LONDON'S MUSIC

Evening Post, Volume CX, Issue 144, 16 December 1930, Page 6

LONDON'S MUSIC

MEETING FOUR GREAT PIANISTS

MYBA HESS, SCMABEL. LAMOND, MCHMANINOFF

(Written for "The Post" LONDON," 14th November. The music of the world tomes to London. There's music, music everywhere. The front page of Saturday's "Daily Telegraph," advertising the forthcoming concerts, is a feast to the eye, a paradise to the imagining ear, a dilemma to the discriminating brain and a straight challenge to the aspiring purse. One sweep of the eye down the announcing columus i informs you of concerts to be given in the immediate future by world-famous pianists from Poland and Germany, violinists and composers from llussia, conductors and singors from Austria, Holland, and Italy. From all over Europe, America, and Britain itself they bring their many gifts to London town. Like the song, it- is a. case of "to stay at homo is l>est," for opportunity knocks continually upon one's door. Within the last four weeks I have heard over a dozen of these important concerts. They have all been as near to perfection, I suppose, as our human conception can grasp, so that it cannot T>e said one was better than another. But there will ever be outstanding occasions which the memory prefers, for .certain qualities to which one's own personality and temperament have reacted jwith a specially quickened appreciation. iAnd from these memories of recent concerts my mind seems to dweJl lingoringly upon just such a few. . . . THE GREAT MYRA HESS. ■ For ever and a day, I know, I shall 'sco Myra Hess's slow swinging walk, the lift of her dark, proud head, the quiet movements of her lovely arms, those two deep bows .. . and hear p.gain the richness, the warmth, the colour, and the sheer, satisfying artistry and exquisite quality of her playing. At the Queen's Hall on 11th October she played Bach, Brahms, and Chopin. Her music is sonorous, delicate, lilting, surging, singing, profound, gay. It marches along and carries one •with it to elysian moments. She is Sntellectual, emotional, spiritual; possesses rare insight and charm; is everything; has everything—the great Myra Itoss. It was her last pianoforte recital before her long American tour, and I was fortunate enough to catch her j.n. the artists' room after the concert. Every pianist in London appeared to he there, shaking her by the hand, laughing, praising, and she, with a cigayette between her fingers, trying very hard to achieve a puff hero and there, gave us all her charming smile and her yrarm friendliness. You would never guess, to hear her chatting away and to see her so amused and tranquil, that she had but five minntes previously finished a tremendous programme and a long and exciting list of encores. Nor that she had gone through the exhausting business of responding to recall after recall demanded" by a worshipping and excited Queen's Hall which, crying and clapping and rapping and thumping upon liie floor, simply would not let her go. She took my hand and held it while ghc talked to' me. "Look here," I (said imploringly, "what about an interView for New" Zealand. ' Is it possible?" (She is one of the.most difficult to capture.) "Well," she"smiled, **I- think-so. but it will have to be bfter I have returned from America in She spring." -"No chance before you go?" She fchook her head sadly. "I go so soon, and do you know 1 have to work up a concert between now and Tuesday." fChis being Saturday afternoon, I didn't iseo much hope either. She was in the midst of a busy London season—trios, jrecitals, broadcasting, and playing concertos with the Symphony Orchestra. But I have a promise for the spring. A FAMOUS TRIO. And how am I to capture in words an impression of one of the finest trios in. the world —the playing of Artur Sehnabel, Carl Flesch, and Gregor Piatigorski? Sehnabel is, of course, one of the. greatest pianists of the day. . He was born in Lipnik, and now lives in Berlin —but, you see, he comes to London with the rest. . . . ■ He is between forty-five and fifty [years of age, lias iron-grey liair, cut yvry short on his nice round head, is iiot very tall, and not at all thin, has IB; fascinating, rather grudging little femile, and at times a peculiarly endearpng expression—especially when he j>pws to his audience. ' The ensemble playing of these eininfent artistg is like a great wave that jifts you up, carries you onward, bear: jft'ou exultingly higher still, throws yoi J.nto the air, catches you again, susijcnds fyou breathlessly for a dizzy, moment sand then gently wafts you downwards fend onwards. . . . Virility is there and is, .flaming vividness; emotion, power, fend an ethereal quality that transport tHe listener to a world of colour, light, fend buoyancy. Schuabel takes hit jbiaiio in both hands, as it were, and Transforms it into a vital, pulsing thing of swaying rhythms, and dramatic eilences. Mendelssohn, Brahms, Schubert. . . . At the finish of the Brahms trio in. .C Major you could hear the audience come back to earth with $ port of gasp. . . . That audience too. .What a thrill it was! An exciting audi fence. One received an impression oi lieautiful women, white fur collars jgold opera cloaks; familiar faces of retoowned musicians and writers; men With sleek hair, firm chins, and immaculate evening dress; little pointed foreign beards; snatches of German, Bus jsian, French; some exquisite and faint Jy-floating perfume which in a strange and entrancing manner cast a kind oi (glamour over one's whole conception of-.the audience. Tlie Wigmore Hal is:compact and intimate, It has rest fill lights, soft carpets, and rosy marble trails with green panelling. You sinl< into its restful comfort with a sigh of pleasure. To-night all these distinguished people seemed to know each other. Between the trios one could watch groups jrtsiting all over the hall. Suggia, the i'amous 'cellist), sat immediately in front of me, between two other refrowned musicians. It was amusing t( feee her fingering her hair where she Jiael recently put it up. I had scarcclj fecognised the Suggia whom one alfcays associates with, a thick, flowing inane, swept off her forehead as in the portrait by Augustus John. When the concert was over I sumjnoned up all the courage at uiy comjtiand and slipped round to the artists: J'oom where I rather diffidently introduced myself to the great Sehnabel:— "'I come from New Zealand and 3 Would feel very honoured if you woulc phake hands with me!" He smiled most charmingly. "I have much pleasure," he said and held out his hand which I grasped as firmly as 3 tlared and shook for quite a long time, He chatted for a few moments about New Zealand, and then about the trioE they had just played, and as we were Boon quite surrounded by his friendsGerman, French, English, Russian— there ensued for me a particularly interesting and unique quarter of an hour. Sehnabel discussed Brahms nnd SchuJiert in several languages. "Ah," he said, "the Schubert I love ... it is aY. out-of-doors ... all light, iind winds pud birds in the trees and clouds. . . .' feonieone said, "I watched your facet as

When the concert was over I sumjnoned up all the courage at my comjnand and slipped round to the artists' J'oom where I rather diffidently introduced myself to the great Schnabel:— "'I come from New Zealand sind I Would feel very honoured if you would phake hands with me!" He smiled most charmingly. "I have much pleasure," he said and held out his hand which I grasped as firmly as I tlared and shook for quite a. long time. He chatted for a few moments about New Zealand, and then about the- trios they had just played, and as we were Boon quite surrounded by his friends— German, French, English, Russian— there ensued for me a particularly interesting and unique quarter of an hour. Schnnbel discussed Brahms nnd SchuJiert in several languages. "Ah," he said, "the Schubert I love ... it is all out-of-doors ... all light, iind winds jmd birds in the trees and clouds. . . ." said, "I watuhed your fnco as

by Valeric C. Corliss.)

you played, and I could see it ull there." And Sehnabel replied sweetly: "Ah, well ... it is out-of-door music—and 1 suppose you see out-of-door face!" LAMOND AND BEETHOVEN. During the same week, on a Saturday afternoon, I heard Lamond —"universally acclaimed one of the greatest living Beethoven players." It was, as is usual with him, an entire Beethoven programme—three sonatas and several smaller selected works. I settled down in my seat prepared for a high feast, and for two hours Lamond waited upon me with that rich, rare food of the mind and spirit. Beethoven was revealed unto me by a master hand, a musician whose life-study it has boon to conceive and express the music of this great composer. Lamond possesses deep emotional power combined with effortless restraint. With him one is exquisitely touched and satisfied. He lias the power of casting a. peaceful glow over a phrase or a movement which lulls one into a soothed sense of well-being. His playing on Saturday was sonorous, melodic, controlled, appealing on the whole, perhaps, more to the analysing and appreciating intellect than to the emotions and those somewhat dizzying ecstasies of the spirit. . . Again I pulled myself together, took a very deep breath, and pushed open the swing doors leading to the artists' room. Here was Lamond, smoking a cigarette with deep enjoyment and looking (with a little less ruggedness) ratherlike the pictures of Beethoven himself. He looked at me in a kindly way with twinkling oyes, shook my band, and waved his cigarette soothingly in the air as he talked. I asked him if I might have his autograph. He said at once: "Certainly," stuck his cigarette in his mouth, took my programme, turned to the top of the piano, and was beginning to say: "But I-haven't got a p—" when I said: "I have," and produced a large fountain pen which I had kept discreetly hidden until this moment. "It's too bad, isn't it?" I asked laughing. "As long as I haven't to sign cheques I don't mind anything," he said whimsically. (I suddenly remembered that he was a Scotsman.) And, as he finished, with a flourish, signing "Frederic Lamond," he continued to put me at my ease: "We artists (confidentially) like a pat on the back, you know." I asked him if there were any chance of his ever visiting New Zealand. He shook his head very definitely, and smiled amusedly, as if I had asked him whether he would ever play Beethoven at the South Poleor in the moon? "Too far. . . too far away," he said. The same old cry. A PRINCE OF PIANISTS. Then came Rachmaninoff to the Queen's Hall last Saturday for his "only appearance in London this year." What is it about Rachmaninoff that thrills all London at his approach? He is one of the most renowned of modern composers, and in the opinion of many the greatest pianist in. the world at the present day. He is a Russian; and he possesses a singularly august and romantic presence; his fame is flung to the far corners of the earth. .. . But there is something else— some secret essence of his personality which eludes all capture by words, yet sends its vibrations swift and sure to the hearts of all who have seen, and heard him.' Of this he is himself probably quite unaware. He makes no effort to attract his audience, but comes upon the platform with slow, dignified tread, and bows modestly and gravely to the clamorous thousands. He has no mannerisms, is quiet and unobtrusive in all his movements, plays with effortless ease and effaces himself as far as it is possible for a public performer to do so. And yet, whenever he appears, there comes a catch at your throat, and your heart'seems to melt within you! .. . On Saturday he played Schubert, Schumann, Chopin,i Rachmaninoff, Liszt, to a Queen's; Hall packed, it. seemed, to the very doors and ceiling. ..." What did he do to us? We were whirled along on waves of flaming melody, touched by the unutterable, poignancy of harmonic utterance, soothed by the delicacy of melisma-like embroideries, stirred by the primitive, swayed by pulsing rhythms, exhilarated, by zest, etherealised by the unearthly luminosity and distance of pianissimo passages and entranced by the humour, the waggishness and whimsicality which lurked ever here and there, as in the ways of life itself. And all the while Rachmaninoff sat quietly there, playing with those long, flat' fingers which take hold of the keys and seem to caress and stroke them into vitality. . . . The black tails of his braided coat hung passively behind the pianostool, his long, thoughtful face remained apparently immovable, inscrutable. ... I once heard someone say: "He is a wizard—but, oh! such" a dear!" That seems to describe him perfectly. . . I think there were six encores. I was getting a little hazy, I think, with excitement, so there may have been a seventh. Every time the official drew the curtains and Rachmaninoff returned again and again on to the platform with that princely walk and gave that long quiet look of kindly, somewhat amused, almost affectionate tolerance and gratitude to his entire audience, then sat down, yet ngain, and so generously played, there burst forth furores of applause in which there was expressed all these people's homage to genius, affection for the man himself, and stirred response to the magic of his personality. When Rachmaninoff has ceased playing he remains quietly in his seat for a moment or so, gazing calmly down at the keyboard as if in a reverie. Then he rises slowly, places one long, white hand upon the black piano, and bows to you. .. . and if you have a pair of opera glasses you can just see that humorous little smile—almost the ghost of one. How I found myself behind the scenes, waiting in a trembling state before the closed door of the artists' room, I don't quite know. I seemed to have pushed my way, like' a, swimmer against a strong- current, through streams of humanity seeking the various exits. Of course, no one was seeking Rachmaninoff, because it is well known that he is never to be seen—that he is shy and that he hides away in a ratified seclusion behind officialdom. But the music had filled me with the spirit of a. Columbus. Outside the artists' room were several important-looking individuals waiting until some fortunate person on the other side of the door had finished a precious few moments' interview with Rachmaninoff. The door opened four or five inches, a name was called, and another privileged one was allowed to enter. My chances seemed nil, my hopes were at a low ebb. Then, suddenly, I espied Mr. Hurst, the musician well known to New Zealand. He was waiting too, but with hope: "Rachmaninoff," he said, "I know well." He slipped in next, and I, like Mary's little lamb, followed after him. While he chatted in some foreign . language to Rachmaninoff I stood amongst a distinguished group—with Jfoisriwitsch, the pianist, beside me—and looked in awe upon the great man. The •wide, generous mouth, the close-

cropped dark hair, the compelling eyes, that low-toned voice with its sonorous timbre—it was fascinating to watch him and to hear him talk. Suddenly he looked over at me. I shook like an aspen leaf. Could I. . . '? And then Air. Hurst did a gallant thing. He introduced me. Rachmaninoff took my hand and gazed solemnly down on me: "New Zealand?" Tlieu he smiled—so encouragingly that I ventured to ask, rather breathlessly, for his autograph. "Would you mind?"' "Of course not." . He placed his fragrant cigarette between his lips and turned to the upright piano- with my programme in his hand. "But I haven't "I have," I said. And then he smiled again, gave me a rather whimsical glance, and proceeded to write: • "S. Rachmaninoff" across his photograph. Then I asked him if there was any chance of his ever taking a holiday and coming to New Zealand to play to us. He shook his head very amusedly: "Ah, no!. . . It takes too long a time •to go and to come (he has a slight but fascinating accent). "But a holiday! Do you ever have a holiday?" "Ah, yes, I do so, but I take my holidays in Europe. My children. . . they live in Paris." "Will you," I said, "give me some message for New Zealand, as I am writing an article upon this afternoon's concert for the capital city—a message please, direct from you?" He shook my hand, and said thoughtfully, smiling a little, "Tell them . . . I am so sorry .... so sorry they live so far away . . . otherwise I should love to go and play in New Zealand." "Thank you," I said, "I'll tell them." Moisoiwitscb. was waiting to shake hands with him next. I walked from that artists' room on. air, grasping a treasured programme ... in my right hand. To-day I heard someone say: "I think Myra Hess is a princess of pianists, and Rachmaninoff a prince." Rather good, that.