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.
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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!
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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.