You know, Aleichem said, "Talent is like money. You either have it or you don't." And I think that the great humorist is wrong here. Because money comes and goes, today you don't have any, tomorrow you do.
But if you don't have talent, then the situation is serious and long-lasting.
Therefore you can't find a fresh approach, it has to find you. A fresh approach to a work of music, as I have seen time and time again, usually comes to those who have a fresh approach to other aspects of life, to life in general-for example, Yudina or Sofronitsky.
But let's return to my pianist friend who naively sought a fresh approach without changing his own life. I didn't want to upset him with my considerations, why upset the man? I had to help him, and I remembered Glazunov's advice about polyphony in playing.
And I said to him, "Why don't you show the polyphonic movement in every piece you play, show how the voices move. Look for the sec-72
ondary voices, the inner movements. That's very interesting and should bring joy. When you find them, show them to the audience, let them be happy too. You'll see, it'll help a lot, the works will come alive immediately."
I remember that I made an analogy with the theater. Most pianists have only one character in the foreground-the melody-and all the rest is just a murky background, a swamp. But plays are usually written for several characters and if only the hero speaks and the others don't reply, the play becomes nonsense and boring. All the characters must speak, so that we hear the question and the answer, and then following the course of the play's action becomes interesting.
And that was my advice to the then already famous pianist, and to my great astonishment, he took it and acted upon it. Success, as they say, was not far behind. He had been considered merely a virtuoso without any particular depth in his playing, but now everyone was proclaiming how intellectual and deep he was. His reputation grew considerably and he even called me to say, "Thank you for a fortunate piece of advice." I replied, "Don't thank me, thank Glazunov."
Glazunov himself loved to sit down at the piano, and once he started playing it was hard to stop him, in fact it was almost impossible. He usually played his own works and he was capable of playing two or three symphonies in a row. I sometimes had the feeling that he went on playing because it was hard for him to get up. That's how sedentary Glazunov was-it was easier to sit and continue playing.
When Glazunov did stand up he invariably mentioned Leopold Godowsky, who always refused to play in company, saying that his fingers stopped moving in a living room. But as soon as he sat down, Godowsky forgot his warning and then it became impossible to drag him away from the piano. I don't know about Godowsky, but as for Glazunov, I was surprised at his childlike desire to play-and to play his own compositions. This trait is common among composers who write by improvising at the piano. This musicmaking holds pleasant memories and associations for them and they readily move their fingers over the keys. The guests are snoring and the hostess is in a panic, but the venerable composer at the piano sees and hears nothing.
But Glazunov, as you know, did not compose at the piano. Here we were in total agreement-for a change-on composing. Glazunov also 73
had to suffer when musical ideas sprang into his head during endless meetings. In fact, many of my acquaintances from the ranks of what are called "creative workers" complain that the most marvelous ideas and concepts come to them during meetings. As a man who has spent many hundreds and perhaps thousands of hours in meetings, I believe them gladly. There must be a special muse-the muse of meetings.
Glazunov usually waited until the composition had formed in his mind and then wrote it down in a final draft. But he did allow for the possibility of corrections or new editions, and so on. Strange, I agree with him about writing only a final draft but not about corrections.
It's strange because if you were to base your opinion of us on these points, you would get the false impression that Glazunov worked hard and that I was free as a bird. Actually, just the reverse is true. Glazunov was and remained a squire when it came to composing and I was a typical proletarian.
It's hard to win the respect of young and rather brazen people, in fact it's almost impossible. But Glazunov earned our respect. His practical knowledge in the important area of musical instruments was invaluable. For too many composers, this area remains terra incognita; they have theoretical textbook knowledge and understanding, but no practical knowledge. Glazunov, for instance, learned to play the violin while writing his violin concerto. You must admit that's a heroic deed.
I know for a fact that Glazunov played many wind instruments, for example, the clarinet.
I always told my students this story. Once Glazunov was in England, conducting his own works there. The British orchestra members were laughing at him. They thought he was a barbarian, and probably an ignoramus, and so on. And they began sabotaging him. I can think of nothing more horrible than an orchestra that has gone out of control at rehearsal. I wouldn't wish it on an enemy. The French horn player stood up and said that he couldn't play a certain note because it was impossible. The other orchestra players heartily supported him. What would I have done in Glazunov's place? I don't know, probably I would have walked out of the rehearsal. But here's what Glazunov did. He silently walked over to the horn player and took his instrument. The stunned musician didn't object. Glazunov "took aim" for a 74
while and then played the required note, the one that the British musician insisted was impossible.
The orchestra applauded, the insurrection was broken, and they continued the rehearsal.
I think that for me the most serious obstacle on the path to conducting was just that-the resistance of the orchestra, which I always expected. I was used to it from my very first steps, from my First Symphony. Overcoming it is the work of born dictators. I don't like feeling that I'm distrusted. That disgusting professional condescension, such confidence, such aplomb and the constant desire to judge, to anathematize, constant distrust and disdain. And incidentally, the higher the orchestra's pay, the more it has of that impenetrable, stubborn . . . professionalism ? No, I would say professional snobbery.
Glazunov liked to say that amateurs would make the best musicians, adding after some thought, "If they only knew how to play."
Do you know the line from Chukovsky's children's story about how hard it is to pull a hippo from a swamp ? Well, I'm pulling a hippo from the swamp of my memory, and the hippo's name is Glazunov.
He is a good, kind, and helpful hippo.
The work of memory goes on and I of ten think about its meaning.
Sometimes I'm sure that the meaning will not be understood by anyone. Other times I'm more optimistic and I think that I'm guaranteed at least one reader who will know what it's about-myself. I'm explaining various people to myself, people whom I knew in various ways-not well, well, and very well. And in one case, perhaps better than anyone else on earth.