Rubinstein Concert: 6th

“The great pianist played last evening at Steinway Hall the following works [see above]. The Concerto was heard for the first time in this country, and it is a work of great interest. It is of the pastorale order, quite a new phase of style of the talented composer, and instrumented as only a genius like he could accomplish. It was fortunate for Mr. Grau that he selected Carl Bergmann as his chef d’orchestre, for few musicians would be able to follow, or rather anticipate, the wayward imaginings of a man like Rubinstein. His tempi are entirely arbitrary and change at the most unexpected intervals, and his impetuous spirit disregards more conventional rules. The Concerto is one of the most attractive of his works and deals less in the orchestral effects of its brethren. Some of the themes are of that melodious character that takes hold of an audience. One adagio, in particular, left a lasting impression.

Wieniawski again covered himself with glory. He played Ernst’s brilliant fantasia in ‘Il Pirato,’ and one of the most attractive melodies that ever Bellini wrote was rendered by him with all the expression and sentiment that music is capable of. Again, in an arrangement of his own of Russian airs, he awoke the sympathies of his hearers. We have had many splendid violinists in America for years past, but none that could in any sense of the word compare with Henri Wieniawski. Mlle. Liebhart sung a dashing polonaise by Weber, and Mlle. Ormeny an aria of Rossini.”

“The sixth Rubinstein concert took place at Steinway Hall last evening. It was marked by the familiar incidents, and was attended by the usual excellent results. Both Mr. Rubinstein and Mr. Wieniawski played superbly, and the audience never wearied of recalling the artists in token of the delight with which their efforts filled them. The pianist commenced the entertainment with his admirable concerto No. 3 in G major, and in the second part he recited a nocturne by Field, a minuet by Schubert, a ballad by Chopin, three of Mendelssohn’s ‘Songs Without Words,’ and the march from ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream.’ Mr. Rubinstein’s execution of all these pieces suggests remarks which, if made, would be repetitions of earlier references. No painter has at his disposal a greater variety of color than Mr. Rubinstein has in his touch, and compositions of almost every style find in him an interpreter of equal sensibility and technical skill. We do not, however, admire the performer’s rendering of Chopin equally with his other readings. The excessive brilliancy and might of his delivery are not easily subdued, and we have heard the ballad in G minor sung with more impressiveness than was given it last night. The concerto was a magnificent performance; the ‘Songs Without Words’ were expressive in a degree never before attained; the effect of the march from the well-known setting of Shakespeare's fairy story, can only be pictured to one’s self by him who has listened already to the Titanic power of Mr. Rubinstein. Mr. Wieniawski’s pieces were Ernst’s air from Bellini’s ‘Il Pirata,’ with variations, and his own Russian airs. We have never heard a more eloquent andante than that with which the violinist prefaced the remembered tune; for purity and volume of tone and breadth of bowing, nothing better could be wished. After-passages with staccati and a profusion of double notes, showed that Mr. Wieniawski is facile princeps of executants conspicuous for their mastery of the mechanical difficulties of the instrument; and his Russian airs reaffirmed the fact, and caused so positive a manifestation of the public desire for a supplement to his announced contributions to the bill, that a portion of the work was repeated.”

“On Tuesday evening, Oct. 1, we had a rare pleasure in the shape of a Rubinstein concert, No. 6 of the series;--and how we do miss them now that they are over! The programme was as follows [see above].

These concerts afford the singular spectacle of a large audience, composed, in the main, of people not truly musical, listening attentively night after night to a programme of classical pieces interpreted by two instrumental artists, both of whom are thoroughly severe in their style of playing, and perfectly free from those tricks and mannerisms which are sure to catch the fancy of an average audience.

From the success of these concerts some people, with more charity than logic, draw the inference that our public has suddenly become ‘musical,’ and then they proceed to talk about the career of an artist being ‘incomplete’ until the opinion of Paris and London has been ‘sanctioned by the voice of New York.’

It is only a little while since I heard Nilsson sing ‘Old Folks at home’ in Steinway Hall, and, having heard that lady frequently in ‘Paris and London,’ and knowing something of the music which she sings there, I could not help wondering what she thought of us. I suppose she must have been thinking how she would feel when the world’s opinion had been ‘sanctioned by the voice of New York.’

And now Wieniawski, being encored, responds with a negro melody, evidently under the firm conviction that it is our national air. The love of art, and most of all in music, is no mushroom growth, and never will be, nor is such a thing to be wished. We have abundant cause for rejoicing in the fact that we are advancing towards a purer taste and a higher standard in music, and that our progress is plainly evident, bringing with it the means of constantly increasing advancement. Let that suffice. 

It is therefore not purely an art motive which brings the general public to hear Rubinstein. To an observer it appears that nine-tenths of the auditors are charmed by his virtuosity, which alone would be a stock in trade for a dozen ordinary pianists, and that the fine, subtile genius, the real essence of his playing, is by the majority unnoticed. For example, one of the pieces in which he has found most favor is an arrangement of Beethoven’s March from the ‘Ruins of Athens.’ His first rendering of this brought down the house at once and it has since been several times included in his programmes ‘by particular request.’ Now this march, being utterly commonplace and cranky, affords no scope whatever for the exercise of the pianist’s finer powers; but its mediocrity is redeemed by a decrescendo which I have never heard equaled, or ever approached, though all that the piece requires is simply virtuosity of the highest order. Compare the applause which follows with the faint praise called forth by a rendering of Chopin’s Ballade, in which the piano sings like a siren, where the true nature and greatness of the artist are clearly revealed.”