the couplers a part of the organ or the brass tangents a part of the
clavichord. It is artistically impossible to so camouflage the tone of
the pianoforte as to make it sound like either the organ or the
clavichord. Even were this possible, the clavichord is an instrument
which is out of date, though the music of Bach is still a part and
parcel of the musical literature of to-day. The oldest known specimen of
the clavichord (dated 1537) is in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, in New
York City. Should you happen to view this instrument you would realize
at once that its action is entirely different from that of the piano,
just as its tone was different. You cannot possibly make a piano sound
like a clavichord through any medium of touch or pedals. Therefore, why
not play the piano as a piano? Why try to do the impossible thing in
endeavoring to make the piano sound like another instrument of a
different mechanism? Why not make a piano sound like a piano? Must we
always endure listening to Wagner's music in a variety show and to
Strauss' waltzes in Carnegie Hall?
V
"If one were to ask me what is the indispensable thing in the education
of a pianist, I would say: 'First of all, a good guide.' By this I do
not mean merely a good teacher, but rather a mentor, a pilot who can and
who will oversee the early steps of the career of a young person. In my
own case, I was fortunate in having a father, a professional musician,
who realized my musical possibilities, and from the very beginning was
intensely interested in my career, not merely as a father, but as an
artist guiding and piloting every day of my early life. Fate is such a
peculiar mystery, and the student, in his young life, can have but a
slight idea of what is before him in the future. Therefore, the need of
a mentor is essential. I am sure that my father was the author of a
great deal of the success that I have enjoyed. It was he who took me to
Moszkowski and Rubinstein. The critical advice--especially that of
Rubinstein--was invaluable to me. The student should have unrelenting
criticism from a master mind. Even when it is caustic, as was von
Buelow's, it may be very beneficial. I remember once in the home of
Moszkowski that I played for von Buelow. The taciturn, cynical
conductor-pianist simply crushed me with his criticism of my playing.
But, young though I was, I was not so conceited as to fail to realize
that he was right. I shook hands with him and thanked him for his
advice and criticism. Von Buelow laughed and said, 'Why do you thank me?
It is like the chicken thanking the one who had eaten it, for doing so.'
Von Buelow, on that same day played in such a jumbled manner with his
old, stiffened fingers, that I asked Moszkowski how in the world it
might be possible for von Buelow to keep a concert engagement which I
knew him to have a few days later in Berlin. Moszkowski replied: 'Let
von Buelow alone for that. You don't know him. If he sets out to do
something, he is going to do it.'
"Von Buelow's playing, however, was almost always pedantic, although
unquestionably scholarly. There was none of the leonine spontaneity of
Rubinstein. Rubinstein was a very exacting schoolmaster at the piano
when he first undertook to train me; but he often said to me, 'The main
object is to make the music sound right, even though you have to play
with your nose!' With Rubinstein there was no _ignus fatuus_ of mere
method. Any method that would lead to fine artistic results--to
beautiful and effective performance--was justifiable in his eyes.
"Finally, to the student let me say: 'Always work hard and strive to do
your best. Secure a reliable mentor if you can possibly do so, and
depend upon his advice as to your career. Even with the best advice
there is always the element of fate--the introduction of the
unknown--the strangeness of coincidence which would almost make one
believe in astrology and its dictum that our terrestrial course may be
guided by the stars. In 1887, when I played in Washington as a child of
eleven, I was introduced to a young lady, who was the daughter of
Senator James B. Eustis. Little did I dream that this young woman, of
all the hundreds and hundreds of girls introduced to me during my tours,
would some day be my wife. Fate plays its role--but do not be tempted
into the fallacious belief that success and everything else depend upon
fate, for the biggest factor is, after all, hard work and intelligent
guidance.'"
_Piano Questions Answered_
CONTENTS
TECHNIQUE PAGE
1. General 3
2. Position of the Body 4
3. Position of the Hand 6
4. Position of the Fingers 6
5. Action of the Wrist 9
6. Action of the Arm 11
7. Stretching 12
8. The Thumb 14
9. The Other Fingers 16
10. Weak Fingers, etc. 18
11. Staccato 21
12. Legato 22
13. Precision 25
14. Piano Touch vs Organ Touch 26
15. Fingering 27
16. The Glissando 29
17. Octaves 29
18. Repetition Technique 34
19. Double Notes 35
THE INSTRUMENT 35
THE PEDALS 39
PRACTICE 45
MARKS AND NOMENCLATURE 57
ABOUT CERTAIN PIECES AND COMPOSERS 75
1. Bach 80
2. Beethoven 83
3. Mendelssohn 85
4. Chopin 86
EXERCISES AND STUDIES 93
POLYRHYTHMS 96
PHRASING 98
RUBATO 100
CONCEPTION 102
FORCE OF EXAMPLE 104
THEORY 104
THE MEMORY 112
SIGHT-READING 117
ACCOMPANYING 117
TRANSPOSING 119
PLAYING FOR PEOPLE 120
ABOUT THE PIANO PER SE 127
BAD MUSIC 133
ETHICAL 135
PITCH AND KINDRED MATTERS 136
THE STUDENT'S AGE 138
TEACHERS, LESSONS AND METHODS 140
MISCELLANEOUS QUESTIONS 150
A FOREWORD
This little book is compiled from the questions and my answers to them,
as they have appeared during the past two years in the _Ladies' Home
Journal_. Since the questions came mostly from young piano students and
cover a large number of matters important to the study of the piano, it
was thought that this republication might be of interest to piano
students in general, and that, gathered into a little volume, they might
form a new and perhaps not unwelcome sort of reference book.
To serve as such and to facilitate the reader's search for any
particular subject, I have grouped the questions, together with their
answers, under special headings.
It is only natural, however, that a book of this character cannot
contain more than mere suggestions to stimulate the reader's individual
thinking. Positive facts, which can be found in books on musical history
and in kindred works, are, therefore, stated only where they are
needful as a basis for the replies. Any rule or advice given to some
particular person cannot fit every other person unless it is passed
through the sieve of one's own individual intelligence and is, by this
process, so modified as to fit one's own particular case.
There are, in addition to the questions presented and answered, one or
two points about piano-playing that would naturally not occur to the
average student. The opportunity to discuss those here is too favourable
to be allowed to pass, and as they hardly admit of precise
classification, I venture to offer them here as a brief foreword.
To the hundreds of students who at various times have asked me: What is
the quickest way to become a great piano-player? I will say that such a
thing as a royal road, a secret trick, or a patent method to quickly
become a great artist, does not exist. As the world consists of atoms;
as it is the infinitely small things that have forced the microscope
into the scientist's hand, so does art contain numberless small,
seemingly insignificant things which, if neglected entirely, visit dire
vengeance upon the student. Instead of prematurely concerning himself
with his inspiration, spirituality, genius, fancy, etc., and neglecting
on their account the material side of piano study, the student should be
willing to progress from atom to atom, slowly, deliberately, but with
absolute certainty that each problem has been completely solved, each
difficulty fully overcome, before he faces the next one. Leaps, there
are none!
Unquestionably it does sometimes happen that an artist suddenly acquires
a wide renown. In such a case his leap was not into greatness, but
merely into the public's recognition of it; the greatness must have been
in him for some time before the public became aware of it. If there was
any leaping, it was not the artist, but the public that did it.
Let us not close our eyes to the fact that there have been--and probably
always will be--artists that gain a wide renown _without_ being great;
puffery, aided by some personal eccentricity, is quite able to mislead
the public, but these will, at best, do it only for a short time, and
the collapse of such a reputation, as collapse there must be, is always
sure, and sad to behold.
The buoyancy of mind, its ability to soar, so necessary for both
creative and interpretative art, these are never impaired by close
attention to detail. If they should be destroyed by attention to detail,
it would not matter, for they cannot have been genuine; they can have
been but sentimental imaginings. Details are the very steps which, one
by one, lead to the summit of art; we should be careful not to lift one
foot before the other one rests quite securely upon its step. One
should--to illustrate--not be satisfied with the ability of "getting
through" some difficult passage "by the skin of the teeth" or "without
breaking down," but should strive to be able to play _with_ it, to toy
with it, in order to have it at one's beck and call in any variation of
mood, so as to play it as it pleases the mind and not only the fingers.
One should acquire sovereignty over it.
This sovereignty is technique. But--technique is not art. It is only a
means to achieve art, a paver of the path toward it. The danger of
confounding technique with art itself is not inconsiderable, since it
takes a long time to develop a trustworthy technique; and this prolonged
association with one subject is apt to give it supremacy over all others
in one's mind. To guard against this serious danger the student should,
above all, never lose sight of the fact that music, as does any other
art, springs from our innate craving for individual expression. As
word-thought is transmitted from man to man by verbal language so are
feelings, emotions, moods--crystallized into tone-thought--conveyed by
music. The effects of music may, therefore, be ennobling and refining;
but they can as easily be degrading and demoralizing. For the saints and
sinners among music-makers are probably in the same proportion as among
the followers of other professions. The ethical value of music depends,
therefore, not upon the musician's technique, but solely upon his moral
tendencies. The student should never strive to dazzle his auditor's ear
with mere technical brilliancy, but should endeavour to gladden his
heart, to refine his feelings and sensibilities, by transmitting noble
musical thoughts to his mind. He should scorn all unnecessary,
charlatanish externalities and strive ever for the inwardness of the
composition he interprets; for, in being honest to the composition he
will also be honest to himself and thus, consciously or not, express his
own best self. If all musicians were sincere in this endeavour there
could be neither envy nor jealousy among them; advancing hand in hand
toward their common ideal they could not help being of mutual assistance
to each other.
Art, not unlike religion, needs an altar around which its devotees may
congregate. Liszt, in his day, had erected such an altar in Weimar, and
as its high priest he stood, himself, before it--a luminous example of
devotion to art. Rubinstein did the same in St. Petersburg. Out of these
atmospheres, thanks to the inspiring influences of Liszt's and
Rubinstein's wonderful personalities, there have emerged a large number
of highly meritorious and some eminent artists. That many of them have
lacked the power in their later life to withstand the temptations of
quick material gain by descending to a lower plane is to be regretted,
but--such is life. Many are called, but few are chosen. Since those days
several of these "many" have attempted to create similar centres in
Europe. They failed, because they were not serving art, but rather made
art serve their own worldly purposes.
The artists of talent no longer group themselves around the man of
genius. Perhaps he is not to be found just now. Each little celebrity
among the pianists keeps nowadays a shop of his own and all to himself.
Many of these shops are "mints," and some of them produce counterfeits.
As a matter of course, this separative system precludes all unification
of artistic principles and is, therefore, very harmful to the present
generation of students. The honest student who will discriminate between
these, sometimes cleverly masked, counterfeit mints, and a real art
altar must be of a character in which high principles are natively
ingrained. It might help him somewhat to remember that when there is no
good to choose we can always reject the bad.
What is true of teachers is just as true of compositions. The student
should not listen to--should not, at least, repeat the hearing of--bad
compositions, though they may be called symphonies or operas. And he
can, in a considerable measure, rely upon his own instincts in this
matter. He may not--and probably will not--fully fathom the depths of a
new symphony at its first hearing, but he must have received general
impressions of sufficient power and clearness to make him _wish_ for
another hearing. When this wish is absent he should not hear the work
again from a mere sense of duty; it were far wiser to avoid another
hearing, for habit is a strong factor, and if we accustom our ear to
hear cacophonous music we are apt to lose our aversion to it, which is
tantamount to a loss of good, natural taste. It is with much of modern
music as it is with opium, morphine, and other deadly drugs. We should
shun their very touch. These musical opiates are sometimes manufactured
by persons of considerable renown; of such quickly gained renown as may
be acquired nowadays by the employment of commercialistic methods; a
possibility for which the venal portion of the public press must bear
part of the blame. The student should not be deceived by names of which
the general familiarity is of too recent a date. I repeat that he should
rather consult his own feelings and by following them contribute his
modest share toward sending some of the present "moderns" back into
their deserved obscurity and insignificance.
I use the term "moderns" advisedly, for the true masters--some of whom
died but recently--have never stooped to those methods of
self-aggrandisement at which I hinted. Their places of honour were
accorded to them by the world because they were theirs, by right of
their artistic power, their genius and the purity of their art. My
advice to the students and to all lovers of music is: Hold on with all
your might to the school of sincerity and chastity in music! It is saner
and, morally and aesthetically, safer than the entire pack of our present
nerve-tickling, aye, and nerve-racking "modernists." Music should always
elevate; it should always call forth what, according to the demands of
time and place, is best in us. When, instead of serving this divine
mission, it speculates upon, and arouses, our lowest instincts for no
better purpose than to fill the pockets of its perpetrator, it should
receive neither the help nor the encouraging attention of any
noble-thinking and clean-minded man or woman. Passive resistance can do
a good deal on these premises.
The matter of abstention from a certain type of music recalls to my mind
another evil from which Americans should abstain; it is the curious and
out-of-date superstition that music can be studied abroad better than
here. While their number is not very large, I personally can name five
American teachers who have struggled here for many a year without
gaining that high recognition which they deserve. And now? Now they are
in the various capitals of Europe, receiving the highest fees that were
ever paid for instruction, and they receive these high fees from
American students that throng their studios. That the indifference of
their compatriots drove these men practically out of their country
proved to be of advantage to them; but how ought those to be regarded
who failed to keep them here? The wrong is irreparable in so far as
these men do not think of returning to America except as visitors. The
duty of American students and lovers of good music is to see to it that
such capable teachers as _are_ still here should _remain_ here. The mass
of emigration to Europe of our music students should cease! If a student
has what is understood by "finished" his studies here and his teacher
sets him free, he may make a reconnoitring tour in Europe. The change of
views and customs will, no doubt, broaden his mind in certain
directions. But musically speaking, he will be sure to find that most of
the enchantment of Europe was due to its distance. Excepting the
excellent orchestras of Europe and speaking of the general music-making
there, it is at present not quite as good as it is here: neither is the
average music teacher in Europe a whit better than the man of equal
standing here.
Americans should take cognizance of the fact that their country has not
stood still in music any more than in any other direction. Each year has
recorded an advancing step in its development. We must cease to compare
the Europe of to-day with the America of fifty years ago. At present
there is an astonishingly large number of clever and capable musicians
in America, and, as with good physicians and lawyers, their ability
usually stands in inverse proportion to the amount of their advertising.
It is these worthy teachers for whose sake the superstition of "studying
abroad" should be foresworn. What Uncle Sam has, in the field of music,
not directly produced he has acquired by the natural law of attraction;
now that so many talented and learned instructors, both native and
foreign, are here they should be given a fair opportunity to finish a
pupil's development as far as a teacher can do it, instead of seeing
him, half-done, rush off "to Europe." If I were not convinced that a
change on this score is possible, I should not have devoted so many
words to it. It is merely a question of making a start. Let me hope that
each reader of this little book may start this change, or, that, if
already started, he will foster and help it. If his efforts should be
disparaged by some, he need not feel disheartened, but remember that he
belongs to the "land of limitless possibilities."
JOSEF HOFMANN.
PIANO QUESTIONS
TECHNIQUE
1. GENERAL
[Sidenote: _What Does "Technique" Mean?_]
What are the different techniques, and which one is most generally used?
What is the difference between them?
Technique is a generic term, comprising scales, arpeggios, chords,
double notes, octaves, legato, and the various staccato touches as well
as the dynamic shadings. They are all necessary to make up a complete
technique.
[Sidenote: _The More Technique the More Practice_]
Why do pianists who have more technique than many others practise more
than these others?
Why have the Rothschilds more secretaries than I have? Because the
administration of a large fortune entails more work than that of a small
one. A pianist's technique is the material portion of his artistic
possessions; it is his capital. To keep a great technique in fine
working trim is in itself a considerable and time-absorbing task. And,
besides, you know that the more we have the more we want. This trait is
not only human; it is also pianistic.
[Sidenote: _How to Improve the Technique_]
Should I endeavour to improve my technique by trying difficult pieces?
You should not confine yourself to pieces that come easy to you, for
that would prevent all further technical progress. But beware of pieces
that are so difficult that you could not play them--in a slower
tempo--with absolute correctness. For this would lead to the ruin of
your technique and kill the joy in your studies. Play pieces that are
always a trifle harder than those you have completely mastered. Do not
emulate those who say: "I play already this or that," without asking
themselves "how" they play. Artistry depends ever upon the "how."
2. POSITION OF THE BODY
[Sidenote: _Do Not Raise the Piano-Stool Too High_]
Are the best results at the piano attained by sitting high or low?
As a general rule, I do not recommend a high seat at the piano, because
this induces the employment of the arm and shoulders rather than of the
fingers, and is, of course, very harmful to the technique. As to the
exact height of the seat, you will have to experiment for yourself and
find out at which height you can play longest with the least fatigue.
[Sidenote: _The Height of the Piano Seat_]
Is my seat at the piano to be at the same height when I practise as when
I play for people?
Yes! Height and distance (from the keyboard) of your chair--which should
never have arms--you should decide for yourself and once for all time;
for only then can you acquire a normal hand position, which, in its
turn, is a condition _sine qua non_ for the development of your
technique. See also to it that both feet are in touch with their
respective pedals so as to be in place when their action is required. If
they stray away and you must grope for the pedals when you need them it
will lead to a break in your concentration, and this will cause you to
play less well than you really can. To let the feet stray from the
pedals easily affects your entire position. It is a bad habit. Alas,
that bad habits are so much easier acquired than good ones!
3. POSITION OF THE HAND
[Sidenote: _The Tilt of The Hand in Playing Scales_]
Should my hand in playing scales be tilted toward the thumb or toward
the little finger? I find that in the scales with black keys it is much
easier to play the latter way.
I quite share your opinion, and extend it also to the scales without
black keys. I think the natural tendency of the hands is to lean toward
the little finger, and as soon as you have passed the stage of
preliminary training, as soon as you feel fairly certain that your
fingers act evenly, you may yield to their natural tendency, especially
when you strive more for speed than force; for speed does not suffer
tension, while force craves it.
4. POSITION OF THE FINGERS
[Sidenote: _The Results Count, Not the Methods_]
Does it make any difference if my fingers are held very much curved or
only a little? I was told that Rubenstein used his fingers almost flat.
Since you mention Rubinstein I may quote his saying: "Play with your
nose, if you will, but produce euphony (_Wohlklang_) and I will
recognize you as a master of your instrument." It is ever a question of
the result, whether you play this way or that way. If you should play
with very much curved fingers and the result should sound uneven and
pieced, change the curving little by little until you find out what
degree of curvature suits your hand best. Experiment for yourself.
Generally speaking, I recommend a free and easy position of hand and
fingers, for it is only in a position of greatest freedom that their
elasticity can be preserved, and elasticity is the chief point. By a
free and easy position I mean that natural position of hand and fingers
into which they fall when you drop your hand somewhat leisurely upon the
keyboard.
[Sidenote: _Cantabile Passages_]
Should a cantabile passage be played with a high finger-stroke or by
using the weight of the arm?
Certain characteristic moments in some pieces require the high
finger-stroke. It may be used also in working up a climax, in which
case the raising of the fingers should increase proportionately to the
rise of the climax. Where, however, the strength of the fingers is
sufficient to obtain the climacteric result by pressure, instead of the
stroke, it is always preferable to use pressure. As a general principle,
I believe in the free-hanging, limp arm and recommend using its weight
in cantabile playing.
[Sidenote: _An Incorrect Position of the Fingers_]
Pray how can I correct the fault of bending out the first joints of the
fingers when their cushions are pressed down upon the keys?