Music-Study in Germany, from the Home Correspondence of Amy Fay

If he goes to America next winter, you must hear him thoroughly, coûte que coûte. So I advise you to be saving up your pennies, and be sure to get a place near the piano so that you can see his face, for it is a study. I always sit in the second or third row here.

—BERLIN, October 27, 1872.

This week has been quite an eventful one. It began on Monday with the funeral of Prince Albrecht, the youngest brother of the Emperor, and it was a very imposing spectacle. I was in hopes that Mr. B. would send me a card of admission to the Dom, where the services were to be held, but as he didn't, I was obliged to content myself with a sight of the procession and general arrangement outside. I took my stand on a wagon with H., and we got an excellent view. There was a roadway built of wood from the royal Castle to the Dom, carpeted with black, over which the procession was to pass. We waited about an hour before it came along, but we were pretty well amused by the gorgeous equipages and liveries of the different diplomatic corps which dashed past.

We were on the opposite side of the canal which separated us from the square in front of the Dom. On the right of the Dom is the Castle, and the Museum is on the left. All this square was surrounded by military, for as Prince Albrecht was a Field-Marshal, the funeral had a military character. They were beautifully arranged, the cavalry on one side and the infantry on the other, and the different uniforms were contrasted with each other so as to make the best effects in colour. Both horses and men stood as if they were carved out of marble, with the greatest precision of position. A little before eleven the royal carriages rolled past from the palace to the Castle, with their occupants. Presently the bells began to toll, and exactly at eleven the procession started. The Gardes du Corps, which is the Crown Prince's regiment, preceded the coffin, dressed in white and silver uniforms, with glittering brass helmets surmounted by silver eagles. The coffin itself was borne on a catafalque, and drawn by eight horses covered with black velvet trappings. It was yellow, and was surmounted by a crown of gold. On it was laid the Prince's sword, helmet, etc., and some flowers. I was too far away to distinguish the personages that followed. Of course the Emperor was nearest, and all were on foot. Behind the coffin the Prince's favorite horse was led, saddled and bridled. All the servants of his household walked together in silver liveries and with large triangular hats with long bands of crape hanging down behind. The band played a chorale, "Jesus, my Refuge," and the bells kept tolling all the while. At the door of the Dom, the procession was received by the clergy officiating. The coffin was so heavy that it was rolled down a platform of boards put up for the purpose. Then it was lifted by sixteen bearers, the glittering cortége closed round it, and they all swept it at the open portal.

We waited until the end of the service, as it was a short one, in order to hear the eight rounds of firing by the artillery. It was interesting to see how exactly they all fired the instant the signal was given. First the musketry on one side, and then the musketry on the other, in answer to it. The officers galloped and curveted about on their fiery steeds, and finally, the cannon went boom – boom. The sharp crack of the rifles made you start, but the sullen roar of the cannon made you shudder. It gave you some idea of a battle.

Tuesday night I went to a concert given by a new star in the musical world, a young violinist named Wilhelmj. He is only twenty-six years old, and is already said to be one of the greatest virtuosi living, perhaps the greatest of the romantic school, for Joachim belongs to the severe classic. All the artists and critics and many of the aristocracy turned out to hear him. It was his first appearance in Berlin, and as I looked round the audience and picked out one great musician after another, I fairly trembled for him. Joachim and de Ahna were both present, among others, and my adorable Baroness von S. swept in late, looking more exquisite than ever in black lace over black silk, with jet ornaments, and her lovely hair curled and done up high on her aristocratic little head. She was all in mourning for the Prince, even to a black lace fan with which she occasionally shaded her eyes, so that her peach-bloomy cheek was just to be discerned through it. She is a charming pianist herself, I've heard, and is a great patroness of music and musicians, especially of the "music of the future," and its creators. I see her at all the concerts. When her face is in perfect repose she has the most charming expression and a sort of celestial look in her deep-set blue eyes. She is what the French call spirituelle, and the Germans geistreich, but we've no word in our language that just describes her.

Well, as I was saying, my head got quite dizzy with thinking what a trial it was to play before such an audience, but Wilhelmj seemed to differ from me, for he came confidently down the steps with the dignified self-poise of an artist who is master of his instrument, and who knows what he can do. He is extremely handsome, with regular features, massive overhanging forehead, and with an expression of power and self-containment. He looked a perfect picture as he stood there so quietly and played. He hadn't gone far before he made a brilliant cadenza that took down the house, and there was a general burst of applause. His tone (which is the grand thing in violin-playing) was magnificent, and his technique masterly. He didn't play with that tenderness of feeling and wonderful variety of expression that Joachim does, but it was as if he didn't care to affect people in that way. It made me think of Tausig on the piano. He played with the greatest intensity and aplomb, and the strings seemed actually to seethe. People were taken by storm. The second piece was a concerto by Raff. Wilhelmj was in the midst of the Andante, and was sawing our hearts with every saw of his bow, when suddenly a string snapped under the strain of his passionate fingers. He instantly ceased playing, and retired up the steps to the back of the stage to put on another string. Unfortunately he had not brought along an extra one in his pocket, and had to borrow one from one of the orchestra. Weitzmann, who in his youth was himself an eminent concert violinist, was amazed at Wilhelmj's temerity. "What rashness," exclaimed he, "and the G string, too!" (one of the most important). After a pause Wilhelmj came down and began again, but the string was so out of tune that he retired a second time. He must have been furious inwardly, one would think, and at his Berlin début, too! but he came down the third time with the utmost imperturbability, and got through the concerto. The whole effect of the concert was spoiled, though, and he had also to change the solos he had intended playing, so as to avoid the G string as much as possible. Instead of the lovely Chopin Nocturne in D flat (his own arrangement), he played an Aria by Bach. He did it so wonderfully that I was really startled. – I never shall forget the nuances he put into his trill. But at his second concert, where he did give the Nocturne, it was evident that the romantic is his great forte, and on a first appearance, and before his large and critical audience, he should have been heard in that genre.4

CHAPTER XV

The Boston Fire. Aggravations of Music Study. Kullak.S herwood. Hoch Schule. A Brilliant American. German Dancing

BERLIN, November 24, 1872.

All the papers over here have been ringing with the Boston fire, the horse pestilence, shipwrecks, explosions, etc., until I feel as if all America were going to the bad. What an awful calamity that fire is! I can't take it in at all. All the Germans are wondering what our fire companies are made of that such conflagrations can take place. They say it would be an impossibility here, where the organization is so perfect. The men are trained to the work for years, and are on the spot in a twinkling, knowing just what to do. They are as fully convinced of their super-excellence in the Fire Department as in every other, and nothing can make them believe that if two or three of their little fire-engines had been there, and worked by their firemen, the Chicago and Boston fires could not have been put out! You know their machines are pumped by hand, too, instead of by steam, as ours are, which makes the assumption all the more ludicrous. It reminds me of a German party I was at once, where our war was the subject of conversation. "Oh, you don't know anything about fighting over there," said one gentleman, nodding at me patronizingly across the table. "If you had had two or three of our regiments, with one of our generals, your war would have been finished up in no time!"

I've had such a vexation to-day that I'm really quite beside myself! I was to play the first movement of my Rubinstein Concerto in the conservatory with the orchestra. I've been straining every nerve over it for several weeks, practicing incessantly, and had learned it perfectly. When I played it in the class the other day it went beautifully, and I think even Kullak was satisfied. Well, of course I was anticipating playing it with the orchestra before an audience, with much pleasure, and hoped I was going to distinguish myself. Music-director Wuerst and Franz Kullak always take charge of these orchestra lessons, sometimes one directing and sometimes the other. I got up early this morning, and practiced an hour and a half before I went to the conservatory, and I was there the first of all who were to play concertos. I spoke to Wuerst and told him what I was to play, and he said "All right." Wouldn't you have thought now, that he would have let me play first? Not a bit of it. He first heard the orchestra play a stupid symphony of Haydn's, which they might just as well have left out. Then he began screaming out to know if Herr Moszkowski was there? Herr Moszkowski, however, was not there, and I began to breathe freer, for he is a finished artist, and has been studying with Kullak for years, and plays in concerts. Of course if he had played first, it would have been doubly hard for me to muster up my courage, and you would have thought that Wuerst would have taken that into consideration. As Moszkowski was absent, I thought I certainly should be called up next, but another girl received the preference. She played extremely well, and Wuerst paid her his compliments, and then took his departure, leaving Franz Kullak to conduct. Then one of my class played Beethoven's G major concerto most wretchedly. Poor creature, she was nervous and frightened, and couldn't do herself any sort of justice. At last it was over, and at last Franz Kullak sung out, "We will now have Rubinstein's concerto in D minor."

I got up, went to the piano, wiped off the keys, which were completely wet from the nervous fingers of those who had preceded me, and was just going to sit down, when a young fellow approached from the other side with the same intention. "O, Fräulein Fay, you have the same concerto? Very well, you can play it the next time. To-day Herr So-and-So plays it!" Now, did you ever know anything so provoking? I hoped at least that the young fellow would play it well, and that I should learn something, but he perfectly murdered it, and there I had to sit through it all, with the piece tingling at my fingers ends – and now there's no knowing when I shall play it, as the orchestra lessons are so seldom and so uncertain. I hope there will be one two weeks from to-day, but even so I probably shan't do half so well as I should have done to-day, for the freshness will be all out of the piece, and I've practiced it so much now that I hate the sound of it, and can't bear to waste any more time over it. Such is life! I thought this time that I had taken every precaution to ensure success, for I had risen early every day, and eaten no end of the "bread of carefulness," and the result is – nothing at all! Not even a failure. It is the more to be regretted as to-day was the first Sunday of the month, and I wanted to go to church, especially as the bad weather kept me at home for two Sundays. However, I'm determined I will play the concerto yet, if I stake "Kopf und Kragen (head and collar)" on it, as the Germans say. – But oh, the difficulty of doing anything at all in this world!

December 18, 1872. —At last I played my Rubinstein concerto a week ago Sunday with the orchestra, and had the pleasure of being told by Scharwenka that I had had a brilliant success. Franz Kullak said that my octave passages were superbly played, and Moszkowski (who, to my surprise, was playing first violin) applauded. So I was complimented by the three of whom I stood most in awe. Scharwenka and Moszkowski are both finished artists and exquisite composers, and play a great deal in concerts this winter. Scharwenka is very handsome. He is a Pole, and is very proud of his nationality. And, indeed, there is something interesting and romantic about being a Pole. The very name conjures up thoughts of revolutions, conspiracies, bloody executions, masked balls, and, of course, grace, wit and beauty! Scharwenka certainly sustains the traditions of his race as far as the latter qualification is concerned. I never talked with him, as I have but a bowing acquaintance with him, so I don't know what sort of a mind he has, but I find myself looking at him and saying to myself with a certain degree of satisfaction, "He is a Pole." Why I should have this feeling I know not, but I seem to be proud of knowing Poles! – Scharwenka has a clear olive complexion, oval face, hazel eyes (I think) and a mass of brown silky hair which he wears long, and which falls about his head in a most picturesque and attractive fashion. He always presides over the piano at the orchestral lessons in the conservatory on Sunday mornings, and supplies those parts which are wanting. When concertos are performed he accompanies. He has a delightful serenity of manner, and sits there with quiet dignity, his back to the windows, and the light striking through his fluffy hair. He plays beautifully, and composes after Chopin's manner. Perhaps he will do greater things and develop a style of his own by and by. Every winter he gives a concert in Berlin in the Sing-Akademie.

By the way, I would not advise your paying any attention to what G. says about music. She is incapable of forming a correct judgment on the subject, and she used to provoke me to death with her ignorant and sweeping criticisms. I continually set her right, but to hear her go on about music and musicians is much like hearing S. R. and the M. crowd talk about art. What can be easier or more absurd, than to set yourself up and say that "nobody satisfies you." Stuff!– As for Kullak, I think a master must be judged by the number of players he turns out. In the two years that I have studied with him he has formed six or eight artists to my knowledge, beside no end of pupils who play extremely well. People come to him from all over the world, and as an artist himself he ranks first class.

I must tell you about a new acquaintance I've just made, a Mr. P., a Harvard man, very fascinating, very brilliant, a great swell, and the most perfect dancer I ever saw. I first met this phœnix at a dinner, when he fairly sparkled. He seemed to have the history of all countries at his tongue's end, and went through revolutions and reigns in the most rapid way. We had an animated discussion over the Germans, whom he loathes and despises, and he brought up all the historical events he could to justify his disgust. I was on the defensive, of course. "They've no delicacy," said P., in his emphatic way, and I had to give in there. Indeed, I can imagine that to a fastidious creature like him, imbued, too, with all the Southern chivalry, the Germans would be startling, to say the least. "Why," he cried, "they help you at table with their own forks after they've been eating with them! What do you think my host did to-day? He took a piece of meat that he had begun to eat, from his own plate! and put it on to mine with his own fork!! saying, 'Try this, this is a good piece!' – His intentions were excellent, but it never occurred to him that I shouldn't be delighted to eat after him." – P. can't bear it when the waiters at the restaurants pretend to think him a lord and address him as "Herr Graf." "I'll teach them to Herr Graf me," he said between his teeth, lowering his head, his eyes flashing dangerous fire. But it is quite likely that they do suppose him a lord, for he looks it, "every inch."

I met him again at a reception, and was having a most charming conversation with him about Goethe, whom he was dissecting in his keen way, when in came Mr. and Mrs. N. I knew at once that there was an end of our delightful talk, for though Mrs. N. has a most fascinating and high-bred husband herself, and is, moreover, extremely jealous of him, she is never content unless the most agreeable man in the room is devoted to her, also. Sure enough, she came straight toward us, and took occasion to whisper some senseless thing in my ear. Of course Mr. P. had to offer her his seat. She was, however, not quite bare-faced enough to take it, but she had succeeded in breaking the tête-à-tête and in distracting his attention. Soon after another gentleman came up to speak to me, Mr. P. bowed, and for the rest of the evening he was pinned to Mrs. N.'s side. Such are the satisfactions of parties! Either one does not meet any one worth talking to, or the conversation is sure to be interrupted. It takes these women of the world, like Mrs. N., to get the plums out of the pudding.

However, seeing him dance gave me almost as much pleasure as talking with him. He has this air of having danced millions of Germans, and is grace and elegance incarnate. Just at the end of the party, he asked me for a turn, and we took three long ones. I never enjoyed dancing so much. He manages to annihilate his legs entirely, and his arm, though strong, is so light that you feel yourself borne along like a bubble, and are only conscious that you are sustained and guided. He inspired me so that I danced really well, but when he complimented me, I basely refrained from letting him know it was all owing to him! By a funny coincidence he is the son of that elegant Mrs. P. who was on the steamer with me, and his father is very prominent in politics. I remember perfectly the pride with which Mrs. P. spoke to me of this son, and how slightly interested I was. He accompanied her to the steamer, and in fact the first time I saw her was when Mr. T., who was standing by me on the deck, said, "That was a mother's kiss," as she rapturously embraced him on taking leave. I didn't notice Mr. P. at all, though he says he remembers me perfectly standing there. He is going, or has gone, to Russia, and from there he will rejoin his family in Paris. That is the worst of being abroad. Charming people pass over your path like comets and disappear never to be seen again.

By the way, I now feel equal to anything in the shape of a German dance. Perhaps that may seem to you a trifling statement; but little do you know on the subject if it does. If you've ever read "Fitz Boodle's Confessions," you will remember that he represents the German dancing as a thing fearful and wonderful to the inexperienced, and how the match between him and Dorothea was broken off by his falling with her during the waltz, and rolling over and over. Here everybody dances, old and young, and you'll see fat old married ladies waddle off with their gray and spindle-shanked husbands. Declining doesn't help you in the least, and you are liable to be whisked off without notice by some old fellow who revolves with you like lightning on the tips of his toes, his coat-tails flying at an angle of considerably more than forty-five degrees. Reversing is unknown, and consequently you see the room go spinning round with you.

I always thought, though, that if one could take their steps, it might be pretty good fun. So, after a pause of three years, I finally concluded this winter to go to some German balls and try it again. The first one I attended was an artists' ball. There was first a little concert (at which I played), then a supper at ten o'clock, and then the dancing began. The dancing cards were handed round at supper, and my various acquaintances came up to ask me for different dances. The first one asked me for the Polonaise. "Delighted!" said I; – not that I had the remotest idea what a "polonaise" was, but I was determined not to flinch. The second engaged me for the "Quadrille à la Cour," and the third for the "Rheinlaender," etc., etc. I assented to everything with outward alacrity, but with some inward trepidation, for I thought it rather a bold stroke to get up at a large ball and attempt to dance a string of things I had never heard of! However, I was in luck. The Polonaise turned out to be merely walking, but in different figures, and this, before the conclusion of it, makes you continually change partners until you have promenaded and spoken with every one of the opposite sex in the room. This is to get the whole party acquainted. When you finally get back to your own partner, it breaks up with a waltz, and so ends.

My partner was a young artist, half painter, half musician, and a very intelligent and in fact charming talker. Like most artists, his dress was rather at sixes and sevens. He had on a swallow-tailed coat, but it did not fit him, so I conclude it was borrowed or hired for the occasion. It was so wide, and so long, that when I saw him dancing with some one else, I thought I must have made a laughable figure with him, for he was small into the bargain. However, he had that sunny, happy-go-lucky way about him that all artists have when they're in good humour, and he was a capital dancer. When I came back to him at the end of the Polonaise I started off with a mental "Now for it," for the waltz was the thing I was most afraid of; but to my surprise, I got on most beautifully. Emboldened by success, I went on recklessly. "Rheinlaender" turned out to be the schottisch, and "Quadrille à la Cour" the lancers, so I was all right. They had to be danced in the German sense of the word, of course, but with courage it is possible to do it. Since this ball I have been to two others, and am now pronounced by the gentlemen to be a finished dancer. I don't know how I learned, but it seemed to come to me with a sudden inspiration.

CHAPTER XVI

A German Professor. Sherwood. The Baroness von S. Von Bülow. A German Party. Joachim. The Baroness at HomeBERLIN, February 25, 1873.

At Mr. P.'s we had a charming dinner the other day, which was as sociable as possible, though we sat thirteen at table. Think what an oversight! I believe though, that I was the only one who perceived it. I sat next to a German professor, who is said to speak sixty-four languages! He had a little compact head, which looked as if it were stuffed and crammed to the utmost. I reflected a long time which of his sixty-four languages I should start him on, but finally concluded that as I spoke English with tolerable fluency we would confine ourselves to that! He was perfectly delightful to talk to, as all these German savans are, and I got a lot of new ideas from him. He had been writing a pamphlet on the subject of love, as considered in various ancient and modern languages, and in it he proves that the passion of love used to be quite a different thing from what it is now. All this ideality of sentiment is entirely modern.

My friend Miss B. is playing exquisitely now, and Sherwood is going ahead like a young giant. To-day Kullak said that Sherwood played Beethoven's E flat major concerto (the hardest of all Beethoven's concertos) with a perfection that he had rarely heard equalled. So much for being a genius, for he is still under twenty, and has only been abroad a year or two. But he studied with our best American master, William Mason, and played like an artist before he came. But, then, Sherwood has one enormous advantage that no master on earth can bestow, and that is, perfect confidence in himself. There's nothing like having faith in yourself, and I believe that is the kind of faith that "moves mountains."