Visit to Dresden. The Wiecks. Von Bülow. A Child Prodigy. Grantzow,
the Dancer.
BERLIN, _February 10, 1872_.
A week ago last Monday I went to Dresden with J. L. to visit B. H. We
got there at about five in the afternoon, and were met at the station by
B.'s maid, who conducted us straightway to their house in Christian
Strasse. B. and Mrs. H. received us with the greatest cordiality, and we
had a splendid time. I came home only the day before yesterday, and J.
is still there. The H.'s have a charming lodging, and Mrs. H. is a
capital housekeeper. The _cuisine_ was excellent, and you can imagine
how I enjoyed an American breakfast once more, after nothing but "rolls
and coffee" for two years. B. did everything in her power to amuse us,
and she is the soul of amiability. She kept inviting people to meet us,
and had several tea-parties, and when we had no company she took us to
the theatre or the opera. She invited Marie Wieck (the sister of Clara
Schumann) to tea one night. I was very glad to meet her, for she is an
exquisite artist herself, and plays in Clara Schumann's style, though
her conception is not so remarkable. Her touch is perfect. At B.'s
request she tried to play for us, but the action of B.'s piano did not
suit her, and she presently got up, saying that she could do nothing on
that instrument, but that if we would come to _her_, she would play for
us with pleasure.
I was in high glee at that proposal, for I was very anxious to see the
famous Wieck, the trainer of so many generations of musicians. Fräulein
Wieck appointed Saturday evening, and we accordingly went. B. had
instructed us how to act, for the old man is quite a character, and has
to be dealt with after his own fashion. She said we must walk in (having
first laid off our things) as if we had been members of the family all
our lives, and say, "Good-evening, Papa Wieck,"--(everybody calls him
Papa). Then we were to seat ourselves, and if we had some knitting or
sewing with us it would be well. At any rate we must have the apparent
intention of spending several hours, for nothing provokes him so as to
have people come in simply to call. "What!" he will say, "do you expect
to know a celebrated man like me in half an hour?" then (very
sarcastically), "perhaps you want my autograph!" He hates to give his
autograph.
Well, we went through the prescribed programme. We were ushered into a
large room, much longer than it was broad. At either end stood a grand
piano. Otherwise the room was furnished with the greatest simplicity. My
impression is that the floor was a plain yellow painted one, with a rug
or two here and there. A few portraits and bas-reliefs hung upon the
walls. The pianos were of course fine. Frau Wieck and "Papa" received us
graciously. We began by taking tea, but soon the old man became
impatient, and said, "Come! the ladies wish to perform (_vortragen_)
something before me, and if we don't begin we shan't accomplish
anything." He _lives_ entirely in music, and has a class of girls whom
he instructs every evening for nothing. Five of these young girls were
there. He is very deaf, but strange to say, he is as sensitive as ever
to every musical sound, and the same is the case with Clara Schumann.
Fräulein Wieck then opened the ball. She is about forty, I should think,
and a stout, phlegmatic-looking woman. However, she played superbly, and
her touch is one of the most delicious possible. After hearing her, one
is not surprised that the Wiecks think nobody can teach touch but
themselves. She began with a nocturne by Chopin, in F major. I forgot to
say that the old Herr sits in his chair with the air of being on a
throne, and announces beforehand each piece that is to be played,
following it with some comment: _e. g._, "This nocturne I allowed my
daughter Clara to play in Berlin forty years ago, and afterward the
principal newspaper in criticising her performance, remarked: 'This
young girl seems to have much talent; it is only a pity that she is in
the hands of a father whose head seems stuck full of queer new-fangled
notions,'--so new was Chopin to the public at that time." That is the
way he goes on.
After Fräulein Wieck had finished the nocturne, I asked for something by
Bach, which I'm told she plays remarkably. She said that at the moment
she had nothing in practice by Bach, but she would play me a _gigue_ by
a composer of Bach's time,--Haesler, I think she said, but cannot
remember, as it was a name entirely unknown to me. It was very
brilliant, and she executed it beautifully. Afterward she played the
last movement of Beethoven's Sonata in E flat major, but I wasn't
particularly struck with her conception of that. Then we had a pause,
and she urged me to play. I refused, for as I had been in Dresden a week
and had not practiced, I did not wish to sit down and not do myself
justice. My hand is so stiff, that as Tausig said of himself (though of
him I can hardly believe it), "When I haven't practiced for fourteen
days I can't do anything." The old Herr then said, "Now we'll have
something else;" and got up and went to the piano, and called the young
girls. He made three of them sing, one after the other, and they sang
very charmingly indeed. One of them he made improvise a _cadenza_, and a
second sang the alto to it without accompaniment. He was very proud of
that. He exercises his pupils in all sorts of ways, trains them to sing
any given tone, and "to skip up and down the ladder," as they call the
scale.
After the master had finished with the singing, Fräulein Wieck played
three more pieces, one of which was an exquisite arrangement by Liszt of
that song by Schumann, "_Du meine Seele_." She ended with a _gavotte_ by
Glück, or as Papa Wieck would say, "This is a gavotte from one of
Glück's operas, arranged by Brahms for the piano. To the superficial
observer the second movement will appear very easy, but in _my_ opinion
it is a very hard task to hit it exactly." I happened to know just how
the thing ought to be played, for I had heard it three times from Clara
Schumann herself. Fräulein Wieck didn't please me at all in it, for she
took the second movement twice as quickly as the first. "Your sister
plays the second movement much slower," said I. "_So?_" said she, "I've
never heard it from her." She then asked, "So slow?" playing it slower.
"Still slower?" said she, beginning a third time, at my continual
disapproval. "_Streng im Tempo_ (in strict time)", said I, nodding my
head oracularly. "_Väterchen_." called she to the old Herr, "Miss Fay
says that Clara plays the second movement _so_ slow," showing him. I
don't know whether this correction made an impression, but he was then
_determined_ that I should play, and on my continued refusal he finally
said that he found it very strange that a young lady who had studied
more than two years in Tausig's and Kullak's conservatories shouldn't
have _one_ piece that she could play before people. This little fling
provoked me, so up I jumped, and saying to myself, "_Kopf in die Höhe,
Brust heraus,--vorwärts!_" (one of the military orders here), I marched
to the piano and played the fugue at the end of Beethoven's A flat
Sonata, Op. 110. They all sat round the room as still as so many statues
while I played, and you cannot imagine how dreadfully nervous I was. I
thought fifty times I would have to stop, for, like all fugues, it is
such a piece that if you once get out you never can get in again, and
Bülow himself got mixed up on the last part of it the other night in his
concert. But I got well through, notwithstanding, and the old master was
good enough to commend me warmly. He told me I must have studied a
great deal, and asked me if I hadn't played a great many _Etuden_. I
informed him in polite German "He'd better believe I had!"
I should like to study with the Wiecks in my vacation next summer if
they would take me. Perhaps I may. They are considered somewhat
old-fashioned in their style, and I shouldn't wish to exchange Kullak
for them, but they are _such_ veterans that one could not help getting
many valuable ideas from them. Papa Wieck used to be Bülow's master
before he went to Liszt.
Did I tell you how carried away with Bülow I was? He is magnificent, and
just between Rubinstein and Tausig. I am going to hear him again on
Saturday, and then I'll write you my full opinion about him. He is
famous for his playing of Beethoven, and I wish you could have heard the
Moonlight Sonata from him. One thing he does which is entirely peculiar
to himself. He runs all the movements of a sonata together, instead of
pausing between. It pleased me very much, as it gives a _unity_ of
effect, and seems to make each movement beget the succeeding one.
BERLIN, _May 30, 1872_.
I wish L. were here studying piano with Kullak's son. He has one little
fairy of a scholar ten years old. Her name is Adele aus der Ohe--(isn't
that an old knightly name?)--and it is the most astonishing thing to
hear that child play! I heard her play a concerto of Beethoven's the
other day with orchestral accompaniment and a great cadenza by
Moscheles, absolutely _perfectly_. She never missed a note the whole way
through. I suppose she will become, like Mehlig, a great artist. But
perhaps, like her, she won't have a great conception, but will do
everything mechanically. One never can tell how these child-prodigies
will turn out.--Please don't form any exalted ideas of _my_ playing! I'm
a pretty stupid girl, and go forward slowly. I never expect to play as
Miss Mehlig does. If I can ever get up to Topp, I shall be satisfied.
You wouldn't believe how long it takes to get to be a virtuoso unless
you tried it. Mehlig, you know, studied steadily for ten years, under
the _best_ of teaching all the time, and she had probably more talent to
start with than I have. Miss V. and Mr. G. have been here _five_ years
studying steadily, and they are no farther than I am now. Not so far. It
makes all the difference in the world what kind of hand and wrist a
person has. Mine, you know, were pretty stiff, and then it is a great
disadvantage to begin studying after one is grown up. One ought to be
learning while the hand is forming.
I am just now learning that A minor concerto of Schumann's that Topp
played at the Handel and Haydn Festival in Boston. The cadenza is tough,
I can tell you. That is the worst of these concertos. There is always a
grand cadenza where you must play all alone and "make a splurge." I
don't know how it feels to be left all at once without any support from
the orchestra. It is bad enough when Kullak lies back in his chair and
ceases accompanying me. He plays with me on two pianos, and I get so
excited that my wrists tremble. He is a magnificent pianist, and his
technique is perfect. There's nothing he can't do. Like all artists, he
is as capricious and exasperating as he can be, and, as the Germans say,
he is "_ein Mal im Himmel und das nächste Mal im Keller_ (one time in
heaven and the next time in the cellar)!" He has a deep rooted prejudice
against Americans, and never loses an opportunity to make a mean remark
about them, and though he has some remarkably gifted ones among his
scholars, he always insists upon it that the Americans have no real
talent. As far as I know anything about his conservatorium just now, his
_most_ talented scholars are Americans. There is a young fellow named
Sherwood, who is only seventeen years old, and he not only plays
splendidly but composes beautifully, also. In my own class Miss B. and I
are far ahead of all the others. Kullak will praise us very
enthusiastically, and then when some one plays particularly badly in the
class he will say to them, "Why, Fräulein, you play exactly as if you
came from America." It makes Miss B. and me so indignant that we don't
know what to do. Of course we can't say anything, for he addresses this
remark in a lofty way to the whole class. Miss V. couldn't bear Kullak,
and the other day, when she and Mr. G. were taking leave of him to go to
America, she let him see it. He said to her, "And when shall I see you
again?" "_Never_," exclaimed she! We have only one way of revenging
ourselves, and that is when he gives us the choice of taking one of his
compositions or a piece by some one else, always to take the other
person's. For instance, he said to me, "Fräulein, you can take
Schumann's concerto or _my_ concerto." I immediately got Schumann's.
The other night I went to see a great ballet-dancer. Her name is
Fräulein Grantzow, and she is the court dancer at St. Petersburg, where
I've heard that the ballet surpasses everything of the kind in the
world. This danseuse is a wonder, and they say there has never been such
dancing since the days of Fanny Ellsler. She has the figure of a Venus,
and the most expressive face imaginable. When she dances, it is not only
dancing, but a complete representation of character, for she plays a
rôle by her motions just the same as if she were an actress. I have seen
many a ballet, but I never conceived what an art dancing is before. I
saw her in "Esmeralda," a ballet which is arranged from Victor Hugo's
romance and modified for the stage. Fräulein Grantzow took the part of
Esmeralda. In the first act a man is condemned to death, but is pardoned
on condition that one of the women present will promise to marry him.
The women, represented by about fifty ballet dancers, come up one after
the other, contemplate the poor victim, pirouette round him, and reject
him in turn with a gesture of contempt. At last Esmeralda (a gypsy)
comes dancing along, asks what is the matter, and on being told, has
compassion on the poor wretch, and promises to marry him in order to
save him from his fate.
When the time came for Grantzow to appear, the crowd of dancers
suddenly divided, and she bounded out from the back of the stage. _Such_
an apparition as she was! In the first place her toilettes surpassed
everything, and she appeared in a fresh dress in every act. In this
first one she had on a most dazzling shade of green gauze for her skirt.
From her waist fell a golden net-work, like a cestus, with little golden
tassels all round. She wore a little scarlet satin jacket all fringed
with gold coins, and a broad golden belt, pointed in front, clasped her
waist. On her head was a tiny scarlet cap, also fringed with coins, and
she had some golden bangles round her neck. In her hand was a tambourine
from which depended four knots of coloured ribbons with long ends.
Shaking her tambourine high in the air, out she sprang like a panther,
made one magnificent circuit all round the stage, and after executing an
immensely difficult _pas_ with perfect ease, she suddenly posed to the
audience in the most ravishing and impossible attitude and with the most
captivating grace conceivable. Anything like her _élan_, her _aplomb_, I
never saw. Such a daring creature! Well, I cannot tell you all the
things she did. She is a perfect Terpsichorean genius. All through the
first act she danced very slowly, merely to show her wonderful grace,
and the beauty and originality of her positions. She had a way of
folding her arms over her breast and dancing with a dreamy step that was
quite different from anybody else, and it produced an entrancing effect.
Through the second and third acts she made a regular crescendo, just to
display her technique and show what she could do. All the other dancers
seemed like blocks of wood in comparison with her.--Fräulein Grantzow is
said to be between thirty-five and thirty-eight years old. As the papers
said, her art shows the perfection that only maturity can give. The men
are all crazy over her, as you may imagine, and she was showered with
bouquets as large as the top of a barrel. The play of her features was
as extraordinary as the play of her muscles. Her whole being seemed to
be the soul of motion.