In his thoroughgoing compilation, Donald Manildi, Curator of the International Piano Archives at the University of Maryland, tells us that Arthur Rubinstein's earliest recordings were apparently made around 1910 in Poland for the favorit label. Only one such release has been traced, although it is certainly possible that others exist. But, as Manildi continues, "in 1928 Rubinstein began recording in earnest for the Gramophone Company of London (HMV), moving in 1940 to its then-affiliate, RCA Victor (though there were a few additional HMV releases after World War II). He continued this association until his final recording sessions in April 1976 (with the sole exception of the Brahms Concerto No. i with Zubin Mehta and the Israel Philharmonic, made for Decca/London)." On page 280 of his memoirs (My Many Years, Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1980), the great pianist tells us of the genesis of the very recordings reissued in Volume 4 of this ambitious compilation: At this concert [Rubinstein had just played the premiere of John Ireland's new concerto with Sir Henry Wood conducting], a man named Fred Gaisberg reminded me of our meeting in the United States. 'I don't think you remember me,' he said, 'but I am here working for His Master's Voice Gramophone Company and I wanted you to make records for us.' I laughed, 'Don't try to persuade me. The piano sounds like a banjo on records. In the old days in America I refused to have anything to do with it.' 'Well,' he replied with a smile, 'will you at least agree to have lunch with me at a nice place?' 'Certainly! If l refuse to make records I have nothing against a good meal.' We made a date; he fetched me in his car and we drove for a long time. I asked him, 'Is this restaurant a special place in the suburbs?' 'Yes, indeed. I'm taking you to Hayes, where we make the records.' 'So this is kidnapping? Instead of giving me something to eat you will point a gun at me and force me to make a record, eh?' 'Don't be scared,' he laughed. 'We will give you a very good lunch, but what will happen after is in God's and your hands.' We reached the imposing factory building after a good half hour and went straight to the restaurant. The food was astonishingly good for a place of that sort. Gaisberg introduced me to some interesting musicians who were busy recording, and then came the attack. 'Please, please, Mr. Rubinstein, play just one piece of your choice. We swear it will not be published and we can play it back to you right away so you can judge for yourself how it sounds.' I could not resist for long. After my coffee and a cigar we went to one of the recording rooms where they had a Blüthner piano. It was not a concert grand and, when I objected to playing it, Gaisberg said, 'Try it and we will see...' Well, this Blüthner had the most beautiful singing tone I had ever found. Suddenly I became quite enthusiastic and decided to play my beloved Barcarolle of Chopin. The piano inspired me. I don't think I ever played better in my life. And then the miracle happened; they played it back to me and I must confess that I had tears in my eyes. It was the kind of performance I dreamed of and the sound reproduced faithfully the golden tone of the piano. (These were the first recordings made with electronic process.) Gaisberg had won. This was a very important day; a new life began for me. From then on and up to now as I write, public concerts alternated with serious conscientious work in studios specially built where I would sit at the piano all by myself and play with great care, and at times with inspiration, while in another room, invisible to me, three or four gentlemen were busy perpetuating my performance on turning discs. In the beginning our records preserved our true performance, unaltered, with wrong notes here and there or a phrase which we could have played better. We were not allowed to hear back what we had played right away; the recording had to remain untouched until a matrix could be processed. Of course, we were allowed to repeat a piece until we thought we couldn't do it better. For my part, I was always apt to choose a performance with a spark of inspiration even if it had some not too noticeable imperfections rather than a too careful, note-perfect version. Right there in Hayes, Mr. Gaisberg proposed a contract for five years and I was ready to sign it. The HMV recording of the Barcarolle, according to hard facts of Manildi's discography, was recorded on April 18, 1928 and is not the impromptu performance Rubinstein seriously objected to; the "wax," (recording) alas, insofar as we know, was presumably destroyed the moment Rubinstein heard it played back to him. Be that as it may, Harvey Sachs, in his biography, (Rubinstein, A Life, Grove Press, New York, 1995) opines that the 1928 recording of the lovely, meandering Barcarolle... is amazing in its mixture of quiet intimacy, melodic splendor, mounting eroticism, and dazzling explosions of joy; the 1962 recording, although beautiful, pales beside it. (The 194^ version, which has also become available on compact disc, cannot quite match its predecessor in gracefulness and lyricism.) Pace Mr. Sachs, your annotator respectfully suggests that it is not the Barcarolle, in fact a masterfully well-organized masterpiece, that "meanders" but, rather, this early Rubinstein interpretation: to be sure, lovely nuances are to be savored, but too many self-indulgent rubatos, textural inaccuracies and beefed-up octave doublings weaken the cumulative architecture of Chopin's synthesis of logic and ecstasy. To my way of hearing, all three of Rubinstein's later recordings are more faithful to the text and come closer to the music's essence. The 1946 version proves to be the most "public" of the quartet—a bit hard-toned perhaps and, one might say, mistakenly and uncomfortably too close in spirit to Rubinstein's customary way with the A-flat Polonaise, Op. 53—and my own vote goes to the Barcarolles of 1957 and 1962. Curiously, the live concert of the piece, from Rubinstein's return to the Soviet Union in 1964—36 years after the 1928 HMV recording!—most nearly approximates the early HMV recording (and even some of the liberties with the printed page); the wheel had come full circle. There is less divergence to be found in Rubinstein's four recordings of the Berceuse: the 1932 HMV version is perhaps more lovingly expansive than any of the later counterparts (note how fondly the pianist dwells upon the retardation of its final phrase), and the 1946 one a bit brusque and extroverted, but each is, in its own way, true to the essential persona of this wonderful fusion of lullaby and passacaglia. The 1962 is the grandest of all, but Rubinstein's 1932 reading, beautifully well-recorded for its period, may well be the pick of them all. In January of 1935. Rubinstein began his historic recording of the polonaises of Chopin. On my birthday, January 2 8, 1935, Dr. Nahum Sokolow, the famous Zionist and a highly respected personality in London, gave a diplomatic dinner at which the British Foreign Secretary, SirJohn Simon, the Polish ambassador, Count Racgmski, and the minister of Czechoslovakia Jan Masaiyk, the son of the creator or the Czechoslovakian Republic, were present. The talk was mainly about the dangerous ascendance of Hitler, his strange political moves, like the unexpected pact of friendship with Poland, his victory in the Saar plebiscite, his extremely violent anti-Semitic laws, brutally inciting the destruction of Jewish property and shops and depriving German Jews of all human rights. The gentlemen talked intelligently but did not offer the slightest approach to any energetic protest against Hitler's dangerous activities. Somebody mentioned my birthday and I was treated to a polite little toast with good wishes from these gentlemen. When it was time to go home, Jan Masaryk offered to take me in his car. On the way he said, 'What about a glass of champagne in my embassy and a good piece of cake in your honor ? The staff are still awake and will be happy to join us.' I accepted with enthusiasm simply because Masaryk was one of the people after my own heart. There was nothing of the typical diplomat in him. He was free and outspoken without a trace of hypocrisy, and the nicest thing about him was the fact that he was really fond of me. In no time, he improvised a lovely warm birthday party. Hefilled up glasses with champagne and they all toasted me from their hearts. At one moment, Masaryk left the room, came back after a longish while, and said: Arthur, I have a present for you.' I protested in the usual insincere way, but I was very curious to see the gift. He took me to the telephone in the corridor and said, 'This is my present.' The dear man got Nela on the phone. She was already in the hospital. She said with a weak and tired voice, 'I think the moment has come, it might be a present for your birthday. ' I said, 'I finish the polonaises tomorrow. Please let me know right away.' I ended up by wishing her all the good luck and love, etc., and I kissed Masaryk on both cheeks for this most wonderful present. The next morning, I started my work on the last two polonaises. The A-flat one went off brilliantly, and after two takes I was satisfied. After lunch, I played the last, most difficult one, the Op. 44, in F-sharp minor. I was very inspired and played it better than ever before, but unfortunately in my élan I struck two false bass notes. I was miserable and even furious to have lost such an exceptional performance, as of course I was obliged to play it again. Nervous as I was, I declared, 'I will do that tomorrow. Now I couldn't possibly play this beautiful piece as well as before.' They begged me to take a rest and have another try, but to no avail. I took a taxi and hurried home to my flat, and ordered teas with delicious English crumpets. Then the telephone rang. Nela's much stronger voice announced triumphantly, 'Arthur, we have a son. He is beautiful and weighs more than eight pounds.' I shrieked, 'Hooray, bravo, darling, thank you'—all the silly words which came to npi mind. I decided there and then to have that F-sharp Minor Polonaise issued, faults and all, because it was fun for my son to know what his father was doing while his son was born. (The two mistakes can indeed be heard in the performance as published.) Rubinstein was absolutely right to impulsively sanction this superb memento of his eldest son's birth—neither of the two later official Rubinstein recordings of the Op. 44 (made, respectively, in 1961 and 1964) even remotely approximate the vitality of his 1935 performance. (Although, fortunately, there is a marvelous concert from Moscow of close vintage to the 1964 stereophonic account that combines the risk-taking bravura of 1935 with an even more impressive subtle lyricism and ripened mastery.) Considered as an entity, Rubinstein's 1935 traversals of these patriotic, pulse-stirring masterpieces stand the test of time impressively well. Although the great pianist's earliest versions of the pair of Op. 26 and Op. 40 works might strike some listeners as being a mite precipitate and emotionally callow (my own view is that the 1950 account of the muted, subtle C minor Polonaise, Op. 40, No. 2, most successfully represents the work's spacious nobility; without becoming overly pompous as it did in the 1964 version, monumentally carved in stone), the vital energy of, especially, the Opp. 44 and 53, are truly unique and irreplaceable. —Harris Goldsmith Harris Goldsmith—musicologist, critic, pianist and author—writes extensively on music. His articles appear in many respected periodicals, including The Strad, The Musical Times, Musical America, High Fidelity, Keynote and The New York Times. His byline has appeared on many recordings, in both a literary and pianistic capacity. Mr. Goldsmith currently teaches piano and piano literature courses at the Mannes College of Music in New York City.