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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 Home

BERLIN, 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."

At Mr. Bancroft's grand party for Washington's birthday, last Friday, he presented me to the Baroness von S., but without telling her that I was the person who wrote that letter about her and Wilhelmj that M. published without my knowledge in Dwight's Journal. She was as exquisite as I thought she would be, and is the most bewitching creature! She is just such a woman as Balzac describes – like Honorine, for instance. She has "l'oeil plein de feu," etc., and is grace and sentiment personified.

She was dressed in white silk, cut square neck and trimmed with a lot of little box-plaited ruffles round the bottom. Round her throat was a black velvet ribbon, with a necklace of magnificent pearls fastened to it in festoons and a diamond pendant in the middle. She greeted me with a ceremonious bow, and began the conversation by complimenting me on an accompaniment I had been playing. I told her I was studying music here, and that I had been in Tausig's conservatory a year. As soon as I mentioned him we got on delightfully, for she was his favourite pupil, and we talked a good deal about him and Bülow. She said she had heard Tausig play everything he ever learned, she thought, and that only a fortnight before his death, he was at her house and played Chopin's first Sonata. The last movement comes after the well-known Funeral March (which forms the Adagio) and is very peculiar. It is a continual running movement with both hands in unison, and it is played all muffled, and with the soft pedal. Kullak thinks that Chopin meant to express that after the grave all is dust and ashes, but the Baroness said that Tausig thought Chopin meant to represent by it the ghost of the departed wandering about. On this occasion, when Tausig had finished playing it, he turned and said to her, "That seems to me like the wind blowing over my grave." A fortnight later he was dead! I asked her if it were not dreadful that such an artist should have died so young. The most pained look came into her beautiful eyes, and she said, "I have never been able to reconcile myself to it."

The conversation continued in the most charming manner until von Moltke came up to speak to her on one side and Mr. Bancroft on the other offered his arm to lead her into the supper-room. "Did you tell her?" whispered Mr. Bancroft. "No; how could I?" said I. "You ought to tell her." So I imagine he did tell her, as they went into supper, that I was the young lady who had described her in the paper. I did not have a chance to approach her again until just as I was going home. She was standing in the door-way of an ante-room with Mr. Bancroft, wrapped in her opera cloak and waiting for her carriage to be announced. I bade Mr. Bancroft good-night, and as I passed her she put out her hand and said to me with a meaning look, in her little hesitating English, "I am so happy to have met you." I told her I owed her an apology, which I hoped to make another time. "Oh, no," said she, smilingly, "I am very thankful." – I suppose she meant "very much flattered," or something of that kind.

I heard two tremendous concerts of Bülow's lately. Oh, I do hope you'll hear him some day! He is a colossal artist. I never heard a pianist I liked so well. He has such perfect mastery, and yet such comprehension and such sympathy. Among other things, he played Beethoven's last Sonata. Such a magnificent one as it is! I liked it better than the Appassionata.

The other night I went to a party at a General von der G.'s. It was a "dreadfully" elegant set of people – all countesses, Vons and generals' wives. Stiff, oh, how stiff! I felt as if the ladies did me a personal favor every time they spoke to me. They were very handsomely dressed, and wore their family jewels. There was a great deal of music, and a certain old Herr von K. sat on a sofa and nodded his head à la connoisseur, while the officers stood round and scarcely dared to wink. The formality did not abate till we adjourned to the supper-room, when, as is always the case in German parties, everybody's tongue suddenly became loosed. – Germans are the happiest people at supper, and the most wretched before it, that you ever saw. Their parties are always "just so." So many hours of propriety beforehand, – the ladies all by themselves round a centre-table in one room, the young girls discreetly sandwiched in between with their embroidery, and talking on the most limited subjects in the most "papa, potatoes, poultry, prunes and prism" manner – and the men in the other room playing cards. On this occasion, when we went into supper, there was one large central table covered with the feast, and then there were little tables standing about, whither you could retire with your prey when you had once secured it. I got something, and betook myself to a table in the corner, whither a young artist, also Miss B. and an officer, the son of the celebrated General von W., who won the battle of something, speedily followed me. The artist, Herr Meyer, sat opposite me, and I began to jabber with him, unmindful of the officer, as I had previously tried him on every subject in the known world without being able to extract a reply. We gradually collected a miscellaneous array of plates full of things, when I dropped one of my spoons on the floor. I picked it up, laid it aside, and began eating out of one of my other plates. Presently the officer, who had been glaring at me all the while out of his uniform, rose solemnly and went to the centre-table and returned. Suddenly I became aware, by my light being obscured, that he was standing opposite me on the other side of the table. I glanced up, and remarked that he had a spoon in his thumb and finger. As he did not offer it, however, it did not occur to me that it was for me, so I went on eating. After a minute I looked up again, and he was still standing as if he were pointing a gun, the spoon between thumb and finger. At last it dawned upon me that he had brought it for me, so I took it out of his hand and thanked him, whereupon he resumed his seat. I was so overcome by this unheard-of act of gallantry on the part of an aristocrat! and an officer!! that I felt I must say something worthy of the occasion. So after a few minutes I remarked to him, "Everything tastes very sweet out of this spoon!" – Total silence and impassibility of countenance on his part. – Miss B., who was sitting opposite, remarked mischievously, "That was entirely lost, my dear," and I was so depressed by my failure that I subsided and did not try to kindle him again.

—

BERLIN, April 14, 1873.

Colonel B. told me some weeks ago, that Kullak had told him I was ready for the concert room, and that he would like to have me play at court. If this is his real opinion I have no evidence of it, for he knows I am anxious to play in concert before I leave Germany, and yet he does nothing whatever to bring me forward. It is very discouraging. In this conservatory there is no stimulus whatever. One might as well be a machine.

I propose to go to Weimar the last of this week. It seems very strange that I shall actually know Liszt at last, after hearing of him so many years. I am wild to see him! They say everything depends upon the humour he happens to be in when you come to him. I hope I shall hit upon one of his indulgent moments. Every one says he gives no lessons. But I hope at least to play to him a few times, and what is more important, to hear him play repeatedly. Happy the pianist who can catch even a faint reflection of his wonderful style!

Not long ago Mr. Bancroft invited me to drive out to Tegel, Humboldt's country-seat, near here, with the Joachims, and so I had a three hours conversation with that idol! He is the most modest, unpretending man possible. To hear him talk you wouldn't suppose he could play at all. I've always said to myself that if anything would be heaven, it would be to play a sonata with Joachim, but have supposed such a thing to be unattainable – these master-artists are so proud and unapproachable. But I think now it might not have been so difficult after all, he is so lovely. Joachim was very quiet during the first part of the excursion, and I couldn't think how I could get him to talk. At last I mentioned Wagner, whom I knew he hated. His eyes kindled, and he roused up, and after that was animated and interesting all the rest of the time! He said that "Wagner was under the delusion that he was the only man in the world that understood Beethoven; but it happened there were other people who could comprehend Beethoven as well as he," – and indeed, it is difficult to conceive of any one understanding Beethoven any better than Joachim.

Joachim is quite as noble and generous to poor artists as Liszt is, and constantly teaches them for nothing. He has the greatest enthusiasm for his class in the Hoch Schule, and I shouldn't think that any one who wishes to study the violin would think of going any where else. They say that Joachim possesses beautiful social qualities, also, and has the faculty of entertaining in his own house charmingly. He brings out what there is in every one without apparently saying anything himself.

The Baroness von S. had seemed so cordial and friendly at Mr. Bancroft's on account of the letter you had published in Dwight's Journal of Music, that I finally made up my mind to the daring act of calling on her in order to ask her for a letter of introduction to Liszt. She lives in a palace belonging to the Empress. There is a deep court in front of it, with lions on the gateway. Before the door stood a soldier on guard. As I approached, one of the Gardes du Corps (the Crown Prince's regiment) emerged from the entrance. He was dressed all in white and silver, with big top boots, and his helmet surmounted by a silver eagle. He was an officer, and of course all the officers in this regiment belong to the flower of the nobility. I was rather awed by his imposing appearance, and advanced timidly to the doors, which were of glass, and pulled the bell. A tall phantom in livery appeared, as if by magic, and signed to me to ascend the grand staircase. The walls of it were all covered with pictures. I went up, and was received by another tall phantom in livery. I asked him "if the Frau Excellency was to be spoken." He took my card, and discreetly said, "he would see," at the same time ushering me into an immense ball-room, where he requested me to be seated. It was furnished in crimson satin, there were myriads of mirrors, and the floor was waxed. I took refuge in a corner of it, feeling very small indeed. Those few minutes of waiting were extremely uncomfortable, for I didn't know what she would say to my request, as I had only seen her that one time at Mr. Bancroft's, and was not sure that she would not regard my coming as a liberty. People are so severe in their ideas here.

At last the servant returned and said she would receive me, and led the way across the ball-room to a door which he opened for me to enter. I found myself in a large, high room, also furnished in crimson, and in the centre of which stood two pianos nestled lovingly together. The Baroness was not there, however, and I saw what seemed to be an endless succession of rooms opening one out of the other, the doors always opposite each other. I concluded to "go on till I stopped," and after traversing three or four, I at last heard a faint murmur of voices, and entered what I suppose is her boudoir. There my divinity was seated in a little crimson satin sofa, talking to an old fellow who sat on a chair near her, whom she introduced as Herr Professor Somebody. He had a small, well-stuffed head, and a pale, observant eye that seemed to say, "I've looked into everything" – and I should think it had by the way he conversed.

The Baroness was attired in an olive-coloured silk, short, and fashionably made. She was leaning forward as she talked, and toying with a silver-sheathed dagger which she took from a table loaded with costly trifles next her. She rose as I came in, and greeted me very cordially, and asked me to sit down on the sofa by her. I explained to her my errand, and she immediately said she would give me a letter with the greatest pleasure. We had a very charming conversation about artists in general, and Liszt in particular, in which the little professor took a leading part. He showed himself the connoisseur he looked, and gradually diverged from the art of music to that of speaking and reading, which he said was the most difficult of all the arts, because the tone was not there, but had to be made. He said he had never heard a perfect speaker or reader in his life. He descanted at great length upon the art of speaking, and finally, when he paused, the Baroness took my hand and said, "Where do you live?" I gave her my address, and she said she would send me the letter. I then rose to go, and she assured me again she would say all she could to dispose Liszt favourably towards me. I thanked her, and said good-bye. She waited till I was nearly half across the next room, and then she called after me, "I'll say lots of pretty things about you!" That was a real little piece of coquetry on her part, and she knew that it would take me down! She looked so sweet when she said it, standing and smiling there in the middle of the floor, the door-way making a frame for her. A few days afterward I met her in the street, and she told me she had enjoined it upon Liszt to be amiable to me, "but," she added, with a mischievous laugh, "I didn't tell him you wrote so well for the papers." Oh, she is too fascinating for anything! – She seems just to float on the top of the wave and never to think. Such exquisite perception and intelligence, and yet lightness!