Posted by: AndrewG
Alkan Anecdote - 07/10/01 07:06 AM
A short story of interest:
"One day I was passing by the small rooms on the first floor of the Maison Erard, reseved only for great pianists, for their practice and lessons. At the time the rooms were all empty except one, from which could be heard the great Triple-Prelude in E flat by Bach played on a pedalier. I listened, riveted to the spot by the expressive, crystal-clear playing of a little old man, frail in appearance, who, without seeming to suspect my presence, continued the piece right to the end. Then, turning to me: 'Do you know this music?' he asked. I replied that, as an organ pupil in Franck's class at the Conservatoire, I could scarcely ignore such a fine work. 'Play me something' he added, giving up the piano stool for me. Although somewhat over-awed, I managed to play quite cleanly the C Major Fugue - the one affectionately known as The Mastersingers because of its similarity to a certain Wagnerian theme.
Without comment he returned to the piano saying 'I am Charles-Valentin Alkan and I'm just preparing for my annual series of six 'Petits Concerts' at which I play only the finest things'. Then, without giving me a moment to reply: 'Listen well. I'm going to play you, for you alone, Beethoven's Opus 110 - listen...' What happened to the great Beethovenian poem beneath the skinny, hooked fingers of the little old man I couldn't begin to describe - above all in the Arioso and the Fugue, where the melody, penetrating the mystery of Death itself, climbs up to a blaze of light, affected me with an excess of enthusiasm such as I have never experienced since. This was not Liszt - perhaps less perfect, technically - but it had greater intimacy and was more humanly moving...
'Without giving me a chance to speak, Alkan shoved me violently over to the window and looking straight into my eyes, pronounced these words - words which are precious to me and whose well-meaning bluntness I have never forgotten: 'You - you're going to be an artist, a real one...farewell, we will not see eachother again...' Indignant, I protested that I would be in the front row at his next 'Petit Concert'. He replied, more sadly: 'No, we will never see each other again'.
Some compulsory occupation connected with my life in Paris prevented me from being present at the first 'Petit Concert'; on the evening of the second I had an engagement in the provinces; other obstacles on the third. In short, several years passed before I managed to find a free evening and then, at the moment I was about to go to one of these concerts, I read in a paper that Charles-Valentin Alkan had just died'.
The preceding was an extract from the recollections of Vincent D'Indy. Not only does it shed light on Alkan's playing and personality as an old man, but, as Ronald Smith says in his Alkan biography, '...it is also psychologically revealing , coming as it does from an avowed anti-semite writing just fifty-five years after the event.'
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Any recs of piano works by these two composers?
"One day I was passing by the small rooms on the first floor of the Maison Erard, reseved only for great pianists, for their practice and lessons. At the time the rooms were all empty except one, from which could be heard the great Triple-Prelude in E flat by Bach played on a pedalier. I listened, riveted to the spot by the expressive, crystal-clear playing of a little old man, frail in appearance, who, without seeming to suspect my presence, continued the piece right to the end. Then, turning to me: 'Do you know this music?' he asked. I replied that, as an organ pupil in Franck's class at the Conservatoire, I could scarcely ignore such a fine work. 'Play me something' he added, giving up the piano stool for me. Although somewhat over-awed, I managed to play quite cleanly the C Major Fugue - the one affectionately known as The Mastersingers because of its similarity to a certain Wagnerian theme.
Without comment he returned to the piano saying 'I am Charles-Valentin Alkan and I'm just preparing for my annual series of six 'Petits Concerts' at which I play only the finest things'. Then, without giving me a moment to reply: 'Listen well. I'm going to play you, for you alone, Beethoven's Opus 110 - listen...' What happened to the great Beethovenian poem beneath the skinny, hooked fingers of the little old man I couldn't begin to describe - above all in the Arioso and the Fugue, where the melody, penetrating the mystery of Death itself, climbs up to a blaze of light, affected me with an excess of enthusiasm such as I have never experienced since. This was not Liszt - perhaps less perfect, technically - but it had greater intimacy and was more humanly moving...
'Without giving me a chance to speak, Alkan shoved me violently over to the window and looking straight into my eyes, pronounced these words - words which are precious to me and whose well-meaning bluntness I have never forgotten: 'You - you're going to be an artist, a real one...farewell, we will not see eachother again...' Indignant, I protested that I would be in the front row at his next 'Petit Concert'. He replied, more sadly: 'No, we will never see each other again'.
Some compulsory occupation connected with my life in Paris prevented me from being present at the first 'Petit Concert'; on the evening of the second I had an engagement in the provinces; other obstacles on the third. In short, several years passed before I managed to find a free evening and then, at the moment I was about to go to one of these concerts, I read in a paper that Charles-Valentin Alkan had just died'.
The preceding was an extract from the recollections of Vincent D'Indy. Not only does it shed light on Alkan's playing and personality as an old man, but, as Ronald Smith says in his Alkan biography, '...it is also psychologically revealing , coming as it does from an avowed anti-semite writing just fifty-five years after the event.'
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Any recs of piano works by these two composers?
Andrew,