A GREAT MUSICIAN

Evening Star, Issue 22560, 30 January 1937, Page 24

A GREAT MUSICIAN

RUBINSTEIN MEMORY IDS WORK AS COMPOSER Tempo rebate—how familiar an expression it is, and what different interpretations it lends itself to in practice! writes Frederic La mend, in the ‘ Daily Telegraph.’ In the hands of a master it may mean a revelation; while in Mr So-and-so's hands (and Mr So-and-so may not be an amateur) it becomes only a slippery path into chaos. Tho word rubato seems to have come into vogue with Chopin; and indeed, many of his pieces lend themselves to an elastic rhythm and tempo. But what would Chopin have had to say of tho enthusiastic Chopinists for whom his name seems to he synonymous with gushing .sentimentality, while the legendary rubato is rendered by taking one bar fast and the next slow? This is not Chopin’s tempo rubato, but a public nuisance. After all, we have records of Chopin’s piano playing. Mikuli, his pupil, said, “ The metronome never left his desk.” And again, “ Chopin was inexorable in the strictness_ of the tempo of his accompaniment, which, however,_ did not prevent a free and unconstrained utterance of the melody." Poor Chopin! What would he have had to say of that popular pianist of our day who plays the second subject of the first movement of the B minor sonata (D major, eight bars) at just half the time of what went before and comes after? RUBINSTEIN STRICT. No one living has heard Chopin play, but I have heard Anton Rubinstein. After Liszt’s retirement Rubinstein towered head and shoulders above all the other pianists of his day, as, for that matter, over those of succeeding generations. Now, “ subjective ” and personal though he was in the use of rubato, no one could be stricter in tempo, less unbending in rhythm, than he was in Chopin. Rubinstein’s tone in the loudest fortissimo was never hard or brittle, but sounded like an orchestra, full and powerful. His performance of his own arrangement of the ‘ Egmont ’ overture was a stupendous tour de force, never attempted by any other artist. No orchestral conductor-ever gave mo a more convincing picture of Beethoven’s genius. In those days it was not the fashion to play long stretches of_ music in a didactic, whispered, meaningless pianissimo, and then to burst forth, without rhyme or reason, into a blatant forte. Rubinstein’s Chopin was not only the delicate, tender, languishing Chopin, but also tho hero, the patriotic bard and glorious minstrel. In my St. Petersburg days I frequently met Rubinstein, and, unobserved by him, I used to study his hands, which exercised over me an irresistible fascination. His fingers were like sausages. The back of the hand was hairy, but the hand itself was as soft as a woman’s, yet withal had the strength of a lion’s paw. Before he appeared at a recital there was in the hall such an air of suspense' and tension such as I have never experienced in any other audience in St. Petersburg. He appeared; and something in his looks, in his pale face, half Attila-like, and half like Beethoven, with its. mighty forehead and deep-set eyes, inspired awe. A SIMPLE APPROACH. His manner was simplicity itself. His necktie was usually awryj he wore heavy boots, and he scarcely greeted the audience. From the moment he began until the last note the hearers were entranced. Every phrase, down to the least significant-seeming, became in his hands a living force. A sign of the spell he .exercised' over an audience was that his programmes, which usually lasted more, than two and a-half hours, were • always found too short. Hearing him play the aria from Handel’s Suite in D minor, one had the feeling, . “ This is not piano playing I This is a great Italian singer of the eighteenth century ” —so did he imbue the antique fioriture with glorious life, now with bewitching charm, and again with royal dignity, or the intensity of drama. Here was the rare art of the true rubato—a moving within the measure, yet with noble freedom. Strictly in time, it yet seemed like an improvisation. The instrument he used was not to my taste, but with his incomparable touch and his art of pedalling he might, one would have said, have made a sewing machine sound 1 well t One of his parade piece was Mozart’s A minor Rondo, which he played throughout with the soft pedal. His technique was by no means infallible, but I have never known such a command of thirds and sixths, Others may play Chopin’s Study in G sharp minor so fast that it is almost over before it has begun; but who, since Rubinstein, has rendered the double notes in the G major Nocturne, or the Impromptu in G flat, with that grace of his and that delicious clarity? LISZT AND SCHUBERT. Liszt’s “Au herd d’une source ” (with very sparing use of the pedal) was another achievement impossible to forget, and Schubert’s ‘ Impromptu in E Flat,’ Op. 94,’ was a sensation. Not the breakneck pace was noteworthy, but the effect of the sighing of the wind, while little touches of colour imparted to the piece an indescribable charm. Hew can Anton Rubinstein’s overwhelming predominance over all other interpreters be explained? He was not only the greatest pianist of his time; he was also a gigantic musician. Tho man who wrote the ‘ I) Minor Concerto,’ operas like ‘ The Demon ’ and ‘ Tho Maccabees,’ songs like ‘ Es blinkt der Than,’ and ‘ Asra,’ and tho A minor barcarolle was a great composer. And then there was the demoniac personality that impressed itself on everything he played. Something wild in his nature expressed itself in his jierformances. As a composer he tended to be conservative. It was bis fate to live in the same age as Brahms and Wagner, and it was a thorn in his side that he could not make headway against two such mighty rivals. In Ins last years lie suffered from cataract, which blinded him in one eye, and ho was not a happy man. He was like Liszt in that the world could not understand that a great pianist could also be a composer of great inventive power, and it treated him accordingly. I remember his conducting bis ‘ G Minor Symphony, No. 4 ’ —a work still worthy of attention of conductors, and his remarking to me sadly, “To bring my works before tho public I must travel—yes, travel conime tin eom'misvoyngcur.” A few months later he was dead.