A Set of Beethoven Variations. Fannie Warburg. Deppe's Inventions.
His Room. His Afternoon Coffee. Pyrmont.
BERLIN, _April 30, 1874_.
I wish you were here now so that I could play you a set of little
variations by Beethoven called, "I've only got a little hut." They are
_bewitching_, and I think I can now play them so as to express (as Deppe
says) "that he had indeed nothing but his little hut, but was quite
happy in it." In the last variation he dances a waltz in his little hut!
I have learned a great deal from these tiny variations, taught in
Deppe's inimitable fashion. When I first took them to him I began
playing the second of the variations--which is rather plaintive and
seems to indicate that the proprietor of the little hut had a misgiving
that there _might_ be a better abode somewhere on the earth--with a
great deal of "expression," as I thought. I soon found out I was
overdoing it, however, and that it is not always so easy to define where
good expression stops and bad style begins. "Why do you make those notes
stick out so?" asked Deppe, as I was giving vent to my "soul-longings,"
(as P. says). "Learn to paint in _grossen Flaechen_ (great surfaces)."
He made me play it again perfectly legato, and with no one note
"sticking out" more than another. I saw at once that he was right about
it, and that the effect was much better, while it took nothing from the
real sentiment of the piece. It was one of those cases where a simple
statement was all that was necessary. Anything more detracted from
rather than added to it.
I have at last heard Fannie Warburg in a Mozart concerto, for she has
got back from England. How she did play it! To say that the passages
"pearled," would be saying nothing at all. Why, the piano just _warbled_
them out like a nightingale! The last movement had the infectious gayety
that Mozart's things often have, with a magnificent cadenza by himself.
She rendered it so perfectly, and with such naïve light-heartedness,
that none of us could resist it, and we all finally burst into a laugh!
There was a little orchestra accompanying, which Deppe had got together
and was directing. When she got to the cadenza, he laid down his bâton,
and retired to lean against the door and enjoy it. She did it in the
most masterly manner, and O, it was _so_ difficult! I thought of the
Boston critic, who considered Mozart's compositions "child's play." They
_are_ child's play--that is, they are _nothing at all_ if they are not
faultlessly played, and every fault _shows_, which is the reason so few
attempt them. Your hand must be "in order," as Deppe says, to do it.
Fannie Warburg is a sweet little eighteen-year-old maiden. A shy little
bud of a girl without any vanity or self-consciousness. She has a lovely
hand for the piano, and the way she uses it is perfectly exquisite. It
is small and plump, but strong, with firm little fingers. Every muscle
is developed, and indeed it could not be otherwise, after such a six
years' training. One of Deppe's rules is that when you raise the finger
the knuckle must not stick out. The finger must "sit firm
(_fest-sitzen_) in the joint." Fannie Warburg's fingers "_sitzen_" so
"_fest_" that when she plays she positively has a little row of dimples
where her knuckles ought to be. It looks too pretty for anything--just
like a baby's hand. She does not seem to have the slightest ambition,
however, and I doubt whether she will ever do anything with her music
after she leaves Deppe. Her mother was from Hamburg, and had taken
lessons of Deppe there when they were both quite young. She thought him
such a remarkable teacher that she declared her daughter should have no
other master. So when Fannie was twelve years old she brought her to
him, and he has been giving her lessons ever since--something like
Samuel's mother bringing him to the Temple, wasn't it?--and indeed when
I go into Deppe's shabby little room I always feel as if I were in a
little Temple of Music! I like to see the furniture all bestrewn with
it, and Deppe himself seated at his table surrounded with piles of
manuscript, pen in hand, going over and arranging them, bringing order
out of chaos. Other orchestra leaders are always writing and begging him
to lend them his copies of Oratorios, etc.
Deppe has all sorts of practical little ideas peculiar to himself. For
instance, he has invented a candlestick to stand on a grand piano. In
shape it is curved, like those things for candles attached to upright
pianos, but with a weighted foot to hold it firm. It is a capital
invention, for you put one each side of the music-rack, and then you can
turn it so as to throw the light on your music, just as you can turn
those on the upright pianos. It is on the same principle, only with the
addition of the foot. It is much more convenient than a lamp, because it
doesn't rattle, and you can throw the light on the page so much
better.--Then he always insists on our having our pieces bound
separately, in a cover of stout blue paper, such as copy books are bound
in. He entirely disapproves of binding music in books. "Who will lug a
great heavy book along?" he will ask, "and besides, they don't lie open
well."
The other day Deppe told me he wanted me to come and hear Fräulein
Steiniger take her lesson, as she had some interesting pieces to play. I
found her already there when I arrived. Deppe was in an uncommonly good
humour, and kept making little jokes. She played a string of things, and
finally ended off with Liszt's arrangement of the Spinning Song from
Wagner's Flying Dutchman. Deppe is dreadfully fussy about this piece,
and made some such subtle and telling points regarding the _conception_
of the composition, that they were worthy of Liszt himself. I mean to
learn it, and when I come home I will play it to you as Deppe taught it
to Steiniger, and you will see how fascinating it is. I know you'll be
carried away with it.
Toward the end of the lesson it was growing rather late, and time also
for Deppe's coffee, which beverage you know the Germans always drink
late in the afternoon, accompanied with cakes. He had just laid down his
violin, as he and Fräulein Steiniger had played a sonata together, and
had seated himself at the piano to show her about some passage or other.
Deeply absorbed, he was haranguing her as hard as he could, when the
maid of all work suddenly entered with the coffee on a tray, and was
apparently about to set it down on the piano in close proximity to the
violin. "_Herr Gott, nicht auf die Violin!_ (Good gracious, not on the
violin!)" exclaimed Deppe, springing frantically up and rescuing the
beloved instrument. "Where then?" said the girl. "Oh, anywhere, only not
on the violin." She set it down on a chair and vanished. There were only
three chairs in the room, and the sofa was covered with music. Fräulein
Steiniger occupied one chair, I the second, and the coffee the third.
Deppe glanced around in momentary bewilderment, and then sat himself
plump down on the floor, took his coffee, stretched out his legs, and
began stirring it imperturbably. "But Herr Deppe!" remonstrated
Steiniger. "Well," said he, with his light-hearted laugh, "what else can
I do when I have no chair?" There was no carpet on the floor, which was
an ordinary painted one, and he looked funny enough, sitting there, but
he enjoyed his coffee just as well!--After he had finished drinking it,
the shades of night were falling, and it occurred to him it would be
well to illuminate his apartment. He is the happy possessor of five
minute lamps and candlesticks, no two of which are the same height. The
lamps are two in number, and are about as big as the smallest sized
fluid lamp that we used in old times to go to bed by. The three
candlesticks are of china, and adorned with designs in decalcomania--probably
the handiwork of grateful pupils, for in Germany there is no present
like a "_Hand-Arbeit_ (something done by the hand of the giver)." It is
the correct thing to give a gentleman. When Fräulein Steiniger and I
only are present, Deppe usually considers the two lamps sufficient. But
if others are there and he is going to have some music in the evening,
he will produce the three minute candlesticks, with an end of candle in
each, light them, and dispose them in various parts of the room. When,
however, as on great occasions, the five lamps and candlesticks are
supplemented by two _more_ candles on the piano in the curved
candlesticks of Deppe's own invention, the blaze of light is something
tremendous to our unaccustomed eyes! Nothing short of the Tuileries or
the "Weisser Saal" at the palace here could equal it!
* * *
BERLIN, _May 31, 1874_.
This season with Deppe has been of such immense importance to me, that I
don't know _what_ sum of money I would take in exchange for it. By
practicing in his method the tone has an entirely different sound, being
round, soft and yet penetrating, while the execution of passages is
infinitely facilitated and perfected. In fact, it seems to me that in
time one could attain anything by it, but time it _will_ have. One has
to study for months very slowly and with very simple things, to get into
the way of playing so, and to be able to think about each finger as you
use it--to "_feel_ the note and make it conscious." Deppe won't let me
finish anything at present, so I can't tell how far along I am myself.
His principle is, never to learn a piece completely the first time you
attack it, but to master it three-quarters, and then let it lie as you
would fruit that you have put on a shelf to ripen;--afterward, take it
up again and finish it. The principle _may_ be a good one, but it
prevents my ever having anything to play for people, and consequently I
have ceased playing in company entirely. In fact, I find it impossible,
and I don't see how Sherwood manages it. _He_ has a whole repertoire,
and sits down and plays piece after piece deliciously. But then he is a
perfect genius, and will make a sensation when he comes out. He has that
natural repose and imperturbability that are everything to an artist,
but which, unfortunately, so few of us possess. His compositions, too,
are exquisite, and so poetical! Mrs. Wrisley,[I] of Boston, and Fräulein
Estleben, of Sweden, who left Kullak when I did, are also gifted
creatures, whereas I think I am only a steady old poke-along, who
_won't_ give up! Sherwood, however, is head and shoulders above all of
us.
[The following extract, taken from the report in the _Musical Review_ of
Mr. Sherwood's address before the Music Teachers' National Association
in Buffalo, in June, 1880, would seem to show that whether this
distinguished young virtuoso, now by far the leading American
concert-pianist, gained his ideas on the study of touch and tone from
Herr Deppe or not, he certainly endorses them in both his playing and
his teaching:--"It makes a great deal of difference whether a piano be
struck with a stick, with mechanical fingers, or with fingers that are
full of life and magnetism. I have examined Rubinstein's hand and arm,
and found that they are not only full of life and magnetism, but that
they are extremely elastic, and the fingers are so soft that the bones
are scarcely felt. Can practice produce these qualities? I believe so,
and I make it a point both with my pupils and myself to practice slow
motions. It is much easier to strike quickly than slowly, but practice
in the slow movement will develop both muscular and nervous power. And
the tone obtained by this motion is much better than that obtained by
striking. The mechanical practice in vogue at Leipsic and other European
conservatories often fails because the subject of æsthetics and tone
beauties are neglected." See pp. 288, 302-3, 334.]--ED.
My lessons with Deppe are a genuine musical excitement to me, always. In
every one is something so new and unexpected--something that I never
dreamed of before--that I am lost in astonishment and admiration. The
weeks fly by like days before I know it. Deppe gives me the most
beautiful music, and never wastes time over things which will be of no
use to me afterward. Every piece has an _aim_, and is lovely, also, to
play to people. Now, in Tausig's and Kullak's conservatories I wasted
quantities of time over things which are beautiful enough, and do to
play to one's self, but which are not in the least effective to play to
other people either in the parlour or in the concert-room--as Bach's
Toccata in C, for example. Such things take a good while to learn, and
are of no practical advantage afterward. But Deppe has an organized
_plan_ in everything he does.
In my study with Kullak when I had any special difficulties, he only
said, "Practice always, Fräulein. _Time_ will do it for you some day.
Hold your hand any way that is easiest for you. You can do it in _this_
way--or in _this_ way"--showing me different positions of the hand in
playing the troublesome passage--"or you can play it with the _back_ of
the hand if that will help you any!" But Deppe, instead of saying, "Oh,
you'll get this after years of practice," shows me how to conquer the
difficulty _now_. He takes a piece, and while he plays it with the most
wonderful _fineness_ of conception, he cold-bloodedly dissects the
mechanical elements of it, separates them, and tells you how to use your
hand so as to grasp them one after the other. In short, he makes the
technique and the conception _identical_, as of course they ought to be,
but I never had any other master who trained his pupils to attempt it.
Deppe also hears me play, I think, in the true way, and as Liszt used to
do: that is, he never interrupts me in a piece, but lets me go through
it from beginning to end, and _then_ he picks out the places he has
noted, and corrects or suggests. These suggestions are always something
which are not simply for that piece alone, but which add to your whole
artistic experience--a _principle_, so to speak. So, without meaning any
disparagement to the splendid masters to whom I owe all my previous
musical culture, I cannot help feeling that I have at last got into the
hands not of a mere piano virtuoso, however great, but, rather, of a
profound musical _savant_--a man who has been a violinist, as well as a
director, and who, without being a player himself, has made such a study
of the piano, that probably all pianists except Liszt might learn
something from him. You may all think me "enthusiastic," or even _wild_,
as much as you like; but whether or not I ever conquer my own block of a
hand--which has every defect a hand _can_ have!--when I come home and
begin teaching you all on Deppe's method, you'll succumb to the genius
and beauty of it just as completely as I have. You will _then_ all admit
I was RIGHT!
July 22.--I have finally made up my mind to go to Pyrmont when Deppe
does, and spend several weeks, keeping right on with my lessons, and
perhaps, giving a little concert there. I have always had a curiosity to
visit one of the German watering places, as I'm told they are extremely
pleasant.
* * *
PYRMONT, _August 1, 1874_.
Here I am in Pyrmont, and there's no knowing where I shall turn up next!
Fräulein Steiniger got here before me, but Deppe has not yet arrived
from Brussels, whither he has gone to be present at the yearly
exhibition of the Conservatoire there. He has been appointed one of the
judges on piano-playing. Pyrmont is a lovely little place. It is in a
valley surrounded by hills, heavily wooded, and has a beautiful park, as
all German towns have, no matter how small. The avenues of trees surpass
anything I ever saw. The soil has something peculiar about it, and is
particularly adapted to trees. They grow to an immense height, and their
stems look so strong, and their foliage is so tremendously luxuriant,
that it seems as if they were ready to burst for very life!
Fräulein Steiniger went with me to look up some rooms. Every family in
Pyrmont takes lodgers, so that it is not difficult to find good
accommodations. The women are renowned for being good housekeepers and
their rooms are charmingly fitted up, but the prices are very high, as
they live the whole year on what they make in summer. People come here
to drink the waters of the springs, and to take the baths, which are
said to be very invigorating. My rooms are near the principal "_Allée_"
or Avenue, leading from the Springs. About half way down is a platform
where the orchestra sit and play three times a day--at seven in the
morning (which is the hour before breakfast, when it is the thing to
take a glass or two of the water, and promenade a little), at four in
the afternoon, when everybody takes their coffee in the open air, and at
seven in the evening. As I don't drink the waters I do not rise early,
and am usually awakened by the strains of the orchestra. There is a
little piazza outside my window where I take my breakfast and supper.
For dinner I go to "table-d'hôte" at a hotel near.--It is a great relief
to get out of Berlin and see something green once more. I find the
weather very cool, however, and one needs warm clothing here.
There are the loveliest walks all about Pyrmont that you can imagine,
and beautiful wood-paths are cut along the sides of the hills. My
favourite one is round the cone of a small hill to the right of the
town. The path completely girdles it, and you can start and walk round
the hill, returning to the point you set out from. It is like a leafy
gallery, and before and behind you is always this curving vista.
Whenever I take the walk it reminds me of--
"Curved is the line of beauty,
Straight is the line of duty;
Follow the last and thou shalt see
The other ever following thee."
It is the first time I ever succeeded in combining the carved and the
straight line at the same time--because, of course, it is my _duty_ to
take exercise!