famous witticism — one that marked ansea cliange of style and performancenpractice. Elman attended the CarnegienHall debut of Jascha Heifetz (Octobern27, 1917) in the company of the eminentnpianist Leopold Godowsky; andnwhen Elman remarked “Isn’t it awfullynhot in this hall?” Godowsky replied,n”Not for pianists.” The humor of thatnanecdote has masked its reality; and in ansense, there is the theme of Kozinn’snvolume. Though Elman had earnednthe respect of Auer, Joachim, andnYsaye—that is to say, the blessing ofnthe 19th century—he was made tonseem “old-fashioned” by the aggressivenand brilliant Heifetz, just as the woddnwas shaken up by the First World War.nMuch of the sweetness of life, in thenform of flexible tempi, beautiful sonority,nand personal expressivity, was blastednaway as music absorbed mechanicalnimagery, the industrial ethos, and modernistnassumptions.nWhen the smoke cleared, thenstrict and streamlined approachnof Arturo Toscanini displacednthe more freely breathingnand manipulative styles ofnMengelberg and Furtwangler,namong conductors; and amongnpianists, Arthur Schnabel’snaristocratic approach displacednthe personalized renderings ofnElman’s friends LeopoldnGodowsky and Josef Hofmannn— although VladimirnHorowitz, a grand- Romantic bynany standard, did not begin hisnAmerican career until 1928.nBut Horowitz’s Romanticism,nlike Heifetz’s, surely differednfrom the subjective interpretationnthat had comenbefore. It was personal andnindividual; but it was also glitzy,nhighly polished, and modern.nThe difference between Elman andnHeifetz can today be vividly demonstratednby comparing their earfy recordingsnof the Tchaikovsky concerto, bothnconducted by BarbiroUi — Elman’s ofn1929 (available today on Pead GEMMnCD 9388, imported by Koch International)nand Heifetz’s of 1937 (formerlynon a Seraphim LP, 60221, if younhaven’t got the original 78’s). Elman isnsearching, soulful, and singing; the barlinesnscarcely exist. Heifetz is brilliantnand tight; the melos is submerged be­nneath the passage-work.nKozinn’s book does more than tellnthe story of a great instrumentalist; itnuses him as an example — a salientnone — of the fate of the Romanticnvirtuoso in the modern environment.nThough he does not make the comparison,nthere may have been more than anstylistic difference between Elman andnHeifetz; Elman was a devoted familynman all his life; Heifetz died in annembittered loneliness. What Kozinnndoes argue, in portraying Elman inncontext, is that his Jewish backgroundnwas decisive in determining his musicalncharacter. He sees Elman as a productnof the tradition of the badchen, andnother Russian, American, and Israelinviolinists in that light as well. He implies,ntoo, that Elman had an affinitynwith the melodic line that is highlynvocal in its orientation, the same pointna German critic made when he proclaimednthat Elman’s performance ofnthe Mendelssohn concerto had thenquality of bel canto. As one who oncenhad the good fortune to hear Elmannplay that piece, I can’t argue with thenjudgment.nAllan Kozinn’s biography of MischanElman is brimming over with informationnand analysis, with anecdotes andncriticism, and with the sense of anmusician’s life. His book includes as itnshould a complete discography, andngives a thoroughly satisfying account ofnElman’s career in context, as well asnclose-ups of his personal life. MischanElman, who left such individualnsound-images behind, deserves no less.nBut Nathan Milstein (born 1904)nhas not agreed that he himself deservesnsuch a thoughtful treatment. His reminiscencesnof Odessa and St. Petersburgnbefore the war and the revolution,nof Soviet Russia in the eady 1920’s, ofnAuer and Horowitz, and of the Russiannculture he misses to this day — all thesenhave a colorful force. He continuesnwith his stories of his western travels, annabundance of anecdotes about celebrities,nand too many references to food.nPerhaps Milstein’s best chapter, if it isnnot his treatment of Rachmaninoff, isnthe one on Eugene Ysaye and QueennElizabeth of Belgium. But as the pagesnfly by, the realization sinks in thatnNathan Milstein has no theme, nonorganizing idea that he wishes to impart.nAlthough he emphasizes his Russiannroots, he goes so far as to embracenhis nearly stateless existence, so Russianand exile is not his theme. The violin,ncuriously enough, is not his theme,neither. Aside from some remarks onnthe importance of bows, this greatnviolinist has little to say about hisninstrument. And most of his remarksnabout the violin literature are oddlynshallow: Beethoven didn’t know hownto write for the violin, Brahms’s violinnconcerto isn’t much good, and neithernare those of Sibelius and Elgar.nThe one pattern I could isolate wasna series of stories ending “Milstein wasnright!” or “Nathan, you were right!”nBut though many of his observationsnare shrewd ones, Nathan Milsteinnhasn’t taken the trouble to make muchnout of his memories, which in this formnremind me of nothing so much as onenof those “as told to” sports autobiographiesnthat blight the bookstalls.nJust why Milstein would settle for sonlittle is hard to understand. The elegantnviolinist of impeccable taste andnmusicianship would hardly seem to benthe source of so much self-indulgencenand triviality, and so little serious substance.nBut so he is. Milstein’s book isnrecommended for those in search ofngossipy stories, memories of food, andnexplanations of why Nathan Milstein isngreat, even without his violin.n/.O. Tate is a professor of English atnDowling College on Long Island.nMOVING?nX-nLET US KNOW BEFORE YOU GO!nTo assure uninterrupted delivery ofnChronicles, please notify us in advance.nSend change of address onnthis form with the mailing label fromnyour latest issue of Chronicles to:nSubscription Department, Chronicles,nP.O. Box 800, Mount Morris, Illinoisn61054.nName ‘.nAddressnCitynnnState ^ip_nJUNE 1991/39n