THE EVOLUTION OF THE METHOD
Over a hundred and fifty years ago, in the year 1747, John Sebastian
Bach went to Potsdam to visit Frederick the Great, and while there he
was asked to try over some of the new fortepianos that had recently
been made for the King by Silbermann. He did so, and disliked the
noise extremely. His ears, too long accustomed to the gentle tinkle
of his beloved clavichord, could not accept this harsh, modern
instrument, and he returned home thankful that Providence had not
brought him up on such an abominable invention.
But his son, Carl Philip Emanuel, in the service of the King, and
having therefore the opportunity to study the Fortepiano at his
leisure, became so much interested in it that he wrote a book on the
art of playing it--the first book that exists on piano technique.
His father's instructions for the clavichord advised players to keep
the hand as quiet as possible, "to wipe a note off the keys with
the end-joint of the finger only, as if taking up a coin from a
table"--"not to be too lavish in the employment of the thumb." Carl
Philip Emanuel transferred what he could of this to his own book,
putting in a plea for certain necessary innovations--he thought they
might look on the thumb with a little more favour: on rare occasions a
note might be struck, it was inadvisable now to pass the fingers over
each other backwards if they could do without. They must, above all
things, maintain an elegant tranquillity, a quiet deportment, being
careful to sit precisely before the middle of the keyboard, using
their fingers softly, caressing
Those dancing chips
O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait.
[Illustration: DR. ARNE (SKETCH BY BARTOLOZZI)
_Old style of playing, for new style see Frontispiece_]
In Bach's time, and long afterwards, people never played vigorously.
They could not. If they had attempted to do so the piano would have
collapsed at once. They were very delicate instruments, unfitted
for any but the most tender treatment--which, indeed, is all they ever
had.
Playing must have been anxious work in those days. There was no pedal
to swell the sound, or cover up defective technique. The note died
away immediately after it was struck, making--what distressed Mozart
so much--"cantabile playing" an impossibility. The touch of the
keyboard was something like that of a harpsichord, the keys jumping up
and down with a little jerk; and when the instrument went out of tune
it was a serious matter.
By the beginning of the nineteenth century all this had changed. The
mechanism was so much improved that it had developed into a responsive
medium worth the trouble of studying. Clementi was the first who
composed specially for the piano; for Mozart and Haydn, concerning
themselves little with its mechanical resources (what they wrote
serving equally well for the clavichord or harpsichord), treated it
merely as a vehicle for the expression of their ideas, well suited to
the inspiration of the moment. Clementi--whose inspirations were few
and far between--regarded it from an entirely different standpoint.
He was interested in the instrument itself; he experimented with it,
tried what effects could be got out of it, and composed to introduce
these effects rather than for any other reason. He considered the
pianist more than the musician, and, in so doing, became the founder
of a school of playing that regarded mechanical skill as a study in
itself.
By degrees the piano and its players, developing side by side,
diverged into two distinct styles--the English and the Viennese.
The English school grew up, so to speak, of the masculine sex, the
Viennese of the feminine--their respective instruments being in a
large measure responsible for the heavy, vigorous qualities of the
one, and the delicacy and lightness of the other. As long as Mozart
lived, the Viennese held to their old-time gentleness and quaint
dignity, but after his death they became more and more brilliant;
so that, in his "Music in Germany," Dr. Burney could write of them
as the "most remarkable people for fire and invention" (by which he
probably meant improvisation) that he had ever heard. In spite of this
reputation, the manner of performance in those days, tried by present
standards, would have seemed very dry indeed. Correct, accurate,
redolent of propriety and good manners, the goal of perfection
exemplified by such men as Herz, Hunten, and Steibelt, cannot have
been very interesting. Clementi himself, though no doubt angular and
stiff, did try to some extent to shake off prim custom. At any rate,
his was a wider mind, genuinely interested in striving to infuse some
warmth and colour into his art. He pioneered his cause to the utmost,
talking about it, writing studies for it, and setting every one
else doing the same. His ideas were worked out still further by his
pupils Field and Cramer, who, having a faint inkling of the mysteries
of "tone-effects," tried to "make the piano sing"--as Field's
compositions show.
As yet no one had in the least realised what the instrument could
be made to do. Quantity of notes, not quality, was the chief
concern; fluency, not beauty of tone, the aim of a good player. The
perpendicular finger of the Bach era--a relic of the clavichord
touch--was still fashionable; indeed, up to this time, there was no
reason why it should not be so, for the music of the day called for
nothing more forcible. But there were signs that this dull code of dry
formulæ was soon to become too narrow, and the complaisant pedagogue
to be driven from his throne. There was need of a change, and the man
destined to effect it was at hand.
Wiping out their stiffness, poking fun at their propriety, it was
Beethoven who broke through their foolish little rules and gave them
something deeper and more vital to think of. Full of dramatic power,
of orchestral effects, of changing moods, his music outstretched their
limits entirely. It created a new element and offered them a new
problem: the study of tone. He demanded of the piano what had never
been demanded of it before; both the instrument and its players were
forced to change. Henceforward the art of pianism stood on an entirely
different level. A new school was growing up.
Weber, who was an immense admirer of Beethoven, and a great influence
in the musical world, went into the question with enthusiasm--indeed,
some of his own Sonatas showed a faint dramatic tendency, new figures,
and a more complicated technique.
Kalkbrenner, a follower of Clementi and famous teacher, was at work
in Paris. Dussek, and Berger (Mendelssohn's master) helped elsewhere.
Schubert in his compositions afforded food for experiment too.
On the other side Czerny, Woelffl, Herz, Steibelt, and even
Hummel--who was considered a good enough pianist to be put forward as
Beethoven's rival--upheld the prim style of their youth. Thus began
the usual struggle between old and new, ending in the invariable
victory for the new. Moscheles and Mendelssohn, though educated in
the old traditions, sympathised with modern views, so welding a link
between the past and "the wonderful things reported of a Pole--Chopin
by name," of whom Schumann told the world in his journal.
In about eighty years both players and instruments had developed
beyond recognition, virtuosity became an art in itself, and the
piano so increased in importance that instead of being regarded as
little worse than an accompaniment, it had become popular as a solo
instrument, and long recitals, without the relief of song or strings,
were given for it alone.
Partly to avoid the monotony of this one-man entertainment, and
partly to induce the public to stop to the end, great pianists,
such as Thalberg, Liszt, and Dreyschock began to do strange and
wonderful gymnastic tricks. They passed one hand over the other with
extraordinary rapidity; divided the melody between two hands and made
it sound as if they had not; played octaves glissando; jumped with
marvellous agility from one end of the piano to the other; wrote
horrible and difficult fantasias of interminable length; played
without the music; in short, they did everything they could think of
to make a sensation and astonish the public. Vienna and Paris, where
the audiences came from gay and sprightly circles and much preferred
being amused to being instructed, were delighted. Sober-minded Germany
was less so, for--although Liszt created a _furore_ there as well as
elsewhere--she had Mendelssohn to keep her in the way she should go.
Europe was divided into two distinct camps--the one brilliant, the
other scholarly. To the former belonged Leschetizky.
In 1830, the year of his birth, Rubinstein was but a baby; Von Bulow
a few months old; Clara Schumann had just given her first concert
at the age of ten--(her programme is interesting as showing the kind
of music popular at the time: "Rondo Brilliant," by Kalkbrenner,
"Variations Brilliantes," by Herz, "Variations" on a thema of
her own); Saint-Saëns was born five--Tausig eleven--years later.
Dreyschock was already twelve; Henselt sixteen; Thalberg eighteen;
Liszt nineteen.
All these artists and many more visited Vienna, and Leschetizky heard
them often. They were the source from which he drew inspiration as a
young teacher, and whose playing served him as material from which,
later on, to build up a system of his own. It is from them, from
Schulhoff his friend, and from Czerny his master, that he has worked
out the principles known as "The Leschetizky Method."
The explanation of the technical part of this method without practical
illustration--that is, without a piano at hand--is impossible; for the
description would have to cover not only the account of the manual
exercises themselves, but of their application to the instrument. The
art of playing the piano cannot be taught by correspondence; although
the development of the hand may be. The instrument must be there to
give value to the statement. To describe a pianoforte method by the
pen does as much good to the pianist as the "Absent Treatment" of a
Christian Scientist does to his patient. Indeed, the treatment might,
by a rare chance, cure a patient furnished with a fertile imagination;
whereas no amount of imagination will make anybody play the piano,
even if he read all the treatises written, from the naïve simplicity
of Philip Emanuel Bach's "True Art of Piano Playing," to the wonderful
complexity of Tobias Mathay, on "The Act of Touch."
With regard to methods in general, Leschetizky is very broad-minded.
If a method can teach the pupil to accomplish what is necessary, the
process by which it has been done is quite immaterial. Any suggestion
that makes for progress would be welcome to him, and though he seems
to have drawn all that is serviceable and important into his own
system, he says: "I have thought over these things all my life, but if
you can find better ways than mine I will adopt them--yes, and I will
take two lessons of you and give you a thousand gulden a lesson."
Nearly every one can do something well if they are told exactly what
to do. Leschetizky does not expect to make a silver goblet out of
a pewter-pot, but he takes the trouble to make the pewter-pot as
perfect in its way as possible. He does not think the world is made
for genius. He sees that it is made for the ordinary man. Not in the
least imbued with "that appreciation of mediocrity that the Creator of
all things must evidently possess,"--as Ehlert puts it--he knows that
those who can "reach the heaven" and "come back and tell the world"
are very few, and it is the cry of the weaker talent that has to be
answered, and for whom (unfortunately) methods must be worked out.
Genius has called forth no system. It will express itself well, no
matter what means it may elect to use.
Broadly speaking, Leschetizky's plan is to cultivate the pupil's
special gifts, whatever they may be; to leave those things that lie
beyond his capacity almost entirely alone. He prefers the narrower
and more perfect field, to unfinished work on a large scale. To spend
time wrestling with details in which glory can never be attained is
a waste of energy. The struggle merely serves to emphasise incapacity
in one direction to the detriment of natural talents in others, and
generally ends in making the player so nervous that the very thought
of being asked to play overwhelms him with terror.
People are very ingenious in finding excuses when they do not want
to play, or when they have played badly. "A bad instrument" is one
of them. "Artists say too much about the materials they have to
use," says Leschetizky. "It is hard to find the tools unresponsive
or uncertain, but do not accustom yourselves to a first-rate piano.
If you do, it will lead you to think you are responsible for the
beautiful sounds that come out of it; whereas very likely it is but
its natural tone--independent of your skill. At home you think: 'What
a lovely touch I have.' Then you come to me. You play abominably, and
say it is the fault of my piano. It is not my piano at all. It is you.
Your hand is not under control, you have not learnt the principles
of things. If you really know how to produce a certain effect--and
produce it as the result of your knowledge--not of your piano--you
can face almost any instrument with a clear conscience. If you leave
anything to chance, you will be the first to feel it--your audience
will be the second. A good pianist should be able to make any passable
instrument sound well, for his knowledge will be so accurate that he
can calculate to a very fine point how much he must allow for the
difference and quality of touch."
In Leschetizky's young days even more depended on the player's
scientific knowledge of how things should be done than now, for people
were asked to play upon very strange instruments. The mere remembrance
of them makes him indignant. "When one was invited somewhere to
dinner," he expostulated one evening when reminiscences brought up
the subject, "the plates given you to eat upon were not cracked, the
wine-glasses to drink out of were not dirty, the hostess was not in
rags, but decked out in her finest, and she gave you the best she
had to give. That was _at_ dinner. But _after_ dinner! _Mein Gott_,
she wanted music. She had a piano, but--one or two notes stuck a
little--could you manage? The pedal squeaked--well, you need not
use it much, need you? The things on the top of the piano jingled
rather--but then they were such a bother to move. The tuner came
yesterday, but he said it is not as good as it used to be--which
is _so_ strange, for it has scarcely been played upon these twenty
years--but do play us something! They say times have changed in this
respect,--perhaps so--but my pupils don't seem to go with the times,
for they tell me they meet with these things still."