that year we planned a tour which was to take us to Switzerland in June.
In Leipsic I made the acquaintance of a man named Albert Wagner, meeting
him quite frequently at the restaurant where I took my meals. While I
was planning the tour, I chanced to mention it to him, and when he heard
that I was going to Zurich, he said: "My brother, Richard Wagner, lives
there. I will give you a letter of introduction to him." This was the
first intimation I had that Albert was a brother of the composer. I
suppose he had not thought it worth while to tell me. Richard was still
under a political cloud in Saxony, and was compelled to live in exile on
account of the part he had taken in the revolution of 1848; nor was
his reputation as a composer then so general that Albert would have
thought his kinship much to boast of.
[Illustration: Autograph of Moritz Hauptmann]
We reached Zurich on June 5, 1852, and, the next morning, armed with the
letter, I made my way to Wagner's chalet, which was situated on a hill
in the suburbs. It was then about ten o'clock in the morning.
When I asked the maid who opened the door if Herr Wagner was at home and
to be seen, she answered, as I had feared she would, that he was busily
at work in his study, and could not be disturbed. I handed her my letter
of introduction, and asked her to give it to Herr Wagner, and to say to
him that I was expecting to remain in Zurich three or four days, and
would call again, hoping to be fortunate enough to find him disengaged.
Just as I was turning to leave, I heard a voice at the head of the
stairs call out, "Wer ist da?" I told the maid to deliver my letter
immediately. As soon as Wagner had glanced through it, he exclaimed,
"Kommen Sie herauf! Kommen Sie herauf!"
At that time Wagner was known, and that not widely, only as the composer
of "Rienzi," "The Flying Dutchman," "Tannhaeuser," and "Lohengrin." I had
heard only "The Flying Dutchman," but considered it a most beautiful
work, and was eager to meet the composer.
Wagner's first words, as I met him on the landing at the head of the
stairs, were: "You've come just at the right time. I've been working
away at something, and I'm stuck. I'm in a state of nervous irritation,
and it is absolutely impossible for me to go on. So I'm glad you've
come."
I remember perfectly my first impression of him. He looked to me much
more like an American than a German. After asking about his brother, he
began questioning me in a lively way about his friends in Leipsic, about
the concerts and opera there, and the works that had been given. He also
asked most kindly after my own affairs--what I was doing, with whom I
had studied, how long I intended to remain, what my plans were for the
future, and most particularly about musical matters in America. In some
way Beethoven was mentioned. After that the conversation became a
monologue with me as a listener, for Wagner began to talk so fluently
and enthusiastically about Beethoven that I was quite content to keep
silent and to avoid interrupting his eloquent oration.
WAGNER ON MENDELSSOHN AND BEETHOVEN
As he warmed up to the subject, he began to draw comparisons between
Beethoven and Mendelssohn. "Mendelssohn," he said, "was a gentleman of
refinement and high degree; a man of culture and polished manner; a
courtier who was always at home in evening dress. As was the man, so is
his music, full of elegance, grace, finish, and refinement, but carried
without variance to such a degree that at times one longs for brawn and
muscle. Yet it is music that is always exquisite, fairy-like, and fine
in character. In Beethoven we get the man of brawn and muscle. He was
too inspired to pay much attention to conventionalities. He went right
to the pith of what he had to say, and said it in a robust, decisive,
manly, yet tender way, brushing aside the methods and amenities of
conventionalism, and striking at once at the substance of what he wished
to express. Notwithstanding its robustness, his music is at times
inexpressibly tender; but it is a manly tenderness, and carries with it
an idea of underlying and sustaining strength. Some years ago, when I
was kapellmeister in Dresden, I had a remarkable experience, which
illustrates the invigorating and refreshing power of Beethoven's music.
It was at one of the series of afternoon concerts of classic music given
at the theater. The day was hot and muggy, and everybody seemed to be in
a state of lassitude and incapacity for mental or physical effort. On
glancing at the program, I noticed that by some chance all of the pieces
I had selected were in the minor mode--first, Mendelssohn's exquisite 'A
Minor Symphony,' music in dress-suit and white kid gloves, spotless and
_comme il faut_; then an overture by Cherubini; and finally Beethoven's
'Symphony No. 5, in C Minor.'" At this point Wagner rose from his chair,
and began walking about the room. "Everybody," he continued, "was
listless and languid, and the atmosphere seemed damp and spiritless. The
orchestra labored wearily through the symphony and overture, while the
audience became more and more apathetic. It seemed impossible to arouse
either players or listeners, and I thought seriously of dismissing both
after the overture. I was very reluctant to subject Beethoven's
wonderfully beautiful music to such a crucial test, but after a moment's
reflection I appreciated the fact that here was an opportunity for
proving the strength and virility of it, and I said to myself, 'I will
have courage, and stick to my program.'"
Wagner stopped walking a moment, and looked about the room as if
searching for something. Then he rushed to a corner, and seizing a
walking-stick, raised it as if it were a baton.
"Here is Beethoven," he exclaimed, "the working-man in his
shirt-sleeves, with his great herculean breast bared to the elements."
He straightened himself up, and, giving the stick a swing, brought it
down with an abrupt "Ta-ta-ta-tum!"--the opening measure of Beethoven's
"C Minor Symphony":
[Illustration: Musical notation]
The whole scene was graphically portrayed. Then throwing himself into a
chair, he said: "The effect was electrical on orchestra and audience.
There was no more apathy. The air was cleared as by a passing
thunder-shower. There was the test."
"When Wagner spoke of Mendelssohn, his tone of voice indicated the
gentle refinement of the courtier and his music. When he mentioned
Beethoven, his manner was animated and full of enthusiasm.
Wagner's enthusiasm, his openness in taking me at once into his musical
confidence, fascinated me, and gave me an insight into the wonderful
vitality and energy of the man. He was planning a tramp through the
Tyrol, about a week later, with a professor from the Zurich University.
"Come along with us," he said. "Alle guten Dinge sind drei" ("All good
things are three"). However, I did not feel at liberty to leave my
parents to continue their trip alone, as I was acting as interpreter for
them. Of course Wagner was not then what he afterward became in the eyes
of the world. I now know what I missed.
A WAGNER AUTOGRAPH
But I did not leave Wagner's house without what many musicians, to whom
I have shown it, consider one of the most interesting musical autographs
ever penned. It is autographic from beginning to end, even to the lines
of the staff; for when I asked Wagner for his autograph, he drew them
himself on a sheet of blank paper, and then wrote what is evidently the
germ of the dragon motive in "The Ring of the Nibelung." It is dated
June 5, 1852, and it is particularly interesting that he should have
written this motive at that time. From his correspondence with Liszt, it
is clear that he had not yet finished the poem of the "Walkuere," and had
not yet begun the score of the cycle. He wrote the books of the "Ring"
backward, but in the composition of the cycle he began with the
"Rheingold," in the autumn of the year in which I met him. The dragon
motive occurs in the "Rheingold," but in quite a different form. He
began the "Walkuere" in June, 1854, two years later, completing it in
1856. In the meantime, in the autumn of 1854, he also began the music of
"Siegfried," and it is in the first act of this music drama, written
more than two years after I had met him, that we find the dragon motive
exactly as it is written in my autograph, except that it is transposed a
tone lower, and that the length of the notes is changed, though their
relative value is the same, dotted halves being substituted for
quarters.
[Illustration: Autograph of Richard Wagner]
The passage will be found on page 7 of Klindworth's piano-score of
"Siegfried." This, I believe, is the only place in the four divisions of
the "Ring" where the motive appears in this form.
Added significance and value are given to the autograph by the lines
which Wagner wrote under it, and which are signed and dated: "Wenn Sie
so etwas aehnliches einmal von mir hoeren sollten, so denken Sie an mich!"
("If you ever hear anything of mine like this, then think of me.") Even
this was characteristic of the man. "Siegfried" was not heard until
nearly a quarter of a century after he had written a passage from it in
my autograph-book--_but it was heard_.
MOSCHELES
The playing of Moscheles was in a direct line of descent from Clementi
and Hummel, and just preceded the Thalberg school. Moscheles was fond of
quoting these authorities and of holding them up as excellent examples
for his pupils. He advocated a very quiet hand position, confining, as
far as possible, whatever motion was necessary to finger and hand
muscles; and by way of illustration he said that Clementi's hands were
so level in position and quiet in motion that he could easily keep a
crown-piece on the back of his hand while playing the most rapid scale
passages.
I was not much surprised at this, for I knew it had been said of Henry
C. Timm of New York, an admirable pianist of the Hummel school, that he
could play a scale with a glass of wine on the back of his hand without
spilling a drop. I, boy-like, could not resist the temptation to repeat
what I had heard. There was a curious expression upon the face of our
good teacher, which gave the impression that he thought it a pretty tall
story, and my fellow-pupils put it down as a yarn prompted by desire on
my part to get ahead of Moscheles. Among these was Charles Wehle of
Prague, of whom I saw a good deal. Some years later, after I had left
Weimar for America, Wehle happened to visit Liszt. My name was
mentioned, and Wehle asked, "Did you ever hear his wonderful tale about
Timm, the New York player?" Then he repeated the anecdote, but changed
the glass of wine to a glass of water. Liszt shook his head
incredulously, and said, "Mason never said anything about a glass of
water all the time he was in Weimar."
Moscheles was an excellent pianist and teacher, but he was already
growing old, and his playing of sforzando and strongly accented tones
was apt to be accompanied by an audible snort, which was far from
musical. However, as a Bach-player he was especially great, and it was a
delight to hear him. One evening, after my lesson, he began playing the
preludes and fugues from the "Well-tempered Clavier," and I was
enchanted with the finish, repose, and musicianship of his performance,
which was without fuss or show. I have never heard any one surpass him
in Bach.
Paderewski's Bach-playing is much like that of my old teacher. Several
years ago, in company with Adolf Brodsky, the violinist, I attended one
of Paderewski's recitals given in this city. After listening to
compositions of Bach and Beethoven, Brodsky said: "He lays everything
from A to Z before you in the most conscientious way, and through
delicacy and sensitiveness of perception he attains a very close and
artistic adjustment of values."
Thoroughly in accord with Brodsky, I vividly recall the similarity of
Paderewski's interpretation to that of Moscheles, both being
characterized by perfect repose in action, while at the same time not
lacking in intensity of expression. The modern adaptations and
alterations from Bach are not here referred to, but the music as
originally written by the composer. In Paderewski's conception and
performance, like that of Moscheles, each and all of the voices received
careful and reverent attention, and were brought out with due regard to
their relative, as well as to their individual, importance. Nuances were
never neglected, neither were they in excess. Thus the musical
requirements of polyphonic interpretation were artistically fulfilled.
Head and heart were united in skilful combination and loving response.
While I was in Leipsic, Moscheles celebrated his silver wedding, and one
of the features of the occasion was odd and interesting. I forget
whether I had the story direct from him or from one of my
fellow-students. It is as follows: At the time Moscheles was paying
attention to the lady who afterward became his wife he had a rival who
was a farmer. What became of the farmer after Moscheles carried off the
prize history does not make clear. A friend of Moscheles, an artist of
ability, conceived the unique idea of commemorating the joyous
anniversary, and, putting it into act, he painted two portraits of Mrs.
Moscheles, one representing her as she appeared on that interesting
occasion, and the other giving his idea of how she would have looked
after twenty-five years of wedded life had she married the farmer.
JOSEPH JOACHIM
"Leipsic, Wednesday, September 19, 1849." Under this date I find in my
diary a note to the effect that Joachim the violinist made me a friendly
call at half-past ten o'clock. I had previously called on him to present
a letter of introduction which I had received in Hamburg from Mortier de
Fontaine.
Joachim made a marked impression upon me as being genial and unassuming
in manner. He very cordially invited me to come to his room, saying, "We
will play sonatas for violin and pianoforte together." This afforded a
fine opportunity to a young piano-student, and, coming as it did without
solicitation or expectation, was all the more appreciated. Less than two
weeks later, on September 30, I heard him play the Mendelssohn violin
concerto at the first Gewandhaus concert of the season, and was
enchanted with his musical interpretation of the beautiful composition.
A little further on in the diary it is written that the second
Gewandhaus concert was given on October 7. The Schumann "Symphony in B
Flat Major, No. 1," was played, and "I never before experienced such a
thrill of enthusiasm." On Thursday, October 18, the third Gewandhaus
concert took place, the symphony being by Spohr, "No. 3, C Minor." An
item of special interest regarding this concert is that I heard here for
the first time the fine violoncellist Bernhard Cossmann, with whom, in
later years, I became intimately acquainted. He was then in the Weimar
orchestra and the Ferdinand Laub String Quartet, and was one of our
"Weimarische Dutzbrueder."
SCHUMANN'S "CONCERTO IN A MINOR"
This concerto I heard for the first time in Leipsic, on Saturday,
January 19, 1850. It was in one of the Euterpe Society's concerts,
exceedingly well played by Adolph Blassman of Dresden, and I vividly
remember the stunning effect it produced upon some of the best pupils of
the Conservatory who were present. I was nearly as much excited over
the composition as I had previously been at the performance of the
"Symphony in B Flat Major."
A few weeks later the same concerto was played in a Gewandhaus concert
by Fraeulein Wilhelmine Clauss, a pupil of Mme. Schumann, who had studied
it under her supervision. The result was another good rendering,
although at the previous rehearsal there had been trouble with the
so-called syncopated passage where the 3/2 and 3/4 rhythms alternate,
and it was not until after many repeated attempts that success was
attained.
On account of the long, uninterrupted continuance of this 3/2 rhythm its
character as a syncopation is entirely lost and it becomes simply an
augmentation of the preceding and following 3/4 rhythm, and all of the
best orchestral conductors I have seen always give out the beat
accordingly--that is, in a manner equivalent to simply doubling the rate
of speed in the 3/4 from that of the 3/2 movement. I do not see how the
performers, both in orchestra and piano, can be kept together in any
other way.
[Illustration: Autograph of Joseph Joachim]
CARL MAYER
From Leipsic I went to Dresden in March, 1850, and stayed there a few
months with some American friends who were studying the pianoforte under
Carl Mayer, whose very beautiful and finished playing was more adapted
for the salon than for the concert-hall. Although I took no lessons of
him, I constantly enjoyed his society, frequently heard him play, and in
this way profited much from the association.
I wished, however, to get to work in the more advanced and modern
methods, and so decided to go to Alexander Dreyschock in Prague. My
departure from Dresden was somewhat delayed because, upon going to the
Austrian consul's to get his vise, he refused to give it to me. This was
owing to the political disturbances which had taken place in Europe a
year or two before. Thereupon I wrote to Dreyschock for his assistance,
and being on friendly terms with the Austrian minister at Dresden, he
easily accomplished the desired result.
DREYSCHOCK
Alexander Dreyschock was one of the most distinguished
pianoforte-virtuosos of his time, and his specialty was his wonderful
octave-playing. Indeed, he acquired such fame in this particular that
the mention of "octave-playing" at once suggested the name of Dreyschock
to his contemporaries. He was also celebrated on account of his highly
trained left hand, so much so that Saphir, the famous Vienna critic,
paid tribute to the fact by writing a stanza which obtained wide
circulation, and which runs as follows:
Welchen Titel der nicht hinke
Man dem Meister geben moechte,
Der zur Rechten macht die Linke?--
Nennt ihn, "Doctor beider Rechte."
An anecdote, related to me by one of his most intimate friends not long
after my arrival in Prague, is interesting in this connection, as well
as instructive to piano-students. Tomaschek, his teacher, was in the
habit of receiving a few friends on stated occasions for the purpose of
musical entertainment and conversation. One evening the rapid progress
in piano-technic was being discussed, and Tomaschek remarked that more
and more in this direction was demanded each day. A copy of Chopin's
"Etudes, Op. 10," open at "Etude No. 12, C Minor," happened to be lying
on the piano-desk. It will be remembered that the left-hand part of this
etude consists throughout of rapid passages in single notes, difficult
enough in the original to satisfy the ambition of most pianists.
Tomaschek, looking at this, remarked, "I should not wonder if, one of
these days, a pianist should appear who would play all of these
single-note left-hand passages in octaves." Dreyschock, overhearing the
remark, at once conceived an idea which he proceeded next day to carry
into execution. For a period of six successive weeks, at the rate of
twelve hours a day, he practised the etude in accordance with the
suggestion of Tomaschek. How he ever survived the effort is a mystery,
but, at any rate, when the next musical evening at Tomaschek's occurred
he was present, and, watching his opportunity for a favorable moment,
sat down to the pianoforte and played the etude in a brilliant and
triumphant manner, with the left-hand octaves, thus fulfilling the
prediction of Tomaschek. Upon a subsequent occasion he repeated this
feat at one of the Leipsic Gewandhaus concerts. Mendelssohn, as I am
told, was present, and was very demonstrative in the expression of his
delight and astonishment. I will add, for the benefit of those of my
readers, should there be any, who are inclined to try the experiment,
that certain adaptations are necessary in various parts of the etude in
order to get the required scope for the left-hand octaves. Thus, the
opening octave series, as well as other similar left-hand passages
throughout the etude, must, when necessary, be played an octave higher
than written.
At the time of which I write (1849-1850) very little seems to have been
known of the important influence of the upper-arm muscles and their very
efficient agency, when properly employed, in the production of
tone-quality and volume by means of increased relaxation, elasticity,
and springiness in their movements.
I received considerably over one hundred lessons from Dreyschock, and
with slow and rapid scale and arpeggio practice his instruction had
special reference to limber and flexible wrists, his distinguishing
feature being his wonderful octave-playing. Beyond the wrists, however,
the other arm muscles received practically little or no attention, and
the fact is that during my whole stay abroad none of my teachers or
their pupils, with many of whom I was intimately associated, seemed to
know anything about the importance of the upper-arm muscles, the
practical knowledge of which I had acquired through the playing of
Leopold de Meyer as described in the earlier part of this book. In the
Tomaschek method, as taught and practised by Dreyschock, the direction
to the pupil was simply to keep the wrists loose. To be sure, this could
not be altogether accomplished without some degree of arm-limberness,
but no specific directions were given for cultivating the latter. So far
as wrist-motion is concerned, Leschetitsky's manner of playing octaves
has much in common with the Tomaschek-Dreyschock method, if the former
may be judged from the playing of most of his pupils, who seem to pay
but little attention to the upper-arm muscles. This is quite natural
when it is remembered that Leschetitsky was in some sense an assistant
of Dreyschock when the latter was at the head of the piano department in
the Conservatory of Music at St. Petersburg. The Leschetitsky pupils,
however, have a manner of sinking the wrists below the keyboard which
was not in accordance with Dreyschock's manner of playing. It seems to
me that the latter's method of level wrists is more productive of a
full, sonorous, musical tone.
I remained with Dreyschock for over a year, taking three lessons a week
and practising about five hours a day. I played also in private
musicales at the houses of the nobility and at the homes of some of the
wealthy Jews, two classes of society which were entirely distinct from
each other, never mingling in private life. I met and became well
acquainted with Jules Schulhoff, whose compositions for the pianoforte
were very effective, but more appropriate to the drawing-room than to
the concert-hall.
PRINCE DE ROHAN'S DINNER
It was customary in Prague to give once a year an orchestral concert of
high order, the pecuniary proceeds of which were for the benefit of the
poor, and on one of these occasions I played with orchestra a brilliant
composition of Dreyschock's entitled "Salut a Vienne." It was also the
custom, in concerts of this order, to use the name of some nobleman--the
higher the better--as patron. On this occasion the name used was that of
the Prince de Rohan, a French nobleman who, expatriated, had lived for
some time in Prague in a palace of the old Austrian Emperor Ferdinand,
who, shortly before the time of which I write, had abdicated in favor
of his nephew, the present emperor. A few days after the concert, while
I was practising in my modestly appointed room, there was a loud knock
at the door, and immediately there entered a servant of the prince in
gorgeous livery, who, advancing to the middle of the room and
straightening himself up, announced in stentorian tones, "His Highness
Prince Rohan invites you to dinner," at the same time handing me a large
envelop with a big seal on the back. Without waiting for a reply, he
made a low obeisance and left the room.