“No,” she said, “the viola.”
This taught me that royalty must never be contradicted, even if they
know “facts” about your own father of which you are not aware.
The Prince of Hesse was blind and thought he had a gift for music, in
fact he “composed” string quartets which, I presume, he more or less
“dictated” to the court musician of his little princely household.
Just before the supper the Prince came up to Bülow with a huge laurel
wreath, which enraged Bülow very much. He always called them “vegetables
of Fame,” and he immediately shouted: “Is there no bust of Brahms here?”
but as there was none, he laid the wreath on the piano.
During the very good supper which was served to their Royal Highnesses
and von Bülow in one room and to the other guests in another, I found to
my amazement that the blind Prince was led to my chair holding a
champagne glass in his hand with which to toast me specially, “the
American musician and conductor,” and two days later the Prince and his
gentleman in waiting formally called on me at my hotel. An hour later
the gentleman in waiting returned to inform me that the Prince would
like to have me accept the position of musician in his household with
“twelve hundred Thalers a year and free board at the palace.” I had to
explain to him ever so politely and gratefully that I was then conductor
at the Metropolitan Opera House, the New York Symphony Society, and the
New York Oratorio Society, and that with high appreciation of this
offer, I could not possibly give up these positions and my American
career to come to Germany.
Bülow, when I told him of it, burst into loud guffaws of delighted
laughter.
Bülow was in wretched health during the entire summer, suffering from
headaches, sleeplessness, and general nervous collapse, but with an iron
will he went through the summer’s programme, accepting no financial
recompense for himself, solely to help gather money through his classes
toward the completion of the Raff monument.
I remember one night returning to the hotel after the opera, and as I
passed the door of his room to get to mine, which was on the same floor,
I heard such loud and continued sobbing that I opened his door, after
receiving no response to my knocking. I found him in his nightclothes,
kneeling before his bed, his head buried in the mattress and sobbing so
bitterly that it was heart-breaking. I rushed over to him, thinking that
perhaps he was very ill, and it was a long time before I could quiet
him. He kept reiterating that life was over for him, that he wanted to
die, and it was only by continually telling him how much we all adored
him and what his friendship meant for us that I was able gradually to
quiet him and to put him to bed, where I sat holding his hands until
early morning when he finally went to sleep.
Weak and ill though he was after the summer’s arduous work, he had
promised the University of Marburg to give them two of his famous
Beethoven recitals, and as his friend Steyl, the music publisher, and I
were worried about his condition we decided to accompany him in order to
look after him. The arrangements for the concerts which were to be held
in the afternoon in the aula of the venerable university were in the
hands of the professor of Greek, a typical old absent-minded gentleman
who seemed overcome with the honor of having a visit from the great von
Bülow and who also was nervously afraid of this brusque little man. I
was worried over the whole affair. Bülow had been very weak all morning
and Steyl and I wanted him to cancel the recital, but he would not hear
of it and bravely went on the stage to begin his programme.
Unfortunately, owing to the summer heat, the windows of the aula were
open wide, and during the music the cries of the children playing below,
the rumbling of carts over the rough pavements of the mediæval streets,
came up in constant clangor.
Bülow began, faltered, began again and stopped—ran from the stage and
returned to begin again. But it was no use. The noise continued and the
recital had to be called off, and after a nervous crisis accompanied by
great weeping, we got him back to the hotel and to bed, Bülow heaping
curses on the little professor on whom he blamed everything, the glaring
sunlight, the cries of the playing children, and the noise of the carts.
The recital for the following day was, of course, cancelled, and we
arranged everything for taking Bülow back to Frankfort.
In the morning when I called at his rooms I found him punctiliously
attired in his frock coat, high silk hat, and brown glacé gloves, and in
answer to my evidently astonished gaze, he said: “We must not leave
without paying our farewell call of ceremony on the Greek professor.” I
trembled at the outcome, but a carriage with two horses and a liveried
coachman was already waiting in the courtyard of the hotel to take us up
the hill to the old mediæval tower of the university in which the
professor lived.
We were ushered into a wonderful circular library, the books covering
the entire inner wall of the tower, and while we were waiting for the
professor, Bülow ran around the room like a dog on the scent, examining
the titles of the various books on the shelves. Suddenly he pounced on
one, pulled it out and began to turn the leaves quickly until he got to
a certain page at which he held the book open just as the old professor
entered, trembling from head to foot. I was rather apprehensive of the
meeting between the two men, but to my astonishment, Bülow advanced,
book in hand, and with a low bow handed it silently to the gentle
amateur impresario, pointing to a certain place on the opened page. The
professor read it, blushed, and looked with a kind of dumb apology at
von Bülow, who then took up his hat and, with another low bow, left the
room, followed by me, still completely mystified by this silent
ceremonial, the meaning of which I could not understand.
During the drive back to the hotel, Bülow chirped up considerably. Now
and then he chuckled and finally, as if the joke were too good to keep,
he turned toward me and said:
“Do you know what quotation I gave to the Greek professor? It was from
one of the Greek philosophers to the effect that ‘it is not wise for a
man of learning to mix himself up in the practical affairs of life.’”
Perhaps some learned reader of this may be able to tell me who the Greek
author was. Bülow never told me.
On our long walks Bülow would often reminisce about the past and would
tell me enough stories to fill a book. Two of them I shall tell here.
Bülow was spending a winter in Florence and was invited to conduct a
performance of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony with the local orchestra. In
those days Italy had literally no symphonic orchestras, and the players,
recruited from the opera-houses, had but little routine for concert
music of symphonic importance. The men were willing and eager, but even
such a routined conductor as Bülow found it difficult to make them
understand certain rhythmic subtleties in this most intricate of all
Beethoven’s works. In the scherzo there comes a place where the
kettledrum has to enter rudely with a repetition of the first bar of the
main theme:
[Illustration: music fragment]
This rhythm the kettledrum player simply could not grasp, no matter how
patiently Bülow endeavored to instill it. He tried it slow, he tried it
fast. Bülow got more and more excited and irritable, and finally, as a
last resort, he fairly shouted to him on the rhythm of this theme the
Italian word for kettledrum. At the top of his voice rose the word:
“Tym—pan—y! Tym—pan—y!”
A delighted smile broke over the face of the kettledrum player.
“Ah, capisco, capisco,” he shouted, and immediately proceeded to put his
newly won knowledge to the practical proof.
Bülow told me that at one time he had adopted the habit of jotting down
any strange or incongruous names that he found on the signs of shops in
the various cities of the various countries that he visited. In a small
little German town he found over a greengrocery, the name of
“Seidenschwanz.” This appealed to him and he tucked it away in his
memory, determined to find a given name to add that would, by its very
contrast, fit it. For months he cudgelled his brains, but in vain, until
one night in Venice he jumped up from his bed, shouting: “I have it.
_Caligula Seidenschwanz!_” The name of the most cruel of Roman Emperors
coupled with that of the little greengrocer!
Next morning he proceeded to an engraver and had visiting cards printed
bearing the mysterious name of:
Caligula Seidenschwanz.
Shortly after, whenever Doctor Hans von Bülow paid a call on any one,
instead of presenting his own card, he left that of Herr Seidenschwanz,
thereby completely mystifying his friends.
I told this story years after while dining at the house of my dear
friends, May Callender and Caro de Forest. Lilli Lehmann was one of the
guests, and when I finished she jumped up and said:
“Walter, that is a very remarkable story, but it is absolutely true, as
I happen to know. I was coloratura soprano at the Berlin Royal Opera at
the time when Bülow paid us a visit one night when we performed
Meyerbeer’s ‘Prophète.’ He was so disgusted with the performance that he
wrote one of his indignant and cynical letters to a Berlin paper, in
which he compared the Royal Opera to a circus, and then added insult to
injury by apologizing to Herr Renz, owner of the greatest circus in
Germany, saying that he meant no insult to him, as he had always been a
great admirer of the Circus Renz. This letter aroused the old intendant,
Baron von Hulsen, to such fury that he forbade Bülow further entrance
into the opera-house and at the same time induced the old Emperor to
withdraw the title of ‘Pianist to His Majesty, the King of Prussia’ from
von Bülow.”
Lilli Lehmann then continued to narrate that the morning after the
performance she received a large basket of flowers in which a card had
been tucked, on which was written “To the only bright spot in
yesterday’s performance. In admiration, _Caligula Seidenschwanz_.”
Until that evening, when I explained the origin of the name, Lilli
Lehmann had not known that the flowers had been sent her by von Bülow.
At the close of the summer session Bülow invited me to go with him to
the Cologne Musical Festival. He told me that he had written to Brahms
about me and wanted me to meet him, and I would also hear a fine
performance of the Brahms “Requiem.” Needless to say I jumped at such an
opportunity.
My father, who with that wonderful liberal attitude of his did not share
the narrow attitude of other Wagnerians who hated Brahms, had been among
the first to introduce his music in America and had given the first
performance of the Brahms Symphony No. 1 in C minor in America. Bülow
had become a similar propagandist for Brahms in Germany. I considered
him the last great composer of modern times, doubly interesting because
the great genius of Wagner, whom he admired greatly, left him untouched
as far as his own creative work was concerned, and he is, perhaps, the
only great modern composer whose works can show no influence of the
Wagnerian school. To conduct his symphonies is to me still one of the
greatest joys of the winter, and I continue to marvel how little the
years have aged them and how noble in conception and rich in subtleties
of feeling they continue to express in an unbroken line the highest
ideals of the Beethoven symphonies.
In the hurly-burly of a festival, I had but little opportunity to see
much of Brahms, who was there only a very few days, and I was too young
and unimportant to claim any attention from him; but I was grateful to
Bülow for the opportunity of meeting him, and can still see his
wonderful and kindly eye turned on me as Bülow told him some nice things
about me.
During our stay in Cologne I had an experience so curious, so
extraordinary, that I must especially assure my readers that it is true
in every particular.
One morning Bülow announced to me that he was going to cross the river
in the afternoon to visit the widow of an old friend of his, Madame
B——, who lived in a villa in Deutz. He asked me to accompany him, and
we accordingly called on a rather attractive young widow, attired in the
deepest mourning, who welcomed us very graciously. Her husband, a
Belgian pianist of distinction, had been professor of piano at the
Imperial Conservatory in St. Petersburg and had there married a young
Russian pupil of his.
After chatting awhile, she proposed that we go into the garden for a cup
of tea, and we followed her, accordingly, to a small stone building in
the middle of the garden that looked like a chapel, but which, to my
horror, I discovered, as we entered, to be a mausoleum. In the centre
stood a sarcophagus on the top of which reposed a coffin, with a glass
top, in which lay the body of B——! A footman in livery followed us
with a samovar and the teacups.
It seems that the lady had thus endeavored to demonstrate her love for
her departed husband. I confess that I became almost ill and hurriedly
left the mausoleum to smell the roses in the garden, but Bülow
punctiliously and courageously stuck it out and had his cup of tea under
these unique conditions.
Many years after I heard through Mrs. Franz Rummel, whose husband had
been a favorite pupil of B——, that his widow was again happily married
and that B—— had been properly buried underground.
In 1889 I induced Mr. Leo Goldmark, brother of the Viennese composer,
who was interested in music and the musical affairs of New York, to
bring von Bülow to America for another visit, and more especially to
give his Beethoven sonata cycle.
Bülow brought his second wife with him and the visit was a great success
in every way. She had been a young actress of talent at the Meiningen
Court Theatre and he had married her while he was conductor of the
orchestra there.
The Beethoven recitals were given at the Broadway Theatre which was
crowded to the doors, and press and public greeted the old master with
such friendly enthusiasm that he was very much touched and became very
enthusiastic about America. He also conducted my orchestra in a
memorable concert at the Metropolitan Opera House in which he
demonstrated his marvellous powers as a conductor. Among the works on
the programme was the “Tragic Overture” by Brahms. Just before beginning
the rehearsal of this he called out to the orchestra librarian, Russell,
by name: “Where is the contrabassoon? Why is there no contrabassoon
engaged?”
In vain were Russell’s protests that he had not been told to engage a
contrabassoon, but suddenly Bülow’s anger subsided and he began the
rehearsal. During it, as was his custom, he conducted without any
orchestral score before him. His memory of what the individual
instruments had to play was indeed remarkable, although I always felt
that he enjoyed showing it off a little at rehearsals. After the
rehearsal was over he called Russell to his side and, slipping him a
five-dollar bill, whispered: “Do not say anything; it was my mistake,
there is no contrabassoon in the Brahms Overture.”