Chapter VI: Appendix: 273 (5)

The not uncommon assertion that "any piano will do for a beginner" is wrong in principle. How absurd to assert that any associates will do for children in the beginning! It is just at this tender age when impressions are so easily received that the best musical advantages should be afforded. What can be better adapted to the cultivation of a musical ear than the constant presence of musical tones of the highest quality and purity? The ear requires close musical companionship in order to promote corresponding development.

The cultivation of a physical technic is important, indeed indispensable, but it should not precede or be separated from musical companionship. Its development should at all stages be surrounded by a musical atmosphere in which its adaptability to the expression of poetical ideas may be developed. The heart and head should be closely united.

PEDAL AND PEDAL SIGNS--WHY NOT DISPENSE WITH THE LATTER?

Prolonged or organ tones are not possible on the pianoforte. From the moment the hammer strikes the string the tone begins to diminish in volume and soon fades away. One of the chief arts of the pianist is to sustain a tone throughout the full value of the note which represents it, and this is accomplished either by steady pressure on the key or by the use of the open pedal, frequently misnamed the loud pedal. The use of the word "loud" in this connection is illogical and misleading. The word "open" is much better, because this pedal, when pressed, causes the dampers to be raised from the strings, thus leaving them open, and so prolonging the tones. Furthermore, the open pedal is constantly used in the softest and most delicate passages. Its mission is simply to prolong the tones, whether loud or soft. In either case the tone dies rapidly away, and the pianist, sensitively aware of this, and feeling the necessity of keeping up the volume of sound, is led unconsciously to anticipate or take the next tone a little before its due time. The effect of this process in continuation is to produce a feeling of unrest on the part of the hearer, and is fatal to repose. On this account Thalberg earnestly recommends to piano-students that "the tones invariably be held throughout their absolute or exact value" (see "L'Art du Chant"). Tones can be sustained, so far as this is possible on the pianoforte, in two ways, namely, by means of the open pedal or by holding down the keys firmly during the exact value represented by the notes. How can this value be determined? Solely through the medium of the ear. "The proof of the pudding is in the eating." The proof of musical sounds, as to quality and duration, is in the listening.

This being granted, it seems to follow that all signs, such as "Ped.," *, or [** two check marks], etc., should be discarded as being even worse than useless, for when pupils pay careful attention to them they are apt to be guided solely by the eye. They press down the pedal at the sign "Ped.," and release it at the following asterisk (*), doing this in a merely perfunctory way, and hence they either fail to produce a true legato effect or err in the opposite direction of an over-legato, which results in a confusion of sounds. This may be best avoided by practising on an instrument of fine musical quality and beautiful singing tone, which promotes the habit of listening attentively, and thus contributes in the highest degree to the development and training of the ear.

It is true that musical temperament is inborn, and those who possess it have native insight, and hence develop with rapidity. There are, however, very many who are not "to the manner born." Such are obliged to acquire habits through persistent and persevering effort. All travel the same road, but the genius flies while the less gifted plods along. However, for the benefit and consolation of the latter, I remind them that the tortoise left the hare asleep and won the race. The ear should be cultivated for music, the eye for painting, the mind in both; and the heart especially in music, because the latter is the "language of the emotions."

A little pedal study from my work entitled "Touch and Technic" (Part IV, page 18), will serve to illustrate what I mean. It is on an elementary plane and can easily be accomplished by a beginner with a little care and ordinary perseverance.

(_To be played throughout with one finger_)]

It is to be played with only one finger, and the tones of the melody must receive special emphasis so as to stand out clearly, and they must be sustained by means of the open pedal throughout the exact length of time represented by the notes. The crescendo and diminuendo must be observed according to direction, and as a help to this effect the soft pedal may be used simultaneously, either all of the time or occasionally, in an experimental way and according to fancy. This promotes the faculty of judgment and leads to individuality, a very desirable result.

The melody is on the middle line and the accompaniment on the outer lines. The melody must predominate in power, and must be sustained throughout the exact value of its representative notes, which are mostly dotted halves, viz.: . This is accomplished by firmly pressing the open pedal, the finger in the meanwhile playing the accompaniment. Thus the tone is sustained solely by means of the pedal. Carefully observe the effects of crescendo < and diminuendo >. Play strictly in time.

In the final measure still continue the pedal pressure after the C in the treble has been played. There are now four tones sounding together. Now replace the finger, silently and without striking, on the melody key E. While still pressing this key raise the foot from the pedal. This leaves the E sounding alone. Hold down the key until the tone has quite died away.

RUBINSTEIN AND THE AUTOGRAPH-HUNTER

One afternoon I accompanied Rubinstein from his hotel to Steinway Hall, where he was to give a recital. Just outside of the stage-entrance were two young ladies, one of whom stepped forward and, handing me a sheet of paper and a pencil, begged me to ask Rubinstein for his autograph, and to leave it for her in the dressing-room, so that she could get it after the recital. I told her that Rubinstein did not like writing autographs; that he was a man of kindly disposition, but sometimes acted from impulse; nevertheless, I would see what could be done. So, following Rubinstein up-stairs to the retiring-room, I handed him the writing materials, stating the young lady's request.

He took them, saying nothing, but walked with an air of determination to the window, opened it, and threw them into the street "Mason," he said, "I don't like your country. People pry too much into private affairs." He then went on to speak of newspaper writers who had interviewed him and ingeniously beguiled him into speaking of many things which concerned solely his own personality, and the next day published all of these things in detail. He said: "There is absolutely no privacy in this country." "Rubinstein," I said, "I can quite appreciate your position, and understand why you should have come to such conclusions, but I am sure that upon due reflection you will realize that you are doing us an injustice. You have been incessantly occupied during your sojourn here, have hurried from place to place, given concerts with hardly any intermission, and naturally have had no time to see people in their homes. You have not been able to judge of our domestic life or to mingle in society and study our habits." He admitted this at once and made due acknowledgment. Wieniawski, who was once with us when a similar conversation occurred just before the close of their stay here, said: "Mason, I regret extremely that I have not been able to go out to Orange to visit you. We have traveled constantly and rushed from place to place in order to fulfil concert engagements, so that there has been no time for social intercourse. I don't wish you to gather from my apparent neglect an idea that Poles are unsociable; on the contrary, I assure you we are very fond of social life."

Rubinstein came here with a great reputation, and achieved a good success. He had transcendent ability, accompanied, however, by certain limitations. By nature impulsive and excitable, he often lost self-control, and in consequence he frequently anticipated his climax. He was like a general who excelled in a brilliant sortie, but who had not the dogged persistence necessary to a long-sustained battle, and at the critical points he was constantly losing his self-poise. When, however, he did effect a climax, it was apt to be a great one, a jubilee. Liszt, on the other hand, was remarkable for his reserve force and for the discretion with which he made use of it; for if, perchance, he missed a climax he immediately made preparation for a new one, and was always sure to reach the zenith at precisely the right moment.

There were occasions on which Rubinstein played with the most wonderful repose, and at such times his playing was musical and poetic in the highest degree. This was particularly the case in slow or moderate movements characterized by tenderness, affection, and fervor. But in the rapid and spirited movements his tendency was to run away and finally to lose self-possession--an affliction to which the large majority of concert pianists are subject. Violinists and singers are not nearly so much so, because they can prolong their tones with steady force, or diminish and increase the tone at will. As I have already pointed out, the case is different with the pianist, for after the piano-key has been struck the tone immediately begins to decrease in power, and this incites the player to produce another tone; so he proceeds a little too quickly, constantly gaining a little in speed and crowding one tone upon the other. The effect is exasperating to the listener, who becomes more and more restless, until finally all quiet and repose is utterly lost.

The unevenness in Rubinstein's playing I believe to have been wholly due to the temperamental moods of a man of extreme artistic sensitiveness. He was a thoroughly conscientious artist and worked at the piano incessantly many hours a day. I remember his once saying to me: "I dislike nothing more than to have people say to me, as they frequently do, 'But you do not have to practise, for you are a born genius and get everything by nature.' It is provoking to listen to such stuff after having worked so hard."

EVOLUTION IN MUSICAL IDEAS BEETHOVEN PIANOFORTE RECITALS

No pianist ever dreamed of playing Beethoven's sonatas in public in those days. They were reserved for the parlor; and one, or two at most, were enough for an evening. The mental absorption of this amount was sufficient. Lighter pieces filled out the program. I am quite sure that it was Bulow who first played several of Beethoven's sonatas consecutively at a recital. I learned of this through Anton Rubinstein when he was here in 1873. He spoke of it as being an extraordinary thing, and added that, as a musician, he could not give it his approval. It might be a scientific thing to do, but was certainly not congenial to a true musical nature, which required variety. A dinner consisting of heavy dishes throughout, without the interspersion of condiments, vegetables, and tarts to stir and incite the appetite, would be both distasteful and fatal to good digestion. The pieces selected for the musical feast should be homogeneously arranged; and so should the various courses of the dinner.

However, notwithstanding what Rubinstein said in 1873, I noticed that, but a comparatively short time afterward, he also began the practice of giving recitals at which he played several sonatas in sequence. It is possible that he did this less to gratify his own personal artistic tastes than in deference to those of the public who had not his musical organization, and so could stand the intensity of the thing while he profited by the physical practice.

RUBINSTEIN'S FAVORITE SEAT AT A PIANOFORTE RECITAL

Rubinstein, as a listener, was particular as to the location of his seat at a concert or recital of pianoforte music, and always sought a place in one of the galleries on the left hand, facing the stage. Thus he sat in the corner diagonal to the pianoforte, looking over the right shoulder of the player.

It is true that even on the ground floor or parterre of a hall this position affords a great advantage, and the tones of the pianoforte are essentially more full of resonance and musical tone than in any other location. This may be accounted for on the theory that the raised lid of the instrument deflects the sound in that direction. There is a corresponding disadvantage in a position on the opposite side of the house, especially if seated on the ground floor near the stage. I have frequently tried both of these positions, and always with the same result; hence I have learned to make due allowance in judging of the pianist. A listener unaware of this difference may seriously err in estimating the tone quality of the instrument.

BACH'S "TRIPLE CONCERTO" AND "LES AGREMENTS"

In Bach's time many embellishments were used in playing the clavichord. They were all included under the general title _Les Agrements_, or, in German, _Manieren_. Of these the mordent, almost identical with the modern _Pralltriller_, was in most frequent use. It is quite a little thing and simple enough, but there are few players who succeed in giving it the right snap or rattle, without which its true significance is wholly lost. I have already mentioned playing this concerto with Klindworth and Pruckner at a court concert in Weimar. While previously rehearsing it, Liszt was very particular in his directions, especially regarding the mordents, and we did our best to follow them. Moreover, Liszt was an authority. He always made thorough investigation of a subject before expressing an opinion upon it, and he was very careful to give a historically accurate and truthful rendering of these old-fashioned ornaments. I afterward found that when three pianists came together for the purpose of playing this concerto a good deal of time was wasted in discussing the proper way of playing the mordent. It was on the program of the Mason-Thomas matinees in New York more than once, and on one occasion we had the assistance of the well-known pianists Messrs. Timm and Scharfenberg. There was no friction at that time, as the three performers were of one mind.

In May, 1873, Theodore Thomas arranged a grand musical festival in New York, of which Rubinstein was the principal attraction. The "Triple Concerto" was one of the features of the festival. Rubinstein played the first piano, and Mills and I the other two.

The concerto has the accompaniment of a string quartet, which may be doubled or increased to the size of a small orchestra if desired. It was thought best to have a preliminary rehearsal for the three pianos alone, and a time was appointed for our meeting together at my studio in Steinway Hall. Mr. Thomas, not being familiar with the concerto, wished to be present in order to become acquainted with it, and at the appointed time was the first to make his appearance. I told him that Rubinstein, not precise in historical methods, would play the mordents in accordance with the mood in which he happened to be. "However," I continued, "I have an old book by Friedrich Wilhelm Marpurg, published in Berlin in 1765, in which he gives written examples of all of the _Manieren_. We will show this to Rubinstein and have some fun. But I do not propose to waste time in discussions. He can play as he likes, and Mills and I will follow suit."

Rubinstein shortly made his appearance, and Mills came a little later. I told Rubinstein about my ancient authority, adding that we should be spared the tediousness of a discussion as to the manner of playing. "Let me see the old book," said Rubinstein. Running over the leaves, he came to the illustrations of the mordent. The moment his eyes fell upon them he exclaimed: "All wrong; here is the way I play it," and going to the piano, he played as follows:

This is what Marpurg calls a kind of double mordent, or _Doppelschlag_. The three keys are struck almost simultaneously, but the middle one only is held down, while the upper and lower ones are immediately released, thus producing the effect of a turn. The true way of playing the mordent is thus:

However, we adopted Rubinstein's way without comment.

What I have written about Rubinstein and Bach's "Triple Concerto in D Minor" recalls to my mind an occasion when I played it with Mr. Boscovitz and Mme. Essipoff at the latter's last recital here, I think in the year 1876. When, at the rehearsal, we came to discuss the mordents, Essipoff exclaimed: "I cannot play those things; show me how they are done." After repeated trials, however, she failed to get the knack of playing them, as, indeed, so many pianists do, so at the recital she omitted them and left their performance to Boscovitz and me. I think the effect of the concerto was not marred by the omission. The incident just related most not be construed as in any degree a disparagement of Mme. Essipoff's playing; as an artist she belongs easily in the first rank of women players and her style is charming.

In taking leave of my old book by Marpurg I present a specimen of advice which he addresses to pianoforte-students, namely: "In regard to deportment and manners [at the pianoforte], one should take care to avoid making faces, bobbing the head, snorting, twisting the mouth, gritting the teeth, and all such ridiculous things. In the absence of the teacher, a pupil who has fallen into such ungainly habits can correct them by means of a mirror placed in front on the music-rack." The foregoing is as honest a translation from the German as I am able to make. Daring a half-century's experience in pianoforte-teaching I do not remember a single case among my pupils of one who stood in need of this advice.

A SIGNIFICANT AUTOGRAPH FROM RUBINSTEIN

Just before leaving Weimar I had asked Rubinstein to write in my autograph-book, and he immediately complied.

The theme, which he wrote in the key of E flat major, is characteristic of him. It is strong and has a vigorous upward movement. It suggests the young man just starting out in life, with the vitality and courage of early manhood. It is dated "Weymar, le 5. Juin, 1854."

I did not see Rubinstein again until 1873, the year of his visit to this country. Happening in his room one day with my book, the idea occurred to me of asking him to write in it again, under his former signature. For some reason he was averse to doing so, but finally consented. At a glance the second theme seems like the first, but on examination the difference will appear. He has transposed the theme to E flat minor, and its character is entirely changed. The young man has reached the summit of the hill and realizes that he is now upon the descent. The allegro maestoso of former years has changed to an adagio, and, as Rubinstein aptly writes, it is "not the same."

An autograph written for me by Joachim Raff is also interesting. On the night before I left Weimar, June 25, 1854, Raff and I had supper at the Erbprinz together, and as the evening wore on we somehow got into a heated discussion about _Zukunftsmusik_, taking opposite sides. However, as a matter of course, we made up before parting. He had previously written his musical autograph in the book, but now he added a kind thought to speed me on my way, namely: "That he may live well, work well, and soon return to Weimar music. Mitternachtscheide."

RUBINSTEIN, PADEREWSKI, AND "YANKEE DOODLE"

Not long before Rubinstein's departure for Europe he wrote a large number of variations on "Yankee Doodle," and meeting me shortly afterward, he informed me of the fact, and added: "I have inscribed your name at the head of the title-page, and they are now in the hands of the publisher." He said further, and in a seemingly apologetic tone: "They are good, I assure you, and I have taken much pleasure in writing them." He played this composition at his farewell concert in New York, and in point of fact the variations were very well made; but I think that much of his playing at the concert referred to was improvised.

The second season Paderewski was here I sat next to him at a dinner given just after his arrival. During conversation he said somewhat suddenly: "Mr. Mason, I have just composed a fantasy on 'Yankee Doodle,' and have dedicated it to you."

He looked at me, and thought he saw a curious expression in my face,--although I was quite unaware of such a thing,--and continued, "You don't like it!" "Oh, I do," I protested, "and esteem the dedication as a great honor." "I see you don't," he said. "Well," I replied, "I already have one 'Yankee Doodle' from Rubinstein, and was thinking that the coincidence of your dedicating me another was very curious, that is all. Let me explain to you that 'Yankee Doodle' does not stand in the same relation to the United States as 'God Save the Queen' to England, 'Gott erhalte Franz den Kaiser' to Austria, or the 'Marseillaise' to France. 'Yankee Doodle' was written by an Englishman in derision of us." I am afraid that my remarks discouraged him, for he never finished the composition. He played it to me as far as he had progressed with it, and it is certainly the best treatment of the theme I have ever heard. He had given it respectability, and, indeed, he told me that he really liked the tune.

MEETINGS WITH VON BUeLOW

Von Bulow, who had been a pupil of Liszt a year or two before my time, would occasionally return to Weimar from his concert tours, and during these visits I became well acquainted with him. In certain ways he was a wonderful man. He had an extraordinary memory and remarkable technic. He was invariably accurate and precise in his careful observance of rhythm and meter by means of proper accentuation, and the clear phrasing resulting therefrom made up a good deal for the absence of other desirable features, for his playing was far from being impassioned or temperamental. His Chopin-playing always impressed me as dry, and his Beethoven interpretations lacked warmth and fervency.

I remember he once said to me: "Rubinstein can make any quantity of errors during his performance, and nobody is disturbed by it; but if I make a single mistake it will be noticed immediately by every one in the audience, and the effect will be spoiled."

Personally, Von Bulow and I got along very well together. He always made kind inquiry for me when he met common friends in Europe, and he once presented me with an autograph of Brahms which he valued highly. The following letter he wrote me shortly after his arrival in this country, in response to an invitation to make me a few days' visit in Orange, New Jersey, where I was then residing.

BOSTON, October 21, 1875.

MY DEAR COLLEAGUE: I have just now received your kind note, and
although I have not a single moment of leisure, I want to thank you
and to tell you how happy I should be to meet you again after
nearly a quarter of a century out of sight.

Alas! it is quite impossible for me to make you a visit before my
arrival in New York. I must work very hard in spite of a bad health
and a not at all Rubinstein-like constitution.

As this specimen of cablegrammatical shows, I am unable to express
myself in your language without a heap of wrong notes in every
line. It was but two years ago, when I made my first appearance in
old England (much less sympathetic to me than New England), that I
began to stammer the Anglo-Saxon idiom. Please kindly excuse the
shortness and weakness of my reply.

Many thousand most friendly compliments from our common co-pupil
Carl Klindworth,[3] whom I saw last summer in Tyrol; we often spoke
of you.

Yours most truly,
HANS VON BUeLOW.

I know from what Von Bulow himself told me that he accepted philosophically the trouble between himself and his wife Cosima Liszt, and her subsequent marriage to Wagner. Soon after he arrived in New York, in 1876, I called on him, and during our conversation I broached the subject in a tentative way. I was not sure that his feelings toward Wagner were not so hostile that mention of the Bayreuth master would have to be avoided, and I thought it just as well to arrive immediately at a clear understanding of the matter.

"Bulow," I said, "you will excuse me if I touch on a rather delicate subject. Of course your friends abroad know just what your present attitude is toward Wagner; but over here we know little or nothing about it. Perhaps you would like to enlighten me. I hope, however, I have not touched on a painful subject."

"Not at all," he exclaimed. "What happened was the most natural thing in the world. You know what a wonderful woman Cosima is--such intellect, such energy, such ambition, which she naturally inherits from her father. I was entirely too small a personality for her. She required a colossal genius like Wagner's, and he needed the sympathy and inspiration of an intellectual and artistic woman like Cosima. That they should have come together eventually was inevitable."

EDVARD GRIEG

On July 1, 1890, my daughter, sister-in-law, and I were in Bergen, Norway, having just returned from a very pleasant trip to the North Cape.

Being so near Grieg's home, an hour and a half's drive from Bergen, and having received an invitation to visit him, we presented ourselves at his "Villa Troldhangen" in the afternoon. The day was bright and lovely, and thus we saw Grieg's place under the most favorable aspect. Our reception by Mr. and Mrs. Grieg was most hospitable, and we felt immediately at home. After half an hour's conversation, we all strolled through the beautiful grounds, which in many places are thick with trees and shrubs, while here and there are clearings through which the waters of the fiord shine bright and clear. The wild flowers, with their rich, brilliant colors, were especially attractive; indeed, this is everywhere in Norway an attractive feature.

Mr. Grieg is a man of high intelligence and culture, and is thoroughly natural and genial. I have very pleasant memories of our cordial reception and delightful visit.

RATES OF TEMPO--THE PRESENT TIME COMPARED WITH FIFTY YEARS AGO

In recalling Liszt's playing I cannot help noticing the marked difference in modern rates of tempo as compared with those which were considered authentic fifty years ago. This is noticeable in many of Chopin's compositions, especially the larger ones, such as the sonatas, ballades, fantasies, etc., with all of which I am very familiar, having heard them played not only by Liszt in Weimar, but in other German cities, and by artists of the highest rank, many of whom were contemporaries and personal friends of Chopin. They all seemed to adopt a certain rate of speed, as if in conformity with the composer's intention, and it was in agreement with my own intuitions. Dreyschock and Liszt had often heard the composer play his own pieces and must certainly have been familiar at least with his rates of tempo. I was very close to the Chopin day, having been in Germany only a few months when he died. Two of my teachers and nearly all of the musicians I had met were his contemporaries and had heard him play his own compositions. I certainly ought to have the Chopin traditions.

ELECTROCUTING CHOPIN

The question is, Should Chopin be played in accordance with the spirit of the time in which he lived, should his works be played in the tempo in which he played them, or, because electricity has brought about so many changes and has enabled us to do so many things much more rapidly than formerly, should Chopin's music be electrified, or, as it seems to me, electrocuted? I think there is a general tendency to play the rapid movements in Chopin, and, in fact, in all composers not of the extreme modern type, too fast. To play these movements rapidly and give the phrases with absolute clearness, one must have such breadth, command of rhythm, and repose in action that he can put the tones together like a string of pearls, so that each is rounded into shape, and the phrase is a complete and definite series of tones, and not like a lot of over-boiled peas, so soft that they all mash together. In too rapid playing the effect of speed is lost. The Chopin "Waltz in D Flat Major" is often played much too fast. The theme is said to have been suggested to the composer by a lap-dog in his room suddenly beginning to chase his tail. Whether true or not, the story is suggestive. Destroy the contour of that waltz by playing it at too high a rate of speed, and the dog is no longer chasing his tail, but dashing aimlessly about the room.

Nor should the tempo be too slow. Slow movements are effective, but sufficient animation must prevail to impart life and fervency to the music. A stream may flow so sluggishly that the water loses its clearness. This is not repose, but stagnation. During the musical season of 1899-1900 in New York I heard modern pianists play some of Chopin's compositions so slowly that the effect produced upon me was like that of a music-box running down. One endures it for a while, but finally is wrought up to such a feeling of impatience as to induce the exclamation, "Either stop that thing altogether or wind it up."

TEMPO RUBATO

In modern times there is also a tendency to excessive use of tempo rubato.

I have recently heard the second part, of Chopin's "C Sharp Minor Scherzo"--the choral with arpeggio passages--played by a celebrated pianist in such a way that, mathematically adjusted, about one measure was added to every section of four.

The player was afterward highly extolled on account of his wonderful rubato effects. The truth is that he was all the while simply playing mathematically out of time. Rubato ("robbed") is a slight modification of rhythmic flow in alternation with a corresponding compensation; it is like excitement in verbal narrative; it is alternately losing and making up, but within judicious bounds, so that in the end the balance is preserved. The nature of music is essentially "tune and time"--in other words, emotion and intelligence, or heart and head, in loving and well-balanced combination. These conditions are absolute and can never be violated without disaster. Hence a true rubato must be played in time, but accommodatingly.

UNUSUAL PUPILS--TRANSPOSING--POSITIVE AND RELATIVE PITCH

I once gave to an intelligent pupil the task of transposing one of Bach's inventions into various keys. My directions were that at her next lesson she should be prepared to play it successively in three or four different keys. As she came to my studio for her lesson but once a month, there was ample time for preparation, and she succeeded in accomplishing the feat with ease and without error. But, more than this, she continued her transposing until she had completed the round of all the twelve keys without a mistake--a rare and creditable performance, deserving the emulation of all young ladies and gentlemen engaged in the study of musical development and the cultivation of pianoforte technic.

Another case is that of a young lady pupil not remarkably musical, but who has an ear for positive pitch. By this is meant that she could immediately name the pitch of any tone on hearing it sung or played. All competent musicians possess the power of relative pitch. I mean by this that if a definite pitch is given to one who has a musical ear, the pitch of any other tone immediately following or sounding in connection will be instantly perceived, and the interval between the two tones--in other words, their pitch relationship--at once understood.

The power of positive pitch has been regarded by many as a very desirable gift, but judging from the experience of the pupil of whom I am writing, it would appear to be just the other way. This young lady, to whom I had also given the task of transposition into various keys, complained, on coming for her next lesson, that the effect upon her was very disagreeable, in fact, extremely painful. She explained that she was obliged to look at the music on the pianoforte-desk while transposing, and that on account of her quick perception of positive pitch she heard in companionship both the tones of the original key and those of the key to which she was transposing, thus producing a jargon and discord which was distressing. This at first seemed very strange to me, indeed almost incredible, but not having an ear for positive pitch myself, either by nature or through cultivation, I could not judge from personal experience, so, having confidence in her sincerity, simply gave her assertion credence.

Later on, however, her statement received confirmation through the authentic testimony of a German musician and conductor of high eminence. At the time this gentleman came to our country, somewhat over fifteen years ago, the standard of concert pitch was slightly lower in Europe than with us. Since then it has been adjusted and is now uniform the world over. This discrepancy caused our German friend extreme annoyance, for having an acute and delicate perception of positive pitch, it pained and confused him to hear the familiar symphonies and other works of the great masters played in a higher pitch than that to which he had become accustomed. This is, therefore, the penalty for an ear for positive pitch.

Some of the greatest musicians have possessed this faculty, notably Mozart, but others of equal rank were without it. Of course a musical ear of the most delicate sensibility as to relative pitch is common to all of them, and this by the grace of God, as the Germans happily express it.

Another case is that of a lady having by nature an ear for positive pitch, who occasionally attends church with me. She is constantly disturbed by the difference of pitch between the tones of the organ and the pitch indicated by the notes of the tones in the hymn-book. She reasons that either the tones of the organ are above standard pitch or else the organist transposes the music. At any rate, the two vary by the interval of a semitone.

Theodore Thomas is not only able to detect the disagreement, but at the same time perceives whether it is by reason of transposition from the original key or on account of the tones of the organ differing from standard pitch.

APPLEDORE, ISLES OF SHOALS

MY first visit to Appledore was in August, 1863, two of my brothers having discovered the island, so to speak, the year before. We were enthusiastic fishermen, and during our summer vacation almost lived on the ocean. Furthermore, during almost the entire year I was engaged in teaching or in public appearances as a concert-player, so that in my vacation I detested the very sight or even thought of a pianoforte. Appledore afforded an ideal retreat where retirement verging almost on oblivion was possible, and thus it happened that I had spent many summers there before my musical vocation was brought to light.

A few years later my friend Professor John K. Paine of Harvard University also discovered the Shoals, and from that time came year after year without intermission. After a year or two he had a piano sent down from Boston for the summer and placed in the reception-room in Celia Thaxter's cottage. I had the pleasure of Mrs. Thaxter's acquaintance, but up to that time simply in a formal way, and beyond a call on my arrival and one on taking leave, I had little association with her; Professor Paine, however, quickly formed a habit of playing Beethoven's sonatas to her, and she very shortly showed a delight in music, and especially in Beethoven's sonatas, with which she became quite familiar. In the year 1864 Isidor Eichberg accompanied my brothers and myself to the island, and that led, still later on, to Mr. Julius Eichberg's becoming an habitue of the island. He brought his violin with him, and with Mr. Paine frequently played compositions of Bach for piano and violin. Finally I was drawn into the current, and played, with Eichberg, Schumann's and other sonatas. As I grew older I gave less time to fishing. Moreover, whereas I had formerly spent only a couple of weeks or so at the island, I now began to go early in July and stay until September, so that in the nature of things I could not fish all the time, and gradually formed a habit of playing in Mrs. Thaxter's cottage every day from eleven o'clock in the morning until the arrival of the boat, about an hour and a half later.

Hers was an interesting and enthusiastic nature, which attracted to her many literary and artistic people. She held, in a most charming and informal way, what may really be called a salon. The walls of her parlor were covered with paintings and pictures of all kinds, many of them the work and gifts of personal friends. As she herself expressed it, "a beautiful thought was always suggested whenever and wherever she looked."

Her love of flowers amounted almost to a passion, and no expenditure of time or strength given to garden work was grudged, even when the effort of very early rising was involved. And when did garden ever better repay the personal love and care of the gardener? Where were ever seen such radiant, waving poppies, such hundred-hued pansies, such stately and brilliant hollyhocks, and such fragrant sweet peas? And upon entering the parlor, it seemed as if one had hardly left the garden, so many and so beautiful were the masses of flowers.

As I have said, Mrs. Thaxter was very fond of music, and every morning welcomed those of her friends who shared this taste to hear any artist who might be on the island.

It was my pleasure, being so much at Appledore, to play a great deal in these informal ways. The doors wide open to the sun and salt breezes, the people sitting in the room and grouped on the piazza, shaded by its lovely vines, the beautiful vistas of gaily colored flowers, sea and sky beyond, made a charming and ever-to-be-remembered scene.

Chopin and Schumann were the favorite composers, their compositions being constantly requested. After a while I enlarged the repertoire by introducing several of Edward MacDowell's smaller works. These found immediate favor. Some half-dozen years ago, having become acquainted with and thoroughly enthusiastic over the "Sonata Tragica" of this composer, I began to play it early in the summer on arriving at the Shoals. At first the audience was somewhat reserved in the expression of an opinion, but after a few hearings the composition found friends who really appreciated and enjoyed it. Being curious to ascertain what result a closer acquaintanceship with the work would bring about, and wishing to do some missionary work, I formed the resolution of playing it once a day during the season, and announced my intention to the audience. With but the exception of a few days, the scheme was carried out, and with gratifying success, for the "Sonata Tragica" became eventually the favorite of the majority, and it was constantly called for.

One or two ladies who found it tedious at the outset became thorough converts, and finally experienced genuine musical enjoyment from it. On the publication of the "Sonata Eroica" a few years later a similar result was reached, but not in the same degree as in the case of the "Tragica."

This incident is related to illustrate the remarkable effect of musical surroundings and the great advantage of living in a musical atmosphere. Here were people of intelligence and culture who, under adverse circumstances, would not have appreciated the beauty of these intellectual works, but who after closer association were led to perceive their beauty and who learned to love them.

Sundays were celebrated by the playing of Beethoven's sonatas. Every one seemed to look forward to and enjoy these pleasant mornings. Mrs. Thaxter was a delightful hostess, and possessed the rare quality of bringing out the best in those about her.

During the summer of 1894 Mrs. Thaxter seemed as well and active as usual, still working in her garden, still the lively center of her group of friends and admirers. One day she did not appear, nor the next, and then we heard she had peacefully passed away.

None who were at Appledore then will easily forget that 26th of August, nor the day she was buried on her island home.

The funeral service was held in the well-known sitting-room; the address was made by her old friend the Rev. Dr. James De Normandie, and, by request of her sons, I played Schumann's "Romance in F Sharp," and Dvo[^r]ak's "Holy Mount,"

The tides of Music's golden sea
Setting toward Eternity.

When the simple service was over the coffin was followed by her old and faithful friends and the island fishermen to the grave by that of her father and mother. The long procession of people, through the gray mist, winding in and out along the rocky way, the leaden sky and sea, the hushed voices of the children, usually ringing out so merrily from rocks and hotel piazzas, accentuated the sense of our loss.

At the grave, all lined with bayberry and flowers, the coffin was lowered, and each of those present came forward and laid upon it a few of the flowers she loved so dearly.

MUSIC IN AMERICA TO-DAY

A year or two ago a young lady came to my studio and asked for a single lesson. She told me that she had been studying in Germany for some years, and named the city, which is one of the well-known musical centers. She was then going to the West on her way home, and stopped a day over in New York expressly for a lesson from me. I heard her play several pieces, and was surprised and pleased with her manner and style. She phrased with intelligence and gave due attention to rhythmic requirements. Her tone was large, full, and musically resonant, and could not have been produced otherwise than through the agency of the upper-arm muscles, which were constantly in active use. The flexibility and elasticity of hands and wrists were also apparent, and finally the evident repose in action of all of these qualities capped the climax. I said to her: "My dear young lady, I cannot add to your playing, for it is already finished and artistic. I might possibly suggest a different rendering in certain parts, but, after all, this would amount only to a matter of taste. If you had studied exclusively under my guidance for a course of years, and I had succeeded in doing my best, aided by your own intelligence and careful practice, I should have sought to bring about just the result which you have reached. I think your teacher must be a young man." "He is," she replied; "but why?" "Because," I answered, "his method is free from the stiffness and rigidity of the old German school. Has he, perhaps, a method of his own?" Her immediate reply was, "He uses your method." She also told me her teacher's name, which I have now unfortunately forgotten. I think this teacher deserves to have more pupils!

But the time has gone by when it was necessary for students of the piano to go abroad to complete a musical education. There are now teachers of the piano of the first rank in all of our principal cities, who secure better results with American pupils than foreign teachers do, because they have a better understanding of our national character and temperament. Such men among my own former pupils are E. M. Bowman in New York, S. S. Sanford in New Haven, W. S. B. Matthews and William H. Sherwood in Chicago, and many others who are distinguished in their profession as teachers, and who have done and are doing much in furtherance of sound musical education and in the cultivation of a refined, musical taste in America. Our country has also produced composers of the first rank, and the names MacDowell, Parker, Kelley, Whiting, Paine, Buck, Shelley, Chadwick, Brockway, and Foote occur at once to the mind. Enormous progress in the art and science of music has been made in America since I began my studies in Germany in the year 1849. Our teachers meet in great numbers in convention during the summer months and in summer schools and classes, and it is difficult to overestimate the beneficent results which flow from these assemblies. They create a musical atmosphere, in which teachers and pupils live and move and have their being. They afford opportunities for the intelligent discussion of mooted questions and for the interchange of ideas, and lead to a wider dissemination of the best educational methods.

Harvard, Yale, Columbia, and Princeton all have their chairs of music, and doubtless this is true of others of our universities and colleges. The city of New York has become one of the great musical centers of the world. The Philharmonic Society, the opera season, the Kneisel Quartet, and many others of high artistic merit, afford opportunities for the gratification of musical taste which are hardly to be excelled elsewhere; and the popularity of these and of the countless pianoforte recitals and chamber-music concerts bears eloquent testimony to the growth of an intelligent musical taste among us. Boston and Chicago have their world-renowned orchestras, led by Gericke and Thomas, who are passed masters of their art. The cities of Pittsburg, Cincinnati, and St. Louis have their orchestras, each under competent leadership. The most celebrated artists at home and from abroad are heard in our principal cities. The season just closed (1900-01) is in striking contrast to those of my early manhood. Among the many prominent pianists who have played to us there are some of extraordinary talent, who give abundant promise of brilliant future achievement.

Ernst von Dohnanyi, born at Pressburg, July 27, 1877, is a wonderfully talented musical composer and at the same time a pianist whose technic is complete, combining as it does the emotional, intelligent, and mechanical elements in happy union and adjustment. Von Dohnanyi has by nature as intense, thorough, and complete a musical organization as ever came within my experience. He composes with marvelous spontaneity and rapidity. His ideas are fresh and original, and their expression and elaboration are effected with the freedom of an improvisation, thus in no way emphasizing their mechanical setting forth.

He is just completing, in the twenty-fourth year of his age, an elaborate symphony in D minor for grand orchestra, the scheme of which is as follows: I. Allegro; II. Adagio; III. Scherzo; IV. Intermezzo; V. Finale: Introduction, Tema con Variazioni; Fuga.

This is a massive production, apparently the result of inherent qualities carried into act by impulse, in other words, of spontaneous achievement. It is so instinctive and impulsive that the art of its construction hardly occurs to the hearer at first, but as an afterthought excites wonder and admiration.

Early in March of the present year (1901), Von Dohnanyi, his wife, and a few other friends, among them Emil Pauer, dined at my house, and during the evening Von Dohnanyi played his symphony on the pianoforte. This instrument is naturally quite inadequate to the interpretation of such a work, but Von Dohnanyi's technic is so complete, his tone so massive while intensely musical, and his enthusiasm so contagious that we became conscious of an ever-increasing interest, steadily growing in intensity. The occasion and its experience will not be forgotten by any of those present.

A week later the Von Dohnanyis spent the evening with us just before their departure on the following day for Europe, and he played again a portion of the work, deepening and confirming the impression made at the first hearing. The future of this young man is full of promise. His teacher in composition was Hans Koessler in Pesth; his pianoforte teacher was Stephen Thoman of the same city. Later on he had eight lessons of Eugen d'Albert in Berlin, after which the latter said to him: "You can go on by yourself now; I have taught you all I can."

Leopold Godowsky is a pianist of the first class, but above all he is a specialist, and altogether unapproachable in his specialty. His left hand is in every respect the equal of his right, and passages of extreme intricacy and rapidity come out with an astonishing clearness of detail. Nothing in his work, however minute, is slighted, but musical expression and finish of execution are above criticism. His specialty is his rearrangement and working up of many of Chopin's Etudes in such manner that several of the various themes of these are, so to speak, intertwined. In some instances three different melodies can be heard progressing simultaneously in loving union, with a smoothness, delicacy, and accuracy in counterpoint which is simply marvelous. There is never a suspicion of haste in his playing, no matter how rapid the rate of speed. His manner is full of repose--respectful, earnest, and sympathetic; thus there is no suggestion of violence to the composer's original production.

I know that among my best friends, whose judgment I esteem, there are some who do not hold the same opinion, and who think that the composer's work should be left intact. It seems to me, however, that much depends upon the manner of treatment. The French proverb runs: "Il y a fagots et fagots"; or, in the more homely phrase of dear old Boston, "There are beans, and then there are beans." Moreover, the fact that these compositions are etudes (studies), and therefore avowedly for the purpose of developing physical technic as well as poetic style, should be duly considered in judging of their _raison d'etre_. Similar treatment of the sonatas, ballades, and nocturnes would surely be a different thing. Furthermore, the solid and dignified Brahms--one of the three B's of Bulow's trinity--set an example, by rearranging a rondo by Von Weber, which he turns upside down, so to speak, making a bass of what in the original is the right-hand part. Brahms has also utterly destroyed the charm of Chopin's "Etude in F Minor, Op. 25, No. 2," which lies in the very rapid and delicately pianissimo playing of passages of triplets in the right hand as against duals in the left. In the original these passages are throughout of single tones in both hands, and hence can be performed in the most dainty and fascinating manner; but Brahms has changed the right hand part to double thirds and; sixths, thus completely altering the character of the music, and doing violence to the exquisitely light, delicate, and graceful effect of the original version. In passing judgment upon the work of Brahms, however, it must not be forgotten that he publishes this in company with several other arrangements, under the general title, "Studien fur das Pianoforte," thus indicating that his object is the development of physical technic.

In this connection, I remember Rubinstein's telling me as long ago as 1873, in the artists' retiring-room during one of his recitals at Steinway Hall, that he used in his boyhood's days "to do all sorts of things with Chopin's etudes," as he expressed it, "in order to exercise and strengthen the fingers." By way of illustration, he went to an upright piano which happened to be in the room, and began playing with his left hand alone the right-hand part of the chromatic-scale etude; "Op. 10, No. 2," and this he did with fluency.

Godowsky has played his arrangements to me on several occasions at my studio and at home _en famille_, and has invariably produced a state of happy good humor which was of long duration and which in large measure returns to me as I write.