The first time a great work is heard there is so much to occupy the attention that only a small amount of pleasure can be derived from it. At the second hearing things are easier and by the twelfth time one's pleasure is complete. The pianist must consider the listener in a first rendering, and endeavor to soften the sharp discords.
With a group of five notes, play two and then three—it sounds more distinguished. Remember that unlearning gives much more trouble than learning.
In this brief résumé of the Von Bülow lessons, the desire has been to convey some of the hints and remarks concerning the music and its interpretation. The master's fleeting sentences were hurriedly jotted down during the lessons, with no thought of their ever being seen except by the owner. But as Bülow's fame as a teacher became so great, these brief notes may now be of some value to both teacher and student.
If it were only possible to create a picture of that Berlin music-room, with its long windows opening out to a green garden—the May sunshine streaming in; the two grand pianos in the center, a row of anxious, absorbed students about the edge of the room—and the short figure of the little Doctor, pacing up and down the polished floor, or seating himself at one piano now and then, to illustrate his instruction. This mental picture is the lifelong possession of each of those players who were so fortunate as to be present at the sessions. It can safely be affirmed, I think, that the principles of artistic rectitude, of exactness and thorough musicianship which were there inculcated, ever remained with the members of that class, as a constant incentive and inspiration.