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SPEAKING OF PIANISTS...

BY

ABRAM CHASINS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 4

Dedication 5

Acknowledgments 6

Introduction 7

Exposition 8

Josef Hofmann 8

2 11

3 13

Leopold Godowsky 20

Sergei Rachmaninoff 28

Artur Schnabel 33

In Retrospect 38

Countersubjects 42

Concerning Donald Francis Tovey 42

On Interpretation 46

On Teaching 51

Development 54

Ignace Jan Paderewski 54

Wanda Landowska 57

Wilhelm Backhaus 61

Artur Rubinstein 64

Walter Gieseking 69

Guiomar Novaës 73

Robert Casadesus 77

Rudolf Serkin 80

Vladimir Horowitz 83

...and Others 89

Theme and Variations 97

Also With Us 97

The Expendables 102

The Chains of Management 106

High Fidelity—High Fatality 112

State and Art 115

Episode 121

Mainly Concerning the Pianist’s Literature 121

Mozart’s Clavierland 122

Beethoven’s Five 127

Chopin 131

Schumann 135

Liszt 139

Brahms in D minor and В flat 143

Tchaikovsky’s Human Documents 147

The Rachmaninoff Concertos 152

George Gershwin—Paradox in Blue 155

...and Others 160

Recapitulation and Coda 170

Recapitulation and Coda 170

Closing Phrases: In Lieu of a Discography 172

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 173

Dedication

To my teachers and my pupils,

WHO MADE ME AWAKE OF EVERYTHING I HOLD MOST DEAR

Acknowledgments

FIRST, my profound though not unmixed thanks go to Irving Kolodin of the Saturday Review, whose encouraging editorial invitations plunged me into the swirling waters of criticism. I am indebted to that magazine for permission to draw upon material first published in its pages; to Columbia Records and RCA Victor for similar generosity; and to Elliott M. Sanger of WQXR for his kindly patience with a music director who would write a book.

To Dorée Smedley I am grateful for arming me with the sober facts of a book-writer’s life, and for showing me trade tricks with manila envelopes, scissors, and paste; to Thomas Lask of The New York Times and to Wills Hollingsworth of WQXR for their unflinching hospitality whenever I charged their desks with questions regarding what may humorously be called my syntax; to Miriam Molin for painstaking preparation of the Index; to Paul Hirschman for proffering helpful advice and for reading proofs; and to my editor, Herbert Weinstock, whose adamant demands somehow always managed to sound like friendly, casual suggestions.

My deepest thanks I owe to my wife, whose forbearance and helpfulness prevailed throughout writing periods that often uprooted her professional and personal life.

ABRAM CHASINS

SPEAKING OF PIANISTS...

Introduction

IN THIS BOOK I have set down a variety of recollections and impressions related to a part of my pianistic life, that part which I lived as a student, listener, and observer rather than as a concert pianist. I invite the reader to share with me some of the experiences, some of the sounds and ideas gathered during fifty years of association with the piano, much of its literature, and many of its players.

I do not promise that other matters will not creep into these pages. The piano is a rich subject for illustrating many elements of music, even of life itself, and I have often been unable to resist its suggestiveness. Yet, essentially, this is a series of reminiscences relevant to piano-playing and piano music—reactions stimulated by personal associations by performances on and off the platform, and by recordings.

Although the history of music exists in composition, the life of music exists in performance, actual or recorded, constructed as in score-reading, or reconstructed in the mind. From time to time I shall pause to comment on things heard and heard about, on past and present ideals and practices, on things I love and loathe. The reader and I may not always agree. Happily, that is our aesthetic as well as our democratic right. Should this book prove at all provocative to those whose lives are enriched by music, it will modify some of the misgivings I hold about my ability to put into words anything so intangible and intricate as musical reaction, not to mention the electrifying fusion of genius and knowledge.

My own taste and opinions stem from standards and principles learned from artists I had the privilege of calling master and friend. They, who personified artistic standards so convincingly, should actually have written this book. Of course, in many ways they have—a good deal of it. But perhaps they would have needed another lifetime to formulate and set down what it took each of them one lifetime to achieve.

It was they who persuaded me and substantiated in their art that the laws of beauty have an inexorable logic. Their precepts and practices are the main sources of my feeling about the piano and its literature, inescapably woven into the texture and fabric of my entire musical outlook.

In the hope that the reader will care to come along with me and to hear for himself some of the things I heard, I should like to begin by having him meet Josef Hofmann.

Exposition

Josef Hofmann

IT WAS an abnormally hot afternoon in the spring of 1926 when I found myself at the door of Josef Hofmann’s suite at the Great Northern Hotel in Manhattan. I waited for quite a few minutes before knocking, hoping that my heart would stop pounding. Hofmann had been my pianistic idol for many of my twenty-two years, but I had never come closer to him than tie distance between the top balcony and the stage of Carnegie Hall.

And here I was, paying him a visit at his invitation. It had all come about two weeks before, when I had met Mrs. Hofmann and had been astonished to hear her say: Josef’s been told about your Chinese pieces. He’d like to hear them and anything else you’d like to play for him. We’re coming in from Philadelphia for a few days before we sail for Europe. We’ll be at the Great Northern. Will you come?

Would I?

My first jolt that afternoon came when Hofmann himself answered my knock and I—all five-foot-six of me—had to lower my gaze several inches to meet his squarely. The contrast between the mild-mannered little man who greeted me and the mental image I had held of him was startling. It was hard to reconcile the soft voice, delicate features, small hands, and meticulously debonair dress with the relentless Titan of the keyboard. The only physical sign of his power was in his massive back and shoulders. He looked like a chunky quarterback who moved with the litheness of a dancer.

At that time Hofmann had just turned fifty, but looked ageless. He could just as well have been forty or sixty. While we talked I observed the impeccable neatness of the man and the orderliness of his simple hotel parlor. An immaculately dusted Steinway grand stood in the corner, its keys gleaming, but with not a single piece of music on it—just a lone and shining metronome. Hofmann asked me about my piano studies, theoretical training, and compositional work. His questions were pointed and precise. He never wasted a syllable. He spoke flawless English with a slight accent, origin untraceable. I later learned that he was equally at home in German, French, and, naturally, his native Polish.

In the first few minutes of conversation he revealed a rigidly disciplined mind, an intense concentration, and a fierce passion for separating opinion from fact, truth from half-truth. He also had a quick sense of humor. Finally, gesturing with an economical wave toward the piano, he said: Please.

First I played my Three Chinese Pieces.

Very effective. I’ll play them, he said.

Then I played Chopin’s F sharp minor Nocturne.

Ahem, he said, and now?

A group of Chopin’s preludes.

Ahem, and now?

The first movement of Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata.

Mmm, something else?

Mr. Hofmann, I said. I know your time is limited. Would you please tell me what you think?

Everything about that afternoon remains indelibly in my memory, but most of all I remember the things that Hofmann said at that point. He still spoke very quietly, but grew unexpectedly tense and voluble. Drawing his head back and tilting it to one side as his penetrating gray eyes appraised me, he said:

"You see, there is no question of your talent. The question is what has been done with your talent. For example, you have feeling, but it does not emerge fully. You have a sensitive ear, but it is an inner ear which hears more what you want to produce than what) you are actually producing. You have mechanical facility which is not yet elevated into an integrated and expressive technique, a warm tonal equipment which is not emotionally significant, a rhythm basically good but one which does not set nor sustain a basic pulsation, and so on. What you do not have is the knowledge, even an awareness, of vital principles of music and pianism. You do not have the standards with which to judge, to refine, to correct your playing.

Now, let’s go back to the music. Start the Nocturne again, and I’ll try to be more specific, all right?

After eight bars he stopped me.

I’m sure, he said, you don’t realize that you have not yet established any fundamental rhythmic premise.

Isn’t the tempo right?

I’m not talking about tempo, but about basic pace, he answered. "First, I don’t know what your tempo is because no two bars are alike. Second, there is no such absolute as ‘the right tempo.’ We ourselves set a tempo as we start to play; if it destroys the general spirit or mood, it is a ‘wrong’ tempo. If it enables us to realize the mood we want to express, it is a ‘right’ tempo—not the right one—and we can work within it. From then on, the emotional, harmonic, and dramatic development of the composition leads us to vary our pace. But first we must establish a ‘norm’ from which we can depart and to which we can return.

Rhythm is order, he continued, adjusting the metronome slightly, not the order that moves with cosmic precision, but that of humanity with all its mercurial emotions. Within us is a flexible human metronome—the heart. It is regulated by an educated taste. He paused for breath. Now try to get a ‘presiding pace’ and let’s go on.

He did not stop me again. When I finished he said:

"You have learned something. This time you established a recognizable tempo and generally maintained its basic momentum within freedoms. But you cannot imagine how much your ‘freedoms’ distort the music you play. Let’s take only one aspect of your playing: you constantly violate the principle of motion and rest. When the melodic line reaches a point of rest, you always rush the accompaniment to ‘fill the vacuum’ until the melody again moves, utterly destroying its repose and design. Also, every new theme, every alteration of dynamics takes some toll in a departure from your previous tempo. Further, in an effort to become expressive you employ sentimental delays or crude picture-postcard coloration completely out of the scheme you yourself devised. Your ‘freedom’ is license, not liberty, Real freedom comes from discipline, from feeling that has been cultivated by knowledge.

The validity of interpretation depends on inexorably logical relationships. At this moment you do not have an apparatus for solving your problems. It is not that you lack either the talent or the skill to master, for instance, rhythmic liberty within a sustained momentum. It is merely that you do not demand it of yourself because it is not part of your ideology; nor will it be until you acquire the refinement to make such subtle precision an ideal.

That is what Hofmann said and the way he said it. I typed it word for word as soon as I got home. The meticulously chosen vocabulary, the balanced phrases fascinated me almost as much as what he said.

Oh, one more thing I’d like you to think about, he continued. Constantly, your attempts to attain an expressive serenity are defeated. I’ll tell you why. You establish a calm, then you begin to hear that your playing is growing colorless and dull. Something’s wrong, but you don’t know what it is or what’s causing it. So you try for expressivity by turning pulsation and coloration on and off like a faucet. Your ‘expression’ now consists of a series of restless and unexpected little fits and starts. Good-by to all repose.

Two hours earlier I had walked into this room as a young pianist on the brink of a career, one who had been encouraged by many eminent musicians to make a New York debut long before this day. Now I felt that I knew nothing about piano-playing. I had finally encountered standards, Olympian standards, and a conception of music and performance which had never before touched me at all.

How was this possible? Had I not heard Hofmann and other giants countless times and recognized in their art the embodiment of all my ideals? It gradually dawned on me that I had not heard them at all, that I had been luxuriating in a formless sea of sound in a semi-hypnotic state. I did not know what I was hearing. I had no idea what, besides genius, produced great interpretation. Never had it occurred to me that there were basic principles behind such an art or that they could be formulated and analyzed and understood. My head swam.

In a voice that was sympathetic but icily objective, Hofmann brought me back with a characteristic Ahem.

There are a few things you have to learn, quite a few things, and they would make a vast difference to your playing, to your entire life in music. I think I might be able to help you with some of them. Betty and I are sailing next week to Europe for three or four months. If you would like to go abroad and do some work with me, I shall arrange it.

Would I?

That is when and how a thirty-year association began with a master and a friend who will live within me until I no longer draw breath.

2

IT WOULD be difficult to exaggerate the benevolence and integrity of my first piano teachers, Bertha Feiring Tapper, Richard Epstein, and Ernest Hutcheson. I owe them all incalculable gratitude. They led me, in a succession of valuable lessons, to control my fingers, to acquire a large and significant repertoire, and to hold a serious attitude toward a musician’s obligations. I had further opportunities to be helped and inspired through association with many other remarkable musicians who were not my teachers but nonetheless showed generous interest in my studies.

Yet, from my first two-hour lesson with Hofmann in London I learned more than during my entire previous experience. Each comment let in a new flood of light. His method was the sustained attempt to show each work as an entity, a coherent consistency, and to observe its connections and relationships. He would exemplify the fluidity and flexibility of interpretation by demonstrating several different conceptions deriving from contrasting premises and make each one valid and convincing.

He compelled me to know at every moment where I was, where I had come from, and where I was going, and to articulate my intentions. I was always in the midst of an exciting search for melodic, harmonic, and structural significance. I came to feel as though I had been living my musical life under a perpetually gray sky. With every word or gesture, every literary or human or pianistic illustration, Hofmann dispersed another cluster of clouds. The sky gradually cleared. On occasion the sun even burst forth when I did well and he would smile.

Plowing right through my rock-ribbed habits, he would stop me to ask: What elements go into differentiating one compositional style from another? What can make one passage played slower than another sound actually faster? What factors make a tone or chord sound ‘ugly’ or ‘beautiful’ played at the identical intensity?

As soon as one answered, he would say: Demonstrate it.

Mechanical difficulties were your problems, not his. But he helped greatly by illustration, by revealing an idealized aural image of a passage or a piece. There it was, in all its perfection. Somehow it released you from minor tensions and muscular preoccupations. You had the sound, the objective, before you. Hearing the total effect, you found it more easily accomplishable. It was as though he had waved a magic wand that enabled you to do more than you could do.

At other times he hammered away by applying principles to ordinary experience. For example, discussing the problem of projection, he once said:

"If someone entered this room and you spoke to him in a normal conversational tone, he would hear you easily. If you used the same tone from the stage of a theater, the people in the fourth row would ask: ‘What’s that? What’s he saying?’ Public communication necessitates heightened projection; otherwise we are talking or playing to ourselves. And it is a far larger problem than one of amplified volume. It embraces our choice of tempi, textures, and architectures; the degree and kinds of accentuation and pedaling we can use; the variety and proportion of agogic and dynamic effects we make, and much more. Remember, we are playing to express ourselves through the music we play, but we are expressing ourselves to others."

Hofmann was entirely persuasive, especially because he was as inflexible about primary principles as he was elastic in their application. He was untiring in pointing out the many roads that lead to Rome. A work of art is large enough, he said, to hold innumerable and contrasting interpretations without losing an iota of its inherent truth.

The exciting lessons continued for four months in Berlin, in Paris, and back again in London. Despite the newness of my surroundings and the difficulty of wrestling with strange languages, I worked hard and began to gain feelings of purpose and possibility, of confidence based upon conviction.

During this period Hofmann also revealed many of his human traits. Once, while riding in a train to Berlin, I turned to say something to him. He put a restraining hand and shook his head from side to side. Excuse me, he said, with eyes closed, I’m practicing. Through the years I saw him hundreds of times in the midst of mental practice, which he held to be invaluable because it freed the performer from instrumental considerations. He rarely stopped thinking or hearing music except when he played tennis or poker or chess. His surest escape was an all-night session in his tool shop, surrounded by his beloved precision instruments and implements.

Hofmann had a penchant for Abdulla cigarettes, an expensive, pungent Turkish blend, which he always smoked through a long thin holder. When he opened a new box, he would meticulously cut each cigarette in half with a small scissors, loftily proclaiming that nobody ever smoked a whole cigarette anyway. He adored fine food, and I was a frequent and appreciative guest as the Hofmanns and their friends sampled the great restaurants of the cities we visited. With a good wine within reach and a gourmet’s repast under his belt, Hofmann grew warm and expansive. He told marvelous stories and was an excellent listener to the stories of others, which he carefully preserved in a little black book used for nothing else.

Amid the delightful interludes, slavish work went on. Hofmann practiced, performed, and allotted a generous portion of his free time to teaching me. I was driven by his urgency for precision and coherence, his ceaseless quest to investigate and to solve artistic problems whole, to radiate every solution outward toward a more vital realization of music and even toward a greater understanding of life itself.

As for pianism, the model was before me daily. In full view was a master who conceived ideals of harmonious magnificence, who molded and fashioned them and set them forth in beauty and perfection.

3

ALTHOUGH THE mass public took its sweet time in granting sovereignty to the Hofmann who was no longer a Wunderkind, there was evidently no time when he was not the pianist’s pianist.

During my first visit to London the ever gracious William Stein way was showing me various concert pianos at his company’s headquarters. He mentioned that the young Russian wizard Vladimir Horowitz had been there the day before, picking out a piano for his forthcoming appearance.

And what is that piano in the corner? Horowitz asked.

That’s Hofmann’s piano, Steinway answered.

"Josef Hofmann’s own piano? asked Horowitz in an awed voice. He hesitated, and then said: Please...may I just touch it?"

Long before we met and became friends, that incident endeared Horowitz to me.

Some years later, at one of Hofmann’s memorable recitals in New York’s Carnegie Hall, following a truly bedazzling performance of Chopin’s В minor Sonata, Sergei Rachmaninoff sat silent for a few moments and then said: Well, there goes one more composition out of my repertoire. Not since Anton Rubinstein have I heard anything like this. There’s no use. It is the music itself and the only way to play it, and nobody else can do it.

Another vivid recollection is a story Leopold Godowsky told me. Every pianist knows Godowsky’s fanciful and formidable transcription of Johann Strauss’s Künstlerleben. Few have ever conquered its terrifying complexities. Godowsky related that when the piece had just been completed and was still in manuscript, he played it to Hofmann, who seemed delighted by it. Hofmann asked to hear it again immediately. After dinner he again requested Godowsky to play the fascinating piece. A few days later Hofmann returned. He sat down, reported Godowsky, and played my piece through with such unbelievable infallibility that I ran to see if my manuscript was still in the house. It was, of course. Josef had actually memorized it after hearing it only three times. After that I just listened, forgetting the fantastic feat in the intoxication of his playing.

From the time when he was six, when he electrified an audience at a recital in his native Poland, Hofmann was one of the wonders of the musical world. At ten he astounded Berlin, playing the Beethoven First Concerto under Hans von Bülow. Following a sensational tour of Europe, Hofmann’s father brought the eleven-year-old prodigy to the United States. His debut here took place in November 1887, and many who were present have reported that no subsequent event in their musical experience ever matched the thrill of seeing the diminutive figure in a white sailor suit come out on the huge stage of the Metropolitan Opera House and proceed to play like an angel pursued by the devil. When he finished playing, the audience broke into a wild demonstration—screaming, applauding, dabbing at tear-filled eyes. W. J. Henderson, the most distinguished critic of the day, called the boy a miracle.

A triumphal tour of over fifty concerts followed. The itinerary came to an abrupt end when the Society