THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES 
 
 MUSIC LIBRARY 
 
 GIFT 
 OF 
 
 Benno Rubinyi
 
 ETHICS AND ESTHETICS 
 
 OF 
 PIANO-PLAYING
 
 ETHICS AND ESTHETICS 
 
 OF 
 
 PIANO-PLAYING 
 
 By 
 CONSTANTIN VON STERNBERG 
 
 Price, $1.25 net 
 
 G. SCHIRMER 
 NEW YORK BOSTON
 
 Copyright, 1917, by 
 G. SCHIRMER 
 
 27155
 
 Music 
 
 ML 
 
 To 
 Josef Hofmann 
 
 whose masterly artistry 
 
 has inspired many of its thoughts 
 
 and strengthened many into convictions, 
 
 this booklet is inscribed 
 in token of an old and devoted friendship.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 PAGE 
 
 MAN AND ART 1 
 
 THE INTERPRETATIVE ARTIST 8 
 
 THE LAY AUDITOR 14 
 
 THE THREE PHASES OF UNDERSTANDING 20 
 
 RULES ARE NOT LAWS 27 
 
 OLD ERRORS 33 
 
 ACCENT 50 
 
 TEMPO 71 
 
 TONE-MEASURING THROUGH THE EAR 86 
 
 CONCLUSION 98
 
 ETHICS AND ESTHETICS OF 
 PIANO-PLAYING 
 
 Man and Art. 
 
 The reciprocal relations between life and 
 art have in all ages attracted the attention of 
 great thinkers. Ever since the days of Thales 
 of Miletus over two centuries before Plato 
 the speculators on this subject have formed 
 an unbroken line reaching to our present age 
 and their speculations are so interesting as to 
 reward an attentive reader well for his patience. 
 Even when succeeding ages proved the conclu- 
 sionof their anteriorsto be erroneous, one almost 
 regrets to part with such errors; for they arose 
 from systems of thought conceived in honesty 
 and sincerity, and with astonishing ingenuity. 
 
 The purpose of this little volume requires 
 no more than a brief summing up of the net 
 results of these speculations. This summariz- 
 ing is greatly simplified by the circumstance 
 that in more recent times mere speculation 
 has blossomed into practical investigation. 
 Philosophy, from its lofty base of abstract 
 thought, has reached out into the more material 
 [1]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 realms of physics and biology, and has thus 
 obtained results of a nature so practical and 
 relatively simple that they can be summed 
 up in a very few words. 
 
 It is evident at the outset that such life 
 as is merely organic cannot stand in any 
 relations of mutuality to art. It may inspire 
 art, but it is incapable of receiving, much less 
 absorbing, its returns. Hence, the only form 
 or type of life admitting of mutual relations 
 with art is "conscious" life. 
 
 Now, of all manifestations of conscious life, 
 Man has fairly good reason to regard himself 
 as both the most complete and the most 
 complex. What is the nature of the "conscious- 
 ness," whence it comes (scientifically speaking), 
 whither it leads, are questions which will 
 probably never be answered. It makes very 
 little difference whether we accept the prac- 
 tically identical teachings of Goethe, Huxley 
 and Darwin or those of Agassiz, Neumeister 
 and Chamberlain; it matters not whether Man 
 is involuted from all lower orders of creation 
 and inherits the aggregate of the physiological 
 and spiritual experience from all species, or 
 only from his own in neither doctrine can we 
 find the faintest glimpse of enlightenment as 
 to the processes by which Man developed his 
 consciousness of life and self. But we do know 
 that he has attained to this consciousness; we 
 [2]
 
 Man and Art 
 
 know that this consciousness is a living force; 
 and we also know a little of the mightiness of 
 this force. For by its exercise Man has, in large 
 measure, subordinated the blind forces of nature 
 to his will and has projected his intellect far 
 beyond the range of his mere bodily existence. 
 With this power Man encompasses the macro- 
 cosm and microcosm of the known universe and 
 by this power he is driven to search still further 
 for the Unknown yes, even for the Unknow- 
 able. 
 
 Containing thus within himself the sum of 
 all that precedent life through which he was 
 evolved from other species or from his own; 
 containing, consequently, the presage of some 
 form of life still higher than his own; Man 
 must, logically, have more to say for himself 
 than all his evolutional precursors, and there- 
 fore needs, more than any of them, the greatest 
 number and variety of instruments through 
 which to express the struggle of the human spir- 
 it. Forthis innate craving for individual expres- 
 sion is the chiefest attribute of conscious life. 
 
 But, we might ask, what is the aim and 
 purpose of expression? Is it merely to portray 
 or translate human impulses with no end 
 beyond itself? Is it merely a mechanical 
 reflex action of nerve stimuli and hence an 
 effect rather than a cause? It is not so in 
 the animal kingdom. The animal uses its 
 [3]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 cry for a purpose. It calls for food, for its 
 mate, for relief in pain, for help in danger or 
 as a warning of it to its kindred. Should 
 Man alone, then, express himself without a 
 purpose? Should Man alone not feel the 
 need of placing himself in reciprocal relation 
 with his environment? And should Man con- 
 fine his expression to his physical needs, like 
 an animal, and let his richer inner life remain 
 unrepresented? There seems to be no room 
 for such a thought when we reflect how nu- 
 merous and how diversified are the forms of 
 expression which he has already evolved and 
 which he strives with untiring energy to extend 
 in scope and number. 
 
 The desire for communication is rooted in 
 Man. It is an instinct. Not merely to express, 
 but to communicate himself, Man has evolved 
 language. And, not satisfied with this, he 
 has one by one enlisted every organ of per- 
 ception to this end. Moreover, he has multi- 
 plied the services of every organ in such ways 
 as to enable him to substitute one for the 
 other. Thus has he made the word of his 
 mouth intended primarily for the ear of his 
 fellowman accessible to the eye through script 
 and print. Thus has he, when words proved 
 inadequate to his purpose, evolved other 
 vehicles of thought and feeling, such as design, 
 color, tone, rhythm, harmony, gesture, etc., 
 [4]
 
 Man and Art 
 
 and has again multiplied the employment of 
 these in countless ways. Thus Man has 
 finally evolved Art* And let us thoroughly 
 understand that he evolved Art to provide 
 for necessities not a whit less insistent than 
 those inherent in his physical existence. 
 
 No sooner did he find his physical necessities 
 provided for by Nature than there dawned in 
 him the consciousness of a life within himself, 
 not altogether independent of, yet entirely 
 apart from, any merely creature 'phenomenon. 
 When he came to a realization of this inner 
 life, the Art-instinct awoke in him. However 
 crude the manifestations of his instinct were, 
 however primitive his script, his images and 
 decorations, let us bear well in mind that each 
 of them in its turn and place expressed that 
 which he could utter through no other medium. 
 
 Let the prosaic or vulgar Boeotian, who 
 disparages Art as a mere luxury, remember 
 that "life" and "existence" are not synonyms, 
 but almost antonyms. True, for that mere 
 "existence" which Man created in God's 
 image justly scorns, Art is quite unnecessary. 
 Yet to his spiritual "life" Art is no more a 
 luxury than food is to his stomach. For it 
 is not Man's physical body alone that demands 
 to be fed. His mind, soul, intellect, reason, 
 
 The term "Art" is used here in its Continental European 
 sense, meaning an expression of purely psychic processes. 
 [5]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 imagination, in short, all that serves to develop 
 and fill out his inner life, requires to be supplied 
 with such food as he cannot obtain without the 
 aid of Art. 
 
 All that lifts Man above the animal, subsists 
 more or less directly upon Art. But for Art, 
 the past would have remained as unknown to 
 Man as it is to the animal. Every archaeologist 
 will bear out this statement. Religion might 
 still be struggling with the darkness of bar- 
 barism but for the services that Art has ren- 
 dered it. In its cause, Art has attuned the 
 mind, through the senses, to things spiritual 
 and celestial. Even the concrete Sciences, 
 becoming conscious of their imperfections, have 
 called in the assistance of Art. In short, 
 without Art, every distinction between the 
 savage and modern Man falls to the ground, 
 for in Art and in Art alone Man has re- 
 corded the stages of his psychic development. 
 In Art Man writes the history of his soul. 
 
 The young art-student should derive strength 
 from such reflections. When dismaying ex- 
 periences turn him from belief to doubt; 
 when he is jostled aside by heartless money- 
 hunters; when sordid critics deprecate or 
 ridicule his vocation; let him remember how 
 lofty and instinct with human dignity is the 
 cause to which he has vowed allegiance 
 how worthy it is of his best endeavors, of 
 [6]
 
 Man and Art 
 
 his undivided aspirations, of his noblest de- 
 votion. 
 
 The student should be animated by this 
 spirit not only in his workroom, but in the 
 whole of life. His personal conduct as well 
 as his work should reveal the presence of that 
 inspiring self-respect which the ideal nature 
 of his task seems necessarily to invoke. 
 
 [7]
 
 The Interpretative Artist. 
 
 Art, then, is a psychic message. A message 
 from soul to soul. What is its chiefest require- 
 ment? What can be more important to a 
 message than that it reach its destination? 
 A message must be received and understood. 
 A message sent by wireless telegraphy, finding 
 no syntonic receiver, is, so far as we know, 
 energy lost in space. A work of Art that is 
 not understood is in a similar way a mis- 
 carriage and without result. Both messages 
 presuppose the recipient's familiarity with the 
 language in which they are expressed; but, 
 taking this for granted, let us ask whether it is 
 always possible for the author of a message 
 to be also its transmitter or deliverer. Does 
 not the word "message" denote communication 
 through an agency? When a message is indited, 
 only half of its purpose is attained. For the 
 other half it needs a messenger. This messenger 
 must be trustworthy, reliable, clever and, often, 
 courageous. Such messengers are rare very 
 rare; but the master in Art sets his message 
 free and lets it take its chances of finding 
 deliverers. The test has never failed. The 
 messenger has always appeared. 
 
 Now, if a messenger realizes the importance 
 of his service he will at once exert his utmost 
 ingenuity to perfect his equipment. He will 
 [8]
 
 The Interpretative Artist 
 
 increase his speed, more surely provide for his 
 safety and reliability, in short, he will use his 
 best powers to make himself more and more 
 worthy of his trust. 
 
 This done, he will expand his sphere of 
 action. Messages are sometimes couched in 
 terms too lofty, too scholarly or too ambiguous 
 for the intelligence of the recipient; in such 
 cases the messenger becomes an interpreter, 
 translating the too scholarly wording into 
 more colloquial terms or defining the too 
 ambiguous words more clearly. Furthermore, 
 when the message devolves some unwelcome 
 task upon the recipient, the messenger resorts 
 to personal persuasion to sweeten his message. 
 Thus he develops step by step from a mere 
 messenger into a representative, deputy, envoy, 
 ambassador, minister plenipotentiary! And he 
 obtains these promotions solely by means of 
 his interior ingenuity and merit. 
 
 If, for the sake of analogy, we give but a 
 moment's thought to the vast wealth invested 
 in the organization of the mails, telegraphs, 
 railroads, delivery systems of all kinds in our 
 civilization, and reflect that these elaborate 
 devices are adapted to fulfill the physical life 
 of modern Man, we cannot wonder that the 
 task of transmitting the intangible realities 
 from mind to mind should tempt Man's in- 
 genuity in at least an equal degree. 
 [9]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 Not every one, conversant with the language 
 of sentiment and emotion, is inspired to make 
 new revelations, but there are some who are 
 fully capable of fathoming and interpreting 
 them when they are made and of bringing 
 them, through their interpretation, within the 
 mental reach of those to whom, but for this 
 noble service, they would have remained in- 
 soluble mysteries. 
 
 Here, then, in this vicarial office, we salute 
 the interpretative artist the actor, singer, elo- 
 cutionist, virtuoso; the esthetic essayist; the 
 literary, pictorial and that rarest of all inter- 
 preters the musical critic. 
 
 How much creative genius owes to inter- 
 pretative genius, or on which side the obli- 
 gations are greater, it would be impossible to 
 say; for they are not different degrees, but 
 altogether different types, of genius; yet they 
 are connected by so close a kinship as to make 
 an exact calculation of their mutual indebted- 
 ness impossible. Neither can accomplish any- 
 thing without the other. 
 
 As a messenger is accountable to both 
 sender and recipient of his message, so is the 
 interpretative artist in a position of twofold 
 trust and, therefore, of twofold responsibility. 
 The sender of his message creative genius 
 is behind him; before him sits an expectant 
 and confiding audience, the sovereign addressee. 
 [10]
 
 The Interpretative Artist 
 
 The interpretative artist has, therefore, first 
 to enter into the spirit of his message; to 
 penetrate its ultimate meaning; to read in, 
 as well as between, the lines. And then he 
 has to train and develop his faculties of 
 delivery, of vital reproduction, to such a degree 
 as to enable him to fix his message decisively, 
 and with no danger of being misunderstood, 
 in the mind of his auditor. 
 
 Yet, strange to say, the integrity of these 
 relations is far oftener violated than respected. 
 Very much of current music-making is gone 
 through with in blank indifference to the com- 
 poser's intentions and with utter disregard of 
 the auditor's just claim to an honest interpre- 
 tation. The amount of singing that is done 
 with no higher aim than to display the voice 
 of the singer or the singer's laryngeal dexterity 
 may be inferred from the sad circumstance 
 that the vast majority of opera-goers are no 
 longer attracted by the Opera itself; but are 
 interested in, and applaud, only the famous 
 vocalists who figure in it. It is still worse 
 with piano-playing. The singer who ignores 
 the composer's ideas may still, and often 
 does, show a compensating respect for his 
 audience by a lavish display of the sensuous 
 charms of his well-trained voice. Pianists fail 
 rather often to grant their listeners even the 
 meagre indemnity of flattering their ears with 
 [HI
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 a fine touch and noble tone. Particularly is 
 this true of amateurs and students, who are 
 usually so fully occupied with their everlasting 
 technic as to lose sight completely of the 
 very aim and purpose of their playing. It 
 usually does not satisfy them to play what 
 they could play well. They gauge the value 
 of a piece by its mechanical difficulty seldom 
 by its beauty. So, they would rather play a 
 difficult piece badly than an easier piece en- 
 joyably, and the auditor has "to pay the 
 piper." The average pianist is so deeply con- 
 cerned about his "success," too, that he is 
 apt to forget the import of the work he is 
 playing. 
 
 The attitude of the musically untutored 
 auditor in such cases hinges upon his sincerity. 
 If he is candid he will say that he "does not 
 like the music," without discriminating be- 
 tween the composition and the player. If a 
 social diplomat, he will compliment the player 
 upon his skill and add, with sham regret, 
 that the composition was "a little beyond" 
 him. In neither case will the blame be laid 
 upon the person who alone is responsible for 
 the failure to bring the composer and the 
 auditor into rapport. The player fails, mani- 
 festly, in his sole duty in his sole province 
 and function. The auditor, however, dares 
 not suspect that any one should have the 
 [12]
 
 The Interpretative Artist 
 
 effrontery to interpret for him what the 
 interpreter, himself, has not understood, and 
 therefore the culprit goes unpunished, and 
 may and, alas, does continue to sin with 
 impunity. 
 
 Now, if the innocent auditor could have 
 the faintest suspicion that (in most cases) his 
 failure to understand a composition was due 
 to defects in the player, the situation might 
 assume a very different aspect. The hearer 
 might resent inconsiderate piano-playing as an 
 impertinence. But, misled by his humility 
 and ignorance, he does not suspect the true 
 conditions, and unscrupulous piano-playing 
 has thus an open field. 
 
 [13J
 
 The Lay Auditor. 
 
 And yet the musically untutored visitor at 
 Concerts, the layman, is the most legitimate 
 auditor in the house. Incidentally, he is also 
 the most numerous; and majorities, even 
 though mostly in the wrong, have to be 
 reckoned with. Besides, is it not just the 
 untutored who is to be brought under the 
 refining influence of good music? A concert 
 habitue, conversant with the conventions of 
 high-class music, seeks pleasure, edification, 
 uplift in the artist's work; but the untutored 
 in music why, he is the very heathen whom 
 the art-missionary seeks. Missionary and 
 messenger, by the way, are words derived 
 from the same root. 
 
 Let us confess that our learned auditor is 
 seldom a reliable critic or a just judge. Almost 
 invariably he has a bias of some sort; he 
 prefers some school of composition, some style, 
 or some musical form, to others, and any 
 composition not reflecting his favorite type or 
 class is apt to receive no more than lukewarm 
 praise, no matter how much merit it may 
 display. Richard Wagner's bitterest enemies 
 were learned musicians, especially among those 
 high in positions of authority. Wherever the 
 [M]
 
 The Lay Auditor 
 
 public were free to express or exercise their 
 judgment, they took very quickly to his art. 
 And his was by no means an isolated or even 
 a very exceptional case. 
 
 The layman is, at first, very much opposed 
 to good concerts. The brass-band and the 
 street-organ still have a strong hold on him. 
 He is mystified by Beethoven, but he loves 
 "Home, Sweet Home." This proves that he 
 loves some music, and, naturally, prefers the 
 type that is within his mental horizon. Nor 
 is his indifference to Beethoven altogether 
 inexplicable, for he cannot possibly form an 
 estimate of that master except by way of some 
 imterpreter. 
 
 Now, who gives him his first impressions of 
 Beethoven? Usually it is his daughter, whose 
 teacher, in good orthodox fashion, entrusts 
 the "Moonlight Sonata" to the child's tender 
 mercies. A girl of fourteen or sixteen and a 
 Beethoven Sonata! A girl, or, for that matter, 
 a boy, who has no conception of anything 
 musical beyond a correct use of the fingers on 
 the keyboard (if that much), and of this only 
 enough for a little modern parlor-piece; who 
 knows nothing of construction, who is as yet 
 without depth of feeling, without breadth of 
 mind, whose power of thought is but little 
 developed; such a boy or a girl brings home a 
 Beethoven Sonata, murders it, of course, and 
 [IS]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 when Papa feels in the mood for asking for 
 "some music," rattles it off with the air of a 
 meat-chopper. How can any sane being 
 derive a liking for Beethoven from such an 
 introduction? It is inconceivable. Let this 
 man drift into a good recital; let him listen 
 to a strong, beautiful and, above all, clear 
 interpretation of the same Sonata, and his 
 idea of Beethoven will undergo a vast change. 
 It may even serve to convert him to good 
 music forever. Once converted, a man of 
 that sort will be a very reliable critic. For 
 he will demand that the pianist give him the 
 musical sense of a composition. Feeling, sen- 
 timent, emotion, virtuosity, he will accept 
 and appreciate, but not before he has caught 
 the rhythms, melodies and other traits of the 
 piece its drift, its great outline; in short, the 
 content instead of the empty form of what has 
 been written. How few of the swagger vir- 
 tuosos who visit America succeed in conveying 
 this internal quality to their audiences? And 
 
 as for amateurs? ! 
 
 The formal musical content of the pieces on 
 a concert-program, the musical sense, is ail 
 that can be paid for at the box-office. What 
 the pianist gives beyond this, in the way of 
 feeling and emotionality, is a free-will offering 
 a quality imparted that is not always and 
 never entirely under his control. For this 
 [16]
 
 The Lay Auditor 
 
 splendid gift no money can pay, because it is 
 not so much a part of his technical or even 
 interpretative skill as of his own spiritual self. 
 It can and must ever be called forth by 
 the encouragement and eager sympathy of 
 the audience, but it cannot be paid for with 
 money. Not, at least, in advance. It must 
 always be regarded as an addition to the 
 sense of the pieces, not as a substitute for it. 
 The pianist's "feeling" must never interfere 
 with the clarity of his phrasing. 
 
 Now, whether a pianist does or does not 
 bring out the musical sense of a piece; whether 
 he presents its motives, themes, episodes, 
 figurations their canonic, fugal or otherwise 
 contrapuntal treatment, their physiognomical 
 traits, their recurrences, variations, etc., and 
 the formal cast of the whole piece lucidly or 
 in undiscernable confusion (or in some manner 
 halfway between, that can be followed only by 
 the half-dozen experts in the house, and not with 
 any pleasure by them), no one is as competent 
 to decide as our friend, the lay auditor. And 
 in many a layman's case, where musico- 
 technical ignorance is coupled with a delicate 
 and wide grasp upon life through other sets 
 of pyschic antennae, the reaction of good 
 music is spiritually far stronger than it can 
 be upon the festive dilettante to whom music 
 has nothing to tell, save of the performer's 
 [171
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 technic, or nothing to convey save, possibly, 
 an occasional "pretty effect." 
 
 There are, of course, in some works of art, 
 heights and depths that require for their full 
 appreciation more than a merely unbiassed 
 mind. \Long acquaintance with the language 
 peculiar to great art, a general esthesis for 
 psychic processes and a goodly degree of that 
 indefinable quality called culture, \are undoubt- 
 edly requisite for a full and quick under- 
 standing of its creations. To an auditor thus 
 equipped, a Beethoven Sonata will always say 
 infinitely more than to our friend of merely 
 unbiassed mind. But that is not the point. 
 While the lay auditor may not perceive the 
 whole import of the work, he must still receive 
 something that is mentally tangible; he will 
 then absorb enough to satisfy his measure of 
 perceptive development. After he receives 
 that and only after it he may rise to the 
 suspicion that there may be more in the 
 work than he extracted. He is then fairly 
 certain to hear the same work again as soon 
 as he finds an opportunity. And this stage 
 reached, we need not worry any longer; he 
 may be considered as being "safely in the fold." 
 
 A man does not need to paint to become 
 
 a judge of pictures, but he must see many 
 
 good pictures before his eye is trained to 
 
 comparative criticism. Just so, he does not 
 
 [18]
 
 The Lay Auditor 
 
 need to play the piano or to study composition 
 in order to become an appreciator of good 
 music; but he must hear much good music 
 and hear it well played, very well played, 
 before he can efficiently weigh and measure 
 its merits. 
 
 "Art for Art's sake" is esthetic trumpery. 
 
 "Art for sensible, normal people's sake" is a 
 far safer motto.
 
 The Three Phases of Understanding. 
 
 What is it that the auditor has to "under- 
 stand" in a piece of music? One, to whom 
 experience has never shown its sterner reali- 
 ties; who has never felt the tragedies of life 
 enacted in his own heart; who has never suffered 
 but 
 
 Some natural sorrow, loss or pain, 
 That has been and may be again 
 
 need not expect to understand the innermost 
 meaning of any great work of Art, however 
 clearly it may be interpreted. But Art is 
 not exclusively esoteric; it does not confine its 
 addresses to the initiated few; it has its 
 exoteric side as well. For Art comprises three 
 phases in which it appeals to us. It speaks 
 to the senses, to the mind and to the soul. 
 The highest (esoteric) phase may remain in- 
 comprehensible to many of us, but the two 
 lower phases are well within the reach of all 
 and note it well these two lower phases are 
 the stepping-stones to the summit. 
 
 (a) MATERIAL. 
 
 First, there is the beauty of art-material. 
 Color per se, independent of any design, 
 makes an appeal to our esthetic perception. 
 
 [20]
 
 The Three Phases of Understanding 
 
 A plain wall-paper of a nice hue, a piece of 
 cloth of varied colors, the blue sky, the green 
 lawn they flatter our eye through color alone 
 as our ear is flattered by a beautiful tone, 
 though a single tone is no more music than a 
 single brick is architecture. Material beauty 
 tonal beauty in music is the pathfinder, 
 the scout sent by the artist into the mind of 
 the beholder or the auditor. Though the 
 auditor be sensitive to no more than this purely 
 physical, material beauty, and though he 
 may not become very deeply interested, he 
 will at least realize pleasant sensations of a 
 nai've, primitive sort. 
 
 Though the material phase is here called 
 the lowest, the expression must not be con- 
 strued as meaning that it is the least important. 
 All three phases rank alike in significance, for 
 each is as indispensable to the others as clean- 
 liness is to godliness. Many an artist who 
 really has had little or nothing to reveal to 
 the world has nevertheless enjoyed transient 
 fame and achieved ephemeral success through 
 his close attention to the material beauty of 
 his work. And many others, who may have 
 felt deeply and thought profoundly, have failed 
 because they neglected the material beauty of 
 their work. Henselt, for instance, was not a 
 musician of any great depth; neither was 
 Thalberg; yet both achieved world-renown 
 [211
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 through the beauty of their touch. It was 
 clearly not what they said, but how they said 
 it, that made them famous for a while at 
 least. And Rubinstein! Much as the strong 
 personality of his playing was admired his 
 noble, though utterly subjective imagination, 
 his gigantic memory, and all that no one 
 acquainted with his playing ever failed to 
 comment rapturously upon the wonderful 
 beauty of his tone. Many an auditor quite 
 unable to follow the soarings of Rubinstein's 
 fancy, was none the less grateful for this 
 extraordinary and unparalleled aural treat. 
 
 Therefore: respect for the beauty of tone 
 per se ! 
 
 (b) DESIGN. 
 
 Secondly, there is in music the beauty of 
 design. One of the properties of all design is 
 recurrence. Too little of it produces restless- 
 ness, too much of it produces monotony. The 
 right balance both denotes and produces repose. 
 This is a fundamental principle of Art in gen- 
 eral and of Music in particular. 
 
 After a subject has been plainly stated, its 
 recurrences gratify the memory of the hearer. 
 These recurrences may be complete; or they 
 may be partial, fragmentary, and lead to new 
 combinations and developments. In either 
 case the traits of rhythm, grouping and 
 [22]
 
 The Three Phases of Understanding 
 
 dynamics in short, those features that con- 
 stitute the musical physiognomy of the subject 
 must be reproduced so plainly, so distinctly, 
 as to be easily recognizable at every recurrence. 
 The pleasure that the auditor derives from 
 following the lines of thematic design is very 
 great. Though it may fail to reach his emo- 
 tional nature, it is still certain to engage and 
 satisfy his mind. This is a good deal. For 
 the understanding of thematic design forms 
 usually the first incentive for a repeated 
 hearing of the same work, and through such 
 repeated hearings the emotional content of a 
 composition is very apt to reveal itself even 
 to one lacking in musical knowledge. 
 
 Under the above caption it will be necessary 
 to call the attention of the piano-student to 
 many things which the singer and the player 
 of orchestra-parts find in the very nature of 
 their instruments, but which the pianist has 
 painstakingly to acquire. The vocalist or 
 violinist when pronouncing a melody cannot 
 produce more than one tone at a time; the 
 pianist must not; but, unfortunately, he can 
 and all too often does. To the pianist, there- 
 fore, this phase of design must include that 
 clarity of execution which absolutely precludes 
 any doubt in the hearer's mind as to whether 
 a melodic tone has progressed (to another one) 
 or whether it is continued and some other newly 
 [23]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 entering tone forms an accompaniment to it 
 or, as musicians say, belongs to another part. 
 There must be no ambiguity in melody! 
 
 T f should never sound like 
 
 Nor should there ever be more than one 
 harmony heard at a time; of which that 
 arch-sinner, the right foot, must take care. 
 With hand and foot the performer must acquire 
 with the piano that clarity which is natural 
 to most other instruments and without which 
 the greatest digital dexterity is utterly worth- 
 less. It may be said here that more than half 
 of the mystery of touch, over which gushing 
 writers and talkers of pianistic melliflux marvel, 
 lies in this melodic and harmonic purity which 
 is fundamentally necessary to musical design 
 produced on a piano. 
 
 (c) THOUGHT AND FEELING. 
 
 With the third and highest function of 
 music the thought and feeling behind the 
 design this volume cannot deal, for such 
 study belongs properly to the province of 
 abstract art-criticism, from which the benefits 
 to be derived are rather uncertain. That 
 breadth of sympathy, keenness of insight and 
 depth of feeling which makes use of art as a 
 medium of utterance and employs musical 
 [241
 
 The Three Phases of Understanding 
 
 material and design as tools to its end as 
 the painter uses pigments, as the poet uses 
 meters yields but with reluctance to doctrin- 
 aire speculation. It will always reveal itself 
 best through itself. And it reveals itself 
 readily enough to every one who by frequent 
 contact with good music has become conversant 
 with musical parlance, or, in other words, 
 has learned to listen. In order, however, to 
 prepare the way for an appreciation of the 
 supreme office of music, the two phases of 
 material and design must be plainly under- 
 stood. 
 
 The element of material beauty is somewhat 
 aside from the present discussion. It belongs 
 to the province of mechanical technique. It 
 is with Design, and its lucid demonstration on 
 the Piano, that this volume deals. Before 
 entering upon its details, however, it may 
 not be amiss to give thought to one of the 
 favorite platitudes of the prosaic bourgeoisie. 
 They say that any work of art which they 
 cannot at once understand fails of its purpose, 
 and they strengthen their position by the 
 slogan: "Art is for the people." This is quite 
 true, but not more so than that everything 
 else is for the people: Nature, religion, good 
 manners, food everything. But how much 
 of it does the bourgeois appreciate? He has 
 been taught to read, whether with or without 
 [25]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 his own desire, but what does he read? He 
 sees Nature in every mood, but does his 
 appreciation ever rise beyond good or bad 
 weather? Is it not the poet and painter who 
 have to open the bourgeois eye to the beauties 
 of the objective world? What other mission 
 has Art than to open up to the average man 
 that which he could not see and hear and feel 
 without its aid? What other purpose than to 
 develop and enrich his inner life? But the 
 good bourgeois is accustomed to be respected 
 according to his material possessions. Art is 
 too hopelessly democratic for him. It scorns 
 every worldly attribute and claims the man 
 himself. It insists upon the inner man. If the 
 inner man proves to be empty, or the talents 
 of the bourgeois are misdirected, is Art to 
 blame? The bourgeois who feels powerless to 
 attack Art sometimes assails the artist. But 
 to the artist the platitudes of philistinism are 
 not awe-inpsiring. For he knows that sparrows 
 will never understand why eagles soar beyond 
 the height of a cherry-tree. 
 
 [26
 
 Rules Are Not Laws. 
 
 To teach or learn the perception and re- 
 production of musical design in the manner 
 in which the technique of the piano is taught 
 and acquired, is impossible. The rules given 
 here cannot make anybody phrase well. This 
 must ever depend upon the individual power of 
 the student to think and upon the refinement 
 of his sensibilities upon the amount of work 
 he does, the devotion with which it is pursued. 
 For there is in Art not one rule or doctrine that 
 admits of dogmatic rigidity and fixedness. If 
 there were such a principle that did not require 
 to be elastically applied, that was mathematic- 
 ally settled once for all, Art would cease to be 
 what it is, namely, an individual expression 
 of life. Hence, the student is warned not to 
 mistake rules for laws. What observation has 
 established as a frequently or even usually 
 applicable rule, has been set forth here only 
 as a hint or suggestion to the thoughtful 
 player, who should never lose sight of what is 
 due from the interpreter both to the composer 
 and to the auditor. The purpose of this book 
 may be summarized in the claim that it aims 
 to suggest ways and means to conceive a 
 [27]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 musical thought intelligently and to convey 
 it with lucidity through skillful 
 
 PHRASING. 
 
 Phrasing is that rational division and sub- 
 division of musical sentences which serve to 
 make them intelligible to the auditor. Its 
 place in music to say the least corresponds 
 to punctuation in elecution, though its im- 
 portance is perhaps as much greater in propor- 
 tion, as musical tones are less definite in 
 meaning than words. 
 
 In order to illustrate the close kinship 
 between literary punctuation and musical 
 phrasing it will be necessary to anticipate for 
 a moment the subjects of the next chapters: 
 Accent and Pause. Asking the reader to 
 assume for the time being that accent and 
 pause are the chiefest means of phrasing, we 
 will use for our illustration the following well- 
 known puzzle sentence: 
 
 / have ten fingers on each hand, five and 
 twenty on hands and feet. 
 
 The comma divides the sentence into two 
 parts and each part contains an untrue 
 statement. Both statements, however, are 
 simultaneously corrected if we but shift the 
 comma three words back, for then we read: 
 
 I have ten fingers, on each hand five, and 
 twenty on hands and feet. 
 [28]
 
 Rules Are Not Laws 
 
 If we add a simple melody to these words 
 we obtain for the first (wrong) version: 
 
 I hare ten fin - gets on each hand, fire and twen-ty on hands and feet 
 
 which, though expressed in the same tones, 
 may be changed in the second (correct) version 
 into this: 
 
 The slurs invite our attention first. There 
 were only two slurs in the first version; in 
 the second we see three. The slurs, therefore, 
 not only indicate that the syllables under each 
 one should be sung connectedly (legato], but 
 they also determine the extent of each part of 
 the sentence. They indicate the breathing. 
 
 There are two other points to be noticed. 
 First, that pausing was the only means by 
 which the difference of significance between 
 the two versions was produced. Secondly, 
 that the placing of the pauses completely 
 changed the character of the word "and." 
 From a mere means of compounding two 
 numerals in that inverted order customary 
 in England (and Germany), where "twenty- 
 five" is called "five-and- twenty" the word 
 "and" has been transformed into a full-fledged 
 [29]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 conjunction uniting two entirely separate state- 
 ments. Moreover, the pauses have also chang- 
 ed the word "five," which was part of a 
 compound numeral, to the basic numeral 
 "five." 
 
 To show, however, that it was not absolutely 
 necessary to state in print the various pauses 
 of the second version, we may now repeat 
 it without them and we shall find that the 
 slurs alone should have sufficed (for the 
 trained musician), for they should have induced 
 the pauses: 
 
 
 I have ten fin-gers, on each hand five, and twen-ty on hands and feet 
 
 Under proper phrasing the "art-pauses"* 
 should have tallied perfectly with the stated 
 pauses of the preceding version. 
 
 As we view the change and muse over the 
 possibilities of "pausing," the old proverb 
 that says "silence is golden" assumes an 
 additional and new significance. 
 
 THE MEANS OF PHRASING. 
 
 Of implements or tools serviceable in phrasing 
 there are but two, accent and pause. Each 
 of these admits of a great variety of degrees; 
 the accent varies in force, the pause in length. 
 
 *See page 31, end of first paragraph. 
 [30]
 
 Rules Are Not Laws 
 
 However, the accent or pause that may be 
 found in print is not the one I mean. Far 
 from it; for we shall find in later chapters 
 that the sign of an accent is anything but 
 definite in its meaning. I refer here to that 
 accent which is inherent in the rhythm of a 
 phrase and which, being tacitly understood, 
 does not need to be (and is not) especially 
 stated in print. It is the natural or rhythmic 
 accent. And by pauses I do not mean the 
 printed ones, but those minute interruptions in 
 the general flow of melody which, for instance, 
 the singer makes in breathing. As the singer 
 may not sing on until his breath gives out and 
 then pause to refill his lungs, but must practice 
 that wise economy by which he is enabled to 
 accommodate his breathing-periods to the punc- 
 tuation in his texts and then pause to breathe 
 whether the composer did or did not prescribe a 
 pause; so must the pianist search for those 
 points in his melody where the punctuation 
 should be placed if a text were written under it, 
 or, in other words, if his piece were a song. 
 To distinguish it from the printed pause, we 
 will call this the Art-pause. 
 
 In the hands of an artist the Art-pause is 
 a wonderful tool. It can create a feeling of 
 suspense. It can serve to distinguish a partial 
 from a final conclusion. It can produce the 
 thrill of tragedy and it can bring out the 
 [31]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 point of humor. It can indicate feebleness 
 and denote force. It is Protean in its moods 
 and it is one of the two implements of musical 
 phrasing. Mrs. Browning, said to have been 
 a connoisseur of music, must have had this 
 Art-pause in her mind when she wrote:* 
 
 The growing drama 
 
 .... may outgrow the painted scene, 
 Boards, actors, prompters, gaslightand costume, 
 And take for a worthier stage the soul itself, 
 Its shifting fancies and celestial lights. 
 With all its grand orchestral silences 
 To keep the pauses of its rhythmic sounds. 
 
 ""Aurora Leigh," Book V. 
 
 [32]
 
 Old Errors. 
 
 (WITH A BRIEF EXCURSION INTO HISTORY) 
 
 From the foregoing we have seen that the 
 purpose of phrasing is to make the musical 
 meaning of a piano-piece clear to the auditor; 
 in other words, to furnish him with the means 
 of understanding it. 
 
 We have also seen that the process of gaining 
 the understanding of the auditor must be 
 started through the element of rhythm. For, 
 however far his appreciation may subsequently 
 outreach mere rhythm, it must reach the 
 rhythm of a piece before it can outreach it. 
 
 It is consequently true that any rule liable 
 to interfere with rhythmical clarity must be 
 wrong must, once for all, be declared null and 
 void, no matter how ancient it may be and 
 no matter how impressive it may look apparel- 
 led in its traditional dignities. If it clashes 
 with clarity of rhythm it must be renounced. 
 
 Now of such rules old, widely known, only 
 too often followed, still preached by unpro- 
 gressive instructors, and yet utterly false 
 there are two that quite directly concern the 
 matter of phrasing. 
 
 One of these false rules says: 
 
 The note that bears an accentuation-sign 
 
 ( > ) must be the loudest of its group. 
 [33]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 This is worse than a fallacy. It is a half- 
 truth. It is true only in cases where the 
 accentuation-sign is placed upon a note which 
 stands at a naturally accented point of the 
 measure. When this is not the case; when the 
 sign is set over a note that stands on an 
 unaccented part of the measure, the sign 
 indicates only that the note under it ought to 
 be less negatively treated than it would be 
 without the sign. It does not make it "the 
 loudest of its group" by any means, for, if 
 it did so, the auditor would be at once misled 
 into accepting it as a rhythmical (natural) 
 accent. 
 
 To understand this matter better, we must 
 divide all accents into two classes regular 
 (rhythmic or natural) and irregular (occasional 
 or dramatic) accents. It is a musical axiom, 
 that the composer always places the note of 
 greatest melodic importance upon the first 
 beat of the measure. Hence, the much-used 
 term "primary accent." Let us compare this 
 "note of greatest importance" with the noun 
 in language, and see what we can discover 
 through such comparison. In starting a 
 serious talk, in settling or stating its subject, 
 we are compelled to emphasize the noun. 
 Later, when the choice of subject is under- 
 stood and we are dealing with its qualities, 
 etc., we may emphasize the adjective, but we 
 [34]
 
 Old Errors 
 
 may do so only because the cognizance of the 
 subject is presupposed. For instance, if I 
 describe a landscape to one who never saw it, 
 and enumerate the features of the scenery, I 
 am bound to say "a high mountain" or "a 
 beautiful lake"', but if I address one who is 
 familiar with the place and I talk in a reminis- 
 cent manner, I may say "that high mountain" 
 or "that beautiful lake." Cognizance of, or 
 familiarity with, the subject is presupposed, 
 and it is only this presupposition which justi- 
 fies transference of emphasis. 
 
 Now, this "presupposed familiarity" with 
 the subject is a not unimportant element in 
 music, and has been recognized or felt by all 
 its great masters, who have frequently changed 
 the accents in their subjects by shifting them 
 into a different part of the measure; so that 
 the note that bore the accent in the first 
 statement was unaccented in a later reiteration, 
 the accent now falling upon a note unaccented 
 before. But in all such cases the note that 
 was first accented did afterwards stand in a 
 different part of the measure, and by this very 
 token informed the reader of the intention 
 of the composer to change the emphasis. Had 
 the author, to induce a change of emphasis, 
 resorted to a mere accentuation-sign, instead 
 of shifting the subject rhythmically, the player 
 would have been perfectly justified in regarding 
 [35]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 this accentuation-sign as a slip of the pen or a 
 misprint. If, for instance, a composer wished 
 
 to say first: 
 
 I IU 
 
 and should later conclude to place the accent 
 upon the note that stands on the second beat, 
 he would have to reconstruct the motive in 
 such a manner that the second beat should 
 become the first. He would have to write: 
 
 =&*= 
 
 The rhythmical traits inherent in either of the 
 two forms of this motive and which they 
 possess without any auxiliary marking what- 
 ever cannot be essentially changed through 
 any accentuation-signs the composer may 
 choose to add, no matter on which note he 
 may place them. 
 
 This does not mean that all occasional 
 accent-marks should be completely ignored 
 (though such a procedure will be recommended 
 later in more cases than the reader might at 
 present suspect); but it does mean that all 
 occasional accent-marks should be accepted 
 with the utmost caution, cum grano salis, as 
 it were, and that they should never induce 
 [361
 
 Old Errors 
 
 the player to obscure the rhythmical integrity 
 of a phrase. 
 
 It does occur here and there that the com- 
 poser purposely disarranges the rhythmical 
 regularity of his piece to produce a dramatic 
 effect, but this is exceptional and, what is 
 more, it cannot be done before the idea of 
 regularity has been well established in the 
 mind of the auditor. For we cannot recognize 
 the irregular as such, before we know the 
 regular. This points again to the "presupposed 
 cognizance" already mentioned. 
 
 We turn now to the second of the two false 
 rules, that says: 
 
 Of two notes connected by a slur, the 
 first note must be emphasized and the 
 second must be played staccato. 
 
 Two errors in one sentence! To see that they 
 are errors we need only remember that the 
 violin is about three times as old as the piano, 
 and that many of the annotations we find in 
 piano-music are derived from violin-composi- 
 tions. A phrase of this kind 
 
 is slurred for the violin, not for the piano. 
 On the violin the first two notes are played 
 with an upward moving bow, the last note 
 with a downward stroke. The interruption 
 in changing the bowing is too minute for 
 f371
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 any human ear to perceive it. The bow is 
 changed for the purpose of giving the weight 
 of a full, new bow to the note on the primary 
 beat. Such a change not being required on 
 the piano, the end of the slur would indicate 
 that arm and hand are to be lifted off the 
 keys, and as this lifting would destroy the 
 unity of the little phrase the slur must, in 
 piano-music, comprise three notes, that is, it 
 must include the concluding note. The pianist, 
 knowingly or by instinct, would not make a 
 break between the B and C of the above 
 example, lest he produce something like the 
 musical illustration of a hiccough. On the 
 violin, however, the slurring, as stated above, 
 is perfectly legitimate, for on the violin a 
 slur connecting two different notes indicates 
 that they are to be played with one motion 
 of the bow, upwards or downwards, and that 
 they should not be played with a separate 
 motion for each note. This corresponds per- 
 fectly with certain elements of language which 
 may be employed in the form of monosyllables 
 or in combination. The slur only indicates 
 the combination. Take, for illustration, the 
 words "to" and "in." We may use them in 
 succession, and yet separately, as in saying: 
 
 "He came in to say farewell." 
 
 In pronouncing this little sentence we shall 
 observe a minute break between "in" and 
 [38]
 
 Old Errors 
 
 "to" a break that will not occur when we 
 compound the two words, as in saying: 
 
 "He came into a fortune." 
 
 Now, there are of such bisyllabic words two 
 kinds in all languages. Some of them put 
 the emphasis on the ultimate, some on the 
 penultimate syllable. In English, the words 
 "before" and "after" will be fitting examples. 
 
 It hardly requires special assertion that 
 musical rhythms must supply equivalents for 
 these linguistic variations; if those two words 
 occured in a poem to which we wished to give 
 a musical setting, we should be compelled to 
 find rhythms that in the matter of emphasis 
 exactly tallied with them. For example: 
 
 Now, if we had to accentuate the first note 
 of the first slur, would it not sound unnatural? 
 This little example, however, illustrates at 
 the same time the falsity of the second item of 
 the old rule: "And the second note must be 
 played staccato." How can we play a half- 
 note staccato? If the second note under the 
 slur is a prolonged one, a note which the 
 composer meant to be dwelt upon, how can 
 we reconcile its long duration with a staccato 
 touch? We cannot do it. We may do some- 
 thing to intimate that the slur ends at this 
 [39]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 note. We may slightly, though very slightly, 
 curtail the note and make up for it by a little 
 pause: 
 
 Be- fore and tf-ter . 
 
 Of course, if the note thus to be curtailed is 
 but of brief duration by its denomination, 
 this curtailment will, no doubt, make it in 
 effect a staccato; but the staccato in such an 
 event will be a logical result of circumstance 
 and not a deliberate purpose dictated by a 
 fossilized rule. 
 
 That a rule so palpably false should be 
 formulated and widely believed is not alto- 
 gether inexplicable. But the explanation will 
 require a brief excursion into 
 
 HISTORY. 
 
 We must remember that Music, as we 
 understand it, is practically not more than 
 about three centuries old. In this short time 
 it has passed through all those stages of 
 development for which architecture, painting, 
 sculpture and poetry had a period more than 
 ten times as long. It stands to reason that 
 its first development lay solely on the creative 
 side. Music had to be composed before music 
 could be interpreted, and executive skill, 
 [401
 
 Old Errors 
 
 especially on the piano and its precursors, 
 was at first linked with that of creation. 
 Very gradual was the differentiation of the 
 performer from the composer; and even long 
 after the divorce had taken place, the skill 
 of the executant was the prized privilege of 
 the favored few. It remained so until music 
 had, so to speak, established itself as an 
 independent art not auxiliary to literature, 
 religious service, or dancing. From Palestrina 
 to Beethoven is a far greater distance (as 
 far as ideas, their treatment, and the matter 
 of style, are concerned) than from Homer to 
 Goethe; yet Music travelled this long way 
 past the archaic, across the antique, renaissance 
 and rococo, to the modern (which may be 
 said to begin with Beethoven) in 256 years. 
 This explains the wonderful circumstance that 
 such giants as appeared in other arts once in 
 a century have in music followed each other 
 without interruption. In fact, their careers 
 have overlapped each other. 
 
 Little wonder that musicians have not 
 bothered about spreading the art while there 
 was so much to do creatively to develop it. 
 
 When music became in a certain sense 
 complete; when it had said enough great 
 things to entitle it to recognition per se, 
 musicians naturally turned their attention to 
 the popularization of their Art. There was 
 [41]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 now need of missionaries who would open 
 up to the people in general the treasure- 
 trove of beauty accumulated during two cen- 
 turies; missionaries who would instruct the 
 people to read, play or sing for themselves 
 what has hitherto been read, played and sung 
 to them by interpreters. 
 
 Thus came into being the musical pedagogue, 
 who made it his business to study the principles 
 underlying those beautiful tonal effects which 
 the great interpreters produced intuitively, 
 unconsciously produced them simply by grati- 
 fying an inner impulse stirred by an education 
 not so much pianistic as generally musical. 
 
 We must observe here that, with the ex- 
 ception of the specialists on rudimentary or 
 foundational instruction, all great music-teach- 
 ers have been either creative or executive 
 artists first and have turned to teaching at 
 an age when experience had matured their 
 views of art and when the impulse made 
 itself felt to propagate their views, ideas, 
 methods and principles. Unfortunately, every 
 current has its countercurrent, which, in this 
 case, was represented by those who began to 
 teach as soon as their stock of merely mem- 
 orized information enabled them to begin, 
 and who did not test their often rather 
 flimsy knowledge by artistic experience. The 
 teachers of this type have formulated a large 
 [42]
 
 Old Errors 
 
 number of rules, regulations and wordy sys- 
 tems; 
 
 For just where fails the comprehension, 
 K.word steps promptly in as deputy. 
 With words 'tis excellent disputing; 
 Systems to words 'tis easy suiting. 
 
 Many of these rules died before their 
 formulators, but some few of them have re- 
 mained 
 
 Like an eternal sickness of the race 
 From generation unto generation fitted 
 And shifted round from place to place. 
 
 The last thirty-five years have, however, 
 brought to light a larger array of proven 
 principles (not rules) in teaching music (es- 
 pecially in piano-teaching) than all preceding 
 time put together. Modern music-teachers 
 have studied philosophy, esthetics, anatomy, 
 physiology and even biology in their search 
 for means by which to increase results while 
 at the same time reducing exertion. While 
 musical pedagogy might well be said to be 
 still in its infancy, it can nevertheless show 
 substantial discoveries; enough, to say the 
 least, to claim the confidence of those who 
 are wont to accept the age of a "method" 
 as a voucher for its worth. 
 
 The flexible wrist, the limp elbow, the loose 
 shoulder; positive, negative and finger staccato; 
 [43]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 the arm in its manifold agencies; finger-stroke; 
 pressure- touch; after-pedalling; the entire field 
 of technique; and a multitude of other matters 
 of a more or less physiological nature are but 
 very recent discoveries. In the field of es- 
 thetics, too, as far as it relates to teaching, 
 profound researches have been made. We 
 have come to know how to handle the tone 
 of the piano in such a way as partly to over- 
 come its evanescence. Artistic illusions 
 as legitimate in music as perspective and 
 foreshortening are in painting are nowadays 
 so effectively mastered as to make it pos- 
 sible for the piano to outdo all other single 
 instruments. We also have recalled to our 
 minds that such terms as Adagio, Allegro, 
 etc., are not designations of speed but, prima- 
 rily, of mood. Then, the metronome has been 
 "found out" as an artistic impossibility, and 
 has been relegated to its proper station as a 
 sort of orthophonic adjunct to purely mechani- 
 cal exercises. That the grouping-slur in piano- 
 music must comprise one note more than in 
 music for string-instruments, has already been 
 mentioned. This list of finds and discoveries 
 could be much prolonged here, but it is already 
 sufficiently imposing to show that in the 
 works of the great masters and, indeed, 
 through them we have learned to read between 
 the lines with a degree of penetration heretofore 
 [44]
 
 Old Errors 
 
 out of the question, and which past generations 
 could not even dimly have divined. 
 
 A new term has recently been added to 
 piano nomenclature; it is "attack." It must 
 be explained at this point because of its 
 bearing upon the false rules to which I have 
 referred. 
 
 We know that the use of the arm should 
 be reserved for occasions of strictest necessity, 
 and that we should play as much as possible 
 with the fingers. Since, however, we cannot 
 very well use the fingers before they are in 
 due proximity to the keyboard, and since 
 they ought not to be in this position until 
 the new phrase begins, every phrase has to 
 start with a motion of the arm. This motion 
 is called the "attack." Now, whether the 
 attack be positive (accented) or negative (un- 
 accented), it has even if very soft to come 
 from the arm, and as the composers of the past 
 (and only too many of the present) have not 
 known of the distinction between attack and 
 accent, they have frequently put an accent- 
 mark where they meant to indicate only the 
 commencement of a new phrase or sub-phrase. 
 They evidently and perhaps justly feared 
 that a mere phrasing-slur or grouping-slur 
 might be taken for a legato-sign and nothing 
 more. They have, therefore, added an accent- 
 mark, especially when the start of the new 
 [451
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 phrase (or sub-phrase) was not obvious and 
 self-evident. Teachers of no artistic antece- 
 dents have noticed these accent-marks, and, 
 with the natural tendency of the inartistic 
 temperament to tabulate and classify every- 
 thing, they have formulated the absurd rule 
 we- are discussing. 
 
 It is true, not only of music-te'achers but 
 of the followers of every profession, that they 
 too generally, storing up a certain amount of 
 information, give their knowledge forth again 
 just as they received it, without ever testing 
 a single part of it in the forum of their own 
 intelligence; without ever searching for the 
 reason of a rule; without ever vitalizing a 
 received thought by any mental activity of 
 their own. They merely "remember," instead 
 of doing their own thinking; they are satisfied 
 to jurare in verba magistri. They will quote 
 Schumann's well-meant mandate: "Play in 
 time," without even suspecting that he meant 
 "play in rhythm," and that he would undoubt- 
 edly have said so if in his day the distinction 
 between time and rhythm had been as clearly 
 understood as it is to-day. They will make a 
 retard precisely where the word is printed; 
 without furnishing either a cause for it or 
 balancing it up subsequently; because the 
 ritardando is all that is printed as if we 
 could never mention the hills without men- 
 [46]
 
 Old Errors 
 
 tioning also that, of course, they have a 
 valley between them. 
 
 In closing this chapter it may be in place 
 to make a quotation that will conclusively 
 prove the falsity of the two (or really three) 
 rules under discussion. It is the first motive 
 in the Rondo of Beethoven's Concerto in E 
 flat. We shall find that it contradicts every- 
 thing that these obsolete rules teach. 
 
 What do we see? First, a sign of 6/8 time, 
 which means two accents per measure, one 
 upon the first eighth and a slightly lesser one 
 upon the fourth eighth. Did Beethoven wish 
 to ignore these natural accents in the very 
 first statement of his principal subject, as we 
 do if we must accept the old rule? Was it his 
 intention to keep the auditor in ignorance of 
 the very rhythm, and to make him mentally 
 grope for it through two whole measures? 
 Surely not. For, if such had been his intention 
 he would not have contradicted it through the 
 figure in the left hand a basic figure which 
 leaves no doubt as to its rhythmical purpose 
 and accents. He did not wish the chord in 
 [47]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 the second measure (marked sfz) to be treated 
 as negatively as a second eighth in 6/8 time 
 might be. He wished it to receive force 
 enough to do its work. He even wished it 
 to be given prominence wished it to equal 
 the first eighth in strength. This action, 
 being so natural, would secure the necessary 
 distinction. But he certainly did not wish 
 it to be "the loudest in the group," for if we 
 render it thus there is nothing to prevent 
 the hearer from understanding it as if it were 
 written 
 
 and the eighth-rest would be decidedly de trop! 
 But then, he did put that rest in its place; he 
 did interrupt the continuity of the rising 
 E-flat chord that forms the subject, in order 
 to have the B flat and not the E flat fall 
 due upon the natural accent coincidently with 
 the fundamental bass note. What folly it 
 would be to disregard what he so plainly 
 implied, in favor of the purely incidental 
 mark sfz! 
 
 We also see in the original text four slurs, 
 each extending over two notes. The first 
 starts positively and ends negatively (just as 
 the old rule says), but the second reverses the 
 order. The other two slurs are put over mini- 
 [48]
 
 Old Errors 
 
 mal subdivisions, of which, however, the note 
 on the beat is naturally of greater rhythmical 
 value than the note between beats. Suppose, 
 now, that we emphasized the subject according 
 to the old rule and obtained this: 
 
 Could anybody understand it as being in 
 6/8 time? Would it not be a division in 3/4? 
 Many other illustrations might be added to 
 this, and they could be cited from all types 
 and classes of composition; but this example 
 bears sufficient authority to convince the 
 student who has had the misfortune to be 
 taught to believe in the aforementioned old 
 rules, that he must cut loose from them. He 
 must realize that if he does not do so, they 
 will be constant obstacles to rational phrasing 
 and will tend to confuse his mind in many 
 other matters upon which they bear more 
 indirectly. 
 
 [49]
 
 Accent. 
 
 What the hills are to the valley; what the 
 steeple is to the village on the plain; what 
 the arteries are to the veins; what objects are 
 to space; what sounds are to time; what the 
 oasis is to the desert; all this and much more 
 is the accent to music. Without it we cannot 
 carry the simplest musical thought beyond the 
 merely physical ear of our auditor. Without 
 it every distinction between the living musician 
 and the mechanical self-playing machine practi- 
 cally vanishes. To say that, without it, the 
 musical painting is converted into a chromo, 
 would be unjust to the chromo; the comparison 
 would be lame and ineffective. Without accent 
 music becomes a succession of almost meaning- 
 less sounds tolerable only for their conven- 
 tionality, rather than becoming, as music ever 
 should, an appeal made by one living soul to 
 another. Devoid of accent, music ceases to 
 be that sweet mystery which has baffled the 
 interpretative powers of the poets of all ages 
 and lands, and of which no sage or man of 
 science has ever been able to give more than 
 a fragmentary definition. 
 
 Had I the flaming towers of Flammarion's 
 visionary project of communicating with Mars 
 at my disposal, I would flash the word "accent" 
 [50]
 
 Accent 
 
 across the firmament for the benefit of all 
 musiciandom. Life has no pulse without 
 accent, poetry no meter; upon accent depends 
 Rhythm, and Rhythm is the handle by which 
 the auditor musician or layman grasps and 
 takes hold of Music. To be sure, there are 
 higher and finer qualities in good music than 
 its rhythm, but rhythm stands at its doors, 
 an obstinate, uncompromising guard; before 
 we have settled our account with this guard 
 we can behold none of the inner mysteries of 
 the temple. Billow's biblical paraphrase, "In 
 the beginning was Rhythm!" should be the 
 Leitmotiv of every student of music. And 
 Rhythm exists solely through Accent. 
 
 When you read a new musical work, and 
 its thoughts seem abstruse, increase (or, rather, 
 exaggerate) its accents for a little while and 
 it will quickly clear up. If anything technical 
 seems inordinately difficult, increase the power 
 of your accents during slow practice, and it 
 will soon be easy. If a run refuses to roll 
 evenly and smoothly, reverse the accents for 
 a while, or shift them to the weaker fingers 
 while practicing slowly, and the run will soon 
 be equalized. If polyrhythms seem unattain- 
 able if one hand seems incapable of playing 
 four notes to the three of the other hand 
 accentuate the "dead points" a little more 
 strongly, and all will soon be well. 
 [51]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 These latter uses of the accent, however, 
 merely benefit the player, and him, again, more 
 especially while he is learning a 'new work; 
 they are helpful during preparation. When 
 this stage is past, when the complete result 
 is presented to the auditor and he should 
 now be the chief object of the player's solici- 
 tude then the accent rises to paramount 
 importance. 
 
 The player reaches an understanding for a 
 new work with the assistance of his ears, 
 eyes, hands and feet. His ability to impart 
 this knowledge to his hearer, whose sole means 
 of perception is his ear, is quite another and 
 more difficult matter. The hearer has no 
 score before him by which his eye can follow 
 the player; nor can he have acquired any 
 previous familiarity with a new work and 
 why should he? He may, furthermore, be 
 unacquainted with the conventions of slip- 
 shod piano-playing. But, connoisseur or lay- 
 man, when listening to a new composition he 
 has no means whatever by which to form an 
 idea of it except through the interpretation 
 of the player; that is, not through what the 
 pianist means to say, but only through that 
 which he does say. 
 
 This looks like a truism. It may be classed 
 as such. But it would bear to be graven in 
 stone over the portals of many Concert and 
 [52]
 
 Accent 
 
 Recital halls; and in every music schoolroom 
 it invites repetition without limit. 
 
 THE PHYSIOLOGICAL EFFECT OF ACCENT. 
 
 Accent and Pause enable the player to 
 convey the design of his music to his audience. 
 
 Now, what is their effect upon the audience? 
 Gratification sensuous, mental, and possibly 
 also emotional. 
 
 But let us see whether the hearer, while 
 experiencing this gratification, is active or 
 passive. "This question can be answered only 
 by his own sincerity, the presence or absence 
 of which will show whether he merely hears 
 (since hearing is a purely physical and involun- 
 tary function), or listens (since listening is a 
 mental and deliberate act). We shall, however, 
 not waste our time on fashionable pretenders, 
 but will select for the subject of the following 
 observations an auditor who really does desire 
 to understand what he hears. What does he 
 do while he is listening? He keeps step with 
 the music ! Yes, though he be crowded into 
 a narrow seat, possibly holding on his lap 
 his overcoat, hat, program, opera-glass, etc.; 
 though he is forbidden by good breeding to 
 mark the rhythm with his foot; though he 
 dare not even nod his head with the positive 
 beats for fear of exciting the ridicule of idle 
 [53]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 observers yet he keeps step! He unconscious- 
 ly adjusts his breathing and probably also 
 his pulse (this point is still under debate 
 among experimenting physiologists) to the 
 time-beats of the music. In the first few 
 measures, or rather, as soon as he has under- 
 stood the rhythm, he will begin to breathe at 
 every beat or at every second, third, fourth 
 beat, according to the speed and type of the 
 rhythm. Music, therefore, in addition to affect- 
 ing him sensuously, emotionally and mentally, 
 has also a physiological effect upon the hearer. 
 
 While the precise nature of this physiological 
 effect may not be fully known, or its extent 
 and power not precisely measured, its verity 
 is, nevertheless, no longer doubted by phy- 
 siologists. It forms the basis of Prof. Chomet's 
 musicopathic theories and practices. 
 
 This is a matter of serious significance, and 
 should deeply concern the player at the outset. 
 In stating his subject, or in making the initial 
 statement of any thought that occurs in the 
 piece, he should strive for the greatest possible 
 clearness of rhythm in order to make it as easy 
 as he can for his auditor to effect the read- 
 justment of his breathing and pulse. For until 
 this is accomplished the auditor keeps mentally 
 groping for a handle by which to grasp the 
 music, and while so occupied he can do nothing 
 else. Neither can he appreciate the music, 
 [54]
 
 Accent 
 
 nor follow the stated thoughts into the mazes 
 of their contrapuntal developments. A pianist 
 should, therefore, write in plain characters, 
 especially at the .first exposition of his subjects; 
 he should, above all, make his rhythms distinct, 
 so as to help his auditor to "get settled." 
 How difficult this is for the auditor, even under 
 favorable conditions, can readily be seen 
 whenever he has to listen to syncopation 
 before having heard the regular time-beats. 
 Then it is the accent alone that can save him 
 from confusion or utter misunderstanding. 
 If Chopin's Etude, op. 25, No. 4, is played 
 without plainly perceptible accents on the reg- 
 ular time-beats 
 
 Agitato 
 
 the conception that is forced upon the hearer 
 can be no other than 
 
 <<<! I 
 
 '*" r ; 
 
 p t* ^ 
 t f t 
 
 7 
 
 Syncopation is one of the chiefest musical 
 
 expressions of agitation, of unrest; it is, practi- 
 
 [55]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 cally, a reversal of pulse-beats such as we 
 experience under the stress of great anxiety, 
 apprehension or more especially if the melodic 
 tones precede (anticipate) the regular beats 
 of joyful impatience. Is it not plain that the 
 auditor must be enabled to perceive a syn- 
 copation as such, if it is not completely to fail 
 of its intended purpose? And how can he hear 
 that the melodic notes are not on the beats 
 unless he is in some way apprized of the beats. 
 But how can the player inform him as to the 
 beats? Only through a healthy accentuation 
 of the regular beats. This accentuation must 
 not be crude; it must not trespass on the 
 esthetic line, nor should it be needlessly per- 
 sistent; but it must be perceptible and if 
 abandoned after a while, to avoid monotony 
 it must be resumed with sufficient frequency 
 to prevent the hearer from thinking that the 
 time-arrangement might have changed, and 
 it must then be sufficiently clear to keep him 
 constantly en rapport with the gasping charac- 
 ter of syncopations. 
 
 Another case that craves an accent occurs 
 whenever a theme or melody begins after a 
 strong (positive) beat, as, for instance, in the 
 third of Schumann's "Four Marches," op. 76 
 (called "Camp-Scene"). Its theme opens on 
 the second beat, and there lies a peculiar 
 whim in this opening; a virility, a vein of good 
 [56]
 
 Accent 
 
 cheer and good humor that will be entirely 
 lost on the hearer if the player leads him to 
 accept this second beat as a first beat. In 
 fact, the whole phrase of two measures be- 
 comes inextricably confused unless we fully 
 understand that the starting note of the melody 
 is the second beat. In order, however, to 
 understand this beat as a second we must needs 
 hear a first beat. Hence, the first beat, lying in 
 the accompaniment, must have an accent of 
 sufficient gravity and character to designate 
 it as such. 
 
 The same holds good in cases where a melody 
 begins before a strong beat and touches no 
 new note at the first beat, but is tied over into 
 the new measure. Since the melody furnishes 
 in such cases no opportunity for indicating to 
 the auditor how the time-beats are arranged, 
 some other part of the whole (the bass, or, 
 if that be missing, some middle part) must 
 assume that function. The bass must do it, 
 e. g., in the Sixth Variation of Schumann's 
 Impromptus on a theme by Clara Wieck, op. 
 5, or in the last movement of Beethoven's 
 Sonata, op. 28, third measure. 
 
 In cases where (the melody anticipating the 
 beat and being held over) there should be no 
 new voice or part entering upon the beat, I 
 suggest that the accent be produced by a 
 peculiar, sudden action of the pedal. For 
 [57]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 illustration we may look at the little memorial 
 to Mendelssohn which Schumann included in 
 his "Album for the Young" as number 26, 
 
 Moderato 
 
 or in his "Faschings-Schwank" op. 26, first 
 movement, at the place where the signature 
 changes for the first time to E flat. The cases 
 are identical, for in both the melody enters before 
 the first beat, while on the first beat there is 
 nothing new to play. In such cases I suggest 
 that the initial tone be struck with some force; 
 not incompatible with the prevailing dynamic 
 level, but loud enough to cause the strings of 
 all higher harmonics to co-vibrate when, 
 through a quick tread upon the pedal, they 
 are freed from their dampers and enabled to 
 add their tone-force to the tone struck before. 
 This tread upon the pedal should occur upon 
 the first beat, that is, some time after the 
 key is struck. The acoustic picture presenting 
 itself to the ear will be somewhat like this: 
 
 58
 
 Accent 
 
 or thus expressed in notes: 
 
 Ktj Pedal* 
 
 and it will go far to bring the hearer at once 
 en rapport with the rhythmic features of the 
 musical thought. Of course, it will require 
 some skill to measure the exact strength of 
 the initial tone and to produce the proper 
 and very sudden action of the pedal with the 
 foot, but practice with close observation and 
 keen listening will soon bring the desired results. 
 
 
 
 
 
 rj j 
 
 Schumann 
 Op. 26 
 
 
 * ^ 
 
 _ 
 
 ; 
 
 - . 
 
 In Beethoven's Sonata, op. 7, first movement, 
 the last ten measures of the first part, the case 
 is similar. We cannot imagine these passages 
 executed by bow-instruments or human voices 
 without feeling that, after taking the respective 
 notes on the negative beat, they would exert 
 a slight pressure upon this note when the 
 positive beat falls due. The pressure may, in 
 some cases, be exerted unconsciously, but even 
 then it would be due to the player's or singer's 
 [59]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 innate desire of conveying to his hearers the 
 rhythmic quality of the thought. Since the 
 use of the pedal, just suggested, enables the 
 pianist to effect very nearly the same result 
 namely, to produce an accent upon a note 
 already sounding there is no reason to reject 
 it or regard it as illegitimate, still less as 
 imaginary. For paramount to all other con- 
 siderations in rhythm, is the accent! The 
 auditor must know, must feel whether a phrase 
 begins accented or unaccented, heavy or light, 
 positive or negative; or, to put it still differ- 
 ently, whether the beat he hears first is a 
 firmly starting or a preparatory, introductory 
 beat. He must know it for esthetic and, as 
 stated before, also for physiological reasons. 
 In speaking of the physiological action of 
 music upon the auditor reference was made 
 chiefly to the accent, but it is not limited to 
 it, as we shall presently see. 
 
 THE PRINTED PAUSE. 
 
 The player should pay most punctilious 
 attention to the time-value of printed pauses. 
 Nothing, not even a false note, causes such 
 distress to an attentive listener as the curtailing 
 of stated pauses. He feels as if an invisible 
 power were jerking him abruptly into the next 
 measure; as if he were walking with some one 
 
 [601
 
 Accent 
 
 who compels him at the most unexpected 
 places to change his step. But even this does 
 not quite fully describe his sensations. We all 
 know how we feel on a staircase when we try, 
 at the top or at the bottom, to take a step 
 that is not there. How it jars every joint, 
 every nerve, in our body! Think of going 
 through this experience forty or fifty times 
 in ten minutes! My analogy is not an ex- 
 aggeration. It makes little difference whether 
 our muscles and nerves or our breathing and 
 pulse are disturbed. Such a shock is precisely 
 what is suffered by the attentive listener when 
 the player fails to honor the pauses which 
 separate one phrase (or sub-phrase, or section 
 of a melody) from another. 
 
 The Art of Music owes much gratitude to 
 the physiologists for many valuable and far- 
 reaching services, but for none more than for 
 having helped the musician to discover that 
 the discomfort arising from curtailed or dis- 
 regarded pauses is not a matter of hyper- 
 culture or esthetics; but purely, aye, brutally 
 physical; that it is not merely offensive to the 
 good taste of some over-refined arbiter ele- 
 gantiarum, but a discomfort which, like a 
 toothache, afflicts the learned and unlearned 
 alike, although the unlearned in music feel 
 these sensations without recognizing their 
 source. 
 
 [61]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 THE UNPRINTED PAUSE, OR ART-PAUSE. 
 
 Whatever pedantry may say against un- 
 prescribed pauses can have no value when its 
 arguments are met by the statement that 
 there are cases frequent cases in which a 
 pause, though not stated in print, is demanded 
 by physical necessity. When a composer fails 
 to put down in writing a pause where its 
 absence forms a physical obstacle to an 
 intelligent understanding of the phrase, he has 
 either been careless or has judged the musician- 
 ship of his interpreter by his own and was 
 all too trustful. It does not matter in the 
 least whether that composer's name was 
 Beethoven or John Doe. 
 
 To prove the physical necessity of the art- 
 pause must, then, be our next task. 
 
 Without going unnecessarily into the phy- 
 siology of the ear we can build our arguments 
 upon the fact that a slight motion of any kind 
 can be brought to a standstill in less time 
 than a motion more violent. Be it a surface 
 of water, a carriage, our own walking or the 
 responsive vibration of the intricate and 
 delicate apparatus for our hearing, we can 
 increase the violence of motion instantly, but 
 we cannot decrease it with equal promptitude. 
 Now, whenever a composer prescribes a sudden 
 change from / to p, or from ff to pp, and 
 [62]
 
 Accent 
 
 we interpose no pause, the auditor has no 
 earthly chance of hearing the notes of the pp 
 until his inner ear has regained that lesser 
 degree of vibration which could respond to a 
 pianissimo. 
 
 Let me illustrate. We stand upon a rustic 
 bridge that spans a quiet pond, into which 
 we throw a pebble weighing (say) an ounce. 
 As soon as the shock (impact) has spent itself, 
 we see the rings that have formed, one encir- 
 cling the other, moving towards the shore in 
 every direction, producing a beautiful ripple. 
 Now we throw a rock weighing fifty pounds 
 into the water and let the little pebble follow 
 it immediately. The result is* that we see 
 the violent motion caused by the rock, and 
 that absolutely no effect whatever is visible 
 from the pebble. We know positively that it 
 must be there, but our eye cannot perceive it. 
 But if we wait until the violence of the agi- 
 tation caused by the fall of the rock has so 
 far subsided that the water becomes visibly 
 sensible to a motion of a lesser degree, and 
 then throw in our pebble, we shall again see 
 
 There is also another result, important enough for later 
 observation and therefore reserved for discussion in its proper 
 place; namely, that the time consumed by the shock (impact) 
 is longer in proportion to the weight, size and the height 
 of the fall of the rock; the "rings" or waves do not form 
 themselves as quickly after the rock as they did after the 
 one-ounce pebble. Mark this well, and remember it, on 
 page 68. 
 
 [63]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 the same rippling result as the first pebble 
 caused. A vibration in the responsive mech- 
 anism of our ear, microscopically enlarged, 
 
 looking like this wvwwwwwvv ? may instantly 
 
 be changed into one like this IM/l/UlflfiMfU ; 
 
 but we cannot reverse the change with the 
 same abruptness, because the more violent 
 vibrations need a certain amount of time to 
 calm down. And if we do not allow for this 
 time, if we play pp immediately after a ff, the 
 effect upon the hearer will be, that all the 
 music which occurred during that time which 
 the following illustration indicates by the 
 dotted lines 
 
 U U U l>WJ-U-uv^v^ 
 
 might as well not have been played, for it 
 would go simply unheard that is, be lost 
 music. 
 
 Schumann, keen observer that he was, 
 evidently speculated upon this "lost music" 
 upon these softer sounds produced during 
 the time marked by the dotted line in the 
 illustration above cited. For in his "Carnaval" 
 he writes at the end of the "Paganini" Inter- 
 mezzo : 
 
 [64]
 
 Accent 
 
 ifTt 
 
 He wants the ^>p chord struck while the four 
 sforzati are still having full sway. The new 
 chord is entirely foreign to its predecessors, 
 yet he wants it struck and struck under the 
 same Pedal, because it will not be heard! It 
 will remain inaudible until the release of the 
 Pedal has hushed those four accumulated 
 thunderous sforzati. (Nor should this release 
 of the Pedal be too sudden, by the 
 way.) And when the new chord finally 
 does emerge from the preceding turmoil, a 
 close observer may notice that it has a cre- 
 scendo effect. Why is this? We know, alas, 
 that the crescendo upon a single tone or chord 
 is denied to the piano, and yet this crescendo 
 effect is there. But it is not the piano that 
 produces this auditory illusion; it is our own 
 ear! Proportionately to the subsidence of 
 the violent response that our ear makes to the 
 preceding fortissimo, our hearing becomes more 
 and more delicately appreciative of the pianis- 
 simo. And through this heightened sus- 
 ceptibility we perceive the soft chord with 
 increasing clearness. We feel as if it were the 
 chord that grows stronger. 
 [65]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 This, however, is only to illustrate the fact 
 that a sudden pianissimo following upon a 
 fortissimo without an intervening pause cannot 
 be heard until the aroused ear has calmed down 
 sufficiently to be able to sense it. In this 
 instance, the composer speculated rather upon 
 the absence of an art-pause. The following 
 example shows where it is absolutely necessary. 
 
 In the first Novellette of Schumann's (op. 
 21 ) we find in the second part (erroneously 
 designated as Trio) a modulation of unusual 
 boldness unusual even for Schumann. It is, 
 perhaps, not a modulation so much as an 
 abrupt, unbridged transition from the domi- 
 nant of F into a perfect tonic chord of G flat. 
 (Counting from the beginning of the Novellette 
 it is the step from measure 34 to 35.) If we 
 make no art-pause before the chord of G flat 
 with its shrill cross-relations, the juxtaposition 
 of the two unrelated harmonies is downright 
 cacophonous. By making a pause, however, 
 we indicate an interruption in the flow of the 
 melody; we announce (as through a comma) 
 an interpolation in the sentence, and create 
 in the hearer a feeling of suspense, the release 
 of which converts the cacophonous shock to 
 his ears into a delicious harmonic surprise. 
 A pause of almost similar length is needed 
 between measures 44 and 45, although here the 
 harmonies are not quite so foreign to each 
 [66]
 
 Accent 
 
 other, and it seems as if the degree of remote- 
 ness of the two harmonies claimed a certain 
 proportionality in the pause to be introduced 
 between them. However, even in this second 
 place there still remains the harsh cross-re- 
 lation between the D of the last chord in 
 measure 44 and the opening D flat in the 
 Bass of measure 45, which clamors for a 
 pause of some length. 
 
 Similar occasions for pauses signalizing un- 
 expected harmonic turns can be found in 
 Schubert, Impromptu, op. 90, No. 2 (counting 
 backward fromtheend, between measure 30 
 and measure 29). Here the abrupt change 
 of harmony coincides with an equally 
 sudden change from^" to p, and the pause 
 is, therefore, doubly necessary. Eight 
 measures later the same change recurs. 
 Another reason for the art-pause presents 
 itself in 
 
 Mendelssohn's "Song without Words," No. 
 47. It contains what is known as a 
 "chained period." The beginning of meas- 
 ure 6 1 forms the conclusion of the period 
 that began three measures before; and 
 at the same time it is the start of a new 
 period. If the measures from 58 to 61 
 are played in strict time, the entire effect 
 of the chained period is lost. But if, on 
 approaching measure 60, we make a slight 
 [67]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 retard and before entering the 6ist measure 
 create a feeling of suspense by a tiny 
 pause, the significance of this measure as 
 initiating a new period is at once under- 
 stood. The A of the melody is the con- 
 cluding sequel of the preceding G sharp; 
 but the entirely unexpected chord of the 
 subdominant upon which this A is set, 
 characterizes it as the initial note of the 
 new period; hence, the art-pause is im- 
 perative here. 
 
 The first two examples (Schubert's Im- 
 promptu and Schumann's Novellette) craved 
 an art-pause for reasons of harmonic clarity, 
 while in the last example the art-pause is 
 induced by considerations of a constructive, 
 formal nature. The next example illustrates a 
 third reason for the art-pause. It is the purely 
 aural reason. (The reader will remember the 
 discussion of a p following abruptly upon an/, 
 and the illustration by the quiet surface of a 
 pond on page 63 .) The Andante of Beethoven's 
 Sonata op. 28 furnishes a fine example of such 
 a necessity for the art-pause. The movement 
 starts ^>, but at the end of the second measure 
 there begins a crescendo which lasts through 
 the entire third measure and which, with 
 the slowness of the movement, must lead to a 
 considerable degree of loudness when sud- 
 denly the fourth measure opens p again. 
 [68]
 
 Accent 
 
 This piano, without a preparatory pause, is 
 impossible. The reverberation of the preceding 
 chord cannot be stopped so suddenly as to 
 enable the hearer to perceive the p chord, 
 unless it is stopped at the expense of all 
 esthetic charm. The p is not a mistake, for 
 it is repeated a number of times and recurs 
 with heightened significance in the I2th and 
 I4th measures (counting backwards from the 
 end) ; besides, it is one of Beethoven's favorite 
 dynamic effects, and I am satisfied that he, 
 when playing the movement himself, made the 
 art-pause of which I speak. He had to make 
 it! But I am almost equally certain that he 
 was not conscious of making it. 
 
 Something similar occurs in the first Allegro 
 of the Sonata op. 3 1, No. 2. Counting twenty- 
 four measures backward from the first double- 
 bar we find a p entering suddenly and im- 
 mediately after ff and carrying, moreover, a 
 - rather unexpected but beautiful change of 
 tonality with it. So we are placed before a 
 choice of either making a mere murmuring 
 jumble of the bass figure that begins with the 
 low G and keeps the auditor for a while in 
 uncertainty as to what passes before his 
 hearing, or interpolating an art-pause of 
 sufficient length to prepare the auditor's ear 
 for the ensuing dynamic and harmonic change. 
 Beethoven's Sonatas contain such and kin- 
 
 [691
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 dred abrupt changes from / to p in great 
 numbers. 
 
 To sum up: The Art-pause may be neces- 
 sary for harmonic, formal and dynamic reasons. 
 I should have stated, as a fourth reason, that 
 it may also be dictated by good taste or 
 artistic esthetics, were it not for the thought 
 that good taste in music usually receives its 
 promptings from one or more of the reasons 
 just mentioned. Indeed, I cannot help be- 
 lieving that most of the things we are wont to 
 class as esthetic requirements repose upon a 
 purely physical basis, though the present 
 status of the various branches of natural 
 science may not yet enable us to prove it in 
 all cases. The artistic mind has often forefelt 
 the presence of certain laws and left it to the 
 scientific mind to find and formulate them. 
 Art says prophetically to Science: "Some- 
 where 'round here there lies a rich vein of 
 truth; now dig!" And Science digs and 
 after a while verifies the prophecy; though 
 just now it is a long way "behind its orders." 
 A good many of the aberrations of taste into 
 which our present hyper-modern creative artists 
 have drifted may be accounted for by this 
 tardiness. 
 
 70]
 
 Tempo. 
 
 If the discussion of this topic were not so 
 lengthy as it must necessarily be, it should 
 have found its place in the chapter on "Old 
 Errors." For in the field of music there is 
 no error more widely spread than the belief 
 that each and every composition has its 
 definitely prescribed rate of motion or speed, 
 and that, to be "correct," it must be played 
 at this rate. "Correct!" What agonies this 
 word has caused to artists and artistic teachers! 
 Some American writer has introduced the term 
 "bromides" for statements of the obvious. He 
 should have completed his dictum by saying 
 that to the artistic mind there is no worse 
 bromide than "correctness." For it is indis- 
 pensable, of course, but oh, so insufficient. 
 I shall never forget my beloved master Kul- 
 lak's comment on this word. One of my 
 classmates (he did not stay long) was a perfect 
 fiend for correctness; and when on a certain 
 occasion he had finished playing, our dear 
 master said, with an amused smile: "That 
 was very correct! Very! And now let some 
 one get at that piano who plays naturally." 
 
 After all, music is not a thing apart from life, 
 existing by and for itself. It is, as we saw in 
 the introductory chapters, a message from one 
 [71 ]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 human soul to another. The demands a good 
 composition makes upon our learnable knowl- 
 edge can, therefore, go no further than to 
 notation, terminology and mechanical dex- 
 terity. A good memory and a little persistence 
 in technical practice will soon fulfill these 
 requirements. But music makes other de- 
 mands, and these are not so easily supplied. 
 The trouble is that a musical work of art, 
 before it yields its spiritual contents to any 
 one player or hearer demands the man 
 himself! The whole man! His keenest sensi- 
 bility, his finest instinct, the most loving 
 attitude of his heart and mind, in short, 
 each and every part of that which constitutes 
 his personality. That this is not overstating 
 the demands which art and art-works make 
 upon their devotees is proved by the person- 
 ality of every man and woman whom the 
 world has recognized as an artist; for 
 
 Art is, what thou art; 
 All else is artifice. 
 
 Granting this premise, and assuming that 
 in compliance with these inexorable demands 
 we did invest our personality in the study 
 of an artistic composition, how in the name 
 of common sense can we accept a prescription 
 of speed as more than a suggestion made on 
 the most general lines? Shall we devote all 
 [721
 
 Tempo 
 
 that is best in us to a matter that compels 
 us afterwards to wear a straitjacket? After 
 being applied, shall our personality keep 
 silence? Shall it have nothing to say? Who, 
 but a soldier in the only unnatural occupation 
 in the world that is socially recognized walks 
 with a prescribed gait? What two people, 
 approaching a common destination from differ- 
 ent but equidistant points and with the same 
 urgency, would use exactly the same number 
 of steps or precisely the same time? Do not 
 our stature and the proportion of our body 
 influence our gait? Are not the physiological 
 actions of our heart and lungs important fac- 
 tors in determining it? And if these personal 
 and purely physical attributes assert themselves 
 in the commonest function of our daily life, 
 shall this right be denied to our spiritual self 
 when it performs one of its finest functions 
 that of communing with other souls? 
 
 Of course, our liberty on the premise before 
 us is subject to laws, as is liberty altogether. 
 We must not, for instance, change an Andante 
 into an Allegro, or vice versa; but to a person 
 who earnestly seeks for the spirit of a com- 
 position such admonition is not necessary, for 
 such a person can hardly miss the right tempo 
 in any piece, even if the tempo-mark should 
 be left out as it is in many pieces. For, as 
 I believe, the instinct which we call the sense 
 [73]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 of propriety is a part of the great "moral law 
 within us" which Kant regarded as the com- 
 plementary half of his philosophy, and this in- 
 stinct guides us rightly if we give it only a fair 
 share of our attention and obey its promptings. 
 
 I also believe, however, that even this 
 delicate question of tempo has a physical basis 
 and, I think, this basis contains the proof that 
 tempo is an individual matter. But, to make 
 the reader see what I believe to be this phys- 
 ical basis, I must invite him to follow me once 
 more to the "rustic bridge that spans a quiet 
 pond," of which I spoke on page 63. (See the 
 foot-note there.) I said there: "As soon as the 
 shock (impact) of the rock or pebble striking 
 the watery surface has spent itself, we see 
 the rings that have formed. . . . ' It is to 
 this impact or shock that we must now turn 
 our attention. 
 
 When the impact occurs, it stirs the surface 
 of the water, but its motion is not at once 
 regulated. The wavy rings do not form at 
 once. The falling rock or pebble has dis- 
 placed a proportionate amount of water which, 
 unable to escape in any other direction (because 
 of the pressure it encounters on all sides) 
 leaps fountain-like upwards; and not until 
 it falls back do the "rings" begin to form. 
 The time necessary for its return to the surface 
 depends upon its bulk, which, in turn, stands 
 i 74]
 
 Tempo 
 
 in some relation to the size and weight of the 
 stone, as well as to the distance it traverses 
 in falling. A small pebble, however, generates 
 the rings in a much shorter time after striking 
 the water than does a rock of fifty pounds in 
 weight, because the amount of water the 
 latter has displaced in falling is larger, and 
 this larger body needs more time to readjust 
 itself in its element. The reader who remem- 
 bers that articulate tone is caused by regulated 
 air-vibration begins, no doubt, to perceive 
 that our pond and pebble and rock are not 
 romantic illustrations but perfect analogies. 
 For the phenomenon of the wavy rings is to 
 the perceptive power of our eye precisely what 
 the air-vibrations, caused by the felt-covered 
 hammer on striking the piano-strings, are to 
 the sensibility of our ear. The drum and 
 the harp-like Corti organ in our ear are stirred 
 as soon as we strike the key. We perceive 
 "tone" at once; but we need a certain amount 
 of time to perceive the "pitch" of that tone, 
 and the length of this time differs with the 
 degree of force with which we struck the key. 
 The reader can easily convince himself of the 
 truth of this statement by a simple experiment. 
 He only needs to play a very rapid succession 
 of notes somewhat loudly in one of the higher 
 octaves of the piano and then play the same 
 figure with the same rapidity and same degree 
 [75]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 of strength in the lowest octave and he will be 
 certain to observe that in the higher octave he 
 understood the pitch of every note practically 
 at once, while in the lowest octave he perceived 
 hardly more than a heavy, rhythmical rumble. 
 If he wishes to sense the pitch of these low 
 notes, he will find it necessary to play the 
 figure much slower. The explanation tallies 
 exactly with that of the waves in our pond. 
 The low strings in the piano are stouter, 
 heavier and longer than the high ones; hence, 
 they consume more time to overcome the 
 stronger impact from the heavier hammer 
 before they can adjust themselves to regulated 
 vibration, that is, to such vibratory motion 
 as our ear can perceive not merely as tone, 
 but as pitch. The suggestion of the foregoing 
 experiment reminds me of the passages for the 
 double-basses in the Scherzo of Beethoven's 
 Fifth Symphony: 
 
 V fCfffr r 'rrfrrr 
 
 Even in the best orchestras this passage never 
 amounts to more than a rumbling noise, re- 
 deemed, however, by its rhythm, through 
 which we recognize it as a thematic fragment; 
 through its rhythm and because we have 
 heard this rhythm many times before this 
 [76]
 
 Tempo 
 
 passage occurs, so that through the element 
 of presupposed familiarity (see page 35) our 
 memory comes to our assistance. Had Beet- 
 hoven committed the blunder unthinkable 
 in conjunction with his name of putting this 
 bass figure at the beginning of the Scherzo, 
 the effect would not have been humorous, as 
 he intended it to be, but comical. We could 
 never have understood the notes without 
 looking into the score. If, however, the same 
 figure were played in a slower movement, say 
 Andante, we should have no trouble whatever 
 in discerning the pitch of every note 'as soon 
 as played. The difference in the effect of the 
 tempo upon our ear is, of course, due not only 
 to the low range of these notes, but also to 
 the necessary ponderousness of the requisite 
 instruments. Whether we throw our fifty- 
 pound rock into a well, pool, pond, lake or the 
 ocean, the amount of water thrown into the 
 air by its impact would always be the same and 
 would always need the same length of time 
 to fall back and to start the wavy motion of 
 the surface. To reduce this length of time 
 we must take a smaller, and therefore lighter, 
 rock. Just so it is with articulate tone.* 
 
 *A cannon-shot surely produces a sufficient rate 'of air- 
 vibrations to create a definite pitch; yet no one could ever 
 recognize the tone because of its all too short duration. 
 For by the time that our ear has overcome the tremendous 
 impact, the tone is gone. 
 
 [77]
 
 Ethics and Ejthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 A heavy touch upon the piano produces a 
 stronger impact than does a lighter one, no 
 matter which region of the keyboard it strikes. 
 An orchestra of three hundred cannot play 
 as quickly as one of one hundred if it wishes 
 to impress the audience with the same degree 
 of clearness. A pianist who possesses a natu- 
 rally rich, fleshy touch is bound to play slower 
 than one whose touch is dry and bony; for if 
 he exceeds his natural speed, if he insists 
 upon equalling the actual instead of the relative 
 speed of his leaner colleague his tone will 
 impress his hearers' ears as their eyes would 
 be impressed by the sight of five persons 
 trying to sit upon a sofa built for three. 
 
 It is not a mere coincidence that all rapid 
 ornamental runs with which Chopin graces 
 his melodies are marked pp (unless they consist 
 only of a broken chord which serves an entirely 
 different purpose), for if such a run containing 
 chromatic, diatonic and harmonic intervals in 
 delightful motley mixture were played^", our 
 ear would perhaps be able to follow it in those 
 higher octaves, but it would, even then, be a 
 strain rather than a pleasure for our hearing. 
 
 I repeat, that we may not change an Andante 
 into an Allegro or vice versa, in order to say 
 that, on the other hand, your Allegro might, 
 but need not, be my Allegro. The average 
 speed of one player differs from that of another 
 [78]
 
 Tempo 
 
 player as much, and in the exact proportion, 
 as does his average "tone." This difference of 
 speed may also be due to a difference of con- 
 ception. I mention it for the sake of com- 
 pleteness only, for conception is a matter 
 entirely beyond this discussion. But I feel no 
 hesitation in saying that a player's "tone" 
 is not altogether without influence even upon 
 his conceptions, for when he thinks in music 
 he thinks in his own tone, as in literary thought 
 we think in our own vocabulary. 
 
 Some of my readers may wonder how I 
 reconcile the foregoing with the metronome- 
 marks frequently seen. For there, certainly, 
 is a definite speed-prescription in optima forma! 
 I pray the reader not to feel scandalized if I 
 decline to regard the metronome with that 
 deference which it receives at the hands of 
 artistic and pedagogic mediocrities. (See page 
 42, second paragraph.) How any musician 
 could ever play with a metronome, passes my 
 humble understanding. It is not only an 
 inartistic, but a downright antiartistic instru- 
 ment. In order to prove this and to explain 
 the vogue it has had in spite of it, we must 
 regard the inventor a little closer and consider 
 the time in which the misfortune of his inven- 
 tion happened. Malzel was the son, not of a 
 musician, but of an organ-builder. His father 
 delighted in contriving all sorts of queer "stops" 
 [79]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 which, of course, no organist wanted or even 
 accepted. These queer stops accumulated in 
 his shop until it was a regular museum of such 
 musical eccentricities. His son inherited this 
 trait. He "learned" music, but never played 
 in public or composed anything. He did not 
 even teach music, but only "gave lessons." 
 How much his pupils could have learned from 
 him we can infer from the fact that he spent 
 all his leisure time upon things that go against 
 the very grain of every one who loves music. 
 He constructed all kinds of mechanical instru- 
 ments, such as an automaton trumpeter, a 
 mechanical orchestra, a "panharmonium," I 
 believe also a mechanical chess-player and 
 the metronome! The priority of this latter inven- 
 tion was, besides, contested by a Dutch mech- 
 anist whose name does not really matter. From 
 all this it is easily seen that the impulse leading 
 to the invention did not come from an artistic 
 temperament. Malzel received, however, Beet- 
 hoven's endorsement, and I do not believe, as 
 does Dr. Thayer in his "Beethoven," that he 
 received it because he had urged the loan of 
 fifty gold ducats upon Beethoven when the 
 latter was at the point of going to London 
 and feared that his funds might possibly prove 
 insufficient for a prolonged stay. I believe 
 rather that the endorsement was given in all 
 sincerity. Musical pedagogics in Beethoven's 
 [80]
 
 Tempo 
 
 day were in their infancy, the understanding 
 for his works was still as good as closed to 
 most people, including the rank and file of 
 the contemporary piano-teachers. Hence, any 
 device that might prevent people from taking 
 an altogether absurd tempo in playing his 
 works seemed welcome to Beethoven. He 
 accepted the metronome with a feeling that, 
 in conditions such as they were, "every little 
 helps." We must remember, however, that 
 the distinction between playing in "time" and 
 playing in "rhythm" had not yet dawned upon 
 the world. Even Schumann though he felt 
 it, no doubt, as keenly as did Beethoven or, 
 for that matter, Bach was not conscious of 
 it. Not until the advent of Chopin began the 
 emancipation from strict time in our conscious- 
 ness. But with the moment it came to us, 
 there began also the relegation of the metro- 
 nome to its proper sphere of action, namely, 
 to serve as an orthophonic machine for regu- 
 lating the gymnastic exercises on the keyboard, 
 which the acquisition of technic, unfortunately, 
 requires. It may be said that the metronome 
 is not intended to regulate the playing of a 
 whole piece, but to give only a general idea 
 of its average speed. Granted! But is not 
 even this smaller use opposed to the ethics 
 of the art divine? Let us see. A person who, 
 after becoming familiar with the notes of a 
 [81]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 composition, sees nothing more in it than the 
 notes, feels none of its sentimental, emotional 
 or even sensuous charm such a person might 
 be prevented by the metronome from taking an 
 absurdly slow or quick tempo. Quite true; 
 but what is gained thereby? What matters 
 it whether a person who plays a piece without 
 understanding does it in the right or wrong 
 tempo? I, personally, would ten times rather 
 listen to a wrong tempo with a conviction 
 back of it, however erroneous it might be, 
 than to a right tempo dictated by a machine 
 or, for that matter, by any influence extraneous 
 to the player's mind. A metronome should be in 
 every teacher's studio, to be judiciously em- 
 ployed in the rudimentary mechanical work; 
 but as soon as his pupil touches a composition 
 away with it! For tempo is an individual 
 matter; it must be felt, or it will not convince. 
 You'll ne'er attain it, save you know the feeling, 
 
 Save from the soul it rises clear, 
 
 Serene in primal strength, compelling 
 
 The hearts and minds of all who hear. 
 
 ne'er from heart to heart you'll speak 
 
 inspiring, 
 Save your own heart is eloquent! 
 
 (GOETHE'S Faust.) 
 
 There is in many people's minds a tendency 
 to regard art altogether as something that can 
 be learned. This conception is begotten by 
 [82]
 
 Tempo 
 
 the fundamental error of confounding art with 
 the craftsmanship that underlies it. A painter 
 can learn the theory of colors, perspective and 
 foreshortened drawing, anatomy and the play 
 of muscles in their various actions; but to 
 put upon the canvas a human being that has 
 character and makes a living appeal to the 
 beholder, stirring his heart and awakening 
 responsive feelings there that bring to the sur- 
 face the noblest instincts .and impulses that 
 were slumbering in its depths that cannot 
 be learned! For it has nothing more to do 
 with his craftsmanship than has his breathing. 
 The power to impart to the achievement of 
 his workmanship a living message lies in the 
 man, himself; in the inner man. It lies in the 
 education of his heart, an education based 
 upon the mystery of his innate psychic dis- 
 position to extract from the experiences of his 
 life the essence which develops the moral side 
 of his character and spirit. Thus, when we 
 speak of Beethoven as a great musician, we 
 do I hope not mean a man who had by 
 dint of hard work acquired exceptional skill 
 in writing counterpoint (which, in fact, was 
 not the strongest side of him), or who had all 
 the regulations and rules of musical composition 
 at his fingers' ends, but we do mean a great 
 soul whose medium of utterance happened to 
 be music. 
 
 [83]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 It is remarkable how few have a realization 
 of this fact, and how difficult it is to convince 
 the others of its being a fact. The average 
 person who takes music-lessons sits compla- 
 cently down before the piano, opens the sheet 
 music and instead of showing now the result 
 of his preparatory work for the purpose of 
 obtaining trustworthy criticism and such addi- 
 tional information as his work may need for 
 its improvement asks the teacher: How fast 
 ought this to go? How shall I take the pedal? 
 These, and kindred questions, are asked in a 
 tone and manner as if one had been requested 
 to wind a clock and asked: Do I have to 
 turn the key to the right or to the left? The 
 vision of the notes seems to be conveyed to 
 the motoric nerve-center of the brain, and 
 nowhere else. Is it not evident that they 
 conceive the art of music as a mere mechanical 
 thing, the handling of which is merely a 
 matter of information? And yet, 
 
 one who never feels 
 
 The wanton stings and notions of the sense, 
 But does rebate and blunt his natural edge 
 With profits of the mind," 
 
 will never make "music," however much he 
 may have "learned," for to start with he 
 will never find the right tempo, that is, the 
 tempo that is right for him. 
 [841
 
 Tempo 
 
 go to your bosom; 
 
 Knock there and ask your heart what it does 
 know. 
 
 That is the only way to determine the tempo. 
 It is the only way by which the super-wise 
 editors found it when they added the tempo- 
 annotations to the pianists' music-bible, The 
 Well-tempered Clavichord. If master John 
 Sebastian could only return to earth! He 
 would surely ask these editors why they 
 trusted less to the common sense of humanity 
 than he did himself. He refrained from putting 
 down anything but the bare notes; but Czerny 
 had to add metronome-marks. Czerny of 
 all men! 
 
 185]
 
 Tone-Measuring Through the Ear.* 
 
 The concluding words of the chapter on 
 thematic "design" were: "there must be no 
 ambiguity in melody!" What I warned against 
 there, was the appearance of more than one 
 tone at a time in a melody through the careless 
 prolonging of a tone after it is supposed to 
 have moved to another one; a prolonging which 
 is as often effected through carelessness of the 
 fingers as of the foot on the pedal, though 
 in either case primarily through a careless 
 ear. But this particular form of carelessness 
 is by no means the only one that destroys the 
 clarity of a melody. For it might be avoided 
 altogether, and the melody still be unintelligible 
 to the hearer. While there may never have 
 been more than one tone heard at a time; 
 while the succession of tones may have been 
 correct in time and pitch, the melody may yet 
 fail utterly in a musical sense "to say some- 
 thing," because the dynamic relation between 
 the succeeding tones has remained unobserved. 
 As our speech is not composed of solitary 
 utterances, but of groups of words of which 
 each one, besides having a meaning of its 
 
 *My thanks are due to Messrs. D. Appleton & Co. for 
 kindly permitting me to use in this chapter some expressions 
 and designs that I employed in an article contributed to their 
 beautiful publication, "The Music of the Modern World." 
 [86]
 
 Tone-Measuring Through the Ear 
 
 own, bears upon the meaning of some other 
 word or words in the group so do the notes 
 of a melody surely signify more than a mere 
 change of pitch and length. They are not 
 only rhythmically, but also dynamically related 
 one to another in the same manner as are the 
 words of a sentence, or the syllables of bi- or 
 tri-syllabic words. And as in such words we 
 do not pronounce all the syllables with the 
 same force, so should the notes of a melody 
 likewise differ from each other. 
 
 The student of a wind- or bow-instrument 
 has in this matter a great advantage over the 
 piano-student; for in fixing the pitch and 
 quality of each tone that he produces, he 
 learns from the very start to consult, and 
 depend upon, the judgment of his ear. The 
 piano-student, unfortunately, when hearing a 
 tone out of pitch on his instrument, if he objects 
 to it (which, alas, many do not), simply sends 
 for the tuner. This lesser dependence upon 
 his ear often induces the piano-student to 
 neglect that attentive control over his tone 
 which the ear alone can exercise. Since his 
 ear is not needed for his intonation, he often 
 does not employ it at all, and thus the dynamic 
 element in his playing is lost sight of altogether. 
 
 And, yet, it is just the dynamic element 
 which appeals most directly to the emotional 
 faculties of the listener, to whom intervals 
 [87]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 and rhythms are only intellectual, not emo- 
 tional, concepts. If refined harmonic succes- 
 sions, melodic steps, interesting rhythms, are 
 to affect more than the intelligence of the 
 auditor, if they are to penetrate into the 
 sanctuary of his feelings, they must be carried 
 thither by a nature-like variety of dynamic 
 degrees. A melody played or sung in one 
 monotonous degree of force can awaken no 
 more in us than a momentary interest in its 
 rhythms and intervals; it can only occupy 
 our sense of observation, if not of mere 
 curiosity. The human voice is the most 
 appealing of all musical instruments because, 
 even in its natural and untrained condition, 
 it is compelled to make dynamic changes; 
 to increase in intensity with the rise and to 
 decrease with the fall of the melodic intervals, 
 besides responding dynamically also to the 
 significance of the text-syllables of the song. 
 
 All musical instruments (including the voice), 
 with the sole exception of the piano,* have 
 three forms of tone: The crescendo: 
 
 the steady tone in any degree of force: 
 
 the diminuendo: - 
 
 Of these three forms the piano possesses only 
 
 The harp, on account of its utter lack of any distinguished 
 literature, cannot be considered here.
 
 Tone-Measuring Through the Ear 
 
 one, the diminuendo. It is the natural tone- 
 form of the piano; the other two forms must 
 be produced through artistic deception; the 
 pianist must be somewhat of an illusionist. 
 Fortunately, the modern piano offers many 
 means to produce such acoustic deceptions 
 and many realize this; but of the one form 
 of tone which really is the piano's own they 
 are often totally unmindful because, while 
 playing, they fail to employ that organ which 
 in music-making is a conditio sine qua non 
 the ear! 
 
 Translated into a visible design, the form of 
 tone inherent in the piano would look like this: 
 
 Hence, a crescendo would present this picture: 
 
 [89]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 While a succession of tones of equal strength 
 would be like this: 
 
 Legato 
 
 In the modern piano the power of sustaining 
 a tone is so well developed that, in a rapid tempo, 
 such a succession of tones might practically 
 amount to a continuous dynamic uniformity. 
 When, however, the notes of a melody follow 
 each other more slowly and when they vary in 
 length, as they must in the nature of rhythm, 
 then the matter is very different; for then the 
 pianist has to hear, to feel, to weigh the rela- 
 tive importance of every note, as to the part 
 it plays in the whole of the melody. If, for 
 instance, a phrase reaches its climax upon a 
 long tone, the next one should not be struck 
 without considering how much of its initial 
 force the preceding long tone has lost in the 
 course of its duration. 
 
 This must not be grotesquely construed to 
 mean that every piano-piece should begin 
 forte and form one long, continuous diminuendo. 
 By no means. If nothing else, the rhythmical 
 accents alone should furnish ample material 
 for the continual replenishment of force. It 
 does mean, though, that the diminuendo is the 
 [901
 
 Tone-Measuring Through the Ear 
 
 tone-form natural to the piano; that it is the 
 handiest word in its vocabulary and that the 
 pianist should make the best possible use of it. 
 
 The beginning of Chopin's Nocturne in D 
 flat, op. 27, No. 2, may illustrate both the 
 necessity and the effectiveness of putting the 
 natural diminuendo to its proper use. 
 
 After a measure introducing the accompani- 
 ment-figure, the first tone of the melody enters 
 upon the primary (accented) beat. The next 
 tone falls likewise upon an accented beat and 
 is at once followed by two others on negative 
 beats which, in their turn, lead to the next 
 accented tone of four eighths in length. 
 Upon this tone a crescendo is marked which 
 can be easily produced by the left hand and 
 by the pedal through accumulation of tone- 
 volume, in the various stages of which the 
 melody in the right hand is entitled to partici- 
 pate while it rises to D flat and to F, finally 
 reaching the climax upon B flat. Ay, but 
 there on this B flat there's the rub! In 
 music-making I know of nothing more heartless 
 than to strike the following A flat as if it were 
 entirely unrelated to its predecessor. To a 
 halfway sensitive ear it is shocking to hear 
 this A flat struck without consideration of 
 the loss of power the preceding B flat has 
 experienced by the time the A flat became 
 due. 
 
 [91]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 The proper presentation of this measure 
 
 translated into our adopted design, would be: 
 
 A still stronger illustration is furnished by 
 the two following measures: 
 
 The first note lasts through the whole measure. 
 However strong or weak it was when struck, 
 it loses power constantly while it lasts. There- 
 fore the next B flat ought to be nicely adjusted 
 to that degree of force to which the A has 
 sunk by the time when the B flat was due; 
 for the two notes stand in precisely the same 
 relation to each other as do the two syllables 
 of a trochee, say "morning," "yonder." 
 
 The B flat, the second syllable, should therefore 
 
 [92]
 
 Tone-Measuring Through the Ear 
 
 be no louder in proportion to the A than 
 this design indicates by an x mark: 
 
 or else this B flat would look like this; 
 
 and create the impression of starting a new 
 phrase before the preceding suspension was 
 resolved. It would be very confusing to the 
 auditor because of its utter unnaturalness. 
 
 A further illustration is to be found in 
 Beethoven's Sonata, op. 14, No. I, measures 
 ten and twelve. The B in the uppermost part 
 lasts through the whole measure. It is the 
 melodic terminus of the descending scale in 
 the preceding measure and, introduced as it is, 
 has considerable force. While it lasts, there 
 [93]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 occur a number of harmonic shiftings in the 
 lower and subordinate parts. The measure 
 looks thus: 
 
 but who has not heard it played like this? 
 
 In the form of our adopted design it should, 
 of course, present itself thus: 
 
 94
 
 Tone-Measuring Through the Ear 
 
 and not like this: 
 
 which shows that every little harmonic shift- 
 ing destroyed the connection with all that 
 preceded it, and that the poor B of the melody 
 (see dotted line) was, as early as in the second 
 beat, quite crushed out of tonal existence. 
 
 The Allegretto of the same Sonata shows a 
 similar case in the transition from the third to 
 the fourth measure. The chord in measure 3 is 
 the climax of the first phrase. Its melodic G 
 lasts into the next measure; but underneath it a 
 changeof harmonyhastakenplace. Thischange 
 should be made so delicately that the second of 
 the two harmonies enters without crushing the 
 continuing G of the melody, in order that this 
 melody may be understood to be thus: 
 
 [95]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 and not as if it were meant thus: 
 
 These few examples may suffice to illustrate 
 what is meant by "tone-measuring through 
 the ear." Like all the finer problems in art, 
 this matter of tone-measuring is very subtle 
 and elusive. And I gladly reiterate what I 
 have said on many other matters in piano- 
 playing, namely, that it cannot be treated 
 dogmatically, but only as a suggestion. Never- 
 theless, something like a very frequently 
 applicable rule can be deduced from the fore- 
 going illustrative designs by any one who is 
 not altogether impervious to the musical in- 
 wardness and meaning of a melody. I venture 
 to formulate it in this way: 
 
 Whenever a long melody-tone is followed by 
 a shorter one, the significance of the long 
 tone as to the place it occupies in the phrase 
 should be ascertained and, if found to be 
 analogous to the penultimate or antepenul- 
 timate emphasis in speech, its decline of 
 force during its continuance should govern 
 the strength of the following, shorter tone. 
 This applies with particular nicety when the 
 second tone occurs on a weak part of the 
 [96]
 
 Tone-Measuring Through the Ear 
 
 measure, as for example in the first illustration 
 of this chapter. 
 
 Proper attention to this matter will go very 
 far toward converting mere piano-playing into 
 actual music-making; for it will "humanize" the 
 melody; it will give it life, naturalness and sen- 
 suous beauty, which latter quality, as we saw 
 on page 21, is of primary importance in art. 
 
 [97]
 
 Conclusion. 
 
 On page 83 it was said that the transmu- 
 tation of mere craftsmanship into artistry 
 "cannot be learned." Yet this entire little 
 volume seems to aim at nothing else. But it 
 only seems so, because it was taken for granted 
 that the reader is gifted with a certain faculty 
 which, so far, has been only veiledly hinted 
 at. This faculty is 
 
 THE MUSICAL WILL. 
 
 The distinction between a wish and a will 
 is not quite clear to the minds of many people. 
 Without needlessly going into the abstractions 
 of thinkers like Kant and Schopenhauer 
 who have based their systems of thought upon 
 the "will" we may safely assume that the 
 will is the highest intensification of the wish. 
 In desire or wish the center of gravity lies on 
 the sensuous and psychic sides of our life. In 
 becoming "will" the point of balance has been 
 shifted to the moral and intellectual side; for 
 reason, percipience and judgment must have 
 entered into its formation. The will is, there- 
 fore, the determination coupled with the re- 
 quisite physical and mental equipment to 
 attain by energetic, centralized action the 
 object of our wish. (It will be hardly possible
 
 Conclusion 
 
 to understand, even as an abstract philoso- 
 pheme, a will that was not preceded by the 
 wish.) Hence, the difference resolves itself 
 into one of intensity and potency; of mere 
 craving, yearning, longing on the one side 
 and of well-directed and persistent action on 
 the other. 
 
 Speaking musically, the two propositions of 
 wish and will stand in precisely the same 
 relations; for in music, too, the will must be 
 called forth by the wish. The musical wish 
 may emanate, for instance, from the joy we 
 feel when a worthy composition unfolds its 
 ultimate meaning to us at the piano and thus 
 creates in us the desire to communicate this 
 joy to our brother. But, alas, this unfolding 
 did not come to us through our hearing alone; 
 our eyes, the motions of our fingers and arms, 
 the physical exertions corresponding with the 
 dynamic changes in the piece, all these have 
 aided us in obtaining an insight into the 
 moods and thoughts of the composition 
 an insight sufficient unto ourselves. Two 
 consecutive phrases, which ought to have been 
 separated, but were not our eyes, seeing 
 them detached from each other, are more than 
 likely to convey them so detached to our 
 musical perception; an embellishing little run, 
 which our fingers may have spoiled in its 
 execution our vision, perceiving how smoothly 
 [99]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 it is meant to be played, carries it to our 
 musical imagination in all its intended smooth- 
 ness; ay, even a harshly sounding, false note 
 disturbs us sometimes only until our eye 
 has detected and corrected the error. Yet, 
 in spite of such defects and blemishes, we 
 may be perfectly able to "understand" the 
 piece and, having done so, we feel at once like 
 asking our brother: "Is it not beautiful?" Our 
 brother, however, has but scant praise for it, 
 because we invited his attention to our inter- 
 pretation of the piece while we were still in 
 the stage of the "wish." While, in a sense, we 
 were "perfectly willing" that he should under- 
 stand and appreciate the piece, we were still 
 very, very far from having "willed" it. 
 
 To attain to this higher stage it will be 
 necessary that for a while, at least we re- 
 nounce our own enjoyment of the piece and 
 devote much, and right unpleasant, work to 
 it. It requires close self-observation, much 
 vexatious experimenting, keen searching, criti- 
 cal listening to the actual result of our efforts, 
 and an inflexible, indomitable determination 
 to play the piece with such technical and 
 spiritual perfection that our brother shall and 
 must understand it. The fortitude to impose 
 upon ourselves these, mostly trying, experi- 
 ences and to brave them for the sake of our 
 brother; this altruism, that bears the noblest 
 [100]
 
 Conclusion 
 
 egoism in its depths; this unshakable deter- 
 mination to put into living tonal reality what 
 we have mentally extracted from the cold, 
 printed pages with the combined assistance 
 of our eyes, ears, hands and feet; this is the 
 pianist's musical will! 
 
 In any pianist who reaches for a book like 
 this, the presence of this musical will must be 
 presupposed. It was, therefore, unnecessary 
 to dwell upon it at the beginning of the book, 
 where it might have assumed the forbidding 
 look of a barrier which only the chosen few 
 could surmount. The musical will is given 
 to all of us who have normal hands, normal 
 ears, and strength of character in a normal 
 degree. It is given to all of us in nucleo, and, 
 as "the lofty oak from a small acorn grows," 
 so can this nucleus, planted in the soil of our 
 character, develop into that power which 
 alone can change us from a self-pleased 
 dilettante into an artist. 
 
 Though fully aware that this little book 
 suffers from many shortcomings, I hope that 
 the reader who looks a little deeper, a little 
 beyond its palpable defects in expression and 
 wording, will allow its well-meant purpose to 
 atone for them. For this purpose was no 
 other than to save the reader some of the 
 [101]
 
 Ethics and Esthetics of Piano-Playing 
 
 vexations inseparable from serious study; to 
 state in plain words some of the things he may 
 have felt as a mere uncertain notion; and to 
 encourage him to do what, after honest and 
 sincere thinking, seems right to him, though 
 this may involve the breaking with any tradi- 
 tion that militates against the world's modern 
 and enlightened conception of music. He 
 should, therefore, not accept and follow any 
 suggestions and advice given here without 
 testing them first with the touchstone of his 
 individual thinking and without assuring him- 
 self that the advice selected applies to the case 
 he may be dealing with. I said, for instance, 
 that many of the accentuation-marks upon 
 negative time-beats serve only to indicate 
 the starting of a new phrase. The reader 
 might ask how he can distinguish them from 
 those which do imply an emphasis. Alas, 
 I could not tell him; but I have warned him 
 against an unthinking and unquestioning accep- 
 tance of such signs. I have asked him to 
 reflect, to bestow thought upon something 
 which, hitherto, he may have disregarded 
 entirely or taken too easily for granted. In 
 a similar manner I have suggested that he 
 may sometimes make a pause where none is 
 printed. How long this pause should be, and 
 just where it should be placed, only a teacher 
 of well-trained and refined taste can tell him. 
 [102]
 
 Conclusion 
 
 I hope, however, to have stimulated the stu- 
 dent's own thinking and feeling so as to make 
 him search for both the length and the placing 
 of the art-pause. If he will but persist in his 
 search, he is bound to find what he seeks, 
 and when he has found it by his own endeavor 
 he will feel that his musical grasp has widened, 
 that his own inner consciousness has begun 
 to bear fruit; and at the same time he will 
 have provided that rare pleasure for his teacher 
 of discussing, and probably approving, a 
 pupil's idea instead of doing as so often he 
 does the pupil's thinking. 
 
 [ 103
 
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