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Musical Courier 1893-05-17: Vol 26 Iss 689, 1893
144 lines. Read by computer on 25 September 2026. Printed page 31. See the scan on archive.org.
1Paderewski's Only Pupil.
3IT was on the opening night of Henschel's Symphony concerts that I first met Miss Szumowska, while the St. James' Hall was ringing with the enthusiastic applause of the audience for her refined and beautiful rendering of Weber's "Concertstück."
5The invitation then given was productive of an interview which it is pleasurable now to sit down and recall. It was on November 9. The Lord Mayor's Show had made progress through London difficult, and I was an hour late in getting to St. John's Wood; but it is a blessing to meet eminent virtuosi who are homely, and I shall always remember the welcome I received from Szumowska when I stepped out of the fog into the house in Wellington road where she was staying. The sounds of Chopin's nocturne in C minor fell on my ear when I entered, but ceased as a door in the hall opened, and Szumowska met me with friendly eyes and greetings, to which Prince, a white Pomeranian, barked an encore.
7Dress does much to indicate the character of the woman wearing it. Szumowska wore a gown of a dark green Scotch tartan, made in a charmingly simple manner. She is tall and slender, with a mouth and eyes ready to break into smiles, and possesses a fascinating grace of manner, with an undercurrent of seriousness, through which the light of genius shines.
9"I was practicing for my tour," said Szumowska with a smile, as we passed into the drawing room, where stood the Erard grand whose tones I had heard. Prince followed, and having presently satisfied himself as to my intention stretched himself contentedly at my feet while we conversed, and in our conversation was reflected the past of Szumowska's life; the little town of Lublin, where she was born, about 50 miles from Warsaw; her teachers Strobl, Michalowski and Gorski; her student days at the Warsaw Conservatoire, and her father, professor of languages, and at one time exiled to Siberia.
11"His pupils loved him so much, and were so devoted to him that the Russian Government thought he must be a very dangerous man," said Szumowska with an expressive look; "so he was exiled. There is hardly a Polish family that has not a member or relative in Siberia."
13Tea was presently brought out, and over a refreshing cup I learnt much of interest.
15"Life has had its sorrows for all," I tritely remarked, musing on our conversation.
17"Yes," said Szumowska, handing me the basket of dainty cakes. "Let us sweeten them."
19I laughed, and asked if she "felt nervous when playing at concerts."
21"You ask me if I know what nervousness means," said this pupil of Paderewski. "I am so nervous before a recital that I am not able to eat for some time previously. Like Paderewski, I feel as if I would rather be buried than go on to the concert platform."
23"If your children love music do not make them artists," she continued; "it is a very hard life. Yet I love my profession so much that I would not be anything other than what I am."
25Szumowska as a child of three showed her intense love of music. At this early age she amused herself by picking out tunes on the piano and was remarkable for her good memory of pieces she heard.
27Later, as a student under Michalowski at the Warsaw Conservatoire, she made great progress; but Paderewski was the teacher that opened up and made music a living force to her, and through him she first came to a clear understanding of her powers and expectations. I listened with interest as she quietly and earnestly spoke of the brilliant virtuoso's influence on her career.
29"I first knew him in Warsaw about ten years ago, and he then gave me a few lessons. When my father died it was uncertain if I should go to Paris or Vienna. I went to Paris, and again met Paderewski at the house of my relations and his friends, Mr. and Mrs. Gorski. He was good enough to take me as his pupil. There is not another teacher like him, and nearly all I know I owe to him." The tones of her voice and the look on Szumowska's face gave evidence of the debt she felt she owed to the genius of her countryman.
31Earnest, thoughtful and constant practice is the lot of a piano virtuoso, although Szumowska "cannot remember the time when she did not play," and her technic, from her early training, must be perfect, yet she constantly practices five hours a day, and frequently before starting on a tour, such as she has been making the past three weeks, eight hours a day. Those who have had opportunities of hearing her play must have understood that it is not mere note production of a piece of Beethoven's or Chopin's to which they have listened, but that a reproduction of the composer's living thought has been presented to them, such as is only possible to be given by one who by perfect devotion to music and its poetical aims has gained an insight into its inner significance.
33Before I left Szumowska played with the fire and soul which only a true musician can possess some of Chopin's compositions. Like a magician, Szumowska possesses the power to transmute and transform into transparent crystal Chopin's emotional materials, and by the exquisite refinement of her diction make her hearers understand the thoughts and weird eccentricity of her countryman.
35"Who else but Chopin could be my favorite composer?" she replied to my query on this point.
37As we were parting I asked her opinion of English audiences.
39"I did not think, before I came to England, she replied, that the English people were so musical, or that they liked such serious music."—London "Magazine of Music."
41The Little Violinist.
43ON the outskirts of a great city in Germany there lived a poor widow and her little son. Mrs. Aurlich earned a scanty livelihood with her needle, and little Berthold made himself useful by gathering wood, running errands, and working in their small garden during the summer. The warm weather was a pleasant season, but in the winter when work was scarce they were often hungry.
45But Berthold was not unhappy; he lived in an ideal world, a heaven of harmony. For him all nature was an orchestra; he heard music in the whispering of the great pines in the forest behind his cottage home, in the evening zephyrs, in the tinkling streams, in the chiming of the church bells in the village near by; at night a mighty chorus of unseen minstrels lulled him to sleep.
47Mrs. Aurlich's health began to fail and she was finally obliged to give up the little work she already had. One day when Berthold was absent in the forest gathering wood he was detained until quite late. He hurried home, and as he approached the cottage he saw that there was no light shining from the window.
49With an anxious heart he hurried into the house and called his mother, but received no answer. He groped his way across the room through the darkness, and stumbled over her, where she lay unconscious on the cold floor.
51Very much alarmed, the lad knelt down and chafed her hands and sprinkled some water on her face. After a while Mrs. Aurlich opened her eyes and, assisted by Berthold, managed to reach the bed, and for several days the lad was her only nurse.
53The poor woman did not seem to improve. She needed some nourishing food and medicine, but these cannot be obtained without money. Berthold begged her to allow him to go into the village and borrow some money from a relative residing there, but this she would not consent to; she was very proud, and the relations between herself and her relatives had not been very cordial since she had become poor.
55The widow did not realize that she was very ill, and she thought that a few days' rest would restore her again; she felt no severe pain, but was very languid and weary; breathing was difficult, and her head and hands were hot and feverish, while her feet were like "blocks of ice."
57It was a very cold day; the sky was dark and threatening, and Berthold heaped the little fireplace with wood, but the heat all went up the chimney, and the house was very cold.
59He had only a crust of black bread for his breakfast; the last of the loaf was nearly gone, and he had put the last grain of chickory coffee into the pot to make a cup for his mother. There was no milk or sugar for it, and when the mixture was hot he went over to the bed.
61"Dear mother," he whispered softly.
63She lay very still, her eyes closed, her hands crossed over her breast. She looked like the picture of a dead saint he had seen in the art gallery of the city which he had once visited with his father. The sick woman opened her eyes, and smiling began to caress his hand.
65"Will you have some coffee, mother?"
67To please him she assented, but when he brought it to her she could not drink it; her stomach was too weak to retain it.
69"Let it rest on the table," she whispered, "it is too hot. I will drink it by and by."
71The tears came to the boy's eyes, for he knew that the mixture was too strong for her, and that she needed some light and nourishing food. He tucked the clothes about her, and smoothed the pillow. His mother thanked him with a smile, and kissed him tenderly.
73"You are a good boy," she whispered.
75The lad went to replenish the fire, and when this was done he saw that his mother was asleep. There was a deep flush on her face and her fingers were working nervously.
77Berthold sat on a low stool before the fire in deep thought for some time; suddenly he arose and went over to a little cupboard. He took from it something covered with an old coat; this he unrolled and disclosed a violin, small, and yellow with age.
79He examined the strings carefully, and then placed it at his shoulder and drew the back of the bow noiselessly across the strings. Suddenly he heard a low tap at the door, and without waiting to lay aside the instrument he went and opened the door.
81"Good morning, Gretchen!" he exclaimed; "come in and shut the door softly. My mother is asleep."
83Gretchen, the daughter of their nearest neighbor, entered the cottage. She was about the same age as Berthold; her eyes were blue as the skies, and her hair yellow as gold. In her hands she carried something wrapped up in a towel.
85"What have you there?"
87"Mother sent over a bowl of rabbit soup," replied the girl, "and she said I might stay over here all day and clean up the house."
89"She is very good," said Berthold; "I am afraid my mother is going to die!"
91Now the lad was a manly little fellow, but he loved his mother very much, and he felt so miserable that he sat down on the stool and began to sob.
93"Dear Berthold," cried Gretchen, "do not cry. The good God will spare your mother, I am sure. Do not let her see you grieving, for that will only distress her."
95"You are right," said the lad, rising from the stool and brushing away the tears from his face. "Now, Gretchen, I am going to ask a favor of you."
97"Of me?"
99"Yes," said the lad, "it is this: I am going away for a few hours, and I want you to stay with my mother until I return."
101"But where are you going?"
103"Do not ask me, please. Will you stay here until I return?"
105"Why of course, but——"
107"Thank you, dear Gretchen," and Berthold wrapped the violin up in the old cloth and then put on his thick jacket and fur cap.
109"When my mother wakes up tell her that I am out in the forest and that you expect me home very soon. It may be late before I get home, and I will stop at your house now and tell them that you will remain with us until to-morrow."
111The lad went over to his mother, but he was afraid to kiss her, as it might waken her. He barely touched his lips to her hair, and then, after giving Gretchen a few directions about the fire, he hurried out, softly closing the door after him.
113He looked back once or twice, and he could see the girl's fair face in the window watching him. He waved his hand to her and hurried on. He stopped at the farmhouse where Gretchen lived, and begged her parents to permit her to stay with his mother until morning. They were kind hearted people and consented; they insisted on his drinking a bowl of milk, which was very acceptable. After thanking them he set out on his journey.
115A wind storm raged violently, so that the lad could scarcely see his way, and the drifts of snow were often far above his waist. On either hand the fields stretched white with snow; the pine and fir trees which skirted the road presented curious and fantastic forms, and the bushes were like goblins with white sheets around them.
117It was already quite dark when he reached the great city, although the hour was early. At first the lad was fairly bewildered with the unaccustomed noise and bustle, the crowds of people and the thousands of brilliant lights which he had never seen before.
119But in order to carry out his plans successfully and reach home that night, Berthold knew that he had no time to spare.
121He selected a place near a public square and took the cloth from the violin; with trembling fingers he tightened and tuned the strings and then began to play.
123In a very short time a crowd gathered around him, but he did not mind them in the least, and played on. Two men, tall and distinguished, attracted by the sight stopped to listen.
125"What have we here, Hans?" said one.
127"A wandering minstrel, Ole. Let us go nearer and have a peep."
129They crossed over the street and pushed their way through the crowd. The stranger called Ole went over to the lad, and smiling down upon him asked him where he lived and why he was out so late.
131In a few words the lad told the gentleman his simple but touching story. The tall stranger stooped and took the lad up in his arms and kissed him.
133"You must come with me," he said, and his face and voice were so kind that Berthold was not at all alarmed.
135The two men spoke rapidly in a strange language and halted before a magnificent palace brilliant with many lights. They entered, the tallest still bearing Berthold in his arms.
137They passed through an elegant corridor with wonderful pictures and thousands of lights until they came to the door of a chamber at the end. The stranger put the lad down and brushed his hair a little.
139"Fear nothing," he whispered; "remember we are your friends."
141They entered a magnificent apartment, which was crowded with elegantly dressed ladies and gentlemen. One of the company, an old, white-haired man, came forward to welcome them; the tall stranger whispered something, and Berthold could see by their looks and gestures that he was the subject of their conversation, and that the old gentleman seemed to be very much amused.
143He came over to the lad and pinched his cheek. The lad noticed that his breast was covered with ribbons and stars, and he knew he must be some great prince. After a few
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