Par 1 Vladimir de Pachmann, the pianist, who is 79, retired two years ago to his villa on the sunny slopes of the Roman hills, but he is back in London, to play again to English audiences. He has returned to the concert platform because he was pining away through inactivity. Gone were the faces of his admirers, gone were the echoes of applause from great audiences, gone was the necessity to practice hour after hour at his beloved piano. He became ill. A strange lassitude overcame him. Doctors could find nothing organically wrong with him. Then one day a young Italian physician said to Pachmann's manager: "He misses the faces, the applause, the music that enchanted his admirers. He must play again."
Par 2 A woman friend asked him one day if he would not emerge from his retirement to play at her house in commemoration of Chopin. He played, and his strange sickness was banished. Now he is to play in public in England, and he hopes to play until he dies.


Par 3 In a little sitting-room in his flat in the West End yesterday Pachmann sat at his piano and played Schumann and Godowsky to a little gathering of friends. And he interspersed his playing with animated conversation. He said:
    Every day I play for hours. I never play a piece in public until I have played it in private several thousand times. There is only one way of playing. The elbows must be on a level with the keyboard, the hands straight out almost resting on the keys. So . . . (And he played for several minutes to illustrate his facile manner.) It is the only way, and I can play all day like that.
Par 4 Pachmann rises every morning about eight o'clock, has a hearty breakfast, and then he has a cigar, and plays till luncheon time.
Par 5 He never takes any exercise—except at the piano.