Ignaz Jan Paderewski

This type of anecdote is told of most great instrumentalists, and especially of Rubinstein. To the lay mind it always seems strange that an artist who earns fabulous sums from public and private recitals should display his gifts for the mere love of the thing, but to the artist himself there is an enjoyment in the appreciation of a few gifted brother-artists which not all the thunder of popular applause can equal. And M. Paderewski is, above all, an artist. His public career of course necessitates advertisement, but he has never sought after means to bring himself forward apart from his playing. In consequence an air of mystery surrounds him as an atmosphere. On the few occasions when he has broken through this retirement it has always been for the sake of some project connected with his art or to show his esteem for a fellow artist. As an instance of this may be mentioned the fund for the encouragement of American composers which he founded after his 1895-96 tour. He placed a sum of £2000 in the hands of three trustees of which the interest was to be devoted to triennial prizes for composers of American birth irrespective of age or religion.

Another instance is the prominent part he meant to take in the testimonial given to Mme. Modjeska at Boston in May 1905. It will be remembered that the great pianist as a young man owed a deal to the encouragement of the celebrated actress, and it may be imagined how ardently he desired to make some public acknowledgment of his friendship. Unfortunately the serious accident which brought about the nervous breakdown of the pianist happened just previous to the benefit performance. The American Press teemed with alarmist reports of the permanent character of this breakdown, and to some extent there was justification for them. According to M. Paderewski's business manager, Mr. J. G. Francke, the following are the facts of the case: "I was with M. Paderewski when the accident occurred in Syracuse which upset his nerves. We were coming from Auburn, twenty-six miles from Syracuse, where the artist had been playing. We had a special engine. When the switch leading from the Auburn line to the tracks of the New York Central Railroad, half a mile from the station, was entered, the switchman gave our engine-driver the signal to stop. This signal was disregarded. The switchman, noting the arrival of the Buffalo express, threw our engine off the track, and just in time, or we should have been cut to pieces by the incoming train. M. Paderewski was seated at the head of the table where he was supping. The force of the sudden jolt threw him against the table as it hurled us to the floor. He did not suffer much from the shock at the time, but he felt it more the next day. A muscle in the back of his neck, connected in some way with the muscles of the spinal column, was affected by the collision. That has been his trouble. He did play after that in some Canadian cities, but the complaint developed in Boston, and overwhelmed him eventually." On April 29 he had arrived in Boston but was too ill to play at the Symphony Concert to be held in aid of the Orchestral Pension Fund. This and his inability to assist at the Modjeska benefit seemed to have preyed on his mind and naturally did not improve his condition.

To the committee of the Modjeska Testimonial the pianist sent a characteristic letter – a letter which is no mere expression of regret but is of value in our understanding of the pianist, since throughout it there breathes a love of his country worthy of Chopin himself. "For many months," Paderewski wrote, "I have been looking forward to the 2nd of May, anticipating one of the greatest joys of my career. The thought of joining you all on this solemn occasion has been my pride for many months. The sudden adversity of fate makes me feel now grieved and humiliated, and words cannot express all the bitterness of my disappointment. But there is still a pride and a joy I cannot be deprived of – the pride of belonging to the same country, to the same race which sent into the wide world one of the greatest and noblest artists of all times and nations; the joy of being one of many to whom Mme. Modjeska has been good, kind and generous. The first encouraging words I heard as a pianist came from her lips; the first successful concert I had in my life was due to her assistance. Unable to be present, I beg of you to convey to Mme. Modjeska the homage of profound admiration and gratitude, and to extend my sincerest thanks to all who contribute to make this the day of legitimate and crowning triumph for a career great, noble, pure and beautiful."

The passionate love of his country which this letter expresses will not be new to those who are acquainted with the pianist, nor, indeed, to those who only know him through his compositions. Once before, in 1893, when a guest of the New York Lotus Club, he had given public utterance to the same passion. "I loved your country," he said in his after-dinner speech, "before I knew it, for the very simple reason, allow me to tell you, that this country is the only one in which hundreds of thousands of Poles are living freely and enjoying liberty; the country in which every countryman of mine may speak whatever he likes of the past and future of his country without fearing to be arrested. A few years ago, at the same time that you were fighting the glorious fight against slavery, our poor nation made its last effort for liberty. Our fate was different – you have succeeded, and we have not; but still you gave us a great deal of happiness in the feeling that we were not alone."

Perhaps it is not very safe to take into account the environment of an artist in any criticism of his artistic achievements, but there is more reason for it in the case of an executant musician than in that of a composer, for the one so clearly makes capital of all that he is, whereas the other often only rises to creative serenity by forgetting his surroundings. It was in that atmosphere created by his will that Wagner composed "Die Meistersinger," for instance. At any rate the spirit of passionate rebellion is often to be heard in Paderewski's playing, especially of Chopin, and it may well be that the early death of his first wife had the effect of deepening his nature. In other directions, too, he has known sorrow, for his only son, who recently died, was for years a confirmed invalid. It is pleasant to think that the pianist's life has been brightened since 1899 by his marriage to the Baroness Hélène von Rosen.

VII

HIS VIEWS ON MUSIC AND TEACHING

It is not often that Paderewski has expressed his thoughts on his art, but by careful research I have come across a few interviews here and there which have something of value in them, and, I think, are worth quoting. Again I must quote Mr. Henry T. Finck, an enthusiastic admirer, who can speak with first-hand authority of the pianist's musical faith. His taste, we are told, is remarkably catholic. "He likes Grieg's songs better than his pianoforte works, while Brahms's piano pieces, as he once said to me, hardly exist for him! 'They seem all treble and bass!'[2 - In London Paderewski has not entirely neglected Brahms's compositions. Among others he has played the "Paganini" and the "Handel" variations. – E. A. B.] But he admires the chamber music of Brahms. His worship of the romantic Chopin, Liszt and Schumann does not interfere with his enjoyment of the classical Mozart and Beethoven. He adores Bach and Schubert, and at the same time he is a thorough Wagnerite. To hear 'Parsifal' or 'Tristan,' he says, you ought to go to Bayreuth; for the 'Meistersinger' to Vienna, for 'Tannhäuser' to Dresden; while of 'The Flying Dutchman' the best performance he ever heard was at a small German city of thirty thousand inhabitants. This catholicity of taste compares strangely with Rubinstein's rather limited enthusiasms." There are certainly few pianists who have shown so eclectic a taste in their playing as Paderewski has always displayed. It would be difficult, indeed, to decide from his interpretations what composers appeal to him most, for while at one moment you are ready to declare that no pianist can surpass him in a performance of the music of Liszt and Chopin, at the next a singularly noble and sensitive interpretation of a Beethoven sonata will compel you to place Paderewski as the most sympathetic player of Beethoven in the world. But this aspect of the pianist's gifts may be more conveniently dealt with in the next chapter.

In the few public utterances he has made on his art, Paderewski has at once paid a tribute to his instrument, and has emphasised the enormous difficulty in becoming a master of it. "Assuredly the piano is the greatest of musical instruments," he once exclaimed. "Its powers, who has yet been able to test them to the full? Its limitations, who shall define them? No sooner does one fancy that nothing further can be done to enhance its possibilities than inventive ability steps forward and gives to it a greater volume, a more velvety smoothness of tone." On another occasion he said of the piano: "It is at once the easiest and the hardest. Any one can play the pianoforte, but few ever do so well, and then only after years and years of toil, pain, and study. When you have surmounted all difficulties, not one in a hundred amongst your audience realises through what labour you have passed. Yet they are all capable of criticising and understanding what your playing should be. Any one who takes up piano-playing with a view to becoming a professional pianist has taken on himself an awful burden. But better that than the drudgery of giving pianoforte lessons. The one is only purgatory, but the other – hell!"

Of course Paderewski has not made teaching a serious part of his career since he became famous as a virtuoso, but at least one pupil of his, Mr. Ernest Schelling, has made public appearances, and in his early days Paderewski knew what teaching meant. To a London evening paper[3 - The now defunct Sun.] he once gave the benefit of his experience. He was particularly severe on the teaching professed by young girls who, having had a superficial training, endeavour to turn their limited talents to effect when a living has to be earned or supplemented.

"To teach or to learn to play the piano or any other instrument we must commence at the beginning. The pupil must first be taught the rudiments of music. When those have been mastered he must next be taught the technique of his instrument, and if that instrument be the piano, or the violin, or the harp, or the violoncello, the muscles and joints of the hands, wrists, and fingers must be made supple and strong by playing exercises designed to accomplish that end. At the same time by means of similar exercises, the pupil must also be taught to read music rapidly and correctly. When this has been accomplished she should render herself familiar with the works of the masters – not by having them drummed into her by her instructor, but by carefully studying them for herself; by seeking diligently and patiently for the composer's meaning, playing each doubtful passage over and over again in every variety of interpretation, and striving most earnestly to satisfy herself which is the most nearly in harmony with the composer's ideas. The chief aim of every teacher of the pianoforte should be to impart to his pupils a correct technique and to enable them to play any composition at sight with proficiency and correctness; but how much, or rather how little of this kind of teaching is practised by many so-called music teachers? Many really competent music teachers have assured me that of all the pupils who came to them from teachers of lesser reputation to be 'finished' there is not one in ten who has ever been taught to play all the major and minor scales in all the various keys."

Paderewski insisted on the necessity of amateurs learning compositions by heart, and was careful to point out that the pupil must not be made mentally weary by over-practice. "Physical weariness from too much practice," he added, "is just as bad as mental. To over-fatigue the muscles is to spoil their tone, at least for the time being, and some time must elapse before they can regain their former elasticity and vigour." On the importance of a healthy muscular system to the pianist Paderewski wrote at some length in a magazine.[4 - Eugene Sandow's Physical Culture.]

"It is highly desirable that he who strives to attain the highest excellence as a performer on the pianoforte should have well-developed muscles, a strong nervous system, and, in fact, be in as good general health as possible. It might be thought that practice on the pianoforte in itself would bring about the necessary increase in muscular power and endurance. This, however, is not altogether the case, as it sometimes has a distinctly deteriorative effect, owing to the muscles being kept cramped and unused. The chief muscles actually used are those of the hand, the fore-arm, neck, small of the back, and the shoulders. The latter only come into play in striking heavy chords for which the hands and arms are considerably raised from the keys; in light playing the work is chiefly done from the wrists, and, of course, the fore-arm muscles which raise and lower the fingers. It is not so much that greater strength of muscle will give greater power for the pianoforte, but rather that the fact of the muscle being in good condition will help the player to express his artistic talent without so much effort. To play for a great length of time is often very painful, and you cannot expect a player to lose himself in his art when every movement of his hands is provocative of discomfort, if not actual pain. Sometimes, indeed, a great amount of playing brings on a special form of complaint known as 'pianist's cramp,' which may so affect the muscles and nerves that the unfortunate artist thus afflicted finds his occupation gone. I have frequently found that though, whilst playing, I have experienced no trouble from my muscles being overtaxed, afterwards the reaction has set in, and I have had no little exhaustion of the shoulders and neck, and I have also suffered from severe neuralgic pains affecting the nerve which runs from the head and conveys impulses from the brain to the deltoid muscle. Weakness in the small of the back has been by no means uncommon."

As to the higher side of pianoforte teaching, Paderewski thinks that all theoretical teaching is a mistake, "for when you have reasoned out an effect you have lost that over which you have reasoned? You must teach the student to feel." There must be no hard and fast rules. All depends on the mood and the atmosphere. And that appears to be the spirit of the teaching of Leschetitzky, the master of Paderewski.

VIII

AS PIANIST

The critic who would give a true appreciation of Paderewski as artist must at once admit that he has the power of moving an audience as no pianist since Rubinstein has been able to move it. In the opening chapter I touched on some generalities with regard to Paderewski's position in the world of piano-playing, and I referred to the modifications in the verdict of the general which the critic must make. In the difference between his outlook and the public's will be found his divergence from the critical and popular estimation in which the great pianist is held. I will at once confess that a professional critic is apt to be too theoretical in his judgments: it is, if viewed aright, the defect of his merits. We are compelled to give reasons for our likes and dislikes, and these in turn are apt to proceed too much from the intellect and not sufficiently from the emotions. The public, on the other hand, has no hard-and-fast theories concerning piano playing, singing or conducting. Provided an instrumentalist or a conductor creates a "sensation" no close inquiry is made into a sacrifice of artistic virtue. In the following appreciation of Paderewski as pianist I have been at pains to collate my own opinions with those of men who have, it seems to me, some authority to write on the subject. I may say in passing that it is extraordinary how little of the criticisms penned on the different recitals give the reader any clear and general idea of Paderewski. His interpretations and playing are praised or blamed, but a writer in a daily paper has to take it for granted that the pianist's gifts and limitations are known and understood. Indeed, a journalist who should sit down to pen a general criticism of a celebrated artist would be considered a kind of critical Rip van Winkle. That is a pity, because criticism demands reconsideration every few years. How could we tell of what a pianist's fingers might be capable until we had heard Leopold Godowsky? How judge of the future of opera until we had heard Puccini's "Madame Butterfly"? For this reason contemporary Press criticisms of Paderewski do not tell us very much. But here and there, scattered up and down the pages of weekly periodicals and magazines, I have come across passages which give a good idea of his powers and his limitations. I propose to quote a couple of these as preliminary to my own estimate of the pianist.

In all criticism comparison must play an important part. However great may be the natural gifts of a critic his verdict on a particular artist is of not much value unless he has some clear standard of technical and interpretative excellence. Those who remembered Rubinstein at his best were on firmer ground in judging the new star, Paderewski, than those who knew him not. For this reason the enthusiastic estimate of Dr. William Mason, the well-known American writer on music and professor of the piano, has peculiar value. Dr. Mason, it should be stated, studied in Germany under Moscheles, Dreyschock and Liszt. In an interesting critical study of Paderewski, written in 1893, he compared the playing of that artist with the playing of many others, including Pachmann, Rosenthal, D'Albert, and Scharwenka, and, while recognising their worth, came to the conclusion that Paderewski was "an exceedingly rare occurrence, indeed phenomenal."

"As Moscheles played Bach half a century ago, and as Rubinstein played him later on, so does Paderewski play him now – with an added grace and colour which put these great contrapuntal creations in the most charming frames. It is the great, deep, musical playing combined with the calm, quiet repose and great breadth of style. Paderewski has an advantage over Rubinstein, however, in the fact that he is always master of his resources and possesses power of complete self control… In Rubinstein there is an excess of the emotional, and while at times he reaches the highest possible standard, his impulsive Nature and lack of self-restraint are continually in his way, frequently causing him to rush ahead with such impetuosity as to anticipate his climax, and, having no reserve force to call into action, disaster is sure to follow.

"Of five prominent pianists, in Liszt we find the intellectual emotional temperament, while Rubinstein has the emotional in such excess that he is rarely able to bridle his impetuosity, Paderewski may be classified as emotional-intellectual – a very rare and happy blending of the two temperaments – and Tausig was very much upon the same plane, while Von Bülow has but little of the emotional, and overbalances decidedly on the intellectual side.

"It seems to me that in this matter of touch Paderewski is as near perfection as any pianist I ever heard, while in other respects he stands more nearly on a plane with Liszt than any other virtuoso since Tausig. His conception of Beethoven combines the emotional with the intellectual in admirable poise and proportion. Thus he plays with a big warm heart as well as with a clear, calm, discriminative head; hence a thoroughly satisfactory result… In musical conception he is so objective a player as to be faithful, true, and loving to his author, but withal he has a spice of the subjective, which imparts to his performance just the right amount of his own individuality.

"The heartfelt sincerity of the man is noticeable in all that he does and his intensity of utterance easily accounts for the strong hold he has over his audiences. Paderewski's playing presents the beautiful contour of a living, vital organism… It possesses that subtle quality expressed in some measure by the German word Sehnsucht, and in English as intensity of aspiration. This quality Chopin had, and Liszt frequently spoke of it. It is the undefinable poetic haze with which Paderewski invests and surrounds all that he plays which renders him so unique and impressive among modern pianists."

The foregoing estimate represents the discrimination of an enthusiastic admirer. Its value consists of its recognition of the power of Paderewski's personality. No criticism of his technical mannerisms alone – however much he may lay himself open to it – will give a true idea of the great pianist. Among the many estimates of Paderewski written in this country one of the most balanced and illuminative was penned by the late Arthur Johnstone, for many years the musical critic of the Manchester Guardian: – "Mr. Paderewski's distinguishing quality is a certain extraordinary energy – not merely a one-sided physical, or even a two-sided physical and intellectual, energy; it is of the fingers and wrists, of the mind, the imagination, the heart and the soul, and it makes Mr. Paderewski the most interesting of players, even though to the extreme kind of specialist, absorbed in problems of tone production, he is not the most absolute master of his instrument at the present day. His art has a certain princely quality. It is indescribably galant and chevaleresque. He knows all the secrets of all the most subtle dancing rhythms. He is a reincarnation of Chopin, with almost the added virility of a Rubinstein. No wonder such a man fascinates, bewilders and enchants the public! Greatly surpassed by Busoni in the interpretation of Beethoven, by Pachmann in the touch that persistently draws forth roundness, sweetness and fulness of tone, and by Godowsky in the mastery of intricate line and the power of sucking out the very last drop of melody from every part of a composition, Paderewski still remains the most brilliant, fascinating and successfully audacious of present-day performers, and in preferring him the general public is probably right, though the keen student of the pianoforte in particular may learn more from Godowsky, and the earnest lover of the musical classics in general, more from Busoni."

In much the same vein I wrote of a recital held at St. James's Hall in 1901. "The fascination of Paderewski held criticism in check. I know that his Beethoven in C was smallish Beethoven; that there were many spots of virtuoso exaggeration of contrast; but I also know that the adagio molto had a poetry of expression which many better-balanced pianists miss, and that the last movement had a growing power which carried one away. I know, too, that Schumann's sonata in F sharp minor was too exaggerated, that its force was often too febrile. I will even admit that Paderewski's technique is not always as clear as it might be; that for perfection of finger dexterity Rosenthal, Godowsky, Busoni and Pachmann surpass him. If you press it, I will confess that Paderewski's force is hysterical, an explosion of exacerbated nerves; that, metaphorically, he has his back to the wall and with tight-drawn lips is fighting for his life. His strength, you may say, is almost a weakness. It has no reserve and occasionally it is perilously akin to ranting. He is also too fond of unnecessary dynamic contrasts – the sign of the virtuoso all the world over, whether he be a pianist or a chorus-master. I would not even combat the assertion that he often allows a fastidious brain to prompt new readings when novelty is unnecessary, and I must admit that he has the abominable trick of opening his chords – the kind of thing one expects in a third-rate pianist bidding for a cheap popularity. Is the catalogue of defects full? If not, insert some more, and then —

"Why, then, I will still assert that Paderewski is the greatest of living pianists. He has what so many of them do not possess – a strong individuality and real insight as a musical poet. D'Albert might play that Beethoven sonata with a nicer balance and a more intellectual grasp; but he would not create that glowing atmosphere. Paderewski's reading cannot be held up as a model to young men and maidens. It was very subjective. I do not ask Paderewski to be anything but himself, for his self interests me. But, at any rate, the performances of Haydn's Variations in F minor and Mozart's Rondo in A minor were perfect enough in restraint and classical grace to rank as models. They seemed to me to represent the normal Paderewski.

"And his Chopin playing particularly appeals to me. Pachmann, in the lesser Chopin, and Godowsky as well, play with more polish of phrase, and they have a more extended gamut of dynamic nuances; but neither plays as a poet would play, and Chopin, with all his absolute musical fastidiousness, was a poet. Pachmann is too pre-occupied with mere beauty of tone and with the rhetoric of antithesis; Godowsky with the perfection of finger technique. Busoni's Chopin playing can alone be compared to Paderewski's, for Busoni has a poet's imagination. But Paderewski has more emotional fibre." As a marginal note to this criticism, it should be said that the pianist was not at his best in that year. The tendency to nervous explosions was not so marked when he visited us the following summer.

It must be confessed that Paderewski's repertoire is rather limited. He never makes experiments with the compositions of new men, and I do not remember if he has ever played anything of Alkans or of César Franck. The plan of his programmes is apt to be stereotyped – a group of pieces by Bach, Handel, Scarlatti – or other of the harpsichord composers; then a sonata of Mozart or Beethoven, followed by the German romantic school, and ending with Chopin, Liszt, and Rubinstein, or his own compositions. Still, it is very difficult for a pianist to import novelty into the programme of a recital, and until quite recently modern composers have ignored the piano. But if Paderewski's repertoire is not very extended, his sympathies are catholic enough. There is only one other pianist who can be compared with him in this respect – Busoni. The rest have such limitations of sympathy that one could wish they would follow Pachmann's example and confine themselves to the composers they understand. Paderewski is, perhaps, at his best in the playing of Chopin and Liszt, and, at the other extreme, in his reproduction of the old harpsichord music. The racial spirit in him, which I have already shown is a real part of his composition, enables him to realise the bigger Chopin as no other pianist realises him. In the Chopin which mainly demands agility of finger and a refined sense of harmony, Busoni and Pachmann excel Paderewski; but neither can play the great Scherzo in C sharp minor as Paderewski plays it. His Beethoven is unequal. Sometimes, if in the mood, he will give you a performance of one of the later sonatas which cannot be surpassed for grandeur and glow of emotion (he could never be a mere "classical" Beethoven player); at other times his readings are rather small and not sufficiently architectural. He has done wonderful things with the "Moonlight" and "Waldstein" sonatas, however. His Beethoven is never uninteresting, and it is something that he spares us the hard austerity of some of the Beethoven playing which is so highly praised in these days.

It has been well said that Paderewski treats Bach as a modern romanticist, following the example of Liszt in this. The Bach worshipper of a certain type is not likely to admire Paderewski's readings, but the pianist certainly does bring out all the beauty of the composer's music. If Mme. Schumann's idea of her husband's music was right, then Paderewski is apt to treat him too much as a virtuoso composer. His playing is a trifle wanting in the true German reflectiveness, but the romance is realised. The concerto is one of Paderewski's finest achievements, however. When an appeal is not made to his Slav temperament, Paderewski's mind seems to find most pleasure in the refinement of Weber, Mendelssohn, and Mozart. He has done a great deal to rehabilitate Mendelssohn. He made serious musicians ashamed of their estimate of the "Variations Sérieuses," and he reset the exquisite gems of melody enshrined in the "Songs without Words," made so dim by the clumsy handling of generations of schoolgirls.

In all Paderewski does there is evidence of much musical thought. That is to say, even when he treats a composition to a new, and, as it seems, a sensational performance, the conception is consistent throughout. And that is one of the reasons why the pianist carries you away even when he runs counter to theories or prejudices. Your mind may be critically at work throughout the whole performance, but you feel at the same time that the player is not making a bid for the popularity of empty sensationalism. Those who accuse him of that are wrong. They forget that with all his intense quietude of manner, Paderewski is at heart a Pole, and that the very nervous force which enables him to play with glowing power is also apt to make him exaggerated and exuberant; but the musical intellect has artistically planned out these outbursts, which are seldom merely physical.

The weakness of his playing on its technical side lies in a tendency to smudginess of execution. Paderewski cannot lay claim to the absolute clearness of Busoni; nor has he the magical fingers of a Godowsky. But I am not at all sure that the defects of his technique are not an expression of his merits as a tone poet. It is inconceivable that a player of Paderewski's fiery and nervous temperament should be a perfect mechanician. Moreover, his lapses from technical rectitude are never lapses from the higher technique of the piano. No pianist so well understands how to produce beautiful tone; no pianist has such a variety of touch; and none such a grasp of the art of pedalling and phrasing. The Paderewski tone is a thing by itself. Above all, he is a master of rhythm. The wonderful, subtle nuances of tempo rubato which distinguish his playing are the expression of a genuine, musical nature. Sometimes this extraordinary grasp of rhythm may lead him to attempt effects which were not, perhaps, within his composer's intentions, but they are musical effects and not merely capricious. In brief, Paderewski appeals to lovers of music, not because he is the most wonderful player of his instrument that has ever existed, but because he is a genuine tone-poet, a man of exceptional nature and rare temperament.

Perhaps he has summed himself and his aims as well as any one else could sum them up. "If I were asked," said the great pianist to an interviewer, "to name the chief qualification of a great pianist, apart from technical excellence, I should answer in a word, genius. That is the spark which fires every heart, that is the voice which all men stop to hear! Lacking genius, your pianist is simply a player – an artist, perhaps – whose work is politely listened to or admired in moderation as a musical tour de force. He leaves his hearers cold, nor is the appeal which he makes through the medium of his art, a universal one. And here let me say, referring to the celebrated 'paradox' of Diderot, that I am firmly of the belief that the pianist, in order to produce the finest and most delicate effects must feel what he is playing, identify himself absolutely with his work, be in sympathy with the composition in its entirety, as well as with its every shade of expression. Only so shall he speak to that immense audience which ever depends on perfect art. Yet – and here is a paradox indeed – he must put his own personality resolutely, triumphantly into his interpretation of the composer's ideas."

IX

AS COMPOSER

It will be remembered that Paderewski began his musical career with the aim of being a composer, and through all the stress of his life as a virtuoso he has never lost sight of that aim. Indeed, he has more than once expressed the intention of retiring gradually from the concert platform in order that he may devote all his time to composition. The work he has already done is not to be passed over lightly as a pianist's music. Paderewski has certainly more originality than Rubinstein, and as he is now only in his forty-seventh year there is every possibility that he will make a name for himself as composer. It has already been related that Paderewski was by way of being a prodigy composer. At the early age of seven he wrote a set of Polish dances, but none of his compositions was published until he was twenty-two years of age. These early works, numbering some forty pieces, include Mazardas, Polonaises, Krakowiaks, and other Polish dances, a Caprice, an Intermezzo, a Sarabande, an Elegy, and many Mélodies, all of them surcharged with national spirit. It is facile criticism to trace the influence of Chopin in these pianoforte pieces of Paderewski's, and it is too often forgotten that many of the characteristics of the great composer's music were drawn from Polish music. Paderewski himself once remarked on this point: "The moment you try to be national, every one cries out that you are imitating Chopin, whereas the truth is that Chopin adopted all the most marked characteristics of our national music so completely that it is impossible not to resemble him in externals, though your methods and ideas may be absolutely your own."

Of the smaller compositions of Paderewski the most famous is, of course, the Minuet, which has nothing in it of Polish colour, but is a charming and skilful essay in the old style. A writer in a German periodical has told an amusing, if apocryphal story of this Minuet. "When Paderewski was a professor at the Warsaw Conservatoire, he was a frequent visitor at my house, and one evening I remarked that no living composer could be compared with Mozart. Paderewski's only reply was a shrug of the shoulders, but the next day he came back, and, sitting down at the piano, said, 'I should like to play you a little piece of Mozart's which you perhaps do not know.' He then played the Minuet. I was enchanted with it and cried, 'Now you will yourself acknowledge that nobody of our time could furnish us with a composition like that.' 'Well,' answered Paderewski, 'this Minuet is mine.'" The worthy German writer could have had but a superficial knowledge of Mozart's style of harmony. But the Minuet is certainly a charming little piece. Hardly less remarkable in its daintiness is the "Chant du Voyageur," number 3 of Opus 8, and the Thème Varié, Opus 11 is very skilful in its harmonic treatment of a naïve, eighteenth century tune. The Variations and Fugue and Humoresques à l'antique enable one to understand how Paderewski can play Scarlatti, Couperin, and Rameau with such intimate sympathy. These works may be said to represent one side of his talent, perhaps not the most original. In direct contrast with them are his fiery Polish dances – his Cracovienne and Polonaises. In his later compositions he has given up his imitations of the antique and has been gradually finding his own utterance in the idiom of national music. In his early life, however, he composed a short sonata for violin and piano, which, as far as I know, has not been performed in England; but, of course, the pianoforte sonata in A minor, Op. 17, which was written when he was twenty-eight years of age, is the most important contribution in a more or less "classical" style which has come from his pen. It served to introduce Paderewski as a composer to an English audience on the occasion of his first recitals at St. James's Hall in 1890. "In point of form this Concerto," wrote Mr. C. A. Barry in his analytical notes, "which is far more a matter of evolution than a stringing together of tunes, closely follows the traditionally classical lines, and is strikingly free from irrelevant and episodical passages, except such as immediately grow out of the subject-matter. In spirit it is strongly pervaded by the characteristics of Polish national music, with its proud, chivalrous and dreamy accents." Much of the music is of a virtuoso character, but the Romanza, an Andante, is a little gem of inspiration, and the finale is full of vivacity and spirit. Paderewski himself makes a very effective composition of this Concerto.

A considerable period elapsed between the composition of the Concerto (in 1888) and that of the Polish Fantasia, which was first performed at the Norwich Festival of 1893. It was actually written in the summer in that year. In this work national feeling is very strongly marked. This betrays itself in the treatment, and in the themes, which although the composer's own, are distinctly Polish in character. The work is full of colour, picturesqueness and romance, and in general it has the air of a Rhapsody. In the slow movement there is a power of combining themes which Paderewski had not previously shown, and the orchestra is handled with much skill both in the matter of instrumentation and in its combination with the piano. The Fantasia, which was afterwards repeated at a Philharmonic concert, placed the composer on a higher plane than anything he had hitherto done.

That Paderewski did not mean to confine himself to compositions for the piano and orchestra was soon proved by rumours of an opera on which he was engaged. Nothing of importance came from his pen until "Manru" was produced at Dresden on May 29, 1901, but the pianoforte score had been finished as long ago as 1895. As Paderewski had not hitherto composed anything of moment for the voice – his four songs, Op. 7, and the late set of six which Mr. Edward Lloyd sang to the composer's accompaniment are fanciful but of no great importance – there was much anticipation as to the result of his new departure. It should be said that at one time the composer was in negotiation with the late Sir Augustus Harris for the production of the opera at Covent Garden, but he could not see his way to accept the suggested alterations which the impresario thought necessary. As a matter of fact most of these alterations were made when the work was performed at Dresden. It was generally admitted, and the criticism was upheld when "Manru" was mounted in New York in 1902, that the opera suffers from its libretto.

The plot was borrowed from a Polish Romance, Kraszewski's "The Cabin behind the Wood," by the librettist, Dr. Alfred Nossig and sets forth how Manru, a gypsy, has won the love of a Galician maiden, Ulana, and has married her in the gypsy fashion. On her return to her native place, seeking her mother's forgiveness and help, she is received with contumely and a mother's curse. Her kind friends prepare her for the inconstancy of Manru by citing instances of the general fickleness in love of all gypsies, and Ulana, in order to keep Manru's love, seeks the help of Urok, a dwarf and magician who has the reputation of being a sorcerer. By the aid of a magic draught she keeps Manru to her side for a time, but the gypsy blood will out and, fascinated by a girl of his own race, he rejoins his tribe. This is not to the liking of the gypsy chief, Oros, who is in love with the same woman, Asa, and Manru's rehabitation is opposed. Matters then become too complicated for opera, and that is the weakness of the libretto. Oros finding his authority has no weight with the tribe breaks his staff and Manru is proclaimed chief in his stead. Ulana, in despair at the loss of her husband, hurls herself over a precipice, and Oros coming secretly on Manru and his new love Asa suddenly attacks his rival and throws him into the abyss. A strain of symbolism runs though the story. Thus Manru is not merely fickle, but is torn this way and that by his love for Ulana and his racial passion for music. You may, if you choose, look on Ulana as the embodiment of human love and Asa as representing the spiritual love of the artist.

Dr. Schuch conducted the first performance at Dresden. Herr Anthes was the Manru; Herr Scheidmantel was the Urok; Fraulein Krull the Urana and Frau Kramma the Asa. The reception of the work was cordial but it does not seem to have been enthusiastic. Some of the critics were reminded of Bizet; others noted a strong likeness to Wagner; and through all the note of Polish music was detected. As the work has never been performed on the English stage it is not easy to say how it would shape as an opera. The vocal score has not been published. A concert performance of some of the chief scenes was given, however, at the Crystal Palace, on December 13, 1902, Signor Randegger conducted and Fraulein Krull came from Germany to sing the soprano music. Mr. John Coates sang the music of Manru. The excerpts consisted of a duet from Act II. with Ulana's cradle song; the prelude and incidental music from Act III. with Manru's long soliloquy "Luft, luft! Ich ersticke," and a gypsy march; the love duet of Manru and Ulana from Act II., and the ballet music from Act I. As the programme also contained the Concerto and the Polish Fantasia we were able to form some opinion of Paderewski as a serious composer.

"The connection of the music of 'Manru' with these concertos," I wrote at the time in the Daily News, "must have struck the dullest ears… So far the music has a style of its own. But it struck me that in the vocal selection from 'Manru' the folk-song element did not mix well with sundry Wagnerisms of which Paderewski has made use. Thus in the scene from Act II., Manru, who is watching Ulana nursing her child, hesitates between expressing himself in the mode of a Slavonic folk-song and in the style of Siegfried's forging outbursts. The orchestra has no hesitation at all, but plumps for Wagner. Paderewski is most interesting to me when he forgets all he knows of Wagner. The folk cradle-song of Ulana, for instance, is more genuine music than Manru's long monologue 'Luft! luft!' from Act III. which is full of Wagnerian mannerisms, culled from Hans Sachs' monologues and elsewhere. Again, the ambitious love duet from Act II. does not make its mark. Paderewski has not yet the strength of technique for a love duet conceived more or less on the lines of the 'Tristan' love duet. The vocal parts have not striking enough intervals. The writing for the voices and orchestra is too close, and, in general the part writing does not move with sufficient freedom. The concert room performance of selections from operas is a great test of their absolute musical qualities, a test which very few works can stand in part, and none altogether. For that reason one cannot come to any very definite opinion of the 'Manru' music. The rushing of the strings up and down the chromatic scale, the free use of muted horns, of gong and cymbals struck with a drumstick, sound theatrical in a concert room, but they might pass as effective in the opera-house. And I should think Paderewski has musically caught the atmosphere of the story. Certainly he has in the orchestral description of Manru's dream, in which the memories of his love jostle with his gypsy desire to wander free and untrammelled. The Gypsy March, with which the scene ends, is also striking. In fact, all the music which has a folk-song character is successful; and perhaps on the opera-stage the second-hand Wagnerisms would not be so noticeable."

The opera had previously been performed at the Metropolitan Opera House in New York, on February 15, 1902. It had not been adequately rehearsed although the principal singers – M. Bandrowsky (Manru), Mme. Sembrich (Ulana), Miss Fritzi Scheff (Asa), Mr. David Bispham (Urok) and Herr Muhlmann (Oros) – seem to have done their work well enough. Opinions as to the merits of the opera were divided. The libretto was blamed for its weaknesses, and Paderewski's Wagnerisms were duly impaled. After a third performance, Mr. H. T. Finck was of opinion that "Manru" gained by being heard repeatedly "While some of its melodies are so catchy that they can be remembered at once, the orchestra score grows more and more beautiful, and what is particularly odd is that the reminiscences of other composers become less noticeable." The composer himself had a good deal to say to an interviewer of the New York Herald on this question of reminiscences in his opera.

"In music absolute originality does not exist. It is the temperament of the composer that makes his work. In method one cannot help but follow those who have gone before. When a great genius like Wagner introduces a method that will give better expression to an idea it is not only not a sin to follow it, but it is a duty to follow it. In employing such a method it concerns not so much the idea as its treatment in a musical way. A piece of music must be built like a house or a church. You would not accuse an architect of being a copyist if he put windows in a house, would you? And yet he is merely doing what others have done. Likewise when you read the works of the great poets, you would not accuse Browning or Longfellow of plagiarism if they used the same style of verse as some one else? Their thoughts you would consider and not so much their method. Music, you see, is different from poetry. It appeals to the ears. A sound, or a combination of sounds in a work that only have to do with the method, may remind one of some other music, and the whole is set down as not original. Let us look at the prelude to the third Act in 'Manru.' That has been criticised. There is one run, a little run, that reminds one of 'Die Walküre.' I knew it. I tried to avoid it, but could not. Others heard it and they talk of the suggestion from 'Die Walküre.' Yet the first theme is not the same. The second theme is not the same, the orchestration is not the same. I defy any one to show that anything except this one little run is borrowed. Yet for this detail of method the prelude is condemned. If I were to make an analysis, I could show a likeness in method among the greatest of composers. For instance, look at Schumann's Concerto in A minor. The first theme is taken almost wholly in method from Mendelssohn. And Wagner, in his first period and even well into the second period, is not entirely original. One may easily find the influence of Weber and then of Meyerbeer. Beethoven was not free from the influence of other masters, for, in his works, we often find the suggestion of Mozart. And witness also the first concerto of Chopin. Is it not suggestive very strongly of Hummel? And 'Carmen.' Can we not find here an enormous influence exerted by Gounod? And it not only reminds you of Gounod, but some of the themes, as sung, are taken wholly from Spanish music. The 'Habanero' is not even Bizet's, but in all the scores that are published is shown to be taken from a composer who was alive when the opera was written."

The composer made out a good case, but he forgot that, as Weingartner once pointed out, the most subtle form of musical imitation is that of mood and style, and not necessarily of themes. However, "Manru" contains sufficient originality to make the musical world look forward with interest to the production of the new opera on which Paderewski has been engaged. I had hoped that it would have been possible to round off this estimate of the pianist as composer by a consideration of a symphony at which he has been working. It was to have been performed at one of the concerts of the London Symphony Orchestra this season, but it was not ready in time. This work together with the new opera, will enable the musical world to come to a definite conclusion as to the place Paderewski will occupy as a composer.

notes

1

His recital on June 18 of this year drew an enormous audience to the Queen's Hall.

2

In London Paderewski has not entirely neglected Brahms's compositions. Among others he has played the "Paganini" and the "Handel" variations. – E. A. B.

3

The now defunct Sun.