PROFILE
DE PACHMANN ON STAGE
By Prof. Carl Abbott MD, FRCPC, FACP
|
This article is chapter 6 of Prof. Abbott's upcoming book entitled "De Pachmann on
Stage". |
Unfortunately, there are few music lovers surviving today who can claim to have heard de Pachmann in concert. I have spoken to a few who have and heard from others.
Apart from his often outrageous demeanour on stage, many
stories have been told of incidents
where his behaviour, in the company of friends, during interviews with the press
or even while dining has been considered to be unusual in the least and
sometimes incredible. These stories have a common thread. His behaviour seemed
by most to have been deliberately calculated to shock. However, there are some
suggestions that he behaved in this manner as part of a defence, perhaps an
attempt to allay his performance anxiety on stage. There is good evidence that
he played the piano with much more confidence and skill when in the privacy of
his friends. Arthur Symons in the Musical
Leader (July, 1907) wrote:
“de
Pachmann is the greatest player of the piano now living. He cannot interpret
every kind of music, though his actual power is more varied than he has led the
public to suppose. I have heard him play in private a show piece of Liszt, a
thunderous thing of immense difficulty, requiring a technique quite different
from the technique which alone he cares to reveal to us”.
James Huneker, the critic, has left numerous memories of his encounters with de Pachmann and it was his verdict that he heard him play better and more spontaneously when away from a concert hall audience. It is apparent, however, that he could savour the comic value of what he did and said as well. His reputation was made in part from his unusual stage presence. Numerous descriptions of his antics have been recorded by friends and in particular by music critics. They often include reports of his comments on such matters as the temperature of the hall (it could be too hot or too cold), his taste in music, his favourite composers, his musicianship (not always laudatory for every concert), his view of the visiting city or the audience. Comments from the critics commonly stressed his stage behaviour, especially if it was particularly inappropriate or obnoxious – and it could be both. Unfortunately, this distracting stage behaviour became worse with time. What would be a composite description of his behaviour before, during or after a concert recital?
“this brilliant pianist was heard in Cincinnati last season by
comparatively few
Prior to his visit to the USA in 1907, Arnold Somylo, with the Baldwin
Piano Company (who were to sponsor this tour, as they had in 1904-1905), issued
a somewhat grandiose press release under the title Vladimir de Pachmann: His
“his American debut in 1890 proved to be
a revelation to the piano-playing world and since then further tours of this
country – the latest in 1904 – and concerts in all the capitals of Europe
have served to augment his fame to a point beyond which no pianist ever
achieved”.
Such promotion was calculated to ensure audience enthusiasm and to sell seats. It usually worked as de Pachmann’s concerts were often sold out.
De
Pachmann’s recitals were usually in the afternoon or evening. It is surprising
how many concerts in general, especially in London, were what we would now call
matinees. Once the time came for the recital to begin he was not always punctual
in arriving on stage. A significant delay in appearing might after all have some
value in allowing him to prepare psychologically for the task and also would
likely increase the anticipation of his audience. His entries on stage seemed
planned and calculated to have more impact than simply the effect of walking
from backstage, accepting the audience applause and sitting down to play. His
entry had to be right. If he stumbled or tripped, he went back and tried again.
He took time to see that the piano was right. Perhaps the piano today was not
level, tilting too far to the right. A group of workers would be recruited and
were able to rectify the problem by changing the height of the piano legs. Piano
height was of course an issue with de Pachmann because of his short legs, which
must be able to reach the pedals. Wayne Kelly writes ( Downright Upright: A
History of the Canadian Piano Industry, Natural Heritage/Natural History
Inc. Toronto. 1991) that in 1925, prior to a recital in Toronto, de Pachmann
demanded a keyboard height of 26 inches, 2 inches less than the standard height
of 28-30 inches. The Heinzmann Piano Company undertook to accommodate his short
legs by sawing off a few inches from the legs of their concert grand. But it
seems de Pachmann was still not satisfied. Kelly writes:
“ what he really meant was that he liked to play slightly ‘uphill
toward the treble’. A one inch block was shimmed under the right leg. As the
last coughs from the audience faded away and de Pachmann sat poised to pounce on
the keyboard, he suddenly rose, removed a single sheet of paper from a notepad
and slipped it under the leg of the piano bench. With a contented smile he then
sat down and began his concert”
If the piano height could be fixed by less extreme measures, the piano might still be imperfect in some other way, so he might feel compelled to crawl on his hands and knees to inspect the pedals underneath the keyboard. In Philadelphia, on February 29, 1912, during his notorious 1911-1912 tour, (during which his stage behaviour was worse than usual), he was late arriving on stage. When the curtains eventually parted, he came forward and inspected the piano with curiosity. He then got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the piano to examine the pedals. The Morning Telegraph (Feb.29) described the subsequent events as follows:
“If
you felt as I do you wouldn’t laugh”, he said, “you would cry”.
“Beasts! Beasts!” he hissed. “Is this the way to treat a pianist? Stop or I will stop. You will not have the pleasure of listening to me”…..He pronounced all kinds of benedictions on Philadelphia and its people under his breath, finally shouting, “I will not play!”
He started for the exit. Then he turned and performed a few operations in mental arithmetic as he gazed over the crowded auditorium. He decided to pocket his pride and cast his pearls.
All through his rendition of the Chopin compositions, to which the afternoon was given, he talked to the audience and to himself. He stopped them when they applauded in the wrong place and told them when to applaud. After he had finished one very long composition he remarked in a loud tone:
‘Now, fools, applaud. This is the place.”
He
was back in Philadelphia again on March 9th. for an afternoon concert
at the Academy of Music. Musical America reported that he played,
“a program of Chopin numbers as only he can but once more
the pianist gave an exhibition of his eccentricities that caused unrestrained
amusement. For the pianist’s appearance the stage was darkened….and de
Pachmann delayed his first entrance for some time, for the purpose it seemed of
working up expectation. When he finally came upon the stage, waving his long
locks behind him, he gave a glance of dismay at the low piano stool, stooped
down, looked it over critically, shook his head, threw up his hands
deprecatingly, then marched out and reappeared between the plush curtains
accompanied by a man bearing a chair. Finally he was seated and ready to play
but a titter in the audience offended him and he scolded audibly, threatening:
‘if anyone laughs again, I will not play!’ He did play however, and
divinely, though with considerable fussiness of manner and occasional remarks to
himself and to the audience”.
The habit of crawling under the piano was again demonstrated some days
later, on March 10, in Chicago, according to the Chicago Examiner. He,
“amazed the audience by moving the stool away from the piano, going on his hands and knees on the stage apparently as if expecting to find some assassin lurking there”.
A logical question would be, how
did he really feel and why, when he said, “if you felt as I do you wouldn’t
laugh, you would cry”? Did he have more than his usual level of performance
anxiety? Did he feel depressed and tired? Had he slept badly? Had he had too
much alcohol before the performance?
He had at that time completed more than twenty concerts across the USA
and Canada starting in October of the previous year. This tour would have been
very tiring on the sixty-two year old traveller. He travelled by train, where
sleep did not come easily and he hated the North American winters. During the
same tour he had arrived in Winnipeg in late December, 1911, after a long and
tiresome trip from New York. He was to be interviewed by the Winnipeg Free
Press and after introductions he immediately launched out in the following
manner:
“I am very tired and sick. I am feverish and have pains in my body with
this long voyage. My! What a voyage! The longest I have ever took in my life by
train”.
He complained of the chilliness of his ‘state room’ and his inability to keep warm. He was very tired. Prior to the outburst in Philadelphia on February 29th of the following year, he had given solo recitals in several US cities where he showed very little hint of fatigue, moodiness or irritability. He had played in Denver on the 14th, where during,
“every moment of the concert the audience remained under the spell of the man at the piano; held there either by the majesty of his genius or by the folly of his conduct”, said the Denver Times, conduct that did not seem unusual or especially outrageous to the critic, Frances Wayne. He was in Kansas City on the 20th. where, “he was in the happiest mood”, according to Musical America . He was in St. Louis on the 24th. and Nashville on the 26th. At the Auditorium in Nashville he, “was at his best and his playing of every number carried with it that wonderful charm which only the eccentric de Pachmann can give”, wrote the Musical America. At the concert in St. Louis, however, all did not go well. It is unclear what may have been the catalyst for a display of outrageous stage behaviour in that city. He was to play there with the St. Louis Orchestra and it is likely that having to share the attention and praise with fellow musicians and the conductor was the explanation. Whatever the case may be, the concert was a disaster, publicly as well as professionally for de Pachmann.
The
sequence of events was reported by Paul R. Martin in the Indianapolis Star (March
3, 1911) and were detailed as follows:
“It is seldom, in this country at least, that temperament (if you prefer to use the more polite term) seriously interferes with an artist’s work before the public. Managers say they have to deal with it and that it always manifests itself when there is a chance for the artist to get more salary or the centre of the stage or any of the rest of those things which the artist perpetually craves. It is held over the head of the manager as a sort of blackmail and the manager through his years of experience has learned that it can not be coped with handily. Hence he usually succumbs to the desires of the artist without wasting words about it.
“There
was an outburst of this sort in St. Louis the other day, which did interfere
with a public concert and which will go down in the annals of music history in
that city as being the most serious
affair of its kind with which the St. Louis people have had to deal. It is still
being talked about; blame is being laid on all sides and since everybody is
confident that he was in the right, the question will never be settled to any
one’s satisfaction.
The
person who seems likely to have been “in the right” in the view of the
writer was de Pachmann. On the afternoon prior to the Saturday performance there
was a public rehearsal where de Pachmann it seems (according to the Musical
Courier) had, “created such
enthusiasm that the Saturday night concert for the first time filled the hall
with a very expectant audience; every seat had been sold”. This speaks to the
value of having such advance enthusiasm and excitement prior to a concert in a
city where selling out the hall was seemingly an unusual event. Paul Martin
described the subsequent events as follows:
“All
went well for a while until the audience, completely charmed by de Pachmann,
forgot the orchestra of which St. Louis people are usually so proud. As the
program proceeded the enthusiasm of the auditors mounted higher and higher. De
Pachmann was at his best musically and as is his custom, was also indulging in
those gymnastics which are almost as entertaining as his music and in which he
delights when he is in particularly good humour. He flirted with his audience.
He made funny faces. He played the solemn chords of the Chopin ‘Nun’s
Prayer’ with his left hand, waving his right hand in the air, as if to say,
‘see what I can do with one hand’. At one such moment he bounced up and down
in his seat and at the conclusion of a waltz he danced from the stage. These
gymnastics coupled with his superb art, excited his auditors almost to frenzy.
When he had played the whirring melodies of Mendelssohn’s ‘Spinning
Wheel’, the applause compelled him to return to the stage time after time to
bow his thanks. Still the audience insisted and after the seventh bow the lid of
the piano was closed”- (at a signal from the conductor Max Zach, signifying
that de Pachmann would not play an encore). “The applause was redoubled. Men
stamped their feet and shouted. Women waved programs in the air and clapped
their hands until they split their gloves. Seats were banged up and down but de
Pachmann did not appear.
Now that de Pachmann given his recital, it was time for the conductor to prepare to start the remainder of the program which was orchestral. The dire consequences of this move were not anticipated by Zach, the players or the audience. Martin’s description continues as follows:
“In the meantime, Director Zach of the Symphony Orchestra went to his desk and was waiting for the applause to subside. When it grew louder he signalled his men to begin. As the first sounds of the Orchestra were heard above the din people leaped to their feet and the applause for de Pachmann became a crescendo. The enthusiasm of some excited a counter-demonstration and those who wanted to hear the orchestra hissed those who wanted more of the pianist.
Director Zach heard the hisses and apparently believing that they were
meant for the orchestra, threw down his baton and signalled his men from the
stage. As they filed out a consternation fell upon the audience. Realizing what
had happened, a complete silence reigned. Neither de Pachmann nor Zach appeared
again and although the audience lingered for nearly an hour the program was
never concluded.
This
situation was sure to have interesting repercussions. The St. Louis press was
naturally eager to hear both sides of the story and they did. At his press
conference, de Pachmann was described as being,
“in a stage of extreme temperamental rage over the curtailing of his program. As he talked he flourished his hands and tossed the grey mane of his hair. ‘Jealousy! That’s all the trouble’, he exclaimed in broken English. ‘If this thing had happened in the old country or in New York, Zach would not get out alive. The audience would kill him. If Rubenstein had been here he would have punched his head off like this’- and the excited artist made a ferocious lunge with his fist. ‘The people loved my playing’, he continued brandishing his arms. From the gallery to the pit they were all in ecstacy. ‘Sacre bleu! What does Zach think? The people can hear him any day. Me - they can hear me once in a lifetime!’
Zach’s
view of events was different and his interview was given in a “deliberate and
calm” manner. He told reporters,
“it was the plebians in the audience who caused the disturbance and who were determined to see more of what he called the “monkey-shines” of the pianist. To maintain the dignity of the orchestra, the only thing to do was to stop there and then, when a certain contingent of the audience insisted upon having more of de Pachmann’s monkey-shines”. He went on to say, “During the program he jumped up and down on the stool, talked to the audience and the orchestra and danced. Had we wanted a hippodrome feature, we would have gotten one. No symphony orchestra has ever been established except upon the basis of dignity. Some persons may think this policy irksome, but it is not to true music lovers”.
De Pachmann was also fussy about his pianos in other ways. Perhaps there was dust on the keys which must be wiped off with his handkerchief. Then it was time to sit down.
The height of the stool was rarely correct. This “stool
play”, as it was called by one British critic, could go on for ten minutes.
Sometimes all that was needed was that thin sheet of paper under one leg of the
piano stool. Audiences would respond with applause and loud laughter once the
problem was solved. Now the performance could begin on a serious note.
If he was playing a concerto, the orchestra and the players had to be
considered. For a concert with orchestra (as, for example, in the Albert Hall,
London, in June 1907), his entry could be even more dramatic than if he were
giving a solo recital. Here is a description of this Royal Albert Hall event by
WR Holt, the critic, in the Musical Leader
“A roar of cheering burst from the stalls. At the head of the steps bowing this way and that was a little fat man in a frock coat, his face suffused with good humour. He shouted a greeting to the conductor; he patted a fiddler on the back; he greeted like a long lost brother the modest young instrumentalist who had been deputed to turn over his pages.
A wave of the hand to the enthusiastic small boy, a jolly smile to the boxes, an inquisitive inspection of the bassoons, to see if he could find anyone he knew and Pachmann turned to his music……”
“………but only for a moment. As the baton fell and the band played the opening bars of the concerto, Pachmann suddenly remembered that it was the day after the boat race and turned to a horn-player to tell him all about it, illustrating the story by imitating Stuart’s stroke. The stool was too low for aquatic demonstrations, so he lowered it. Then it was too low for piano playing, so he raised it. It occurred to him that he had not told the drummer it was a fine day, so he stood up and conveyed the information by signs.
“Meanwhile the band was developing to splendid allegro, sweeping out the chords with the freedom of true artists. “That’s a jolly bit!” said Pachmann- “La-da-di-da!”
and he beat time with his fat, graceful hands. A red flower and a blue hat caught his eye and he remarked that this looked as if it would be a season of bright colours. Still the swelling music rose and the young man turning over the pages looked excessively uncomfortable. What if the master missed his cue?
“He need not have worried. Pachmann knows Chopin better than most of us know our prayers. The right bar arrived and the hall was filled with rippling melody……the happiest man in the hall was Pachmann and the most embarrassed was the young man who turned his pages over. It was all a splendid joke to the master. He puffed out his cheeks, he wagged his head to the rhythm of the music, he played with his left hand and beat time with his right and took the page turner into the secret of every thought that crossed his mind, from Chopin’s cleverness in setting wood wind against the violas to the remarkable devices of the architect who built the Albert Hall”.
Holt
describes Pachmann’s face as expressing,
“all
the human emotions within the space of thirty seconds. It is quite as funny as
Coquelin’s ( the French mime artist). The movement intensified. Pachmann
hummed the phrases and invited the audience to share his delight……Pachmann
is a prince amongst comedians but he is also a king amongst pianists.”
After
the concerto was completed, de Pachmann was,
“so
delighted that he ecstatically shook the page turner by the hand, then to show
he was enjoying himself, the master shook hands with all the audience who were
near enough. His regret was there was not time to lecture.”
Holt
does admit that he did not hear, but imagined de Pachmann’s comments on
the
Another
description of his behaviour with orchestra originates from Nottingham, England
in November, 1920. There he was, as Cecil Roberts describes him:
“as
his penguin-like figure rose from the bowels of that nether region where artists
arrange their clothes and exchange candid remarks about the audience…a surge
of applause arose. He had come to play for us….
Roberts’ description was published in the Nottingham Journal (November 6, 1920). The rest of the article went as follows:
“….had he? It seemed doubtful. Pachmann has an eye for billiards as well as keyboards. He raised his hands in horror, semaphored to the audience, revolved and struck a gesture of despair. “C’est impossible!” he murmured and a sweep of his stubby hands indicated the precipitous decline of the Steinway keyboard. His hands would roll off the end into the eight shilling seats. So appear from below three hefty removers. Nobody believed the piano had a tilt but since Pachmann thought so he must be humoured. There was a mimic heaving of stalwart shoulders, the piano was carefully not moved but the artistic temperament was satisfied.
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Pachmann raised his hand in simulation of The Adorante, smiled, seated himself – but did not play! In fact we began to wonder if he had any intention of playing, when suddenly two opening chords began the theme of Beethoven’s Sonata, Op.31 in D Minor and merging into an allegro succession, paused in the adagio passage. We settled down, the great delight of hearing Pachmann is with us.
During the de Pachmanns’ first tour of the USA in 1890-91, he and his
wife, Marguerite, played a number of concerts in Boston where they both were
greeted with considerable enthusiasm by the audiences and the critics. These
were discussed in another Chapter. On the night of February 21st.,
1891, de Pachmann was booked to play with the Boston Symphony under their
conductor, Arthur Nikisch. Philip Hale, the critic for the Boston Home
Journal, as well as JSD in the Boston Evening Transcript, have left
interesting descriptions of the evening’s events on stage. Hale wrote of de
Pachmann,
“at both the Friday afternoon rehearsal and the Saturday evening concert he was master of the situation. The austerities of these concerts were put in the background; traditions went to the winds and once conductor Nikisch was seen to smile. What a pity he could not have such an awakening oftener during these concerts! There was an enormous crowd present at both performances. From the first moment of the entrance of the distinguished soloist, the audience was put in good humour and all dignity passed away.
“He shook hands with the conductor before beginning, then put himself en rapport with his hearers by his usual bows and smiles and the performance of the Chopin concerto in F minor began.
“the
singularity of the concert was that the middle number, the piano virtuoso
element, like Aaron’s rod, devoured the rest. De Pachmann’s wonderful
performance of the Chopin F-minor concerto wrought the audience up to a pitch of
enthusiasm which would not be contented without a series of solos in response to
encores, a thing thus far prohibited by rule and custom in the Symphony
concerts. Pachmann was all himself in his fantastic ways, his smiles, grimaces,
amiable appeals for sympathy, frequent remarks and ejaculations addressed during
the most exquisite moments of performance to the person who turned the leaves
for him. To many who were listening for the first time, as well as to some
relentless censores
morum
who had heard him repeatedly, these childish ways of the man took off
attention from the musical, artistic side of him, or at least disturbed and
spoiled the pure enjoyment of it. We are more than ever convinced that there is
no affectation in it; that it is all natural, frank and simple; that it is the
irrepressible, involuntary, almost unconscious acting out of his peculiar
nature; that he so intensely, dearly loves his Chopin and the music which he
plays so con
amore as
to crave sympathy and feel unhappy unless all enjoy it with him. Take this for
the secret of his strange behavior and for a condition to be accepted and you
will surely find an artist in him and a musical interpreter of an exceptionally
high fine quality.
It should be no surprise to learn that de Pachmann was not invited to play with the Boston Symphony again although he did play his favourite Chopin concerto, No.2, in F Minor, Op. 21 with the Boston Festival Orchestra during a visit on October 29th.,1899 under the conductor Emil Mollenhauer. He played the Mendelssohn Piano Concerto No.2, in D Minor, Op.40 with the same conductor on November 26th of the same year.
Both concerts were under the auspices of his Honour Mayor
Quincy and the Music Commission of the City of Boston, for the benefit of the
City Hospital. The Boston
“exquisitely
beautiful from beginning to end. The artist was in his best vein and the result
was indescribably delightful. Nothing more fascinating in its chaste delicacy,
its poetic feeling, its warmth and its incomparably graceful technique than his
rendering of the slow movement can be easily imagined. The whole effort made an
irresistible appeal to the audience, which applauded quite as enthusiastically
and understandingly as if it had been a Boston Symphony audience and the acclaim
was so prolonged that the artist made his acknowledgements by playing the
Mendelssohn capriccio, with that same fleecy lightness of touch which carried
away his hearers at his recent recital and which drew forth on this occasion the
same tempest of applause that rewarded it then.
One would conclude that the ingredients for a successful de Pachmann concert with orchestra were the marriage of a sympathetic conductor and unrestrained licence afforded the pianist. The level of tolerance by conductor Mullenhauer bears comparison with the de Pachmann’s experience with Arthur Nikish of the Boston Symphony and their policy forbidding encores. But Mullenhauer was not always considered a soft touch. Olin Downes in the NY Times (January 15th.,1933) writing on the occasion of de Pachmann’s death in Rome, tells how he and others were dining with de Pachmann the night before
the rehearsal for a 1925 concert in Springfield under
Mullenhauer. Downes considered Mullenhauer to be “a hard guy” (who), “had
cowed orchestras, choruses and artists just as temperamental as the one he was
now to deal with”. There was concern that the drama of the previous
evening’s dinner where de Pachmann’s temper was unleashed might result in a
disasterous rehearsal. Such was not the case. Downes wrote,
“these fears were groundless. With the morning, his spirit purged and
uplifted, apparently by the catharsis of the previous evening’s drama, de
Pachmann appeared, smiling from ear to ear, beaming upon ever one. He sat at the
piano, talking softly, approvingly to himself, as he dropped pearls of tone from
his fingers – ‘Bravo, de Pachmann. Unique! There’s no such artist! No one
plays this as you de Pachmann!’ with flattery for Mollenhauer and grins and
winks for the members of the orchestra.
The Boston Courier had reported on the second concert (November 26th.
1899) in Boston with Mullemhauer by stating that the Mendelssohn Concerto had
been played with,
“unsurpassable beauty and wealth of technique and purity. The
trivialities of the man and the trickeries of the virtuoso were all blotted out
by the honesty, earnestness and vitality of the artist.”
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De Pachmann’s success with the Boston Festival Orchestra was again shown in a concert which he shared with the soprano, Madame Marie Brema and the violinist Henri Marteau on April 21st. 1900 in Boston. De Pachmann played the Chopin F Mi”nor Concerto, Marteau played the Introduction and Rondo Capriccioso by Saint-Saens and Madame Brema sang an aria from “The Queen of Sheba” by Gounod. A month earlier (March 22) de Pachmann had shared the stage at the Music Hall in Boston with Marteau in a concert of works for piano and violin by Mozart and Beethoven as well as several solo pieces from both artists. This was described as “a most delightful concert!” by the Boston Journal. The Herald said that the Mozart sonata, “dragged somewhat, owing to the slow pace at which it was played throughout. The result was that it took on an aspect of monotony that does not necessarily pertain to it”. The Beethoven was, “far more satisfying as a whole; the tempi were judicious and the work was beautifully played from beginning to end”. De Pachmann played some solo pieces by Chopin which were said to have been played in a manner that was full of charm and produced encores. It was also noted that in the Mozart and Beethoven there was, “not a trace of the Chopinesque in his treatment of either of them”.
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De Pachmann was known to be annoyed by latecomers. If he
arrived on stage on time, it could
mean that the customary latecomers ran the risk of his ire, especially in
concert halls where customers were not restrained from moving to their seats in
semi-darkness. During a concert in Montreal on October 3,1911, the Montreal
Gazette reported that he,
“was at the outset very much annoyed at the noise made by the belated
audience. He abruptly stopped in the middle of the opening Fantasia (of Chopin,
Op.48 in F minor) and demanded first in French and then in English: ‘what is
the matter back there? Keep quiet. We cannot have a concert with all this
noise’……from that time on there was absolute silence”.
De Pachmann’s stage was generally poorly lit at his insistence,
especially if he was playing without a score. He was known to stop in the midst
of a piece to request that the lights be dimmed further. During a recital at the
St. Francis Musical Art Society in San Francisco on January 26, 1905, the
crystal chandeliers had been previously partly dimmed. The San Francisco
Chronicle on the following day reported:
“all went well until an attendant began to button on the different circuits until the whole place was dazzling. Trained ears began to catch something in the nature of improvising and a chromatic scale crept in where it did not belong. Soon de Pachmann left the stage, trying to tell the audience what his trouble was. He was greatly excited. Out went the lights to a dim religious glow and back came de Pachmann to the piano to continue his programme”.
Prof. Edward Carl Abbott is a 65-years-old Canadian physician
specialized in hypertension, endocrinology, metabolism, pharmacology and medical
history. He published papers about the Austrian musician Mozart, Russian musician Vladimir de Pachmann and British novelist Charles
Dickens. He received is MD from Dalhousie University in 1959 and has worked in
Nova Scotia, Newfoundland and Ontario. He has also worked as an honorary
consultant in the Royal Post-Graduate Medical School in London, UK. His email is
Carl.Abbott@cdha.nshealth.ca
