The frog lives deep in the well, the only place he has ever known, and looking at at the bright circle of sky he thinks to himself, “I am king of the world and I see and understand all”

This year is the 20th anniversary of the death of Marcel Moyse. I was a student in
Moyse’s class in Boswil for several summers and the experience, both painful and
wonderful, was the catalyst for a dramatic change of attitude and direction in my
playing and my life. With hindsight, it was a kind of therapy. This therapy began with
the most crushing and unflattering observations about my ability and over the
following three years progressed to one of the most cherished compliments of my
life.
I remember so well, boarding the train at Waterloo at the beginning of my journey to
Boswil. I was 18 years old and alone, sitting up all night, as I could not afford the
more expensive day fare on my student grant. I certainly could not afford to fly. The
seats were horribly uncomfortable and I had very little sleep. I was thinking about the
class and how I was going to impress this old French flute player I had heard about! I
was going to play Roussel’s Joueuers de Flute. This was my first Master class and I
had no idea who would be there. I was not briefed! I was in my third year at the
Royal College of Music with John Francis, a marvellous teacher who was like a
father to me and who had taught me from the age 11 years old. His praise and
kindness had overwhelmed me and in a dizzy state I had fallen into the well.
On arrival in Boswil I was collected by one of the students and taken to “Die Sterne”
guest house. Then I made my way to the little deconsecrated church where the class
was to take place. As I approached I almost bumped into Marcel Moyse, looking
distinctly like an onion seller and smoking the biggest pipe I have ever seen. I
confidently introduced myself. He wasn’t impressed.

As soon as I could, I jumped up to play for him. The little altar platform was bursting
with revered and reverent flute players from around the world, most of whom I did
not know and had not heard of, because I had been a “frog in a well” for so long.
And so I gave my rendition of Pan from the Joueuers.
Silence. Silence for what seemed a lifetime.
Then the great maestro said very loudly “ you tongue like a duck”.
Silence. “ You tongue like a duck” – again and again in dismay.
Nobody spoke. It was a serious situation. My entire world closed in on me and my
legs were reduced to jelly. He was of course right. I had not been taught to tongue in
that marvellous light “French”style, but how was I to know? Now I did! There are
many accounts of Moyse as a teacher, describing him as cruel and crushing. My own
view is that his English was limited and often the criticisms he made came at you like
nuclear war heads, but it was his only way of getting his point across. And he
certainly did. After a gruelling lesson in front of players such as James Galway,
Michel Debost and William Bennett, Moyse suggested I saw him for a lesson
privately after the class. This long lesson was spent helping me to understand the
“French “ style of articulation. He did not charge me for this extra time. I was
indebted to Jimmy who gave me much good advice and suggested that the time had
come to study with Geoffrey Gilbert, who was so wonderful at diagnosing problems
and giving you the right practise technique.

Anyway, I was a plucky young thing so I decided I would again play for Moyse
during this course, but this time something which showed off my finger technique.
And so I played Andersen’s study opus 15 no 3, rather fast. “Well” I thought “ I
may not have got the hang of the tonguing yet, but I shall show them I can move my
fingers!” Was I nervous! But up I got and rattled through it.
Silence.
Moyse – “ Why you play so fast?”
Silence. “Why you play so fast?”
“Damn this” I thought. “ I’m nervous Mr. Moyse”. I said boldly.
Silence “ Why you nervous?”
Answer that!

Well he gave me a great lesson on the Andersen, making it sound like music rather
than sport, and after three weeks of saturation in his presence I went home humbled
but inspired, armed with many notes and much to think about. During the next year I
continued with my teacher and mentor John Francis, who was a truly wonderful man
and musician, and at the same time I tried to continue to learn from the teaching of
Moyse, helped by my notes and my memory- my memory of his inspiring
interpretations. The next year I travelled to Boswil with different expectations.
Cautiously I stood up to play the Ibert Piece. I was very frightened.
“You have changed school?” asked the maestro after I had played.
“Not yet” I said, “but I found teachers among my peers”.
That year at Christmas he sent me this card.
Card reads “ Meilleurs voeux- sante- success I remember very well – piece par Jacques Ibert
Et brillant scale in 3rds (drawing of scale)
Do not be so nervos,

Best souvenirs, Marcel Moyse, picture

After graduating from the Royal College of Music, I took a post graduate year of
study with Geoffrey Gilbert at the Guildhall School of Music, helped and encouraged
by Jimmy and William Bennett. This year was to be Geoffrey’s last in the UK before
he began his work in Stetson, so I was lucky to catch him. During the year with
Geoffrey I did not play a single piece of repertoire, only studies and scales, exercises
and analysis. It was intensely hard work, with a great flute player and teacher.
The next year I played for Moyse in Canterbury, when he was first invited to teach in
the UK. Wonderful Clifford Benson was the pianist and we played the complete
Suite by Benjamin Godard.
Silence. Moyse said, with his bright blue eyes twinkling, “ What has happened? You
are the real artiste.”
Silence. A dream, come true.
I attended the Marcel Moyse courses in Boswil for some years. Even when I was in
the Royal Philharmonic Orchestra, I would try to see him, if only for one day.

Picture of Sue with Moyse 1975,

I shall never forget his voice with its rich French timbre and colourful pitch, his
directness, honesty and his kindness, his dancing, his enthusiasm. However unkind
he may have appeared, if he respected a players talent and potential he would not just
publicly demolish them, but would also publicly rebuild them and inspire them with
poetry and colour. He was not a technical analyst, but a musical poet and a painter of
emotions. He worked with visualisation and sound and on a musical level he was the
greatest inspiration of my life. Now, many years on, I still see him dancing to
Doppler’s Hungarian Fantaisie and praying in Gounod’s Ave Maria, and I never once
play the Godard Suite without seeing his face and hearing his voice.
The moral of this story is:
There is a big world outside the well. Go and look and listen, before it is too late.