The Boston Fire. Aggravations of Music Study. Kullak. Sherwood.
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 phoenix 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.