Chapter VI: Front Matter (6)

"Two of the most important principles in piano playing are: full, round, exact tone; distinct phrasing. The most common fault is indistinctness--slurring over or leaving out notes. Clearness in piano playing is absolutely essential. If an actor essays the role of Hamlet, he must first of all speak distinctly and make himself clearly understood; otherwise all his study and characterization are in vain. The pianist must likewise make himself understood; he therefore must enunciate clearly.

VELOCITY

"You speak of velocity as difficult for some players to acquire. I have found there is a general tendency to play everything too fast, to rush headlong through the piece, without taking time to make it clear and intelligible. When the piece is quite clear in tone and phrasing, it will not sound as fast as it really is, because all the parts are in just relation to each other. As an illustration of this fact, there is a little Gavotte of mine, which I had occasion to play several times in Paris. A lady, a very good pianist, got the piece, learned it, then came and asked me to hear her play it. She sat down to the piano, and rushed through the piece in a way that so distorted it I could hardly recognize it. When she finished I remonstrated, but she assured me that her tempo was exactly like mine as she had heard me play the piece three times. I knew my own tempo exactly and showed her that while it did not differ so greatly from hers, yet my playing sounded slower because notes and phrasing were all clear, and everything rightly balanced.

POWER

"How do I gain power? Power does not depend on the size of the hand or arm; for persons of quite small physique have enough of it to play with the necessary effect. Power is a nervous force, and of course demands that arms and wrists be relaxed. The fingers must be so trained as to be strong enough to stand up under this weight of arms and hands, and not give way. I repeat, the nail joint must remain firm under all circumstances. It is so easy to forget this; one must be looking after it all the time.

MEMORIZING

"In regard to memorizing, I have no special rule or method. Committing to memory seems to come of its own accord. Some pieces are comparatively easy to learn by heart; others, like a Bach fugue, require hard work and close analysis. The surest way to learn a difficult composition, is to write it out from memory. There is a great deal of benefit in that. If you want to remember the name of a person or a place, you write it down. When the eye sees it, the mind retains a much more vivid impression. This is visual memory. When I play with orchestra, I of course know every note the orchestra has to play as well as my own part. It is a much greater task to write out a score from memory than a piano solo, yet it is the surest way to fix the composition in mind. I find that compositions I learned in early days are never forgotten, they are always with me, while the later pieces have to be constantly looked after. This is doubtless a general experience, as early impressions are most enduring.

"An orchestral conductor should know the works he conducts so thoroughly that he need not have the score before him. I have done considerable conducting the past few years. Last season I gave a series of historical recitals, tracing the growth of the piano concerto, from Mozart down to the present. I played nineteen works in all, finishing with the Rachmaninoff Concerto."

Mr. Gabrilowitsch has entirely given up teaching, and devotes his time to recital and concert, conducting, and composing.

HANS VON BUeLOW AS TEACHER AND INTERPRETER

Those who heard Hans von Buelow in recital during his American tour, in 1876, listened to piano playing that was at once learned and convincing. A few years before, in 1872, Rubinstein had come and conquered. The torrential splendor of his pianism, his mighty crescendos and whispering diminuendos, his marvelous variety of tone--all were in the nature of a revelation; his personal magnetism carried everything before it. American audiences were at his feet.

In Von Buelow was found a player of quite a different caliber. Clarity of touch, careful exactness down to the minutest detail caused the critics to call him cold. He was a deep thinker and analyzer; as he played one saw, as though reflected in a mirror, each note, phrase and dynamic mark of expression to be found in the work. From a Rubinstein recital the listener came away subdued, awed, inspired, uplifted, but disinclined to open the piano or touch the keys that had been made to burn and scintillate under those wonderful hands. After hearing Von Buelow, on the other hand, the impulse was to hasten to the instrument and reproduce what had just seemed so clear and logical, so simple and attainable. It did not seem to be such a difficult thing to play the piano--like _that_! It was as though he had said: "Any of you can do what I am doing, if you will give the same amount of time and study to it that I have done. Listen and I will teach you!"

Von Buelow was a profound student of the works of Beethoven; his edition of the sonatas is noted for recondite learning, clearness and exactness in the smallest details. Through his recitals in America he did much to make these works better known and understood. Nor did he neglect Chopin, and though his readings of the music of the great Pole may have lacked in sensuous beauty of touch and tone, their interpretation was always sane, healthy, and beautiful.

Toward the end of a season during the eighties, it was announced that Von Buelow would come to Berlin and teach an artist class in the Klindworth Conservatory. This was an unusual opportunity to obtain lessons from so famous a musician and pedagogue, and about twenty pianists were enrolled for the class. A few of these came with the master from Frankfort, where he was then located.

Carl Klindworth, pianist, teacher, critic, editor of Chopin and Beethoven, was then the Director of the school. The two men were close friends, which is proved by the fact that Von Buelow was willing to recommend the Klindworth Edition of Beethoven, in spite of the fact that he himself had edited many of the sonatas. Another proof is that he was ready to leave his work in Frankfort, and come to Berlin, in order to shed the luster of his name and fame upon the Klindworth school--the youngest of the many musical institutions of that music-ridden, music-saturated capital.

* * * * *

It was a bright May morning when the Director entered the music-room with his guest, and presented him to the class. They saw in him a man rather below medium height, with large intellectual head, beneath whose high, wide forehead shone piercing dark eyes, hidden behind glasses.

He bowed to the class, saying he was pleased to see so many industrious students. His movements, as he looked around the room, were quick and alert; he seemed to see everything at once, and the students saw that nothing could escape that active mentality.

The class met four days in each week, and the lessons continued from nine in the morning until well on toward one o'clock. It was announced that only the works of Brahms, Raff, Mendelssohn and Liszt would be taught and played, so nothing else need be brought to the class; indeed Brahms was to have the place of honor.

While many interesting compositions were discussed and played, perhaps the most helpful thing about these hours spent with the great pedagogue was the running fire of comment and suggestion regarding technic, interpretation, and music and musicians in general. Von Buelow spoke in rapid, nervous fashion, with a mixture of German and English, often repeating in the latter tongue what he had said in the former, out of consideration for the Americans and English present.

In teaching, Von Buelow required the same qualities which were so patent in his playing. Clearness of touch, exactness in phrasing and fingering were the first requirements; the delivery of the composer's idea must be just as he had indicated it--no liberties with the text were ever permitted. He was so honest, so upright in his attitude toward the makers of good music, that it was a sin in his eyes to alter anything in the score, though he believed in adding any marks of phrasing or expression which would elucidate the intentions of the composer. Everything he said or did showed his intellectual grasp of the subject; and he looked for some of the same sort of intelligence on the part of the student. A failure in this respect, an inability to apprehend at once the ideas he endeavored to convey, would annoy the sensitive and nervous little Doctor; he would become impatient, sarcastic and begin to pace the floor with hasty strides. When in this state he could see little that was worthy in the student's performance, for a small error would be so magnified as to dwarf everything that was excellent. When the lion began to roar, it behooved the players to be circumspect and meek. At other times, when the weather was fair in the class-room, things went with tolerable smoothness. He did not trouble himself much about technic, as of course a pupil coming to him was expected to be well equipped on the technical side; his chief concern was to make clear the content and interpretation of the composition. In the lessons he often played detached phrases and passages for and with the student, but never played an entire composition.

One of the most remarkable things about this eccentric man was his prodigious memory. Nearly every work for piano which could be mentioned he knew and could play from memory. He often expressed the opinion that no pianist could be considered an artist unless he or she could play at least two hundred pieces by heart. He, of course, more than fulfilled this requirement, not only for piano but for orchestral music. As conductor of the famous Meiningen orchestra, he directed every work given without a note of score before him--considered a great feat in those days. He was a ceaseless worker, and his eminence in the world of music was more largely due to unremitting labor than to genius.

From the many suggestions to the Berlin class, the following have been culled.

"To play correctly is of the first importance; to play beautifully is the second requirement. A healthy touch is the main thing. Some people play the piano as if their fingers had _migrane_ and their wrists were rheumatic. Do not play on the sides of the finger nor with a sideways stroke, for then the touch will be weak and uncertain.

"Clearness we must first have; every line and measure, every note must be analyzed for touch, tone, content and expression.

"You are always your first hearer; to be one's own critic is the most difficult of all.

"When a new theme enters you must make it plain to the listener; all the features of the new theme, the new figure, must be plastically brought out.

"Brilliancy does not depend on velocity but on clarity. What is not clear cannot scintillate nor sparkle. Make use of your strongest fingers in brilliant passages, leaving out the fourth when possible. A scale to be brilliant and powerful must not be too rapid. Every note must be round and full and not too legato--rather a mezzo legato--so that single tones, played hands together, shall sound like octaves. One of the most difficult things in rhythm, is to play passages where two notes alternate with triplets. Scales may be practised in this way alternating three notes with two.

"We must make things sound well--agreeably, in a way to be admired. A seemingly discordant passage can be made to sound well by ingeniously seeking out the best that is in it and holding that up in the most favorable light. Practise dissonant chords until they please the ear in spite of their sharpness. Think of the instruments of the orchestra and their different qualities of tone, and try to imitate them on the piano. Think of every octave on the piano as having a different color; then shade and color your playing. (_Also bitte coloriren_)!"

If Buelow's musical trinity, Bach, Beethoven, and Brahms, had a fourth divinity added, it would surely have been Liszt. The first day's program contained chiefly works by the Hungarian master; among them _Au bord d'une Source_, Scherzo and March, and the Ballades. The player who rendered the Scherzo was advised to practise octaves with light, flexible wrist; the Kullak Octave School was recommended, especially the third book; the other books could be read through, practising whatever seemed difficult and passing over what was easy. Of the Ballades the first was termed more popular, the second finer and more earnest--though neither makes very much noise.

The _Annees de Pelerinage_ received much attention. Among the pieces played were, _Les Cloches_, _Chasse Neige_, _Eclogue_, _Cloches de Geneva_, _Eroica_, _Feux Follets_ and _Ma__zeppa_. Also the big Polonaise in E, the two Etudes, _Waldesrauschen_ and _Gnomenreigen_; the Mazourka, Valse Impromptu, and the first Etude, of which last he remarked: "You can all play this; thirty years have passed since it was composed and people are only just finding out how fine it is. Such is the case with many of Liszt's works. We wonder how they ever could have been considered unmusical. Yet the way some people play Liszt the hearer is forced to exclaim, 'What an unmusical fellow Liszt was, to be sure, to write like that!'

"Exactness in everything is of the greatest importance," he was fond of saying. "We must make the piano speak. As in speaking we use a separate movement of the lips for each word, so in certain kinds of melody playing, the hand is taken up after each note. Then, too, we cannot make the piano speak without very careful use of the pedals."

The Mazourka of Liszt was recommended as one of the most delightful of his lighter pieces. The _Waldesrauschen_ also, was termed charming, an excellent concert number. "Begin the first figure somewhat louder and slightly slower, then increase the movement and subdue the tone. _Everything which_ _is to be played softly should be practised forte."_

Of Joachim Raff the Suite Op. 91 held the most important place. Each number received minute attention, the Giga being played by Ethelbert Nevin. The _Metamorphosen_ received a hearing, also the Valse Caprice, Op. 116, of which the master was particular about the staccato left hand against the legato right. Then came the Scherzo Op. 74, the Valse Caprice and the Polka, from Suite Op. 71. Von Buelow described the little group of notes in left hand of middle section as a place where the dancers made an unexpected slip on the floor, and suggested it be somewhat emphasized. "We must make this little witticism," he said, as he illustrated the passage at the piano.

"Raff showed himself a pupil of Mendelssohn in his earlier compositions; his symphonies will find more appreciation in the coming century--which cannot be said of the Ocean Symphony, for instance."

Of Mendelssohn the Capriccios Op. 5 and 22 were played, also the Prelude and Fugue in E. Von Buelow deplored the neglect which was overtaking the works of Mendelssohn, and spoke of the many beauties of his piano compositions. "There should be no sentimentality about the playing of Mendelssohn's music," he said; "the notes speak for themselves.

"The return to a theme, in every song or instrumental work of his is particularly to be noticed, for it is always interesting; this Fugue in E should begin as though with the softest register of the organ."

The subject of Brahms has been deferred only that it may be spoken of as a whole. His music was the theme of the second, and a number of the following lessons. Buelow was a close friend of the Hamburg master, and kept in touch with him while in Berlin. One morning he came in with a beaming face, holding up a sheet of music paper in Beethoven's handwriting, which Brahms had discovered and forwarded to him. It seemed that nothing could have given Buelow greater pleasure than to receive this relic.

The first work taken up in class was Brahms' Variations on a Handel theme. Von Buelow was in perfect sympathy with this noble work of Brahms and illumined many passages with clear explanations. He was very exact about the phrasing, "What cannot be sung in one breath cannot be played in one breath," he said; "many composers have their own terms for expression and interpretation; Brahms is very exact in these points--next to him comes Mendelssohn. Beethoven not at all careful about markings and Schumann extremely careless. Brahms, Beethoven, and Wagner have the right to use their own terms. Brahms frequently uses the word _sostenuto_ where others would use _ritardando_."

Of the Clavier Stuecke, Op. 76, Von Buelow said: "The Capriccio, No. 1 must not be taken too fast. First page is merely a prelude, the story begins at the second page. How wonderfully is this melody formed, so original yet so regular. Compare it with a Bach gigue. Remember, andante does not mean dragging (_schleppando_), it means going (_gehend_)." To the player who gave the Capriccio, No. 5 he said: "You play that as if it were a Tarantelle of Stephan Heller's. Agitation in piano playing must be carefully thought out; the natural sort will not do at all. We do not want _blind_ agitation, but _seeing_ agitation (_aufregung_). A diminuendo of several measures should be divided into stations, one each for F, MF, M, P, and PP. Visit the Zoological Gardens, where you can learn much about legato and staccato from the kangaroos."

The Ballades were taken up in these lessons, and the light thrown upon their poetical content was often a revelation. The gloomy character of the _Edward Ballade_, Op. 10, No. 1, the source of the Scottish poem, the poetic story, were dwelt upon. The opening of this first Ballade is sad, sinister and mysterious, like the old Scotch story. The master insisted on great smoothness in playing it--the chords to sound like muffled but throbbing heartbeats. A strong climax is worked up on the second page, which dies away on the third to a _pianissimo_ of utter despair. From the middle of this page on to the end, the descending chords and octaves were likened to ghostly footsteps, while the broken triplets in the left hand accompaniment seem to indicate drops of blood.

The third Ballade also received an illumination from Von Buelow. This is a vivid tone picture, though without motto or verse. Starting with those fateful fifths in the bass, it moves over two pages fitfully gloomy and gay, till at the end of the second page a descending passage leads to three chords so full of grim despair as to impart the atmosphere of a dungeon. The player was hastily turning the leaf. "Stop!" cried the excited voice of the master, who had been pacing restlessly up and down, and now hurried from the end of the salon. "Wait! We have been in prison--but now a ray of sunshine pierces the darkness. You must always pause here to make the contrast more impressive. There is more music in this little piece than in whole symphonies by some of the modern composers."

Both Rhapsodies Op. 79 were played; the second, he said, has parts as passionate as anything in the _Goetterdammerung_. Both are fine and interesting works.

Again and again the players were counseled to make everything sound well. Some intervals, fourths for instance, are harsh; make them as mild as possible. For one can play correctly, but horribly! Some staccatos should be shaken out of the sleeve as it were.

The first time a great work is heard there is so much to occupy the attention that only a small amount of pleasure can be derived from it. At the second hearing things are easier and by the twelfth time one's pleasure is complete. The pianist must consider the listener in a first rendering, and endeavor to soften the sharp discords.

With a group of five notes, play two and then three--it sounds more distinguished. Remember that unlearning gives much more trouble than learning.

* * * * *

In this brief resume of the Von Buelow lessons, the desire has been to convey some of the hints and remarks concerning the music and its interpretation. The master's fleeting sentences were hurriedly jotted down during the lessons, with no thought of their ever being seen except by the owner. But as Buelow's fame as a teacher became so great, these brief notes may now be of some value to both teacher and student.

If it were only possible to create a picture of that Berlin music-room, with its long windows opening out to a green garden--the May sunshine streaming in; the two grand pianos in the center, a row of anxious, absorbed students about the edge of the room--and the short figure of the little Doctor, pacing up and down the polished floor, or seating himself at one piano now and then, to illustrate his instruction. This mental picture is the lifelong possession of each of those players who were so fortunate as to be present at the sessions. It can safely be affirmed, I think, that the principles of artistic rectitude, of exactness and thorough musicianship which were there inculcated, ever remained with the members of that class, as a constant incentive and inspiration.

HINTS ON INTERPRETATION FROM TWO AMERICAN TEACHERS

WILLIAM H. SHERWOOD AND DR. WILLIAM MASON

WILLIAM H. SHERWOOD

While a young student the opportunity came to attend a Summer Music School, founded by this eminent pianist and teacher. He had surrounded himself with others well known for their specialties in voice, violin and diction; but the director himself was the magnet who attracted pianists and teachers from the four corners of the land.

Perhaps the most intimate way to come in touch with a famous teacher, is to study with him during the summer months, in some quiet, retired spot. Here the stress of the metropolis, with its rush and drive, its exacting hours, its remorseless round of lesson giving, is exchanged for the freedom of rural life. Hours may still be exact, but a part of each day, or of each week, is given over to relaxation, to be spent in the open, with friends and pupils.

It was under such conditions that I first met Mr. Sherwood. I had never even heard him play, and was glad the session opened with a piano recital. His playing delighted me; he had both power and delicacy, and his tone impressed me as being especially mellow and fine. There was deep feeling as well as poetry in his reading of both the Chromatic Fantaisie of Bach, and the Chopin Fantaisie in F minor which were on the program. This opinion was strengthened at each subsequent hearing, for he gave frequent recitals and concerts during the season.

My summer study with Mr. Sherwood consisted mainly in gaining ideas on the interpretation of various pieces. Many of these ideas seem to me beautiful and inspiring, and I will set them down as fully as I can from the brief notes jotted down at the time. I trust I may be pardoned a few personal references, which are sometimes necessary to explain the situation.

With advanced students Mr. Sherwood gave great attention to tone study and interpretation, even from the first lesson. He laid much stress on the use of slow, gentle motions in practise and in playing; on the spiritualization of the tones, of getting behind the notes to find the composer's meaning. He had, perhaps, a more poetic conception of piano playing than any master I have known, and was able to impart these ideas in clear and simple language.

The first composition considered was Schumann's Nachtstueck, the fourth of the set. He had a peculiar way of turning the hand on the middle finger, as on a pivot, for the extended chords, at the same time raising the whole outer side of the hand, so that the fifth finger should be able to play the upper melody notes round and full. In the middle section he desired great tenderness and sweetness of tone. "There are several dissonances in this part," he said, "and they ought to be somewhat accented--suspensions I might call them. In Bach and Handel's time, the rules of composition were very strict--no suspensions were allowed; so they were indicated where it was not permitted to write them."

Chopin's etude in sixths came up for analysis. "This study needs a very easy, quiet, limpid touch--the motions all gliding and sliding rather than pushing and forceful. I would advise playing it at first _pianissimo_; the wrist held rather low, the knuckles somewhat high, and the fingers straightened. In preparation for each pair of notes raise the fingers and let them down--not with a hard brittle touch, if I may use the word, but with a soft, velvety one. A composition like this needs to be idealized, spiritualized, taken out of everyday life. Take, for instance, the Impromptu Op. 36, Chopin; the first part of it is something like this etude, soft, undulating--smooth as oil. There is something very uncommon, spiritual, heavenly, about the first page of that Impromptu--very little of the earth, earthy. The second page is in sharp contrast to the first, it comes right down to the hard, everyday business of life--it is full of harsh, sharp tones. Well, the idea of that first page we get in this study in sixths. I don't want the bare tones that stand there on the printed page; I want them spiritualized--that is what reveals the artist. In the left hand the first note should have a clear, brittle accent, with firm fifth finger, and the double sixths played with the creeping, clinging movement I have indicated. If I should practise this etude for half an hour, you might be surprised at the effects I could produce. Perhaps it might take ten hours, but in the end I am confident I could produce this floating, undulating effect. I heard Liszt play nearly all these etudes at one time; I stood by and turned the pages. In this etude he doubled the number of sixths in each measure; the effect was wonderful and beautiful.

"The Chopin Octave study, number 22, needs firm, quiet touch, elevating the wrist for black keys (as Kullak explains) and depressing it for white keys. The hand must be well arched, the end fingers firm and strong, and the touch very pressing, clinging, and grasping. You always want to cling whenever there is any chance for clinging in piano playing. The second part of this etude should have a soft, flowing, poetic touch in the right hand, while the left hand part is well brought out. The thumb needs a special training to enable it to creep and slide from one key to another with snake-like movements.

"Rubinstein's Barcarolle in G major. The thirds on the first page are very soft and gentle. I make a good deal of extra motion with these thirds, raising the fingers quite high and letting them fall gently on the keys. The idea of the first page of this barcarolle is one of utter quietness, colorlessness; one is alone on the water; the evening is quiet and still; not a sound breaks the hushed silence. The delicate tracery of thirds should be very soft, thin--like an airy cloud. The left hand is soft too, but the first beat should be slightly accented, the second not; the first is positive, the second negative. Herein lies the idea of the barcarolle, the ebb and flow, the undulation of each measure.

"Begin the first measure very softly, the second measure a trifle louder, the third louder still, the fourth falling off again. As you stand on the shore and watch the great waves coming in, you see some that are higher and larger than others; so it is here. The concluding passage in sixths should diminish--like a little puff of vapor that ends in--nothing. On the second page we come upon something more positive; here is a tangible voice speaking to us. The melody should stand out clear, broad, beautiful; the accompanying chords should preserve the same ebb and flow, the advancing and receding wave-like movement. The exaggerated movement I spoke of a moment ago, I use in many ways. Any one can hit the piano, with a sharp, incisive touch; but what I refer to is the reaching out of the fingers for the notes, the passing of the hand in the air and the final gentle fall on the key, not in haste to get there, but with confidence of reaching the key in time. If you throw a stone up in the air it will presently fall back again with a sharp thud; a bird rising, hovers a moment and descends gently. This barcarolle is not at all easy; there is plenty of work in it for flexible hands; it is a study in _pianissimo_--in power controlled, held back, restrained."

Taking up the Toccatina of Rheinberger, Mr. Sherwood said: "I like this piece, there is good honest work in it; it is very effective, and most excellent practise. You ought to play this every day of the year. It is written in twelve-eighths, which give four beats to the measure, but I think that gives it too hard and square a character. I would divide each measure into two parts and slightly accent each. Though your temperament is more at home in the music of Chopin and Schumann, I recommend especially music of this sort, and also the music of Bach; these give solidity and strength to your conception of musical ideas."

We went through the Raff Suite, Op. 94. "The Preludio is very good," he said; "I like it. The Menuetto is, musically, the least strong of any of the numbers, but it has a certain elegance, and is the most popular of them all. The Romanza is a great favorite of mine, it is very graceful, flowing and melodious. The concluding Fugue is a fine number; you see how the theme is carried from one hand to the other, all twisted about, in a way old Bach and Handel never thought of doing. I consider this Raff fugue one of the best examples of modern fugue writing."

Mr. Sherwood was fond of giving students the Josef Wieniawski Valse, for brilliancy. "There are many fine effects which can be made in this piece; one can take liberties with it--the more imagination you have the better it will go. I might call it a _stylish_ piece; take the Prelude as capriciously as you like; put all the effect you can into it. The Valse proper begins in a very pompous style, with right hand very staccato; all is exceedingly coquettish. On the fifth page you see it is marked _amoroso_, but after eight measures the young man gives the whole thing away to his father! The beginning of the sixth page is very _piano_ and light--it is nothing more than a breath of smoke, an airy nothing. But at the _poco piu lento_, there is an undercurrent of reality; the two parts are going at the same time--the hard, earthly part, with accents, and the spiritual, thin as air. To realize these qualities in playing is the very idealization of technic."

The Chopin-Liszt _Maiden's Wish_, was next considered. "The theme here is often overlaid and encrusted with the delicate lace-like arabesques that seek to hide it; but it must be found and brought out. There is so much in being able to find what is hidden behind the notes. You must get an insight into the inner idea; must feel it. This is not technic, not method even; it is the spiritualization of playing. There are pieces that will sound well if the notes only are played, like the little F minor Moment Musicale of Schubert; yet even in this there is much behind the notes, which, if brought out, will make quite another thing of the piece.

"Schumann's Andante, for two pianos, should have a very tender, caressing touch for the theme. The place where the four-sixteenths occur, which make rather a square effect, can be softened down. On the second page, be sure and do not accent the grace notes; let the accent come on the fifth finger every time. For the variation containing chords, use the grasping touch, which might be described as a certain indrawing of force in the end of the finger, as though taking a long breath. The variation in triplets seems at first sight almost a caricature, a burlesque on the theme, but I don't think that Schumann had any such idea. On the contrary he meant it as a very sweet, gentle, loving thought. The last page has something ethereal, ideal about it; it should be breathed out, growing fainter and fainter to the end.

"The G minor Ballade, of Chopin, begins slowly, with much dignity. The opening melody is one of sadness, almost gloom. The _a tempo_ on second page contains four parts going on at the same time. At the _piu forte,_ care must be taken to have the outer side of the hand well raised, and moved from the wrist. The idea here is one of great agitation and unrest. The fifth page needs great power and the legato octaves well connected and sustained. The feeling of unrest is here augmented until it becomes almost painful, and not until the _animato_ does a restful feeling come. This should be played lightly and delicately, the left hand giving the rhythm. The _presto_ demands great power and dash. Let the wrist be low when beginning the chords, raise it after the first and let it fall after the second. Always accent the second chord. Begin the final double runs slowly and increase in speed and tone. So, too, with the octaves, begin slowly and increase in power and fire."

Numerous other compositions were analyzed, but the ones already quoted stand out in memory, and give some idea of Mr. Sherwood's manner of teaching.

DR. WILLIAM MASON

Years after the foregoing experiences I had the privilege of doing some work with the dean of all American piano masters, Dr. William Mason. I had spent several years in European study, with Scharwenka, Klindworth and von Buelow, and had returned to my own land to join its teaching and playing force. My time soon became so largely occupied with teaching that I feared my playing would be entirely pushed to the wall unless I were under the guidance of some master. With this thought in mind, I presented myself to Dr. Mason.

"You have studied with Sherwood," he began. "He has excellent ideas of touch and technic. Some of these ideas came from me, though I don't wish to claim too much in the matter. Sherwood has the true piano touch. Very few pianists have it; Klindworth did not have it, nor von Buelow, nor even Liszt, entirely, for he as well as the others, sought for a more orchestral manner of playing. Sherwood has this touch; Tausig had it, and de Pachmann and Rubinstein most of all. It is not taught in Germany as it should be. The best American teachers are far ahead in this respect; in a few years the Europeans will come to us to learn these things." (This was Sherwood's idea also.)

The first composition played to Dr. Mason was the G minor Rhapsodie of Brahms, with which, as it happened, he was unfamiliar. I played the entire piece through without interruption, and he seemed pleased.

"You have a beautiful tone--a really beautiful tone, and you play very artistically; much of this must be natural to you, you could not have acquired it. You also have an excellently trained hand. I may say that in my forty years of teaching I have never had any one come to me with a better position, or more natural and normal condition. Now, what do you think I can do for you?"

I explained that I needed some new ideas in my teaching, and wished to keep up my own practise.

"I will explain my theories to you, and we will then study some compositions together.

"There is everything in knowing how to practise, but it is something that cannot be taught. I played in public ten years before I found out the secret.

"Practise slowly and in sections. Not only must all the notes be there, they must be dwelt on. There must be a firm and rock-like basis for piano playing; such a foundation can only be laid by patient and persevering slow practise. If the player has not the control over his fingers to play a piece slowly, he certainly cannot play it fast. Slow practise--one difficulty at a time--one hand at a time; Napoleon's tactics, 'one division at a time,' applies to music study. Above all do not hurry in fugue playing, a universal fault. Bach needs a slower trill than modern music. Chords are not to be played with percussion but with pressure. The main things in piano playing are tone and sentiment. When you take up a new piece, practise a few measures slowly, till you know them, then play faster; take the next few measures in the same way; but at first do not practise the whole piece through at once.

"Just as in life every experience of great joy or great grief leaves one better or more callous, so every time you practise you have either advanced or gone back. Right playing, like good manners in a well-trained child, becomes habitual from always doing right. As we are influenced for good or evil by those we associate with, so are we influenced by the character and quality of the tones we make and hear. Be in earnest; put your heart, your whole soul, your whole self into your playing."

Among other pieces we studied together was the Schumann sonata in F minor, the _Eusebius Sonata_--a glorious work! In the opening movement the left hand should be very serious and ponderous, with the hand and fingers held close to the keys; using arm weight. The melody in octaves in right hand is beseeching, pleading, imploring. In many places the touch is very elastic. The second movement begins very softly, as though one heard something faintly in the distance, and did not quite know what it was, but thought it might be music. The accents in this movement are to be understood in a comparative degree, and are not as strong as the marks seem to indicate. The Scherzo is extremely pompous and is to be played with heavy accents and a great deal of vim and go; the chords with the utmost freedom and dash. One must use the "letting-go" principle, which Paderewski has to perfection.

We next took up the Grieg Concerto; the Peter's edition of this work has been corrected by the composer. At the first lesson, Dr. Mason accompanied on a second piano, and seemed pleased with the work I had done, making no corrections, except to suggest a somewhat quicker tempo. "Not that I would do anything to impair your carefulness and accuracy, but you must take a risk, and from the beginning, too. I am reminded of the young man who has been very carefully brought up. When the time comes for him to strike out and take his chance in life, he holds back and is afraid, while another with more courage, steps in and takes away his opportunity."

We discussed the slow movement at great length. "Note in this movement the slow, dreamy effect that can be made at the ending of the second solo, and the artistic use of the pedal in the following chords. The third movement must have great swing and 'go'; the octave passage cadenza should be practised in rhythmical groups, and the final Andante must be fast."

The third time we played the concerto I had it well in hand. Dr. Mason accompanied as only he could do, and at the close praised me on the way I had worked it up, and the poetry and fire I was able to put into it. Who could help playing with fire and enthusiasm when led by such a master!

Dr. Mason was a most inspiring teacher, quick to note and praise what was good, and equally vigilant in correcting what was blameworthy. His criticisms were of the utmost value, for he had such wide experience, and such a large acquaintance with music and musicians. Best of all he was a true artist, always ready to demonstrate his art for the benefit of the pupil, always encouraging, always inspiring.

VITAL POINTS IN PIANO PLAYING

COMPOSITE PRINCIPLES DEDUCED FROM TALKS WITH EMINENT PIANISTS AND TEACHERS