Pablo Casals, 1876‐1973

AT the end, of course, Pablo Casals was a symbol. Anybody who lived to his great age—961— would automatically be a symbol. But in his case, the Casals legend was based on a good deal more than mere seniority. Nobody would seriously argue against the fact that for many years he was the world's greatest cellist. Nobody ever disputed his monomaniacal dedication to music. And then there was his strong stand against dictatorships, which alone would have made him a public figure. And then there was Casals the teacher, Casals the conductor, Casals the player of chamber music, Casals the inspiration. The tiny Catalan musician carried enormous weight.

And he knew it. He was conscious of his worth. He would have been a fool had he not known what he was capable of when he had his cello before him, and Casals was anything but a fool. Some musicians can be simple‐minded. Casals, all are agreed, had a shrewd peasant streak in him.

Basically a simple man, he nevertheless must have realized that his art transcended himself. He accepted the honors that came his way not only for himself but in the name of music. I really believe this. And he tried to live the part. There was the time in Puerto Rico when he set forth from his house to receive birthday plaudits from the Governor. There was Casais, neatly dressed, sitting in the back of his car, with ineffable dignity, his chin thrust forward, his body erect. And so he remained through the ceremonies. Coming home, he was tired. His body slumped a bit; his eyes struggled to remain open. But that peasant, stubborn chin was thrust forward as strongly as ever. The man was 90 years old at the time.

Like all great instrumentalists, he was born to music. As a baby he had a perfect ear. By the time he was 7, he was a soprano in the church choir, a decent enough pianist, a budding violinist, a boy hypnotized by sheer sound. Curiously enough, he did not start the cello until he was about 12. That is late for an instrumentalist. But it turned out that he and the cello were one; the instrument was an extension of his hands, his body, his ears, his brain.

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And so he went on to his great career. What a career it was! There was his discovery of the Bach suites when he was not yet 14. “For 12 years I studied and worked every day at them, and I was nearly 25 before I had the courage to play one of them in public.” Musical considerations aside, it did take courage. The cello, in Casals's early years, was more a salon than a serious instrument. Virtuosos avoided Bach and the Beethoven cello sonatas, and instead had a repertory consisting largely of display pieces and lollipops. Those pieces were also in the Casals repertory, as witness the series of Columbia records that were issued in the World War I period—“The Swan,” “Song to the Evening Star,” and so on. But as the years went on, Casals dropped this literature entirely.

As early as 1900, he and the pianist Harold Bauer were bringing the masterpieces of the literature to the public. His association with Bauer, that elegant musician, lasted for many years. Then there was Casals's part in the trio he formed with two great French musicians—the pianist Alfred Cortot and the violinist Jacques Thibaud. Their recordings made history. How many of us were introduced to the trios of Schubert, Beethoven, Schumann by the Cortot‐Casals‐Thibaud Trio! It also was in the 1920's, after the advent of electrical recording, that Casals's own great series started. His performances of the great cello concertos—Schumann, Dvorak, Elgar, Boccherini. The six Bach suites. And so to his festivals at Prades and Perpignan, where he and a group of eminent musicians including Rudolf Serkin made records of a good part of the chamber music literature.

As a musician, he was a romantic. What else could he be considering a birthdate of 1876? (Remember: the Civil War was only about 10 years over; the Bayreuth Festival was having its opening season; Queen Victoria had another 25 years to reign.) Casals the interpreter was an apostle of warmth, free tempos and the right—no, the necessity—of the player to add his own ideas to the ideas of the composer.

There was a period, during the strict liberalism of the 1930's, '40's and '50's, when Casals's ideas about interpretation were somewhat looked down upon by the younger generation. Yes, he could play the notes—but so tree! So romantic! Ugh! It is only in the last decade or so that musicians have come to realize that the controlled emotionalism of a Casals may be closer to the spirit of Bach and Beethoven than the antiseptic performances, devoid of imagination, that once were considered “musicianly.”

And so Casals lived a legend, and died a legend. And it was a real legend, one that Casals had rightly earned. In him came together a set of attributes that few musicians have matched. The man was largely responsible for modern cello playing, was instrumental in furthering the cause of chamber music, and lived and died for music. His was an important life. And in most respects it was a beautiful life.