University of Virginia Library

In Memoriam: Joseph Szigeti (1892-1973)

By TERI TOWE

Some years ago, a tactless music critic reportedly asked Isaac
Stern if he considered himself the world's greatest violinist. Stern
diplomatically replied that he felt that he was only the second
greatest. His answer leaves to each individual who hears this story
the intriguing and nearly impossible task of filling the top spot in
the hierarchy of great violinists.

In considering those violinists active in this century, I find
that I can narrow my choice for the greatest down to two
extraordinary men and no further. The first of these is the late
Fritz Kreisler, and the second is Joseph Szigeti, who passed away
in Lucerne, Switzerland, at the age of 80 on February 19.

Kreisler and Szigeti were as different as night and day in their
approaches to the violin and its repertoire. As a good friend of
mine put it," If one were to compare them to Dutch Old Master
painters, Kreisler is the Frans Hals of the violin, and Szigeti is
the Rembrandt."

The analogy is particularly apt. Hals's brushwork was broad
and highly emotional in and of itself. Kreisler's violin playing was
open, rich, and expansive, with broad interpretive strokes and
deliberate chance-taking that were hallmarks of his artistry.

Rembrandt's brushwork, through highly inspired, was
carefully thought out and executed. Szigeti always played in a
carefully crafted, thoughtfully calculated, though highly inspired
manner that, like Rembrandt's canvasses, never lacks in impact.

From the outset, Szigeti's violin playing had a nobility and
grandeur that no one else's has ever really had. His instinctive
understanding of formal concepts and musical structure allowed
him to shape his interpretations with an authority that on many
occasions resulted in performances that were sheer perfection.

A case in point is Szigeti's 1932 recording of the Beethoven
Violin Concerto in D Major, Op. 61, made with Bruno Walter and
the British Symphony Orchestra. No one, not even Fritz Kreisler,
has played the soloist's opening phrases in the first movement
with the majesty, the power, the shape, the perfection that
Szigeti achieved in this recording.

I shall never forget my introduction to this reading of the
Beethoven Concerto. I came across a copy of the five-record set
of Columbia 78's at the Bryn Mawr Benefit Book Sale at
Princeton during the spring of my sophomore year there. As I
listened to those old shellacs for the first time, I felt as though I
was listening to my favorite violin concerto for the first time, too,
so revelatory was Szigeti's interpretation.

That fall, I broadcasted the recording on one of my radio
programs at WPRB. During the slow movement I received a
telephone call from a lady who had tuned in late and who wanted
to know the name of the soloist. I told her that it was Szigeti.
"Young man," she said, "that recording is perfect," and she hung
up. I concur in her judgment, and I know I am not alone.

A Lesser Man Wouldn't Have Finished The Letter

The 1932 recording of the Beethoven Concerto is not the only
recorded example of Szigeti's interpretive perfection. There are
recordings of the Mendelssohn E Minor Violin Concerto and of the
Prokolv Violin Concerto No. 1 in D Major by Joseph Szigeti,
accompanied by the London Philharmonic Orchestra under the
direction of Sir Thomas Beecham, that have been neither equaled
nor surpassed.

One of Szigeti's first records, an acoustic flat disc of the
Praeludium from Bach's Parta No. 6 in E Major for the Violin
Alone, BWV 1006, cut in 1908 when he was just 16, shows an
understanding of the formal and interpretive problems of the
work that was not only unique for the time (Compare Pablo de
Sarasate's highly Romantic and unabashedly virtuosic recording
made in 1904.), but that also retains its validity and sense of
perfection in an age when the Bach scholars have made us perhaps
overly conscious of the requirements of Baroque style and
performance practice.

Szigeti's understanding of the violin and its repertoire was so
profound that he managed to avoid a pitfall in to which all too
many great violinists have fallen. Szigeti was never the slave of the
violin; instead, the instrument was his voice, a conduit through
which all of his musical ideals, his artistic conceptions, his
carefully planned interpretations, and his unique personality were
conveyed in a way that was eloquent and olympian.

Towards the end of his long career, Szigeti's tone took on that
strangely nervous quality that identifies him in the minds of those
who know only his LP recordings. He also began to show
technical weakness that had never been present during the
twenties, thirties, and forties.

A lesser man would have thrown in the towel and retired right
then and there, with his reputation unsullied by the barbs of
those whose insistence on technical and tonal perfection would
make them say he was "over the hill." Not Szigeti. Although he
realized full well that neither his tone nor his technique were
what they once were, his personal warmth, his generosity, his
desire to share with yet another generation of music lovers the
electrifying experience of his recitals and concerts prompted him
to make appearances throughout the fifties.

When he did at last retire in 1960, his villa, Le Crepon, near
Clarens, Switzerland, became a mecca for violin students, and
Szigeti continued to teach until the very end. Shortly before he
left the concert stage for good, he made one last, monumental
series of recordings.

The chant du cygne, this handful of LP records show that,
despite technical weakness and a nervous, wiry tone, Szigeti had
lost none of his fantastic interpretive gifts. Of these recordings,
the disc of the Beethoven Concerto stands out as a masterful
achievement in my mind. As in his 1932 recording, Szigeti plays
the opening solo phrases in the first movement with majesty and
authority. True, there is technical insecurity, but, for some
inexplicable reason, the
tentativeness is an asset. Here,
in effect, is the last roar of the
wounded lion, the last flight of
the aged eagle.

Yet, the performance is
also strangely youthful. As in
all Szigeti performances, there
is a sense of exploration, of
interpretive development.
Joseph Szigeti never stood still
and never stopped rethinking
his interpretations. In this, his
farewell recording of a favorite
concerto, Szigeti's humanity is
revealed in a most unusual
way. As a tribute, he chose to
play the cadenza written by
his devoted mentor and friend,
Ferrucio Busoni.

I shall always regret that I
not only never heard Szigeti in
concert but also that I never
met him. By all accounts he
was a wonderful man, by
reputation courteous, warm,
and generous.

John Wummer, the flautist,
told me that, arriving early for
a recording session at the 1950
Prades Festival, he found
Szigeti practising in a
telephone booth with the
folding doors closed so as not
to disturb anyone. Thinking of
this story, I had to smile when
a friend of mine who had heard
Szigeti in concert remarked
that, when he played, he
looked like he was standing in
a telephone booth.

While I never met him,
Joseph Szigeti's humanity
touched me in a most unusual
way. Nearly a year ago, I sent
him some record jackets and
asked him to autograph them
for me, thanking him in

advance for his kindness. The jackets, autographed, were
promptly returned, and he included a signed photo with them.

When I returned to Charlottesville from Christmas holidays, I
found a letter from Switzerland in my mail. I was somewhat
startled since I recognized Szigeti's distinctive handwriting and
had absolutely no idea why he could be writing to me. In the
envelope I found the letter that is reproduced with this article.

A lesser man would not have resisted the temptation to heave
such an unfinished, months old, reply to a letter from someone
he didn't know into the nearest wastebasket. But Joseph Szigeti
was not a lesser man. He was a genius among musicians and a
prince among men. The musical world will always be grateful to
him for sharing himself and his art so generously for so long.
Joseph Szigeti will be sorely missed.

Copyright 1973, By Teri Towe