Par 1
p.35
A RUSSIAN Pole by birth, imbued
with the dreamy romanticism of
his race, conversing nevertheless
with the wit and vivacity of the
Parisian, looking at one with the soft,
penetrating eyes of the Italian while
he takes one's hand with the sturdy
grasp of the Englishman, content to
spend months amongst an alien people,
speaking a dozen languages with equal
fluency, a doctor of philosophy, a keen
reader of human nature, yet as simple
as a child, calling all men his brothers
and all countries his home—Vladimir
de Pachmann, the pianist-philosopher,
is without doubt, both through his
genius and his personality, one of the
most interesting and picturesque
figures in the musical world of to-day.
Par 2
Six years ago, when Vladimir de
Pachmann came to this country almost
unheralded, American audiences had
already been initiated into the
possibilities of the piano by such
exponents as Von Bülow, Rubinstein, and
Paderewski, not counting innumerable
other artists of minor distinction. The
verdict rendered then is the same as
now, when New York has been, season
after season, literally besieged by
technicians and interpreters of all
schools and classes—that the little
Russian Pole, who confesses to a distant
Turkish ancestry, has the power of
drawing from the piano melodies of
such sweetness long drawn out,
shadings and gradations of tone color so
evanescent and subtle, that under his
witchery technique itself becomes a
problem spiritualized, and the piano an
instrument with a voice, with the
singing qualities of a violin, the swell of
the organ, and the vibrations of the
harp.
Par 3
p.36
De Pachmann has been called the
prima donna of the piano, and in the
recent
Worcester festival, when his
playing followed a song by Madame Marcella
Sembrich, musical critics
drew interesting comparisons between
the similarity of his tone color and the
singing of the great prima donna;
while others remarked, with fine appreciation,
that De Pachmann is in music
what Millais
is in painting, both
expressing in a milieu of demi-nuances,
one with his brush, the other with his
instrument, the poetical secrets of the
twilight, or rather sunlight and shadow,
tenderly and reverently expressed.
Par 4
Modern piano-playing through force
of sheer virtuosity has lost much of its
poetry. The musician of to-day shows
his muscle and endeavors to perform
feats of technique and tempo. De
Pachmann exclaims in despair:
Par 5
"Technique ? Yes, technique is
necessary—flawless technique; but tone
is better, and sonority is better than
sound. This beautiful piano is not an
orchestra. Why torture it to perform what
an orchestra can do much more
effectively? Ah, the voice of the piano,
it is so rare, so beautiful, so chaste; it
drops like a pearl, round, glistening,
and perfect; white, yet radiant with
every color. Examine a pearl with
understanding—it will be a revelation
of hidden beauties; and now listen to
this nocturne of Chopin, watch the
pearls as they fall from my fingers,
close your eyes and listen to the voice
of the piano. Yes, now you see
more than the glistening radiance of
pearls. You feel the soul of the
artist. I will tell you a secret: after
we work and work until our fingers can
produce a voice from the keys, the
voice must receive a soul, then the soul
interprets. And what is interpretation
but experience? And experience teaches us
that the greatest of all gifts gifts
is wisdom.
Par 6
"Ah, if Bach could return to this
p.37
earth and hear his preludes and fugues
thundered on the piano, as is the
fashion nowadays—ah, poor Bach, he
would weep with sorrow! What shall
I say concerning technique—I, who
have played the Weber Sonata for an
entire year? Some of the passages I
have gone over thousands of times.
Now I will play the andante; in it I
confide to you all the sum of my
experiences, my sorrows, my joys—all
are there. And as one has suffered
and enjoyed, so will one understand my
speech; this is wisdom. Again I ask
you to imagine a necklace of diamonds,
glistening like water in the sunlight.
I cut the golden string. See the
diamonds fall—showers of them; they
dazzle the eyes. That is Weber's
perpetual motion. This is
technique—technique; yes, and much more."
Par 7
De Pachmann has won fame as the
p.38
greatest living interpreter of Chopin.
And, as a matter of fact, he does not
play Chopin. He is Chopin, with all
his moods, his coquetry, his fits of
reverie. But De Pachmann himself lays
claim to no specialty. "I love Schumann,"
he says, "and Weber. Ah,
Weber is a god, the healthiest of all
musicians. One absorbs fresh life
from him, as though inhaling great
draughts of mountain air."
Par 8
When M. de Pachmann is asked his
nationality, he replies, with a
mischievous smile: "I claim none. The
creation is my home; all men are my
brethren, for Nature is our mother."
And if he is asked to give a record of
his studies and teachers, he will reply,
according to his philosophy: "Each
man is his own teacher." He will even
repudiate the title of pianist. "No
man is of so great importance or so
little as he thinks," he says. "The
piano, it is a sort of speech with me, a
mode of expression; but it is nothing
if I am not in touch with all creation,
if I am not a man."
Par 9
But, as a matter of fact, Vladimir
de Pachmann was born at Odessa. His
father was a doctor of philosophy in
the University of Odessa and a violinist
of talent, a man who loved and
consorted with musicians. In his youth
he heard Beethoven play the Moonlight
Sonata; he was one of the pall bearers
of Haydn, in whose orchestra he played
for seven years. Later on he was the
intimate friend of Weber; for two
years they lived in the same house in
Vienna, and De Pachmann the elder,
day after day, turned over the
manuscript pages of the Weber Sonata as
the great composer progressed with
the work.
Par 10
From this father young De Pachmann
took his first music lessons and
first lessons in philosophy. After leaving
the Odessa University the young
boy entered the Conservatory of Vienna
under Dachs; he left with the gold
medal, gave a series of successful
concerts in Russia, but finally decided
to conquer the instrument after his
own fashion. "I know it can sing; it
shall sing for me!" For eight years
the young pianist struggled with the
problem, and when he reappeared it
was as the victor; and it is safe to
assert that no living pianist can
approach the exquisite velvet touch
and delicate gradations of his tone
color on the piano. In this one respect
he is incomparable. He concertized in
all the important cities of Europe, and
in music-loving Denmark the king
bestowed upon him the Order of the
Daneborg .
Par 11
Hanselt loved the young man as his
own son, and would say to him: "Put
your soul in your fingers, my child, not
in your arms." Liszt called him to
Weimar, refused to teach him, and to
the day of his death they were close
friends and comrades. "After I am
gone," he was wont to say, "you
alone will cause my touch to be
remembered."
Par 12
In giving Vladimir de Pachmann his
place among musicians, he must be
judged from his own point of view. He
recognizes the limitations of the piano,
and refuses to seek after effects that
are not musical. An "instrument of
melody" he calls it, "not of effect."