Opera and Oratorio in Berlin. A Typical American. Prussian
Rudeness. Conservatory Changes. Easter.
BERLIN, _March 20, 1870_.
On Wednesday the Bancrofts most kindly called for me to go to the opera
with them. They came in their carriage, with two horses and footmen, so
it was very jolly, and we bowled rapidly through Unter den Linden (the
Broadway of Berlin), in rather a different manner from the pace I
usually crawl along in a droschkie. They had fine opera glasses, of
course, and we took our seats just as the overture was about to begin,
so that everything was charming except that instead of Lohengrin, which
we had expected to hear, they had changed the opera to Faust, which I
had heard the week before. Faust is, however, a fascinating opera, and
it is beautifully given here, albeit the Germans stick to it that it is
Gounod's Faust and not Goethe's.
Since I have come here I have a perfect passion for going to the opera,
for everything is done in such superb fashion, and they have the
orchestra of the Symphony Kapelle, which is so splendid that it could
not be better. It is a pity the singers are not equally good, but I
don't believe Germany is the land of great voices. However, the men sing
finely, and the prima donnas have much talent, and _act_ beautifully.
The prima donna on this occasion was Mallinger, the rival of Lucca. She
is especially good as Margaretta. Niemann and Wachtel are the great men
singers. Wachtel was formerly a coachman, but he has a lovely voice. His
acting is not remarkable, but Niemann is superb, and he sings and acts
delightfully. He is very tall and fair, with light whiskers, and golden
hair crowning a noble head, in truth a regular Viking. When he comes out
in his crimson velvet mantle and crimson cap, with a white plume, and
begins singing these delicious love songs to Margaretta, he is perfectly
enchanting! He and Mallinger throw themselves into the long love scene
which fills the third act, and act it magnificently. It was the first
time I ever saw a love scene well done. The fourth act is most
impressive. The curtain rises, and shows the interior of a church. The
candles are burning on the altar, and the priests and acolytes are
standing in their proper order before it. The organ strikes up a fugue
and all the peasants come in and kneel down. Then poor Margaretta comes
in for refuge, but when she kneels to pray a voice is heard which tells
her that for her there is no refuge or hope in heaven or earth.
This scene Mallinger does so well that it is nature itself. When the
voice is heard she gives a shriek, totters for a moment, and then falls
upon the floor senseless, and O, _so_ naturally that one is entirely
carried away by it. The organ takes up the fugue, and the curtain drops.
The contrast between the two acts makes it all the more effective, for
in the third it is all love and flowers and languishing music, and in
the fourth one is suddenly recalled to the sanctity and severity of the
church; also, after the orchestra this subdued fugue on the organ makes
a very peculiar impression. In the fifth act Margaretta is in prison,
and Faust and Mephistopheles come to rescue her. This is a powerful
scene, for at first she hesitates, and thinks she will go with them, and
then her mind wanders, and she recalls, as in a vision, the happy scenes
of earlier days. They keep urging her, and try to drag her along with
them, but at last she breaks free from them and cries, "To Thee, O, God,
belongs my soul," and falls upon her straw pallet, and dies. Then the
scene changes, and you see four angels gradually floating up to heaven,
supporting her dead body, while the chorus sings:
"Christ ist erstanden
Aus Tod und Banden
Frieden und Heil verkeisst
Aller Welt er, die ihn preist."[B]
This ends the opera, which is very exciting throughout. I am going to
read the original as soon as I know a little more German, so that I
shan't have to read with a dictionary. I am just getting able to read
Goethe without one, and think he is the most entrancing writer. There
never could have been a man who understood women so well as he! His
female characters are perfectly captivating, but he is not very
flattering to his own sex, and generally makes them, in love, (what they
are) weak and vacillating.
I met a very agreeable young countryman at a dinner the other day--a Mr.
P.--and a great contrast to any of Goethe's ill-regulated heroes. He was
the typical American, I thought. Wide awake, bright, with a sharp eye
to business, very republican, with a hearty contempt for titles and a
great respect for women, practical and clear-headed. When the wine was
passed round he refused it, and said he had never drunk a glass of wine
or touched tobacco in his life. I was so amused, for he looked so young.
I said to myself, "probably you are just out of college, and are
travelling before you settle down to a profession." After a while he
said something about his wife. I was a little surprised, but still I
thought "perhaps you have only been married a few months." A little
further on he mentioned his children. I was still more surprised, but
thought he couldn't have more than two; but when Mrs. B. asked him how
many he had, and he said "three living and two dead," adding very
gravely, "I have been twice left childless," I could scarcely help
bursting out laughing, for I had thought him about twenty-one, and these
revelations of a wife and numerous family seemed too preposterous!--But
it was very nice to see such a model countryman, too. It is such men
that make the American greatness.
After dinner I went with my hostess to hear Mendelssohn's Oratorio of
St. Paul. It is a great work, a little tedious as a whole, but with
wonderfully beautiful numbers interspersed through it. There are several
lovely chorales in it. I was disappointed in the performance, though,
for in the first place there is no organ in the Sing-Akademie, and I
consider the effect of the organ and the drums indispensable to an
oratorio; and in the second, the solos all seemed to me indifferently
sung. The choruses were faultless, however. They understand how to
drill a chorus here! Next Friday I am going to Haydn's "Jahreszeiten,"
which I never happened to hear in Boston.
Germany is a great place for birds and flowers. All winter long we have
quantities of saucy-looking little sparrows here, and they have the most
thievish expression when they fly down for a crumb. I sometimes put
crumbs on my window-sill, and in a short time they are sure to see them.
Then they stand on the edge of a roof opposite, and look from side to
side for a long time, the way birds do. At last they make up their
minds, swoop down on the sill, stretch their heads, give a bold look to
see if I am about, and then snatch a crumb and fly off with it. They
never can get over their own temerity, and always give a chirp as they
fly away with the crumb; whether it is a note of triumph over their
success, or an expression of nervousness, I cannot decide. One cold day
I passed a tree, on every twig of which was a bird. They were holding a
political meeting, I am sure, for they were all jabbering away to each
other in the most excited manner, and each one had his breast bulged
out, and his feathers ruffled. They were "awfully cunning!"
On Tuesday I went out to Borsig's greenhouse. He is an immensely rich
man here, who makes a specialty of flowers. He lives some way out of
Berlin, and has the largest conservatories here. The inside of the
portico which leads into them is all covered with ivy, which creeps up
on the inside of the walls, and covers them completely. When we came
within, the flowers were arranged in perfect _banks_ all along the
length of the greenhouse, so that you saw one continuous line of
brilliant colours, and oh--the perfume! The hyacinths predominated in
all shades, though there were many other flowers, and many of them new
to me. Camelias were trained, vine fashion, all over the sides of the
greenhouse, and hundreds of white and pink blossoms were depending from
them. All the centre of the greenhouse was a bed of rich earth covered
with a little delicate plant, and at intervals planted with azalea
bushes so covered with blossoms that one could scarcely see the leaves.
At one end was a very large cage filled with brilliant birds, and at the
other was a lovely fountain of white marble--Venus and Cupid supported
on three shells. But I was most struck by the tree ferns, which I had
never before seen. They were perfectly magnificent, and were arranged on
the highest side of the greenhouse with many other rare plants most
artistically mingled in. After we had finished looking at the flowers we
went into a second house, where were palm trees, ferns, cacti and all
sorts of strange things growing, but all placed with the same taste. It
was a beautiful sight, and I never had any idea of the garden of Eden
before. I must try and bring home a pot of the "Violet of the Alps." It
is the most delicate little flower, and looks as if it grew on a high,
cold mountain.
* * *
BERLIN, _April 1, 1870_.
To-day is April Fool's day, and the first real month of spring is begun.
I have not fooled anybody yet, but as soon as dinner is ready, I shall
rush to the window and cry, "There goes the king!" Of course they will
all run to see him, and then I shall get it off on the whole family at
once. I shall wait until the "kleiner Hans," Frau W.'s son, comes home.
I call him the "Kleinen" in derision, for in reality he is immense. I
have been very much struck with the height of the people here. As a rule
they are much taller than Americans, and sometimes one meets perfect
giants in the streets. The Prussian men are often semi-insolent in their
street manners to women, and sometimes nearly knock you off the
sidewalk, from simply not choosing to see you. I suppose this arrogance
is one of the benefits of their military training! They _will_ have the
middle of the walk where the stone flag is laid, no matter what _you_
have to step off into!
I went to hear Haydn's Jahreszeiten a few evenings since, and it is the
most charming work--such a happy combination of grave and gay! He wrote
it when he was seventy years old, and it is so popular that one has
great difficulty in getting a ticket for it. The _salon_ was entirely
filled, so that I had to take a seat in the _loge_, where the places are
pretty poor, though I went early, too. The work is sung like an
oratorio, in arias, recitatives and choruses, and is interspersed with
charming little songs. It represents the four seasons of the year, and
each part is prefaced by a little overture appropriate to the passing
of each season into the next. The recitatives are sung by Hanna and
Lucas, who are lovers, and by Simon, who is a friend of both,
apparently. The autumn is the prettiest of the four parts, for it
represents first the joy of the country people over the harvests and
over the fruits. Then comes a splendid chorus in praise of Industry.
After that follows a little love dialogue between Hanna and Lucas, then
a description of a hunt, then a dance; lastly the wine is brought, and
the whole ends with a magnificent chorus in praise of wine. The dance is
too pretty for anything, for the whole chorus sings a waltz, and it is
the gayest, most captivating composition imaginable. The choruses here
are so splendidly drilled that they give the expression in a very vivid
manner, and produce beautiful effects. All the parts are perfectly
accurate and well balanced. But the solo singers are, as I have remarked
in former letters, for the most part, ordinary.
I took my last lesson of Ehlert yesterday. I am very sorry that he and
Tausig have quarrelled, for he is a splendid teacher. He has taught me a
great deal, and precisely the things that I wanted to know and could not
find out for myself. For instance, those twists and turns of the hands
that artists have, their way of striking the chords, and many other
little technicalities which one must have a master to learn. He always
seemed to take great pleasure in teaching me, and I am most grateful to
him for his encouragement. I think Tausig behaves very strangely to be
off for such a long time. He does not return until the first of May, and
all this month we are to be taught by one of his best scholars until he
comes back and engages another teacher. He has just given concerts at
St. Petersburg, and I am told that at a single one he made six thousand
rubles. They are in an immense enthusiasm there over him.
Last night I went with Mr. B. to hear Bach's Passion Music. Anything to
equal that last chorus I never heard from voices. I felt as if it ought
to go on forever, and could not bear to have it end. That chorale, "O
Sacred Head now wounded," is taken from it, and it comes in twice; the
second time with different harmonies and without accompaniment. It is
the most exquisite thing; you feel as if you would like to die when you
hear it. But the last chorus carries you straight up to heaven. It
begins:
"We sit down in tears
And call to thee in the grave,
Rest soft--rest soft."
It represents the rest of our Saviour after the stone had been rolled
before the tomb, and it is _divine_. Everybody in the chorus was dressed
in black, and almost every one in the audience, so you can imagine what
a sombre scene it was. This is the custom here, and on Good Friday, when
the celebrated "Tod Jesu" by Graun, is performed, they go in black
without exception.
* * *
BERLIN, _April 24, 1870_.
I thought of you all on Easter Sunday, and wondered what sort of music
you were having. I did not go to the English church, as is my wont, but
to the Dom, which is the great church here, and is where all the court
goes. It is an extremely ugly church, and much like one of our old
Congregational meeting-houses; but they have a superb choir of two
hundred men and boys which is celebrated all over Europe. Haupt (Mr. J.
K. Paine's former master) is the organist, and of course they have a
very large organ. I knew, as this was Easter, that the music would be
magnificent, so I made A. W. go there with me, much against her will,
for she declared we should get no seat. The Germans don't trouble
themselves to go to church very often, but on a feast day they turn out
in crowds.
We got to the church only twenty minutes before service began, and I
confess I was rather daunted as I saw the swarms of people not only
going in but coming out, hopeless of getting into the church. However, I
determined to push on and see what the chances were, and with great
difficulty we got up stairs. There is a lobby that runs all around the
church, just as in the Boston Music Hall. All the doors between the
gallery and the lobby were open, and each was crammed full of people. I
thought the best thing we could do would be to stand there until we got
tired, and listen to the music, and then go. Finally, the sexton came
along, and A. asked him if he could not give us two seats; he shrugged
his shoulders and said, "Yes, if you choose to pass through the crowd."
We boldly said we would, although it looked almost hopeless, and then
made our way through it, followed by muttered execrations. At last the
sexton unlocked a door, and gave us two excellent seats, and there was
plenty of room for a dozen more people; but I don't doubt he frightened
them away just as he would have done us if he could. He locked us in,
and there we sat quite in comfort.
At ten the choir began to sing a psalm. They sit directly over the
chancel, and a gilded frame work conceals them completely from the
congregation. They have a leader who conducts them, and they sing in
most perfect time and tune, entirely without accompaniment. The voices
are tender and soft rather than loud, and they weave in and out most
beautifully. There are a great many different parts, and the voices keep
striking in from various points, which produces a delicious effect, and
makes them sound like an angel choir far up in the sky. After they had
finished the psalm the organ burst out with a tremendous great chord,
enough to make you jump, and then played a chorale, and there were also
trombones which took the melody. Then all the congregation sang the
chorale, and the choir kept silence. You cannot imagine how easy it is
to sing when the trombones lead, and the effect is overwhelming with the
organ, especially in these grand old chorales. I could scarcely bear it,
it was so very exciting.
There was a great deal of music, as it was Easter Sunday, and it was
done alternately by the choir and the congregation; but generally the
Dom choir only sings one psalm before the service begins, and therefore
I seldom take the trouble to go there. The rest of the music is entirely
congregational, and they only have trombones on great occasions. We sat
close by the chancel, and the great wax candles flared on the altar
below us, and the Lutheran clergyman read the German so that it sounded
a good deal like Latin. I was quite surprised to see how much like Latin
German _could_ sound, for it has these long, rolling words, and it is
just as pompous. Altogether it made a strange but splendid impression. I
thought if they had only had their choir in the chancel, and in white
surplices, it would have been much more beautiful, but perhaps the music
would not have sounded so fine as when the singers were overhead. The
Berlin churches all look as if religion was dying out here, so old and
bare and ill-cared for, and so few in number. They are only redeemed by
the great castles of organs which they generally have; and it is a
difficult thing to get the post of organist here. One must be an
experienced and well-known musician to do it. They sing no chants in the
service, but only chorales.
To-night is the last Royal Symphony Concert of this season, and of
course I shall go. This wonderful orchestra carries me completely away.
It is too marvellous how they play! such expression, such _élan!_ I
heard them give Beethoven's Leonora Overture last week in such a fashion
as fairly electrified me. This overture sums up the opera of Fidelio,
and in one part of it, just as the hero is going to be executed, you
hear the post-horn sound which announces his delivery. This they play so
softly that you catch it exactly as if it came from a long distance, and
you cannot believe it comes from the orchestra. It makes you think of
"the horns of elf-land faintly blowing."
Tausig is expected back this week, and he has indeed been gone long
enough. He is going to give a lesson every Monday to the best scholars
who are not in his class, and as I stand at the head of these I hope to
have a lesson from him every week. This would suit me better than two,
as he is so dreadfully exacting, and it will give me time to learn a
piece well. Then I should have my regular lesson beside from Mr.
Beringer, or whoever he appoints to take Ehlert's place. Beringer, who
is a young man about twenty-five years old, has turned out a capital
teacher, and I am learning much with him. He plays beautifully himself,
and is a great favorite of Tausig's. He has been with him so long that
he teaches his method excellently, and gives me pieces that he has
studied with him. I believe he is to come out at the Gewandhaus, in
Leipsic, in October, and after that he will settle in London.