Memories of a Musical Life
by William Mason · English · Gutenberg #35520 · 329,300 chars · public domain (US)
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Title: Memories of a Musical Life
Author: William Mason
Release date: March 8, 2011 [eBook #35520]
Language: English
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[Illustration: image of the book's cover]
MEMORIES OF A
MUSICAL LIFE
[Illustration: WILLIAM MASON IN 1899]
Memories of a
Musical Life
by
William Mason
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
MCMII
Copyright, 1900, 1901, by
THE CENTURY CO.
_Published October, 1901._
THE DEVINE PRESS.
TO
MY DAUGHTER
MINA MASON VAN SINDEREN
AT WHOSE REQUEST
THESE MEMORIES
HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
CONTENTS
PAGE
EARLY DAYS IN NEW ENGLAND 3
Lowell Mason's Career 7
First Beethoven Symphony in America 8
Musical Conventions 9
Early Musical Training 10
Webster and Clay 11
First Public Appearance 18
Leopold de Meyer 19
"Father Heinrich" 22
An Embarrassing Experience 25
STUDENT LIFE ABROAD 27
Meeting with Meyerbeer 28
Liszt's Feat of Memory 31
First Meeting with Liszt 33
Arrival at Leipsic 34
Moscheles, Beethoven, and Chopin 36
The Intimacy of Moscheles and Mendelssohn 37
Schumann 38
Schumann's "Symphony No. 1, B Flat" 39
Schumann's Absent-mindedness 42
Moritz Hauptmann 44
A Visit to Wagner 48
Wagner on Mendelssohn and Beethoven 51
A Wagner Autograph 55
Moscheles 57
Joseph Joachim 62
Schumann's "Concerto in A Minor" 63
Carl Mayer 65
Dreyschock 66
Prince de Rohan's Dinner 71
Chopin, Henselt, and Thalberg 75
Anton Schindler, "Ami de Beethoven" 79
Schindler and Schnyder von Wartensee 82
First London Concert 84
WITH LISZT IN WEIMAR 86
Accepted by Liszt 88
The Altenburg 93
How Liszt Taught 97
"Play It Like This" 99
Liszt in 1854 101
His Fascination 102
Liszt's Indignation 103
Objects to my Eye-glasses 106
A Musical Breakfast 108
Liszt's Playing 110
Liszt and Pixis 117
Liszt Conducting 119
Liszt's Symphonic Poems--Rehearsing "Tasso" 121
Extracts from a Diary 122
Opportunities 126
Brahms in 1853 127
Nervous before Liszt 128
Dozing while Liszt Played 129
"Lohengrin" for the First Time in Leipsic 132
In Stuttgart--Hotel Marquand 135
The Schumann "Feier" in Bonn, 1880 136
Brahms's Pianoforte-playing 137
A Historical Error Corrected 141
More about Liszt's Wonderful Sight-reading 142
Liszt's Moments of Contrition 144
Peter Cornelius 145
Some Famous Violinists 147
Remenyi 151
Some Distinguished Opera-singers 153
Henriette Sontag 154
Johanna Wagner 156
Mme. de la Grange 157
"Der Verein der Murls" 158
The Wagner Cause in Weimar 159
Raff in Weimar 161
Dr. Adolf Bernhard Marx 165
Berlioz in Weimar 168
Entertaining Liszt's "Young Beethoven" 171
Rubinstein's Opposition to Wagner 174
AT WORK IN AMERICA 183
Touring the Country 184
"Yankee Doodle" and "Old Hundred" 187
Settling down to Teach 191
Theodore Thomas at Twenty 195
Thomas as Conductor 197
Karl Klauser, Musical Director at Miss Porter's School 202
Louis Moreau Gottschalk 205
Propaganda for Schumann's Music 209
Sigismond Thalberg 210
Pedal and Pedal Signs--Why not Dispense with the Latter? 215
Pedal Study for the Pianoforte 219
Rubinstein and the Autograph-hunter 221
Evolution in Musical Ideas--Beethoven Pianoforte Recitals 226
Rubinstein's Favorite Seat at a Pianoforte Recital 227
Bach's "Triple Concerto" and "Les Agrements" 229
A Significant Autograph from Rubinstein 234
Rubinstein, Paderewski, and "Yankee Doodle" 236
Meetings with Von Bulow 238
Edvard Grieg 241
Rates of Tempo--The Present Time Compared with Fifty Years Ago 243
Electrocuting Chopin 244
Tempo Rubato 246
Unusual Pupils--Transposing--Positive and Relative Pitch 247
Appledore, Isles of Shoals 251
MUSIC IN AMERICA TO-DAY 259
APPENDIX 273
INDEX 297
The author acknowledges the efficient collaboration of Mr. Gustav
Kobbe in preparing these Memories for publication, and also the
valuable assistance of his son-in-law, Mr. Howard van Sinderen.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
William Mason in 1899 _Frontispiece_
From a photograph by Gessford & Van Brunt.
FACING PAGE
William Mason as a Boy 12
From a daguerreotype.
William Mason at the Age of Eighteen 20
From a daguerreotype.
Autograph of I. Moscheles 32
Autograph of Robert Schumann 38
Autograph of Mme. Schumann 44
Autograph of Moritz Hauptmann 48
Autograph of Richard Wagner 56
Autograph of Joseph Joachim 64
Autograph of Anton Schindler 80
Liszt in Middle Life 88
Drawn by George T. Tobin from a photograph of uncertain date.
The Altenburg, Liszt's House at Weimar 96
Autograph of Vieuxtemps 144
Autograph of Ole Bull 150
Autograph of Henriette Sontag 164
Autograph of Hector Berlioz 168
Autograph of Ferdinand Laub 180
The Mason-Thomas Quartet 196
Theodore Thomas about Twenty-four Years Old 200
From a photograph by Duchochois & Klauser.
Autograph of Moreau Gottschalk 208
Autograph of Sigismond Thalberg 212
Autograph of Anton Rubinstein 232
Autograph of I. J. Paderewski 236
Autograph of Hans von Bulow 240
Autograph of Edvard Grieg 244
Interior of Studio in Steinway Building, New York 248
Autographs of the Kneisel Quartet 262
Lowell Mason 277
From a daguerreotype.
MEMORIES
OF A MUSICAL LIFE MEMORIES
OF A MUSICAL LIFE
EARLY DAYS IN NEW ENGLAND
I am the third son of Lowell Mason of Medfield, Massachusetts, and of
Abigail Gregory of Westborough, Massachusetts, his wife, and I was born
in Boston on January 24, 1829. My father was in the seventh generation
from Robert Mason, who was born in England about the year 1590. In 1630
Robert came to America, and was probably one of John Winthrop's company,
landing at Salem on the twelfth day of June of that year. Thomas Mason,
the elder son of Robert, went to Medfield to live in the second year of
the settlement of the town. His marriage with Margery Partridge, on
April 23, 1653, was the first marriage to be entered upon the town
records; and the homestead lands, which he acquired by grant from the
town, have ever since remained in possession of some member of the Mason
family. Thomas and two of his sons were killed by the Indians under
Monaco on February 21, 1676, when Medfield was burned. The line was
continued through Ebenezer, a third son, born at Medfield, September 12,
1669; Thomas, a son of Ebenezer, born at Medfield, April 23, 1699;
Barachias, son of Thomas, born at Medfield, June 10, 1723, who was
musical and who taught singing; and Johnson, son of Barachias, born at
Medfield, August 7, 1767. Johnson was the father of Lowell Mason, who
was born at Medfield, January 8, 1792. On January 8, 1892, the one
hundredth anniversary of my father's birth was celebrated at Medfield,
under the auspices of the Historical Society of that place. In the
address delivered by the president of the society, a period of his life
was touched upon concerning which but little had heretofore been
published. The address will be interesting to those who are interested
in him and in the work which he accomplished, and is printed, by
permission, in an appendix to these memories.
The difference between Boston and New York as musical centers is largely
due to my father. He made Boston a self-developing musical city. New
York has received its musical culture from abroad.
My father manifested a remarkable fondness for music at an early age.
His parents did not intend that he should take up music as a profession,
but his talent was not neglected. In 1812, before he was twenty, he
heard of an opening in a bank in Savannah, Georgia, and having secured
the position, he went there. After business hours he continued his
studies in music with an instructor named F. L. Abel, under whom he made
rapid progress. He soon attempted composition, his first efforts being
hymn-tunes and anthems. He arranged a collection consisting of a group
of selections from William Gardiner's "Sacred Melodies," to which he
added some of his own compositions. For this collection he vainly
endeavored to find a publisher in Philadelphia and Boston, until chance
brought to Savannah a Boston organ-builder, W. M. Goodrich, who had come
to set up an organ. He induced my father to go to Boston in person, with
the result that the work was submitted to Dr. G. K. Jackson, the
organist of the Handel and Haydn Society, and received his approval. It
was published in 1822, with the title, "The Boston Handel and Haydn
Society's Collection of Music," and was an instant success, finding its
way into singing-schools and church choirs throughout New England. Some
of my father's hymn-tunes have become famous. It has been said that his
missionary hymn, "From Greenland's Icy Mountains," has been sung in more
languages than any other sacred tune. Among the many popular tunes which
he composed are "Boylston," "Hebron," "Olivet," and "Bethany"; and one
of his collections of sacred melodies brought him in over a hundred
thousand dollars in royalties.
LOWELL MASON'S CAREER
The success of my father's first venture led him to leave Savannah and
settle in Boston. Then, as now, the Handel and Haydn Society was largely
recruited from church choirs, but in those days its concerts were few,
and these were almost entirely devoted to church music. Rarely was a
"work" offered to the public. Outside the realm of church music, the
society's repertory consisted of "The Messiah", "The Creation" (and more
frequently fragments from these), the "Dettingen Te Deum" by Handel, and
the "Intercession" by M. P. King, who has long since been forgotten. For
five years my father was president of the society, and served as musical
director, the special employment of a conductor not having been
authorized until 1847.
Meanwhile he was constantly aiming at the introduction of popular
education in music. It was through his efforts--and strenuous efforts
they were--that music was introduced into the Boston public schools. To
bring this about he first taught classes of children free of charge, and
gave concerts to illustrate the practicability of his plans. When
finally musical education was made a part of the Boston public-school
system, the city council refused to make any appropriation for it, and
he served as instructor for a year gratuitously, beginning work in 1837
in the Hawes Grammar School, South Boston. The experiment was a complete
success. Music was generally introduced into the public schools, and my
father was made superintendent of the department. The seeds he sowed
then are still bearing fruit. This was part of his labor which created
in Boston a self-developing musical activity. While Dr. Samuel G. Howe
was engaged in organizing the Perkins Institution for the Blind in 1832,
at his request my father devised a system of musical instruction for the
blind.
FIRST BEETHOVEN SYMPHONY IN AMERICA
About 1830 an English musician, Mr. George James Webb, settled in
Boston. He was a gentleman of high culture, thoroughly educated in
music, played the organ well, and was a good vocal teacher. His talents
and his personal charm were promptly recognized. My father became
intimate with him, and in 1833, with the cooperation of certain
influential gentlemen of Boston, they founded the Boston Academy of
Music, my father taking charge of the special department of church
music, while Mr. Webb devoted himself chiefly to secular music and
voice-culture. Instrumental concerts were also given at the academy, and
there, on February 10, 1841, occurred the first performance in America
of a Beethoven symphony, the Fifth, which was played by an orchestra of
twenty-three, under the direction of Henry Schmidt.
MUSICAL CONVENTIONS
My father originated the idea of assembling music-teachers in classes.
In 1838, when the experiment was not more than three years old, one
hundred and thirty-four teachers, representing ten States, assembled at
the academy. From these assemblages grew the musical conventions which
my father held throughout New England and in some of the other States.
Choir-singers and other musically inclined people from the towns lying
within the surrounding district would gather at a central point, and he
would hold a musical convention lasting for several days, drilling the
singers in church music, but also, where he found sufficient
advancement, in music of a higher order. The Worcester festivals may be
traced to these conventions.
EARLY MUSICAL TRAINING
I had shown my fondness for music at a very early age. When I was a
child, my father was the organist of the Bowdoin Street Congregational
Church in Boston, of which Lyman Beecher had been the pastor. When I was
seven years old, he placed me unexpectedly on the organ-bench at a
public service, and while the choir sang the tune of "Boylston", I
played the accompaniment. Up to this time I had had but little
instruction in pianoforte-playing. My mother used to sit by me and guide
me in the way of careful practising, and thus I had acquired
considerable facility for those days, though now I have a feeling of
compassion for any one who had to listen to me.
I became useful to my father as an accompanist, and when he went to
musical conventions he took me along with him, and I would play the
piano accompaniments while he conducted.
WEBSTER AND CLAY
It was at about this time that my father took me with him on a trip to
Providence. In those days the entrance to the cars was from the side,
and we took seats nearly opposite the door. My father called my
attention to a very dignified and impressive-looking man in the front
corner of the car, saying: "William, the gentleman in the corner is
Daniel Webster. Go over and wish him good morning." I promptly obeyed,
and marching over to him, said, "Good morning, Daniel Webster." He asked
my name, and I replied, saying my father was "over there," and then he
exchanged greetings with my father. I was somewhat awed by his great
dignity, and remember very well his piercing eyes.
About the year 1842 I went to Maysville, Kentucky, to stay with the
family of my uncle, Mr. E. F. Tucker. My health had not been good, and
the change of residence was thought to be judicious. My uncle was at the
head of some factory in Maysville, and one day, after I had been there
for some time, a gentleman called at the house to see him about business
connected with the factory. My aunt called me, and, presenting me to the
gentleman, requested me to show him the way to the factory. This
gentleman was Henry Clay. I remember his urbanity, and his friendly
conversation attracted me. This time it was not the eye which was
noticeable, but the mouth, which was unusually large.
[Illustration: WILLIAM MASON AS A BOY
FROM A DAGUERREOTYPE
]
FIRST PUBLIC APPEARANCE
Returning to Boston after a year, I was sent to Newport, Rhode Island,
to study under the Rev. T. T. Thayer, who was a Congregational clergyman
in that place. In a short time after my arrival I began playing the
organ at the services in his church, and continued this with regularity
until my return to Boston a few years later. At Boston I became the
organist at the Congregational church in Winter street, at which my
father was music-conductor.
I played in public about the year 1846, in one of the concerts of the
Boston Academy of Music, given in the Odeon, which was then the
principal concert-hall in Boston. On this occasion I had the
accompaniment of a string quartet. This was my first regular appearance
in public. About this time, too, I began taking pianoforte lessons of
Mr. Henry Schmidt, to whom reference has been made as the conductor of
Beethoven's "Fifth Symphony" on the occasion of the first performance
of this work in Boston. Mr. Schmidt's instrument was the violin, but he
was also an excellent pianoforte teacher, and to his careful and skilful
instruction I owe very much. I remember that in those days I was more
fond of playing--if my habit of improvising in a loose or inaccurate way
can be so called--than of careful practising and close attention to
detail. When my lesson-hour arrived I used to trust much to luck, and
thus occasioned poor Mr. Schmidt a deal of trouble and vexation. He
begged and entreated me to be careful, and after a while a spirit of
contrition overcame me, and so, on a certain occasion, I really did
practise carefully and to my best ability during the interval between my
lessons. When Mr. Schmidt made his appearance, however, I became so
nervous and apprehensive lest my work should not show to advantage that
the very thing I dreaded took place, and I stumbled through my piece in
a distressing manner. I do not wonder that my teacher's patience was
tried, and he rebuked me with severity, saying that he believed I had
not practised at all since the previous lesson. I received this all very
meekly, but when he took his departure I pitched the music into a
corner, and did not practise until he made his appearance for the
following lesson. At this lesson, however, I played with great accuracy
and spirit, much to my gratification and somewhat to my surprise. Mr.
Schmidt warmly commended my work, and attributed it to the fact that I
had _now_ practised industriously and carefully. I had enough sense to
know that the successful result was owing to the practice I had
previously done, and which needed time to produce its results. This bit
of experience I commend to pianoforte students for careful
consideration, to show that acts are not always immediately followed by
desirable results.
Mr. Schmidt taught me much concerning the production of tone in
pianoforte playing, and in particular led me to acquire a certain habit
of touch which I have never lost, and which has been the means of
greatly lessening the fatigue which would otherwise have been attendant
on the performance of pieces which require much strength and
long-continued endurance. I write somewhat at length concerning this
matter, feeling that a knowledge of my experience may be of substantial
use to pianoforte students.
The habit referred to has especial relation to the playing of the
various rapid scale and arpeggio passages, involving closed or open hand
position which are so common in pianoforte compositions and which grow
out of the nature of the instrument. The touch is accomplished by
quickly but quietly drawing the finger-tips inward toward the palm of
the hand, or, in other words, slightly and partly closing the
finger-points as they touch the keys while playing. This action of the
fingers secures the cooperation of many more muscles of the finger,
wrist, hand, and forearm than could be accomplished by the merely
"up-and-down" finger-touch. It is difficult to describe in detail
without an instrument at hand for illustration. If correctly performed,
however, the tones produced are very clear and well defined, and of a
beautifully musical quality. The simile of "a string of pearls" of
precisely similar size and shape has often been used in describing their
fluency and clearness of outline. A too rapid withdrawal of the
finger-tips would result in a short and crisp staccato. While this
extreme staccato is also desirable and frequently used, it is not the
kind of effect here desired, namely, a clear, clean delivery of the
tones which in no wise disturb the legato effect.
Of course it requires cultivation and skill to secure just the right
degree of finger-motion to preserve the legato and at the same time the
slight separation of each tone. Therefore the fingers must not be drawn
so quickly as to produce a separation or staccato effect, but in just
the right degree to avoid impairing the legato or binding effect. For
the sake of convenience in description I have named this touch the
"elastic finger-touch," and through its influence a clear and crisp
effect is attained. It is interesting to observe in this connection, a
fact which I learned only many years later, that Sebastian Bach's touch,
described in detail by J. N. Forkel in his work entitled "Ueber Johann
Sebastian Bachs Leben, Kunst und Kunstwerke," both as used by Bach
himself and as he taught it to his pupils, seems to be identical with
the touch I am here attempting to describe. Forkel expressly emphasizes
the "pulling-in" motion of the finger-tips. While it has relation solely
to finger-action as distinguished from the action of the wrist and arm,
it cannot be accomplished properly without bringing into action the
flexor and extensor muscles, principally of the forearm from wrist to
elbow.
Through the medium of this touch pianissimo effects are possible which
no other mechanism can reach, for passages of the most extreme delicacy
and softness still retain the quality of vitality and clearness of
outline.
During the season of 1846 I played the pianoforte part throughout the
series of six concerts of chamber-music given by the Harvard Musical
Association. I remember that Mr. Blessner played the violin and Mr.
Groenvelt the violoncello, but cannot recall the names of the players of
the second violin and viola. These concerts were given at the pianoforte
warerooms of Mr. Jonas Chickering, 334 Washington street, Boston. I
still have the programs. String quartets by Haydn, Mozart, and Beethoven
were played, also piano trios by Beethoven, Reissiger, and Mayseder.
LEOPOLD DE MEYER
The knowledge I gained from Mr. Schmidt was largely advanced and
supplemented by what I learned a year or two later, in 1847-48, from the
playing of the pianoforte virtuoso Leopold de Meyer, who came to the
United States about that time.
It was from a careful study of the manner of his playing that I first
acquired the habit of fully devitalized upper-arm muscles in
pianoforte-playing. The loveliness and charming musical beauty of his
tones, the product of these conditions, greatly excited my admiration
and fascinated me. I never missed an opportunity of hearing him play,
and closely watched his movements, and particularly the motions of hand,
arm, and shoulder. I was incessantly at the pianoforte trying to produce
the same delightful tone quality by imitating his manner and style.
[Illustration: WILLIAM MASON AT THE AGE OF EIGHTEEN
FROM A DAGUERREOTYPE
]
My continued perseverance was rewarded with success, for the result was
a habit of devitalized muscular action in such degree that I could
practically play all day without a feeling of fatigue. The constant
alternation between devitalization and reconstruction keeps the muscles
always fresh for their work and enables the player to rest while
playing. The force is so distributed that each and every muscle has
ample opportunity to rest while yet in a state of activity. Furthermore
the tones resulting from this touch are sonorous and full of energy and
life. An idea of my own which was persistently carried into act aided
materially in bringing about the desired result. This was to allow
the arms to hang limp by my side, either in a sitting or standing
posture, and then to shake them rigorously with the utmost possible
looseness and devitalization. This device was in after years recommended
to my pupils, and those who persistently followed it up and persevered
for a while gained great advantage from it, and eventually acquired a
state of habitual muscular elasticity and flexibility.
I might easily have learned from any book of anatomy the names of the
muscles which are here referred to, but for the practical instruction of
pianoforte pupils this seemed to be of little consequence. However,
there are three muscles of the upper arm which may here be named: the
triceps, the brachialis anticus, and the biceps. Of these the
first-named is of the most importance to the pianist.
Leopold de Meyer's New York concerts were given in the old Broadway
Tabernacle, some distance below Canal street, as I now remember. The
piano-lovers were not so numerous then as they are now, and it was
difficult to fill the hall, even with the help of deadheads. De Meyer's
agent, acting on the principle that "a crowd draws a crowd," hired a lot
of carriages to make their appearance a little before the concert-hour,
and to stand in front of the doors and then advance in turn, so that
passers-by might receive the impression of activity on the part of the
concert-goers.
"FATHER HEINRICH"
Somewhere about this time there lived in New York an elderly German
musician and composer who had somehow gained the cognomen of "Father
Heinrich." He composed quite a number of large works, both vocal and
instrumental, and also a number of pianoforte pieces. During a visit
which he made to Boston, his headquarters were at Chickering's
pianoforte warerooms, and on one occasion I was presented to him as a
youth of some musical promise. He immediately showed me one of his
pianoforte pieces in manuscript, and said: "Young man, I am going to
test your musical talent and intelligence and see if you appreciate in
any degree the importance of a proper observance of dynamics in musical
interpretation." He had placed the open pages of the manuscript on the
pianoforte desk, and I was glancing over them in close scrutiny. "I wish
to tell you before you begin to play that I have submitted this piece to
two or three of the best musicians in New York and they have failed to
bring out the intended effect in an important phrase." This remark put
me at once on my guard, and while he was talking I was closely
scrutinizing the manuscript to see if there was some dynamic or other
mark which would reveal his intention. About half-way down the second
page I discovered a series of sforzando marks, thus: > > > > > over
several notes in one of the inner parts, and immediately determined to
bring out these tones with all possible force. Further than this there
seemed to be no peculiarity; but as he had by this time finished his
remarks I began to play with special care. The piece was easy to read,
and so I made good progress, and on coming to the passage referred to I
put a tremendous emphasis on the tones marked sforzando, playing all of
the other voices by contrast quite softly. To my boyish satisfaction I
found I had hit the mark. The excitement and pleasure of Father Heinrich
was excessive and amusing. "Bravo! bravo!" he cried. "You have great
talent, and you have done what none of our musicians in New York have
accomplished!"
I did not at the time understand how he could lay so much stress on the
affair, but in the light of a long experience as teacher of the
pianoforte I no longer wonder at his excitement. All music is full of
nuances and accents of greater or less intensity, to which pupils hardly
ever give any attention, although they are necessary in order to give
due expression to rhythm. They correspond to vocal accents in reading
aloud, or in declamation.
AN EMBARRASSING EXPERIENCE
It is difficult to realize the crudity of musical taste in the early
days. I remember that in 1840 my father conducted a convention in
Vermont--I think in Woodstock. We went by rail as far as we could, and
then traveled a number of hours by coach. We were received by the
dignitaries of the town, and conducted to the house in which we were to
stay. While we were shaking off the dust of travel, we heard the sounds
of drum and fife. Looking out of the window, we found that these
instruments headed a small procession which had come to escort us to the
church. The drum and the fife were the instrumental outfit of the town;
so, led by these, my father and I marched with the magnates of the place
to the church. I still remember how foolish I felt.
In 1846 my father was preparing to hold a convention in Augusta, Maine.
Mr. Webb was to go with him, and I was sent to his house the evening
before they were to start to let him know about the arrangements.
Though I knew Mr. Webb very well, I had never had occasion to go to his
house. At this time I was seventeen years old. When I was shown into the
drawing-room, I saw Mr. and Mrs. Webb and their daughter, a girl then
not fourteen. I had not been in the house half an hour before I was
deeply in love with her. I found that she was going to Augusta, and I
decided at once that I would go, too. So the next day we all started
together. She and I grew to be good friends, but the idea of an
engagement between us was not to be thought of at that time, and while I
lived in Germany we were not permitted to correspond. For five years I
did not see her; but when I came back I hastened to her father's house.
The sequel I shall tell later.
STUDENT LIFE ABROAD
It having been decided that I should continue my musical studies in
Europe, I sailed from New York for Bremen on the side-wheel steamer
_Herrmann_ in May, 1849, accompanied by Mr. Frank Hill of Boston, who
had already attained some distinction as a pianist. My intention was to
go directly to Leipsic to study with Moscheles. One of our
fellow-passengers was Julius Schuberth, the music-publisher of Hamburg,
who had been in America on business. Arriving at Bremen, we learned that
the insurrection had not yet been suppressed, and that within two or
three days there had been bloodshed in the streets of Leipsic. For this
and other reasons I gladly accepted Mr. Schuberth's invitation to visit
him, first making a short trip to Paris with Hill.
MEETING WITH MEYERBEER
I arrived in Paris shortly after six o'clock in the morning, and went to
the Hotel de Paris, in the Rue de Richelieu. In those days, at that
early hour, Paris was as quiet as an American town at midnight. There
were three of us in the party. We secured two rooms, and my friends
remained up-stairs, while I returned to the porter's lodge below to have
my passport sent to the Bureau of Police to be vised. The porter went
out to attend to this, and I was left alone in the lodge.
Shortly afterward a man entered, of medium height, well dressed, and
with a good deal of manner. He addressed me in French, but when I asked
him if he could speak English he began conversing fluently in that
language. He asked if I was from England and a stranger in Paris. When I
told him I was from America, he exclaimed, "Ah, that is farther off."
Then, noticing the passport, which was uncommonly large and was bound
like a book, he asked, "Is that an American passport? Please let me
have a look at it I'm curious to see it." Bound in with the passport
were a number of blank leaves to be used for the vises of various
consuls. "Young man," said my chance acquaintance, "you have leaves
enough there to travel about Europe for twenty years." Then he inquired
if I was traveling for pleasure or on business.
"I have come over to study music."
"Ah, composition?"
"No; mainly piano, but also theory and composition."
"And where?"
"I expect to go to Leipsic to study with Moscheles, Hauptmann, and
Richter. Eventually I hope to go to Liszt."
"Well, well, you've chosen good men. Moscheles knew Beethoven."
Then, with a few friendly words, he left the lodge and entered the
hotel. Just as he was leaving the porter returned.
"Who is the gentleman?" I asked, pointing after the disappearing form.
"Meyerbeer, the composer."
The porter then took me into the courtyard and pointed out the room
which Meyerbeer occupied, calling my attention to the fact that his
window and mine almost faced each other.
"If you look out of your window about eleven o'clock," said the porter,
"you will see Mme. Garcia and Roger, the tenor, coming here to rehearse
their roles in the new opera with the composer."
Meyerbeer was so affable at our chance meeting that I think I could
easily have followed it up and have seen more of him; but when a boy is
in Paris for the first time, he has many things to think of. Moreover, I
did not realize that at the end of the century, "Le Prophete," the work
which Meyerbeer was then rehearsing, would still be in the repertory of
every first-class opera-house. I knew that he was a distinguished
composer, but I did not for a moment imagine that his work would live so
long. As I now look back through the perspective of time, I realize the
opportunity I missed; but I thank the freak of fortune which threw in
his way, if only for a few moments, a young man who was too careless to
improve the chance acquaintance.
From Paris I returned to Schuberth's in Hamburg. He was an active,
enterprising, pushing business man, with a large acquaintance in the
musical world, and the knowledge of how to put it to the best use. I
remained in Hamburg for some time. Boy-like, I had spent all my money in
Paris, and was now obliged to wait for a remittance from home. In
Hamburg I met Carl Mayer of Dresden, a fine pianist of the Hummel
school, and Mortier de Fontaine, who was very well known in his day as a
Beethoven-player--had, in fact, won considerable fame as the first
pianist to perform Beethoven's "Sonata, Op. 106" in public. That was his
label.
LISZT'S FEAT OF MEMORY
From Hamburg I went to Leipsic, but Schuberth did not lose sight of me.
Whenever he came there he looked me up, and was very kind in
introducing me to people whom it was well for me to meet. He knew Liszt
very well, and having taken a fancy to a composition of mine, "Les
Perles de Rosee," which was still in manuscript, he said: "Let me have
it for publication. Dedicate it to Liszt. I can easily get Liszt to
accept the dedication. I am going directly from here to Weimar, and will
see him about it. At the same time, I will prepare the way for your
reception later as a pupil."
[Illustration: Autograph of I. Moscheles]
Not long afterward I received a letter from Schuberth in which he told
me that when he handed the music to Liszt, the latter looked at the
manuscript, hummed it over, then sat down and played it from memory.
Then, going to his desk, he took a pen, and accepted the dedication by
writing his name at the top of the title-page. Encouraged by this, I
wrote a letter to Liszt, expressing my desire to become one of his
pupils, and asking what my chances were. Unfortunately, I misinterpreted
his reply, and received the impression that it amounted to a
refusal; but at the same time he gave me a cordial invitation to
attend the festival about to take place in Weimar in commemoration of
the hundredth anniversary of Goethe's birth. I still have this letter,
which is dated August 18, 1849. Had I understood then that Liszt was
ready to accept me as a pupil, I should have taken up my residence at
Weimar at once, instead of waiting until I learned my mistake, as I did
during a call which I made upon Liszt nearly four years later.
FIRST MEETING WITH LISZT
However, I went to Weimar with Mr. Hill to attend the Goethe festival,
arriving there early in the afternoon of the day before it began.
The third day of the festival we called on Liszt, who was then living in
the Hotel zum Erbprinzen, and were received most cordially. Schlesinger,
the Paris publisher, was there with his little daughter, who was
precocious as a pianist and played several Chopin waltzes. Liszt was
very busy with his guests, so that our visit was limited, and nothing
was said about my coming to Weimar to study except that Liszt said he
never received pupils for regular lessons, but that those who lived in
Weimar (and there were only three or four in those days) had frequent
opportunities of hearing and meeting artists who visited him. Having
misinterpreted his letter, I accepted these remarks as a further
politely worded refusal to receive me. So I returned to Leipsic to
continue my studies there.
ARRIVAL AT LEIPSIC
I well remember the feeling of awe mingled with interest with which I
looked upon every German whom I met in the streets of Leipsic on my
first arrival in that famously musical city. I looked on even the
laboring-men, the peasants as well as those in higher positions, as
being Mozarts and Beethovens, and the idea gained such ascendancy that I
felt my own inferiority and metaphorically held down my head. This
feeling, however, was not of long duration, and changed in the course of
a month or two on account of what happened at a concert of the Euterpe
Society which I attended. The concerts of this musical society were
second only to those of the famous Gewandhaus, and their audiences were
made up largely of those who attended the concerts of the latter. At
this concert the program was classical and unimpeachable as to the
orchestral concerted pieces, but one of the numbers was a solo for
clarinet. At my age I was disposed to look down on this as an inferior
kind of music, and as decidedly unsuitable to an educated and musically
cultivated taste. Therefore, when, to my surprise, this turned out to be
the most popular piece of the evening and received the most vociferous
applause of the entire audience, I found my high opinion of the select
musical taste of the Germans sensibly decreased.
Since then I have learned that there is a place for everything good in
its way; but the clarinet solo seemed out of place in the classical
atmosphere of a symphony concert.
MOSCHELES, BEETHOVEN, AND CHOPIN
Moscheles, with whom I studied in Leipsic, had been a pupil of Dionysius
Weber in Prague. At that time Beethoven was still a newcomer, and was
regarded with skepticism by the older men, whose ideas were formed and
who could not get over their first unfavorable impressions of him.
Beethoven was a profound man and had strong individuality. He was
eagerly accepted by the younger men, Moscheles among them; but Dionysius
Weber regarded him as a monstrosity, and would never allow Moscheles to
learn any of his music. Consequently, Moscheles practised Beethoven in
secret, and when he grew up he prided himself on being a
Beethoven-player, and wrote a life of Beethoven, which, however, is
largely based on Schindler's.
At about the time I went to Leipsic the attitude of Moscheles toward
Chopin was very like what Dionysius Weber's had been toward Beethoven.
One of the daughters of Moscheles was very fond of playing Chopin, but
her father forbade it. Afterward she married and went to London, where
she played Chopin to her heart's content. It is curious how men who in
their younger days are pioneers become so conservative as they grow
older that they are like stone walls in the paths of progress. They
forget that in their youth they laughed at or criticized their elders
for the same pedantry of which they themselves afterward become guilty.
THE INTIMACY OF MOSCHELES AND MENDELSSOHN
Moscheles and Mendelssohn had been warm friends. Moscheles, in
particular, prided himself on the composer's friendship. No one to-day
can understand the influence which Mendelssohn had upon his
contemporaries, by whom his music and his personality were fairly
worshiped. Comparisons were made between him and Beethoven to the
latter's disadvantage. I remember an excellent musician saying to me,
"Beethoven does have consecutive fifths now and then, Mendelssohn
never." He did not realize that these apparent violations of technical
rules were part of Beethoven's ragged strength, while Mendelssohn's
scrupulous adherence to them was evidence of weakness.
Mendelssohn's death was a great shock to Moscheles. Mendelssohn had
often visited him, and there was such profound musical sympathy between
them that they were able to improvise together on two pianos. They
understood each other so well that one of them would improvise a theme,
which the other would follow. After a while they would interchange their
roles, the second piano taking up the theme, the first piano
subordinating itself. This is not in itself an extraordinary feat, but
it illustrates the musical sympathy which existed between Mendelssohn
and Moscheles.
SCHUMANN
[Illustration: Autograph of Robert Schumann]
For some years prior to 1844 Schumann lived in Leipsic. It was his habit
to compose intensely all day, and then to walk to a beer-cellar at
the upper end of the Grimmaische Strasse. There he would sit at a table
with one of his most trusted friends, an odd-looking but able musician
and piano-teacher named Wenzel. There were two or three other musicians
who frequented the place and were generally at the same table. Schumann
enjoyed being among friends, but disliked nothing more than the
restraint of social functions. No doubt there was a large consumption of
beer, after the fashion of the Germans on such occasions, but to a
musical student who could sit within hearing there was afforded a golden
opportunity of absorbing musical ideas.
SCHUMANN'S "SYMPHONY NO. 1, B FLAT"
When I went to Germany, Schumann was living in Dresden, but he made
frequent visits to Leipsic. I knew little or nothing of Schumann's
music, for Mendelssohn then dominated the musical world; but the first
orchestral composition of Schumann's that I ever heard placed him far
above Mendelssohn in my estimation. It was at the second concert I
attended at the Gewandhaus in Leipsic, and the work was the "First
Symphony." I was so wrought up by it that I hummed passages from it as I
walked home, and sat down at the piano when I got there, and played as
much of it as I could remember. I hardly slept that night for the
excitement of it. The first thing I did in the morning was to go to
Breitkopf & Haertel's and buy the score, the orchestral parts and piano
arrangements for four and two hands, and in these I fairly reveled.
I grew so enthusiastic over the symphony that I sent the score and parts
to the Musical Fund Society of Boston, the only concert orchestra then
in that city, and conducted by Mr. Webb. They could make nothing of the
symphony, and it lay on the shelf for one or two years. Then they tried
it again, saw something in it, but somehow could not get the swing of
it, possibly on account of the syncopations. Before my return from
Europe in 1854, I think they finally played it. In speaking of it, Mr.
Webb said to my father: "Yes, it is interesting; but in our next concert
we play Haydn's 'Surprise Symphony,' and that will live long after this
symphony of Schumann's is forgotten." Many years afterward I reminded
Mr. Webb of this remark, whereupon he said, "William, is it possible
that I was so foolish?"
Only a few years before I arrived at Leipsic, Schumann's genius was so
little appreciated that when he entered the store of Breitkopf & Haertel
with a new manuscript under his arm, the clerks would nudge one another
and laugh. One of them told me that they regarded him as a crank and a
failure because his pieces remained on the shelf and were in the way.
I often saw Schumann in Leipsic, and I heard him conduct his cantata,
"The Pilgrimage of the Rose." His conducting was awkward, as he was
neither active nor of commanding presence. However, I liked his looks,
as he seemed good-natured, though perhaps not like a man with whom one
might easily become acquainted. This impression, however, may be due to
anecdotes which I had heard regarding his lack of sociability.
SCHUMANN'S ABSENT-MINDEDNESS
Up to the time of Mendelssohn's death his followers and the small body
of musicians who appreciated Schumann had rubbed pretty hard together.
Naturally, Moscheles and Schumann had not been intimate. But Moscheles
felt Mendelssohn's loss so keenly that he cast about for some one to
take his place, and finally decided to make overtures to Schumann by
inviting him to his house to supper. What occurred there was told to me
by a fellow-pupil. He said that while the company was gathering in the
drawing-room, Schumann sat in a corner apparently absorbed in thought,
without looking at any one or uttering a word. He did not impress my
friend as morose, but rather as a man whose thoughts were at the moment
in an entirely different sphere. Supper was announced, and the guests
being seated, it was discovered that there was a vacant place at the
table. Moscheles looked about for Schumann, but he was not there. The
host and several guests went back to the salon to look for him, and
found him sitting in his corner, still deep in thought. When aroused, he
said, "Oh, I hadn't noticed that you had gone out." Then he went in to
supper, but hardly said a word. What a contrast there was between his
personality and that of the ever-affable, polished Mendelssohn! There is
the same contrast between their music: Schumann's profound, and
appealing to us most when we wish to withdraw entirely within the very
sanctuary of our own emotions; Mendelssohn's smooth, finished, and
easily understood.
Early in 1844 Schumann had moved to Dresden, and I called upon him in
that city and received a pleasant welcome, contrary to my expectation,
for I had heard much of his reticence. Judging by the brief entry in my
diary, nothing of importance was said. I could not see Mme. Schumann,
because she was giving a lesson. This was on April 13, 1850. I called
again later in the month, and Schumann gave me his musical autograph, a
canon for male voices; and the next day I received an autograph from
Clara Schumann. In 1880 I learned from Mme. Schumann that the canon
referred to had already been published at the time when I received it
from Schumann. (See Op. 65, No. 6.)
Afterward, when I met Wagner I could not help contrasting his lively
manner and glowing enthusiasm with Schumann's reserve, which, however,
was by no means repellent. Indeed, if I had been the greatest living
musician, instead of a mere boy student, Wagner could not have received
me with more kindness, or have talked to me more delightfully during the
three memorable hours of my life which were spent with him.
MORITZ HAUPTMANN
[Illustration: Autograph of Mme. Schumann]
My teacher in harmony and counterpoint was Moritz Hauptmann, a pupil of
Spohr, and an excellent composer of church music, his motets being
especially beautiful. He was the cantor and music director of the
Thomas-schule at Leipsic, a position which years before had been held by
Sebastian Bach. He was altogether a genial and attractive man, of gentle
manner and disposition, and I at once became much attached to him. He
was in delicate health and suffered constantly from dyspepsia, yet bore
all of his ills with patience and equanimity. I remember that he had a
passion for baked apples, one of the few things he could eat without ill
results, and on his stove, a regular old-fashioned German structure of
porcelain, nearly as high as the ceiling, there was always a row of
apples in process of slow baking.
His autograph is one of the most curious in my book, and is an excellent
example of his technical knowledge. It is a _Spiegel-Canon_
("looking-glass canon"). When held up to the mirror the reflection shows
the answer to the canon in the related key.
Not long after beginning my studies under Hauptmann, I received from my
father a copy of his latest publication, being a collection of tunes,
mostly of his own composition, for choir and congregational use in the
church. He requested me to show this to Hauptmann and get his opinion,
if practicable. I felt a decided reluctance to do this, because I
thought my father's work was not worthy of the notice of such a profound
musician, so I delayed the carrying out of his request. After a few
weeks, however, I began receiving letters from my father upon the
subject, and realized that I could not postpone action any longer. So
one day, going to my lesson, I took the book with me. I kept it as well
out of sight as I could during the lesson, and then at the last moment,
when about to leave the room, I placed it on Hauptmann's table, telling
him in an apologetic way of my father's request and seeking to excuse
myself for troubling him. I said I was afraid he would find nothing in
the book to interest him.
When the regular time for my lesson recurred I hesitated to present
myself again; but there was no way of avoiding the difficulty, so with a
tremendous exercise of will I faced the situation. What was my surprise
and relief when he greeted me with "Mr. Mason, I have examined your
father's book with much interest and pleasure, and his admirable
treatment of the voices is most musicianly and satisfactory. Please give
him my sincere regards, and thank him for his attention in sending me
the book."
At the moment I could not understand how such a big contrapuntist could
express himself in such strong terms of approval; but I knew him to be
genuine, and so I straightened myself up and really began to be proud of
my father. Another and more important result was the recognition of my
own ignorance in imagining that a thing in order to be great must
necessarily be intricate and complicated. It dawned upon me that the
simplest things are sometimes the grandest and the most difficult of
attainment.
I also took lessons in instrumentation from Ernst Friedrich Richter, a
pupil of Hauptmann.
A VISIT TO WAGNER.
My parents joined me in Leipsic in January, 1852, and in the spring of
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.
It turned out that all the principal artists who had taken part in the
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
What I had heard in regard to Liszt's method of teaching proved to be
absolutely correct. He never taught in the ordinary sense of the word.
During the entire time that I was with him I did not see him give a
regular lesson in the pedagogical sense. He would notify us to come up
to the Altenburg. For instance, he would say to me, "Tell the boys to
come up to-night at half-past six or seven." We would go there, and he
would call on us to play. I remember very well the first time I played
to him after I had been accepted as a pupil. I began with the "Ballade"
of Chopin in A flat major; then I played a fugue by Handel in E minor.
After I was well started he began to get excited. He made audible
suggestions, inciting me to put more enthusiasm into my playing, and
occasionally he would push me gently off the chair and sit down at the
piano and play a phrase or two himself by way of illustration. He
gradually got me worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm that I put all
the grit that was in me into my playing.
I found at this first lesson that he was very fond of strong accents in
order to mark off periods and phrases, and he talked so much about
strong accentuation that one might have supposed that he would abuse it,
but he never did. When he wrote to me later about my own piano method,
he expressed the strongest approval of the exercises on accentuation.
"PLAY IT LIKE THIS"
While I was playing to him for the first time, he said on one of the
occasions when he pushed me from the chair: "Don't play it that way.
Play it like this." Evidently I had been playing ahead in a steady,
uniform way. He sat down, and gave the same phrases with an accentuated,
elastic movement, which let in a flood of light upon me. From that one
experience I learned to bring out the same effect, where it was
appropriate, in almost every piece that I played. It eradicated much
that was mechanical, stilted, and unmusical in my playing, and developed
an elasticity of touch which has lasted all my life, and which I have
always tried to impart to my pupils.
At this first lesson I must have played for two or three hours. For some
reason or other Raff was not present, but Klindworth and Pruckner were
there. They lounged on a sofa and smoked, and I remember wondering if
they appreciated the nice time they were having at my ordeal. However,
not many days afterward came my opportunity to light a cigar and lounge
about the room while Liszt put them through their paces.
Two or three hours is not a long time for a professional musician to
practise, and I had often spent many more hours at the piano, but never
under such strong incitement. I was exceedingly tired afterward, and
actually felt stiff the next day, as if I had performed some very
arduous physical work. Liszt heard of this, and turned it into a joke,
telling people that at the time set for the next lesson I appeared at
the Altenburg with my hand in a sling, and said that I had strained my
wrist while hunting, and would be unable to play. I think this is _non e
ver e ben trovato_, as I have no recollection of it.
LISZT IN 1854
The best impression of Liszt's appearance at that time is conveyed by
the picture which shows him approaching the Altenburg. His back is
turned; nevertheless, there is a certain something which shows the man
as he was better even than those portraits in which his features are
clearly reproduced. The picture gives his gait, his figure, and his
general appearance. There is his tall, lank form, his high hat set a
little to one side, and his arm a trifle akimbo. He had piercing eyes.
His hair was very dark, but not black. He wore it long, just as he did
in his older days. It came almost down to his shoulders, and was cut off
square at the bottom. He had it cut frequently, so as to keep it at
about the same length. That was a point about which he was very
particular.
HIS FASCINATION
As I remember his hands, his fingers were lean and thin, but they did
not impress me as being very long, and he did not have such a remarkable
stretch on the keyboard as one might imagine. He was always neatly
dressed, generally appearing in a long frock-coat, until he became the
Abbe Liszt, after which he wore the distinctive black gown. His general
manner and his face were most expressive of his feelings, and his
features lighted up when he spoke. His smile was simply charming. His
face was peculiar. One could hardly call it handsome, yet there was in
it a subtle something that was most attractive, and his whole manner had
a fascination which it is impossible to describe.
I remember little incidents which are in themselves trivial, but which
illustrate some character-trait. One day Liszt was reading a letter in
which a musician was referred to as a certain Mr. So-and-so. He read
that phrase over two or three times, and then substituted his own name
for that of the musician mentioned, and repeated several times, "A
_certain_ Mr. Liszt, a _certain_ Mr. Liszt, a _certain_ Mr. Liszt,"
adding: "I don't know that that would offend me. I don't know that I
should object to being called 'a _certain_ Mr. Liszt.'" As he said this
his face had an expression of curiosity, as though he were wondering
whether he really would be offended or not. But at the same time there
was in his face that look of kindness I saw there so often, and I really
believe he would not have felt injured by such a reference to himself.
There was nothing petty in his feelings.
LISZT'S INDIGNATION
On one occasion, however, I saw Liszt grow very much excited over what
he considered an imposition. One evening he said to us: "Boys, there is
a young man coming here to-morrow who says he can play Beethoven's
'Sonata in B Flat, Op. 106.' I want you all three to be here." We were
there at the appointed hour. The pianist proved to be a Hungarian, whose
name I have forgotten.
He sat down and began to play in a conveniently slow tempo the bold
chords with which the sonata opens. He had not progressed more than half
a page when Liszt stopped him, and seating himself at the piano, played
in the correct tempo, which was much faster, to show him how the work
should be interpreted. "It's nonsense for you to go through this sonata
in that fashion," said Liszt, as he rose from the piano and left the
room.
The pianist, of course, was very much disconcerted. Finally he said, as
if to console himself: "Well, he can't play it through like that, and
that's why he stopped after half a page."
This sonata is the only one which the composer himself metronomized, and
his direction is M.M. [Illustration: quarter-note] = 138. A less rapid
tempo, [Illustration: quarter-note] = 100 or thereabouts, would seem to
be more nearly correct, but the pianist took it at a much slower rate
than even this.
When the young man left I went out with him, partly because I felt sorry
for him, he had made such a fiasco, and partly because I wished to
impress upon him the fact that Liszt could play the whole movement in
the tempo in which he began it. As I was walking along with him, he
said, "I'm out of money; won't you lend me three louis d'or?"
A day or two later I told Liszt by the merest chance that the hero of
the Op. 106 fiasco had tried to borrow money of me. "B-r-r-r! What?"
exclaimed Liszt. Then he jumped up, walked across the room, seized a
long pipe that hung from a nail on the wall, and brandishing it as if it
were a stick, stamped up and down the room in almost childish
indignation, exclaiming, "Drei louis d'or! Drei louis d'or!" The point
is, however, that Liszt regarded the man as an artistic impostor. He had
sent word to Liszt that he could play the great Beethoven sonata, not an
inconsiderable feat in those days. He had been received on that basis.
He had failed miserably. To this artistic imposition he had added the
effrontery of endeavoring to borrow money from some one whom he had met
under Liszt's roof.
OBJECTS TO MY EYE-GLASSES
I have mentioned that Liszt was careful in his dress. He was also
particular about the appearance of his pupils. I remember two instances
which show how particular he was in little matters. I have been
near-sighted all my life, and when I went to Weimar I wore eye-glasses,
much preferring them to spectacles. Eye-glasses were not much worn in
Germany at that time, and were considered about as affected as the mode
of wearing a monocle. The Germans wore spectacles. I had not been in
Weimar long when Liszt said to me: "Mason, I don't like to see you
wearing those glasses. I shall send my optician to fit your eyes with
spectacles."
I hardly thought that he was serious, and so paid no attention to him.
But, sure enough, about a week later there was a knock at my door, and
the optician presented himself, saying he had come at the command of
Dr. Liszt to examine my eyes and fit a pair of spectacles to them. As I
was evidently to have no say in the matter, I submitted, and a few days
later I received two pairs, one in a green and one in a red case. I
thought them extremely unbecoming, but I was very particular to put them
on whenever I went to see Liszt.
Not long afterward Liszt went to Paris, and when we called to see him
after his return, and he was talking about his experiences there, he
said casually: "By the way, Mason, I find that gentlemen in Paris are
wearing eye-glasses now. In fact, they are considered quite _comme il
faut_, so I have no objection to your wearing yours." As he did not ask
me to send him the spectacles, I kept them, and have them to this day.
Klindworth, Pruckner, and I had played the Bach triple concerto in a
concert at the town hall, and had been requested to repeat it at an
evening concert at the ducal palace. An hour before the ducal carriage
arrived to take me to the concert, a servant came from the Altenburg
with a package which he said Liszt had requested him to be sure to
deliver to me. On opening it, I found two or three white ties. It was a
hint to me from Liszt that I most dress suitably to play at court.
This incident shows the care that Liszt bestowed on little things
relating to the customs and amenities of social life. He evidently sent
the ties as a precautionary measure. Possibly he was not sure whether
Americans were civilized enough to wear white ties with evening dress,
and was afraid I might appear in a red-white-and-blue one. Seriously,
however, it was very kind of him to think of a little thing like this.
A MUSICAL BREAKFAST
Before I went to Weimar I had not been of a very sociable disposition.
At Weimar I had to be. Liszt liked to have us about him. He wished us to
meet great men. He would send us word when he expected visitors, and
sometimes he would bring them down to our lodgings to see us. In every
way he tried to make our surroundings as pleasant as possible. It would
have been strange if, under such circumstances, we had not derived some
benefit from our intercourse with our great master and his visitors.
I shall always recall with amusement a breakfast which, at Liszt's
request, Klindworth and I gave to Joachim and Wieniawski, the
violinists, then, of course, very young men, and to several other
distinguished visitors. Liszt had been entertaining them for several
days. We knew that it was about time for him to bring them down to see
one of us. So I was not surprised when he turned to me one evening and
said, "Mason, I want you and Klindworth to give us a breakfast
to-morrow." I asked him what we should have. "Oh," he replied, "some
_Semmel_ [rolls], caviar, herring," etc.
The next morning Liszt and his visitors came. I remember looking out of
my window and watching them cross the ducal park, over the long
foot-path which ended directly opposite the house where Klindworth and I
lived. It had been raining, and the path was slippery, so that their
footsteps were somewhat uncertain.
The breakfast passed off all right. When he had finished, Liszt said,
"Now let us take a stroll in the garden." This garden was about four
times as large as the back yard of a New York house, and it was
unflagged and, of course, muddy from the rain of the previous night.
Never shall I forget the sight of Liszt, Joachim, Wieniawski, and our
other distinguished guests "strolling" through this garden, wading in
mud two inches deep.
LISZT'S PLAYING
Time and again at Weimar I heard Liszt play. There is absolutely no
doubt in my mind that he was the greatest pianist of the nineteenth
century. Liszt was what the Germans call an _Erscheinung_--an
epoch-making genius. Taussig is reported to have said of him: "Liszt
dwells alone upon a solitary mountain-top, and none of us can approach
him." Rubinstein said to Mr. William Steinway in the year 1873: "Put all
the rest of us together and we would not make one Liszt." This was
doubtless hyperbole, but nevertheless significant as expressing the
enthusiasm of pianists universally conceded to be of the highest rank.
There have been other great pianists, some of whom are now living, but I
must dissent from those writers who affirm that any of these can be
placed upon a level with Liszt. Those who make this assertion are too
young to have heard Liszt other than in his declining years, and it is
unjust to compare the playing of one who has long since passed his prime
with that of one who is still in it. In the year 1873 Rubinstein told
Theodore Thomas that it was fully worth while to make a trip to Europe
to hear Liszt play; but he added: "Make haste and go at once; he is
already beginning to break up, and his playing is not up to the
standard of former years, although his personality is as attractive as
ever."
In March, 1895, Stavenhagen and Remenyi were dining at my house one
evening, and the former began to speak in enthusiastic terms of Liszt's
playing. Remenyi interrupted with emphasis: "You have never heard Liszt
play--that is, as Liszt used to play in his prime"; and he appealed to
me for corroboration, but, unhappily, I never met Liszt again after
leaving Weimar in July, 1854.
The difference between Liszt's playing and that of others was the
difference between creative genius and interpretation. His genius
flashed through every pianistic phrase, it illuminated a composition to
its innermost recesses, and yet his wonderful effects, strange as it
must seem, were produced without the advantage of a genuinely musical
touch.
I remember on one occasion Schulhoff came to Weimar and played in the
drawing-room of the Altenburg house. His playing and Liszt's were in
marked contrast. He has been mentioned in an earlier chapter as a
parlor pianist of high excellence. His compositions, exclusively in the
smaller forms, were in great favor and universally played by the ladies.
Liszt played his own "Benediction de Dieu dans la Solitude," as pathetic
a piece, perhaps, as he ever composed, and of which he was very fond.
Afterward Schulhoff, with his exquisitely beautiful touch, produced a
quality of tone more beautiful than Liszt's; but about the latter's
performance there was intellectuality and the indescribable
impressiveness of genius, which made Schulhoff's playing, with all its
beauty, seem tame by contrast.
I was not surprised to hear from Theodore Thomas what Rubinstein had
told him concerning Liszt's "breaking up," for as far back as the days
of "die goldene Zeit" it had seemed to me that there were certain
indications in his playing which warranted the belief that his
mechanical powers would begin to wane at a comparatively early period in
his career. There was too little pliancy, flexion, and relaxation in his
muscles; hence a lack of economy in the expenditure of his energies.
He was aware of this, and said in effect on one occasion, as I learned
indirectly through either Klindworth or Pruckner: "You are to learn all
you can from my playing, relating to conception, style, phrasing, etc.,
but do not imitate my touch, which, I am well aware, is not a good model
to follow. In early years I was not patient enough to 'make haste
slowly'--thoroughly to develop in an orderly, logical, and progressive
way. I was impatient for immediate results, and took short cuts, so to
speak, and jumped through sheer force of will to the goal of my
ambition. I wish now that I had progressed by logical steps instead of
by leaps. It is true that I have been successful, but I do not advise
you to follow my way, for you lack my personality."
In saying this Liszt had no idea of magnifying himself; but it was
nevertheless genius which enabled him to accomplish certain results
which were out of the ordinary course, and in a way which others, being
differently constituted, could not follow. His advice to his pupils was
to be deliberate, and through care and close attention to important,
although seemingly insignificant, details to progress in an orderly way
toward a perfect style.
Notwithstanding this caution, and falling into the usual tendency of
pupils to imitate the idiosyncrasies and mannerisms, even faults or weak
points, of the teacher, some of the boys, in their effort to attain
Lisztian effects, acquired a hard and unsympathetic touch, and thus
produced mere noise in the place of full and resonant tones.
Before going to Weimar I had heard in various places in Germany that
Liszt spoiled all of those pupils who went to him without a previously
acquired knowledge of method and a habit of the correct use of the
muscles in producing musical effects. It was necessary for the pupil to
have an absolutely sure foundation to benefit by Liszt's instruction. If
he had that preparation Liszt could develop the best there was in him.
There is danger of unduly magnifying the importance of a mere mechanical
technic. In Liszt's earlier days he inclined in this direction, and
wrote the "Etudes d'Execution Transcendante." I remember his saying to
his pupils one day, when these were the subject of our conversation,
that having completed them, his interest in that direction had ceased
and he wrote no more. Moreover, he added, "I expected that some day a
pianist would appear who would make this subject his specialty, and
would accomplish difficulties that were seemingly impossible to
perform." It has been said of Liszt that he worshiped this kind of
technic. I think the assertion does him injustice. A friend of mine who
visited him in Weimar about the year 1858 wrote that Liszt, speaking of
one of his pupils, said: "What I like about So-and-so is that he is not
a mere 'finger virtuoso': he does not worship the keyboard of the
pianoforte; it is not his patron saint, but simply the altar before
which he pays homage to the idea of the tone-composer." A perfect
technic is more than a wonderful power of prestidigitation, or facility
in the manipulation of an instrument. It implies qualities of mind and
heart which are essential to an all-round musical development and the
ability to give them adequate expression.
LISZT AND PIXIS
In his concertizing days Liszt always played without the music before
him, although this was not the usual custom of his time; and in this
connection I remember an anecdote told to me by Theimer, one of
Dreyschock's assistant teachers. Pixis was an old-fashioned player of
considerable reputation in his day, and was the composer of
chamber-music, besides pianoforte pieces. Among other works of his was a
duo for two pianofortes. While this composition was yet in manuscript it
was played in one of the concerts of Pixis with the assistance of Liszt.
Pixis, knowing Liszt's habit of playing from memory, requested him on
this occasion at least to have the music open before him on the
piano-desk, as he himself did not like to risk playing his part without
notes, and he felt it would produce an unfavorable impression on the
public if Liszt should play from memory while he, the composer, had to
rely on his copy. Liszt, as the story goes, made no promise one way or
the other. So when the time came the pianists walked on the stage, each
carrying his roll of music. Pixis carefully unrolled his and placed it
on the piano-desk. Liszt, however, sat down at the piano, and, just
before beginning to play, tossed his roll over behind the instrument and
proceeded to play his part by heart. Liszt was young at that time,
and--well--somewhat inconsiderate. Later on he very rarely played even
his own compositions without having the music before him, and during
most of the time I was there copies of his later publications were
always lying on the piano, and among them a copy of the "Benediction de
Dieu dans la Solitude," which Liszt had used so many times when playing
to his guests that it became associated with memories of Berlioz,
Rubinstein, Vieuxtemps, Wieniawski, Joachim, and our immediate circle,
Raff, Bulow, Cornelius, Klindworth, Pruckner, and others. When I left
Weimar I took this copy with me as a souvenir, and still have it; and I
treasure it all the more for the marks of usage which it bears. I also
have a very old copy of the Handel "E Minor Fugue," which was given to
me by Dreyschock and which I studied with him and afterward with Liszt.
Dreyschock had evidently used this same copy when he studied the fugue
under Tomaschek. It has penciled figures indicating the fingering, made
by both Dreyschock and Liszt. A few years ago I missed this valuable
relic for a while, and was much grieved by my loss. Fortunately it was
discovered in the ash-barrel at the back of the house. Shades of
Tomaschek, Dreyschock, and Liszt!
LISZT CONDUCTING
In his conducting Liszt was not unerring. I do not know how far he may
have progressed in later years, but when I was in Weimar he had very
little practice as a conductor, and was not one of the highest class. He
conducted, however, and with good results on certain important
occasions, such as, for instance, when "Lohengrin" was produced.
On account of his strong advocacy of Wagner and modern music generally,
he had many enemies, as was to be expected of a man of his prominence.
If perchance a mishap occurred during his conducting there were always
petty critics on hand to take advantage of the opportunity and to
magnify the fault.
One of these occasions happened at the musical festival at Karlsruhe in
October, 1853, while he was conducting Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony." In
a passage where the bassoon enters on an off beat the player made a
mistake and came in on the even beat. This error, not the conductor's
fault, occasioned such confusion that Liszt was obliged to stop the
orchestra and begin over again, and the little fellows made the most of
this royal opportunity to pitch into him.
LISZT'S SYMPHONIC POEMS--REHEARSING "TASSO"
When Liszt first began his career as an orchestral composer two parties
were formed, one of which predicted success, the other disaster. The
latter asserted that he was too much of a pianist and began too late in
life for success in this direction. Even in Weimar, in his own
household, so to speak, opinions were divided. I remember one of my
fellow-pupils saying that he did not think it was his forte. Raff had
pretty much the same opinion, and I inclined to agree with them. Liszt
was in earnest, however, and availed himself of every means of
preparation for the work. Frequently upon his request the best
orchestral players came to the Altenburg, and he asked them about their
instruments, their nature, and whether certain passages were idiomatic
to them. About the time I came to Weimar to study with him he had nearly
finished "Tasso," and before giving it the last touches he had a
rehearsal of it, which we attended. We went to the theater, and he took
the orchestra into a room which would just about hold it. Imagine the
din in that room! The effect was far from musical, but to Liszt it was
the key to the polyphonic effects which he wished to produce.
EXTRACTS FROM A DIARY
As an illustration of some of the advantages of a residence at Weimar
almost _en famille_ with Liszt during "die goldene Zeit," a few extracts
from my diary are presented, showing how closely events followed one
upon another:
"Sunday, April 24, 1853. At the Altenburg this forenoon at eleven
o'clock. Liszt played with Laub and Cossmann two trios by Cesar Franck."
This is peculiarly interesting in view of the fact that the composer,
who died about ten years ago, is just beginning to receive due
appreciation. In Paris at the present time there is almost a Cesar
Franck cult, but it is quite natural that Liszt, with his quick and
far-seeing appreciation, should have taken especial delight in playing
his music forty-seven years ago. Liszt was very fond of it.
"May 1. Quartet at the Altenburg at eleven o'clock, after which
Wieniawski played with Liszt the violin and pianoforte 'Sonata in A' by
Beethoven."
"May 3. Liszt called at my rooms last evening in company with Laub and
Wieniawski. Liszt played several pieces, among them my 'Amitie pour
Amitie.'"
"May 6. The boys were all at the Hotel Erbprinz this evening. Liszt came
in and added to the liveliness of the occasion."
"May 7. At Liszt's, this evening, Klindworth, Laub, and Cossmann played
a piano trio by Spohr, after which Liszt played his recently composed
sonata and one of his concertos. In the afternoon I had played during my
lesson with Liszt the 'C Sharp Minor Sonata' of Beethoven and the 'E
Minor Fugue' by Handel."
"May 17. Lesson from Liszt this evening. Played Scherzo and Finale from
Beethoven's 'C Sharp Minor Sonata.'"
"May 20, Friday. Attended a court concert this evening which Liszt
conducted. Joachim played a violin solo by Ernst."
"May 22. Went to the Altenburg at eleven o'clock this forenoon. There
were about fifteen persons present--quite an unusual thing. Among other
things, a string quartet of Beethoven was played, Joachim taking the
first violin."
"May 23. Attended an orchestral rehearsal at which an overture and a
violin concerto by Joachim were performed, the latter played by
Joachim."
"May 27. Joachim Raff's birthday. Klindworth and I presented ourselves
to him early in the day and stopped his composing, insisting on having a
holiday. Our celebration of this event included a ride to Tiefurt and
attendance at a garden concert."
"May 29, Sunday. At Liszt's this forenoon as usual. No quartet to-day.
Wieniawski played first a violin solo by Ernst, and afterward with Liszt
the letter's duo on Hungarian airs."
"May 30. Attended a ball of the Erholung Gesellschaft this evening. At
our supper-table were Liszt, Raff, Wieniawski, Pruckner, and Klindworth.
Got home at four o'clock in the morning."
"June 4. Dined with Liszt at the Erbprinz. Liszt called at my rooms
later in the afternoon, bringing with him Dr. Marx and lady from Berlin,
also Raff and Winterberger. Liszt played three Chopin nocturnes and a
scherzo of his own. In the evening we were all invited to the Altenburg.
He played 'Harmonies du Soir, No. 2,' and his own sonata. He was at his
best and played divinely."
"June 9. Had a lesson from Liszt this evening. I played Chopin's 'E
Minor Concerto.'"
"June 10. Went to Liszt's this evening to a bock-beer soiree. The beer
was a present to Liszt from Pruckner's father, who has a large brewery
in Munich."
"Sunday, June 12. Usual quartet forenoon at the Altenburg. 'Quartet, Op.
161,' of Schubert's was played, also one of Beethoven's quartets."
The last entry may not seem to be particularly important, but it may be
as well not to end the quotations from a musical diary with a reference
to a bock-beer soiree.
OPPORTUNITIES
The period covered by these extracts was chosen at random, and they give
a fair idea of the many musical opportunities which were constantly
recurring throughout the entire year.
Ferdinand Laub, the leader of the quartet, was about twenty-one years of
age, and already a violinist of the first rank.
Wieniawski and Joachim, young men of the age of twenty-two and nineteen
years respectively, were among the most welcome visitors to Weimar.
Joachim, already celebrated as a quartet-player, was regarded by some as
the greatest living violinist. The playing of Wieniawski appealed to me
more than that of any other violinist of the time, and I remember it now
with intense pleasure.
BRAHMS IN 1853
On one evening early in June, 1853, Liszt sent us word to come up to the
Altenburg next morning, as he expected a visit from a young man who was
said to have great talent as a pianist and composer, and whose name was
Johannes Brahms. He was to come accompanied by Eduard Remenyi.
The next morning, on going to the Altenburg with Klindworth, we found
Brahms and Remenyi already in the reception-room with Raff and Pruckner.
After greeting the newcomers, of whom Remenyi was known to us by
reputation, I strolled over to a table on which were lying some
manuscripts of music. They were several of Brahms's yet unpublished
compositions, and I began turning over the leaves of the uppermost in
the pile. It was the piano solo "Op. 4, Scherzo, E Flat Minor," and, as
I remember, the writing was so illegible that I thought to myself that
if I had occasion to study it I should be obliged first to make a copy
of it. Finally Liszt came down, and after some general conversation he
turned to Brahms and said: "We are interested to hear some of your
compositions whenever you are ready and feel inclined to play them."
NERVOUS BEFORE LISZT
Brahms, who was evidently very nervous, protested that it was quite
impossible for him to play while in such a disconcerted state, and,
notwithstanding the earnest solicitations of both Liszt and Remenyi,
could not be persuaded to approach the piano. Liszt, seeing that no
progress was being made, went over to the table, and taking up the first
piece at hand, the illegible scherzo, and saying, "Well, I shall have to
play," placed the manuscript on the piano-desk.
We had often witnessed his wonderful feats in sight-reading, and
regarded him as infallible in that particular, but, notwithstanding our
confidence in his ability, both Raff and I had a lurking dread of the
possibility that something might happen which would be disastrous to our
unquestioning faith. So, when he put the scherzo on the piano-desk, I
trembled for the result. But he read it off in such a marvelous way--at
the same time carrying on a running accompaniment of audible criticism
of the music--that Brahms was amazed and delighted. Raff thought, and so
expressed himself, that certain parts of this scherzo suggested the
Chopin "Scherzo in B Flat Minor," but it seemed to me that the likeness
was too slight to deserve serious consideration. Brahms said that he had
never seen or heard any of Chopin's compositions. Liszt also played a
part of Brahms's "C Major Sonata, Op. 1."
DOZING WHILE LISZT PLAYED
A little later some one asked Liszt to play his own sonata, a work which
was quite recent at that time, and of which he was very fond. Without
hesitation, he sat down and began playing. As he progressed he came to a
very expressive part of the sonata, which he always imbued with extreme
pathos, and in which he looked for the especial interest and sympathy of
his listeners. Casting a glance at Brahms, he found that the latter was
dozing in his chair. Liszt continued playing to the end of the sonata,
then rose and left the room. I was in such a position that Brahms was
hidden from my view, but I was aware that something unusual had taken
place, and I think it was Remenyi who afterward told me what it was. It
is very strange that among the various accounts of this Liszt-Brahms
first interview--and there are several--there is not one which gives an
accurate description of what took place on that occasion; indeed, they
are all far out of the way. The events as here related are perfectly
clear in my own mind, but not wishing to trust implicitly to my memory
alone, I wrote to my friend Klindworth,--the only living witness of the
incident except myself, as I suppose,--and requested him to give an
account of it as he remembered it. He corroborated my description in
every particular, except that he made no specific reference to the
drowsiness of Brahms, and except, also, that, according to my
recollection, Brahms left Weimar on the afternoon of the day on which
the meeting took place; Klindworth writes that it was on the morning of
the following day--a discrepancy of very little moment.
Brahms and Remenyi were on a concert tour at the time of which I write,
and were dependent on such pianos as they could find in the different
towns in which they appeared. This was unfortunate, and sometimes
brought them into extreme dilemma. On one occasion the only piano at
their disposal was just a half-tone at variance with the violin. There
was no pianoforte-tuner at hand, and although the violin might have been
adapted to the piano temporarily, Remenyi would have had serious
objections to such a proceeding. Brahms therefore adapted himself to the
situation, transposed the piano part to the pitch of the violin, and
played the whole composition, Beethoven's "Kreutzer Sonata," from
memory. Joachim, attracted by this feat, gave Brahms a letter of
introduction to Schumann. Shortly after the untoward Weimar incident
Brahms paid a visit to Schumann, then living in Dusseldorf. The
acquaintanceship resulting therefrom led to the famous article of
Schumann entitled "Neue Bahnen," published shortly afterward (October
23, 1853) in the Leipsic "Neue Zeitschrift fur Musik," which started
Brahms on his musical career. It is doubtful if up to that time any
article had made such a sensation throughout musical Germany. I remember
how utterly the Liszt circle in Weimar were astounded. This letter was
at first, doubtless, an obstacle in the way of Brahms, but as it
resulted in stirring up great rivalry between two opposing parties it
eventually contributed much to his final success.
"LOHENGRIN" FOR THE FIRST TIME IN LEIPSIC
Liszt never questioned Wagner's sincerity. He considered "Lohengrin"
Wagner's greatest work up to the time at which it was composed. It was
dedicated to Liszt, and, as Raff told me, the good man could not
conceive that Wagner would dedicate anything but his best and greatest
to his friend and champion, such was Liszt's faith in the struggling
composer whose cause he had made his own.[1]
On the occasion of the first performance of a Wagner opera in any
neighboring town, a delegation from Weimar was apt to be on hand for the
purpose of making propaganda; and this was the case on Saturday, January
7, 1854, when the opera of "Lohengrin" was given in Leipsic for the
first time.
We boys were demonstrative claqueurs, and almost always succeeded in
making a sensation, especially in a town like Leipsic, where we had
acquaintances among the Conservatory students and could get them to help
us.
The general public and a large majority of the musicians were not at
all favorably disposed toward Wagner's music in those days, and in this
connection a remark of Joachim Raff made to me in 1879-80, on the
occasion of my second visit to Germany, was significant. Raff had been
in earlier years, perhaps, the most ardent of all pioneers in the Wagner
cause. A quarter of a century had elapsed since I had seen Raff, and
naturally one of my first questions was, "Raff, how is the Wagner
cause?" "Oh," said he, "the public have gone 'way over to the other
extreme. You know how hard it was to force Wagner upon them twenty-five
years ago, and now they go just as much too far the other way and are
unreasonable in their excessive homage." "Well," I replied, "I suppose
the matter will find its level and be adjusted as time passes on."
After the performance of "Lohengrin," which, by the way, was successful,
the whole Liszt party, by invitation, went to supper at the house of the
concertmeister, Ferdinand David. Quite a number of other guests were
present. Among them I remember with pleasure my Boston friends and
fellow-townsmen Charles C. Perkins and J. C. D. Parker, who were
temporarily located in Leipsic, pursuing their musical studies.
Brahms also was present, and during the evening he played the Andante
from his "F Minor Sonata, Op. 5."
IN STUTTGART--HOTEL MARQUAND
NOT long after my visit to Raff in 1879-80 I went on a pleasure trip to
Stuttgart, and on account of old associations stopped at the Hotel
Marquand. One of the objects of my visit was to meet again my old Weimar
fellow-pupil Dionys Pruckner, at that time eminent among the staff of
pianoforte teachers in the famous Stuttgart Conservatory of Music.
Alighting at the hotel, I was impressed with the marks of consideration
shown to me by the hotel porter. He was so very attentive that I was
somewhat puzzled. The explanation was apparent the next day when he
respectfully inquired if I was the kapellmeister of New York! He had
read the name and address on one of my trunks and jumped at conclusions.
I told him that I was not that individual, and explained that in New
York no such office existed, although the title might be with propriety
applied to the conductor of the Philharmonic Society. However, the idea
found a lodgment in his head, quite to my advantage, as evidenced by the
many attentions he paid to me throughout my stay.
THE SCHUMANN "FEIER" IN BONN, 1880
Over a quarter of a century elapsed after my first meeting with Brahms
before I saw him again, and then the meeting occurred at Bonn on the
Rhine, on May 3, 1880. He was there, in company with Joachim and other
artists, to take part in the ceremonies attendant on the unveiling of
the Schumann _Denkmal_.
There were also musical performances, and at a morning recital of
chamber-music the program consisted solely of Schumann's works, vocal
and instrumental, with the addition of the Brahms "Violin Concerto,"
played by Joachim. The concluding number was Schumann's "Piano Quartet
in E Flat Major, Op. 47," Brahms playing the piano part, and Joachim,
Heckmann, and Bellman playing respectively violin, viola, and
violoncello.
BRAHMS'S PIANOFORTE-PLAYING
The pianoforte-playing of Brahms was far from being finished or even
musical. His tone was dry and devoid of sentiment, his interpretation
inadequate, lacking style and contour. It was the playing of a composer,
and not that of a virtuoso. He paid little if any attention to the marks
of expression as indicated by Schumann in the copy. This was especially
and painfully apparent in the opening measures of the first movement.
This introductory passage is marked, "Sostenuto assai," followed by the
main movement marked, "Allegro ma non troppo." Instead of accommodating
himself to the quiet and subdued nature of the introduction, the
pianist quite ignored Schumann's esthetic directions, and began with a
vigorous attack, which was sustained throughout the movement. The
continued force and harshness of his tone quite overpowered the stringed
instruments. As an ensemble the performance was not a success.
On going home to dinner, and learning that Brahms was stopping at the
hotel, I gave my card to the porter, with instructions to deliver it to
Brahms as soon as he came in. When about half-way through the table
d'hote the porter entered and said that Brahms was in the outer hall,
waiting to see me. He was very cordial. At the moment I had quite
forgotten that I had met him at David's house in Leipsic, so I said:
"The last time I met you was in Weimar on that very hot day in June,
1853; do you remember it?"
"Very well indeed, and I am glad to see you again. Just now my time is
very much engaged, but we are going up the river on a picnic this
afternoon--Joachim and others; will you come along? We are going to a
summer restaurant on the Rhine, where they have excellent beer, and it
will be _ganz gemuetlich_."
I regretted extremely that I had to forego the pleasure of this
excursion, and fully realized the opportunity I was losing; but my
party--there were four of us, my wife and I and two children--had
previously arranged our plans, and in order to make connections we were
obliged to go on to Cologne that day.
Here was a companion-piece to the disappointment occasioned by my having
to forego the pleasure and profit of a foot-tramp through the Tyrol with
Richard Wagner, as already related in these "Memories." But so the Fates
ordained.
Partly on account of the untoward Weimar incident, and partly for the
sake of his own individuality, I took a peculiar interest in Brahms. His
work is wonderfully condensed, his constructive power masterly. By his
scholarly development of themes through augmentation, diminution,
inversion, imitation, and other devices, he seems to be introducing new
thematic material, while the fact is, as will be seen on close
investigation, that he is presenting the original theme in varied form
and shape, and gradually unfolding and expanding its possibilities to
the uttermost. In other words, his treatment is exhaustive and complete.
In his later piano compositions this is readily apparent, and as these
pieces are short, and at the same time complete in form, they furnish
excellent opportunities to the student for analytical studies. In all
that relates to the intellectual faculty Brahms is indisputably a
master. I find this to be the consensus of opinion among intelligent
musicians. But there are differences of opinion as regards his emotional
susceptibilities, and it is just this fact that prevents many from fully
accepting him. The emotional and intellectual should be in equipoise in
order to attain the highest results, but in the music of Brahms the
latter seems to predominate. In sympathetic and affectionate treatment,
so far as relates to his piano composition, he does not compare with
Chopin.
A HISTORICAL ERROR CORRECTED
I have read in a recent number of a musical magazine the following
sentence: "We have seen with what ardor the first compositions of this
serious young man [Brahms] were greeted by Schumann and Liszt."
I have already mentioned the fact that all of the published accounts of
the first meeting of Liszt and Brahms were far from accurate, and in
fact convey an impression directly opposite to the truth; and the
foregoing statement, according to my belief, is just as far from being
in accordance with the facts. I am quite sure that Liszt was not
enthusiastic about Brahms at the time of the first interview in Weimar
heretofore described, and the letter received from my friend Karl
Klindworth, in Berlin, sustains me in this belief. Liszt was of too
kindly a disposition to treasure up animosity against Brahms on account
of the mishap on that occasion; but the fact that Brahms was put forward
by the anti-Wagnerites as their champion may possibly have influenced
him somewhat. A coolness also sprang up between Joachim and Liszt,
although during my stay in Weimar the violinist had been welcomed so
frequently at the Altenburg. During the entire career of Brahms he and
Joachim were close friends.
MORE ABOUT LISZT'S WONDERFUL SIGHT-READING
Liszt's playing of the Brahms scherzo was a remarkable feat, but he was
constantly doing almost incredible things in the way of reading at
sight. Another instance of his skill in this direction occurs to me and
is well worthy of mention.
Raff had composed a sonata for violin and pianoforte in which there were
ever-varying changes in measure and rhythm; measures of 7/8, 7/4, 5/4,
alternated with common and triple time, and seemed to mix together
promiscuously and without regard to order. Notwithstanding this apparent
disorder, there was an undercurrent, so to speak, of the ordinary 3/4 or
4/4 time, and to the player who could penetrate the rhythmic mask the
difficulty of performance quickly vanished. Raff had arranged with Laub
and Pruckner that they should practise the sonata together, and then, on
a favorable occasion, play it in Liszt's presence. So on one of the
musical mornings at the Altenburg these gentlemen began to play the
sonata. Pruckner, of sensitive and nervous organization, found the
changes of measure too confusing, especially when played before company,
and broke down at the first page. Another and yet a third attempt was
made, but with the like result. Liszt, whose interest was aroused,
exclaimed: "I wonder if I can play that!" Then, taking his place at the
instrument, he played it through at sight in rapid tempo and without the
slightest hesitation. He had intuitively divined the regularity of
movement which lay beneath the surface.
LISZT'S MOMENTS OF CONTRITION
Deep beneath the surface there was in Liszt's organization a religions
trend which manifested itself openly now and then, and there were
occasions upon which his contrition displayed itself to an inordinate
degree. Joachim Raff, long his intimate friend and associate, told me
that these periods were sometimes of considerable duration, and while
they lasted he would seek solitude, and going frequently to church,
would throw himself upon the flagstones before a _Muttergottesbild_, and
remain for hours, as Raff expressed it, so deeply absorbed as to be
utterly unconscious of events occurring in his presence.
[Illustration: AUTOGRAPH OF VIEUXTEMPS]
Rubinstein also told me that on one occasion he had been a witness of
such an act on the part of Liszt. One afternoon at dusk they were
walking together in the cathedral at Cologne, and quite suddenly
Rubinstein missed Liszt, who had disappeared in a mysterious way. He
searched for quite a while through the many secluded nooks and corners
of the immense building, and finally found Liszt kneeling before a
_prie-dieu_, so deeply engrossed that Rubinstein had not the heart to
disturb him, and so left the building alone.
PETER CORNELIUS
Sometime, I think late, in 1853 Peter Cornelius, nephew of the
celebrated painter of that name, and composer of the comic opera "The
Barber of Bagdad," came to Weimar and was added to the Altenburg circle.
He was well known and highly esteemed by musicians, and as he was always
cheery and bubbling over with musical enthusiasm, I at once became very
fond of him as a friend, and later on paid due homage to his decided
talent as a composer. As an illustration of how easy it is to underrate
the abilities of a new acquaintance the following incident is both
interesting and instructive. In October, 1853, or thereabouts, quite a
large musical festival took place in Karlsruhe, which was under the
general direction of Liszt, who also conducted the orchestra. It goes
without saying that under the management of Liszt a number of selections
from the Wagner operas were played, and one of these happened to be the
bridal chorus from "Lohengrin." Wagner at that time was an entirely new
experience to Cornelius, and after the concert, while speaking to Liszt
of the beauty of Wagner's music, he instanced this bright and pretty
melody, emphasizing its beauty as though it were the special object of
his admiration. We boys, while we recognized the beauty of the bridal
march and its fitness for the place in which it occurs, were apt to
coddle ourselves upon our superior knowledge of Wagner, and would have
saved our enthusiasm for the more completed and distinctly Wagnerian
characteristics. The enthusiasm of Cornelius for the purely melodic
phrases of Wagner, which were in no wise characteristic of his genius,
rather led us to look down upon the musical perceptions of Cornelius--or
perhaps I should speak only for myself and give these as my personal
impressions; but it was not long before his great talent was duly
recognized and acknowledged, at least by musicians. Cornelius was a
charming fellow, and I enjoyed his society because he was so
enthusiastically and intensely musical.
SOME FAMOUS VIOLINISTS
I have already mentioned in these papers my meeting with Joachim in
Leipsic in the year 1849. He was then about eighteen years of age and
already famous as a violinist. He was of medium height, had broad, open
features, and a heavy shock of dark hair somewhat like that of
Rubinstein. I had a letter of introduction to him, which I presented a
short time after my arrival in Leipsic, and received immediately a
return call from him. He was kind and affable, and easy to become
acquainted with, but owing to diffidence on my part I did not improve
the opportunity as I should have done, a circumstance which I now much
regret. He played the Mendelssohn concerto in one of the Gewandhaus
concerts within a month of my arrival at Leipsic, and I heard him then
for the first time, and was much impressed by his beautiful performance.
Subsequently, when in Weimar, I had the pleasure of meeting him on many
occasions, for he was in the habit of going there not infrequently, and
would sometimes take part in the Altenburg private musicales, as well as
in the public concerts at the theater.
During the year 1845-46 I heard and became well acquainted with three
famous violinists, Vieuxtemps, Ole Bull, and Sivori, who came to Boston
and played many times both in public and in private. They were all great
players, each having his special individuality. Vieuxtemps and Ole Bull
I met several times in later years, and became familiar with their
playing. Vieuxtemps came to Weimar and played both in private and in
public. His playing was wonderfully precise and accurate, every tone
receiving due attention, and his phrasing was delightful. Scale and
arpeggio passages were absolutely clean and without a flaw. He was
certainly a player of exquisite taste, and he still preserved his
characteristics when I heard him years later, in 1853 at Weimar, and in
1873 at New York. Ole Bull came to Boston a year or so after Vieuxtemps.
He was a born violinist, and developed after his own fashion and nature,
in the manner of a genius. Vieuxtemps was the result of scientific
training and close adherence to well-founded principles. Ole Bull, on
the other hand, was a law unto himself, and burst out into full blossom
without showing the various degrees of growth. He did not realize the
importance of close attention to detail while in the course of
development.
Sivori was of the gentle, poetic, and graceful class of players. Beauty
and grace rather than self-assertion characterized his style. Ernst,
whom I heard in Homburg in the year 1852, was a player of great
intensity of feeling, and was regarded as the most fervent violinist of
his time. Joachim's style impressed me as classical and rather reserved,
and while I enjoyed and admired it, there was present no feeling of
enthusiasm. Wilhelmj, with his broad and noble style, was certainly most
impressive. Henri Wieniawski had a musical organization of great
intensity, and this, combined with his perfect technic, made his playing
irresistible. Ferdinand Laub, for some reason not so well known to the
general public as he should be, is generally conceded by the most
distinguished violinists to have been the greatest of all
quartet-players. Laub was concertmeister during the whole period of my
stay in Weimar, and was an intimate friend of mine. It will be
remembered that at that time Bernhard Cossmann was the violoncellist of
the Weimar string quartet. I owe many delightful moments of musical
enjoyment to his exquisitely poetical and refined playing. The last time
I met him was at his own house in Frankfort. His wife and children
were present, and being thus quite _en famille_, we played together, for
the sake of old times, the piano and violoncello sonata of Beethoven in
A major.
[Illustration: AUTOGRAPH OF OLE BULL]
There are many others whom I am prevented by lack of space from
mentioning; but I must not omit the name of my friend Adolf Brodsky, a
violinist of the first rank, and a man of great nobility of character.
His playing is broad, intelligent, and thoroughly musical, whether as
soloist or as first violin in chamber quartet music. Sometimes I have
heard him in the privacy of my own home, where, feeling entire freedom
from restraint, he has thrown himself intensely into his music, to my
thorough and complete musical satisfaction.
REMENYI
I have already had something to say of Eduard Remenyi, the Hungarian
violinist who accompanied Brahms to Weimar in 1853. He was a talented
man, and was esteemed by Liszt as being, in his way, a good violinist.
He remained at Weimar after Brahms left there, and I became intimately
acquainted with him. He was very entertaining, and so full of fun that
he would have made a tiptop Irishman. He was at home in the Gipsy music
of his own country, and this was the main characteristic of his playing.
He had also a fad for playing Schubert melodies on the violin with the
most attenuated pianissimo effects, and occasionally his hearers would
listen intently after the tone had ceased, imagining that they still
heard a trace of it.
Not long before leaving Weimar I had some fun with him by asking if he
had ever heard "any bona-fide American spoken." He replied that he did
not know there was such a language. "Well," said I, "listen to this for
a specimen: 'Ching-a-ling-a-dardee, Chebung cum Susan.'" I did not meet
him again until 1878, twenty-four years after leaving Weimar. I was
going up-stairs to my studio in the Steinway building when some one
told me that Remenyi had arrived and was rehearsing for his concerts in
one of the rooms above. So, going up, I followed the sounds of the
violin, gave a quick knock, opened the door, and went in. Remenyi looked
at me for a moment, rushed forward and seized my hand, and as he wrung
it cried out: "Ching-a-ling-a-dardee, Chebung cum Susan!" He had
remembered it all those years.
SOME DISTINGUISHED OPERA-SINGERS
My concert-playing and teaching have naturally made me more interested
in instrumental than in vocal music. Moreover, the principal celebrities
who came to visit Liszt during my sojourn at Weimar were composers and
instrumentalists. For that reason I met but few distinguished
opera-singers during my stay abroad. However, I heard the best of them
in opera or concert.
In Boston, about the year 1846-47, the Havana Italian Opera gave a
season at the Howard Athenaeum of that city, and created considerable
interest. They gave, I think for the first time in this country, Verdi's
"Ernani," which was received with great favor. The principal soprano was
Mme. Fortunata Tedesco, who was afterward at the Grand Opera in Paris
from 1851 to 1857. The tenor was Signore Perelli, who had an
exceptionally fine voice. Both of these singers had well-trained voices
and were well supported by chorus and orchestra. As this was my first
experience in opera, it produced a deep and lasting impression.
The opera season in Leipsic in the year 1852, beginning about the 1st of
February and continuing up to the 1st of May, was notable, for it
afforded the opportunity of hearing in quick succession three singers of
world-wide reputation: Henriette Sontag, Johanna Wagner, and De la
Grange.
HENRIETTE SONTAG
[Illustration: Autograph of Henriette Sontag]
The singer of whom I have the liveliest impression is Henriette Sontag,
whom I heard in Leipsic on her first appearance after she had been
twenty years in retirement. The interest I took in the occasion was much
increased by the fact that I had a seat next to Moscheles, who was very
communicative, and gave me an interesting history of his long
acquaintance with Sontag, whom he had heard at her last appearance, I
think, before her retirement. He was naturally on the _qui vive_, and
impatiently waited for the opera to begin. Like many of her other old
admirers who were in the theater, he was full of expectancy mingled with
dread of possible failure. She appeared as _Maria_ in Donizetti's "Fille
du Regiment" In this part the voice of the singer is heard before she
appears on the stage, and as soon as Moscheles heard Sontag's voice
trilling behind the scenes, he exclaimed with delight, "It is Sontag!
Nobody I have heard since she left the stage could do that! She is the
same Henriette!"
Some of the roles in which I heard her were _Amina_ in "Sonnambula,"
_Martha_ in the opera of that name, _Susan_ in "The Marriage of Figaro,"
and _Rosina_ in "The Barber of Seville." I enjoyed the lovely feminine
quality of her voice and manner. There was something peculiarly charming
and womanly about her. She sang with unfailing ease and grace, her voice
being so flexible that it sounded like the trilling of birds. The most
difficult roulades and cadences were given with absolute accuracy and
rhythm. It was simply fascinating.
JOHANNA WAGNER
During the month of March of the same year, Johanna Wagner, niece of
Richard Wagner, sang in several operas. Among those in which I heard her
were Bellini's "Romeo and Juliet," as _Romeo_; "Fidelio," as _Leonora_
or _Fidelio_; and "Iphigenia in Aulis," by Gluck, as _Iphigenia_. Here
indeed she was a contrast to Sontag, and in these parts she seemed to me
quite unapproachable. Her voice was large and full, and her acting most
dramatic. Like all the German singers whom I heard, she lacked the
nicety of detail, the clear and beautiful phrasing, characteristic of
the Italians I had heard in Boston. But when I grew to know the German
method, I began to admire it, not so much for the actual singing itself
as for the combination of qualities that entered into it--the artistic
earnestness, the acting, and the musicianship.
MME. DE LA GRANGE
It was my experience that the Germans themselves greatly admired singing
of the Italian school, for when, following Sontag and Wagner, Mme. de la
Grange came the next month and sang an engagement in Leipsic (April and
May, 1852), the management doubled the prices, and, notwithstanding
this, the house was crowded every time she sang. She was in her prime,
and one of the finest singers I ever heard. Her style was brilliant and
dazzling, but never lacking in repose. Her high tones were clear and
musical, without any trace of shrillness, and in the most rapid passages
the tones were never slurred or confused, but distinct and in perfect
rhythmic order. The roles in which she most appealed to me were as
_Queen of the Night_ in "The Magic Flute," by Mozart, and _Rosina_ in
"The Barber of Seville," by Rossini. But she also sang both parts of
_Isabella_ and _Alice_ in Meyerbeer's "Robert the Devil" in the most
admirable manner.
"DER VEREIN DER MURLS"
Liszt was the head and front of the Wagner movement; but except when
visitors came to Weimar and were inveigled into an argument by Raff, who
was an ardent disciple of the new school, there was but little
discussion of the Wagner question. Pruckner started a little society,
the object being to oppose the Philistines, or old fogies, and uphold
modern ideas. Liszt was the head and was called the Padishah (chief),
and the pupils and others, Raff, Bulow, Klindworth, Pruckner, Cornelius,
Laub, Cossmann, etc., were "Murls." In a letter to Klindworth, then in
London, Liszt writes of Rubinstein: "That is a clever fellow, the most
notable musician, pianist, and composer who has appeared to me among the
modern lights--with the exception of the Murls. Murlship alone is
lacking to him still." On the manuscript of Liszt's "Sonate" he himself
wrote, "Fur die Murlbibliothek."
THE WAGNER CAUSE IN WEIMAR
My admiration for Wagner did not go to the extreme of Liszt's and of my
fellow-pupils'. Liszt rarely expressed his opinion of Wagner, because he
took it for granted that everybody knew it, and he was not a
controversialist. I know that he considered those people who refused to
follow Wagner as old fogies, and my colleagues used to twit me for not
being as enthusiastic as they were. Certain passages in his operas have
always given me great musical enjoyment and delight, but here and there
are crudities which, as it seemed to me, were unpardonable in a great
composer. Under these circumstances I could not pose as a genuine Murl,
although this fact did not disturb the genial and fraternal relations
which existed between my colleagues and me; and on occasion also I was
equal to the best of them in exercising the specialty of a genuine Murl
claqueur.
I think that Wagner will always rank among the greatest composers, but
will not always remain as preeminent as he is now in the popular
estimation. Some of his compositions are wonderfully intricate, although
musical, but at times his faults appear and disturb the balance of
things in such a way that the music loses the effect of spontaneity and
becomes forced.
In the Weimar days the general objection of the "old fogies" was that
his music lacked melody. Doubtless by melody they meant the little tunes
of the anti-Wagner period; but the fact is that Wagner has contributed
his share to increasing the scope of melody and enlarging its
boundaries. It may be that he has gone too far in this direction and has
completely obliterated all limitations, thus approaching dangerously
near confusion. It was said that he had no melody, but his scores are
full of it. There are sometimes so many melodies in combination, each
exercising its individuality and proceeding independently, that the
"tune effect" is obscured and lost in the crowd of accompanying tunes.
But to me Wagner's melody seems restless. It comes on suddenly and
progresses without periods of repose. There is almost constant motion,
which produces a feeling of unrest. A sentence must have its commas,
semi-colons, and periods, and punctuation is as necessary in music as it
is in letters.
I have never quite understood just what it is in Wagner's music that so
fascinates many people whom I know to be unmusical.
RAFF IN WEIMAR
Of my Weimar comrades, Joachim Raff, it is hardly necessary to say,
became the most distinguished. My first impression of him was not wholly
favorable. He was hard to become acquainted with and not disposed to
meet one half-way. He was fond of argument, and if one side was taken
he was very apt to take the other. He liked nothing better than to get
one to commit himself to a proposition and then to attack him with all
his resources, which were many. Upon better acquaintance, however, one
found a kind heart and faithful friend whose constancy was to be relied
on. He was very poor, and there were times when he seemed hardly able to
keep body and soul together. Once he was arrested for debt. The room in
which he was confined, however, was more comfortable, if anything, than
his own. He had a piano, a table, music-paper, and pen and ink sent
there. How this was accomplished I do not know, but I think Liszt must
have had a hand in it. Raff enjoyed himself composing and playing, and
we saw to it that he had good fare. The episode made little impression
on him: so long as he could compose he was happy. However, the matter
was compromised, and in a short time he returned to his own lodgings. He
was a hard worker and composed incessantly, with only a brief interval
for dinner and a little exercise. We habitually sat together, and
afterward usually took a short walk. I enjoyed his conversation
exceedingly and derived much profit from it.
At about five o'clock in the afternoon, looking out of my window, I
would frequently see Raff coming over the path leading through the park,
with a bundle of manuscript under his arm. He liked to come and play to
me what he had composed. His playing was not artistic, because he paid
little attention to it, and he did not attempt to elaborate or finish
his style.
He composed very rapidly, and many of his compositions do not amount to
much. He could not get decent remuneration for good music, and he had to
live; therefore he wrote many pieces that were of the jingling sort,
because his publishers paid well for them. Sometimes, however, he turned
out a composition which was really worthy, and among his works are
symphonies, sonatas, trios, and chamber-music which gained him
reputation. His symphony "Im Walde" is well known in the musical world,
and his "Cavatina" for violin, although not a piece of importance, is
one of the most popular and effective violin solos and exists in various
arrangements. At times he was much dejected, and there was a dash of
bitterness in his disposition. I think he felt that, being obliged to
turn out music for a living, he would never attain the rank to which his
talents entitled him.
In promoting the cause of Wagner, Raff did considerable work for which
Liszt got the credit. I think that at one time Raff acted as Liszt's
private secretary; but he had decided ideas of his own, and knew how to
express them. Being generally in close accord with Liszt, and having a
ready pen, he rendered great assistance in promulgating the doctrines of
the new school by means of essays, brochures, and newspaper articles. Of
course much that he wrote was based upon suggestions made by Liszt. Raff
was a tower of strength in himself, while at the same time acting as
Liszt's mouthpiece in the Wagner propaganda.
DR. ADOLF BERNHARD MARX
When Dr. Adolf B. Marx of Berlin was in Weimar in June, 1853, it was by
invitation of Liszt for the purpose of bringing out a new oratorio which
he had just composed. As usual on such occasions, we gave him a warm
reception, and Liszt arranged a midday dinner at the Hotel zum
Erbprinzen, at which some eight or ten guests were present. In the
afternoon we all attended a rehearsal of the oratorio, which lasted from
four o'clock until eleven o'clock P.M. According to my present
recollections, the work did not have a brilliant success. I was reminded
of this event by the receipt of the following letter in March, 1901,
from an old friend, Mr. Adolph Stange, who happened to be present on the
occasion:
SUWALKI, POLAND, RUSSIA,
24 January, 1901.
DEAR DR. MASON: When you wrote your "Memories of a Musical Life,"
July-October, 1900, of Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine, you
probably did not have any presentiment that there is in a distant
country, far from you, somebody who only by one day younger than
yourself (born January 25, 1829) will be reading with the greatest
interest your excellent and truthful description of different
musical celebrities and authorities. Being myself for many years a
pupil of Gerke and of Henselt in St. Petersburg, I had been with
many of the eminent men you name personally acquainted; with
Moscheles and Rubinstein I had more often and more intimate
relations, and my delight was naturally great in reading your true
and graphic account of some of my former musical friends. It is
indeed with a feeling of admiration and gratitude that I am now
addressing these lines to its author. Your interesting description
of your stay at Weimar in 1853 gave me special pleasure, as in that
same year, in May, June, and July, I had also been with Liszt in
Weimar, and I remember you, dear Dr. Mason, perfectly, as well as
Klindworth, Pruckner, the two Wieniawskis, Winterberger, Raff, and
others; they are all living in my memory. That period of my youth
is full of the most beautiful and noble impressions.
Your account of that incomparable meister we both, I dare say,
equally admire, awakened in me Liszt's greatness as artist, and
still more, if I may say so, the greatness of his nature and
character, so richly endowed with so many generous and noble
instincts; and I recall with delight to my mind our pleasant walks
in the Schlossgarten, where we visited Klindworth in his modest
apartments; the supper at the Hotel zum Erbprinzen, where Liszt
wished to get acquainted with the card-game "preference," which I
had to show him; our visits to the Schloss, in the ground floor of
which we listened to Liszt's divine playing and afterward got
invited to dine up-stairs with the Princess Wittgenstein and her
charming daughter. I believe you had already left Weimar when
Professor Adolf Marx came from Berlin to visit Liszt and brought
with him the score of his new oratorio. Marx wished to say a few
words about its performance to Liszt before the first rehearsal,
but was much disappointed, as he told me, not to find an
appropriate moment to speak with the meister, whose attention was
constantly taken up by his pupils. On the day of the rehearsal,
Marx, who was sitting next to me, again expressed his regret at not
having found an opportunity to talk the matter over with Liszt.
Shortly after the rehearsal had commenced I felt several times
Marx's elbows, which, giving way to his enthusiasm, came in close
and sensible contact with mine. At last he exclaimed: "Liszt
guesses my most secret thoughts and intentions in my own
composition!" ...
Let me, dear Dr. Mason, assure you what real and intense enjoyment
I experienced by the perusal of your "Musical Memories," and beg
to thank you from all my heart for giving me the possibility of
recalling once over again those dear and ever-present reminiscences
of a bygone but ever-delightful time in my life. It is seldom one
can read in a biography a description like yours, which expresses
in a few words, with so much reality, truthfulness, and
impartiality, the characteristics of a whole series of well-known
artists. Finally, you will ask: "Stranger, who art thou?" I will
not, like _Lohengrin_, make a mystery of it, but answer your
question: I wanted to become what you are now! After my return from
Weimar, however, where I had been for a time Liszt's pupil, I
entered into Russian state service, remaining, nevertheless, during
my whole life, though a dilettante, a great and fervent admirer of
that art, and a real artist in my heart. I sign, with veneration to
your person, Dr. Mason, and have the honor to remain,
Yours very truly,
ADOLPH STANGE.
BERLIOZ IN WEIMAR
[Illustration: Autograph of Hector Berlioz]
Hector Berlioz came to Weimar occasionally, and I remember particularly
one of his visits, which took place in May, 1854. He was famous as
an orchestral conductor, and I saw him in this capacity in a concert the
program of which consisted exclusively of his own compositions. These
were especially attractive on account of their magnificent orchestral
coloring. In this regard he was certainly wonderful, and produced many
gorgeous effects. His masterly skill and intelligence in the treatment
and development of his themes were also everywhere apparent. Every
detail received careful attention, and the result was admirable.
Not long afterward he gave a similar concert in the Leipsic Gewandhaus
Hall, on which occasion the Weimar contingent was of course present.
There was no need of our services as claqueurs, however, for the hall
was crowded and the audience demonstrative.
Schubert was spontaneous and inspired, and thus stands in contrast to
Berlioz. Melody gushed from Schubert at such a rate, and musical ideas
crowded upon each other so rapidly, that he did not take time to work up
his compositions. There are a few which he elaborated with care, but
they are the exceptions, and emphasize the general spontaneity of his
work. If he had constructive power,--and certain passages in his work
show that he had,--he nevertheless failed to make adequate use of it.
His music is charming and delightful on account of its melodious
freshness and naivete. It appeals directly to the heart. The only
drawback is his servile adherence to conventionalities, such, for
instance, as the old method of invariably repeating every section of a
movement.
Beethoven stands as the model of constructive power and emotional
expression in happy equipoise. Both the head and the heart are
satisfactorily employed, and in his orchestral treatment they find full
expression. This is true of all of his concerted works; but his weak
point is manifested in his pianoforte compositions, especially in the
sonatas, which are not idiomatic of the instrument for which they were
written. It is not intended to find fault with the music _per se_. It is
simply to say that his ideas are all orchestrally conceived, and as
they are not in the nature of the pianoforte, that instrument is
inadequate to their true expression. The sonatas are not pianistic,
idiomatic--_klaviermaessig_. Had he written them for orchestra, we would
have had thirty-two symphonies.
Chopin's compositions are the very essence and consummation of the
piano, and he is, therefore, the pianoforte composer _par excellence_.
On the other hand, his orchestral work is weak and incompetent, as, for
example, the accompaniment to his concertos and some other pieces.
Schumann is at home in both directions. He is polyphonic in orchestral
treatment, and at the same time thoroughly pianistic. Without suggesting
comparisons, his music is _musical_ and complete. Beethoven's is heroic.
ENTERTAINING LISZT'S "YOUNG BEETHOVEN"
Liszt sometimes left Weimar for a few days in order to be present at or
to conduct music festivals. On one of these occasions, early in June,
1854, I remained alone at home on account of slight illness. As
Klindworth had gone to London for concert-playing and
pianoforte-teaching, I had moved into a suite of rooms in the Hotel zum
Erbprinzen. As a matter of interest to pianists I here note the fact
that these identical rooms had been occupied by Hummel several years
previously.
On the afternoon of the day on which Liszt left with his cortege the
head waiter came to me, saying that a young man who had just arrived was
in the cafe inquiring for Liszt and seemed disappointed on learning of
his absence. "I told him," said the waiter, "that you were the only one
of the family here. Will you see him?" I assented, and in a few moments
he ushered in a young man about twenty-four years of age, of strong
features and with a great shock of dark hair, who introduced himself as
Anton Rubinstein. I explained to him that Liszt had gone away for three
or four days to conduct a festival, that I could not say precisely when
he would return; but in the meantime, if I could make him feel at home,
I should be very glad.
After some conversation he asked me to play. I remember very well how he
looked sitting on the sofa, and the position of the piano in the room. I
played, but he did not. I had a suspicion that he was inveigling me into
playing without any intention of allowing me to take his measure. He sat
there like a gruff Russian bear; or perhaps my imagination helped to
produce this impression.
Rubinstein was already quite well known as a child prodigy, but of
course not nearly so famous as he afterward became. I do not recollect
paying him very much attention during Liszt's absence, but, then, he did
not allow me--he was rambling about all the time; nor did I hear him
play before Liszt came back. When Liszt returned, Rubinstein was
immediately invited to take up his residence on the Altenburg. I
remember that there, one afternoon, he played many of his own
compositions. His playing was full of rush and fire, and characterized
by strong emotional temperament. He had a big technic and reveled in
dash and fire. Those who heard Mark Hambourg here during the winter of
1899-1900 can form a very good idea of Rubinstein's personal appearance
at the time of which I write, and also his very pronounced style of
playing. His early touch lacked the mellow and tender beauty of tone
which distinguished it in later years.
RUBINSTEIN'S OPPOSITION TO WAGNER
Rubinstein's well-known dislike of Wagner, it seems to me, was
temperamental in a large degree, and it was quite natural that he was
not in agreement with him. Doubtless Chopin would not have approved of
Wagner's music, whatever he might have thought of his method. The
melodies of Chopin and Rubinstein are full of sentiment and well
defined, and their compositions run in entirely opposite channels from
those of Wagner, whose music is a vast sensuous upheaval, which
proceeds uninterruptedly from the beginning of an act to the end.
All musicians have a good deal of self-esteem. Rubinstein had his own
way of composing, which corresponded to his musical temperament. He had
to write everything just as it suited his musical ear, and he could not
conceive of any one else having as fine a musical ear as he. At all
events, he never stopped long enough to find out if any one else had.
Few musicians do. Liszt was fond of Rubinstein, and used to call him the
"young Beethoven," on account of a certain fancied resemblance he bore
to the great composer. He also recognized Rubinstein's great ability as
a pianist, although I think that as a player he rated Tausig much
higher. Many years after I left Weimar a relative of mine met Liszt in
Rome. She had a short time previous to this heard Rubinstein in concert,
and was in a state of great enthusiasm about his playing, and so
expressed herself to Liszt. His sole comment was, "Have you ever heard
Tausig?" The inference was that those who had heard Rubinstein and not
Tausig had missed hearing the greater of the two. I think Liszt regarded
Tausig as the best of all his pupils.
As I have said once before in these pages, I never saw Liszt after
leaving Weimar in July, 1854. I occasionally received letters from
him--several of them quite long and exceedingly entertaining. One of
these (the original in French) is reproduced here because it is
characteristic of his pleasantry and good humor:
MY DEAR MASON: Although I do not know at what stage of your
brilliant artistic peregrinations these lines will reach you, I
feel assured that you are not ignorant that I am very, very
sincerely and affectionately obliged to you for keeping me in kind
remembrance, a fact to which the musical journals which you have
sent me bear good witness. The "Musical Gazette" of New York has in
particular given me genuine satisfaction, not alone on account of
the agreeable and flattering things concerning me personally which
it contains, but furthermore because this journal seems to me to
inculcate an excellent and superior direction of opinion in your
country. As you know, my dear Mason, I have no other self-interest
than to serve the good cause of art so far as is possible, and
wherever I find men who are making conscientious efforts in the
same direction, I rejoice and am strengthened by the good example
which they give me. Be so good as to present to your brother, the
head editor of the "Musical Review", as I suppose, my very sincere
thanks and compliments. If he would like to receive some
communication from Weimar upon matters of interest which occur in
the musical world of Germany, I will willingly have them sent to
him through the medium of Mr. Pohl, who, by the way, does not live
any longer at Dresden, where the numbers of the "Musical Gazette"
were addressed by mistake, but at Weimar in the Kaufstrasse. His
wife, one of the best harpists that I know, stands among the
virtuosos of our "Chapelle", and is an important factor in the
representation of the opera, as also in concerts.
Apropos of concerts, in a few days I will send you the program of a
series of symphonic performances, which ought to have been
established here several years ago, and to which I consider it an
honor and a duty to give definite encouragement from the year 1855.
I expect Berlioz toward the end of January. We shall then hear his
trilogy "L'Enfance du Christ", of which you already know "La Fuite
en Egypte". To this he has added two other short oratorios, "Le
Songe d'Herode" and "L'Arrivee a Sais".
The dramatic symphony "Faust" (in four parts, with solos and
choruses) will also be given in full during his stay here.
In regard to visits from artists who have been personally agreeable
to me during the last month, I would name Clara Schumann and
Litolff.
In Brendel's journal, "Neue Zeitschrift", you will find an article
signed with my name, on Mme. Schumann, whom I have again heard with
that sympathy and absolute admiration which her talent compels.
As for Litolff, I confess that he has made a very vivid impression
on me. His fourth concerto symphony (manuscript) is a very
remarkable composition, and he played it in so masterly a manner,
with such verve, with such boldness and certainty, that I derived
intense pleasure from it.
If there was a little of the quadruped in the amazing execution of
Dreyschock (and this comparison should not vex him; is not the lion
classed among quadrupeds as well as the poodle?), in that of
Litolff, there is certainly something _winged_; moreover, he has
all the superiority over Dreyschock that a biped having ideas,
imagination, and sensibility has over another biped which imagines
itself possessed of all this wealth--often very embarrassing!
Do you continue your familiar intercourse with the Old Cognac in
the New World, my dear Mason? Let me again commend _measure_ to
you, an essential quality for musicians. In truth, I am not too
well qualified to extol the _quantity_ of this _quality_, for, if I
remember rightly, I have often employed tempo rubato when I was
giving my concerts (work which I would not begin again for anything
in the world), and even quite recently I have written a long
symphony in three parts, called "Faust" (without text or vocal
parts), in which the _horrible_ measures 7/8, 7/4, 5/4 alternate
with common time and 3/4. By virtue of which I conclude that you
should be satisfied with 7/8 of a little bottle of old cognac in
the evening, and never exceed five quarts!
Raff, in his first volume of "Wagner Frage", has thoroughly
realized something like _five quarts_ of doctrinal sufficiency, but
that is an unadvisable example to copy in a critical matter, and
above all in the matter of cognac and other spirits!
My dear Mason, excuse these bad jokes, justified only by my good
intentions; that you may bear yourself valiantly, physically and
morally, is the most cordial wish of
Your very friendly affectionate
F. LISZT.
WEIMAR, December 14, 1854.
You did not know Rubinstein in Weimar?[2] He spent some time here,
and was conspicuously different from the opaque mass of self-styled
_composer-pianists_ who do not even know what it is to play the
piano, still less with what fuel it is necessary to heat one's self
in order to compose, so that with what they lack in talent for
composition they fancy themselves pianists, and vice versa.
Rubinstein will publish forthwith about fifty
compositions--concertos, trios, symphonies, songs, light pieces,
etc., which deserve notice.
Laub has left Weimar. Ed. Singer takes his place in our orchestra.
The latter gives much pleasure here, and is pleased himself also.
Cornelius, Pohl, Raff, Pruckner, Schreiber, and all the new school
of the new Weimar send you their friendliest greetings, to which I
add a hearty _shake-hand_.
F. L.
Other letters received from Liszt are perhaps not very important, but
with one exception never having been published before, they are printed
in the Appendix.
[Illustration: Autograph of Ferdinand Laub]
Pupils of Liszt and Thalberg and their pupils in search of an
entertaining diversion may amuse themselves by tracing their
musical pedigree back to Bach, Mozart, and Beethoven, and thus lay claim
to very distinguished ancestry, as shown in the following table:
Liszt, Franz, born Oct. 22, 1811.
Czerny, Carl, born Feb. 21, 1791.
Beethoven, Ludwig van, born Dec. 16, 1770.
Neefe, Christian G., born Feb. 5, 1748.
Hiller, Johann A., born Dec. 25, 1728.
Homilius, G. A., born Feb. 2, 1714.
Bach, Johann Sebastian, born March 21, 1685.
Thalberg, Sigismond, born Jan. 7, 1812.
Hummel, J. N., born Nov. 14, 1778.
Mozart, Wolfgang A., born Jan. 27, 1756.
If there be any whose pride is not sufficiently nourished by this
display, they may go still further and show, by authentic records, a
descent through Bach from Josquin Desprez, the most eminent
contrapuntist of the Netherlands school, who lived about 1450-1521.
During the winter of 1879-80, which I spent at Wiesbaden on account of
ill health, I received a very cordial invitation to visit Liszt at
Weimar some time in July, and made plans to do so, which were
frustrated, however, through unforeseen circumstances. Bulow, when on
his first visit here, in 1875, told me that the old charm had entirely
passed away. The "Golden Time" was among the things that were.
The last message I had from Liszt was brought to me by Mr. Louis
Geilfuss of Steinway & Sons, who met Liszt in one of the streets of
Bayreuth only a few days before his death, which occurred somewhat
unexpectedly on July 31, 1886.
AT WORK IN AMERICA
When I returned from Europe in 1854 my parents had moved from Boston,
and were living at Orange, New Jersey.
On landing in New York, I hurried to Boston, and went immediately to the
house of Mr. Webb. This had been my constant purpose ever since the time
I left America in 1849. In due course Miss Webb and I became engaged,
and were married on March 12, 1857.
My first enterprise after returning from Germany was a concert tour.
This I believe to have been the first exclusively pianoforte recital
tour ever undertaken in this country. Gottschalk, who was here at that
time, had traveled about giving concerts, but he was never without a
singer or associate of some kind.
In 1863 I had attended a recital given in Frankfort, Germany, by
Ferdinand Hiller, the program of which consisted exclusively of his own
compositions, concluding with a free improvisation on themes suggested
by the audience. My recitals were fashioned after this, only I played
very few of my own pieces. The programs were somewhat similar to those
of the present time, ranging from Beethoven and Chopin to Liszt. At that
time Bach's name, according to my recollection, was never seen on a
pianoforte-recital program. A large number of these compositions, such
as Liszt's "Twelfth Rhapsody" and Chopin's "Fantasie Impromptu," were
played for the first time in this country at these concerts.
TOURING THE COUNTRY
My friend Oliver Dyer managed the tour. My brothers Daniel and Lowell
were at this time booksellers and publishers in New York, under the
firm-name of Mason Brothers, and Mr. Dyer was connected with them in
business. He was a man of action, and possessed good literary ability.
He had lived for a time in Washington as reporter of speeches made in
Congress, and later on he was connected with Robert Bonner on the
"Ledger".
He arranged a pamphlet in which he set forth and doubtless embellished
the facts connected with my sojourn in Germany and the favor with which
my playing had been received. When, in the course of our tour, we
arrived at a town where a lecture was to be given,--not an uncommon
occurrence,--he would take down the lecture stenographically and write
notices of it for the local papers. The editors appreciated this favor,
and were so kindly disposed toward us that they would print any advance
notices he chose to write about me. In what he wrote of me, however, I
was not willing to have him go to extremes, though he would frequently
slip something into the paper without my knowledge, leaving me to find
fault with him the next day.
All along the route it was difficult to persuade people that an
entertainment of pianoforte-playing exclusively could be made
interesting. They had never heard of such a thing, and insisted that
there ought to be some singing for the sake of variety. We stopped in
Albany, Troy, Utica, and many other places on the way to Chicago, where
I gave two concerts, one of which took place on New Year's eve. After
the concert I attended a large reception given in a private residence. I
remember being struck by the fact, as it seemed to me, that there were
so many young ladies at this reception, and I asked the hostess if there
were no married ladies in Chicago. "Why, Mr. Mason," she replied, "there
are only two or three unmarried ladies in the room." At that period
Chicago was full of young men who had come from the Eastern States,
principally New England. After staying in Chicago for two or three years
and getting well started in business they would get married, many of
them going to their native places for their brides. This accounted for
the youthful appearance of the assemblage, and illustrates in part the
very rapid growth of Chicago.
Up to the time we arrived in Chicago we had rainy weather constantly,
and partly on this account we were out of pocket. Dyer was for going
back to New York by the quickest route. I said: "No; I am going back
through the same towns, and shall give concerts in every one of them. If
the people liked my playing well enough they will come again and bring
their neighbors. If they did not like it, I shall soon find it out." As
it turned out, I had much larger audiences all the way home.
"YANKEE DOODLE" AND "OLD HUNDRED"
Copying the custom of Ferdinand Hiller, I used to close my concerts by
an improvisation upon themes suggested by the audience. All sorts of
themes were put into the hat--from Mozart, Beethoven, "Jordan is a hard
road to travel," "We won't go home till morning," and many negro
melodies. I had a faculty of developing a subject in such a way as to
hold my audience.
One night somebody sent up the request that I should play simultaneously
"Old Hundred" with one hand and "Yankee Doodle" with the other. This I
did, merely to show that even two such dis-similar melodies could be
played together in a musical way. There was a good deal of applause, but
also considerable hissing from the religions element, so I made a speech
explaining that I meant no disrespect to "Old Hundred" by placing it in
such close connection with "Yankee Doodle," and that the melody which
had to a certain extent been adopted as a national air was on that
account worthy of being played with any hymn.
Fifteen years later, in 1870, George F. Root, who had assisted my father
in his musical convention work in the East, but who had settled in
Chicago and was doing the same kind of pioneer work in the West, was
holding a summer musical convention in South Bend, Indiana. He wished to
introduce piano as well as vocal teaching, and invited me to take
charge of the piano classes. It was a fearfully hot summer, and during
the month I was in South Bend the temperature was continuously close to
100 deg.. Toward the close of the season concerts were given, and it was so
hot that in lieu of a dress-coat I wore a linen duster, cut off at the
waist.
At the last concert I received a request from two or three people to
play "Yankee Doodle" with one hand and "Old Hundred" with the other.
Possibly they had heard me do so in 1855. Remembering my experience
then, I made a few remarks, in which I told them that some little
feeling had been created fifteen years before by my doing the same
thing, but that--and here I got a little mixed--in playing "Yankee
Doodle" with "Old Hundred" I did not intend any disrespect to "Yankee
Doodle." At this the audience began to laugh. Schuyler Colfax, who was
then Vice-President of the United States, was on the stage behind me,
and I could hear him chuckling. I thought to myself, "Well, I have made
some funny mistake, though I don't know what it is, so I won't go back
and try to correct it."
Afterward Mr. Colfax, who was a noted speaker, told me that whenever he
made a _lapsus linguae_, if it amused the audience he never attempted to
correct it.
On my return from this concert tour to New York, I established the
series of chamber-music concerts which, begun as an experiment,
continued thirteen years. I also settled down as a teacher. While I had
returned from Weimar with the full intention of continuing my career as
a piano-virtuoso, and while my concert tour had been promising enough, I
found that the public demanded a constant repetition of pieces to which
it happened to take a liking, and I knew that I should soon weary of
playing the same things over and over again. Moreover, I felt that from
my father I had inherited a certain capacity for giving instruction, and
that the chamber-music concerts and engagements with the Philharmonic
and at other concerts in New York and elsewhere would serve to keep up
my practice as a virtuoso.
SETTLING DOWN TO TEACH
In 1855 I accepted as pupils some four or five young ladies who were
being educated at a fashionable boarding-school in New York. One of
these girls was very bright and intelligent but without special musical
talent. She was extremely averse to application in study, and the
problem for me was to invent some way by which mental concentration
could be compelled, for from the moment she sat down to the piano to
practise she was constantly looking at the clock to see if her
practice-hour was up. After a little study I found that in playing a
scale up one octave and back, without intermission, in 9/8 time, there
are necessarily nine repetitions of the scale before the initial tone
falls again on the first part of the measure. Thus,
[Illustration: musical notation]
and so on until another accent falls upon the initial C. Such an
exercise is called a rhythmus, and the repetitions compel mental
concentration just as surely as the addition of a column of figures
does. I found that if the compass was extended four octaves, thus, from
[Illustration: musical notation]
the nine repetitions of the scale would require from three to four
minutes if played at a moderate rate of speed. I saw at once that a
state of mental concentration could not be avoided by the pupil, and
that in this exercise lay a basic principle. I gave the exercise to my
pupil. The result was that when the next lesson-hour came around and I
asked her how she found the new exercise, she exclaimed: "How do I like
it? Why, you have played a pretty trick on me! It took me nearly an hour
to accomplish it; but I like it. Why did you not give it to me before!"
"Because," I said, "I invented it simply in order to compel your
attention to your work." Following up the principle of grouping the
tones, I applied the rhythmic process not only to all sorts of scale
passages, but included in the treatment arpeggios, broken chords,
octaves, and in fact all passages idiomatic of the pianoforte. The work
of amplification was readily accomplished, and the result was a complete
method in which for the first time, so far as I am aware, scientific
rhythmic treatment was elaborated. This "Accentual Treatment of
Exercises," as I called the system, was first published in the Mason &
Hoadley Method, New York, 1867. The importance of accentual treatment is
now recognized in every modern method.
The idea of starting a series of matinees of chamber-music occurred to
me. I wished especially to introduce to the public the "Grand Trio in B
Major, Op. 8," by Johannes Brahms, and to play other concerted works,
both classical and modern, for this kind of work interested me more than
mere piano-playing. So I asked Carl Bergmann, who was the most noted
orchestral conductor of those days, and thus well acquainted with
musicians, to get together a good string quartet. This he accomplished
in a day or two, and made me acquainted with Theodore Thomas, first
violin; Joseph Mosenthal, second violin; and George Matzka, viola,
Bergmann himself being the violoncellist. We very soon began rehearsing,
and our first concert, or rather matinee, took place in Dodworth's Hall,
opposite Eleventh street, and one door above Grace Church in Broadway.
The program was as follows:
Tuesday, November 27, 1855
1. Quartet in D Minor, Strings _Schubert_
2. Romance from Tannhaeuser,
"Abendstern" _Wagner_
3. Pianoforte Solo, Fantasie Impromptu,
Op. 66 (first time) _Chopin_
Deux Preludes, D flat and G,
Op. 24 _Heller_
4. Variations Concertante for
Violoncello and Piano, Op. 17 _Mendelssohn_
5. "Feldwaert
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