Music in Hamburg. Studying Chamber Music. Absence of Religion in
Germany. South Americans. Deppe once more. A Concert Début.
Postscript.
HAMBURG, _February 1, 1875_.
Hamburg is a lovely city, though I _am_ having such a dreadfully dreary
and stupid time here--partly because my boarding-place is so intensely
disagreeable, and partly because I made up my mind when I came to make
no acquaintances and to do nothing but study. I have stuck to my
resolution, though I'm not sure it is not a mistake, for there is a most
elegant and luxurious society in this ancestral town of ours.[J]
Life is solid and material here, however, and music is at a low ebb. The
Philharmonic concerts are wretched, and nobody goes to even the few
piano concerts there are. That little Laura Kahrer, now Frau Rappoldi,
that I heard in Weimar at Liszt's, has been wanting to come here with
her husband, who is an eminent violinist, but she has not dared to do
it, because all the musicians tell her she would not make her expenses.
She played at the Philharmonic, too, but since then they won't have any
more piano playing at the Philharmonic. Nobody cares for it, unless
Bülow or Rubinstein or Clara Schumann are the performers. I thought Frau
Rappoldi played magnificently, but I was the only person who _did_ think
so. She made a dead failure here. Everybody was down on her. As to the
criticism, it was about like this: "Frau Rappoldi played quite prettily
and in a lady-like manner, but she had no tone, etc." Poor thing! The
next day when Schubert went to see her she wept bitterly, and well she
might. Schubert is one of the directors of the Philharmonic, and it was
through him she got the chance of playing. He, too, felt awfully cut up
at her want of success. "That is what one gets," said he to me, "by
recommending people. If they don't succeed, _you_ get all the blame for
it." He felt he had burnt his fingers! I think the whole secret of Frau
Rappoldi's want of success was that she did not _look_ pretty. She was
so dowdily dressed, and her hair looked like a Feejee Islander's. People
laughed at her before she began. Too true!--that "dress makes the
woman."[K]
Deppe's darling Fannie Warburg gave a concert here last month, and she,
also, got a pretty poor criticism, and for the same reason, viz.: people
haven't the musical sense to appreciate her--at least in my opinion. The
action of her hands on the piano is grace itself, and the elasticity of
her wrist is wonderful. Her touch completely realizes Deppe's ideal of
"letting the notes fall from the finger-tips like drops of water," and
she executes better with the left hand, if that be possible, than with
the right! At any rate, there is _no_ difference. It is the most
heavenly enjoyment to hear her, and you feel as if you would like to
have her go on forever. And yet, I don't believe she will make a great
career. She has not fire enough to make the public appreciate the
immensity of her performance. No rush--no _abandon_! She has no
_presence_ either, but is a timid, meek, childlike little
maiden--docility itself, but a _made_ player, as it were, not a
spontaneous one. Such is life! To me, her playing is the purest
music--"_die reine Musik_"--and the bigger the hall the more that _tone_
of hers rolls out and fills it!
* * *
HAMBURG, _March 1, 1875_.
I wish I could write up Deppe's system for publication, but it is a very
difficult thing to give any adequate idea of. Fräulein Timm tells me it
is only comparatively recently that he has perfected it himself to its
present point (though he has long had the conception of it), and that
accounts for its not being known. He was completely buried in Hamburg,
where there is no scope for art. I believe his ambition is to found a
School of this exquisitely pure and perfect and almost idealized
piano-playing, which may serve as a counterpoise to the warmer and more
sensuous prevailing one--_sculpture_ as contrasted with _painting_!
I have been chiefly studying _Kammer-Musik_ (Chamber Music) this
winter--that is, trios, quartettes, etc. Fräulein Timm is giving me such
a training as I never had before. She has the most astonishing talent
for teaching, and has reduced it to a science. I don't play anything up
to tempo under her--always slow, slow, _slow_. She really dissects every
tone, and shows me when and why it doesn't sound well. My whole
attention is now bent upon _tone_. Ah, M., _that's_ the thing in
playing!--To bring out the _soul_ there is in the key simply by touching
it, as the great masters do.--It is the pianist's highest art, though
amid the dazzle of piano pyrotechnics the public often forget it.
I am just finishing Beethoven's third Trio, Op. 1. The last movement is
the loveliest thing! It makes me think of a wood in spring filled with
birds. One minute you hear a lot of gossiping little sparrows twittering
and chippering, and then comes some rare wild bird with a sort of
cadence, and then come others and whistle and call. It is bewitching,
and the most perfect imitation of nature imaginable; gay--_so_ gay! as
only Beethoven can be when he begins to play. Everything is on the wing.
It is, of course, exceedingly difficult, because, like all this pure,
classic music, to make any effect it has to be executed with the utmost
perfection. I am so infatuated with it that when I get through
practicing it, I feel as if I were tipsy!
These Beethoven trios are a perfect mine in themselves. Each one seems
to be entirely different from all the rest. There are twelve in all, and
Deppe wants me to learn them all. Think what a piece of work! This
enormous amount of literature that you must have to form a
repertoire--the trios, quartettes, quintettes, concertos, etc., it is
that makes it so long before one is a finished artist. And then you must
consider the hours and hours that go to waste on _studies_, just to get
your hand into a condition to play these masterpieces. Oh, the
arduousness of it is incalculable! I often ask myself, "What demon has
tempted me here?" as I sit and drudge at the piano. I play all day, take
a walk with L. in the afternoon, and at night tumble into bed and sleep
like a log--that is, when my hardest of beds and shivering room will
_let_ me sleep. That is my life, day after day. I only see the people of
the house at meals.
I am the only lady in this family. All the other boarders are very young
men, almost boys, who are here to learn German or commerce. There are
three South Americans, one Portugese, one Brazilian, one Russian and one
Frenchman. I hear Spanish and French all the while, but no English, and
with the German it is very confusing.--I feel very sorry for all these
young fellows, their lives are so bare and disagreeable, and so wholly
devoid of any influence that can make them better or happier. As for our
landlady, it would take a Balzac to do justice to such a combination.
She is a good housekeeper. The cooking is excellent, and my room (when
warm) is pleasant. Indeed, the Hamburg standard of housekeeping is much
higher than in Berlin. Things are _much_ daintier. But her power of
making you physically and mentally uncomfortable in other ways is
unsurpassed. Were it not that my stay is indefinite, and that I have
already moved once, I would not remain here. As it is, I prefer putting
up with it to the trouble and expense of changing; beside which, I have
found that when once you have left your own home-circle, you have to
bear, as a rule, with at least one intensely disagreeable person in
every house.
My opinion of human nature has not risen since I came abroad, and I
think that this winter has quite cured me of my natural tendency to
skepticism.--I now realize too well what people's characters, both men
and women, may become without religion either in themselves or in those
about them. I suppose there _is_ religion in Germany, but _I_ have seen
very little of it, either in Protestants or Catholics, and the results I
consider simply dreadful! You see, there is _no_ adequate motive to
check the indulgence of _any_ impulse--I have come to the conclusion
that jealousy is the national vice of the Germans. Everybody is jealous
of everybody else, no matter how absurdly or causelessly. Old women are
jealous of young ones, and even sisters in the same family are jealous
of each other to a degree that I couldn't have believed, had I not seen
it.
* * *
HAMBURG, _Easter Sunday, 1875_.
With regard to playing in concert, I find myself doubting whether on
general principles it is best to get one's whole musical training under
one master only, as Fannie Warburg, for instance, has done; for my
experience teaches me that though nearly all masters can give you
something, none can give you everything. If, with my present light, I
could begin my study over again, I should first stay three years with
Deppe, in order to endow the spirit of music that I hope is within me,
with the outward form and perfection of an artist. Next, I should study
a year with Kullak, to give my playing a brilliant _concert dress_, and
finally, I would spend two seasons with Liszt, in order to add the last
ineffable graces--(for never, _never_ should an artist complete a
musical course without going to LISZT, while he is on this earth!)--The
trouble is, however, that one master always feels hurt if you leave him
for another! No one can bear the imputation that he _can't_ "give you
everything."
But in truth I am getting very impatient to be at home where I can study
by myself, and take as much time as I think necessary to work up my
pieces. Deppe and Fräulein Timm are like Kullak in one thing. They never
will give me time enough, but hurry me on so from one thing to another,
that it is impossible for me to prepare a programme. So I have given up
my plan of a concert in Berlin this spring. They have one set of ideas
and I another, and I see I shall never be able to play in public until I
abandon masters and start out on my own course. Two people never think
exactly alike. Masters can put you on the road, but they can't make you
go. You must do that for yourself. As Dr. V. says, "If you want to do a
thing you have got to _keep_ doing it. You mustn't stop--certainly not!"
Concert-playing, like everything else, is _routine_, and has got to be
learned by little and little, and perhaps, with many half-failures. But
if the "great public" will only tolerate one as a pupil long enough,
eventually, one must succeed. At any rate, IT is probably the best and
the only "master" for me now!
On Wednesday I return for a while to Berlin, to the American
boarding-house, No. 15 Tauben Strasse, whither you can all direct as
formerly. This winter has been rather a contrast to last. Then I lived
entirely among North Americans, whereas here I am almost exclusively
with South Americans. There are any number of these latter in Hamburg,
and you have no idea how fascinating many of them are--so handsome and
so bright. They all have a talent for music and dancing. Their music is
entirely of a light character, but they have _rhythm_ and grace in a
remarkable degree. When I hear them play I always think of George
Sands's description in her novel "_Malgré-tout_" of the artist Abel--the
hero of the book, and a great violinist. She says, "_Il racla un air sur
son violon avec entrain_."--That is just what these South Americans
do--"_racler!_" They all play the piano just as with us the negro plays
the fiddle, without instruction, apparently, and simply because "it is
their nature to." I saw at once where Gottschalk got his "Banjo" and
"Bananier," and the peculiar style of his compositions generally, and
since I've met so many South Americans I can readily imagine why he
spent so much of his time in South America. I long to go there myself. I
think it must be a fascinating place for an artist.
One of the South Americans here at the house is a boy of fifteen, named
Juan di Livramento, or, I should say, Juan Moreiro Aranjo di Livramento!
(They all have about a dozen names in the grandiloquent style of the
Spaniards.) This boy is a curious youngster. He is tall and lithe, with
the most magnificent dark eyes I ever saw or conceived, thick silky
black hair, all in a tumble about his head, a delicate and very
expressive face, and a clear olive complexion--a perfect type of a
Spaniard. He seems born to dance the Bolero, like Belinda, in Mrs.
Edwards's novel. It is the prettiest thing to see him do it--and in fact
he does it on all occasions without any reference to propriety, being an
utterly lawless individual. He frequently gets up from the dinner-table,
throws his napkin over his shoulders, snaps his thumbs, and begins a
dance in the corner of the room, between the courses. It has got to be
such an every-day thing that nobody looks surprised or pays any
attention to him. We dine late, and as there are a good many boarders,
it takes some time always to change the plates. Juan, who is like so
much mercury, never can sit still during these intervals. When asked to
ring the bell for the servant, he will spring up like a shot, give it a
violent pull, and then take advantage of being up to dance in the
corner, or at least to cut a few antics, fling his leg over the back of
his chair, and come down astride of it. This is his usual mode of
resuming his seat.
On the days when he doesn't dance, he keeps up a continual talking. He
will rattle on in Spanish till Herr S. gets desperate, and tries to
reduce him to order. It is a rule that German must be spoken at table,
but Juan thinks it sufficient if he applies the rule only so far as not
to speak Spanish, his native language. He goes to school where, of
course, he learns English and French, and he is always trying to get
off some remarks in these languages. He speaks all wrong, but that does
not cause him the least embarrassment.--On Sundays especially is Juan
perfectly irrepressible, for then Frau S. goes to dine and spend the
evening with her parents, and Herr S. is left to maintain order. He is
an indulgent old man, and very fond of Juan, so that the latter has not
the least fear of him, and I nearly die trying to keep my face straight
when they have one of their scenes.
"You shall NOT speak Spanish at the table," said poor old S. the other
day, in a rage. Spanish is jargon to him, and Juan had been talking it
for some time at the top of his voice across Herr S., to his friend
Candido, who sat opposite. Juan knew very well that that meant he must
speak German, but instead of that he began in foreign languages, and
said to Herr S., in English, "Do you spoke Russish (Do you speak
Russian)?"
Herr S., to whom English is as unintelligible as Spanish, naturally
making no reply to this brilliant remark, Juan continued--"'Spring is
Coming,' Poem by James K. Blake," and then he began to recite with much
gesticulation--
"Spring is coming, spring is coming,
Birds are singing, insects humming;
Flowers are peeping from their sleeping,
Streams escape from winter's keeping, etc."
I won't pretend to say what the rest of it was, as his pronunciation was
utterly unintelligible. Herr S. rolled up his eyes and made no further
protest, for he found he only got "out of the frying-pan into the
fire," Juan having a historical anecdote called "The Dead Watch," which
he occasionally substitutes for the poem.
After dinner he generally has an affectionate turn, and goes round the
table shaking hands with those still seated, or putting his arm around
their necks, and then he seems like some gentle wild animal which comes
and rubs its head up against you, and it is impossible to help loving
him. As soon, however, as T. or anybody thrums a waltz on the piano, he
instantly throws himself into the attitude to dance. He is so very light
on his feet that you don't hear him, and often I am surprised on looking
up, without thinking, to see Juan poised on one toe like a ballet
dancer, and his great eyes shining soft on me like two suns. It is most
peculiar. There are _no_ eyes like the Spanish eyes. Not only have they
so much _fire_, but when their owners are in a sentimental mood, they
can throw a languor and a sort of droop into them that is irresistible.
This is the way Juan does, and though he is too young to be sentimental,
he _looks_ as if he were. One minute he is all ablaze, and the next
perfectly melting.--The other day Frau S. took him to task for his
extreme animation.--"_Junge_," (German for "Boy"), "you mustn't scream
so all over the house. You really are a nuisance." Juan was offended at
this, and began to defend himself. "Why do you scold me," he said. "I'm
always in good humour. I never sulk or find fault with anything. _Ja,
immer vergnügt_ (Yes, always in a good humour), and ready to amuse
everybody, and I never get angry." Frau S. admitted that was true, but
at the same time suggested it would be well for him to remember we were
not all deaf. Juan withdrew in dudgeon.--Well, I suppose you are tired
of hearing about him, but these South Americans are a type by
themselves, and I felt as if I must touch off one of them for the
benefit of the family.
* * *
BERLIN, _April 18, 1875_.
Since my return I have been enjoying extremely what I suppose I must
consider my last lessons with Deppe. After studying with Fräulein Timm I
know much better what he is driving at. The technique seems to be
unfolding to me like a ribbon. So all her _maulings_ were to some
purpose! Yesterday I played him a sonata of Beethoven's and he said,
"God grant that you may still be left to me some time longer! Now you
are really beginning to be my scholar."--And indeed, having studied his
technique so long with Fräuleins Timm and Steiniger, it does seem hard
that I have to leave him! How I wish I could stay on indefinitely and
give myself up to his purely _musical_ side and get the benefit of all
his deep and beautiful ideas. There never _was_ such a teacher! If I
could only come up to his standard I should be perfectly happy. Lucky
girl--that Steiniger! Think of it! She has _nine_ concertos that she
could get up for concert any minute. That's the crushing kind of
repertoire he gives his pupils--so exhaustive and complete in every
department. He knows the whole piano literature, and is continually
fishing up some new or old pearl or other to surprise one with.
I find Deppe is getting to be much more recognized in Berlin this year
than he was before. He has just been directing a new opera here which
has created quite a sensation, and he is continually engaged in some
great work. Fortunate that I found him out when I did! for he takes
fewer pupils than ever. He says he can't teach people who are not
sympathetic to him. The other day he presented a beautiful overture of
his own composition to the Duke of Mecklenburg, who accepted it in
person and sent Deppe an exquisite pin in token of recognition. When
simple little Deppe gets _that_ stuck in his scarf, he will be a
terrific swell!
Now for a piece of news! I was paying my French teacher, Mademoiselle
D., a call one evening last week, and I played for her and for a friend
of hers who is very musical, and who gives lessons herself. She at once
said very decidedly that I "ought to be heard in concert." Her brother
is the director of the Philharmonic Society in a place called
Frankfurt-an-der-Oder--a little city not far from here. What should she
do but write to her brother about me, and what should _he_ do but
immediately write up for me to come down and play in a Philharmonic
concert there the first week in May. As I have been so anxious to play
in a concert before leaving Germany, and yet have seen no way to do it,
I am going, of course, and am most grateful to his sister for thinking
of it. But it is always the Unexpected that helps you out!
* * *
BERLIN, _May 13, 1875_.
Well, dear, my little début was a decided success, and I had one encore,
beside being heartily applauded after every piece. I went on to
Frankfurt on Monday morning, and when I got there Herr Oertling, the
Philharmonic Director, was at the station to meet me with a droschkie.
We drove to the Deutches Haus, an excellent hotel, where I was shown
into a large and comfortable room. Here I rested until dinner time, and
after dinner, about five o'clock, Herr Oertling came back. He took me to
the house of a musical friend of his who was to lend me his grand piano,
and there we tried our sonata. As soon as Oertling touched his violin I
saw that he was a superior artist, and that immediately inspired me. His
playing carried me right along, and I think I played well. At all
events, he seemed entirely satisfied, and said, "We could have played
that sonata without rehearsing it." After we finished the sonata, I
played for about an hour, all sorts of things. There were quite a number
of people present to judge of my powers. Herr W., the owner of the
piano, was a remarkable judge of music, and made some excellent
criticisms and suggestions. We stayed there to supper, but I went back
to the hotel early and went to bed about half-past nine, where I slept
like a log till eight the next morning.
After breakfast Oertling came to take me to try the pianos of a
celebrated manufacturer of uprights. I played there three or four hours.
The maker's name was Gruss, and his pianos were the best uprights I had
ever seen; nearly as powerful as a grand, and with a superb tone and
action. On the wall was a testimonial from Henselt, framed. It seems
Henselt goes to Frankfurt every year to visit a Russian lady there, who
is the grandee of the place and a great patroness of artists. In the
afternoon, Oertling came for me to go and rehearse in the hall.
Everything went beautifully, and I returned to the hotel in good
spirits. By the time I was dressed for the concert, which was to begin
at seven, Oertling appeared again, in evening costume, and presented me
with a bouquet. We drove to the hall through a pouring rain. It was
crowded, notwithstanding, for he had had the assurance to print that the
concert was "to be brilliant through the performance of an American
Virtuosin, named Miss Amy Fay. This young lady has studied with the
greatest masters, and has had the most perfect success everywhere in her
concert tours!" Did you ever!--You can imagine how I felt on reading it
and seeing that I was expected to perform as if I had been on the stage
all my life! Oertling had arranged the programme judiciously. Our sonata
came _first_, so that I plunged right in and didn't have to wait and
tremble! Then came two pieces by the orchestra; next, my three solos in
a row, and a symphony of Haydn closed the programme. The sonata went off
very smoothly. In my first solo I occasionally missed a note, but my
second was without slip, and my third--Chopin's Study in Sixths--was
encored, though I took the tempo too fast. However, the Frau Excellency
von X. said she had frequently heard it from Henselt, but that I played
it "just as well as he did." That's absurd, of course, though not bad
considered as a _compliment_! They all said, "What a pity Henselt wasn't
here!" I said to myself, "What a blessing Henselt wasn't!"--though I
would give much to see him, as he is the greatest piano virtuoso in the
world after Liszt.
After the concert Oertling and some of the musicians accompanied me to
the hotel, where I was obliged to sit at table and have my health drunk
in champagne till two o'clock in the morning! for you know when the
Germans once begin that sort of thing there's no end to it. They drank
to my health, and then they drank to my future performance in the first
Philharmonic next season, and then they drank to our frequent reunion,
etc., etc. When they had finished I had to respond. So I toasted the
Herr Director and I toasted the piano-maker, and I toasted the
orchestra, and what not. At last I was released and could go to my room.
The next morning I left for Berlin, which I reached in time for dinner,
and as soon as I appeared at table the boarders saluted me with a burst
of applause!--I found it a very pleasant _finale_.
I translate for you the criticism from the _Frankfurter Zeitung und
Allgemeiner Anzeiger_ for May 11. Herr Oertling sent it to me yesterday:
"The Philharmonic concert which took place last Friday evening, must be
considered as an excellent recommendation of the active members of that
association to the public. For not only did the playing of the pianist,
Fräulein Amy Fay, give great pleasure to all those who love and
understand music, but there was also no fault to be found with the
interpretations of the orchestra. * * * With regard to the performance
of Fräulein Fay, we were equally charmed by her clear and certain touch
and by her conception of the various solo pieces she played. The concert
opened with the Sonata in E flat major for violin and piano by
Beethoven. The whole effect of the work was a very sympathetic and
satisfactory one, and showed a thoughtful interpretation on the part of
the artist. The beauty of her conception was especially evident in the
Raff "Capriccio," and in Hiller's "Zur Guitarre," given as an encore
upon her recall by the audience, and we can but congratulate the teacher
of the young lady, Herr Ludwig Deppe, of Berlin, upon such a scholar."
* * *
[Two weeks after the concert, the relative to whom most of the foregoing
letters were written, joined the writer at Berlin, and the
correspondence came to an end. In the following September, after an
absence of six years, my sister returned home.--My sister hopes that no
American girl who reads this book will be influenced by it rashly to
attempt what she herself undertook, viz.: to be trained in Europe from
an amateur into an artist. Its pages have afforded glimpses, only, of
the trials and difficulties with which a girl may meet when studying art
alone in a foreign land, but they should not therefore be underrated.
Piano teaching has developed immensely in America since the date of the
first of the foregoing letters, and not only such celebrities as Dr.
William Mason, Mr. Wm. H. Sherwood, and Mrs. Rivé King, but various
other brilliant or exquisite pianists in this country are as able to
train pupils for the technical demands of the concert-room as any
masters that are to be found abroad. American teachers best understand
the American temperament, and therefore are by far the best for American
pupils until they have got beyond the pupil stage.--Not manual skill,
but musical insight and conception, wider and deeper musical
comprehension, and "concert style" are what the young artist should now
go to seek in that marvellous and only real home of music--GERMANY.]--ED.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] This was written before the full development of the Thomas
Orchestra. The writer had heard it only in its infancy.
[B] Christ is risen out of bonds and death. He promises joy and blessing
to all the world, which for this glorifies Him.
[C] In Mr. Longfellow's Poems of Places is a translation of Gerok's poem
on the subject:--
"Over three hundred were counted that day
Riderless horses who joined in the fray,
Over three hundred saddles, O horrible sight!
Were emptied at once in that terrible fight."
[D] This letter, which was published in _Dwight's Journal of Music_, is
the one alluded to on p. 193.
[E] Liszt was born in 1811.
[F] In German, the fourth and fifth fingers.
[G] See p. 220.
[H] See p. 294.
[I] Now Mrs. Sherwood.
[J] The writer's grandmother was the daughter of a leading Hamburg
merchant who fled with his family to America when Napoleon entered it.
[K] Frau Rappoldi is now a celebrity.