A chapter from THE ORCHESTRA SPEAKS by Bernard Shore London: Longmans, Green and Co., 1938

 WILLEM MENGELBERG is one of those great virtuoso conductors who come to this country with an almost legendary reputation for training and handling an orchestra. And it  takes a very short time to find out that his reputation is no mere legend!

 Similar to Koussevitsky in his amazing skill and mastery of the orchestra, as in his outlook on music, he is of a more rugged nature and does not go to the extreme of his Russian counterpart.

 Short in stature, inclined to be stout, with small features set in a large head, and a mass of  red hair that stands up like a halo, he makes a first impression of fierceness; but when his face  relaxes in a genial grin fancy will not be denied the thought of another Mengelberg who might  have been a marvellous clown. This is irresistible when he indulges in the histrionic art and,  striking an attitude, he declaims, "Zis is der phrase of an Olympic Mann!" After a sound that  displeases him, he will purse up all his features, and produce a delicious grimace, worthy of  Grock himself.  This sense of humour dispels the somewhat uncompromising expression at first  apparent. At rehearsal he removes his coat, revealing a long waistcoat with seven buttons.

 He looks robust and his face is young for his age, which he says is "nearly eighty"; and  his vitality throughout his rehearsals never flags for a moment, though he drives himself  hard the  whole time. When it comes to the concert he becomes a geyser of energy. His eyes are then  compelling–or repelling if he takes a dislike to any one, and he has the trick of taking in every  player individually. His magnetism comes from the man's whole personality. He seems to  increase in stature upon the rostrum. And his will is felt, rather than seen. His baton, which is  often dispensed with (on account, as he says, of an irritating corn) is used as a time-beater only,  and for indicating rhythmic impulse; it is quite independent of his left hand, which is responsible  for the entire range of expression and for balance.

 He goes to pains to explain his left-hand gestures, a trait unusual in conductors who  generally take it for granted that every gesture they make is absolutely unmistakable. When he  wishes a certain solo to stand out he points with his first and second finger at the player  concerned, and the rest of the orchestra must immediately give way. If the accompaniment is still  too loud, he continues to point until the balance is correct. He does not, if he can possibly avoid  it, make a gesture of restraint. The accompanying section of the orchestra has to understand that  without his aid.

 Such a wealth of detail is studied at rehearsal that he does not expect any trouble in  balance at the concert. His hand then is generally concerned in directing the curve of the  music and imbuing it with life and character. When a string passage is to be played with the utmost  warmth and emotion  he will curve his left arm up, as if he were a violinist at the great climax of  a concerto holding his instrument as in ecstasy; and if it is a tune for any one of the three upper  strings, he likes them to raise their instruments a little higher than is normal. "Ysayeissimo," he  exclaims. In a great climax this gesture of extra effort is also required of the brass--horns,  trumpets and trombones being directed to raise their instruments over the top of their stands.   His left hand may appear rather hard and unyielding but can none the less be made  wonderfully sensitive and is capable of inspiring the most exquisite tenderness; witness the last  episode of `Heldenleben', which in his hands must be matchless for sheer beauty.

 He rarely singles out any player for especial praise and is sparing with compliments of  any kind. Yet at the concert he will let a "bravo!" escape him, which has a real sincerity behind it  and is encouraging at a moment of strain. There can be a great kindliness in his rugged face, and  though it does not always appear, it makes him very human. In former days, it is said that he  ruled his orchestras with a rod of iron. With the years has come a certain mellowness, though he  remains intolerant as before of any playing less than perfect. Instead of instilling fear into the  hearts of his victims, he now turns to the art of dissertation, which is a strong feature of his  methods of rehearsal. He will talk for ten minutes on end, and one can imagine his own orchestra  at Amsterdam quietly sitting with their instruments on their knees, waiting for the rain of words  to stop. Orchestras that are not used to him are rather tried by continually having their  instruments up, ready to play, only to be caught by a sudden change of subject instead of the  attack for which they have been holding their breath. He will go on talking for quite a long time  with both arms still raised in the air at the "ready." During such discourses his waistcoat buttons offer themselves for counting, the more so since there are seven of them instead of six.

 These dissertations are full of sound matter, and they take far less toll of the precious  energy of the orchestra than the incessant demands for white-hot playing made by such a  conductor as Koussevitsky whose rehearsals are like a series of terrific concerts. The great  drawback is the havoc Mengelberg makes of the time-table. Punctual in beginning rehearsal and  in resuming at the end of the fifteen minutes interval, he ignores the other aspects of time. He  stretches the hours like elastic, which nearly breaks by the end of the last rehearsal. Half an hour  after the rehearsal should have come to an end, he finds still one more piece which he has not yet  touched. Right through his rehearsals time is of no importance. He will spend an hour and a half  upon the exposition of the first movement of a concerto, with the soloist scarcely playing a note;   and, at a final rehearsal, when every minute is precious, will change a whole lay-out, and have a  piano and harpsichord removed from the platform, in order to begin with the work he has in  mind. This meant once that an unfortunate artist who was to play the harpsichord in a Vivaldi  concerto had to rehearse his part sitting in the stalls without an instrument.

 This little matter of time apart, his great experience enables him to solve every orchestral  problem. In a difficult work like `Heldenleben' he hears everything and sees at the same time;  instantly puts his finger on a weak spot, and proceeds to clear it up without losing his temper; and  never resorts to sarcasm, or the time-honoured remark that every other orchestra "plays this  easily."

 Not the least part of his success in getting results is due to the scrupulously marked parts  he brings with him. Detailed as possible in bowing, phrasing, and breathing instructions, they are  all admirably practical and there is a definite purpose behind every mark.

 As far as the strings are concerned, he is very definite that solo playing and orchestral  playing require two different styles, and the bowing is marked accordingly. Knowing to the finest  point what will sound clear to the farthest member of the audience, he is not content with  apparent clarity on the rostrum. He knows that a string passage which, played in a certain way,  would be perfectly satisfactory on a solo violin, may when played by a group of twenty, sound  muddy at the end of the hail. He knows exactly the kind of bow to be used with the greatest  effect. He mostly avoids too much legato in the strings, for, he says, definition tends to be  blurred--"it will sound quite legato enough if there is air between the strokes of the bow."   This brings us to his favourite manner of expressing blurred playing. In a very scornful  and powerful voice he will exclaim "Ter-der!" with the accent on the first syllable, and at the  same time he makes a horrible scraping on his desk with his baton. The correct sound he wants is  then indicated by his rapping out sharply with the butt end of his stick. "Ti-ta-to!" is his  opposite exclamation to "Ter-der!" standing for clear, incisive playing and attack. The orchestra  soon gets used to this dreary "Ter-der!" and takes all possible pains to avoid its recurrence. The  exclamation, with the attendant nerveÄracking scrape, is inclined to put the players on  edge--which is precisely what he wants.

 Mengelberg's rehearsals all point to the concert--he does not rehearse for rehearsing's  sake, though he may talk for talking's sake. His unremitting attention to technical details of every  kind, as they arise, results in magnificent and confident playing, which it is doubtful whether any  conductor can surpass. The orchestra is completely and always confident in him, for he appears  never to do anything different on the night from what he has previously shown at rehearsals.  There are conductors who ignore points they have repeatedly made at rehearsal and who may  give a different beat in a place where the orchestra is expecting an especially clear lead.   Mengelberg is not one of them. He is the complete master in every way, and leaves no doubt  whatever of his intentions even in playing an unfamiliar and unrehearsed work--which is most  unusual, for the conductor who is accustomed to adequate rehearsal is seldom at his ease when  playing "on his verve."

 A virtuoso conductor, on his first appearance in front of a strange orchestra, generally  says "Impossible!" and straightway proceeds to completely change the whole lay-out.   Mengelberg, however, does not always alter everything.

 When he conducted the B.B.C. Orchestra for the first time, he bowed to the exigencies of  broadcasting, and only grumbled a little at having his basses and `celli separated. He also likes  his principal wood-wind in the centre, and the four horns the other way about to the usual  procedure in this country, with his first horn in the centre of the orchestra. One or two minor  changes were made in the brass, but nothing serious. He began by talking of the wonderful experiences he has had all over the world conducting every orchestra of note, for nearly fifty  years, finishing with the remark, "And, you see, ther ees nothing I don't know!-- Zo," (with a  benignant "God help you" grin) "give me now the A, Mr. Oboe!"

 Tuning with him is a ceremony that may take anything from five minutes to (in extreme  cases) two hours. The first violins are directed to take the A only from the oboe, followed by the  2nds, violas, `celli and basses. The rest of the orchestra then tunes, starting with the flutes and  ending with the tuba. Not until the whole orchestra has the A are the strings allowed to tune their  other strings. The oboe officiates like a High Priest, and has to stand and turn in the direction of  the department concerned, for the benefit of those far away, while Mengelberg, sitting like a  Buddha on the rostrum, criticizes the slightest deviation in pitch. On the first occasion this tuning  took twenty-five minutes, and gave rise to his first dissertation:

 "Eet has taken twenty-five minutes to tune--it should take two minutes! Der rehearsal, it  begin wid tuning--eet ees no good, unless you are in tune! You may be first-class orchestra, but if  you play not in tune?--It is difficult now for musicians--fifty years ago it did not matter so much  perhaps; but now, it is necessary to haf full haus, and if you play not in tune, yell? Der haus, it  will be empty! Der feerst oboe, feerst clarinet moost help deir colleagues, like a mutter her  children; and, you, Mr. Oboe, moost make the face, if someone play bad A !--You moost vatch,  like der cat der mouse.--There--dat leetle double bass, you hear heem behind there?"

 Tuning eventually comes down to a matter of five or six minutes. If he is starting the  programme with `A Midsummer Night's Dream,' he will have all the wood-wind chords played to  him at the last moment, before going on the platform.

 Usually he likes five rehearsals for a symphony concert; two for the wind, two for the  strings, and the final rehearsal together. He does not find it necessary to have more than one  general rehearsal, for he says that if sufficient detailed work is put in by the two halves of the  orchestra, he has no difficulty in joining them up.

 Mostly he rehearses from memory.

 The whole of his first rehearsal with the B.B.C. Orchestra  was devoted to the opening portion of `Heldenleben' as far as the entry of the solo violin.

 Thoroughly characteristic of his methods was the way in which he tackled the great opening phrase. Each note of the arpeggio  had to be detached, in spite of the composer's direction, because, he said, the audience should  hear every note, "and if they are all slurred by the strings, there will be no definition, and the  passage will only sound like a chord of E flat," whereas he wants it to make the effect of a  brilliantly clear arpeggio. The first two notes after the tied minim are invariably lost in  performance, consequently he puts a rest or comma in place of the tie. For the same reason he  places another in the 2nd bar, after the dotted minim C, to ensure an incisive attack on the last  beat of the bar, and the strings are directed to hit the E flat with the point of the bow. However,  the next phrase is played legatissimo to the last beat of bar 4, in front of which a breath-mark allows for another attack leading to the two heavily accented minims.

 Four bars before Fig. I, he again cuts out the ties and inserts rests. This may, on paper,  seem very drastic, but the effect in playing is brilliant; and the sharp contrast of sostenuto and  staccato stands out with the greatest effect. Not only is this opening passage typical of his genius  for producing superb playing, but it also shows his attitude to the composition he is interpreting.  Nothing will induce him to obey blindly the composer's directions if his own experience tells him  that they could be made more effective by a slight alteration. In his own words:--"Beethoven, like  many other composers, sometimes made changements in his scores, even after publication, and  then he also was deaf. So vy not the conductor also, who often knows mooch better than the  composer? I vos de best pupil of Svhidler, who vos the best pupil of Beethoven, zo I know vat  Beethoven meant. Zo, in dis verk of Strauss; I haf been great friend of Richard Strauss since I vos  a boy, and I know joost what he wants, and ye vill make some changements also!"

 He rehearses the opening as far as Fig. 2 at great length, first of all taking the violas, `celli  and horns, until there is complete unanimity in ensemble, phrasing, intonation and style, and all  trace of untidiness at these inserted breath-gaps is removed. He arrives at the episode of the  `Critics' (1st bars before Fig. 14) after two hours' work, and makes the flute play his subject,  staccatissimo, and as spitefully as he can, and the counter-subject in the oboe drawled and  wooden, with each entry of the other wood-wind almost overblown in the anxiety to be heard.  The celebrated 5ths of the two tubas are considerably broadened with a big crescendo and  diminuendo to the held note. So much are they elongated that the rest of the orchestra has to  adjust its playing to them.

 He spent a long time at each rehearsal over this tuba motif. "Zis motif represents one of  Strauss's most hated critics, M. Quentin, und eet moost sound like MONSIEUR QUENTIN. Play  it to me !--No, it is not together! Boot you don't give me the crescendo to the second beat and  then diminuendo! Now fur der last time!"

 He rehearses all the first part of this section until all the contrapuntal parts are clear in  every detail, and the utmost character portrayed in the different themes. At the end of this episode  for wind he finds the accompaniment too heavy at the pianissimo syncopated chords in bassoons  and horns, and later in the strings as well, so it gives him another opportunity to discourse on the  playing of "accompaniments generally."

 "You moost play with joost the right amount of tone, neither too mooch, nor too little, if  you play an accompaniment too soft, then it ees joost as wrong as playing too loud. Listen to the  soloist. Then, if you arhe der soloist, you moost be heard, even if der mark es pianissimo. Zo, not forgotten dat if you are accompanying, play less than vhat you haf, und when you arhe de soloist, play a leetle more. Eet moost be a hundred per cent and not joost seventy-five per cent!"

 At "Festes Zeitmass", two bars before Fig. 22, he plays the four-bar passage six or seven times until the rhythm is sufficiently accurate and staccato; with frequent interjections of "Ter-der! !" The unfortunate solo violin does not get an opportunity to set out on his difficult solo until well into the middle of the second rehearsal-a very trying experience-for each time the conductor arrives at his entry he stops him in mid-air, on his first C sharp, and returns to a figure some way back. Much the same thing happened in Brahms's B flat piano concerto. He would let the pianist play one chord in his opening solo, and then stop and start again, working at considerable length over the first tutti, stopping the pianist each time in his first stride.

 The ensuing passage in `Heldenleben' contains many difficulties for the orchestra as well as the exacting solo for the  violin. The first one crops up in the `celli, basses and bassoons at the end of the 5th bar of Pig. 23, and continues much in evidence throughout the whole of the accompaniment to the violin. This is the elusive semiquaver which always precedes the principal subject of this section. "TER-DER, I don't hier dhat 16th note--vhat do you call it--semiquaver! Put der bow on the string and separate the note from der next bar. Give me furst der`celli--zo--now der double basses--again, eet ees difficult! Better! Now, der 1st and 2nd horn. You will haf to play louder, 2nd horn!– Now, `ceffi, basses, mit 1st and 2nd horn. Ah ha! I begin to hear it at last, eet is no longer Ter-der and nearly eighty per cent. `Celli and bass, use mo-ore glissando!"

 About ten bars further on he practises the pizzicato chords in the 2nd violins for ensemble and intonation, both times the passage occurs, demanding a clear but quiet plucking of the string at right angles for a dry sound, and not along the string for a more sustained sound. At the end of the solo violin passage at Fig. 32, he has further trouble with the "semiquaver" and does not continue until `celli, basses, oboes, clarinets and bassoons articulate the note distinctly before the great G flat chord.

 The next section might almost be labelled the "left hand of the strings", so frequently does he demand the utmost warmth and life in the vibrato, as much as in great breadth of bowing. He continues to take all those playing the same phrases in unisons and octaves separately, and often one department at a time, aiming at a rich and glowing sound where perfect intonation and ensemble increase the volume. Not until he obtains the right volume given him by these two matters--"one hundred per cent–and not joost seventy per cent! "--does he turn to the balancing  of the parts.

 Four bars after Fig. 38, he makes the utmost of the 1st and 2nd violin passage in octaves,  by getting both departments to take the same amount of bow in exactly the same style and position, stopping instantly if any player is taking obviously too much or playing in the wrong part of the bow. "It ees no goot, dhat long bow in de orchester, it looks well, yes in der front, but de notes are not dhere! A soloist may do it perhaps, but eet ees no goot in der orchester."

 At the trumpet call at Fig. 42 he insists on the absolute clarity of the first two notes of each part, even if it means making them longer than demi-semiquavers; clear articulation is more important than anything else here. Also the balance between the three trumpets must be equal.  Immediately after this figure, he asks the basses and `celli almost to "crush" the sforza on the B flat. "It is bad to crush ze tone, perhaps, boot hiere it is an exception! Yes,ÄI want it brutal" (and makes a fearful grimace).

 He does not spend much time on the battle scene, and only insists that those tunes which stand out from the general din be clearly and accurately handled. The insistent rhythm which appears on the strings and side-drum at the "Festes Zeitmass" ther Fig. 49 is hammered out as hard as possible, with short little jabbing strokes of the bow, near the heel; and drum and strings have to clear up a ragged ensemble, the side-drum being a long distance away. At the climax, two bars after 75 he again insists on the perfect articulation of the quaverÄtwo semiquaver figure.  The tuba figure again fails to satisfy him before Fig. 85, but the violas and 2nd clarinet fortunately get over their shaky bridge at Fig. 85 without disaster. A typical stroke of Mengelberg's comes out in the `ceffi, a few bars further on, their last sextolet being drawn out in a molto allargando and diminuendo, making an exquisite sound with the bows ust brushing the string before falling at length on the G major chord.

 He touches upon the various quotations from Strauss's earlier works in the next episode, particularly demanding a special effort from the horns in their `Don Juan' motif. After Fig. 94, in the semiquaver passages, he makes a terrific effect from the strings, by forbidding too much bow,  as near the heel as possible, so that he gets articulation and staccato, even at high speed. Should any player forget himself and let his bow trickle to the point, he shouts, "Vy do you play dhere? It is no goot; I haf tolt you, you are not playing as soloist--you are in der orchester." The player is then eyed for a few moments: "Now we moost do it again!"

 For the last time, he makes sure of getting every semiquaver clearly played after the tied notes, between Figs. 95 and 96, and at the end of the episode he takes the great descending quintuplet in two beats, making groups of two and three.

 In the concluding scene, a Mengelberg of extreme gentleness appears, capable of exquisite tenderness; and the lovely interjectory phrases on the first and second violins, during the cor-anglais solo, are made to sound as if there was all humanity in them. The left hand of the violins is singled out for his medium of expression, the bows held well in control to avoid over-emphasis. The violin solo to the end is made to tell on every note, and the player is able to play with complete freedom, both in expression and delicacy, with the rest of the orchestra hushed to an extreme pianissimo which is yet alive--the colour of a moving part just coming to the surface now and again.

 With all his dictatorial grip of his players, he seems to need a similar grip on the part of his soloists in the orchestra. If he senses that responsive grip his hand becomes like velvet and at the performance he will himself respond to the players' expression and bring it to full bloom. But if he cannot obtain what he wants from an artist, he will be hard as iron and may seem to oppose rather than aid. He has the true virtuoso's intolerance of inadequate playing; he expects to be able to start his rehearsing from scratch, without having to nurse any weakness amongst his players. His ear detects everything. His particular genius is for hearing from the point of view of the man at the back of the hail. Besides satisfying him, this redoubles the clarity for the rest of the audience.

 His interpretations, intensely personal and vivid, have his great conviction behind them.  Though he may depart from the directions of the composer, audience and orchestra alike are carried away by the grip and mastery of it all. He holds everyone close, and a whole department of strings will think that his eye is compelling each man individually.

 An orchestra that is proud of its work and is without passengers can look forward to working with Mengelberg, as a student to a lesson with a great master. Each man knows that he will be able to put forth all his own skill and power to the utmost advantage under him, and enjoy the exhilaration of taking part in magnificent playing. It is good for an orchestra sometimes to show off all its skill for its own sake, and Mengelberg knows as much as any conductor living how to make this possible. Long dissertations at rehearsals may be more trying, but there is always some truth in what he says, and though the time-table may go wrong, his rehearsals really are rehearsals.

 Mengelberg inspires an orchestra to its utmost power, and to sit under him is to sit at the feet of a great virtuoso. As he says, and it is most true, "There ees nothing I do not know about der orchester." An orchestra, having finished a rough passage with him, will have humming in their ears, like the sound of the sea in a shell: "Ter-der--hoondered per cent; Ter-der--hoondered  per cent--always hoondered per cent."