playing was the art of the musical
speedometer--the art of playing the greatest number of notes in the
shortest possible time. Of course, there were a few outstanding giants,
Rubinsteins, Liszts and Chopins, who made their technic subordinate to
their message; but the public was dazzled with technic--one might better
say pyrotechnics. Now we find the circle drawing toward the point of
simplicity again. Great beauty, combined with adequate technic, is
demanded rather than enormous technic divorced from beauty.
"Technic represents the material side of art, as money represents the
material side of life. By all means achieve a fine technic, but do not
dream that you will be artistically happy with this alone.
Thousands--millions--of people believe that money is the basis of great
happiness, only to find, when they have accumulated vast fortunes, that
money is only one of the extraneous details which may--or may
not--contribute to real content in life.
"Technic is a chest of tools from which the skilled artisan draws what
he needs at the right time for the right purpose. The mere possession
of the tools means nothing; it is the instinct--the artistic intuition
as to when and how to use the tools--that counts. It is like opening the
drawer and finding what one needs at the moment.
"There is a technic which liberates and a technic which represses the
artistic self. All technic ought to be a means of expression. It is
perfectly possible to accumulate a technic that is next to useless. I
recall the case of a musician in Paris who studied counterpoint, harmony
and fugue for eight years, and at the end of that time he was incapable
of using any of his knowledge in practical musical composition. Why?
Because he had spent all of his time on the mere dry technic of
composition, and none in actual composition. He told me that he had been
years trying to link his technic to the artistic side of things--to
write compositions that embodied real music, and not merely the reflex
of uninspired technical exercises. I am a firm believer in having
technic go hand in hand with veritable musical development from the
start. Neither can be studied alone; one must balance the other. The
teacher who gives a pupil a long course in strict technic unbroken by
the intelligent study of real music, is producing a musical mechanic--an
artisan, not an artist.
"Please do not quote me as making a diatribe against technic. I believe
in technic to the fullest extent in its proper place. Rosenthal, who was
unquestionably one of the greatest technicians, once said to me: 'I have
found that the people who claim that technic is not an important thing
in piano playing simply do not possess it.' For instance, one hears now
and then that scales are unnecessary in piano practice. A well-played
scale is a truly beautiful thing, but few people play them well because
they do not practice them enough. Scales are among the most difficult
things in piano playing; and how the student who aspires to rise above
mediocrity can hope to succeed without a thorough and far-reaching drill
in all kinds of scales, I do not know. I do know, however, that I was
drilled unrelentingly in them, and that I have been grateful for this
all my life. Do not despise scales, but rather seek to make them
beautiful.
"The clever teacher will always find some piece that will illustrate the
use and result of the technical means employed. There are thousands of
such pieces that indicate the use of scales, chords, arpeggios, thirds,
etc., and the pupil is encouraged to find that what he has been working
so hard to acquire may be made the source of beautiful expression in a
real piece of music. This, to my mind, should be part of the regular
program of the student from the very start; and it is what I mean when I
say that the work of the pupil in technic and in musical appreciation
should go hand in hand from the beginning.
IV
"The use of the pedal is an art in itself. Unfortunately, with many it
is an expedient to shield deficiency--a cloak to cover up inaccuracy and
poor touch. It is employed as the veils that fading dowagers adopt to
obscure wrinkles. The pedal is even more than a medium of coloring. It
provides the background so indispensable in artistic playing. Imagine a
picture painted without any background and you may have an inkling of
what the effect of the properly used pedal is in piano playing. It has
always seemed to me that it does in piano playing what the wind
instruments do in the tonal mass of the orchestra. The wind instruments
usually make a sort of background for the music of the other
instruments. One who has attended the rehearsal of a great orchestra and
has heard the violins rehearsed alone, and then together with the wind
instruments, will understand exactly what I mean.
"How and when to introduce the pedal to provide certain effects is
almost the study of a lifetime. From the very start, where the student
is taught the bad effect of holding down the 'loud' pedal while two
unrelated chords are played, to the time when he is taught to use the
pedal for the accomplishment of atmospheric effects that are like
painting in the most subtle and delicate shades, the study of the pedal
is continuously a source of the most interesting experiment and
revelation.
"There should be no hard-and-fast rules governing the use of the pedal.
It is the branch of pianoforte playing in which there must always be the
greatest latitude. For instance, in the playing of Bach's works on the
modern pianoforte there seems to have been a very great deal of
confusion as to the propriety of the use of the pedal. The Bach music,
which is played now on the keyboard of the modern piano, was, for the
most part, originally written for either the clavier or for the organ.
The clavichord had a very short sound, resembling in a way the staccato
touch on the present-day piano, whereas the organ was and is capable of
a great volume of sound of sustained quality. Due to the contradictory
nature of these two instruments and the fact that many people do not
know whether a composition at hand was written for the clavichord or for
the organ, some of them try to imitate the organ sound by holding the
pedal all the time or most of the time, while others try to imitate the
clavichord and refrain from the use of the pedal altogether. The extreme
theories, as in the case of all extreme theories, are undoubtedly wrong.
"One may have the clavichord in mind in playing one piece and the organ
in mind in playing another. There can be nothing wrong about that, but
to transform the modern pianoforte, which has distinctly specific tonal
attributes, into a clavichord or into an organ must result in a tonal
abuse.