Raoul von Koczalski’s recorded performances have been the topic of much discussion in recent years, especially among those involved in the field of historic performance practices, because of his particular pedagogical lineage. A “grand-pupil” of Chopin, via his teacher Karol Mikuli, his lessons supposedly provided him with a connection to Chopin, and this has led to considerable speculation as to how closely his interpretations might resemble Chopin’s own. Koczalski’s extensive recorded legacy, with its strong emphasis on the works of Chopin, offers plenty of evidence for examination—but various ancillary factors must be kept in mind.

Mikuli (1821–1897) began his studies with Chopin in 1844. These continued on a regular basis for four years, during which Mikuli was often allowed to observe Chopin’s lessons with other pupils. He then performed concerts throughout eastern Europe and eventually settled in Lwów. From 1858 onward he served as director of that city’s conservatory, teaching piano, harmony, and counterpoint. He also prepared a comprehensive edition of Chopin’s works, which appeared in 1880 under the imprint of the Leipzig publisher Kistner. (This edition was subsequently reprinted by Schirmer in the United States and more recently by Dover.) It remains in use and is still considered an authoritative source. Mikuli based his work on the original French editions along with his recollections of Chopin’s teaching. In a fairly substantial preface, Mikuli describes many aspects of Chopin’s “highly developed technique” and the way in which his playing “was always within bounds, chaste, polished and at times even severely reserved.” He also emphasized how “Chopin’s attention was always directed to teaching correct phrasing” with an insistence upon tonal beauty and liquidity along with his abhorrence of arbitrary, undisciplined handling of rhythm and tempo.

Koczalski was eight years old and already well-known as a prodigy when he came to Mikuli for lessons in 1892. These took place on a daily basis during the summer months each year through 1895. Forty-four years had elapsed since Mikuli had worked with Chopin, and thirty years would pass before Koczalski would make his first recordings. We cannot doubt that Mikuli was dedicated to perpetuating his personal idea of Chopin’s musical and pianistic philosophy through his pupils. Although Koczalski had no further instruction after leaving Mikuli, he certainly had numerous opportunities to encounter all the leading Chopin interpreters of the day—players who represented a wide variety of styles, schools, and traditions. Koczalski, however, cannily built his career on the basis of his claim to a direct “Chopin connection,” and he capitalized on that fact to the fullest possible extent, always acknowledging the positive influence of Mikuli’s teaching.

In 1936 Koczalski published his own commentaries on Chopin’s music with many references to Mikuli. “To this day,” he wrote, “Mikuli’s veneration of Chopin, his seriousness in everything about music and his respect for healthy, rhythmically restrained pianism has remained my model.” He goes on to describe the major elements of his teacher’s ideology. Unfortunately this volume has yet to appear in a complete English translation.

There are several factors that place Koczalski apart from his contemporaries, even those of Polish origin or those with other impressive pedigrees. While Moriz Rosenthal and Aleksander Michałowski were also Mikuli pupils, with both producing notable recordings of Chopin and other composers, Rosenthal certainly came under the powerful influence of Liszt as well as Liszt’s disciple Rafael Joseffy, while Michałowski worked extensively with Ignaz Moscheles and Carl Tausig (also a Liszt product) before coming to Mikuli. All other pianists of the time had complex influences on their playing, while Koczalski, having had no other teachers after the age of twelve, occupies a more isolated position. This fact tends to prevent any direct comparisons, and there were no other students of Mikuli who made recordings.

Defining Characteristics

An examination of Koczalski’s pre-war recordings, representing about six hours’ total playing time, reveals several clearly-defined elements that help establish his approach to Chopin interpretation—supposedly as conveyed by the teaching of Mikuli:

A Consistent Respect for Chopin’s Text. With only a couple of exceptions, Koczalski adheres to　the notes of the score as published. This is remarkable only because of the practice of many of Koczalski’s contemporaries, who freely indulged in deviations such as bass octave doublings for greater sonority, reinforced endings (for example: interlocking octaves), extensions of passages beyond Chopin’s keyboard range, and so forth. The Chopin recordings of such noted players as Friedman, Moiseiwitsch, Rosenthal, Busoni, and numerous others all contain various emendations of this sort—often effective, to be sure, but a practice deliberately avoided by Koczalski. Beyond the actual notes, however, it is in the exploitation of both the rhythmic and dynamic spheres of a given work that a pianist’s margin of personal interpretation lies. Koczalski’s performances encompass a fairly wide range of freedom in these areas, but they rarely venture into willfulness. One rather dramatic deviation from Chopin’s written dynamic scheme occurs in the “Funeral March” from the Sonata, Op. 35 (CD 1, Track 12). Here Koczalski is among those who follow the examples of Anton Rubinstein and Sergei Rachmaninoff, building a crescendo to fortissimo just before the quiet trio section, resuming the march fortissimo, then gradually receding. The effect, as has been often remarked, is that of a funeral cortège approaching from afar and slowly fading into the distance.

A Consistent Emphasis on Tonal Values. The Polydor recordings, as well as the three Electrola discs from 1937, were particularly successful in capturing the rounded, pellucid singing tone that Koczalski cultivated to an extraordinary degree. Regardless of texture or technical demands, Koczalski’s sonority never becomes harsh or disagreeable. While this was a characteristic of all players of the same era, Koczalski combined his singing legato with relatively spare pedaling and an admirable concern for clarity, thus imparting an unusual quality of transparency to his piano sound.

A Moderate Indulgence in Dislocation. “Dislocation,” as the term is now applied to piano playing, refers to the practice of playing one hand slightly before or after the other (i.e., de-synchronization), as well as to the arpeggiation of chords that are not indicated to be broken. Much has been written about dislocation as either—depending on one’s perspective—an old-fashioned mannerism or a valid expressive device. It can be heard to a greater or lesser extent, chiefly in lyrical sections and works, from most pianists trained in the nineteenth century and is most prominent, perhaps, in the interpretations of Vladimir de Pachmann and Ignacy Paderewski. Because the habit is easy to adopt, and in some cases may be the result of faulty technical schooling or poor musical taste, it has been roundly condemned in recent times. On the other hand, it has the advantage of throwing melodic lines into higher relief and avoiding the mechanical sound of constantly precise alignment of vertical elements. Although this practice was clearly in decline during the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries (i.e., Koczalski’s formative years), it never completely disappeared, and dislocation can still be heard in the playing of such diverse recent interpreters as Earl Wild, Rudolf Serkin, Arturo Benedetti Michelangeli, and Ivan Moravec, to name but four. As will be noted below, Koczalski does not apply this practice across the board in his recordings, but only in certain situations.

A Resistance to Ostentation and Technical Display. Koczalski’s mechanical command, while it could not be called impeccable, is more than sufficient to handle the challenges of Chopin’s writing, particularly in the etudes. At the hands of some players over the years, the etudes have often been used as bravura vehicles. Koczalski, again pursuing a path of moderation, avoids extremes of tempo and dynamics, focusing instead on a meaningful shaping and shading of each etude.

A Generally Disciplined Handling of Rubato. The subject of rubato, in the generic sense of freedom and flexibility of tempo and rhythm, is enormous and complex. (The recent study by Richard Hudson [Oxford University Press, 1994] is a valuable exploration of the topic.) Many Chopin interpreters, even into the twenty-first century, have carried rhythmic license to an extreme degree, perhaps believing that to “simply play as you feel” is justification for such liberties. Koczalski, however, would not have escaped the severe discipline of Mikuli regarding permissible, and idiomatic, employment of rubato in Chopin’s writing. The basis for convincing rubato should always be a specific musical purpose, such as a highlighting of harmonic and melodic tension, or emphasizing an inner voice, or similar subtle details. Koczalski’s awareness of these possibilities, and their limits, is notable throughout his recorded legacy.

The Recordings

During the 1924–1939 period, Koczalski continued to maintain his reputation as a Chopin interpreter, especially in central Europe. The Polydor label, based in Berlin, engaged him for a remarkably extensive series of discs even while the label was also producing recordings by Claudio Arrau, Michael von Zadora, Franz Josef Hirt, Alexander Brailowsky, Alexander Borovsky, Walter Rehberg, Wilhelm Kempff, and Eduard Erdmann. It is likely that, had the atrocities of the war not intervened, Koczalski would have continued his Chopin survey beyond the complete sets of etudes, preludes, and ballades that are the major items reissued here.

This present volume completes Marston’s edition of all of Koczalski’s recordings through 1939. (Volume One—Marston 52063-2—covers his 1924–1928 Polydor discs.) Included here is a hitherto-unknown Homocord of the Chopin Berceuse and “Raindrop” prelude that was discovered recently on a German auction list (CD 1, Tracks 6 and 7). The war years apparently did not see any recording activity by Koczalski, but from mid-1945 until his death in November 1948 there is a substantial body of studio material from German and Polish radio stations as well as twelve sides recorded for the small Polish Mewa label. The broadcast performances feature some repertoire beyond Chopin, with Beethoven, Tchaikovsky, Rachmaninoff, and several others included. Although valuable as further documentation of Koczalski’s pianism, it is evident that his post-war recordings represent something of a decline, many of them revealing a less sharply-focused atmosphere and occasional technical failings. The Chopin repertoire from this period (including the F Minor Concerto conducted by Sergiu Celibidache) can be found on Music & Arts CD-1261, and further material has been issued on Archiphon ARC-119/20. Transfers of the Mewa 78s are on Selene 9801.37. (One cautionary note: an alleged Koczalski performance of the Chopin E Minor Concerto, again with Celibidache, appeared in the mid-1980s on a cassette released by William Barrington-Coupe’s Concert Artist label. Consistent with Barrington-Coupe’s later fraudulent CD series attributed to his wife Joyce Hatto, this “Koczalski” recording has proved to be spurious.)

The one Koczalski recording that has generated the most discussion by far is his 1938 Polydor version of the Nocturne, Op. 9, No. 2, “with authentic Chopin variants” (CD 1, Track 23). The added embellishments and other alterations to Chopin’s melodic writing are said to have been notated by Mikuli after hearing Chopin himself play this Nocturne. (The ornamentation can also be traced to other reliable sources.) Curiously, Koczalski plays only a few variants in his earlier recording of this work (included in the first Marston volume), and he omits them entirely in his late recording for Mewa. Furthermore, Mikuli makes no mention of them in the Nocturne volume of his complete Chopin edition; instead he published a separate edition of Op. 9, No. 2 containing the variants.

In light of Chopin’s well-known admiration for bel canto singing, especially from such artists of his day as Guiditta Pasta in the operas of Bellini and Donizetti, it is not difficult to trace the inspiration for the fioritura and melodic ornamentation that are found especially in his nocturnes. We also have reliable accounts of Chopin privately playing nocturnes by John Field and improvising embellishments to enhance Field’s relatively sparse textures. Perhaps the variants in Op. 9, No. 2 originated as a spontaneous jeu d’esprit on Chopin’s part, but in any case they suggest opportunities for creative interpreters to follow Chopin’s practice in similar contexts. (One later example: Theodor Leschetizky’s embellishments to the Nocturne, Op. 27, No. 2, preserved on a Welte reproducing piano roll.)

Although Koczalski may not provide a consistent level through all twenty-seven etudes (few pianists have done so), there are a number of highlights worth mentioning. He introduces a joyous, playful element into the coruscating figurations of Op. 10, No. 8, and he characterizes Op. 10, No. 10 with a moderate tempo that allows a singing line while making clear the varied articulation and rhythmic displacements of the right hand part. Two showpieces—Op. 10, Nos. 4 and 5—are projected with attention to shape and color rather than speed and bravura. In the elegiac Op. 25, No. 7 Koczalski lends transparency to Chopin’s two-voiced polyphonic texture through a slight displacement of the hands, but not to the extent found in Paderewski’s two recordings of this etude. The third and fourth etudes of Op. 25 are ideally proportioned, allowing us to overlook a rather brisk, perfunctory treatment of the “Aeolian Harp” (Op. 25, No. 1) and a cautious run-through of No. 8. The challenging Etude in Thirds (No. 6) is superb, but Koczalski’s dry, under-pedaled Octave and “Winter Wind” etudes (Nos. 10 and 11) are disappointing (the latter contains some provocative departures from Chopin’s written dynamics). There is a rare textual alteration at the end of the latter work, where Koczalski extends the upward scale by an additional octave for greater effect. In the A-flat Nouvelle Etude, many may prefer the agogic colorations of Rosenthal that add a dimension missing from Koczalski’s rather hasty, matter-of-fact version.

A similar pattern of unevenness can be found in Koczalski’s complete set of preludes, which includes the two separate, additional pieces (Op. 45 and Op. Posth.) which at that time were often neglected by pianists. In Op. 28, Koczalski excels in No. 11, capturing its charm and delicacy perfectly, as well as in pieces like Nos. 3, 10, and 23 that require lightness and fluency. Many of the slower, more contemplative Preludes (such as Nos. 2, 4, 6, 13, and 15) are delivered with a mild degree of de-synchronization between melody and accompaniment. In these instances Koczalski prefers forward impetus rather than the more deliberate, dirge-like pace often encountered. Somewhat less impressive is the turbulent No. 8, where Koczalski’s indistinct, poorly coordinated left hand is a liability.

The four ballades offer a chance to examine Koczalski’s handling of larger, more dramatic structures. Those seeking the highest degree of inflammatory rhetoric in Nos. 1 and 4 will need to turn elsewhere, as Koczalski prefers a milder narrative climate in these works, yet always presenting the melodic elements with a rich vocal emphasis (see especially the opening material of both works.) Temperamentally his affinities seem best suited to the more lyrical No. 3, even if it does not build as logically as it should to its final peroration. The most striking aspect of Koczalski’s Ballade No. 2 is his arpeggiation of chords in the opening section and during their later return. As suggested earlier, this nineteenth-century practice can be criticized on several levels (Chopin left no such indications in the score) yet it can also be defended as an imaginative coloristic device, one that suggests the effect of a harp or guitar gently accompanying Chopin’s chaste, siciliano-like singing line. In the coda there are some inaccuracies that militate against a totally convincing outcome.

Among the eight waltzes included here, Koczalski’s airborne treatment of the Grande Valse Brillante, Op. 18, with its conscious avoidance of heavy-handedness, deserves special praise. In Op. 34, No. 1, Koczalski indulges in another rare textual emendation by extending two upward scales just before the coda (an idea also favored by Paderewski, Rubinstein, and a few others). He imparts a deft, almost whimsical character to Op. 34, No. 3. By way of contrast, Koczalski’s constant dislocations in the less ebullient Op. 69, No. 1 have a Pachmannesque quality that borders on exaggeration.

Similarly, the Nocturne Op. 32, No. 1 is played with very pronounced dislocations that have a certain kinship with Pachmann’s 1923 Victor recording. Koczalski prefers a minor (not major) final chord in this nocturne, carrying an authority (via Mikuli?) that ought to settle any remaining arguments over which is correct. In the Fantasy-Impromptu, despite an eloquently “sung” middle section, Koczalski’s left hand in the rapid outer parts is not always well aligned with his right, thus marring Chopin’s carefully-designed polyrhythm.

Finally, the three rare Electrola discs from 1937 are sonically superior and reveal Koczalski at or near his best. His relatively understated conceptions of the A-flat Polonaise and Scherzo No. 2 do not emphasize dramatic thrust or earth-shattering sonorities; still, he handles the notorious left-hand octaves of the polonaise with aplomb and also demonstrates that this familiar item does not need to be beaten to death. The scherzo has a welcome balance of contrast and continuity, while the light-on-its-feet mazurka causes regret that Koczalski did not record more of these works. To the three slight ecossaises, Koczalski brings a gracious flow and charm. And in his attractively nuanced F-Sharp Nocturne we can appreciate the absolute clarity of the fioritura. Worthy of mention here is Koczalski’s moderate, more-or-less standard tempo in comparison to the remarkably slow pace favored by Raoul Pugno in his 1903 G&T recording. Pugno, who worked briefly with Georges Mathias, another pupil of Chopin, claimed that Mathias—on the authority of Chopin—insisted that this Nocturne was always played too quickly. Here is a prime example of supposedly “authentic” sources in basic disagreement!

 

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Bearing in mind the multi-faceted nature of Chopin’s style which has inspired a tremendous diversity of approach among pianists, and acknowledging that we will never know what Chopin himself might have thought of this grand-pupil’s interpretations, the recorded contributions of Koczalski cannot be lightly dismissed, as they have in some quarters. Steeped in a profound, unquestionable dedication to their concept of Chopin’s musical ideals on the part of both Mikuli and Koczalski, these performances, whatever their occasional limitations, remain unique sonic documents deserving the serious attention of all pianists and scholars.

© Donald Manildi, 2015

The Mystery of Raoul Koczalski

Record collectors have wondered for many years about the pianist Raoul von Koczalski; apart from the recorded evidence of his art, there is his very hazy life story. Some piano aficionados adore his playing, some find it peculiar, and there are others who despise it. Harold C. Schonberg in his The Great Pianists didn’t discuss the playing, writing merely that, if the variants on Koczalski’s recording of Chopin’s E-flat Nocturne were authentic, it is “a very valuable document.” What first attracted me and many others to his playing was Koczalski’s sound, his actual piano tone... his “touch” at the piano. It was greatly helped by the recorded acoustic provided by the Polydor engineers—not too closely miked, and with ample room reverberation and ambiance. That, combined with the pianist’s special talent for creating a marvelous atmosphere, resulted in some truly beautiful recorded performances.

The question of how to rank Koczalski among historical pianists, however, and whether his playing actually represents “what Chopin wanted” will continue to b e debated. A detailed examination is included in an essay by Mark Arnest on the Marston website:

http://marstonrecords.com/

Here I will examine the historical evidence for an outline of Koczalski’s biography. After a considerable amount of research I have come to the conclusion that much that has been written about both his earliest and then, his last, period is distorted and incorrect, and that his father, and later the pianist himself, went to some lengths to obfuscate the truth. Subsequent writers have often passed along misinformation. The article for Koczalski currently on Wikipedia contains multiple misstatements, two in the first paragraph, exaggerations put forth by the pianist’s father during his prodigy days. These are that Koczalski was a pupil of Anton Rubinstein, and that he received “staggering fees” for his prodigy concerts. Neither is true.

There has understandably been misinformation about his birth date. Koczalski was born on 3 January 1884, although the year is most often given as 1885 (including in the liner notes for the first Marston volume devoted to Koczalski.) The correct date was verified by Nicolas Slonimsky for Baker’s Biographical Dictionary. Raoul’s actual age was misrepresented as a year younger from the beginning.

A good place to start examining the reality of Koczalski’s life is the season 1887/1888, the time when articles began appearing about him as he emerged in a field crowded with other piano prodigies. In 1887 the eleven year old Josef Hofmann astonished England in a series of concerts, then went to the United States where his appearances created a positive sensation and earned a lot of money, which did not go unnoticed by the fathers of other prodigies. Almost immediately after Hofmann left, a new Swiss piano prodigy named Otto Hegner appeared. (Hegner had been born ten months later than Hofmann, in November 1876, but at the time it was thought that he was the elder of the two, for Hofmann’s managers floated the fiction that Hofmann was a full eighteen months younger than his actual age—the time-honored practice for managers of prodigies.) He played several concerts, got some good reviews, but somehow Hegner’s appearances didn’t catch the public’s imagination as did Hofmann’s, and a few months later he was forgotten when a Belgian prodigy named Julia Folville made her debut.

In that same season Koczalski played a recital in Warsaw, but he was less than half their age—he was only four! A report from a Łódz´ź newspaper from June 1888 stated that the first concert of the child was poorly attended, and not a financial success, but “ … artistically, the success was a lot better.” A great exhibition of pianos took place in Warsaw that year, and the boy was brought to see the rows of grand pianos. He chose the most elaborate one and began to play piece after piece. Those attending the exhibition applauded wildly. A charity concert was arranged, and soon he was on a tour performing through Russia, where he played for the Imperial family. Concerts were arranged in cities all over Europe.

Raoul’s father, Alexander Koczalski, who told one reporter that he had formerly been a “law counselor,” decided to abandon his own career to devote himself to exhibiting his prodigy son; he had hoped to bring him to play in England when he was five, but ultimately thought better of competing with Hofmann and Hegner. Details of Raoul’s preciosity, the early age at which he responded to music and his amazing musical feats, the facts that at the age of three he had been able to repeat simple melodies at the keyboard that he heard played or sung, that soon after he could repeat any piece after hearing it only twice, that his feet didn’t reach the pedals which his father had to manipulate for him—these were widely reported, all very similar to his prodigy predecessors. At three and a half he had begun music studies “in the hands of a professor at the Warsaw Conservatory.” This was the other-wise unknown Julian Gadomski, said to be a disciple of composer Stanisław Moniuszko.

The prodigy field was getting ever more crowded. An 1888 issue of Signale für die Musikalische Welt printed information about musical prodigies who had made their first public appearances that year. These included the pianists Hegner, Leopold Spielmann and Hermine Biber in Vienna, Koczalski in Saint Petersburg, Ernest Schelling and Marie Butatoff in London, and Zampari in Naples. Still, the public’s strong curiosity about prodigies allowed Alexander and Raoul to soldier on, the boy playing concerts almost non-stop and traveling continually, year after year.

Alexander took his son to Paris, where the Exposition Universelle was looking for exotic attractions. Raoul had to compete with a “Negro Village” where four hundred black people were exhibited when he made his debut on 9 June 1889, to generally good reviews. In February 1890 Raoul played a recital in Moscow and the program included Spindler’s piece “The Little Negress.” At the concert his teacher Gadomski also appeared, playing the piano reduction of the orchestra part in two movements from Beethoven’s first concerto. All the while Raoul’s father was honing his Barnum-like promotional abilities. The flyers for the concert read: “Raoul has received the award ‘Premiere Prix d’Enfant’ from the Parisian Musical Academy, and is well known through his concerts at the Paris Exposition Universelle, as well as in Saint Petersburg, Moscow, London, Berlin, Dresden, Prague, Odessa, Kiev, etc. … Compositions by Koczalski which he will perform in this concert are available for sale at box office for 40 kopeks; photographic cards for 1 rouble … Tickets can be had from 50 kopeks to 15 roubles.”

Cabinet card photos of the prodigy bedecked with medals sold well, and are not uncommon today.

In 1891 at a Belgian resort Raoul played for the corrupt Shah Nasiruddin of Persia, who was fascinated by the seven year old boy (said to be six at the time); in 1892 Koczalski was appointed “Court Pianist to the Shah.” (The same year Nasiruddin was facing the biggest crisis of his reign, over a tobacco concession he had granted to England, and it is highly doubtful he had much enthusiasm for piano playing.)

On 19 March 1893 the New York Times reported that Raoul’s managers (i.e., his father) “have proclaimed that he is Hofmann and Hegner rolled into one.” But the article quotes a report from the Berlin correspondent for the Musical Courier: “So great was the reputation that went in advance of this eight-year [sic] boy, and so skillful and persistent the puff preliminary and the general advertising racket, that a vast audience was attracted to the Singakademie, despite the fact that Berlin is just now pestered with wonder children of all sorts and denominations … For youthfulness Raoul Koczalski takes the medal … yet with supreme effort and the courage of my convictions I must put it down in black and white that I consider Raoul Koczalski nothing more than a highly-talented piano playing boy of hothouse culture, but by no means a genius … Above all noticeable in this is Raoul’s lack of rhythm …”

Raoul made his English debut on 10 May 1893, coming after what his father called “a triumphal world tour.” He was immediately, like the others before him, dubbed “The new little Mozart.” As usual his father made him appear wearing rows of medals pinned to his shirt, a full dozen of them. According to the Westminster Budget for 23 June 1893, “They have been showered upon him by Their Majesties of Russia and Romania, of Persia and Belgium, of Spain, Turkey, Germany and Italy.” The number of medals he had been awarded seemed to expand and contract with the telling, as a German article from March 1893 reported that Raoul “ … doesn’t seem to be especially proud of his 18 decorations, although quite some of them are art-medals from Music associations etc. ”

Some critics in England found him superior to both Hofmann and Hegner. In London he was tested and asked to sight read a Mazurka by Sigismond Stojowski. It had widely-spaced harmonies that were almost impossible to realize by a child with small hands. He not only read the work with “accuracy, but with facility, and it was curious to observe with what readiness he compressed the chords so as to bring them within the reach of his fingers,” according to the 17 July 1893 Rochester Democrat and Chronicle. He was also a composer, numbering fifty works by age nine, fifteen of which had already been published. In the fall of 1894 he conducted his “Symphonic Legend” for orchestra in Leipzig and Berlin. He was at work composing an opera entitled “Hagar,” the overture of which he conducted in Cologne. Some press reports stated he had taken some lessons with Hans von Bülow, but there seems to be no evidence that this is true.

The British reports of his successes did not mention that interest in him in the rest of Europe had died as quickly as it had arisen, and in Vienna alone there was competition from three new, blind prodigies. By the end of 1893 Koczalski’s fame in England was already eclipsed by a pianist who was a year younger, Frieda Simonson, who The Guardian on 21 June 1893 found “far less affected” than Koczalski. A description of the boy’s affected behavior reached the United States, where the Topeka Times (quoting the Chronicle) described his London debut: “ … Sometimes Raoul Koczalski bent over the keys as if about to kiss them, sometimes he threw himself stiffly back on the seat and tore at the keyboard as though enraged with the instrument. Then his gaze as often as not was directed at the audience, the expression of his face altering with the spirit of the music …” One German review described how “ … at the piano he becomes someone else: the spirits of the sounds seem to grab him, he gets into a kind of artistic ecstasy … ” It seems his father had coached him in a series of artificial gestures and histrionic platform behavior, which did not wear well with audiences over time. Nevertheless his constant touring continued through France, Germany, Scandinavia, and Holland.

Raoul was in Berlin in December 1893 when Anton Rubinstein played three recitals in Bechstein Hall for artists and students only. There were three guests of honor, the prodigies Hofmann, Koczalski, and Simonson. (Hofmann does not seem to have ever mentioned Koczalski, although in 1898 he told a journalist that he had heard all the competing prodigies and thought only Otto Hegner to be “really musical.” In 1904 twelve year old Mieczysław Horszowski and his mother were visiting in Berlin with Hofmann’s parents. According to Mrs. Horszowski: “They told me that Koczalski paid 3,000 marks to publicize his first concert in Berlin, but it was worth it, because he got it all back.”)

Alexander Koczalski of course knew of the immense success Hofmann had in the United States, the fortune he had made for his managers. The Boston Sunday Times reported on 25 February 1894 that Raoul would be coming to the U. S. A. the next season.

The earliest published version of the Koczalski name with the added “von” that we have been able to find is a May 1894 Rotterdam report that discussed plans for the American tour, mentioning that the pianist was to receive one million German marks (250,000 nineteenth century dollars) for one hundred concerts. This seems a gross exaggeration. At that time the biggest money earners among musical artists were the de Reszke brothers and Nellie Melba, who received between $1,500 to $1,800 per performance. Otto Hegner had tried to cash in with an American tour just after the Hofmann sensation, but had been a failure. Managers were becoming leery of prodigies. Despite widespread press announcements, no American tour for Koczalski ensued.

There were hundreds of articles about Raoul, most of them just repeating exaggerated stories fed to the reporters by Alexander, who sent ridiculous claims to the press that his son’s fame in Paris was eclipsing Paderewski’s, both as a pianist and as a composer. But some press notices from that time were not so credulous, and speculated on the Koczalski family’s origins, noting that the family as recently as 1891 was living in “the Jewish ghetto of Moscow.”

In 1895 they went to Christiania, Norway, then back to Riga for a series of four Chopin evenings. In December in Moscow he played two recitals on a “Concert grand by the famous manufacturer Julius Blüthner recently sent for the concert from Leipzig.” In the summer of 1896 Koczalski had some lessons in playing Beethoven’s works with Eugen d’Albert. It was at that time that a biography of Koczalski by the Leipzig music critic Bernhard Vogel appeared. The year 1897 found them again in Riga, this time in a split bill, appearing with the heldentenor, Alexander von Bandrowski (who in 1902 was to make his debut at the Metropolitan Opera in the title role of Paderewski’s opera, Manru.)

Some of the puffery sounds too familiar, a lot of it cannot be verified, and at least a portion of it is not true. A certain bending of the truth, accompanied by a lot of exaggeration and fantastic claims, seems to have been part of father Alexander’s plan. The Society Herald for 15 January 1889 wrote: “ … his father says that he is the most brilliant pianist and organist of the day.” To be proud of his son’s accomplishments was only natural, but trumpeting that Raoul was Court Pianist to the Shah of Persia seemed ridiculous even then. Koczalski senior was not unmindful of the luster such honors brought to Moriz Rosenthal, Emil von Sauer, Bernhard Stavenhagen, and other renowned artists who had been appointed court pianists to actual royal courts with real musical establishments. (This must have caused quite a bit of mirth among those other pianists.)

From the beginning the name “Raoul” had been unusual, and there was that newly-arrived “von” in his name, denoting an aristocratic lineage. It was something very doubtful for a boy from Poland who was probably at least half-Jewish, a kind of imaginary flourish the father tacked on to the public persona he was building for Raoul. The added “von” stuck and Koczalski was to use if for the rest of his life, with little or no questioning of its appropriateness from critics and other writers on music.

The father tried a whole battery of devices and misstatements to attract attention. In 1889 just before Raoul was to make his debut in Odessa, he had tried hiding the family’s Polish origins (we can only guess at his motives) and claimed that they were all from Odessa. In 1893 a French journalist reported that Raoul had taken lessons in Poland with Godowsky “on a daily basis.” (If the journalist had mistaken Godowsky for Gadomski, Alexander did nothing to correct him.) One unsupportable claim the father made to the same journalist was that Raoul had played for Tchaikovsky and Anton Rubinstein in Saint Petersburg, and the two great musicians were extraordinarily impressed. The Tchaikovsky claim was not repeated much, but the Rubinstein story persisted. The truth was published in 1924 in a Dutch paper—Rubinstein had recognized the boy’s talent, but merely advised the father to take Raoul to Lemberg (Lviv, now in the Ukraine) for further study with the then-popular thunderer, Liszt pupil Ludwig Marek. Raoul included a Waltz by Marek on some of his programs, but after only a few lessons that teacher died, and soon after Koczalski began his four years of study with Chopin’s pupil Karol Mikuli.

Later it was falsely claimed that Raoul was studying with Theodor Leschetizky. Another claim was that the Shah of Persia had not only named Raoul Court Pianist, but also awarded him a yearly pension of 3,000 francs. Another was that Raoul’s net receipts for ten days playing in Berlin had amounted to more than six thousand 1893 dollars, a huge amount. So much money supposedly coming in from concert receipts and pensions—was it necessary to keep a nine year old boy constantly traveling and playing? Raoul was a moneymaker, but not to the extent Alexander claimed, and he found it expedient to keep the boy on the road, constantly working. Between 7 February and 10 April, 1893, Raoul played fifty-four concerts over a period of sixty-five days; in the course of ten consecutive days he played two concerts a day in different locations. It’s difficult not to conclude that Raoul’s early life was a trial imposed on him by an avaricious father with highly questionable methods and motives. More than once local officials questioned whether the boy was being harmed by his taskmaster father’s demands, as in March 1893 when several German newspapers made direct appeals to their readers not to attend Koczalski’s recitals because he was being exploited and harmed by his father, and then in March 1895 when officials in Haarlem, Holland opened an official inquiry as to whether the boy’s appearances were harming him and therefore, illegal.

Alexander was a man who did not scruple to keep his young son constantly traveling and playing all over the world, needing to try ever more unconventional methods to keep interest in Raoul fresh. It was a difficult task, for ultimately interest in the novelty of any prodigy finally waned—other prodigies appeared, and Raoul was growing taller and older. What was needed was a huge news event that would bring Raoul’s name to the absolute forefront of the world press.

Such a thing occurred in February 1896 when newspapers in several of the world’s capitals carried an astonishing story. Father and son Koczalski had been lodging at a hotel in Düsseldorf when one of the hotel maids discovered that Raoul was not a boy at all, but “a comely girl.” It was said that there was “indubitable evidence” to prove this. It was recalled that the German Emperor had declared that he had never seen a boy “with more delicate hands.” Quite a controversy ensued, with some writers stating it had to be mere gossip, and more taking a morbid interest in the story. (In our day a jazz pianist, Billy Tipton, made news after his demise at the age of 74 in 1989, when medical workers discovered that he was really a she.) There was wild speculation—it was noted that the young pianist had cancelled several dates a little before this scandal broke—perhaps it was a cover-up, and perhaps he had in reality himself fathered a girl child (an amazing accomplishment for a boy, no matter how prodigious); it was further speculated that Raoul wasn’t Alexander’s son at all, for Alexander was “obviously a Hebrew” while “every action and expression of the prodigy betray Gentile extractions.” The 27 April, 1896 issue of the Musical Courier carried a short item signed by “O.F.” [Otto Florsheim] stating that German manager Hermann Wolff had sent a translation into German of an officially-attested birth notice for Raoul, and that it “proved” he was born on 3 January 1885, and proved he was in fact a boy, the son of a “hereditary nobleman” and of the Roman Catholic faith. Since Florsheim was provided only with a copied translation, he should not have had so much faith in the veracity of any of its claims, most especially the birthdate given. We leave it to history to determine whether Raoul was really a boy, or his father the Catholic son of a nobleman. The story kept Koczalski’s name alive, and in December 1896 in Dresden he played what his father claimed was his one-thousandth concert. By then no one believed that the boy was really a girl, although the incident led to composer Sir Augustus Harris writing an opera, Der Wunderknabe, with a libretto that was supposed to be based on the Koczalski “real sex” scandal.

Koczalski’s opera “Rymond” was mounted at Elberfeld in October 1902. It was thought to have “lyrical climaxes” but the lack of drama was criticized. Alexander was particularly adept at chasing royalty, and in 1904 Raoul played for the King and Queen of Denmark, as well as the Queen of England who was visiting her parents. Now he seemed to be wearing seventeen medals. He had given hundreds of concerts and composed nearly sixty works, but the prodigy was now a young man, and interest in his concerts continued to wane. In January 1904 his recital in Leipzig was panned by the critic for the Musikalisches Wochenblatt: “Once his rare talent created great expectations which have not been realised to the full extent, in the sense that he has not become an all-round artist with a sharply defined profile. He confined himself to a small pianistic area: his strength lies in the polished, smooth, but also brilliant passage work and in the so-called salon-elegant renditions of appropriate compositions. He avoids works which dig deeper and require real empathy; and when he plays them nevertheless, there is something missing. For instance: Chopin’s Ballade in G minor came off too soft, too effeminate, and the C Minor Nocturne, although technically perfect, could have been played more majestically in the central part and more passionate…”

It was decided for him to curtail playing in public, to work on expanding his repertoire and to write new compositions. However something happened, and it is possible there was a break with his father at this time. Raoul took up residence in Paris in 1904 and didn’t return to extensive touring until 1909, although in October 1906 he gave a recital in Düsseldorf with a new gimmick—he played Chopin compositions for fifty-two minutes without stopping, not allowing the audience to applaud after any piece. A series of four recitals in Würzburg in 1908 was sparsely attended; the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik reported: “This man has a phenomenal technique, which is in fact so impressive that it turns into the opposite—into indifference and apathy.” In 1910 he played a series of Chopin festival recitals in all of Europe’s capitals to celebrate the Chopin centenary. The Rafael Joseffy pupil George Halprin heard Koczalski in recital in Europe at this time, and told his pupil Edward Blickstein that there was an air of pompous pretentiousness at the recital, with a candelabra on the piano.

March 1914 found Koczalski in Posen (Poznan´), a city of 160,000 of both Poles and Germans. His concert was poorly attended, the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik explaining: “The Polish commercial boycott of everything German, and German countermeasures, have their effect on concert life … the Polish artists are the victims …” A week later he played his own “Suite Polonaise” at a recital in Königsberg, the Neue Zeitschrift finding influences of Chopin with modern harmonies in it, and “ … despite elegance and sometimes liveliness, the composition is impregnated with melancholy and weltschmerz.” He was playing in Russia when the First World War erupted, and he tried to get to France via Germany. Unfortunately he was imprisoned in Bad Nauheim until the end of the war—but while imprisoned he composed many new works. His piano concerto in E minor was premiered in that city under conductor Hans Winderstein. After the war he moved to Wiesbaden, and married a woman named Elsa Fuchs whom he had met before the war. One report had it that he himself circulated a rumor that he had died. Perhaps at that point he just wanted to forget his past.

His career outside Germany and France went into a decline and not much is found about him in the press. His competition was fierce and most international critics did not class his playing with that of other pianists. In February 1920 in Wiesbaden he accompanied violinist Ernst Groel in the premiere of his violin sonata. Apparently Koczalski was quite close to his mother Laura; when she died he seems to have suffered a breakdown, but by the beginning of 1921 he was back before the public with a series of three Chopin recitals played in a few Swiss cities. The Journal de Genève noted “ … perhaps one could have wished for more depth now and then ... incomparable charm but lacking in profundity in the Fantaisie …” In Halle in February 1923 his Chopin recital was reviewed in the Zeitschrift für Musik by H. Kleemann, who wrote “ … unfortunately the sparks seem to be extinguished.” June of 1924 he premiered his own G major piano sonata in a recital ranging from Mozart to Liszt. His composition did not find the favor of Bruno Schrader in the Zeitschrift für Musik: “ … nice pianistic ideas, but giving more the impression of a multi-part improvisation …” The same month his “Lento Sostenuto” for cello and orchestra was premiered in Gera. In the fall of 1924 he tried conducting his own concerto with pianist Attilio Brugnoli in Wiesbaden.

That season he played three Chopin recitals in the small hall of the Concertgebouw in Amsterdam. After the first recital the critic for Algemeen Handelsblad felt his “generous forte a bit too massive” for the small hall. Apart from a few slips, he had played the notes well—but the question of whether he had understood “the inner Chopin” had not been answered. After the second recital the critic had grave reservations, finding mostly “pure pianism … a tendency to use massive force of sound, false pathos, and partly flirtatious, partly sentimental phrasing which we can hardly associate with the essence of Chopin’s art. We miss almost completely the intangible, evocative, metaphysical side ... and only rarely do we feel the mysterious touch of what is hidden behind the notes … Von Koczalski is a Mikuli pupil and thus pretends to continue the tradition … but this is no guarantee for an authentic Chopin interpretation and who can ascertain for us that Mikuli would have been pleased with Von Koczalski?” The critic cited a monograph on Chopin interpretation that Koczalski had written fifteen years earlier: “He wrote a lot of things which we would fully endorse and would have liked to urge him to put into practice … has Koczalski changed so drastically during these fifteen years, or do we have here another psychological enigma? … His view may be ‘traditional’—we prefer the untraditional which has become ours. And we put aside the Berlin decree by which he is said to be the best Chopin player of our time.”

January 1926 found him in recital in Berlin with the singer Gretl Esselborn in a program of songs and solos by himself and Chopin. Perhaps dismayed at his lack of success, he moved to Italy later in 1926, spending some time in Paris, where it is said he was studying musicology and philosophy at the Sorbonne. He returned to playing in public in 1934. He wrote a young Dutch friend, Alex Grosch (a soldier later killed in the Wehrmacht in December 1943) that he had been in Poland when World War Two broke out: “… the war events surprised me in Poland ... Have ... spent many days fleeing …” Amazingly, the place to which Koczalski fled was Germany. He wrote Grosch that German military authorities aided him and his career, and in 1935 Koczalski seems to have removed to Germany, regularly giving concerts there and throughout occupied countries during the Nazi era, playing his repertoire as well as an occasional concert that featured his own compositions. This raises many questions, for even if Koczalski had no Jewish blood, he was Polish, and the Nazis had made no effort to hide the fact that they considered Poles members of an inferior race. Nevertheless he was apparently officially accepted and approved, and that approval is at least in part one reason why he received rapturous reviews in Nazi Germany.

In May of 1937 after he had played a Chopin cycle, the Zeitschrift für Musik wrote that Koczalski was as unsurpassed in Chopin as another Nazi favorite, Frederic Lamond, was in playing Beethoven. In its November issue the magazine proudly reported that Koczalski had officially become a resident in Germany. In the spring of 1938 he played his own G sharp minor sonata in recitals in Munich and Berlin. The Munich critic Roderich von Mojsisovics thought his sonata a great work which “ … seamlessly joins in the developmental line of Bach-Bruckner …” He was asked to record most of Chopin for the Polydor label. The April 1939 issue of The Gramophone reviewed his recordings of the Chopin etudes, finding some to compare with those of the greatest pianistic rivals, especially those of Op. 25. Koczal-ski wrote Grosch about those discs: “I find the recordings quite a success. What a lucky stroke to be able to preserve artists’ playing for eternity. What would it be worth to hear original recordings of Beethoven, Chopin or Liszt?”

Late in 1936 conductor Peter Raabe and the Landesorchester Gau Berlin had Koczalski playing his own concerto in G major, described in one review as a kind of elegant, tuneful salon work. Raabe was the President of the Nazi State Music Institute (Reichsmusikkammer.) On 3 December 1937 there was a broadcast of a recording in Germany of him playing Chopin E minor Concerto with Heidelberg Municipal Orchestra. He appeared with the Berlin Philharmonic three times, playing Chopin’s E minor Concerto under Karl Böhm on 22 March 1939, then after the War Tchaikovsky’s B-flat Concerto with Sergiu Celibidache on 2 December 1945, and the world premiere of his own fourth concerto under Leopold Ludwig on 17 February 1946.

The Belgian site CEGESOMA has a photo of Goebbels attending a Koczalski performance in the Beethovensaal on 23 April 1937, which was a benefit for the Goebbels Fellowship. http://pallas.cegesoma.be/pallas/servlet/gisc?vn=68446

He played at least two concerts in Germany shortly after the start of the War. A planned tour of fifteen European cities to mark his golden jubilee as a pianist in 1939 was cancelled after recitals in January in Riga, and in April in Nuremberg. Soon German authorities stopped him from playing further in public, limiting him to recitals in private settings. He taught, composed, and worked on writing an autobiography, advertising that he was available to teach all aspects of music. Koczalski was reported attending an Emil von Sauer recital on 5 October 1941 in Berlin. He wrote Grosch “… sometimes I feel very sad … because the habit of playing for large audiences is part of myself and it is very difficult to get used to only private concerts …” He worked with a German army opera troupe rehearsing Mozart’s Abduction from the Seraglio. Inevitably things became more difficult; his house in Berlin was destroyed by bombs in November 1943.

Not surprisingly, he could not avoid becoming embroiled in politics. Grosch sent him a volume of fairy tales—this was intercepted and Koczalski was interrogated. Unknown to Koczalski, in April and May, 1940, under direct orders from Stalin, 22,000 captured Polish military and police officers, as well as arrested Polish citizens deemed to be landowners, saboteurs, factory owners, lawyers, officials, and priests, had been executed in the Katyn forest. In 1943 the Nazis discovered the graves and announced that Russia had committed the massacre. The Soviets claimed the murders had been committed by the Nazis. Koczalski was drawn into the deadly controversy.

In 1946, an article was published in the Polish magazine Dziennik Powszechny—the article is quoted in the biography of Koczalski by Stanisław Dybowski (Selene, Warsaw 1998). The article discusses the relationship between Koczalski and the well-known Nazi official Hans Hinkel, identifying him only as “Heinkel.” (Biographer Dybowski did not seem to know that the article got the name wrong, and himself refers to this historical figure only as “Heinkel.”) Hinkel had been the editor of Germany’s most anti-Semitic newspaper, the Völkischer Beobachter, which on 19 October 1935 published the opinion that Koczalski was “one of the most significant Chopin interpreters.” Hinkel was a manager of the Reichskulturkammer.

The unnamed journalist had claimed that Hinkel, wanting a Polish cultural figure to sign a statement about the Katyn massacre for Germany’s political purposes, had offered Koczalski inducements to view the mass graves, and sign the statement. Koczalski refused, citing his poor health, but after that he suffered “constant harassment and persecutions.” Dybowski cites a woman who was in touch with Koczalski regularly at the time. According to her, despite blackmail attempts, Koczalski had twice refused Nazi offers to be a member of an international committee investigating the Katyn massacre.

Dybowski claims that historical documents confirm that Koczalski’s only participation with officials in Nazi Germany were the necessary ones for his career there as a musician (overlooking the implications of this.) Dybowski seems to present the story of Koczalski’s refusal to become involved with the Katyn massacre as a kind of vindication, and states that the post-War Polish government also wanted Koczalski to become involved with the question of the Katyn massacre, for its own propaganda purposes, but the pianist refused that as well. Because of this, and perhaps for other reasons that Dybowski does not suggest, in Poland “ … odium and persecution had fallen on him and went on to the end of his days.”

There was one report that “Hitler later interred him in a camp until after the war as a foreign national”—this is not true, and is probably a misstated retelling of Koczalski’s internment during World War One. Equally amazing as his earlier fleeing to Nazi Germany, Koczalski returned to Poland in 1945. It was of course known that he had performed for the Nazis and he was not popular. He gave some concerts and taught. A 9 May 1948 Berlin concert was advertised as his “Last Concert before his American tour.” He did not live to play in America.

 Despite the fact that he composed an enormous corpus of works including six operas and (it is said) had performed 4,600 concerts during his life, there was almost no mention in the Polish press of Koczalski’s death, from heart failure in Poznan´ on 24 November 1948 at age of sixty-four. At the funeral ceremonies Poland’s government posthumously honored the dead musician with the Commander’s Cross of the Polonia Restituta Order. Funeral expenses were borne by the state. His pupils had included Tadeusz Kerner, Rainer von Zastrow, and earlier in Germany, his favorite, Slavka Nikolowa. He was not forgotten in Germany, where a memorial concert to him took place in Berlin on 4 December 1958.

During the last years of his life, and after his death through his recordings, Koczalski’s playing was cited by a number of individuals who believed that it represented the authentic Chopin style, exemplary of the “pure Chopin.” But is it really, or is it only what these proponents desired “authentic Chopin” to be? The evidence is weak at best, and the truth elusive. Recordings of Koczalski from the post-War period include radio broadcasts as well as a series for the MEWA label out of Poznan´; these late recordings are as controversial as earlier ones. There is no question that some of the negative reaction to his recorded playing stems from revulsion to his cooperation with the Nazi regime. Nor is there any doubt that some of his recordings are beautiful documents of romantic piano playing. Many questions about Koczalski the man and the artist may never be answered, as well as the unresolvable claims about the “true Chopin.”

© Gregor Benko, 2015

A thousand thanks to Johan Falleyn and Francis Crociata for their help with research. All translations were made by Johan Falleyn.