Exploring Piano-Playing of the Past
On Sunday 11 March 1917, The New York Times Magazine ran an article by music critic James Gibbons Huneker (1857–1921) entitled “The Grand Manner Has Vanished from Pianists”. In the article, Huneker laments the passing of an era of piano-playing. The era was encapsulated in a style of piano-playing christened by Huneker as “the grand manner”. It was heralded by Franz Liszt (1811–1886), personified by Anton Rubinstein (1829–1894), and inspired a generation of artists who were beginning to appear old fashioned by the outbreak of the first world war.
Not all of the pianists of the era were representatives of the style. Of those who were, according to Huneker, only a few survived to 1917. These were Moriz Rosenthal (1862–1946), Eugen d’Albert (1864–1932), Teresa Carreño (1853–1917) and Arthur Friedheim (1859–1932). Ignacy Jan Paderewski (1860–1941), the most financially successful pianist of the era, only sometimes emulated the style. The most notable among the younger generation was Josef Hofmann (1876–1957). Other pianists of the era—Joseffy, Pachmann, Godowsky—were “masters of miniature”. The artists in the grand manner, by contrast, were “forgers of tonal thunderbolts”. It was the difference between the sublime and the beautiful.
What is the so-called “grand manner”? Huneker calls it a “big style”. Anton Rubinstein seems to have embodied the grand manner as an ideal. Huneker describes Rubinstein’s playing as like “a mountain of fire blown skyward, when the elemental in his profoundly passionate temperament broke loose, he could roar betimes as gently as a dove”. Similar language is used by Huneker to describe Eugen d’Albert in Beethoven’s Apassionata Sonata:
It was the grand manner in its most chaotic form. A musical volcano belching up lava, scoriae, rocks, hunks of Beethoven … while the infuriated little Vulcan threw emotional fuel into his furnace. The unfortunate instrument must have been a mass of splintered steel, wood, and wire after the giant had finished. It was a magnificent spectacle, and the music glorious.
According to Huneker, by 1917, “the standard of virtuosity is higher than it was a quarter of a century ago”. While there were now students who could rattle off a program that was once the domain of only the great virtuosi, the emotional grandeur of the old guard was beginning to fade. “No one plays the piano badly, yet new Rubinsteins do not materialize,” writes Huneker.
Huneker paints his words in vivid purple. His article reads like a roll call of eminent pianists of his day, eulogising those “whose name is writ in ivory” with a tone that makes tiresome the old critic. It’s lyrical wax of the good old days. But is there anything in it? Was there ever really a “grand manner” of piano-playing?
I first came across the idea of the “grand manner” in Kenneth Hamilton’s excellent book After the Golden Age. This book has been very influential on me, and opened a vista on the world of early recordings and great pianists of the past. Hamilton suggests the concept of the grand manner might be a product of “golden age thinking”, an elusive vision of a past that, perhaps, never really was.
Hamilton refers to a 1937 description of the grand manner by one of the pianists originally cited by Huneker—Moriz Rosenthal. Rosenthal described the grand manner as a “A manner of playing which forms itself upon grand concepts, makes such concepts personal by grand enthusiasms, and paints its pianistic pictures in bold, brilliant, grand strokes.” It was “a matter of personal convictions, personal inspirations, personal thought” and of giving “unfettered expression to one’s deepest emotions.” (See Moriz Rosenthal, “The ‘Grand Manner’ in Piano Playing,” The Etude vol.55 no.5 (New York), May 1937: 301. Gardner-Webb University.)
Since reading Hamilton’s book, I’ve been fascinated by the idea of the grand manner. Though it had supposedly died out by about 1917—Arthur Friedheim thought this too—could it perhaps have been captured on early recordings? Many of the pianists referenced by Huneker made recordings. Surely there must be examples?
But how would we know it when we see it? The descriptions by Huneker and Rosenthal give us very little concrete information about the style. It is piano-playing that is large, grand, emotional. Is that it?
Having spent a lot of time studying and listening to early recordings of piano-playing, I have occasionally come across recordings that seemed to me to echo the descriptions of Huneker and Rosenthal. It’s playing that possess a quality that, otherwise, might be hard to define. Large, grand, emotional—sure. It also seems to transcend ordinary piano-playing. It’s more than mere virtuosity.
Today I wanted to share just a few of these recordings.
Paul Pabst (1854–1897) plays his paraphrase on Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty. Pabst was professor of piano at the Moscow Conservatory at the time this recording was made. In younger days he studied with Anton Door (1833–1919) and Franz Liszt (1811–1886). This recording, made in the 1890s, on a wax cylinder, is to me one of the great examples of grand piano playing on record. Particularly the majestic sweep of the arpeggios at the beginning, the lightness of the figurations, and the way that the melody carries through with such direct expressiveness, with a freedom that is impossible to imitate. These qualities strike me as exhibiting the grand manner.
Aleksander Michałowski (1851–1938) plays Mendelssohn’s Song Without Words, Op.19 No.3 (Hunting Song). Michałowski was a Polish pianist who studied with a number of the most famous pianists of the nineteenth century: Ignaz Moscheles (1794–1870), who had known Salieri, Beethoven and Mendelssohn; Carl Reinecke (1824–1910), who was a close friend of the Schumanns; and Carl Tausig (1841–1871), arguably Liszt’s greatest pupil. He also met Liszt himself, and befriended Karol Mikuli (1821–1897), who was a pupil of Chopin. It is staggering to think that we can hear the playing of Michałowski, who is just a few degrees of separation removed from so many of history’s greatest composers! In this recording of Mendelssohn’s Hunting Song, he exhibits playing that resembles Pabst’s in a number of ways—particularly the majestic sense of rhythm, and lightness of figuration.
Bernhard Stavenhagen (1862–1914) might be called Liszt’s last pupil. He came to Liszt in Weimar in 1885, and seems to have been a particularly astute student. Arthur Friedheim noted that after Liszt’s death in the following year, 1886, Stavenhagen progressed extremely rapidly as a pianist. This recording of Liszt’s Hungarian Rhapsody No.12 was made on Welte-Mignon piano roll in 1905. According to the label on the roll, this performance was made “after personal recollections of Liszt’s own playing”. The recording demonstrates a number of fascinating things—most obvious is the extremely liberal alterations to Liszt’s score. Stavenhagen adds his own cadenzas and much more. Yet to me it is the style of playing itself that is most alluring. I studied this recording in detail as part of my Honours and Master’s research, alongside other Liszt pupil recordings of Hungarian Rhapsodies. Among all of the recordings I studied, this one always struck me as exhibiting a sense of grandeur, quite unique even among Liszt’s pupils. For further study, I recommend comparing this recording to Alexander Siloti’s roll recording of the same work.
Eugen d’Albert (1864–1932) plays Chopin’s Valse Brillante in A flat, Op.42. Studying early recordings, Chopin’s waltzes are among my favourite pieces to explore. It is fascinating how pianists of the nineteenth century found so many ways to interpret these works, revealing their own personality through Chopin’s notes. D’Albert was one of Liszt’s favourite pupils of the later generation, and from a young age seems to have been a notable exponent of the grand manner, and was among the pianists mentioned by Huneker in his 1917 article. D’Albert made a number of recordings, which might serve as examples of the style. I’ve selected his Chopin Op.42 waltz particularly for the playing in the coda—the last few minutes of the recording. The entire record is unmistakeably grand in outline, but the way he brisks through the coda is just inimitable. Even Rachmaninov can’t keep up in his otherwise comparable recording of this work.
Arthur Friedheim (1859–1932) is the subject of my PhD research. Russian-born of German parentage, he studied with Anton Rubinstein as a teenager, before moving to Germany to study with Liszt. Among Friedheim’s writings, he refers to the grand manner a number of times, and in fact saw it as a distinctive characteristic of Liszt’s pupils, and something that Liszt fostered as a teacher. Friedheim’s recording of Liszt’s La Campanella always struck me as exhibiting many of the qualities discussed above—fleeting lightness of figuration, incredible virtuosity, though he lacks the overwhelmingly expressivity written about by Huneker. A particular sense of the gargantuan comes from Friedheim’s chromatic glissando, not found in Liszt’s score!
Ignaz Friedman (1882–1948) plays Chopin “Revolutionary” Etude, Op.10 No.12. While Huneker saw the grand manner as having begun to vanish by 1917, Friedman is an example of the fact that elements of the style lived on. This recording of Chopin’s famous etude is quite unlike any other I’ve heard, in its tremendous sense of passion, energy and grandeur. He treats the left hand figuration not as mere notes, but as gesture, like a cascading waterfall, or crashing waves. It is at once terrifying and stirring.
Irene Scharrer (1888–1971) plays Mendelssohn’s Rondo Capriccioso, Op.14. Again a later example that demonstrates elements of the style lived on. The tremendous sense of energy that Scharrer brings to the presto section is completely inimitable. She takes four-bar phrases and propels them forward in a single gesture. It is quite unique, and some would perhaps criticise her for taking a tempo too fast—it’s certainly much faster than we are used to hearing. But in the context of the other recordings here, the sense of the grand manner is unmistakeable.
Josef Hofmann (1876–1957) plays Chopin Ballade No.1 in G minor. Hofmann was the most eminent pupil of the greatest exponent of the grand manner—Anton Rubinstein. This recording of Chopin’s first ballade, from a live performance, exhibits a number of fascinating performance practices of the past. The improvised prelude at the beginning is most obvious. The sense of grandeur is unmistakeable in this performance. Yet it is not until the famous coda of the Ballade that we hear the kind of playing described by Huneker as “A musical volcano belching up lava”. It is truly terrifying piano-playing. The emotionalism here is of a different order to many of the other recordings I’m sharing today. It stands out, and is unlike any other performance that I’ve heard of this famous work. Many match Hofmann’s tempo, but few create so much drama.
Enjoy!