Well, as I was saying, my head got quite dizzy with thinking what a trial it was to play before such an audience, but Wilhelmj seemed to differ from me, for he came confidently down the steps with the dignified self-poise of an artist who is master of his instrument, and who knows what he can do. He is extremely handsome, with regular features, massive overhanging forehead, and with an expression of power and self-containment. He looked a perfect picture as he stood there so quietly and played. He hadn't gone far before he made a brilliant cadenza that took down the house, and there was a general burst of applause. His tone (which is the grand thing in violin-playing) was magnificent, and his technique masterly. He didn't play with that tenderness of feeling and wonderful variety of expression that Joachim does, but it was as if he didn't care to affect people in that way. It made me think of Tausig on the piano. He played with the greatest intensity and aplomb, and the strings seemed actually to seethe. People were taken by storm. The second piece was a concerto by Raff. Wilhelmj was in the midst of the Andante, and was sawing our hearts with every saw of his bow, when suddenly a string snapped under the strain of his passionate fingers. He instantly ceased playing, and retired up the steps to the back of the stage to put on another string. Unfortunately he had not brought along an extra one in his pocket, and had to borrow one from one of the orchestra. Weitzmann, who in his youth was himself an eminent concert violinist, was amazed at Wilhelmj's temerity. "What rashness," exclaimed he, "and the G string, too!" (one of the most important). After a pause Wilhelmj came down and began again, but the string was so out of tune that he retired a second time. He must have been furious inwardly, one would think, and at his Berlin début, too! but he came down the third time with the utmost imperturbability, and got through the concerto. The whole effect of the concert was spoiled, though, and he had also to change the solos he had intended playing, so as to avoid the G string as much as possible. Instead of the lovely Chopin Nocturne in D flat (his own arrangement), he played an Aria by Bach. He did it so wonderfully that I was really startled.—I never shall forget the nuances he put into his trill. But at his second concert, where he did give the Nocturne, it was evident that the romantic is his great forte, and on a first appearance, and before his large and critical audience, he should have been heard in that genre.[D]
CHAPTER XV.
The Boston Fire. Aggravations of Music Study. Kullak.
Sherwood. Hoch Schule. A Brilliant American.
German Dancing.
BERLIN, November 24, 1872.
All the papers over here have been ringing with the Boston fire, the horse pestilence, shipwrecks, explosions, etc., until I feel as if all America were going to the bad. What an awful calamity that fire is! I can't take it in at all. All the Germans are wondering what our fire companies are made of that such conflagrations can take place. They say it would be an impossibility here, where the organization is so perfect. The men are trained to the work for years, and are on the spot in a twinkling, knowing just what to do. They are as fully convinced of their super-excellence in the Fire Department as in every other, and nothing can make them believe that if two or three of their little fire-engines had been there, and worked by their firemen, the Chicago and Boston fires could not have been put out! You know their machines are pumped by hand, too, instead of by steam, as ours are, which makes the assumption all the more ludicrous. It reminds me of a German party I was at once, where our war was the subject of conversation. "Oh, you don't know anything about fighting over there," said one gentleman, nodding at me patronizingly across the table. "If you had had two or three of our regiments, with one of our generals, your war would have been finished up in no time!"
I've had such a vexation to-day that I'm really quite beside myself! I was to play the first movement of my Rubinstein Concerto in the conservatory with the orchestra. I've been straining every nerve over it for several weeks, practicing incessantly, and had learned it perfectly. When I played it in the class the other day it went beautifully, and I think even Kullak was satisfied. Well, of course I was anticipating playing it with the orchestra before an audience, with much pleasure, and hoped I was going to distinguish myself. Music-director Wuerst and Franz Kullak always take charge of these orchestra lessons, sometimes one directing and sometimes the other. I got up early this morning, and practiced an hour and a half before I went to the conservatory, and I was there the first of all who were to play concertos. I spoke to Wuerst and told him what I was to play, and he said "All right." Wouldn't you have thought now, that he would have let me play first? Not a bit of it. He first heard the orchestra play a stupid symphony of Haydn's, which they might just as well have left out. Then he began screaming out to know if Herr Moszkowski was there? Herr Moszkowski, however, was not there, and I began to breathe freer, for he is a finished artist, and has been studying with Kullak for years, and plays in concerts. Of course if he had played first, it would have been doubly hard for me to muster up my courage, and you would have thought that Wuerst would have taken that into consideration. As Moszkowski was absent, I thought I certainly should be called up next, but another girl received the preference. She played extremely well, and Wuerst paid her his compliments, and then took his departure, leaving Franz Kullak to conduct. Then one of my class played Beethoven's G major concerto most wretchedly. Poor creature, she was nervous and frightened, and couldn't do herself any sort of justice. At last it was over, and at last Franz Kullak sung out, "We will now have Rubinstein's concerto in D minor."
I got up, went to the piano, wiped off the keys, which were completely wet from the nervous fingers of those who had preceded me, and was just going to sit down, when a young fellow approached from the other side with the same intention. "O, Fräulein Fay, you have the same concerto? Very well, you can play it the next time. To-day Herr So-and-So plays it!" Now, did you ever know anything so provoking? I hoped at least that the young fellow would play it well, and that I should learn something, but he perfectly murdered it, and there I had to sit through it all, with the piece tingling at my fingers ends—and now there's no knowing when I shall play it, as the orchestra lessons are so seldom and so uncertain. I hope there will be one two weeks from to-day, but even so I probably shan't do half so well as I should have done to-day, for the freshness will be all out of the piece, and I've practiced it so much now that I hate the sound of it, and can't bear to waste any more time over it. Such is life! I thought this time that I had taken every precaution to ensure success, for I had risen early every day, and eaten no end of the "bread of carefulness," and the result is—nothing at all! Not even a failure. It is the more to be regretted as to-day was the first Sunday of the month, and I wanted to go to church, especially as the bad weather kept me at home for two Sundays. However, I'm determined I will play the concerto yet, if I stake "Kopf und Kragen (head and collar)" on it, as the Germans say.—But oh, the difficulty of doing anything at all in this world!
December 18, 1872.—At last I played my Rubinstein concerto a week ago Sunday with the orchestra, and had the pleasure of being told by Scharwenka that I had had a brilliant success. Franz Kullak said that my octave passages were superbly played, and Moszkowski (who, to my surprise, was playing first violin) applauded. So I was complimented by the three of whom I stood most in awe. Scharwenka and Moszkowski are both finished artists and exquisite composers, and play a great deal in concerts this winter. Scharwenka is very handsome. He is a Pole, and is very proud of his nationality. And, indeed, there is something interesting and romantic about being a Pole. The very name conjures up thoughts of revolutions, conspiracies, bloody executions, masked balls, and, of course, grace, wit and beauty! Scharwenka certainly sustains the traditions of his race as far as the latter qualification is concerned. I never talked with him, as I have but a bowing acquaintance with him, so I don't know what sort of a mind he has, but I find myself looking at him and saying to myself with a certain degree of satisfaction, "He is a Pole." Why I should have this feeling I know not, but I seem to be proud of knowing Poles!—Scharwenka has a clear olive complexion, oval face, hazel eyes (I think) and a mass of brown silky hair which he wears long, and which falls about his head in a most picturesque and attractive fashion. He always presides over the piano at the orchestral lessons in the conservatory on Sunday mornings, and supplies those parts which are wanting. When concertos are performed he accompanies. He has a delightful serenity of manner, and sits there with quiet dignity, his back to the windows, and the light striking through his fluffy hair. He plays beautifully, and composes after Chopin's manner. Perhaps he will do greater things and develop a style of his own by and by. Every winter he gives a concert in Berlin in the Sing-Akademie.
By the way, I would not advise your paying any attention to what G. says about music. She is incapable of forming a correct judgment on the subject, and she used to provoke me to death with her ignorant and sweeping criticisms. I continually set her right, but to hear her go on about music and musicians is much like hearing S. R. and the M. crowd talk about art. What can be easier or more absurd, than to set yourself up and say that "nobody satisfies you." Stuff!—As for Kullak, I think a master must be judged by the number of players he turns out. In the two years that I have studied with him he has formed six or eight artists to my knowledge, beside no end of pupils who play extremely well. People come to him from all over the world, and as an artist himself he ranks first class.
I must tell you about a new acquaintance I've just made, a Mr. P., a Harvard man, very fascinating, very brilliant, a great swell, and the most perfect dancer I ever saw. I first met this phœnix at a dinner, when he fairly sparkled. He seemed to have the history of all countries at his tongue's end, and went through revolutions and reigns in the most rapid way. We had an animated discussion over the Germans, whom he loathes and despises, and he brought up all the historical events he could to justify his disgust. I was on the defensive, of course. "They've no delicacy," said P., in his emphatic way, and I had to give in there. Indeed, I can imagine that to a fastidious creature like him, imbued, too, with all the Southern chivalry, the Germans would be startling, to say the least. "Why," he cried, "they help you at table with their own forks after they've been eating with them! What do you think my host did to-day? He took a piece of meat that he had begun to eat, from his own plate! and put it on to mine with his own fork!! saying, 'Try this, this is a good piece!'—His intentions were excellent, but it never occurred to him that I shouldn't be delighted to eat after him."—P. can't bear it when the waiters at the restaurants pretend to think him a lord and address him as "Herr Graf." "I'll teach them to Herr Graf me," he said between his teeth, lowering his head, his eyes flashing dangerous fire. But it is quite likely that they do suppose him a lord, for he looks it, "every inch."