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Francis Planté in 1903.
FRANCIS PLANTÉ
Francis Planté had the longest career in musical history and he was a legend many years before he died in 1934. * Referring to reports of his passing which the papers periodically published he, like Mark Twain, would opine, “Accounts of my demise are greatly exaggerated.” Planté had hardly turned seven when he made his professional debut (a benefit for a Parisian charity) and by the time he was ten he was already launched in the career of concert pianist. His tone was always distinctive and it was not long before the expression “floating tone” was invented to describe it and took its place in musical parlance. Undreamed of prior to Planté, “floating tone” became an ideal with pianists, teachers, students. Everywhere. It was supposed to be quite a secret, but Planté did not regard it as such. Indeed, he tried to teach it (if secret it was) to any and sundry. He had many piano pupils over the span of his long life, and being the generous person that he was, he was never known to accept so much as a sou for his inspired and inspiring lessons.
I was thus naturally very interested the day I was lunching with some French musicians and the talk turned to Planté and his “floating tone,” and when Widor, the veteran French organist, calmly informed the diners that he, too, “could make tone like Planté’s.” Without ado, he went to a piano that happened to be in the room, struck a key, and there it was: the Planté tone! “So you see, Messieurs,” Widor said, “it can be done, but with this difference: whereas Planté can produce it on the entire keyboard and all the time, I can do it on only one key at a time and then not always.”
But “floating tone” was not the only peculiarity (sic) that set Planté’s playing apart. People noted that, while he was performing, he often had a way of talking to his hands, telling them how beautiful they were, praising them for their response to his every wish, thanking them for their obedience. “You surely have heard of de Pachmann?” he asked me. “Eh, bien, did you know that Vladimir, who was quite notorious for that sort of thing, learned it from me?” Later, when I was visiting with de Pachmann, I asked him, “Is it true?” Nodding affirmation, he said, “Ich muss admit that c’est vrai.” De Pachmann may never have mixed his Chopinesque metaphors, but, oh, how he mixed his languages!
Small wonder that a wealth of anecdotes quickly accumulated around Planté. He enjoyed them thoroughly and never went out of his way to correct them, “Not even when they were true.” And how the public marveled at his devoting all of his concert earnings to charity, - a practice he continued up to and including his last concerts. When Planté had come to the point where he felt assured of financial security for the rest of his life, from that moment on he gave all of his profits to this or that philanthropy. In fact, it was the charitableness of his heart and mind that kept him on the platform until nearly age ninety-six! He simply could not resist an opportunity to contribute towards the relief of a manifest need. In addition to all of which, when are taken into consideration his zest for life and its foibles, his unfailing sense of humor, and his contagious bonhomie, - what a loving, loveable man he was.
“And when it came to the ‘unexpected,’“ Vincent D’Indy, French composer- conductor and head of the Schola Cantorum reminisced to me, “you most certainly could count on Planté. I admired him greatly and a number of times conducted concertos for him, though I must confess that I was always a bit nervous when I worked with him because, as I just said, Planté delighted in doing the most unpredictable things.”
“For example?” I asked.
“I remember one such occasion,” D’Indy complied, “when I was conducting for him in Bordeaux. It was a concerto to which someone had appended a long, oh, extremely long, cadenza. Vous me suivez, n’est-ce pas? Très bien alors, just before the end of the cadenza I made ready, as the custom is, to signal the orchestra to come in, when, to my and everybody’s amazement, Planté ignored the signal and repeated the cadenza from first note to last, when he allowed the orchestra to take over. The performance brought him an ovation. After the concert - the green room was packed with his admirers - I ever so gently chided Planté for his petite manque de memoire in the concerto. ‘Lapse of memory,’ he chuckled, ‘who ever heard such nonsense? I never forget a note, cher ami, which you know as well as I. But the way in which I played that cadenza was so utterly enchanting, I simply could not resist the temptation to repeat it!’“
This pianistic paragon was born at Orthez, Lower Pyrenees, France, March 2, 1839. He died at his country home, Saint Avit, near Mont-de-Marsan, France, at the age of 95. Having begun a career at seven and continued it to a short time before his passing, it was no doubt the longest career in the annals of music, - not only impressive for duration, but for Planté’s uninterrupted services to Music and his fellow men. Useless to enumerate his international tours, his triumphs in recital, chamber music, concertos. Suffice it to say that, wherever this “Dean of Pianists” appeared, he upheld the highest principles of personal probity and of the French keyboard tradition: impeccable technic, formal clarity, exquisite virtuosity, and the art of creating emotion, instead of merely classifying it, as so many have always done and no doubt will continue to do.
Planté was also highly respected for his interest in new music. He was one of the first (after Liszt himself) to play Liszt in public, and consistently kept abreast of the many generations that came and went in the course of his long life. He continued to learn and program “modern” music down to his final recitals - Stravinsky, Prokofiev, Poulenc, to mention a few - and could look back to such “contemporaries” as Berlioz, Rossini, Mendelssohn, and Debussy, all of whom had showered him with their praise. Trite though it may sound, Planté is one of the few of whom it can truly be said, “He lived his art.” His constant endeavor was to live up to his artistic credo (he wrote it off for me in 1926): Le veritable artiste doit créer le beau pour la seule joie d’embellir le monde! What a yardstick, and what impetus would be given to Art if music practitioners would start using it!
The sad part of the Planté story is the Planté discography, which, so far as can presently be ascertained, consists of only nine Columbia records: all, of course, 78’s. Six are 10”, three are 12”. The search for Planté records would seem to be practically world-wide, and, who knows, some may yet come to light? In the meantime, we can be thankful for those we have. Like many another artist, Planté had a genuine antipathy to recording. The very idea, he confided, was repugnant to him. Pour faire mon mieux, he needed a live audience. Studio paraphernalia, studio va et vient, men ordering him to begin, to stop, to replay, and so on, made him nervous. Consequently, he did not record. Or did he? However that may be, when listening to the present compilation, it might be well to remember (not that the various numbers need an apology) that this recording was made under stress and when Planté was eighty-nine . With your auditory perspective thus adjusted, the music will most certainly come through, which is, after all - or am I mistaken? - the important consideration.
The specimens of Plantés playing (which Marston has transferred to this CD) were a result of the two piano recitals that Planté gave in the Modern Cinema, at Mont-de-Marsan, France, on May 10, 1928. Two programs in one day and by an almost nonagenarian! Both programs (shown in facsimile) were entirely different, each had different encores, and to each Planté added different numbers. An addition to the afternoon program was Danse Hongroise by Brahms; while Rhapsody in C# Minor (Liszt), Spinning Song (Mendelssohn), Romance and Valse Caprice (Rubinstein), and the A flat Polonaise (Chopin), augmented the evening list.
Unperturbed and undaunted, Planté faced the intellectual, emotional, and physical demands of these programs not as a young pianist might, but as a young pianist ought to. That he had the résistance necessary to the occasion was evident from the fact that he played even better and more excitingly at the conclusion of the second concert than at the beginning of the first. “Preparing a concert,” he later told me, “may be fatiguing, but playing the concert rests me.”
When Planté organized the May 10, 1928 Piano Festival, as he called it, he intended it to be the celebration of both his 90th birthday and the 83rd anniversary of his career, also his farewell to the public. On the latter score, however, he was mistaken, for he was heard many times after the Festival in the French provinces, and always in response to an urge to raise money for this or that charity, for victims of this or that catastrophe. Not until he was on the threshold of 95 did he stop.
Nor were the May 10 recitals “free,” as has been variously reported. On the contrary, they were benefits for the Mont-de-Marsan Maternity Hospital! In a letter to me, dated March 27, 1928, Planté had written: “83 ans de carrière active! Ceci me donne droit à la retraite définitive, ce qui ne m’empèche pas de préparer pour lere semaine du mois de Mai prochain, une manifestation pianistique qui sera originale, puisqu’elle se produira 2 fois dans la meme journée, en matinée et en soirée, avec deux programmes entiérement différents, le tout au profit d’une grand’oeuvre locale, de Bienfaissance de Mont-de-Marsan: LA MAISON DE MATERNITÉ. Ce sera probablement mon chant de cygne!” And to think that there are writers who have insinuated that Planté gave concerts gratis in order to have an audience. Well I remember how strenuously Planté objected to my doing, when I insisted on paying for my two tickets.
It was during the morning following the two recitals - Planté urged me to be très matinal - that I broached the subject of making some records. In addition to his objections listed above, he could not see that “there might be the slightest interest in doing anything like that at his time of life, and if he would consent to make records, he certainly would not go to Paris for the ordeal,” - which gave me the openings I wanted. “La, mon cher Maitre,” I put in, “vous trompez, permettez-moi de vous le dire: for you would not only be the first, but no doubt the only pianist to record at eighty-nine. That in itself, would be more than enough to make the records unique. And above all,” I insisted, “Posterity will be asking for Planté records. It is really very easy: if Mohammed objects to coming to the Mountain, eh bien, then let the Mountain come to Mohammed!” “Peut- etre. Nous verrons,” was all he said.
Planté’s “Nous verrons,” put on end to our record-making discussion but not to my interest in the project: back in Paris, I at once contacted a friend of mine who had considerable authority chez Columbia. He was keenly interested in my account of Planté’s two concerts and agreed that some records might be worthwhile. “Planté,” I assured him, “would be willing to record provided he did not have to come to Paris for the sessions.” “That is just the difficulty we are having,” he replied, “he positively refuses to come to Paris. We contacted him some days ago but he is obdurate. Apparently there is nothing to do about it.” “Oh, yes, there is,” I said, “take the Studio to him.”
Which they finally did and that is how Planté was induced at long lost to “move into the groove.” The recording was done in Planté’s country home at St. Avit (not far from Mont-de-Marsan) and with equipment that well, your guess is as good as mine. Planté’s post-recording opinion was, “Ca laissait beaucoup à désirer.”
So here you have the memorable nine! After their first issuance, so many admirers sent Planté letters of appreciation that he was finally convinced that “l’effort valait bien la peine.” Hoping to follow up the victory, I asked Planté a number of times if he would not consent to making more records. In a letter to me, under date of June 1, 1929, he wrote: “Mille remerciements de votre si aimable lettre. Je n’ai pas de projets arretés, et le repos me l’éclarait. Si je décidais quelque chose, je vous préviendrais aussitot. Fidèles souvenirs pour vous et votre ami. Votre bien dévoué, Francis Planté. He never again recorded.
Facsimile of the program of 10 May 1928
The Boccherini and Gluck selections are Planté’s own arrangements of these works, followed by popular pieces by Mendelssohn, of which Planté’s delivery of Spinning Song is perhaps the outstanding one, - redolent of French esprit and the “tasteful lyricism” mentioned above. Mendelssohn felt the same way about Planté’s performance of the delightful number. Then come the Chopin Etudes, each one of which may be allowed to speak for itself. Planté named the Etudes on the original records: Op. 25 No. 2 was Les Abeille, Op. 25 No. 9 La Vilanelle, and Op. 10 No. 7 became La Promenade in Auto. “Titles are merely for the purpose of capturing the imagination of the listener,” he explained, “that is their only object.” If you listen closely, you will hear Planté’s voice at the end of the C Major Etude, Op. 10, No. 7. Only one word: “Bien!” One little word, and Planté must have known that he deserved it many times over; and I feel certain that, when you come to the last note of this record, you will whisper, as I do every time I play it or part of it, “Bien, cher Maitre, très, très bien!” **
For his renditions of Debussy’s arrangement of À La Fontaine, by Schumann, Planté also was honored by compliments from the famous Claude de France. The last selection, the Sérénade de Méphisto, from “La Damnation de Faust,” by Berlioz, similarly won the approbation of the great Hector himself for Planté’s performance of the charming tidbit.
Irving Schwerké
* Mieczyslaw Horszowski (1892 – 1993) lived for more than two decades after these notes were written, and ultimately eclipsed Planté as the longest-lived pianist with the longest career. [return]
** Mr. Schwerke was here obviously revising history on behalf of his friend Planté. This is one of the best-known moments in recorded piano. What the pianist can be heard exclaiming is the word “Merde!” [return]
IRVING SCHWERKÉ, native of Appleton, Wisconsin (born July 21, 1893) was an international music and dramatic critic, musician, writer, lecturer, and teacher who contributed throughout the years to many newspapers and magazines, and to various encyclopedias. For well-nigh twenty-five years he lived in Paris (he was the Dean of the writers of The Chicago Daily Tribune, Paris Edition) where his studio was the rendezvous of musicians, composers, actors, singers, writers, painters, and others gathered in la Ville lumière from all corners of the world. He escaped from occupied France in late 1941, and from 1942 made his native Appleton his headquarters, where he maintained a successful studio for the teaching of piano, voice, violin, and music (with assistant teachers) and from whence he frequently embarked on concert and lecture tours. Student of many of the great European masters (St. Saëns, Moriz Rosenthal, Ravel, Weingartner, De Falla, Dukas and others) his engagements took him from one end of Europe to the other, over the USA, West Indies, and parts of South America and the Orient.
For his propaganda in favor of American music and musicians, and for having organized the first all-American concert (Paris 1929) and the first all-American music festival (Germany 1931) given in Europe, he was known as “The Ambassador of American Music in Europe.” He was the author of such books as American Music at Bad-Homburg; Alexander Tansman, Polish Composer; Views and Interviews and Kings Jazz and David. He was working on his memoires in 1969 when he wrote these notes for the International Piano Library LP issue of the Planté recordings. He was a member of many musical and professional societies (Société des Gens de Lettres, Paris, for instance) and also recipient of dedications to him of poems, writings, and compositions, such as Afro-American Symphony by the American Negro composer William Grant Still, the original MS of which he presented (along with other MS from his collection) to The Library of Congress, Washington, D.C. Mr. Schwerké was thrice honored by the French Government for his services to music and musicians: Officer of the French Academy (Les Palmes Académiques), Officier de l’Instruction Publique, and Knight of the Legion of Honor. He died in 1975. His original article has been slightly adapted for this CD issue.
FRANCIS PLANTÉ
When Francis Planté made these recordings in 1928, he was the last of the great pianists who could be considered a direct link with the earliest period of piano playing for, although he had made his debut as a prodigy in Paris in 1846 when Mendelssohn and Chopin were already nearing the end of their lives and when Liszt had almost finished with his public career as a virtuoso, the future of piano playing forecast by Chopin’s music and Liszt’s playing was far from being realized. Tomaschek, Czerny, Wieck and Moscheles were only a few of the early great pianists and teachers who were still training most of the gifted young pianists and, in France in particular, of the three noted figures who had shaped the French school of piano playing, old Louis Adam, its original founder and himself a contemporary of Clementi and Mozart, had only recently retired from the Paris Conservatory, Zimmerman still taught there, and Kalkbrenner was still teaching privately.
Zimmerman had also retired by the time Planté entered the conservatory in 1849 and it was as one of the first (with Bizet) of the many remarkable pianists taught by Zimmerman’s pupil, Marmontel,
that he - still only eleven years old – won the first prize for piano playing the following year. He was chosen very soon after by Alard and Franchomme to succeed Alkan as the pianist in their celebrated chamber concerts and le petit Planté soon became a favorite protegé of Rossini and the Erards, at whose musicales he met most of the famous pianists and musicians of the time. It was in Rossini’s home that he played with Liszt some of the latter’s symphonic poems, in Mme. Erard’s London home that he played with Moscheles, and his enduring friendships with Liszt, Thalberg and the young Anton Rubinstein began during those early years.
It is not surprising that the Planté we sense most immediately in his recordings is that remarkable old man, described so vividly to us by Irving Schwerké, whose irrepressible vitality and love for the piano and whose generosity of spirit were too great to allow him to retire into a passive old age. If all we had to remember him by were the remarkable brio with which Planté - as loathe to abandon his zest for hunting as he was to abandon his piano - evokes from the Schumann D Minor Romance the excitement of the chase, we would still be fortunate. But it would be a mistake to overlook the other valuable evidence that Planté’s records preserve.
Although it seems clear that the acoustic of his home, where the records were made, left much to conjecture about the particular qualities of tone and touch that so impressed Widor, Saint-Saëns and others, one has only to note the telling points that Planté often makes in the bass or inner voices, to understand why it was his playing, rather than that of such equally brilliant contemporaries as Ravina or Dièmer, that particularly won the esteem of serious musicians in his time. Nor need we ascribe the moderate tempi of most of the Chopin Etudes too hastily to his years. If we compare the modest tempo of the ‘Black Keys’ Etude - one of the finest of the records - with the far from dawdling tempo in Schumann’s F Sharp Major Romance, we may also recall the statement of that canny observer, William Mason, who wrote that pianists, by the end of the century, were already playing the fast sections in Chopin much faster, and the slow sections much slower, than the pianists who had known or heard Chopin and whom he had heard when he reached Europe shortly after Chopin’s death. Of the authenticity of one performance there can be no doubt - none who know Plançon’s old record of the ‘Serenade to Mephisto’ could fail to detect that Plançon and Planté must have derived from the same source. It is from a work that had its premiere in the same year as Planté’s debut as a prodigy and the transcription by Redon was a favorite number with his early audiences.
Although Planté had become in his early youth one of the most admired pianists in France, he did not begin to extend his career seriously abroad until the late 1860’s, after he had retired to his home in the south of France for several years of further study. A tour of Italy (where Thalberg lent him his piano), followed at intervals by tours of Switzerland, Austria, Germany, Russia (at Rubinstein’s invitation) and other countries of Europe, won him recognition as sharing, with Saint-Saëns, the foremost position among the French pianists of the latter half-century and it was Planté, for the beautiful, velvety quality of his tone, who was more often cited as representing the ideal of French piano playing. In Paris, where he had resumed his association with Alard and Franchomme, his playing in chamber music was one of the most highly admired features of the musical life in the 1870’s and he apparently found few things as congenial as any opportunity to join with his colleagues in works for two pianos.
In addition to Liszt and Moscheles, he had played often with Saint-Saëns from their childhood prodigy days, later on we find him playing with Paderewski in the latter’s home in Morges, and the young Casella, encountering the by-then legendary elder pianist early in this century, found himself promptly drafted as the partner in Planté’s next concerts. What must have been one of the most memorable events of Planté’s career took place in Paris, in 1907, when he was joined by Dièmer, Pugno, Risler and Cortot in a two concert festival of works for two and three pianos.
The following year, Planté, deeply affected by the sudden death of his wife and perhaps persuaded by the conventions of the time that it was time to retire, resolved never to play in public again. He did, in fact, devote the next seven years to his home and his community but the First World War brought him back again to play over forty war-relief concerts and, although he never played again in Paris or any other music center after that time, his concerts for worthy causes continued in the south of France until a year or so before he died in 1934, at the age of ninety-five. No other great pianist’s career, whether in its length or in its timing, had come so close to touching on the whole span of piano playing.
Harry L. Anderson
The name HARRY L. ANDERSON (born 1910) is almost legendary to the world’s many piano-philes and record collectors, not only because he assembled what was probably the finest collection of piano recordings and historical material relating to pianists and piano composers that existed in private hands, but also for the fact that he was one of the very first persons to consider recordings as tools for basic musicological research. Mr. Anderson contributed articles and discographies to many of the trade journals, and was engaged in work on his magnum opus, a complete catalogue of all important piano recordings made up to the invention of the long playing record, when he wrote this article for International Piano Archives. He died in 1990, and in 1995 his widow Mary Anderson donated his collections to the International Piano Archives at the University of Maryland. A two compact disc set of rare selections from his collections entitled “A Multitude of Pianists – Rare recordings from the Harry L. Anderson Collection” is available from I.P.A.M. See their website at: www.lib.umd.edu/PAL/IPAM/
