Moving. German Houses and Dinners. The War. The Capture of
Napoleon. Kullak's and Tausig's Teaching. Joachim. Wagner. Tausig's
Playing. German Etiquette.
BERLIN, _September_ 29, 1870.
I must request you in future to direct your letters to No. 30
Königgrätzer Strasse, as we move in three days. The people who live on
the floor under us wouldn't bear my practicing for five or six hours
daily, and so Frau W. has looked up another lodging. The German houses
are about as uncomfortable as can be imagined. Only the newest ones have
gas and water-works, or even the ordinary conveniences that _every_
house has with us. No carpets on the floors, stiff, straight-backed
chairs, precious little fire in cold weather, etc. The rooms have no
closets, and one always has to have a great clumsy wardrobe with wooden
pegs in it, instead of hooks, so that when you go to take down one dress
all the others tumble down, too. In short, the Germans are fifty years
behind us. Of course the rich people have superb houses, but I speak now
of people in ordinary circumstances. I often look back upon the solid
comfort of the Cambridge houses. I think people understand there pretty
well how to live. I shall relish a good dinner when I come home, for
this is the land where what we call "family dinners" are unknown. They
have _parts_ of meals five times a day, but never a complete one. The
meat is dreadful, and I never can tell what kind of an animal it grows
on. They give me two boiled eggs for supper, so I manage to live, but O!
_has_ beefsteak vanished into the land of dreams? and _is_ turkey but
the figment of my disordered imagination? They have delicious bread and
butter, but "man cannot live by bread alone." Mr. F. says that where
_he_ boards they give him "pear soup, and cherry soup, and plum soup!"
Everything here is saddened by this fearful war. You have no idea how
frightful it is. The men on both sides are just being slaughtered by
thousands. Haven't the Prussians made a magnificent campaign I declare,
I think it is marvellous what they have done. The French haven't had the
smallest success, and have had to give up one tremendous stronghold
after another. It is expected that Metz will surrender in about eight
days. It is a terrific place, and was believed to be impregnable. Over
and over again the poor French have tried to cut through the Prussian
army, and just so often they have been beaten back into the city.
Finally they will have to give over. Their generals must be shameful,
for they have fought to the death, but they can't make any headway
against these formidable Prussians. The German papers say that the
French fire too high, for one thing. They are not such practiced
marksmen as the Germans, and their balls fly over the enemy's heads. The
French are a savage people, however, and cruelty runs in their veins.
One reads the most awful things, but for the credit of human nature it
is to be hoped that the worst of them are not true.
I believe I have not written to you since the capture of the Emperor
Napoleon, which of course you heard of as soon as it happened. The
Germans, as you may imagine, were completely carried away with the
glorious news, and could scarcely believe in their own good fortune. On
the 3d of September, when I came out to breakfast, Frau W. called out to
me from behind the newspaper, with a face all ablaze with triumph and
excitement, "_Der Kaiser Napoleon ist gefangen_. (The Emperor Napoleon
is taken.)" "_No!_" said I, for it did not seem possible that anything
so great and unexpected _could_ have happened. "It is _true_" said she;
"look at this paper, which I just sent out for." The instant I saw that
Frau W. had been guilty of the unwonted extravagance of purchasing the
morning paper, it became clear to me that Napoleon _must_ have been
taken prisoner. Generally we do not get the paper till it is a day old,
when Frau W. brings it carefully home from her brother's in her
capacious bag. He subscribes for it, and after his family have perused
it, she borrows it for our benefit--an economical arrangement upon which
she frequently congratulates herself.
I fancy there was little work done or business transacted _that_ day in
Berlin! After I had finished my coffee, I went and stood by the window
and watched the people pour through the streets. Everybody streamed up
Unter den Linden past the palace, their faces full of joy. The street
boys took an active part in the general jollification, and were as
ubiquitous as boys always are when anything extraordinary is going on.
They conceived the brilliant idea of climbing up on the equestrian
statue of Frederick the Great, which is just opposite the palace
windows. The Crown Princess, who was looking out, immediately had it
announced to them that he who got to the top first should receive a
silver cup and some pieces of money. That was all the boys needed. Away
they went, struggling and tumbling over each other like a swarm of bees.
At last one little urchin secured the coveted position, and was
afterward called up to the palace window to receive the prize.--If the
Crown Princess, by the way, were more given to such little acts of
generosity, she would be more popular by far, for the Germans sniff at
her for being too economical. They are the closest possible economisers
themselves, but they despise the trait in foreigners!
At night there was a grand illumination in honour of the victory, and of
course we all went to see it. Such a time as we had! The whole city was
blazing with light, and all the large firms had put up something
brilliant and striking before their places of business. Stars, eagles,
crosses (after the celebrated "iron cross" of Prussia), beside countless
tapers, were burning away in every direction, and all the carriages and
droschkies in Berlin were slowly crawling along the streets, much
impeded by the dense throng of pedestrians crowding through. All the
private houses were lit up with tapers, and thousands of flags were
flying. Over every public building and railroad station, and on all the
public squares were transparencies in which the substantial form of
_Germania_ flourished extensively, leaning upon her shield, and gazing
sentimentally into vacancy. But I always enjoy "Germania." It seems a
sort of recognition of the feminine element.
We were in a droschkie, like other people, taking the prescribed tour
round by the Rath-Haus (City-Hall), and were frequently brought to a
stand-still by the crush. At such times we were the target for all the
small boys standing in our neighbourhood. The "Berlinger Junge" is
almost as famous for his talent for repartee as the Paris "Gamin." "Do
be careful!" said one to me; "you will certainly tumble out, your
carriage is going so fast." This was intended as a double sarcasm, for
in the first place we were not in a carriage at all, but in a
second-class droschkie, and in the second place we had been standing
stock still for half an hour, and there was no prospect of getting
started for half an hour more. Many more such little speeches were
addressed to us which we pretended not to hear, though we were secretly
much amused.--It was a strange sort of feeling to be put in the streets
at night with this glare of light, these crowds of people, and this
suppressed excitement in the air. I thought it gave some idea of the Day
of Judgment.
The women are tremendously patriotic and self-sacrificing, and they seem
to be throwing themselves heart and soul into the war. With the
catholicity of the female sex, however, they could not help taking a
peep at the _French_ prisoners when they came on, but went to the
station to see them arrive, and bestowed many little hospitalities upon
them in the way of cigars, luncheon, etc., at all of which the papers
were patriotically indignant, and indulged in many sarcasms on the "warm
and sympathetic" reception given by the German women to their enemies.
Quite as many women go into nursing as was the case in our own war. I
know one young lady who spends her whole time in the hospitals among the
wounded soldiers, who are all the time being sent on in ambulances. Her
name is Fräulein Hezekiel, and she has received a decoration from the
Government.
Just after I wrote you last I went to Kullak, as I told you I should,
and engaged him to give me one private lesson a week. He looks about
fifty, and is charming. I am enchanted with him. He plays magnificently,
and is a splendid teacher, but he gives me immensely much to do, and I
feel as if a mountain of music were all the time pressing on my head. He
is so occupied that I have to take my lesson from seven to eight in the
evening.
Tausig's conservatory closes on the first of October, and I feel very
sorry, for my three grand friends, Mr. Trenkel, Mr. Weber and Mr.
Beringer, are all going away, and I shall be awfully lonely without
them. Weber is very handsome, and has the most splendid forehead I think
I ever saw. He composes like an angel, besides being remarkably clever
in every way. He will be famous some day, I know, and he belongs to the
Music of the Future. Beringer is poetic, passionate and vivid. He has
golden hair and golden eyes, I may say, for they are of a peculiar light
hazel, almost yellow, but with a warmth and sunniness, and often a
tenderness of expression that is extremely fascinating. Weber cannot
speak English, and as he is from Switzerland, he speaks an entirely
different dialect from the Berlinese, so that it took me some time to
understand him. He is a perfect child of nature, and has a great deal of
humour. He and Beringer are devoted friends, and are about my age.
Trenkel is older. He has the blackest hair and eyes, and a dark Italian
skin. He is intellectual and highly cultured, and at the same time such
a very peculiar character that he interested me greatly. Most of his
life has been spent in America: first in Boston, where he seems to know
everybody, and afterwards in San Francisco, whither he is about to
return. He has been studying with Tausig for two years, and is a
heavenly musician, though he hasn't Beringer's great technique and
passion. His conception is more of the Chopin order, extremely finely
shaded and "filed out," as the Germans have it.
It was so pleasant to have these three musical friends, who all play so
much better than I, as they often met and made lovely music in my little
room. Weber and Beringer took tea with us only yesterday evening. Weber
was in one of his good moods, and played to Beringer and me his most
beautiful compositions for ever so long. We settled ourselves
comfortably, one in two chairs, the other on the sofa, and enjoyed it.
The Andante out of a great sonata he is composing, is perfectly lovely.
It is entirely original, and different from any music I have ever heard.
Then he played the second movement of his symphony, and it is the most
exquisite _morceau_ you can imagine. I asked him to compose a little
piece for me, and so yesterday morning he sat down and wrote seven
mazurkas, one after the other. Whether he actually gives me one is
another matter, for, like all geniuses, he is not very prodigal with his
gifts, and is not very easy to come at. But I would like to have even
four bars written by him, for he is so individual that it would be worth
keeping.
Weber looks perfectly charming when he plays. He never glances at the
keys, but his large blue eyes gaze dreamily into vacancy, and his noble
brow stands out white and lofty. His conception is extremely musical,
but as he only practices when he feels like it (as he does everything
else), he doesn't come up to the other two. Tausig burst out laughing at
him at his last lesson. That individual, by the way, came back as
suddenly as he went off, but announced that he would give no more
lessons except to these favoured three. All the rest of us had to go
begging. It didn't make so much difference to me, as I had already gone
to Kullak, who is now the first teacher in Germany, as all the greatest
virtuosi have given up teaching.
Kullak himself is a truly splendid artist, which I had not expected. He
used to have great fame here as a pianist, but I supposed that as he had
given up his concert playing he did not keep it up. I found, however,
that I was mistaken. His playing does not suffer in comparison with
Tausig's even, whom I have so often heard. Why in the world he has not
continued playing in public I can't imagine, but I am told that he was
too nervous. Like all artists, he is fascinating, and full of his whims
and caprices. He knows everything in the way of music, and when I take
my lessons he has two grand pianos side by side, and he sits at one and
I at the other. He knows by heart everything that he teaches, and he
plays sometimes with me, sometimes before me, and shows me all sorts of
ways of playing passages. I am getting no end of ideas from him. I have
enjoyed playing my Beethoven Concerto so much, for he has played all the
orchestral parts. Just think how exciting to have a great artist like
that play second piano with you! I am going to learn one by Chopin next.
Kullak is not nearly so terrible a teacher as Tausig. He has the
greatest patience and gentleness, and helps you on; but Tausig keeps
rating you and telling you, what you feel only too deeply, that your
playing _is_ "awful." When Tausig used to sit down in his impatient way
and play a few bars, and then tell me to do it just so, I used always to
feel as if some one wished me to copy a streak of forked lightning with
the end of a wetted match. At the last lesson Tausig gave me, however,
he entirely changed his tone, and was extremely sweet to me. I think he
regretted having made me cry at the previous lesson, for just as I sat
down to play, he turned to the class and made some little joke about
these "_empfindliche Amerikanerinnen_ (sensitive Americans)." Then he
came and stood by me, and nothing could have been gentler than his
manner. After I had finished, he sat down and played the whole piece
for me, a thing he rarely does, introducing a magnificent trill in
double thirds, and ending up with some peculiar turn in which he allowed
his virtuosity to peep out at me for a moment. Only for a moment though,
for he is much too proud and has too much contempt for _Spectakel_ to
"show off," so he suppressed himself immediately. It was as if his
fingers broke into the trill in spite of him, and he had to pull them up
with a severe check. Strange, inscrutable being that he is!
* * *
BERLIN, _October 13, 1870_.
My room in our new lodging is a charming one. Quite large, and a front
one, and there is no _vis-á-vis_. We look right over across the street
into Prince Albrecht's Garden. It is very uncommon to have such a nice
outlook, particularly in Berlin. But it is so long since I have lived
among trees that at first it affected my spirits dreadfully. As I sit by
my window and hear the autumn wind rushing through them, and see all the
leaves quivering and shaking, and think that they have only a few short
weeks more to sway in the breeze, it makes me wretched. I suppose that
we shall now have two months of dismal weather.
I wish you were here to counsel me over my dresses. I have just bought
two--one for a street dress, and the other for demi-evening toilette,
but heaven only knows when they will be done, or how they will fit! You
ought to see the biases of the dresses here! They all go zig-zag. The
Berlin dressmakers are abominable. Mrs.----, of the Legation, told me
that when she first came here she cried over every new dress she had
made, and I could not sufficiently rejoice last winter that I had got
all my things before I sailed. M. E., too, who gets all her best things
from Paris, told M. she was never so happy as when her mother sent her
over an "American dress."--"They are _so_ comfortable and _so_
satisfactory," said she.
Yesterday I took my fourth lesson of Kullak. He plays much more to me
than Tausig did, and I am surprised to see how much I have got on in
four weeks. Tausig didn't deign to do more than play occasional
passages, and we had only one piano in the room where he taught. But at
Kullak's there are two grand pianos side by side. He sits at one and I
at the other, and as he knows everything by heart which he teaches, as I
told you, he keeps playing with me or before me, so that I catch it a
great deal better. Sometimes he will repeat a passage over and over, and
I after him, like a parrot, until I get it _exactly_ right. He has this
excessively finished and elegant fantasia style of playing, like
Thalberg or De Meyer. He has great fame as a teacher, and is perhaps
more celebrated in this respect than Tausig, but I was with Tausig too
short a time to judge personally which teaches the best.
This war is perfectly awful. The men are simply being slaughtered like
cattle. New regiments are all the time being sent on. The Prussians have
taken over two hundred thousand prisoners, to say nothing of the killed
and wounded. But they lose fearful numbers themselves also. It is
expected in a few days that Metz will surrender. It is a tremendous
stronghold, and contains an army of fifty thousand men. But isn't it
extraordinary how disastrous the war has been to the French? They had an
immense army of several hundred thousand men. And then they had all the
advantages of position. The Prussians have had to fight their way
through all these strong defences one after another. They will soon
bombard Paris. As Herr S. says, this war is a disgrace to the
governments. He says that they ought to have united against it (America
included), and to have said that on such an unjust pretext they would
not permit it. I read the other day a most touching letter that was
found on the dead body of a common soldier from his old peasant father.
He said, "What have we poor people done that the _lieber Gott_ visits us
with such fearful judgments? When I got thy letter, my dear son, saying
that thou art safe come out of the last battle with thy brother, I fell
on my knees and thanked God for His goodness." Then he goes on to
describe the joy of his mother and sister and sweetheart, and how he
read his letter to all the neighbours, "who rejoiced much at thy
safety," and his hope and confidence that his son would return alive to
his old father. But in a few days his son fell in another battle,
desperately wounded. He was carried to the house of a lady who did all
she could for him, but he died, and she sent this letter to the paper.
Do you get many of the anecdotes in the American papers? Such as that of
the three hundred and two horses which, at the usual signal after the
battle that called the regiments together, came back riderless? I think
that was very touching in the poor things.[C] Or have you heard of the
Frenchman who, when informed that the Emperor was taken prisoner, coolly
replied: "_Moi aussi!_" But these are already old stories, and you have
doubtless heard them. I think one of the worst incidents of the war is
that bomb that fell into a girls' school at Strasbourg. When one thinks
of innocent young girls having their eyes torn out, and being killed and
wounded, it seems too terrible.--I always pity the poor horses so much.
At the surrender of Sedan, the French forgot to detach them from the
cannon, and to give them food and drink. Finally, frantic with thirst,
they broke themselves loose and rushed wildly through the streets. It
was said that any body could have a horse for the trouble of catching
him.
* * *
BERLIN, _November 25, 1870_.
I went last week to hear Joachim, who lives here, and is giving his
annual series of quartette soirees. Oh! he is a wonderful genius, and
the sublimest artist I have yet heard. I am amazed afresh every time I
hear him. He draws the most extraordinary _tone_ from his violin, and
such a powerful one that it seems sometimes as if several were playing.
Then his expression is so marvellous that he holds complete sway over
his audience from the moment he begins till he ceases. He possesses
magnetic power to the highest degree.
On Saturday night I went to a superb concert given for the benefit of
the wounded. The royal orchestra played, and as it was in the
Sing-Akademie, where the acoustic is very remarkable, the orchestral
performance seemed phenomenal. Generally, this orchestra plays in the
opera house, which is so much larger that the effect is not so great.
The last thing they played was the "Ritt der Walküren," by Wagner. It
was the first time it was given in Berlin, and it is a wonderful
composition. It represents the ride of the Walküre-maidens into
Valhalla, and when you hear it it seems as if you could really see the
spectral horses with their ghostly riders. It produces the most
unearthly effect at the end, and one feels as if one had suddenly
stepped into Pandemonium. I was perfectly enchanted with it, and
everybody was excited. The "bravos" resounded all over the house. Tausig
played Chopin's E minor concerto in his own glorious style. He did his
very best, and when he got through not only the whole orchestra was
applauding him, but even the conductor was rapping his desk with his
bâton like mad. I thought to myself it was a proud position where a man
could excite enthusiasm in the hearts of these old and tried musicians.
As a specimen of his virtuosity, what do you say to the little feat of
playing the running passage at the end, two pages long, and which was
written for both hands in unison, in octaves instead of single
notes?--Gigantic! [Later Kullak gave this great concerto to my sister to
study, and as she was struggling with its difficulties he said: "Ah yes,
Fräulein, when I think of the time and labour I spent over that concerto
in my youth, I could weep _tears of blood_!"]--ED.
Yesterday evening I went to a party at the house of a relative of the
M.'s. Madame de Stael was right in saying that etiquette is terribly
severe in Germany. It is downright law, and everybody is obliged to
submit to it. What other people in the world, for example, would insist
on your coming at eight and remaining until nearly four in the morning,
when the party consists of a dozen or twenty people, almost all of them
married and middle-aged, or elderly? I nearly expire of fatigue and
ennui, but they would all take it so ill if I didn't go, that there is
no escape. Last night I came home with such a dreadful nervous headache
from sheer exhaustion, that I could scarcely see. You know in a dancing
party the excitement keeps one up, and one doesn't feel the fatigue
until afterward. But to sit three mortal hours before supper, and keep
up a conversation with a lot of people much older than yourself in whom
you have not the slightest interest, and in a foreign language, when you
wouldn't be brilliant in your own, and then another long three hours at
the supper table, and then _still_ an hour or so afterwards, to an
American mind is terrible! I always groan in spirit when I think how
comfortably I used to jump into the carriage at nine o'clock, in
Cambridge, go to the party, and come home at half-past eleven or
twelve. These long parties are what the Germans call being "_gemüthlig_
(sociable and friendly)." The French would call them "_assommant_," and
they would be entirely in the right.