Clara Schumann and Joachim. The American Minister's. The Museum.
The Conservatory. The Opera. Tausig. Christmas.
BERLIN, _December 12, 1869_.
I heard Clara Schumann on Sunday, and on Tuesday evening, also. She is a
most wonderful artist. In the first concert she played a quartette by
Schumann, and you can imagine how lovely it was under the treatment of
Clara Schumann for the piano, Joachim for the first violin, De Ahna for
the second, and Müller for the 'cello. It was perfect, and I was in
raptures. Madame Schumann's selection for the two concerts was a very
wide one, and gave a full exhibition of her powers in every kind of
music. The Impromptu by Schumann, Op. 90, was exquisite. It was full of
passion and very difficult. The second of the Songs without Words, by
Mendelssohn, was the most fairy-like performance. It is one of those
things that must be tossed off with the greatest grace and smoothness,
and it requires the most beautiful and delicate technique. She played it
to perfection. The terrific Scherzo by Chopin she did splendidly, but
she kept the great octave passages in the bass a little too subordinate,
I thought, and did not give it quite boldly enough for my taste, though
it was extremely artistic. Clara Schumann's playing is very objective.
She seems to throw herself into the music, instead of letting the music
take possession of her. She gives you the most exquisite pleasure with
every note she touches, and has a wonderful conception and variety in
playing, but she seldom whirls you off your feet.
At the second concert she was even better than at the first, if that is
possible. She seemed full of fire, and when she played Bach, she ought
to have been crowned with diamonds! Such _noble_ playing I never heard.
In fact you are all the time impressed with the nobility and breadth of
her style, and the comprehensiveness of her treatment, and oh, if you
_could_ hear her _scales_! In short, there is nothing more to be desired
in her playing, and she has every quality of a great artist. Many people
say that Tausig is far better, but I cannot believe it. He may have more
technique and more power, but nothing else I am sure. Everybody raves
over his playing, and I am getting quite impatient for his return, which
is expected next week. I send you Madame Schumann's photograph, which is
exactly like her. She is a large, very German-looking woman, with dark
hair and superb neck and arms. At the last concert she was dressed in
black velvet, low body and short sleeves, and when she struck powerful
chords, those large white arms came down with a certain splendor.
As for Joachim, he is perfectly magnificent, and has amazing _power_.
When he played his solo in that second Chaconne of Bach's, you could
scarcely believe it was only one violin. He has, like Madame Schumann,
the greatest variety of tone, only on the violin the shades can be made
far more delicate than on the piano.
I thought the second movement of Schumann's Quartette perhaps as
extraordinary as any part of Clara Schumann's performance. It was very
rapid, very _staccato_, and _pianissimo_ all the way through. Not a note
escaped her fingers, and she played with so much magnetism that one
could scarcely breathe until it was finished. You know nothing can be
more difficult than to play staccato so very softly where there is great
execution also. Both of the sonatas for violin and piano which were
played by Madame Schumann and Joachim, and especially the one in A
minor, by Beethoven, were divine. Both parts were equally well
sustained, and they played with so much fire--as if one inspired the
other. It was worth a trip across the Atlantic just to hear those two
performances.
The Sing-Akademie, where all the best concerts are given, is not a very
large hall, but it is beautifully proportioned, and the acoustic is
perfect. The frescoes are very delicate, and on the left are boxes all
along, which add much to the beauty of the hall, with their scarlet and
gold flutings. Clara Schumann is a great favorite here, and there was
such a rush for seats that, though we went early for our tickets, all
the good parquet seats were gone, and we had to get places on the
_estrade_, or place where the chorus sits--when there is one. But I
found it delightful for a piano concert, for you can be as close to the
performer as you like, and at the same time see the faces of the
audience. I saw ever so many people that I knew, and we kept bowing away
at each other.
Just think how convenient it is here with regard to public amusements,
for ladies can go anywhere alone! You take a droschkie and they drive
you anywhere for five groschen, which is about fifteen cents. When you
get into the concert hall you go into the _garde-robe_ and take off your
things, and hand them over to the care of the woman who stands there,
and then you walk in and sit down comfortably as you would in a parlour,
and are not roasted in your hat and cloak while at the concert, and
chilled when you go out, as we are in America. Their programmes, too,
are not so unconscionably long as ours, and, in short, their whole
method of concert-giving is more rational than with us. I always enjoy
the garde-robe, for if you have acquaintances you are sure to meet them,
and you have no idea how exciting it is in a foreign city to see anybody
you know.
* * *
BERLIN, _December 19, 1869_.
I suppose you are muttering maledictions on my head for not writing, but
I am so busy that I have no time to answer my letters, which are
accumulating upon my hands at a terrible rate. This week I have been out
every night but one, so that I have had to do all my practicing and
German and Harmony lessons in the day-time; and these, with my daily
hour and a half at the conservatory, have been as much as I could
manage.
On Monday I went to a party at the Bancroft's, which I enjoyed
extremely. It was a very brilliant affair, and the toilettes were
superb. At the entrance I was ushered in by a very fine servant dressed
in livery. A second man showed me the dressing-room, where my bewildered
sight first rested on a lot of Chinamen in festive attire. I could not
make out for a second what they were, and I thought to myself, "Is it
possible I have mistaken the invitation, and this is a masquerade?"
Another glance showed me that they were Chinese, and it turned out that
Mr. Burlingame, the Chinese Minister, was there, and these men were part
of his suite. The ladies and gentlemen had the same dressing-room, which
was a new feature in parties to me, and as we took off our things the
servant took them and gave us a ticket for them, as they do at the
opera. I should think there were about a hundred persons present. There
were a great many handsome women, and they were beautifully dressed and
much be-diamonded and pearled. Corn-colour seemed to be the fashion, and
there were more silks of that colour than any other.
Mr. Burlingame seemed to be a very genial, easy man. I was not presented
to him, but stood very near him part of the time. He looks upon the
introduction of the Chinese into our country as a great blessing, and
laughs at the idea of it being an evil. He says that the reason
railroads can't be introduced into China is because the whole country is
one vast grave-yard, and you can't dig any depth without unearthing
human bones, so that there would be a revolution on the part of the
people if it were done now, but it will gradually be brought about. He
travels with a suite of forty attendants, and says he has got all his
treaties here arranged to his wishes, and that Prussia has promised to
follow the United States in everything that they have agreed on with
China. He is going to resign his office in a year and go back to
America, where he wants to get into politics again. Mr. Bancroft
introduced many of the ladies to the Chinese, one of whom could speak
English, and he interpreted to the others. It was very quaint to see
them all make their deep bows in silence when some one was presented to
them. They were in the Chinese costume--Turkish trousers, white silk
coats, or blouses, and red turbans, and their hair braided down their
backs in a long tail that nearly touched their heels.
On Thursday I went to Dr. A.'s to dinner. He seems to be a very
influential man here, and is a great favorite with the Americans. He has
a great big heart, and I suspect that is the reason of it. Mrs. A., too,
is very lovely. I saw there Mr. Theodore Fay, who used to be our
minister in Switzerland, and who is also an author. He is very
interesting, and the most earnest Christian I ever met. He has the
tenderest sympathies in the world, and in a man this is very striking.
He has a high and beautiful forehead, and a certain spirituality of
expression that appeals to you at once and touches you, also. At least
he makes a peculiar impression on _me_. There is something entirely
different about him from other men, but I don't know what it is, unless
it be his deep religious feeling, which shines out unconsciously.
Last week I made my first visit to the Museum. It is one of the great
sights of Berlin, but it is so immense that I only saw a few rooms. In
fact there are two Museums--an old and a new. I was in the new one. It
is a perfect treasure house, and the floors alone are a study. All are
inlaid with little coloured marbles, and every one is different in
pattern. One of the most beautiful of the rooms was a large circular
dome-roofed apartment round which were placed the statues of the gods,
and in the centre stood a statue in bronze of one of the former German
kings in a Roman suit of armour. Half way up from the floor ran round a
little gallery in which you could stand and look down over the railing,
and here were placed on the walls Raphael's cartoons, which are
fac-similes of those in the Vatican, and are all woven in arras. They
are very wonderful, and you feel as if you could not look at them long
enough. The contrast is impressive as you look down and see all the
heathen statues standing on the marble floor, each one like a separate
sphinx, and then look up and see all the Christian subjects of Raphael.
The statues are so cold and white and distant, and the pictures are so
warm and bright in colour. They seem to express the difference between
the ancient and the modern religions. We went through the rooms of Greek
and Roman statues, of which there is an immense number, and on the walls
are Greek and Italian landscapes, all done by celebrated painters.
We had to pass through these rooms rather hastily in order to get a
glimpse of the "Treppen Halle," which is the place where the two grand
stair-cases meet that carry you into the upper rooms of the Museum.
This is magnificent, and is all gilding and decoration. An immense
statue stands by each door, and on the wall are six great pictures by
Kaulbach, three on each side. "The Last Judgment," of which you're seen
photographs, is one of them. I ought to go to the Museum often to see it
properly, but it is such a long distance off that I can't get the time.
Berlin is a very large city, and the distances are as great as they are
in New York.
At the last "Reading" at the conservatory the four best scholars played
last. One of them was an American, from San Francisco, a Mr. Trenkel,
but who has German parents. He plays exquisitely, and has just such a
poetic musical conception as Dresel, but a beautiful technique, also. He
is a thorough artist, and he looks it, too, as he is dark and pale, and
very striking. I always like to see him play, for he droops his dark
eyes, and his high pale forehead is thrown back, and stands out so well
defined over his black brows. His expression is very serious and his
manner very quiet, and he has a sort of fascination about him. He is a
particular favorite of Tausig's.
After he played, came a young lady who has been a pupil of Von Bülow for
two years. She plays splendidly, and I could have torn my hair with envy
when she got up, and Ehlert went up to her and shook her hand and told
her before the whole school that she had "_real_ talent." After her came
_my_ favorite, little Fräulein Timanoff, who sat down and did still
better. She is a little Russian, only fifteen, and is still in short
dresses. She has almost white hair, it is so light, and she combs it
straight back and wears it in two long braids down her back, which makes
her look very childish. It is really wonderful to see her! She takes her
seat with the greatest confidence, and plays with all the boldness of an
artist.
Almost all the scholars in Tausig's class are studying to play in
public, and I should think he would be very proud of all those that I
have heard. There are many scholars in the conservatory, but he teaches
only the most advanced. He only returned to Berlin on Saturday, and I
have not yet seen him, though I am dying to do so, for all the Germans
are wild over his playing. The girls in his class are mortally afraid of
him, and when he gets angry he tells them they play "like a rhinoceros,"
and many other little remarks equally pleasing.
* * *
BERLIN, _January 11, 1870_.
Since my last letter I have been quite secluded, and have seen nothing
of the gay world. I have been to the opera twice--once to "_Fantaska_,"
a grand ballet, and the second time to "_Trovatore_." The opera house
here is magnificent, and I would that I could go to it every week. It is
extremely difficult to get tickets to it, as the rich Jews manage to get
the monopoly of them and the opera house is crowded every night. It is
the most brilliant building, and so exquisitely painted! All the heads
and figures of the Muses and portraits of composers and poets which
decorate it, are so soft and so beautifully done. The curtain even is
charming. It represents the sea, and great sea monsters are swimming
about with nymphs and Cupids and all sorts of things, and one lovely
nymph floats in the air with a thin gauzy veil which trails along after
her. The scenery and dresses are superb, and I never imagined anything
to equal them. The orchestra, too, plays divinely.
The singing is the only thing which could be improved. The Lucca, who is
the grand attraction, is a pretty little creature, but I did not find
her voice remarkable. The Berlinese worship her, and whenever Lucca
sings there is a rush for the tickets. Wachtel and Niemann are the star
singers among the men. Niemann I have not heard, but Wachtel we should
not rave over in America. I am in doubt whether indeed the Germans know
what the best singing is. They have most wonderful choruses, but when it
comes to soloists they have none that are really great--like Parepa and
Adelaide Phillips; at least, that is my judgment after hearing the best
singers in Berlin, though as the voice is not my "instrument," I will
not be too confident about it. Everything else is so far beyond what we
have at home that perhaps I unconsciously expect the climax of all--the
solo singing, to be proportionally finer also.
They have beautiful ballet-dancers here, though. There is one little
creature named Fräulein David, who is a wonderful artist. She does such
steps that it turns one's head to see her. She is as light as down, and
so extremely graceful that when you watch her floating about to the
enchanting ballet music, it is too captivating. There were four other
dancers nearly as good, who were all dressed exactly alike in white
dresses trimmed with pink satin. They would come out first, and dance
all together, sometimes separately and sometimes forming a figure in the
middle of the stage. Then suddenly little David, who was dressed in
white and blue, would bound forward. The others would immediately break
up and retire to the side of the stage, and she would execute a
wonderful _pas seul_. Then _she_ would retire, and the others would come
forward again, and so it went. It was perfectly beautiful. Finally they
all danced together and did everything exactly alike, though little
David could always bend lower, and take the "positions" (as we used to
say at Dio Lewis's,) better than all the rest.
On Friday I am going to hear Rubinstein play. I suppose he will give a
beautiful concert, as he and Bülow, Tausig and Clara Schumann are the
grand celebrities now on the piano, Liszt having given up playing in
public. After our lesson was over yesterday, Ehlert took his leave, and
left us to wait for TAUSIG--my dear!--who was to hear us each play. He
came in very late, and just before it was time to give his own lesson.
He is precisely like the photograph I sent you, but is very short
indeed--too short, in fact, for good looks--but he has a remarkably
vivid expression of the eyes. He came in, and, scarcely looking at us,
and without taking the trouble to bow even, he turned on me and said,
imperiously, "_Spielen Sie mir Etwas vor_. (Play something for me.)" I
got up and played first an _Etude_, and then he asked for the scales,
and after I had played a few he told me I "had talent," and to come to
his lessons, and I would learn much. I went accordingly the next
afternoon. There were two girls only in the class, but they were both
far advanced. I had never heard either of them play before. The second
one played a fearfully difficult concerto by Chopin, which I once heard
from Mills. It is exquisitely beautiful, and she did it very well. From
time to time Tausig would sweep her off the stool, and play himself, and
he is indeed a perfect wonder! If, as they say, Liszt's trill is "like
the warble of a bird," his is as much so. It is not surprising that he
is so celebrated, and I long to hear him in concert, where he will do
full justice to his powers. He thrills you to the very marrow of your
bones. He is divorced from his wife, and I think it not improbable that
she could not live with him, for he looks as haughty and despotic as
Lucifer, though he has a very winning way with him when he likes. His
playing is spoken of as _sans pareil_.
I spent a very pleasant Christmas. The family had a pretty little tree,
and we all gave each other presents. It was charming to go out in the
streets the week before. The Germans make the greatest time over
Christmas, and the streets are full of Christmas trees, the shops are
crammed with lovely things, and there are little booths erected all
along the sidewalks filled with toys. They have special cakes and
confections that they prepare only at this season.