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

SECTION I

How things are done, how others do them, and the reasons for the doing of them in one way and not in another, used to occupy my thoughts back as far as I can remember. As a child I was fond of watching any one doing fine needlework or beautiful embroidery, and tried to imitate what I saw, going into minutest details. This fondness for exactness and detail, when, applied to piano study, led me to question many things; to wonder why I was told to do thus and so, when other people seemed to do other ways; in fact I began to discover that every one who played the piano played it in a different fashion. Why was there not one way?

One memorable night I was taken to hear Anton Rubinstein. What a marvelous instrument the piano was, to be sure, when its keys were moved by a touch that was at one moment all fire and flame, and the next smooth as velvet or soft and light as thistle-down. What had my home piano in common with this wonder? Why did all the efforts at piano playing I had hitherto listened to sink into oblivion when I heard this master? What was the reason of it all?

More artists of the piano came within my vision, Mehlig, Joseffy, Mason, and others. As I listened to their performances it was brought to me more clearly than ever that each master played the piano in the manner which best suited himself; at the same time each and every player made the instrument utter tones and effects little dreamed of by the ordinary learner. What was the secret? Was it the manner of moving the keys, the size of hand, the length of finger, or the great strength possessed by the player? I had always been taught to play slowly and carefully, so that I should make no mistakes; these great pianists had wonderful fearlessness; Rubinstein at least did not seem to care whether or not he hit a few wrong notes here and there, if he could only secure the speed and effect desired. Whence came his fearless velocity, his tremendous power?

ESSENTIALS OF PIANISM

Little by little I began to realize the essentials of effective piano playing were these: clear touch, intelligent phrasing, all varieties of tone, all the force the piano would stand, together with the greatest delicacy and the utmost speed. These things the artists possessed as a matter of course, but the ordinary student or teacher failed utterly to make like effects, or to play with sufficient clearness and force. What was the reason?

In due course I came under the supervision of various piano pedagogues. To the first I gave implicit obedience, endeavoring to do exactly as I was told. The next teacher said I must begin all over again, as I had been taught "all wrong." I had never learned hand position nor independence of fingers—these must now be established. The following master told me finger independence must be secured in quite a different fashion from the manner in which I had been taught, which was "all wrong." The next professor said I must bend the finger squarely from the second joint, and not round all three joints, as I had been doing. This so-called fault took several months to correct.

To the next I am indebted for good orthodox (if somewhat pedantic) ideas of fingering and phrasing, for which he was noted. The hobby of the next master was slow motions with soft touch. This course was calculated to take all the vim out of one's fingers and all the brilliancy out of one's playing in less than six months. To the next I owe a comprehension of the elastic touch, with devitalized muscles. This touch I practised so assiduously that my poor piano was ruined inside of a year, and had to be sent to the factory for a new keyboard. The next master insisted on great exactness of finger movements, on working up velocity with metronome, on fine tone shading and memorizing.

THE DESIRE FOR REAL KNOWLEDGE

Such, in brief, has been my experience with pedagogues and teachers of the piano. Having passed through it (and in passing having tried various so-called and unnamed methods) I feel I have reached a vantage ground upon which I can stand and look back over the course. The desire to know the experience of the great artists of the keyboard is as strong within me as ever. What did they not have to go through to master their instrument? And having mastered it, what do they consider the vital essentials of piano technic and piano playing? Surely they must know these things if any one can know them. They can tell, if they will, what to do and what to avoid, what to exclude as unnecessary or unessential and what to concentrate upon.

The night Rubinstein's marvelous tones fell upon my childish ears I longed to go to him, clasp his wonderful hands in my small ones and beg him to tell me how he did it all. I now know he could not have explained how, for the greater the genius—the more spontaneous its expression—the less able is such an one to put into words the manner of its manifestation. In later years the same impulse has come when listening to Paderewski, Hofmann and others. If they could only tell us exactly what is to be done to master the piano, what a boon it would be to those who are awake enough to profit by and follow the directions and experiences of such masters.

In recognition of the strength of this desire, months after a half-forgotten wish had been expressed by me, came a request by Musical America to prepare a series of interviews with the world famed pianists who were visiting our shores, and also with prominent teachers who were making good among us, and who were proving by results attained that they were safe and efficient guides.

SEARCHING FOR TRUTH

Never was an interesting and congenial labor undertaken with more zest. The artists were plied with questions which to them may have seemed prosaic, but which to the interrogator were the very essence of the principles of piano technic and piano mastery. It is not a light task for an artist to sit down and analyze his own methods. Some found it almost impossible to put into language their ideas on these subjects. They had so long been concerned with the highest themes of interpretation that they hardly knew how the technical effects were produced, nor could they put the manner of making them into words. They could only say, with Rubinstein, "I do it this way," leaving the questioner to divine how and then to give an account of it. However, with questions leading up to the points I was anxious to secure light upon, much information was elicited.

One principle was ever before me, namely the Truth. I desired to find out the truth about each subject and then endeavored to set down what was said, expressed in the way I felt would convey the most exact meaning. In considering the vital points or heads under which to group the subjects to be considered, the following seem to cover the ground pretty thoroughly:

1. Artistic piano technic; how acquired and retained.

2. How to practise.

3. How to memorize.

4. Rhythm and tone color in piano playing.



SECTION II

Hand Position, Finger Action, and Artistic Touch

WHAT TECHNIC INCLUDES

When we listen to a piano recital by a world-famous artist, we think—if we are musicians—primarily of the interpretation of the compositions under consideration. That the pianist has a perfect technic almost goes without saying. He must have such a technic to win recognition as an artist. He would not be an artist without a great technic, without a complete command over the resources of the instrument and over himself.

Let us use the word technic in its large sense, the sense which includes all that pertains to the executive side of piano playing. It is in this significance that Harold Bauer calls technic "an art in itself." Mme. Bloomfield Zeisler says: "Piano technic includes so much! Everything goes into it: arithmetic, grammar, diction, language study, poetry, history and painting. In the first stages there are rules to be learned, just as in any other study. I must know the laws of rhythm and meter to be able to punctuate musical phrases and periods. Pupils who have long since passed the arithmetic stage have evidently forgotten all about fractions and division, for they do not seem to grasp the time values of notes and groups of notes used in music; they do not know what must be done with triplets, dotted notes and so on. Thus you see technic includes a multitude of things; it is a very wide subject."

HAND POSITION

The first principle a piano teacher shows his pupil is that of hand position. It has been my effort to secure a definite expression on this point from various artists. Most of them agree that an arched position with rounded finger joints is the correct one. It was Paderewski who said, "Show me how the player holds his hands at the piano, and I will tell you what kind of player he is"—showing the Polish pianist considers hand position of prime importance.

"I hold the hand arched and very firm,"—Ernest Schelling.

"The hand takes an arched position, the finger-tips forming a curve on the keys, the middle finger being placed a little farther in on the key than is natural for the first and fifth."—Katharine Goodson.

"The hand is formed on the keys in its five-finger position, with arched knuckles."—Ethel Leginska.

"The hand is formed in an arched position, with curved fingers, and solidified."—Carl Roeder.

"The hand, in normal playing position, must stand up in well arched form, with fingers well rounded."—Thuel Burnham.

"I first establish an arched hand position, with firm fingers."—Edwin Hughes.

"I teach arched hand position."—Alexander Lambert.

"One must first secure an arched hand, with steady first joints of the fingers."—Eleanor Spencer.

"The first thing to do for a pupil is to see that the hand is in correct position; the knuckles will be somewhat elevated and the fingers properly rounded."—Bloomfield Zeisler.

"A pupil must first form the arch of the hand and secure firm finger joints. I form the hand away from the piano, at a table."—Agnes Morgan.

Leschetizky teaches arched hand position, with rounded fingers, and all who have come under his instruction advocate this form. It is the accepted position for passage playing. A few pianists, notably Alfred Cortot and Tina Lerner, play their passage work with flat fingers, but this, in Miss Lerner's case, is doubtless caused by the small size of the hand.

It is clear from the above quotations, and from many other opinions which could be cited, that the authorities agree the hand should be well arched, the end of the finger coming in contact with the key; furthermore there should be no weakness nor giving in at the nail joint.

FINGER ACTION

The question of lifting the fingers seems to be one on which various opinions are held. Some pianists, like Godowsky for instance, will tell you they do not approve of raising the fingers—that the fingers must be kept close to the keys. It is noticeable, however, that even those who do not speak favorably of finger action, use it themselves when playing passages requiring distinctness and clearness. Other players are rather hazy on the subject, but these are generally persons who have not gone through the routine of teaching.

The accepted idea of the best teachers is that at the beginning of piano study positive finger movements must be acquired; finger action must be so thoroughly grounded that it becomes second nature, a very part of the player, something he can never forget nor get away from. So fixed should it become that no subsequent laxity, caused by the attention being wholly centered on interpretation can disturb correct position, condition, or graceful, plastic movement.

"For passage work I insist on finger action; the fingers must be raised and active to insure proper development. I think one certainly needs higher action when practising technic and technical pieces than one would use when playing the same pieces before an audience."—Clarence Adler.

Alexander Lambert speaks to the point when he says: "I teach decided finger action in the beginning. Some teachers may not teach finger action because they say artists do not use it. But the artist, if questioned, would tell you he had to acquire finger action in the beginning. There are so many stages in piano playing. The beginner must raise his fingers in order to acquire finger development and a clear touch. In the middle stage he has secured enough finger control to play the same passages with less action, yet still with sufficient clearness, while in the more or less finished stages the passage may be played with scarcely any perceptible motion, so thoroughly do the fingers respond to every mental requirement."

It is this consummate mastery and control of condition and movement that lead the superficial observer to imagine that the great artist gives no thought to such things as position, condition and movements. Never was there a greater mistake. The finest perfection of technic has been acquired with painstaking care, with minute attention to exacting detail. At some period of his career, the artist has had to come down to foundation principles and work up. Opinions may differ as to the eminence of Leschetizky as a teacher, but the fact remains that many of the pianists now before the public have been with him at one time or another. They all testify that the Viennese master will have nothing to do with a player until he has gone through a course of rigorous preparation spent solely in finger training, and can play a pair of Czerny etudes with perfect control and effect.

ARTISTIC TOUCH

One of the greatest American teachers of touch was Dr. William Mason, who made an exhaustive study of this subject. His own touch was noted for its clear, bell-like, elastic quality. He remarked on one occasion, in regard to playing in public: "It is possible I may be so nervous that I can hardly walk to the piano; but once I have begun to play I shall hold the audience still enough to hear a pin drop, simply by the beauty of my touch and tone." Dr. Mason's touch specialties were "pressure" and "elastic" or "drawing-off" touches. He found these gave both weight and crisp lightness to the tones.

Mr. Tobias Matthay, of London, has given much time and thought to the study of touch and key mechanism. He says: "The two chief rules of technic, as regards the key are: Always feel how much the key resists you, feel how much the key wants for every note. Second, always listen for the moment each sound begins, so that you may learn to direct your effort to the sound only and not to the key bed. It is only by making the hammer end of the key move that you can make a sound. The swifter the movement, the louder the sound. The more gradual the movement the more beautiful the quality of sound. For brilliant tone, you may hit the string by means of the key, but do not, by mistake, hit the key instead."

Thuel Burnham, a pupil of Mason and Leschetizky, has welded the ideas of these two masters into his own experience, and simplifies the matter of piano touch as follows:

MELODY AND COLORATURA HANDS

"The position and condition of the hand varies according to the character of the music and the quality of tone you wish to produce. If you give out a melody, you want a full, luscious tone, the weight of arm on the key, everything relaxed and a clinging, caressing pressure of finger. Here you have the 'Melody Hand,' with outstretched, flat fingers. On the contrary, if you wish rapid passage work, with clear, bright, articulate touch, the hand must stand up in well-arched, normal playing position, with fingers well rounded and good finger action. Here you have the 'Technical' or 'Coloratura Hand.'"

The distinction made by Mr. Burnham clears up the uncertainty about arched hand and articulate touch, or low hand and flat fingers. Both are used in their proper place, according to the demands of the music. The player, however, who desires a clean, reliable technic, should first acquire a coloratura hand before attempting a melody hand.

SECTION III

The Art of Practise

We have seen that if the pianist hopes to perfect himself in his art he must lay the foundation deep down in the fundamentals of hand position, body condition, correct finger movements and in careful attention to the minutest details of touch and tone production.

The remark is often heard, from persons who have just listened to a piano recital: "I would give anything in the world to play like that!" But would they even give the necessary time, to say nothing of the endless patience, tireless energy and indomitable perseverance which go to the making of a virtuoso.

How much time does the artist really require for study? Paderewski owns to devoting all his time to it during the periods of preparation for his recital tours. At certain seasons of the year most of the artists give a large portion of each day to the work. Godowsky is an incessant worker; Burnham devotes his entire mornings to piano study; Germaine Schnitzer gives six hours daily to her work, and if interrupted one day the lost time is soon made up. Eleanor Spencer "practises all her spare time," as she quaintly puts it. A professional pianist must give a number of hours each day to actual practise at the keyboard, besides what is done away from it. The work is mentally going on continually, whether one really sits at the instrument or not.

The point which most concerns us is: How shall one practise so as to make the most of the time and accomplish the best results? What etudes, if any, shall we use, and what technical material is the most useful and effectual?

Wilhelm Bachaus, whose consummate technic we have so often admired, says: "I am old-fashioned enough to still believe in scales and arpeggios. Some of the players of the present day seem to have no use for such things, but I find them of great importance. This does not necessarily mean that I go through the whole set of keys when I practise the scales. I select a few at a time and work at those. I start with ridiculously simple forms—just the thumb under the hand and the hand over the thumb—a few movements each way, but these put the hand in trim for scales and arpeggios. I practise the latter about half an hour a day. I have to overhaul my technic once or twice a week to see that everything is in order. Scales and arpeggios come in for their share of criticism. I practise them in various touches, but oftener in legato, as that is more difficult and also more beautiful than the others. I practise technic, when possible, an hour a day, including Bach."

Sigismond Stojowski considers that scales and arpeggios must form a part of the daily routine.

Thuel Burnham says: "Of my practise hours at least one is given to technic, scales, arpeggios, octaves, chords, and Bach! I believe in taking one selection of Bach and perfecting it—transposing it in all keys and polishing it to the highest point possible. So with etudes, it is better to perfect a few than to play at so many."

THE PIANIST A MECHANIC

Edwin Hughes, the American pianist and teacher in Munich, remarks: "Technic is the mechanical part of music making; to keep it in running order one must be constantly tinkering with it, just as the engine driver with his locomotive or the chauffeur with his automobile. Every intelligent player recognizes certain exercises as especially beneficial to the mechanical well-being of his playing; from these he will plan his daily schedule of technical practise."

Teresa Carreno asserts she had in the beginning many technical exercises which her teacher wrote out for her, from difficult passages taken from the great composers. There were hundreds of them, so many that it took just three days to go the rounds. She considers them invaluable, and constantly uses them in her own practise and in her teaching. Each exercise must be played in all keys and with every possible variety of touch and tone.

Paderewski gives much time daily to pure technic practise. He has been known to play scales and arpeggios in a single key for three quarters of an hour at a stretch. These were played with every variety of touch, velocity, dynamic shading and so on.

It is seen from the instances quoted that many great pianists believe in daily technic practise, or the study of pure technic apart from pieces. Many more testify that scales, chords, arpeggios and octaves constitute their daily bread. Some have spoken to me especially of octave practise as being eminently beneficial. They feel these things are essential to the acquiring of a fine technic, and keeping it up to concert pitch.

Some artists are partial to certain technical studies. Bachaus highly recommends those of Brahms, for instance. All artists use Bach in connection with their technic practise; in fact the works of Bach may be considered to embody pure technic principles, and pianists and teachers consider them a daily necessity.

INVENTING EXERCISES

Together with their studies in pure technic alone, the artists invent exercises out of the pieces they study, either by playing passages written for both hands with one hand, by turning single notes into octaves, by using more difficult fingering than necessary, thus bringing into use the weaker fingers, changing the rhythm, and in numerous other ways increasing the effort of performance, so that when the passage is played as originally written, it shall indeed seem like child's play.

Another means to acquire technical mastery is through transposition. One would think Bach's music difficult enough when performed as written, but the artists think nothing of putting it through the different keys. Burnham relates that during early lessons with Dr. Mason, that master gave him a Bach Invention to prepare, casually remarking it might be well to memorize it. The simple suggestion was more than sufficient, for the ambitious pupil presented himself at the next lesson with not only that particular Invention learned by heart, but likewise the whole set! De Pachmann, in his eagerness to master the technic and literature of the piano, says that when a Bach Prelude and Fugue was on one occasion assigned him by his teacher, he went home and learned the whole twenty-four, which he was able to play in every key for the next lesson!

SLOW PRACTISE

The question is often put to artists: "Do you deem it necessary to work for velocity, or do you practise the composition much at the required speed?" Many pianists practise very slowly. This was William H. Sherwood's custom. Harold Bauer believes velocity to be inherent in the individual, so that when the passage is thoroughly comprehended it can be played at the necessary rate of speed. Bachaus testifies he seldom works for velocity, saying that if he masters the passage he can play it at any required tempo. "I never work for velocity as some do," he remarks. "I seldom practise fast, for it interferes with clearness. I prefer to play more slowly, giving the greatest attention to clearness and good tone. By pursuing this course I find that when I need velocity I have it."

Clarence Adler counsels pupils always to begin by practising slowly—faster tempo will develop later, subconsciously. Velocity is only to be employed after the piece has been thoroughly learned, every mark of expression observed, all fingering, accents and dynamic marks mastered. "You would scarcely believe," he adds, "how slowly I practise myself."

A FEW EXCEPTIONS

There are very few exceptions to the general verdict in favor of technic practise apart from pieces. Godowsky asserts he never practises scales. Bauer cares little for pure technic practise, believing the composition itself contains sufficient material of a technical nature.

Whether or not these brilliant exceptions merely prove the rule, the thoughtful student of the piano must decide for himself. He has already discovered that modern piano playing requires a perfect technic, together with the personal equation of vigorous health, serious purpose and many-sided mentality. Mme. Rider-Possart says: "Technic is something an artist has to put in the background as something of secondary importance, yet if he does not possess it he is nowhere." The student will not overlook the fact that to acquire the necessary technical control he must devote time and thought to it outside of piece playing. He must understand the principles and follow out a certain routine in order to secure the best results in the quickest and surest way. While each one must work out his own salvation, it is an encouragement to know that even the greatest artists must toil over their technic, must keep eternally at it, must play slowly, must memorize bit by bit. The difference between the artist and the talented amateur often lies in the former's absolute concentration, perseverance and devotion to the highest ideals.

SECTION IV

How to Memorize

At the present stage of pianistic development, an artist does not venture to come before the public and "use his notes." No artist who values his reputation would attempt it. Everything must be performed from memory—solos, concertos, even accompaniments. The pianist must know every note of the music he performs. The star accompanist aspires to the same mastery when he plays for a famous singer or instrumentalist. We also have the artist conductor, with opera, symphony or concerto at his finger-tips. Hans von Buelow, who claimed that a pianist should have more than two hundred compositions in his repertoire, was himself equally at home in orchestral music. He always conducted his Meiningen Orchestra without notes.

Let us say, then, that the present-day pianist ought to have about two hundred compositions in his repertoire, all of which must be played without notes. The mere fact of committing to memory such a quantity of pages is no small item in the pianist's equipment. The problem is to discover the best means of memorizing music quickly and surely. Here again we are privileged to inquire of the artist and of the artist teacher. His knowledge and experience will be practical, for he has evolved it and proved it over and over again.

It is a well-known fact that Leschetizky advises memorizing away from the instrument. This method at once shuts the door on all useless and thoughtless repetition employed by so many piano students, who repeat a passage endlessly, to avoid thinking it out. Then they wonder why they cannot commit to memory! The Viennese master suggests that a short passage of two or four measures be learned with each hand alone, then tried on the piano. If not yet quite fixed in consciousness the effort should be repeated, after which it may be possible to go through the passage without an error. The work then proceeds in the same manner throughout the composition.

ONE YEAR'S MEMORIZING

A player who gives five or six hours daily to study, and who has learned how to memorize, should be able to commit one page of music each day. This course, systematically pursued, would result in the thorough assimilation of at least fifty compositions in one year. This is really a conservative estimate, though at first glance it may seem rather large. If we cut the figure in half, out of consideration for the accumulative difficulties of the music, there will still remain twenty-five pieces, enough for two programs and a very respectable showing for a year's study.

It may be that Leschetizky's principle of memorizing will not appeal to every one. The player may find another path to the goal, one more suited to his peculiar temperament. Or, if he has not yet discovered the right path, let him try different ways till he hits upon one which will do the work in the shortest and most thorough manner. All masters agree that analysis and concentration are the prime factors in the process of committing music to memory.

Michael von Zadora, pianist and teacher, said to me recently: "Suppose you have a difficult passage to learn by heart. The ordinary method of committing to memory is to play the passage over and over, till the fingers grow accustomed to its intervals. That is not my manner of teaching. The only way to master that passage is to analyze it thoroughly, know just what the notes are, the sequences of notes, if you will, their position on the keyboard, the fingering, the positions the hands must take to play these notes, so that you know just where the fingers have to go before you put them on the keys. When you thus thoroughly understand the passage or piece, have thought about it, lived with it, so that it is in the blood, we might say, the fingers can play it. There will be no difficulty about it and no need for senseless repetitions."

PHRASE BY PHRASE

Most of the artists agree that memorizing must be done phrase by phrase, after the composition has been thoroughly analyzed as to keys, chords, and construction. This is Katharine Goodson's way, and also Eleanor Spencer's and Ethel Leginska's, three of Leschetizky's pupils now before the public. "I really know the composition so thoroughly that I can play it in another key just as well as the one in which it is written, though I do not always memorize it each hand alone," says Miss Goodson. "I first play the composition over a few times to become somewhat familiar with its form and shape," says Eleanor Spencer, "then I begin to analyze and study it, committing it by phrases, or ideas, one or two measures at a time. I do not always take the hands alone, unless the passage is very intricate, for sometimes it is easier to learn both hands together." Germaine Schnitzer avers that she keeps at a difficult passage until she really knows it perfectly, no matter how long it takes. "What is the use of going on," she says, "until you are absolutely sure of the work in hand."

It is plain from the opinions already cited and from many I have heard expressed that the artists waste no time over useless repetitions. They fully realize that a piece is not assimilated nor learned until it is memorized. When they have selected the composition they wish to learn, they begin at once to memorize from the start. The student does not always bring to his work this definiteness of aim; if he did, much precious time would be saved. The ability to memorize ideas expressed in notes grows with use, just as any other aptitude grows with continued effort.

Instead, then, of playing with a piece, why do you not at once begin to make it your own? Look at the phrases so intently that they become as it were, photographed on your mind. Ruskin said: "Get the habit of looking intently at words." We might say the same of notes. Look at the phrase with the conviction that it can be remembered after a glance or two. It is only an indication of indolence and mental inertness to look continually at the printed page or passage and keep on playing it over and over, without trying to fix it indelibly in the mind.

In my work as teacher I constantly meet students, and teachers too, who do little or no memorizing. Some do not even approve of it, though it is difficult to conceive how any one in his right mind can disapprove knowing a thing thoroughly. The only way to know it thoroughly is to know it by heart.

CONSTANT REPAIRS NECESSARY

A repertoire once committed must be constantly kept in repair. The public player, in his seasons of study, generally has a regular system of repetition, so that all compositions can be gone over at least once a week. One artist suggests that the week be started with the classics and concluded with modern compositions and concerted numbers. Thus each day will have its allotted task. The pieces are not merely to be played over, but really overhauled, and all weak places treated to a dose of slow, careful practise, using the printed pages. Artists on tour, where consecutive practise is difficult or unattainable, always carry the printed notes of their repertoire with them, and are ceaselessly studying, repairing, polishing their phrases, thinking out their effects.

To those who wish to become pianists, I would say: "Keep your memory active through constant use. Be always learning by heart; do it systematically, a little at a time. So it will be daily progress. So your repertoire is built!"

SECTION V

Rhythm and Tone Color in Piano Playing

How shall two such opposites as rhythm and tone color be connected, even in name, some will ask. One belongs to the mechanical side of piano playing, while the other appertains to the ideal, the poetic, the soulful. The two subjects, however, are not so wide apart as might at first appear; for the beauty and variety of the second depends largely upon the mastery of the first. You must play rhythmically before you can play soulfully; you must first be able to keep time before you can attempt to express color and emotion through any fluctuation of rhythm. One depends on the other, therefore time and rhythm come first; when these are well under control, not before, we can go further and enter the wider field of tonal variety.

Rhythm is one of the pianist's most important assets, something he cannot do without. It might be said that the possession of a well-developed rhythmic sense is one point in which the artist differs greatly from the amateur. The latter thinks nothing of breaking the rhythm at any time and place that suits his fancy; while the artist is usually conscientious about such matters, because his time sense is more highly developed. A perfect time sense is often inherent in the artist, a part of the natural gift which he has cultivated to such a high state of achievement. It may be he has never had any difficulty with this particular point in piano playing, while the amateur has constantly to struggle with problems of time and rhythm.

THE METRONOME

When the subject of using such a mechanical aid as the metronome to cultivate rhythmic sense, is broached to the executive artist, it does not always meet with an assenting response. With such bred-in-the-bone sense of time as the artist commands, it is little wonder he takes no great interest in mechanical time-beating. Josef Hofmann's censure of the metronome was probably due to his inborn rhythmic and artistic sense; yet his words have doubtless had their effect on many students, who, lacking his sense of rhythm, would have been greatly benefited by its use.

Godowsky, when asked his opinion of the metronome, replied: "I assuredly approve of its use; I have even devoted a chapter to the metronome in the Progressive Series, my great work on piano playing." Edwin Hughes remarks: "If pupils have naturally a poor sense of rhythm, there is no remedy equal to practising with the metronome, using it daily until results are evident, when there can be a judicious letting up of the discipline. The mechanical sense of rhythm, the ability to count and to group the notes of a piece correctly, can be taught to any person, if one has the patience; but for the delicate rhythmic nuances required by a Chopin Mazourka or a Viennese Valse, a special rhythmic gift is necessary."

Artists and teachers who have come under Leschetizky's influence and use his principles, are generally in favor of the metronome, according to their own testimony. The fact is, they as teachers often find such deficiency in their pupils on the subject of time sense and accuracy in counting, that they are forced to institute strict measures to counteract this lack of rhythmic comprehension.

Granting, then, that the correct use, not the abuse, of the metronome is of great assistance in establishing firm rhythmic sense, let us turn our thought to the fascinating subject of—

TONE COLOR

When De Pachmann affirmed that he uses certain fingers to create certain effects, the idea was thought to be one of the eccentric pianist's peculiar fancies. Other players, however, have had the same thought, and have worked along the same line—the thought that on the fingering used depends the quality of tone. For instance you might not play an expressive melody with a consecutive use of the fifth finger, which is called a "cold finger" by Thuel Burnham. He would use instead the third, a "warm finger," to give out a soulful melody.

TONAL VARIETY

The pianist who desires to play effectively, must continually strive for variety of tone, for tonal coloring. These can be studied in scales, chords, arpeggios and other technical forms. The singer seeks to make a tone of resonant color, not a straight, flat tone; the pianist, on his part, endeavors to give color and variety to his playing in the same way. Harold Bauer thinks variety must be secured by the contrast of one tone with another. Even a very harsh tone may be beautiful in its right place, owing to its relation to other tones, and its ability to express an idea. To render the playing expressive by the contrast of light and shade, by tonal gradations, by all varieties of touch, by all the subtleties of nuance, is a great art, and only the most gifted ever master it in its perfection. These are the things that enchant us in Paderewski's performance, and in the tonal coloring of Gabrilowitsch. Hofmann's playing is a marvel of atmosphere and color; such playing is an object lesson to students, a lesson in variety of light and shade, the shifting of exquisite tonal tints.

The sensitive musician is highly susceptible to color effects in nature, in art or in objects about him. Certain colors attract him, for he sees an affinity between them and the tonal effects he strives to produce. Other colors repel, perhaps for the opposite reason. Brilliant red is a warlike color, and finds analogous expression in such pieces as Chopin's Polonaise Militaire, and MacDowell's Polonaise. We cannot help seeing, feeling the color red, when playing such music. Soft pink and rose for love music, tender blues and shades of gray for nocturnes and night pieces are some of the affinities of tone and color. Warm shades of yellow and golden brown suggest an atmosphere of early autumn, while delicate or vivid greens give thoughts of spring and luscious summer. Certain pieces of Mozart seem to bring before us the rich greens of a summer landscape; the Fantaisie in C minor, and the Pastorale Varie are of this type.

Arthur Hochman says: "Colors mean so much to me; some are so beautiful, the various shades of red for instance, then the golden yellows, rich warm browns, and liquid blues. We can make as wonderful combinations in tone color as ever painter put upon canvas. To me dark red speaks of something tender, heart-searching, mysterious. On the other hand the shades of yellow express gaiety and brightness."

It has been said that a pianist should study color effects in order to express them in his playing. He can do this to special advantage at the theater or opera, where he can see unrolled before him the greatest possible variety in light and shade, in colors, and in the constantly changing panorama of action and emotion.

The pianist can receive many ideas of tone color when listening to a great singer, and watching the infinite tonal gradations produced on the "greatest of all instruments," the human voice.

In short the pianist draws from many sources the experience, the feeling and emotion with which he strives to inspire the tones he evokes from his instrument. The keener his perceptions, the more he labors, suffers, and lives, the more he will be able to express through his chosen medium—the piano!

THE END