Harold Bauer - His Book

Bauer

Preface

I NEVER INTENDED TO WRITE THE STORY OF MY LIFE, AND I neither know nor care whether I shall be believed when I say that this writing has been the most abominable and tedious chore that I ever undertook.

What happened is this: my very dear and distinguished friend, the late Carl Engel, president of G. Schirmer, Inc., wished to pay me a compliment on the occasion of my seventieth birthday. Since he had always been amused by my relation of little incidents in my long career, he got me to write some of them down, then put them together with inimitable skill and charm, and published the result in the Musical Quarterly.

This created a great deal of comment, and the next thing was that Warder Norton asked me to write a whole book about myself. I rejected his suggestion with horror, but I went to tea with him and his wife, and, as a consequence of their skillful and delicate flattery, I was undone.

Even so, the book would never have been completed without the gentle and incessant nagging of my wife.

The time has come for me to express my acknowledgments to everyone concerned in this perpetration, and I hereby do so, peevishly, with the fervent hope that they will all leave me alone in future.

It remains only for me to add, now that I notice the curiously abrupt fashion in which this book starts, that I was born near London on April 28, 1873.

H.B.

One

MY EARLIEST REACTION TO MUSIC, AS FAR AS I CAN RECALL, was one of fascinated terror. Even at this far-distant time, it almost makes my flesh creep when I think of the huge faces of adults bending over me, or over one of my sisters, and emitting the strange sound which, I was later to learn, is called singing. The music was not confined to noises coming from human faces, however, for there was also the unforgettable sound—solemn and yet piercing—of the shiny brass instruments played in the street by a group of shabby men called the German Band. In addition, there was the Italian barrel-organ grinder, accompanied sometimes—oh, bliss!—by a monkey; an occasional violinist; a man who played a bright yellow clarinet; two men in Highland costume, one of whom danced to the playing of the bagpipes (the most exciting sound in the world, I think) by his companion.

Then the music of the street cries (Chinaware cheap and Jubilee Coal Blocks provided the themes, later on, for a juvenile sonata), and finally, the god of musicians, a glorious individual who went about with a dozen different instruments distributed over his person, playing them all at the same time. That, to me, was real magic; and I longed unspeakably to grow up and conquer my fear of the sounds, so that I could wield the power he possessed—some day!

I suppose it was this mingled feeling of fear and ambition that made me try to find the notes of a tune which had alarmed me to the extent of wanting to hide under the table. After I had picked out the notes, I did not mind it so much. It was the opening of Brahms’ piano quintet, and I am still a little afraid of it.

On my fourth birthday, I decided that the time had come for me to do something important, so I composed a polka which contained exactly eight measures—quite enough, I considered, for a beginning, a middle, and an end. How it was that this babyish little thing stuck in my mind I am unable to say, but it came back to me about half a century later, when Ossip and Clara Gabrilowitsch told me almost tearfully that their daughter Nina showed not the slightest interest in music.

How old is she? I inquired.

Today is her fourth birthday, was the reply.

Nina, darling, I said in my most persuasive tones, wouldn’t you like to hear the piece your Uncle Harold composed when he was four years old, like you?

Yeth, she said. (I think it was Yeth, but it may have been Yes.)

I played her my polka. She was enchanted.

Do it again, she said.

Again—Again . . .

Finally I had to write it out and leave it with her mother, so that she could learn it. Ossip told me later that it was the only music she had ever enjoyed. I do not know whether it opened the way for general appreciation of the art—and anyhow, the story ends there. I relate it only because no composition of mine, as far as I know, has ever had the effect on anyone that my polka had on Nina Gabrilowitsch.

My aunt taught me to play the piano, and my father gave me my first lessons on the violin—a half-size instrument which had a loop of string tied round its scroll, so that it could be suspended from the bell-pull at the side of the fireplace when I was not using it. The bow hung from one of the tuning pegs.

When I was left alone to practice, I used to prop a book on the music-rack and read while going through the motions of the technical exercises I was supposed to master. This was not conducive to the development of good posture as a violinist, although I believe it did no harm—if no good—to piano playing. However, I progressed rapidly on the violin, and before long I started playing publicly in a small way.

Most concerts in London were given at St. James’ Hall, an auditorium seating about 1,800, located at the lower end of Regent Street, up one flight of broad marble stairs. Below were numerous shops, and immediately underneath, another, smaller auditorium, which housed a permanent troupe of black-faced comedians known as the Christy Minstrels. The same box office sold tickets for the Minstrels and for the classical concerts, and an attendant, dressed in formal clothing with a high silk hat, was stationed in front of this box office for the sole purpose of preventing the Minstrel audience from strolling into the classical concerts, and vice versa. Upstairs for the concert—this way for the Minstrels—I can still hear his strident voice.

To walk up those marble stairs was an experience. They were not steep, but they were fairly wide; my legs were short, and even holding tight to my father’s hand I was unable to negotiate them otherwise than with two steps to each tread. This was the reason, I felt, that we did not sit in the main part of the auditorium; I was too young and unworthy of that honor. We had to climb up two other flights of stairs—much narrower—and found our places finally on wooden benches. I did not yet understand the difference between stalls—seven shillings and sixpence; balcony—three shillings; and gallery—one shilling. The music was the same everywhere, and all I knew was that my place was on those top benches, whence I could look down on the performers.

There were two sets of subscription concerts during the season, known respectively as the Saturday Pops, afternoons, and the Monday Pops, evenings. I was rarely taken to the evening concerts, because the trip from our home took about an hour each way, the distance being all of three miles; and this in the slow horse-omnibus meant getting home at an unduly late hour. The programs for these concerts generally included a string quartet, some piano solos, some violin solos, some songs, and another piece of chamber music, with piano, to end the program, which lasted at least two hours and a half, and sometimes longer. I do not recall that there was any intermission; neither do I recall any occasion when the hall was crowded, although the number of subscribers alone for each series averaged, I believe, about a thousand, which shows the public interest in chamber music at that period in London.

The works played at the Pops were as a rule familiar to me. My father was but one of a large number of amateur musicians who were accustomed to meet regularly at each others’ homes to play quartets, and it is to this that I owe my knowledge of chamber music. Frequently, however, the great artists—Joseph Joachim at the head—who took part in these concerts brought out important novelties by the great composers of the day, such as Brahms, Dvořák, Grieg, etc., and these were always occasions for great excitement among the audience.

On the other hand, many of the compositions played were dull and academic, and it is rather surprising to look back to a time when a quartet by Rheinberger, Raff, Rubinstein, Spohr, or Götz was esteemed just as highly as anything in the so-called classical repertoire. And, of course, Mendelssohn—any amount of Mendelssohn. Queen Victoria was still on the throne of England, and although the composer had died forty years earlier, he was still looked upon as a kind of Court Musician. How we used to love his quartets!—in fact, all of his chamber music. I learned to play the viola through his A major quintet, because only one of the amateur group could read the C clef, and two violas were required.

When the Octet was played at the Pops, the newspapers always carried a special advertisement saying that Mendelssohn’s celebrated Octet will be performed on this occasion. The designation celebrated was kept for two or three compositions only. One was Bach’s celebrated concerto for two violins, which Joachim and Madame Norman-Neruda, greatest woman violinist of her time, used to play regularly each season. There was also Beethoven’s celebrated Kreutzer Sonata, in the performance of which the second variation was invariably applauded so vociferously that it had to be repeated. I am quite sure—and I speak from personal experience—that every violinist confidently expected this tribute to his skill, and would have been intensely mortified if his performance of the Kreutzer had not been thus interrupted.

Sometimes a member of the Royal Family announced his or her (generally her) intention to attend a concert. This was advertised with a becoming mixture of humility and pride. It was assumed, I think correctly, that the announcement would attract people who otherwise would not go. Sometimes the concert was delayed until the Royal personage arrived, and sometimes the concert was interrupted when Royalty was ushered in, the performers, as well as the entire audience, rising to their feet at the moment of entrance. I do not remember whether or not I was impressed by this display of loyalty on the part of the audience. It seemed curious and interesting, and I always wondered, when the advertised royal personage had not arrived for the beginning of the concert, if the performers would be able to get through the first movement without being interrupted, or if they would have to stop in the middle to make their obeisance; in which case would they take up just where they had left off, or would they go back to the beginning? One never knew what would happen, and it was quite a nice field for speculation.

On one occasion, the performance of Beethoven’s Rasoumovsky Quartet in F major was thus interrupted in the middle of the violin cadenza which occurs at the end of the long slow movement. Joachim could not stop—no artist could possibly have stopped just at that point—and he continued to the trill which ends the cadenza, after which he and his three colleagues rose and bowed deeply, as in duty bound. Then, whispered consultations—where should they begin again? I was breathless with excitement—would he repeat the difficult cadenza? Oh, joy! He did.

Joachim’s playing meant to me, even as a little boy, the very pinnacle of musical art. I wished, however, that he would play longer pieces at the Pop concerts because, to the best of my belief, he never gave any solo recitals during the period I am writing about. So I took the great liberty of writing to tell him that I was a little boy ten years old, and that I should be very much obliged to him if he would kindly play Bach’s G minor prelude and fugue as an encore next Saturday, because, I added, I play that piece too.

To my astonishment and delight, he answered my letter, saying that he would like to see the little boy who could play such hard things. My mother took me to see him. After hearing me play, he predicted that I should become a successful violinist and offered to place me at the recently established Royal College of Music to complete my musical training.

My father disapproved, I do not remember why, and instead, I became a pupil of Adolph Pollitzer, who at that time was considered, I believe, the greatest violin teacher in London. Under his direction, I learned the entire violin repertoire, and each time I played in public my master lent me his beautiful Joseph Guarnerius violin.

Joachim manifested no further interest in me, and while I keenly regretted that my father’s refusal to follow the great artist’s advice had cost me a valuable patronage, my feeling was tempered by a secret and guilty sense of relief; for I knew that my new teacher would not require me to follow any longer the Joachim tradition of holding the bow arm tightly glued to the side when playing. There have always been, and there always will be, discussions and conflict as to the proper method of playing on an instrument, but I doubt if any violinist in these times can realize the violence with which players of the Joachim school repudiated and denounced violinists who lifted the elbow—and vice versa. In England, where Joachim was a musical god, it was almost a point of respectability to keep the upper part of the bow arm immobile. Raising the arm was just one of those things that weren’t done.

Madame Norman-Neruda, who played with a free arm, and had many admirers, was tolerated, I think, mainly because she was a lady, and perhaps also because of a hazy idea that her womanly figure compelled her to raise her elbow in order to play on the G string. But it was quite customary in London for people ignorant of violin technique to express disapproval of a violinist who, although admittedly a fine performer, lifted his elbow in playing. As a boy, I had the feeling that the practice was almost the equivalent of wearing detachable cuffs or a bowler hat with evening dress, and I considered that the annual performance of Bach’s celebrated concerto for two violins, wherein Madame Neruda’s right arm occasionally hid the view of her right eye, constituted an act of the most magnanimous condescension on the part of Dr. Joachim, whose whole face, including the beard, was never once obscured. Once he kissed her hand before the whole audience after the concerto. How noble! I thought.

At that time of my life, although I went to many concerts, I never met any of the great artists who performed, and I was accustomed to think of them all as superior beings, living apart from the rest of humanity. There was only one thing that brought forth a sense that I might be their equal: that was when they forgot their notes. It may not be amiss to remind my reader that the practice of public performance without notes was only just coming into vogue. Only shortly before, artists who played solos by heart, as it was called, were criticized openly for lacking in respect both for the audience and for the composer by indulging in such theatrical display. Opinion was divided as to the propriety of changing old customs, and, on the whole, the public favored the novelty; possibly because of the element of danger involved—the player might forget, and then what? Sure enough, the player did very often forget, and when that happened, the public burst into applause, as who should say: Never mind, now, don’t get rattled but try again. At these moments, as I said, I felt myself the equal of the greatest. I, too, could break down and begin again.

I was always profoundly impressed by the entrance of the performers onto the stage of St. James’ Hall. They came up a small staircase to the left of the piano. First one saw the head, then the body, and finally the magnificent feet which brought them before the audience. I remember noticing that the men performers always looked straight in front of them, while the ladies kept their eyes down, and I thought that must be to avoid stumbling over their long dresses as they came up the stairs. But it was the tops of their heads that fascinated me, and I wondered if some day some little boy would look down on the top of my head as I came up the stairs.

I do not think there were very many concerts during the winter. I went whenever I could and very rarely paid for admission. The usher in St. James’ Hall knew me and generally passed me in without a ticket. Whenever I could, I took a seat at the side of one of the music critics. There were two reasons for this: First, I knew that they had received two tickets and usually came alone; second, I wanted to listen to what they said about the music and the performance. The critic I liked best to sit next to was an ill-dressed young man with a large red beard. His name was Shaw—George Bernard Shaw. I heard him once utter the word monkey when Vladimir de Pachmann was making antics at the piano, and I was deeply shocked. De Pachmann, in my estimation, was a genius to whom everything was permissible, and I could not bear to have him ridiculed. Shortly before, he had made a sensationally successful début at one of Mr. Wilhelm Ganz’s orchestral concerts, and everyone was talking not only of his playing, but of the reply he had made to a lady at a fashionable reception. It was customary, of course, to address all foreigners in the style established by Mr. Podsnap, namely, with great emphasis on each word for their better understanding.

And what, said the lady very slowly and distinctly, does Mousseer de Pachmann think of London?

The response was immediate and extremely rapid.

Zat iss not ze question, Madame. Vot does London sink of de Pachmann? Zat iss ze question!

What impudence! said everybody. But his fame as an eccentric dated from that day and has always paralleled his fame as an artist.

I paid a shilling to hear the great Anton Rubinstein at one of his historical recitals, waiting for hours with the crowd until the doors leading to the top gallery were opened. This stands out in my memory as a most exceptional occasion. I don’t remember any such crowds for any other concerts (this was long before Paderewski had revolutionized the behavior of the English concert-goer). How I wish I could recall the playing of that great man! But alas, only a few scattered impressions remain.

There were two concert grand pianos on the stage. They had come from Russia, made by Becker. I wondered why one piano was not enough, even for the greatest of pianists. But I found out soon enough. Something broke—string, hammer, or key?—under the master’s mighty blows, and he transferred to the other. During the intermission a mechanic repaired the first piano, to which Rubinstein returned later, when the second went out of tune. I remember wondering how he could see with so much hair falling down over his face. I remember his impatient gesture as he dashed away a small flower thrown by an admirer, which lodged on the top of his head.

One of the pieces on the program was Schumann’s Etudes Symphoniques, which I remember solely because he failed to turn into the major key at the point indicated on the very last page, and played the major chord only once instead of twice. Was it a lapse of memory, or did he purposely make the change? I shall never know, but the effect is so fine that I have always played it that way.

The rest of the program, for all that I can recall, might have been the celebrated Valse Caprice played over and over again. I do not remember anything else. How grand, I thought, to be able to play all those false notes so fast and so loud! Why, after all, should a great artist be under the same rules and restrictions as a common person who, whatever secret ambitions he might cherish, must never play wrong notes? Nothing else remained of that recital except my sense of having participated in a musical experience with one of the Sons of God, and this gave me an extraordinary feeling of exaltation.

I never heard Rubinstein again.

Another of the most distinguished musicians of the day was Clara Schumann, who played many times in London. She was called the Great Lady of the Piano. I remember her appearance, dressed in widow’s weeds, a voluminous skirt which seemed to cover a large part of the stage, and a posture at the piano quite peculiar to herself, although imitated by her pupils—bent over from the shoulders so that the head seemed occasionally to be perilously close to the keys and in the way of the hands.

Madame Schumann played a great deal of her husband’s music. I remember her performance of the Concerto and the Carnaval without any pleasure. Her tempi seemed too fast, and I do not recall any charm in her tone. She played at orchestral concerts or at the chamber-music Pops, and I do not know whether she ever gave solo recitals in London. My impression is that she would not have attracted a large public had she done so, for in spite of her great reputation there was nothing in the least glamorous about her.

The exact reverse was the case with the violinist Sarasate. When that man appeared with his glittering black eyes, his mop of black hair, his Spanish mustache, when he advanced to the very edge of the stage and stood motionless with the violin gripped by the body between his two fingers, we were all tense with admiring expectation. There was an indescribable swagger about him. After bowing in acknowledgment of the welcoming plaudits of the crowd, he struck an attitude with his feet spread apart, and looking us over, so to speak, he allowed the violin to slip through his fingers until its progress toward the floor was arrested by the scroll. All this was accomplished with a self-confident nonchalance which was simply irresistible, and the British public came nearer, I believe, to getting a thrill than ever before.

Sarasate’s playing was unique and unforgettable—a marvelous example of complete union between the player and the instrument such as most of us had never witnessed. It was assumed that those who admired Joachim could not like Sarasate, and vice versa. I admired Joachim and I loved Sarasate.

Possibly few people would have been willing to admit how large a part personal attractiveness played in the career of a musician in England. It is hard to explain otherwise the failure of some of the greatest artists of the day to please London audiences. For example, Hans von Bülow, esteemed everywhere as one of the supreme elect, known by name to every English concert-goer, announced a series of recitals devoted exclusively to the compositions of Beethoven. No pianist had ever before played all the sonatas, and the announcement was in itself sensational. I remember his first concert. He came onto the stage holding his silk hat and his cane, and he drew off his gloves before sitting down to the piano. His playing was deeply impressive—the listeners all felt, I am sure, that they were receiving a message direct from Beethoven himself. But the public did not like the looks of the man, and the audiences grew smaller with each recital. Von Bülow left England in a huff, disgusted, and wrote to the Times denouncing the British public, adding that he would never return. The music critic, publishing this letter, thought fit to retort with a quotation from the latest Gilbert and Sullivan operetta, to the effect that it didn’t matter, matter, matter. I think I may have been one of the few people to whom the thought that Bülow would not come again did matter quite a lot.

About that time (it was probably earlier) a young pianist, born in Scotland, whose talent had been recognized and patronized in many ways, created a storm by a letter, also written to the Times (the newspaper which still receives everyone’s complaints and comments), in which he declared his intention to throw off forever his allegiance to England and to leave a country which was in his opinion unworthy to harbor anyone gifted with artistic talent. I do not think I exaggerate in saying that this letter was greeted with howls of indignation. Renegade was the mildest term to be applied to Eugen d’Albert, the young man in question. But he carried out his word all the same, went to live in Germany, and became one of the most eminent and successful of European musicians.

The departure of Frederic Lamond from the country of his birth and education was less violent and sensational. He left England in order to complete his musical education in Germany, and took up his residence in Berlin because he was successful on the European continent, whereas he was never appreciated to any great extent in England. He was Liszt’s last and youngest pupil, and when the great man visited London in 1886, Lamond prevailed upon him to come to one of a series of recitals he had announced in Prince’s Hall, a small auditorium with a capacity of about 600.

It was announced that the great Liszt would attend this concert, and all the tickets were immediately sold. The concert was transferred to St. James’ Hall, with three times the capacity, and all the tickets there were promptly snatched up. We did not care about Lamond, but we wanted to see Liszt. The day of the concert came, and the hall was crowded to the last seat. After some delay Lamond came from the artists’ room into the body of the hall