_First Stage._ In the first two or three years, man is far behind the animal, whose quick instinct distinguishes the good from the bad, the useful from the injurious. The child, without hesitation, rolls off the table, or knocks his brains out, or destroys himself with poisonous herbs or a.r.s.enic. Nevertheless, let him at that age hear plenty of pure sounds, music, singing, &c. He will soon learn to listen, like the little black poodle. He already has a dim suspicion that other things exist which are not evil, besides mamma, papa, the nurse, the doll, and the sound of words.

_Second Stage._ From the fourth to the seventh year, instinct is developed; which, in the animal, surprises the observer in the first two weeks of life. Now we should begin with the technique, at least with the correct movement of the fingers upon the table. The child should be told that he shall soon produce the pleasant tones, which he has been accustomed to hear from infancy; but that for this a quick and quiet movement of the fingers is necessary, which must be acquired by daily practice. This is entirely in accordance with nature, for man is appointed to learn. Let the child lay his hand upon the table, and knock upon it with the first finger (_i.e._, the thumb) stretched out, without using the muscles of the arm, then with the second, third, and fourth fingers, in an almost perpendicular position, and with the fifth finger extended. Then let him strike a third with the first and third fingers together; a fourth, with the first and fourth fingers; first with the right hand, then with the left hand, and afterwards with both together, &c.

_Third Stage._ From the seventh to the twelfth year. At this stage unruliness makes its appearance, and at the same time--the notes; but not Beethoven. That would indeed be an unfortunate musical indulgence.

Violent outbreaks of untamed strength; unexpected freaks; alternations of rude instinct and quick intelligence, of lofty fancy and artless simplicity; disobedience; much appet.i.te, &c.,--all these must be shaped, and made subservient to the object we have in view. Do you understand me, gentlemen?

_Fourth Stage._ Excellent parents, who desire to see the ripe fruits of your care and labor, have patience! First there comes the foreshadowing of manhood,--a very interesting period. The youth steps out of the animal into the human kingdom, and often is unable to forget his earlier condition, but revels in sweet remembrance of it. Try now, gently and timidly, Beethoven, Chopin, Schumann, and the like. This extraordinary being, "one-fourth animal and three-fourths human,"

requires to be awakened, excited, and to have the imagination aroused; and, above all, requires the most careful guidance. It is necessary to stir and agitate the nature, in order that reflection, conscience, the sensibilities of the soul, feeling, creative power, and all inward conditions shall be developed; and that out of this chaos shall be brought a clear and beautiful order.

_Fifth Stage._ The adult man in his eighteenth year. The year, however, varies with individuals, and can be modified at will. If I should enter into details of the four earlier stages of humanity, and treat in addition of the adult man, I should be obliged to write a philosophical work on the subject, and that might not be entertaining. I should be obliged to beg your indulgence for a tedious book, and my daughters certainly would not thank me for it; they are very sensitive. But I must, nevertheless, secretly whisper in your ear that "my daughters, like the daughters of many others, have been carried through these five stages in the most careful and thorough manner." I ought to know that best. Here you have the answer to many strange questions.

_Cautions._

I warn pianists, and others also, in playing:

1. Against any showy and unsuitable display. Why should you wish to attract attention, and to create an effect by foppishness and all sorts of grimaces, or by curious and marvellous exhibitions of _virtuoso_-ship? You have only to play musically and beautifully, and to deport yourselves with modesty and propriety. Direct your whole attention to the business in hand,--that is, to your performance; and endeavor to secure for it the interest of the public, who are so easily rendered inattentive. We want no more public performances from eccentric geniuses.

2. Do not devote yourself exclusively to pieces calculated to show the skill of the performer. Why desire always to show off your power in octave pa.s.sages, your trills, your facility in skips, your unprecedented stretches, or other fantastic feats? You only produce weariness, satiety, and disgust, or, at least, you make yourselves ridiculous.

3. Play good music in a musical and rational manner. The public are tired of hearing Potpourris, made up of odds and ends, tedious Etudes, Rhapsodies, Fantasias without fancy, dismal monotonies and endless, cheap, silly cadences that mean nothing. Learn to understand the age, and the world in which you live.

4. Do not make yourselves ridiculous by new inventions in piano-playing.

I mention, for example, one of the most foolish affectations of modern times. You try to quiver on a note, just as violin and 'cello players are unfortunately too much inclined to do. Do not expose yourselves to the derision of every apprentice in piano manufacture. Have you no understanding of the construction of the piano? You have played upon it, or have, some of you, stormed upon it, for the last ten years; and yet you have not taken pains to obtain even a superficial acquaintance with its mechanism. The hammer, which by its stroke upon the string has produced the sound, falls immediately when the tone resounds; and after that you may caress the key which has set the hammer in motion, fidget round on it as much as you please, and stagger up and down over it, in your intoxicated pa.s.sion,--no more sound is to be brought out from it, with all your trembling and quivering. It is only the public who are quivering with laughter at your absurdity.

5. Give up the practice of extreme stretches. Widely dispersed harmonies may sometimes produce a good effect, but not by too frequent and too eager an employment of them at every opportunity. Even the greatest beauties in art can lead to mannerism, and this again to one-sidedness.

Art should be many-sided, and you must never produce the impression that you are inclined to make the means an end. I beg you to reflect that too much practice of very wide stretches enfeebles the muscles and the power of the hand and fingers, endangers an even, sound touch, and makes the best style of playing a doubtful acquisition. Teachers ought therefore to use great prudence, and only gradually to permit their pupils, especially young girls, to practise great extensions and wide stretches.

To learn to be able to strike ten notes is quite enough.

6. Before you perform a piece, play a few suitable chords, and a few appropriate pa.s.sages or scales up and down (but play no stupid trash, such as I have heard from many _virtuosos_), in order to try whether the condition of the instrument presents any unexpected difficulties. Try carefully also the unavoidable pedal. A creaking, rattling, grating pedal is a frightful annoyance; I wonder if the piano of "the future" is to suffer from this also. Chopin's Funeral March, with obligato accompaniment of a squeaking pedal sentiment, even although the omissions and mistakes in the ba.s.s do not occur,--alas! who can describe the effect of this melancholy march?

7. I have written a special article on the manner of sitting at the piano, and I will refer you once more to that.

8. Use no mechanical aids in practising, not even the dumb key-board; although, with very careful use, that is not without value. Strength will come with time; do not try to hurry nature. The table is the best "dumb key-board," as I have already explained. The "hand-guide" is also unnecessary: its value is compensated by its disadvantages.

9. Do not let your hearers crowd too near while you are playing. Do not play the same piece _da capo_. You may be justified in breaking off in the midst of a piece, if there is loud and continuous talking, &c.

I hope you will give me the honor of your company again at my soirees: I am no writer of comedies, but I can tell you a great deal that is interesting and amusing which I have myself experienced.

CHAPTER XIV.

EXTRAVAGANCES IN SINGING AND PIANO-PLAYING.

_(An Evening Party at Mr. Gold's.)_

DRAMATIS PERSONae.

MR. GOLD, _the banker (fond of music)._ MRS. GOLD _(sings, and is an invalid.)_ MR. SILVER, _bookkeeper (formerly a singer with Strauss)._ MR. PIOUS, _a friend of the family (a musical impostor, and a hypocrite generally)._ MR. FORTE, _a foreign piano virtuoso (of weak nerves)._ DOMINIE, _a piano-teacher._ EMMA, _his daughter._

(_Mrs. Gold has just been singing in the modern Italian manner; suddenly alternating exaggerated high and low tones, given in a jerking manner, with inaudible _pianissimo_ in the throat, and quavering on every note, with many ornaments, and always a quarter of a tone too flat. She sang all the four verses of "Fondly I Think of Thee" by Krebs._)

DOMINIE. Will you not go on, Mrs. Gold? The piano is a little too high, and you are obliged to accustom yourself a little to it.

MRS. GOLD. I cannot sing any more. That beautiful song has taken such hold of me, and I feel so badly. (_Whispers to Dominie._) Mr. Forte did not accompany me well, either: sometimes he did not come in right, and played too feebly; and sometimes he improvised too much in playing, and overpowered my voice, which is a little weak just now.

DOMINIE (_aside to Emma_). What an evening of singing! Oh dear!

MR. GOLD (_who has been earnestly talking about stocks all the evening in an adjoining room, rushes in, but rather late, after the close of the song, and impetuously presses his wife's hand_). Marvellous!

magnificent! delicious! wonderful! My dear, you are in excellent voice this evening. If Jenny Lind could only have heard you!

MR. PIOUS. Charming! superb! how touching! There is a religious character in this piece, something holy about it! I beg of you, do sing that air by Voss, "True Happiness." That will make our enjoyment complete; it is truly ravishing! There is something divine in singing, and your expression, your feeling, Madam! You give yourself up so entirely to the composition!

(_Mrs. Gold has already taken up "True Happiness," and can hardly wait while Mr. Forte murmurs off the introduction, quite after his own fancy, with a sentimental _piano_. Mr. Pious drops a tear at the close of the introduction, the four bars of which have been transformed into eight bars by the great _virtuoso_. During the tremulous, affected performance of "True Happiness," Mr. Pious rolls up his moistened eyes; and, at the end of the first verse, where the accompanist once more gives the reins to his fancy, he says, "I am speechless, I cannot find words to express my emotion!"_)

DOMINIE (_aside to Emma_). That you may call forged sentiment, the counterfeit of feeling. You hear now how one ought _not_ to sing. For an earnest, true musician, such a warmth in singing is only empty affectation, disgusting, sentimental rubbish, and hollow dissimulation.

You will, however, frequently meet with such amateur infelicities.

(_Mrs. Gold has finished singing all the verses of "True Happiness," and seems now to have almost entirely recovered. Mr.

Gold continues to converse about stocks in the adjoining room.

Dominie remains with Emma at the end of the parlor, depressed and worried._)

MR. FORTE (_keeps his seat at the piano, and says in French to Mrs.

Gold_). Madam, you have reached the climax of the beautiful in music. I count it one of the happiest moments of my artistic tour to be allowed to breathe out my soul at the piano, in the presence of one like yourself. What a loss, that your position must prevent you from elevating the German opera to its former greatness, as its most radiant star!

MRS. GOLD (_by this time quite well_). I must confess that Jenny Lind never quite satisfied me when she was here. She is, and must always remain, a Swede,--utterly cold. If she had been educated here, she would have listened to more pa.s.sionate models than in Stockholm, and that would have given the true direction to her sensibility.

MR. FORTE. You are quite right; you have a just estimate of her. In Paris, where she might have heard such examples, she lived in perfect retirement. I was giving concerts there at the time; but she refused to sing in my concerts, and therefore she did not even hear me.

MR. SILVER (_whom the excitement of the singing has at length reached_).

Do you feel inclined now, Madam, to execute with me the duet from "The Creation," between Adam and Eve?

MRS. GOLD. Here is "The Creation," but we will sing it by and by. Mr.

Forte is just going to play us his latest composition for the left hand, and some of the music of that romantic, deeply sensitive Chopin.

MR. GOLD (_rushes in from his stock discussion_). Oh, yes! Chopin's B major mazourka! That was also played at my house by Henselt, Thalberg, and Dreyschock. Oh, it is touching!

ALL (_except Mr. Silver, Dominie, and Emma_). Oh, how touching!

DOMINIE (_to his daughter_). If he plays it in the same manner in which he accompanied "True Happiness," you will hear how this mazourka should _not_ be played. It, by the way, is not at all _touching_: it gives quite boldly the Polish dance rhythm, as it is improvised by the peasants in that country; but it is, however, idealized after Chopin's manner.

(_Mr. Forte plays several perilous runs up and down with various octave pa.s.sages, all the time keeping his foot on the pedal; and connects with these immediately, and without a pause, the mazourka, which he commences _presto_. He played it without regard to time or rhythm, but with a constant _rubato_, and unmusical jerks. A few notes were murmured indistinctly _pp._, and played very _ritardando_; then suddenly a few notes were struck very rapidly and with great force, so that the strings rattled; and the final B major chord cost the life of one string._)