concert had been invited to the dinner, and on the appointed day one of
these, an opera-singer of distinction, came to my room and asked if he
might go with me. Never having been to a prince's house, and not knowing
what ceremony might be considered appropriate to such an occasion, he
conceived the idea of securing a chaperon. The incongruity of his
selecting a green American youth for this purpose greatly amused me,
but I said, "Come along; they won't hang us for anything we are likely
to do." Arriving at the palace five or ten minutes before the hour, the
porter at the outer gate refused us admission, saying we were too early.
This untoward reception somewhat unsettled us for the moment, but there
was nothing for us to do but to walk about until the appointed time. On
presenting ourselves again at the gate at precisely the right moment, we
were promptly admitted. After passing through the hands of several
servants, we were finally ushered into the presence of the prince.
He was not an imposing man in appearance, neither was he as well dressed
as several of the four or five guests who arrived later, my companion
and I being the first-comers. The prince offered me his arm, and led me
through the picture-gallery adjoining the reception-room, pointing out
the portraits of his ancestors, whose names were mostly familiar to me
from French history. As all formality in his manner had passed away, I
found the occasion intensely interesting.
Dinner being announced, we proceeded to the dining-room, and, when we
were seated, the prince said that he would greet us first with a glass
of Schloss Johannisberger Cabinet wine, which he had just received from
his friend Prince Metternich, the owner of that world-renowned vineyard.
As is well known, this Cabinet wine is never on the market, and can be
bought only at an administrator's sale, and then commands the highest
price. It is not unusual for tourists to pay a large price for this wine
on the spot, even then not getting the genuine thing, for the space
where the Cabinet wine grows is very small compared with the quantity of
wine which is credited to it. Several kinds of red and white wines were
served, and various kinds of German beer, as well as English and Scotch
ale. Finally, after seven or eight courses, a single glass of
champagne--no more--was poured out for each guest. Liquid refreshments,
however, did not end there, for we afterward adjourned to the library,
where we found a roaring wood fire in a vast stone chimney-place, where
cigars, liqueurs of many kinds, and finally coffee and tea with rum were
served. There was no music.
CHOPIN, HENSELT, AND THALBERG
I had always looked forward to taking lessons of Chopin at some period
during my sojourn in Europe, but this was not accomplished, on account
of his death, which took place in Paris on October 17, 1849. Neither did
I ever hear him play. One of Dreyschock's anecdotes about him is
interesting as well as instructive, for it conveys an idea of one of the
principal characteristics of his style. Dreyschock told me that, a few
years before, Chopin gave a recital of his own compositions in Paris,
which he, Dreyschock, attended in company with Thalberg. They listened
with delight throughout the performance, but on reaching the street
Thalberg began shouting at the top of his voice.
"What's the matter?" asked Dreyschock, in astonishment.
"Oh," said Thalberg, "I've been listening to _piano_ all the evening,
and now, for the sake of contrast, I want a little _forte_."
Dreyschock spoke of Chopin's extremely delicate and exquisite playing,
but said that he lacked the physical strength to produce forte effects
by contrast in accordance with his own ideas. This is illustrated by
another anecdote which I heard many years afterward from Korbay. A young
and robust pianist had been playing Chopin's "Polonaise Militaire" to
the composer, and had broken a string. When, in confusion, he began to
apologize, Chopin said to him, "Young man, if I had your strength and
played that polonaise as it should be played, there wouldn't be a sound
string left in the instrument by the time I got through."
The distinguishing characteristic of Chopin's piano-playing was his
lovely musical and poetic tone, his warm and emotional coloring, and his
impassioned utterance. In those days one was not afraid to play with a
great deal of sentiment, although pianists who were capable of doing
this poetically were rare. In modern times it has become the fashion to
ridicule any tendency toward emotional playing and to extol the
intellectual side beyond its just proportion. It seems to me that there
should be a happy combination and a delicate and well-proportioned
adjustment between the temperamental and intellectual, with a slight
preponderance of the former.
An anecdote of Adolf Henselt, also related to me by Dreyschock, is
entertaining as well as suggestive, especially to pianoforte-players,
who are constantly troubled with nervousness when playing before an
audience. Henselt, whose home was in St. Petersburg, was in the habit of
spending a few weeks every summer with a relative who lived in Dresden.
Dreyschock, passing through that city, called on him one morning, and
upon going up the staircase to his room, heard the most lovely tones of
the pianoforte imaginable.
He was so fascinated that he sat down at the top of the landing and
listened for a long time. Henselt was playing repeatedly the same
composition, and his playing was also specially characterized by a warm
emotional touch and a delicious legato, causing the tones to melt, as it
were, one into the other, and this, too, without any confusion or lack
of clearness. Henselt was full of sentiment, but detested
"sentimentality." Finally, for lack of time, Dreyschock was obliged to
announce himself, although, as he said, he could have listened for
hours. He entered the room, and after the usual friendly greeting said,
"What were you playing just now as I came up the stairs?" Henselt
replied that he was composing a piece and was playing it over to
himself. Dreyschock expressed his admiration of the composition, and
begged Henselt to play it again. Henselt, after prolonged urging, sat
down to the pianoforte and began playing again, but, alas! his
performance was stiff, inaccurate, and even clumsy, and all of the
exquisite poetry and unconsciousness of his style completely
disappeared. Dreyschock said that it was quite impossible to describe
the difference; and this was simply the result of diffidence and
nervousness, which, as it appeared, were entirely out of the player's
power to control. Pianoforte-players frequently experience this state of
things. The only remedy is freedom from self-consciousness, which can
best be achieved by earnest and persistent mental concentration.
ANTON SCHINDLER, "AMI DE BEETHOVEN"
After finishing my studies with Dreyschock, I went to Frankfort, not to
study under any particular master, but in order to enjoy the opera and
the musical life there. Moreover, two or three of my old Boston friends
were temporarily settled there, pursuing their musical studies.
Anton Schindler, one of the well-known musical characters of the day,
and who had been Beethoven's most intimate friend during the latter
years of the great composer's life, lived at Frankfort, and, being
members of the same club, the Buerger Verein, I often enjoyed the
pleasure of his society, and heard much concerning Beethoven. Schindler
had written a life of Beethoven, and was naturally very proud of his
close association with the great master. During his residence in Paris,
some years previous to the time of which I am writing, he caused to be
printed on his visiting-cards, "Anton Schindler, Ami de Beethoven."
He worshiped his idol's memory, and was so familiar with his music that
the slightest mistake in interpretation or departure from Beethoven's
invention or design jarred upon his nerves--or possibly he made a
pretense of this. He held all four-hand pianoforte arrangements of works
designed and composed for orchestra as abominations. Extreme
sensitiveness is a role sometimes assumed by men in no wise remarkable,
in order to enhance their own importance in the eyes of others.
Schindler's attitude as to the undesirability of orchestral pianoforte
arrangements will meet with the approval of many, but he certainly
carried his sensitiveness in regard to the interpretation of Beethoven's
works to amusing extremes.
[Illustration: Autograph of Anton Schindler]
Every winter a subscription series of orchestral concerts was given in
Frankfort, each program of which included at least one symphony. The
concerts took place in a very old stone building called the "Museum,"
and on the occasion here referred to the symphony was Beethoven's "No.
5, C Minor." It so happened that, owing to long-continued rains and
extreme humidity, the stone walls of the old hall were saturated with
dampness, in fact, were actually wet. This excess of moisture affected
the pitch of the wood wind-instruments to such a degree that the other
instruments had to be adjusted to accommodate them. Schindler, it was
noticed, left the hall at the close of the first movement. This seemed a
strange proceeding on the part of the "Ami de Beethoven," and when later
in the evening he was seen at the Buerger Verein and asked why he had
gone away so suddenly, he replied gruffly, "I don't care to hear
Beethoven's 'C Minor Symphony' played in the key of B minor."
SCHINDLER AND SCHNYDER VON WARTENSEE
Another story current in Frankfort at this time further illustrates
Schindler's peculiarity. Among the noted musicians living in Frankfort
was a theoretician, Swiss by birth, named Schnyder von Wartensee, who
was of considerable importance in his day. Schindler and Von Wartensee
had lived in Frankfort, but had never met each other, although common
friends had at various times made ineffectual efforts to bring them
together. They were both advanced in years, and, as it seemed, ought to
have been genial companions. Possibly the failure to arrange a meeting
had been due to Wartensee's being older than Schindler, and thus in a
position to expect the latter to call first, while Schindler, being "Ami
de Beethoven," felt it beneath his dignity to make the first move.
However, some time previous to my arrival another plan for an interview
was contrived, and as so many previous ones had failed the outcome of
this was watched with interest.
By the exercise of considerable diplomatic tact Schindler was persuaded
to agree to call upon Wartensee and to fix a time for the visit. The
friends of the gentlemen had all been looking forward with much interest
to the result of this meeting, hoping thereby to hear a great many
musical reminiscences, and a committee was appointed to watch Schindler
and make sure that he kept the appointment. After a while the committee
returned to the Buerger Verein and reported that they had seen him almost
reach Wartensee's house, then pause for a moment, and suddenly turn and
hurry away. Later Schindler himself came in, and being questioned
concerning the interview, exclaimed, "Bah! as I got near the house I
heard them [Wartensee and his wife] playing a four-handed piano
arrangement of the 'Eroica.'"
FIRST LONDON CONCERT
In January, 1853, my stay in Frankfort was brought to an end by a letter
from Sir Julias Benedict, asking me to come to London to play at one of
the concerts of the Harmonic Union at Exeter Hall. I accepted the
engagement, and made my first appearance in London under Benedict's
conductorship, playing Weber's "Concertstueck." An account having been
published in a London paper of the very delightful celebration, in 1899,
of my seventieth birthday by my pupils, past and present, and by many of
my friends, I received an inquiry from a lady living in London, asking
whether I was the same William Mason whom she had heard in Exeter Hall
nearly half a century ago!
I accepted only one other engagement to play in public, though I
remained near London for more than two months, just to look about.
I was much impressed with the extent to which Mendelssohn's influence
prevailed in English matters musical. I met a great many excellent
musicians there, especially several fine organists; but a large
majority, both in their ideas and in their style of playing and
composition, were nothing but Mendelssohns in "half-tone," and to some
extent this is still true of England.
WITH LISZT IN WEIMAR
After my London visit I was obliged to return to Leipsic to transact
some business, and I decided to call on Liszt in Weimar en route. My
intention was to make another effort to be received by him as a pupil,
my idea being, if he declined, to go to Paris and study under some
French master.
I reached Weimar on the 14th of April, 1853, and put up at the Hotel zum
Erbprinzen. At that time Liszt occupied a house on the Altenburg
belonging to the grand duke. The old grand duke, under whose patronage
Goethe had made Weimar famous, was still living. I think his idea was to
make Weimar as famous musically through Liszt as it had been in
literature in Goethe's time.
Having secured my room at the Erbprinzen, I set out for the Altenburg.
The butler who opened the door mistook me for a wine-merchant whom he
had been expecting. I explained that I was not that person. "This is my
card," I said. "I have come here from London to see Liszt." He took the
card, and returned almost immediately with the request for me to enter
the dining-room.
I found Liszt at the table with another man. They were drinking their
after-dinner coffee and cognac. The moment Liszt saw me he exclaimed,
"Nun, Mason, Sie lassen lange auf sich warten!" ("Well, Mason, you let
people wait for you a long time!") I suppose he saw my surprised look,
for he added, "Ich habe Sie schon vor vier Jahren erwartet" ("I have
been expecting you for four years"). Then it struck me that I had
probably wholly misinterpreted his first letter to me and what he said
when I called on him during the Goethe festival. But nothing was said
about my remaining, and though he was most affable, I began to doubt
whether I would accomplish the object of my visit.
ACCEPTED BY LISZT
When we rose from the table and went into the drawing-room, Liszt said:
"I have a new piano from Erard of Paris. Try it, and see how you like
it." He asked me to pardon him if he moved about the room, for he had to
get together some papers which it was necessary to take with him, as he
was going to the palace of the grand duke. "As the palace is on the way
to the hotel, we can walk as far as that together," he added.
I felt intuitively that my opportunity had come. I sat down at the piano
with the idea that I would not endeavor to show Liszt how to play, but
would play as simply as if I were alone. I played "Amitie pour Amitie,"
a little piece of my own which had just been published by Hofmeister of
Leipsic.
[Illustration: LISZT IN MIDDLE LIFE]
"That's one of your own?" asked Liszt when I had finished. "Well, it's a
charming little piece." Still nothing was said about my being accepted
as a pupil. But when we left the Altenburg, he said casually, "You
say you are going to Leipsic for a few days on business? While there you
had better select your piano and have it sent here. Meanwhile I will
tell Klindworth to look up rooms for you. Indeed, there is a vacant room
in the house in which he lives, which is pleasantly situated just
outside the limits of the ducal park."
I can still recall the thrill of joy which passed through me when Liszt
spoke these words. They left no doubt in my mind. I was accepted as his
pupil. We walked down the hill toward the town, Liszt leaving me when we
arrived at the palace, telling me, however, that he would call later at
the hotel and introduce me to my fellow-pupils. About eight o'clock that
evening he came.
After smoking a cigar and chatting with me for half an hour, Liszt
proposed going down to the cafe, saying, "The gentlemen are probably
there, as this is about their regular hour for supper." Proceeding to
the dining-room, we found Messrs. Raff, Pruckner, and Klindworth, to
whom I was presented in due form, and who received me in a very
friendly manner.
I had no idea then, neither have I now, what Liszt's means were, but I
learned soon after my arrival at Weimar that he never took pay from his
pupils, neither would he bind himself to give regular lessons at stated
periods. He wished to avoid obligations as far as possible, and to feel
free to leave Weimar for short periods when so inclined--in other words,
to go and come as he liked. His idea was that the pupils whom he
accepted should all be far enough advanced to practise and prepare
themselves without routine instruction, and he expected them to be ready
whenever he gave them an opportunity to play. The musical opportunities
of Weimar were such as to afford ample encouragement to any
serious-minded young student. Many distinguished musicians, poets, and
literary men were constantly coming to visit Liszt. He was fond of
entertaining, and liked to have his pupils at hand so that they might
join him in entertaining and paying attention to his guests. He had
only three pupils at the time of which I write, namely, Karl Klindworth
from Hanover, Dionys Pruckner from Munich, and the American whose
musical memories are here presented. Joachim Raff, however, we regarded
as one of us, for although not at the time a pupil of Liszt, he had been
in former years, and was now constantly in association with the master,
acting frequently in the capacity of private secretary. Hans von Bulow
had left Weimar not long before my arrival, and was then on his first
regular concert-tour. Later he returned occasionally for short visits,
and I became well acquainted with him. We constituted, as it were, a
family, for while we had our own apartments in the city, we all enjoyed
the freedom of the two lower rooms in Liszt's home, and were at liberty
to come and go as we liked. Regularly on every Sunday at eleven o'clock,
with rare exceptions, the famous Weimar String Quartet played for an
hour and a half or so in these rooms, and Liszt frequently joined them
in concerted music, old and new. Occasionally one of the boys would
take the pianoforte part. The quartet-players were Laub, first violin;
Stoerr, second violin; Walbruehl, viola; and Cossmann, violoncello. Before
Laub's time Joachim had been concertmeister, but he left Weimar in 1853
and went to Hanover, where he occupied a similar position. He
occasionally visited Weimar, however, and would then at times play with
the quartet. Henri Wieniawski, who spent some months in Weimar, would
occasionally take the first violin. My favorite as a quartet-player was
Ferdinand Laub, with whom I was intimately acquainted, and I find that
the greatest violinists of the present time hold him in high estimation,
many of them regarding him as the greatest of all quartet-players. We
were always quite at our ease in those lower rooms, but on ceremonial
occasions we were invited up-stairs to the drawing-room, where Liszt had
his favorite Erard. We were thus enjoying the best music, played by the
best artists. In addition to this there were the symphony concerts and
the opera, with occasional attendance at rehearsal. Liszt took it for
granted that his pupils would appreciate these remarkable advantages and
opportunities and their usefulness, and I think we did.
THE ALTENBURG
Liszt's private studio, where he wrote and composed, was at the back of
the main building in a lower wing, and may easily be distinguished in
the picture by the awnings over the windows. I was not in this room more
than half a dozen times during my stay in Weimar, and one of these I
remember as the occasion of Liszt's playing the Beethoven "Kreutzer
Sonata" with Remenyi, the Hungarian violinist, and giving him a lesson
in conception and style of performance. Remenyi was a violinist of fine
musical talent, but not a classicist, his style being after the fashion
of the class represented by Ole Bull. He was, as is well known, a
genuine Hungarian, thoroughly at home in the musical characteristics of
his native country. He was unconsciously disposed to color and mark the
music of all composers with Hungarian peculiarities, and this habit gave
rise to a story that sometimes he added to the concluding strain of the
theme in the slow movement of the "Kreutzer Sonata" the peculiar
Hungarian termination as a final ornament. This story probably
originated in a spirit of fun. It was, nevertheless, so characteristic
of Remenyi that it obtained wide circulation.
[Illustration: Musical notation]
The picture gives a very good view of the house as it appeared in
1853-54. In the nearest corner of the building were the two large rooms
on the ground floor to which reference has already been made, of which
we boys had the freedom at all times, and where strangers were
unceremoniously received. The Furstin Sayn-Wittgenstein had apartments,
I think, on the _bel etage_ with her daughter, the Prinzessin Marie.
Any one who was to be honored with an introduction to them was taken to
a reception-room up-stairs; adjoining this was the dining-room. This
print is from a water-color painted for me by my friend Mr. Thomas Allen
of Boston. It is copied from a photograph of the original,--a
water-color by Carl Hoffman,--which Mr. Hoffman painted expressly for
his friend Mr. James M. Tracy, a former pupil of Liszt, who is now a
professional pianist and teacher in Denver, Colorado, and to whom I am
indebted for permission to publish it here. Mr. Tracy writes me that it
has been published before, but without his permission.
We boys saw little of the Wittgensteins, and I remember dining with them
only once. I sat next to the Princess Marie, who spoke English very
well, and it may have been due to her desire to exercise in the language
that I was honored with a seat next to her. Rubinstein met her when he
was at Weimar (I shall have more to tell of his visit later), and
composed a nocturne which he dedicated to her. When he came to this
country in 1873 he told me that he had met her again some years later at
the palace in Vienna, but that she had become haughty, and had not been
inclined to pay much attention to him. There are many Wittgensteins in
Russia. When I was in Wiesbaden in 1879-80 I saw half a dozen Russian
princes of that name. There was but one Rubinstein.
Liszt had the pick of all the young musicians in Europe for his pupils,
and I attribute his acceptance of me somewhat to the fact that I came
all the way from America, something more of an undertaking in those days
than it is now. I became very well acquainted with those whom I have
mentioned, especially with Klindworth and Raff, and before many days we
were all "Dutzbrueder."
[Illustration: THE ALTENBURG, LISZT'S HOUSE AT WEIMAR]
The first evening Raff, whom I had previously never heard of, struck me
as being rather conceited; but when I grew to know him better, and
realized how talented he was, I was quite ready to make allowance for
his little touch of self-esteem. We became warm friends, dining together
every day at the table d'hote, and after dinner walking for an hour or
so in the park. Nineteen years later I went abroad again and visited
Raff at the Conservatory in Frankfort. He interrupted his lessons the
moment that he heard I was there, came running down-stairs, threw his
arms around my neck, and was so overjoyed at seeing me that I felt as if
we were boys once more at Weimar. Of the pupils and of the many
musicians who came to Weimar to visit Liszt at that time,--"die goldene
Zeit" (the Golden Age), as it is still called at Weimar,--I think
Klindworth and I are the only survivors. Klindworth is one of the most
distinguished teachers in Europe, and taught for many years at the
Conservatory in Moscow. He is now in Potsdam.
HOW LISZT TAUGHT