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1913 |
LONDON, 19 January 1913. How beautiful Turandot could be! (Would it not be better to make an opera out of what is already in existence?) But not performed as it was in London yesterday, when I was obliged to come out after the Second Act! How it ended and whether it was a success, I don’t know, even to-day. We shall read about it to-morrow. It will never be any good for play producers. The same afternoon, I heard Mahler’s Seventh Symphony, which was a great disappointment to me (and a little satisfaction) - and to-day, a wet Sunday, I heard orchestral music too. Fragments from Wagner, and Le Rouet d’Omphale by St. Saëns. I always enjoy Wagner, the “Dramatist,” best in a concert, and the Frenchman’s “light touch” always gives me fresh pleasure. I have composed the aphorism: “Compositions for the theatre should be written but not performed.” (My expectations in this respect are good.) I am not so happy as I expected, but hope the Nocturne will be good… LONDON, 21 January 1913. The music to Turandot had more success than the play. One can never give people anything that is too bad! Just imagine, an orchestra of some twenty players, who play incorrectly; some of the music repeated 4-5 times consecutively; some cut; the whole performed in the style of variété. And because, for once, there was too little music for the stage manager, pieces by St. Saëns and Rimsky-Korsakov were shoved in between my music! Imagine! Shall I refuse to let them have the music? The producer says he has paid, and he is in the right. Go to law? With whom?… Before the lawsuit is finished, the season will be over… What do you think of Turandot as an opera, and in Italian, after Gozzi? Auf Wiedersehen, dear Gerda, Your Ferruccio, who has reached a very uncertain moment in his life. LONDON, 25 January 1913. This letter will be a little document about an idea which may become very important for me. For the present, I shall be obliged to consider that with the Nocturne Symphonique my list of preparatory works is complete; which does not mean that with my “daily progress” I do not continually enlarge my musical vocabulary. For considering my age and the stage of my development, I do not think I ought to hesitate any longer before beginning a principal and monumental work, towards which all my previous works have been aiming. At the same time, I should like to deflect the course of my stream back to its source, and try to make my principal work an important one for Italy, too. But one’s grasp has to be very comprehensive, if one wants to reach the heads and hearts of all with one blow! That is what Wagner intended doing with the Nibelungs, who however were comparatively alien to the German people, and did not hit the mark so directly. Italy possesses Dante, who is equally valuable to all and who is popular in spite of his greatness; and even outside Italy. The cinema gave me this idea, when I saw “Dante’s Hell” advertised as a film in the “Strand.” I should not stop with Hell, and not presume as far as Heaven; but end with the meeting with Beatrice. Piazza della Signoria, with Dante sitting on the stone on which he was wont to dream; a characteristic street scene depicting the time, perhaps, too, with Beatrice passing by. And afterwards some six pictures of the most distinctive episodes: Ugolino, Paolo and Francesca, a couple of pictures with crowds; finally, the ascent with Beatrice. And, of course, in Italian. That, anyhow, is something to keep me going for a long time… CASSEL, 26 February 1913. …If I could work, nothing would irritate me, but everything has been at a standstill for more than three months. That leads to self-distrust, as in the years of adolescence… The weather is incomparably beautiful. They have built several beautiful buildings during the last four years, so that the town looks charming this time… The following idea occurred to me: if one admits that there are such things as “presentiments“ and “second sight,” and if one can look into the future (if only for the tiniest moment and shortest distance), it is logical that one should have the same capacity for looking backwards into time. That at least would be an explanation of the so-called seeing of ghosts. Seeing ghosts might be nothing but a momentary and uncertain glance into the past. Everything is made in circles, and it must be the same with clairvoyance too. It is like a Marconi telegraph station, which reaches out to the same distance in all directions… I like to occupy my mind and try to explain these questions to myself. If it does not further anything, it does no harm. I shall make up my mind to write to d’Annunzio, and almost think that the Leonardo idea would be better for me than the Dante. Your feeling was right again. Moi, je raisonne trop. I believe that this time of interruption is maturing me, after all, and producing a clarity in me about myself. Anyhow, we will interpret it thus… LONDON, 2 March 1913. …I am glad you found my little theory about the seeing of ghosts well thought out. It is characteristic of reports about the seeing of ghosts, that one person sees, whilst the others who are with him are aware of nothing. This characteristic, too, is in favour of my theory, because only individual people have the gift of clairvoyance. Enquiries should be made as to whether the same people who saw the ghosts were gifted in clairvoyance in other ways. That would give a strong foundation for my theory. I am reading Wassermann’s new book, “The Man of Forty.” It ought to bear the sub-title, ”A Book for Men over Forty”… It is well written, and in places excellent, but I miss the highest summits of achievement. Wassermann must feel it himself, and suffer consequently. He said something like this to me once: “I would give the whole of my collected works to have written Balzac’s ‘Le chef d’oeuvre inconnu.’”… LONDON, 6 March 1913. Yesterday evening, I experienced the first pleasure I have had for a long time; d’Annunzio answered me by telegram: “Very delighted. Say if you are coming Paris for meeting.” That has made me feel quite young again and now we will see. …Partly from good nature, and partly from the pleasure I took in doing it, I wrote a Scenario for Maudi. [1] The story of a girl is told in pictures, with the very good title of “The Dance of Life and Death.” A music-hall is seen on the stage with a scene in the style of a Beardsley picture; a dancing hall in Paris; a dance with barrel-organs in the streets of London; and the end (in my manner) is mystical; in a church, in front of a remarkable altar; on it is a group of figures with the cross in the middle; right and left, the figures of Death and the Angel of the Resurrection. There is a dance of Death, and much else. It could be very good, lovely, and true; at the same time, it is made of the stuff which lasts. But - (All kinds of dances take place; beginning with a sort of game of tennis, which is danced; a gypsy dance, pantomime, Grande Valse, and cancan, street dance (on the parapet of a bridge), religious dance, and the dance of death). I have written nothing for the church part of it yet, for that means oratorios. (It’s English, you know)… We went by car to Cambridge, in order to be able to get back, for there is no train so late. On the drive there it rained quite biblically, and we lost the way. It was quite amusing really (doing it once) and I arrived a quarter of an hour later than the concert was advertised to begin. (Geo. Albert) Backhaus was waiting in the rain in front of the concert hall, to the glorification of his top-hat. He wanted to play the Chromatic Fantasia himself, so that the audience should not be kept waiting!! I have the feeling that everything will go well now; new spring, new buds. I have finished “The Man of Forty,” and it goes off towards the end. The man goes to the Franco-German war at the finish. As the book is not a novel, but a psychological study, the reader asks himself, “In what way can a man of forty save himself, who was not born in 1831, and who therefore cannot go to the Franco-German War?” (The description of the War is not a big one)… [1] Maud Allan. LONDON, 10 March 1913. Yesterday evening, I saw the devil playing the violin, and he was quite different from Liszt’s idea of him. He had quite a dark face, almost black, overgrown with a short, thick, and still blacker beard; two coal-black eyes and a blood-red, thick under-lip. On his head he wore something which looked like a black, round hat without a brim, placed a little on one side. He was broad and strong. Under his black overcoat, he had on a woman’s skirt which touched the ground. He held his violin in the right hand and bowed with the left. He looked wicked, and did not stir from the spot. He looked dangerously powerful, with an exaggeratedly projecting lower jaw, on which sat the thick red lip. With the exception of this lip, everything was black. But he was no nigger; perhaps an Indian. That was in the night, in the streets of London. Meanwhile, three dear, good letters have arrived from you, written with such wonderful feeling. Thank you! I have just practised the 12 Studies Op. 10, by Chopin, for two hours. I play them quite differently now. (I have mostly played the other twelve.) I am glad to have done it. MANNHEIM, 26 May 1913. Yesterday evening, Bodanzky and Director Wichert (Kunsthalle) came to the hotel. There was a very good discussion about librettos, Wagner, painting, and some anecdotes, too. Wichert is quick and humorous; that is to say, clever… He wanted to found a club, “The Gap“ (“Die Lücke“) which would start everything pleasant which is missing in the town. He’s a splendid museum director!… I am in a holiday mood now, rejoice at being alone, at coming home, at making order among my books, and among my thoughts too. The Brautwahl was mentioned with admiration, Bodanzky was very warm, and praised it with understanding. Altogether, we agreed excellently yesterday evening about all the themes under discussion. Pfitzner scored a very good point, for the rescue of the libretto of the “Magic Flute.” He said: “Everyone is agreed about the alleged nonsense in the Magic Flute; but only one has written a continuation of it and that was - Goethe.” Bodanzky is going to have a new setting made for the Magic Flute, based on the mystical atmosphere of Goethe’s second part. You see, it was a stimulating evening, rich in thought. Like something out of the “Serapionsbrüder”: indeed, very much like that. I look back on these two months with thankfulness and pleasure, and sing, to my own words and music: “Alles hat sich wohlgefügt.” (“Everything has fitted together well.”) I am morally strengthened, and hope to do still more work, and hope it will be good. I will make an attempt with d’Annunzio, otherwise I must help myself in some other way. I am thankful, too, that you could experience everything with me. I never forget that you have been just as good in the bad moments as in the happy ones… PARIS, 23 June 1913. I went to d’Annunzio’s house, rue Bassano 11; he was in a Japanese woman’s kimono, very pale, very absorbed in expression, and aged. He looked like a picture of Mephistopheles, receiving the pupil. “I am just writing a book, ‘The Man who stole The Gioconda,’ for the Gioconda is in my possession, and I shall put her back in the Louvre as soon as the book is published.” What he then told us is either a conscious lie, or he believes it himself, or - which would be unaccountable - might be true, after all. In any case, it is strange enough to tell you about it here. “The man who stole the Gioconda comes from a family of mystical painters, dating back six hundred years. He brought it to me to Arcachon“ (It is confirmed by the police that he took the Paris-Bordeaux train.) “This figure had accumulated adoration and love for so many hundreds of years that the passion of many thousands of men had finally imparted life to the picture. It seemed necessary, certainly, to kill a man, in order to give her something direct from the heart’s blood, but the mystical action succeeded, and I lived for four days with the Gioconda. My power did not suffice to hold her longer and she vanished. Only the landscape remains on the picture, and in the landscape only her smile remains. The gesture of her smile has remained imprinted in the landscape, but the figure has disappeared.” (He repeated that with much satisfaction.) “In this condition the Louvre will receive the picture back again.” There is a similar story by Poe, with the procedure reversed. There an artist paints a woman’s portrait, until the life and truth of her expression is attained in the highest degree; at this moment, the model dies, her life having passed over into the picture. At first he would not quite believe in the possibility of a Leonardo on the stage. “In the same way that I should not give my words to Christ or Napoleon, I do not dare to let him speak through me.” Then, to him, the lack of passion and feeling in Leonardo is opposed to drama. “A brain, borne by a skeleton, like a burning light in a lantern.” But when, as a slogan, I expressed the idea of an “Italian Faust,” he began to see the possibilities. “Not an historical Leonardo, but a symbolical one.” “The Mystic must be added to it.” “A series of pictures without dramatic connection.” There I had him where I wanted him to be. He spoke then of working in collaboration in Arcachon, where it seems the landscape has no decided form. “The clouds are the waves, and the waves are the forest, and it is intangible.” He was very stimulating, but sometimes I had to smile. We are going to see each other again to-morrow. In contrast to this, a conference of Marinetti’s yesterday was much more realistic and material. I had scarcely sent off my letter to you, when I met him in the hotel (with Boccioni). Boccioni has exhibited “futuristic sculpture.” The idea is this: To show many movements of a body, with architectural effect, in one form. So you see a leg that is lifted, which at the same time moves backwards and forwards while the muscles are expressed in a correspondingly manifold way. There is much study in it, but it looks ugly and unintelligible, especially if the man has a little toy house in the place of a head, for reasons which were explained to me very theoretically by Boccioni. The conference ended in strife. Compared with this art and the incarnation of Monna Lisa as Gabriele’s mistress, Schönberg’s Pierrot Lunaire is insipid lemonade! Many impressions!! This evening I am going to Pisanella… PARIS, 23 June 1913. The world is full of surprises. Pugno, in collaboration with a 22-year-old Parisian lady, is composing “la città morta,” by d’Annunzio. And the strange thing is that d’Annunzio believes in it. He himself says wittily, “Pugno has allowed himself to be fructified by a virgin“; but all the same, between the aphorism and the fact, there is much room for headshaking. This is certainly the most interesting part of Paris. [1] I am sitting at the open window, and it is the moment when daylight becomes blue and the lamps shine yellow. Girls pass by, coming from work. The charm of southern Europe is here in this historical city of the world. I do not think that such a perfect example of this combination is to be met with anywhere else nowadays. Now I am going to the Châtelet, to Pisanelle, or “la mort parfumée.” I shall see Mlle Rubinstein, of whom it is said by one that she cannot speak but can dance; by another that she has a beautiful body, but cannot dance; by a third, that her body is not womanly, therefore not beautiful. She is just like St. Sebastian, pierced with arrows by all… [1] Hotel Restaurant Foyot. PARIS, 24 June 1913. Yesterday evening, Théâtre du Chatelet; full house, mostly women. Big orchestra, dilettantish music, music-making which was suitable for everything and for nothing. Curtains with large patterns à la Reinhardt. Behind the curtains, yet another curtain. Tam-tam signal; the first scene is a hall from the Kremlin. How did it get to Cyprus? It was painted by Gospodin Bakst (of the Russian ballet). Fräulein Rubinstein is also Russian. Half the audience, I noticed, consisted of Russians. A former beauty who sat next to me addressed me as Mr. Chaliapine. I made my excuses. “But what a resemblance! I know him personally.” It makes one realise how people see things. The first act is tedious, and produces no effect. A beggar woman sings off-stage and also speaks off-stage. It is obvious that the singer and speaker are two different people. The second Act is a harbour. It is entirely red; red walls, red ground, red ships, and some blue water in between. A slave (Rubinstein) has lost her way; a young King arrives and gives her his white mantle and his white horse, and Fräulein Rubinstein rides off in triumph. She has neither danced, nor spoken, only stood on the stage, tightly swathed in some sort of stuff with a square pattern. Third Act: an unintelligible scene. A number of nuns come in, and so it is obvious that one is in a convent. Is it a convent court-yard? I was so tired and so irritated that I went out in the rain. There was nobody in the streets, although it was only half-past ten. The rue de Rivoli, with its long row of lamps (one in every arch), looked almost gruesome. I know that Pisanelle will be smothered in roses bi the last Act. Hence the name, “la mort parfumée”… A lot depends on colours with d’Annunzio. Brown Arabian women with red roses; white horse, white mantle. He also brings in a number of handicraft things, too. The French language on the stage is horrible. This declaiming of words like blasphème, innocente, with a long, neighing sound on the accent and the exaggerated e-mute, in the long run sounds like bad singing. The whole play seemed old-fashioned, declamatory, pathetic and motley; full of excitable gestures, long tirades, inexplicable stabbings, deaths, and screams. Melancholy, and without humour, it is like an æsthetically affected Wildenbruch play. On the other hand, it may be a masterpiece, and I may be admitting myself to be unappreciative. It is possible. (The succession of artistic emotions has been too rapid during the last few days and I am partly confused and partly blunted by them…) PARIS, 26 June 1913. If I, like d’Annunzio, could say with an absolutely contented smile, that I am not happy, on the contrary, that I am very unhappy, I should say with an equal amount of inward satisfaction, that everything is being more successful for me in Paris than it really is. (D’Annunzio looked quite blissful as he added, “For how could I create if I were not unhappy!“) This town affects one in various ways, like certain women, who are unsympathetic and yet can charm; and others who are very sympathetic and clever, but leave one cold. Paris has characteristics belonging to both sorts. (Unfortunately, the weather is grey and cold.) How old-fashioned and over-ripe this Paris is. Every kind of interest is to be found here, and profound indifference is shown to them all. Perhaps d’Annunzio belongs here, like Oscar Wilde and Meyerbeer. On d’Annunzio’s bookshelves there are books, old and new, about Cyprus, for example. In each volume, three or four long strips of paper were placed as markers. Very probably he uses these places when he needs something - for his own book; he does not know things, he gets the knowledge as he wants it, (he is, of course, an artist, not a scholar!) and has a quick intuition for what is suitable or important. I noticed very clearly the other evening how much the streets in a town are classified by the lighting. The important ones brilliantly lit and the others less so. All the principal streets are defined by the stronger light; whilst by day everything is light. By avoiding the darker roads, one is surer of finding one’s way by night than by day. What a long time it takes to arrive at such a simple solution!… PARIS, 27 June 1913. Yesterday, d’Annunzio invited me to late dinner. He had a big Russian woman with him, (who was the essence of amateurishness) who behaved well, however… He said that he was going to die in two years’ time (looking as he did when he told us about his four days with the Gioconda), whereupon the Russian woman made great eyes, startled and imploring, and I simply couldn’t help laughing rather openly. When he saw that he was not believed, he smiled too, and said, “Yes, but it is so,” and with the smile he gave up the game, but stuck to his point by adding, “Whether you believe it or not, it is so.” The worst thing is, he wants to hear some of my compositions in order to adjust himself to them (so he says) but really in order to examine them (is what I feel) - it is senseless, and depressing, and I don’t know how to get myself out of this situation. Possibly, I may go away suddenly, and leave everything just as it is. (To you I need not explain that.) D’Annunzio describes R. as being an ordinary unintelligent business man; and yet he insists on making the whole thing depend on him to a certain extent. R. himself comes here to-morrow, and I do not believe that I can endure a meeting. I know I am not being wise, and I will still think it all over; but I have had enough of it; drinking poison under pretext of being invited to a glass of wine. At the same time, from d’Annunzio’s conversation, I feel convinced that as soon as he began writing his verse might give me the deepest pleasure. But to me his feeling for the mystical and his practical ideas are incongruous. All the same, he is quite right when he says, “Why should we plague ourselves for three or four years, when we can do nothing with the work when it is finished?” That is how things stand, and I shall have come to some decision by the evening… (Addressed to Alt-Aussee) BERLIN, 16 July 1913. …I played through the Liszt things eagerly; it is remarkable how few and how simple are the forms which he uses for his technical passages. (All other “piano composers“ want to do too much and fill out to excess.) I work daily, and hope to be able to produce something for you… (Addressed to Alt Aussee) BERLIN, 18 July 1913. Haschke sent a beautiful consignment of books on approval to-day. Amongst them, Delacroix’s pictures to Goethe’s Faust (which please me more and more) and a rare edition of Lichtenberg, with etchings by Chodowiecki. And the official appointment from Bologna [1] came to-day, too. It is a beautifully composed letter… Berlin changes the places of its buildings as one changes furniture in a house… Changes here are generally “improvements”; whilst in Paris, almost everything new is uglier than the old… The Red Indian themes are not very pliable or productive. I shall have to put a good deal of my own into the Rhapsodie. (After a final examination and revision, the Nocturne Symphonique seems to me to have reached a kind of perfection…) [1] As Director of the Liceo Musicale. (Addressed to Alt Aussee) BERLIN, 20 July 1913. I have nothing to report, the weather is bad, my mood passable, but my mind becomes clearer every day. I sleep very well and the Red Indian Fantasy progresses. Yesterday, I busied myself with translation, because I wanted to make Benni acquainted with two of Poe’s poems… (Addressed to Alt Aussee) BERLIN, 22 July 1913. …The Red Indians are passing by, and thoughts begin to move. [1] To-day, I began putting down some thoughts about melody again. Perhaps they will interest you. Absolute Melody: A row of repeated ascending and descending intervals, which are organized and move rhythmically. It contains in itself a latent harmony, reflects a mood of feeling. It can exist without depending on words for expression and without accompanying voices. When performed, the choice of pitch or of instrument makes no alteration to the nature of its being. Melody, independent at first, joined the accompanying har-mony subsequently, and later melted into inseparable unity with it. Recently, it has been the aim of polyphonic music, which is always progressing, to free itself from this unity. In contradiction to points of view which are deeply rooted, it must be maintained here that melody has expanded continuously, that it has grown in line and capacity for expression and that in the end it must succeed in becoming the most powerful thing in composition. At the time when operas and salon compositions were ”abounding in melodies,” the quality of the melody and what it had to express were at their lowest level, because it had to be possible to cut the melody out of a musical composition and separate it from the remaining constituent parts in the easiest and most intelligible way; leaving - a spoilt folk-song. Transcription occupies an important place in the literature of the piano; and looked at from a right point of view, every important piano piece is the reduction of a big thought to a practical instrument. But transcription has become an independent art; no matter whether the starting point of a composition is original or unoriginal. Bach, Beethoven, Liszt, and Brahms were evidently all of the opinion that there is artistic value concealed in a pure transcription; for they all cultivated the art themselves, seriously and lovingly. In fact, the art of transcription has made it possible for the piano to take possession of the entire literature of music. Much that is inartistic, however, has got mixed up with this branch of the art. And it was because of the cheap, superficial estimation of it made by certain men, who had to hide their nakedness with a mantle of “being serious,” that it sank down to what was considered a low level. [1] Busoni was composing the Indian Fantasy. (Addressed to Alt Aussee) BERLIN, 23 July 1913. The weather is cool, but it has been clearer the last two days, and even sunny sometimes; I hope it is like that where you are too and that you are enjoying it. It is a joyless existence I have been enduring for almost two weeks now… I can’t seize the passing moment and although I know that many ideas that occur to me are good and beautiful, I am not completely conscious of them, and allow myself to be confused by details. (And I have worked so hard to overcome this.) There are brief moments when I feel I have strength and freedom and I have a presentiment of happiness. Thank God, I am well, think clearly, and have time in front of me… I work every day, and I have reached the critical moment in my piece where many ideas have to be forced into one form. I hope it will go well… HEIDELBERG, 17 September 1913. I will make a kind of diary out of the letters to you during the coming time; write in it daily even if I don’t post daily. Cold and wet welcomed me here but, to make up for that, I was greeted at the station by the charming Frau Lilly (formerly Meyer) who chanced to be there. It was such a friendly greeting that I interpreted it as a good beginning. Leaving yesterday was very difficult, for I felt I was going to territory only half-known, and that, I think, made me uneasy. I told Frau B. too (when I wrote to her about her new life) that one incessantly begins life afresh. This morning I had a similar feeling to the one I had when first I went to Leipzig. What a pity it is so grey! I thought out a beautiful edition for the “Nocturne Symphonique,” with an etching and other things. But it will not be possible. When I look round for “etchers” Klinger is always in my mind as the principal one… One notices for the first time, clearly and distinctly, how much one values a painter when a decision has to be made about a purchase or a commission. For example, I value Boccioni very much, but I do not want to order a title page from him. During the night I could not get free from a certain two-part imitation. I turned round in bed hoping the passage might appear in the inversion, but it remained obstinate… HEIDELBERG, 18 September 1913. Yesterday it rained in a way “that makes all pigs clean and all men dirty“ (as Lichtenberg says). To-day it is a sunny, fresh morning and I feel in a mood for travelling to unknown destinations; I am suspended between the past and the future, sail between two banks, move in space, and Heidelberg is only a name, for I am nowhere. In an old catalogue I found a “livre mystique” by Balzac, 1835 - unfortunately sold already (for the unworthy price of six marks). It is unknown to me and must be rare. Perhaps it contains the first print of “La Dernière Fée” and “Séraphita.” I almost regret having announced my visit to Bodansky. He throws me back into reality. I think I shall go there this afternoon and to-morrow, probably, go on further southwards. This last word contains so much ever-recurring magic, that just to use it is to become a poet. Scenery is always beautiful when it is enlivened by the sun and if one knows that one is not bound to the spot… I feel so youthfully indeterminate to-day. Quite happy and almost without weight. You were so very dear, you are so good!… HEIDELBERG, 19 September 1913. When I went to see Bodansky yesterday evening he was already in the theatre conducting the “Sommernachtstraum”; so we only met after the performance…. B is going to put Turandot on the stage, this season if possible. We spoke of the Sommernachtstraum music and of how he had commissioned Zemlinsky to write music for Cymbeline. “If I were a Norwegian“ - I began, and at the same moment B said, “You should write the music for Peer Gynt. Would you do that? I don’t perform Grieg’s music for it.” This attracts me very strongly, but how can I catch the Norwegian atmosphere? It does not allow of such poetical treatment as oriental theatre music; the country lies too near us for that. It must be “genuine” and a foreigner cannot catch it. As his knowledge of various musical compositions increases, Bodansky is continually changing. In his youth everyone was supplanted by Wagner. At present he is enthusiastic about the “Huguenots” which he is just studying. The new generation begins to show opposition… things are better for them than they were for my generation, who from birth were obliged to drag round Wagner on their shoulders! But, as I feared, all that, interesting as it is, has torn me out of my abstract condition… I came back to Heidelberg at one o’clock in the morning, and slept for ten hours. This afternoon I shall travel further. I think I shall make a stop in Basle. The sky is making a bitter-sweet face. This inertia which seems to have got inside me makes it difficult for me to continue the journey. GENEVA, 21 September 1913. I did not write yesterday; the night journey, too short and without a sleeping-car, fatigued me very much. But the feeling when I arrived in Basic the night before - I mean the feeling of the town - was so petty and tedious that I did not want to have anything to do with it. So I took the next train in order to get away from it at all costs. This town, too, is hard to put up with, and its interests quickly exhausted. One should be economical with life. One does not read an unimportant book a second time, and in the same way, when once the contents of a place are known one should not return to it. (One should not act otherwise with people really, but there, consideration, feeling and destiny all join in and have to be reckoned with.) It was all the more delightful for me to find Benni fresh and clear, and in a surer condition than he had been at any time of late. We found pleasure in saying nice things about you, and you were with us in the otherwise unsympathetic hotel room whilst we had tea. And now, by chance, A is there and B is waiting - and so good-bye to all soaring travelling flights and excursions into the abstract for which I hoped: sentinels stand at the side of the road everywhere, take something from one and say, Halt! I was intensely moved by reading the Urfaust, that is, the first version of Goethe’s Faust, where all kinds of things are still missing and the Gretchen story is the principal theme. It is so original, alive and first-hand (the greater part in prose), that one can hardly contain oneself. How well it is held together, and how carefully the apparently simple verses are fashioned to support it. In this fragment at the end, for example, (after Mephisto’s cry “She is judged“) the following “is saved” is missing. Can you understand what an enormous step in Goethe’s conception of life these a words imply? Dear Gerda, à propos Goethe, I found such a wonderful copy here of the “Ausgabe Letzter Hand“ in 55 separate volumes for the price of 10 frcs!, that I took it although I already possess it… On the way, in order to practise Italian, I read Carducci, who makes war on the gnats and strikes at them with his lyre… and an excellent little book by Schopenhauer “Über Schriftstellerei und Styl” in which he abuses the critics in an edifying manner, and therein is in agreement with Carducci…. GENEVA, 22 September 1913. At last: radiant, fresh autumnal weather… To-morrow I shall go on further; I don’t know where yet (theoretically I like to imagine I have unbounded freedom), probably I shall stop once more before Bergamo. I forgot to report that I got out at the Baden (German) railway station, and that this station is planned in a new way and has an entirely new and monu-mental building. It is built in the new, flat, “Greek“ style, without ornaments and capitals, very elongated and with a square tower. It is a very good construction. Using the word “new” makes me think with ironical melancholy of that letter of Liszt’s giving an account of the “modern“ façade of the old Cathedral in Geneva, which is in the taste of Napoleonic times. It annoyed him at that time, and to us now it is historically remarkable. All the same; it’s good that we possess a “modern” style. Letters written in the seventies and eighties could have had nothing to communicate about that!… Arno Holz, too, thinks he has created a modern style. I let a bookseller seduce me into buying his “Ignorabimus,” and of the 200 pages I couldn’t read more than ten… His preface ends: “Written in the year in which impotence was trumps”… The honest fury of Schopenhauer’s abuse (“scoundrel,” “ blockhead,” “charlatan,” “ink-slinger“) never sounds vulgar because it comes from the heart out of love for something greater than himself. MILAN, 24 September 1913. This day whose light has never before been seen, I arrived at seven o’clock in the morning. I used the beautiful hour in watching ”das Erwachen der Stadt“ (the awakening of the town). But here there is nothing in the awakening to charm the mind and senses. It has much more the effect of taking a toy out of a box and standing it upright. After that, the little machinery begins to run round in a circle. There is nothing between Geneva and Milan for which it would be worth while “to break the journey.” It is, by-the-bye, almost too short a run for a night journey… Good weather. The trees are autumnal already and it is fresh, but still I am able to write by the open window… I may go on to-day to Bergamo where I hope to find your letter… Berlin must be very beautiful now!?… MILAN, 25 September 1913. I wrote to Serato and whilst I wrote - unintentionally at first - the end of a Beethoven Cadenza (for violin) occurred to me; then the beginning; and when I had closed the letter, the join for the two bits occurred to me too. In this way I had got the whole Cadenza complete (only in my memory, it is true, without a piano and even without manuscript paper)… Amongst books I found a very beautiful ”Novellino“ (Geneva, 1765) on yellow paper in vellum; “Les Nuits d’Young” with two copper-prints by Deveria, a Don Quixote with engravings by Horace Vernet, and the first edition of Musset’s novels. I did not buy the Geneva Novellino in Geneva, but here. The Goethe ought to be in Berlin by now - very worn outside, but wonderful inside, original bindings, which one would prefer to keep as they are. I shall go to Bergamo this afternoon and, probably, (after another two days) to Bologna. If only I had one person there with whom I could talk freely, and who “knows“ me, it would be much easier for me. Serato or Tagliapietra would have done quite well. Perhaps I can get Brugnoli to come over for a little while. Yesterday I saw Boito go by in a carriage - otherwise no one… BERGAMO, 26 September 1913. Already it seems a little strange to be writing in German. I arrived here directly after sunset. The drive in the town was full of fantastic impressions, quite improbable, and time seemed to have been put back (as it was in Wells’ “Time Machine“ or in Andersen’s “Goloshes of Fortune“). Up here, this morning, in Augusto’s [1] library, it is beautiful and light. One looks down to what is nearest, and out to what is farthest; it is an ideal workroom, in the forenoon… And it was glorious to get your letter. The other letters were all more or less unimportant… Pfitzner asks if I won’t play his Trio, and whether he can have the score of the Nocturne Symphonique. I have heard that he said to Frau B, with the sigh of a martyr, “What will happen is that I shall perform Busoni’s piece and he will not play my Trio.” But it will be the other way round, for I am going to play his Trio on the 12th January and I shall take care not to give the Nocturne to a raw orchestra, for the piece is woven with nerve-threads. Considered as a whole, my years in the forties have been the best. I feel stronger and more gifted, more successful and independent… This life here, without hope of anything happening, without prospect of change, without sociability, without women - when the day’s work is ended and evening falls like a curtain and darkness begins - and the next morning begins again like a thousand other mornings and moves towards the thousandth empty, lonely, dark evening - in spite of all the beauty and individuality of the place, one would be bound to become a furious eccentric here. It is pleasant, however, to pass a couple of days thus, during this lovely autumnal weather: still, the day seems long, particularly if one gets up at 7 o’clock, as I did to-day. I am looking forward to your next letter and thank you for the last…. [1] Dr. Augusto Anzoletti. BERGAMO, 27 September 1913. If I look back at some things in my childhood, I perceive that I was an intelligent boy. When I was twelve, I had a large and beautiful toy-theatre with rather a splendid town scene. This pleased me very much, but it made me feel sad. I began to ask myself why and found the answer: Because nobody walked about in it. Here, in Bergamo, I cannot help thinking again of that scene. This town extends unexpectedly. We walked for quite 35 minutes yesterday all the time between houses and through suburban streets, from Anzoletti’s flat to the factory. We watched the “casting”; it was a beautiful picture. The molten iron, the reflections, the men’s figures moving in the half--darkness, the fantastic ovens and wheels, and in the background the open doors, and behind that, the sunny landscape. It is an interesting little kingdom over which our friend [1] reigns. In the evening we walked for another 20-25 minutes behind the house up to an inn Belvedere. By the time we had finished our little supper it was half-past eight, which means there that night has fallen completely and everything is deserted. We plunged into the “tumult” of the new town below, where there is life in the cafés and even a music-hall. The audience consisted entirely of men, which reminds one a little of western America. Although they were all attracted by the two shabby women vocalists, they behaved as if they were quite indifferent and superior, and hardly looked at the stage. This attitude of superiority and boredom in Italy is really a provincial trait, combined with a lack of naïveté. Compared with Bergamo, for instance, Geneva is thoroughly ”kitschig“ [2] but more cosmopolitan. Of course the separation of the sexes here is to blame for many defects all over the kingdom. Yesterday I was thoroughly tired out, for we were on the go from 4 to 11. At 11 o’clock we took a motor-car at the station and again there was a fairy-like drive over the ramparts, and through alleys so narrow that there was hardly room for the car to pass. Literally, we did not meet one single person on this drive. A “modern“ counterpart of Bergamo is Pittsburg in America. I shall never forget the 4-mile motor drive up the mountain to the rich upper town. Down below, as the distance widened, the smoking chimneys and the roofs increased in numbers; there the “Morlocks” dwell; up above, we found pure air, marble buildings, parks, and inaction. That beautiful evening, too, at the theatre in Varese, two years ago, came into my mind again, with the candlelight and the beautiful provincial ladies and the festive gala doings in the midst of great comfort. This letter consists of reminiscences; if one lived here one would write one’s “Memoirs.” It is cloudy to-day; when the weather is clear one ought to be able to see the Cathedral at Milan… I have looked forward to the post in vain; here one is more dependent on it than elsewhere… [1] Emilio Anzoletti. [2] In bad taste. BERGAMO, 28 September 1913. I say farewell to my holiday to-day and look forward with pleasure to work. Yesterday I had violent “stage fright“ as before an important concert, so that I felt ill. We visited Augusto’s establishment and an institute for “graphic arts“ which produces all kinds of art and coloured prints. During the last few days I have come to the terrible conviction that the Italians (flow) are not a people with a feeling for art. They read, hear, and see badly; what they build is ugly; they have no taste in their homes. In all these respects they are ignorant and either badly influenced or not influenced at all. They draw a thick line between what belongs, historically, to the past and what belongs to the present: people perceive more and more clearly that nothing is permanent, that everything is only adapted for the moment; why, then, is so much importance attached to money making? Their perception fails them here as it failed Cervantes’ well-known fool. A grey Sunday - yesterday evening we retired to the house at eight o’clock. I slept badly; it is not cheerful in Italy. Look upon this as a diary, to-morrow I will write something beautiful in it… (I am better.) Anzoletti read the sketch for Arlecchino and he liked it. Anfossi said to him à propos of the Sonatina seconda that I did not know what I was doing (- “believe me“). BOLOGNA, 2 October 1913. Sunshine, stillness, monastery courtyard, fountain, someone hums a song in the next house; then clouds again which veil the sun, no one visible. Near me, in the next room, stands Rossini’s Napoleonic bed, slumbers his wig - whose hair might it be? The porter’s old wife, fat, good-natured, whitehaired, moustached, greeted me with uplifted arms: “Welcome, Mr. Director, you who are beloved by all.” The porter, a handsome man, still vigorous, knew me as a boy: “I knew you as a boy and now you have become so famous!”… Very busy yesterday. Calls, administration, concert programme. For a week I have been eating figs every day. (To be enjoyed, they should be eaten straight from the tree.) The pianos are put up. Perhaps I can live here in the house. It is said that Foscolo once wrote “Everything that can be obtained with money is not worth so much as the money itself, but more valuable than money is that which one cannot have for money.” This should be engraved on the base of the statue of Liberty, New York, N.Y., U.S.A. Am very distracted. Still no composure. Many too many men; no women at all…. The people are coming back to the town gradually from the country… I see from the calendar that to-morrow and the day after to-morrow are holidays. Here, instead of the date, one says the name of the Saint. To-morrow, (pardon, the day after to-morrow) is not the 4th of October but “San Petronio”… I visited the mayor yesterday in the pompous town hall. Shallow steps lead up to the entrance of it, up which they used to ride in former days. It’s like going to court. In order to avoid the people I have found a way through quite an alarming side street, which goes across from the hotel to the Liceo. It is curious, old, narrow and twisted; in the windowless entrances to unspeakable houses, one sees women (prostitutes) crouching together like goats in a stable. In the dialect of the people the street is called “The road to hell.” I am learning Bolognese. Forgive the chronicle-style. How beautiful it is that you are in the world, dear Gerda…. BOLOGNA, 3 October 1913. A town without water and without trees would be almost unique; if the neighbouring towns (up to Modena) were not made from the same “pattern.” By contrast, the effect produced by the landscape is all the more beautiful. What lines! Richness in forms! Abundance of Life! The two Anzolettis and I went for a motor drive yesterday and drove in a roundabout way up to S. Vittore. Such a beautiful drive! Up and down hill (it undulates like the sea) and down roads so overgrown with grass that the chauffeur looked round enquiringly at us. We passed big country houses, two of which bear the old aristocratic name, Mazzacorati, which comes from Amazza-Curati and means Priest-murderer. “Yes, they murdered and stole”; (“but no one is perfect,” as Heine sings)… The evenings here are bad and I have yet to find a suitable way of filling in the time. If one retires to the house about 11 o’clock (when everything seems extinct) then - in bed - one is surprised and disturbed by the amount of noise going on. I believe just because of the great quietness one hears every single sound. Three orchestral concerts are fixed: the invitations to Serato and Petri and the performance of the “Faust-Symphony” almost decided upon. The latter is as little known here as Brahms’ violin Concerto. I think the last programme may be: Freischütz Overture Franck, Les Djinns Liszt, Spanish Rhapsody Liszt, Faust Symphony All new for Bologna. I still continue to do nothing, although I write five to six letters daily, have conferences, make plans. There is nothing special going on here for which I should feel you must come. Mais, nous verrons! Thank you for your beautiful letter. I think of you on every pleasant occasion and at other times too…. BOLOGNA, 4 October 1913. Your letters are refreshing, real and vivid, like your whole nature. I know that what I write is sometimes rather abstract and discursive; but I must tell you everything that comes into my head and I reflect a great deal. “Professional things“ I load on to Egon sometimes. However you know (you, best of all) that I have feeling. That is so, is it not, dear Gerda? Your card from Weimar has just arrived; it gives me ease of mind to know that you are undertaking something without me. It is a good distance even to Wartburg from Weimar. Here I miss those warm autumn landscapes… I wonder if it is not too late to transplant myself back again? I see things too clearly and have to force myself to do some things against my feeling… I was told that the old Queen (Margherita) had expressed herself very enthusiastically about my art. I expect these lines will find you at home again? Be happy. I love you. (Benni now understands you much better.) That queer fellow Augusto has helped me a lot… unfortunately he has to go to his island in a few days. BOLOGNA, 5 October 1913. …I still do not see how to divide my work and finish it, but I shall find a way. It is impossible to work here in the evening and I have given up the idea of sleeping in the Liceo. For there is no light and the whole storey is uninhabited. “With the exception of some rats, mice, and a couple of owls I rightly think; no living being.” [1] I should be obliged to walk through the big hall and the enormous corridor with a candle and then live surrounded by all this empty darkness. The walls are hung with portraits of old gentlemen and the appearance of some of them does not invite intimate acquaintanceship. There is a dwarf especially who, to me, is odious. I imagined he came into the room with Rossini’s wig on and presented me with his roll of music to play through. And close by is the library, wrapped in silence and clinging to its old, useless and boring books, all classified. There is a spinet in the library - supposing it were to begin to tinkle? A glass of wine too much before going to bed and in one night I could lose every hair on my head. But Italy has no ghosts, the ghost here is almost as profane and ridiculous as the one in Wilde’s book. (I believe that it is even incorrect when Mereschkowsky lets an Italian witch ride up the chimney; that custom belongs to witches of Germanic origin.) No, the Italians are “matter of fact,” they see the stars stark-clear and rayless; if they murdered they had no fear of “spirits coming back.” Murder was safe business if one wished to have Rest. With it the disagreeableness stopped. Whilst in German murder stories the unpleasantness only begins properly when the person has been killed. They seem to fear the living more than the dead here. Yes, each one fears the other… Augusto holds the theory that the best people do not show themselves simply because they are too wise to do so. Your card came from Eisenach to-day; I hope (and believe from what you write) that you have had a little pleasure…. [1] Quotation from the Brautwahl. BOLOGNA, 6 October 1913. Yesterday evening with Anzoletti was extremely stimulating; talked about poetry, languages, medicine and many other things. What a wonderful intelligence! BOLOGNA, 7 October 1913. …Frau Jella arrived in “good spirits“; I showed her Santo Stefano and was extraordinarily moved myself by the austere mysticism and form of this interior, in which the altar stands as if it were in a casket. This altar, which in one line unites altar, pulpit, and two flights of stairs, is like a musical composition; strong and yet gracious, of beautiful material, and sensuous colour, a symbol of its aim and unique in form; perhaps only Bach, in one of his best moments, had anything similar in music. Faith – unaffectedness - perfect suitability of the form to the aim - for us these moments are lost! Afternoon. Three hundred years ago, or more, the following event took place in Bologna: A young Bolognese had a quarrel with a young stranger and was killed by him in a duel on the spot. A door yielding to his pressure, the stranger fled into a house. He mounted the stairs and at the top found himself in frit of a noble lady. He fell on his knees and begged for protection (he confessed what he had done) and the lady accorded him a safe hiding-place in one of the inner rooms of her house, at the same time swearing that she would help him to save his life. A short time afterwards the patrol was announced, asked for the fugitive and searched the house, but they received no answer nor did they find the man for whom they searched. Then the Captain said aloud: “This lady cannot know that the man who is hiding is her son’s murderer.” But after a short heroic decision the lady lied still further, dismissed the administrators of the law and betook herself to the stranger. She said: “You have taken my son from me; now you shall be my son in his place.” In memory of this deed the street was afterwards named Strada Pia, the street of compassion. I find this chronicle simple and beautiful. More beautiful than the usual three-cornered drama with the deceived husband. A good one-act play could be made out of it. BOLOGNA, 10 October 1913. …Marinetti is “manifesting” the importance of Variété as that of the true theatre of the future. I find: that Variété is simply the old annual fair, with this difference; at the fair the performances were given at different places at the same time, and in Variété they are given in one place in succession. This journal will, I fear, pine away for lack of material -- But I have still one good memorandum to enter to-day. Yesterday I saw a villa which pleased me very much… Outside the Porta Maggiore is the street which leads on to the suburb in a straight line… If one steps through the door of No. 55 one finds on the other side of the wall, garden and country, broad and free, as far as the furthest hills. It is just like the situation in Wells’s story of “The Door in the Wall.” It is surprisingly beautiful! The house is not a “Villino“ nor a castle, but a country manor--house. It would please you and it is to be had. If the inside of the house is good too, I shall take it. Then, for the present, I should have the following plan. To pass the spring and autumn here, to travel in the winter and to be in Berlin for a short time (at Christmas and in January). It is impossible to be here during July and August. (The gardener said that too,). Therefore I should like to keep my summer work in Berlin very much. I should like to enjoy this happiness which, to me, is such a necessity before I am an old man. It keeps me young; otherwise I should go to pieces prematurely. So there must be a flat in Berlin. I believe it is possible to do all this and I should like to hear your opinion. Perhaps it may yet be very nice and according to your wishes too. So we will look forward to it, dear Gerda, you and your FERRUCCIO. BOLOGNA, 11 October 1913. Yesterday I had a visit from the newly appointed Capo Banda (he conducts the band which dispenses military music here); he is a young Neapolitan, lively, cheerful and friendly. A pleasant contrast to these dusty Bolognese, who are as old as their own institutions. He seemed to come from another world. There is a great deal of ineffective solemnity here; he struck me as quite “modern” in the good sense of the word… BOLOGNA, 15 October 1913. There have just been a number of people here about various concerns. Although so much is left in my hands it is very difficult to get anything done. (It is as if someone made me a present of an island and took away the ship in which to get there.) (1) The Direction of the School of Music. (2) The Concerts of the Società del Quartetto. (3) A new musical paper which has been placed at my disposal. (4) A seat on the Committee for performances at the theatre. The last is the most hopeless of all, for everyone trembles before Ricordi and he is in command. It is suddenly cold and sunny after a week of sirocco, which is a danger to the stomach. All blessings till we meet again. BOLOGNA, 21 October 1913. …Bologna is not very different from Trieste; what one knows about other countries only happens to come by chance from abroad, and one mistakes Sudermann for Ibsen. In addition, everything remains as it has been for the last 30 years; they still act and speak in the same way and, as I have been saying until it is almost a proverb, San Petronio is still unfinished; Marconi, who is a Bolognese, was here to-day. He lost an eye in a motor-car accident. Should not “seeing without eyes“ be a possible discovery? I believe in everything so long as nothing has been proved to the contrary! Hearing without ears is really there in music (by reading it) -- It occurred to me that I never smoke or drink when I dream. The mechanism of dreams has never yet been fully explained. I began to study it and found one thing: if one dreams something “endless“ it is only because one had had no new thoughts. If I think I am driving, this drive goes on until I have another idea. But in 5 seconds one can think of any length of distance!… Goodbye, dear Gerda. BOLOGNA, 23 October 1913. Isadora Duncan, after a telegraphic announcement from Viareggio, received me yesterday at 5 o’clock. You know that six months ago she had the most inconceivable misfortune: both her children were drowned together. That is infinitely hard and severe and she is bound to suffer very much. In spite of that, when she told me that now she was only spirit, and how a month before the catastrophe she constantly saw three black birds fluttering in the room, and that these birds in olden times were thought to be harbingers of death - when she said all that and other things, it reminded me of d’Annunzio, who in a smilingly self-satisfied way protested that he was infinitely unhappy. She could “dance properly” no more but she would like to symbolize something religious and dance some movements to some choruses by Palestrina - My God!- In Isadora’s opinion the genius of the future will be a godlike dancer, and a composer too, who will thus fill up the chasm, as it now exists, between music and dancing. Her son, who was only three years old, had shown natural tendencies towards becoming this genius. I had scarcely left her when she wrote a letter to me…. I had an invitation to the Borgattis’ for the same evening. Renata did me good, after the other one. The house is rich, light, new, cold and inartistic. At the end, Borgatti sang two scenes from Parsifal excellently. Renata accompanied like a young mare, but she does get through everything and controls it all. Respighi was there too -- He is witty. They spoke of an operation where a missing finger had been replaced by one of the same person’s toes. Respighi said: “If he gives anyone a box on the ear now, it will be a kick.” He is going to be married. I said: “Life is short, marriage is long.” In Bologna the days slip by but not the hours. I visited a church which is used as a gymnasium. With a few alterations one can imagine it as a concert hall, which is badly needed. I already have the plan ready and written down. The gymnastic teacher, “Professor,” greeted me with the words, “he had already had the pleasure of bothering me.” The church, unimportant as such, would be exceptional as a concert hall. One sees by this on what a high level church architecture must stand…. Da Motta wrote a good, warm letter, which really delighted me. BOLOGNA, 26 October 1913. …On Friday evening an (election) candidate made a speech from a platform in the public square, before the Town Hall, to many thousands of men. It made a beautiful old-world picture. The Elections have caused unrest in the town during the last week, and one saw still more men than usual. The whole week at the Liceo has been taken up with examinations. It struck me that the girls who have studied singing perform much better and more attractively than the pianists. They are freer, and I think the “natural“ instrument must be the cause of this. The teachers for string players are excellent here. Have you seen the puppets in Berlin play Faust? If it is still being given, do go and see it for me…. Fregoli [1] has been giving performances here, “one laughs.” I thank you with all my heart for your good, dear letters which are full of understanding. The days which brought them were always more beautiful. I shall see you soon and kiss you… [1] A transformation artist. BOLOGNA, 28 October 1913. I shall be obliged to stop here until the end of this week, though I don’t know how I shall have finished with everything even then: I am quite fidgety. And, please, be prepared to come to Russia with me, or else I shall feel quite homeless; this is not a command, of course, but I think it is what you wish also….. |
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1914 |
TOURS, 30 January 1914. I travelled from Nantes to Tours in order to catch the Paris-Bordeaux Express and had two hours to wait… Architecture and landscape very charming and very alive - spring weather - and a “model“ hotel, which is the reason for my stopping the night in Tours… It is astonishingly beautiful here; the whole neighbourhood full of castles; on the way I passed Angers, Saumur - and those Cathedrals! I was very happy for some hours… HEIDELBERG, 8 April 1914. My thoughts were clearer when I woke in Heidelberg to-day, and my mood more cheerful; but to counterbalance that, I shall have to continue the journey without a break. I read the story of a jewel robbery and I saw more clearly than I have ever done that “Property“ is an empty, senseless idea. Well-known gems, with a name and a history, are inherited, given away, stolen, worn, or stowed away in a cupboard - and the only way in which they can be possessed at all is by accepting the responsibility and danger imposed on one by them. But generations die out and the gems are indestructible; they never get lost, they only visit people by turns. “Owning“ land and castles is just the same; the people walk about on their land and go in and out of their castles, but they are obliged to leave them behind; land and castle continue to exist. As gems pay visits to people, so land and houses receive the so-called owners. In Hauptmann’s play, “Schluck und Jan,” he tries to make this thought clear… It is imagination for Dr. von Hase to think that he possesses the firm of Breitkopf & Härtel. The firm possesses him completely; he is its prisoner. A possessor only has the negative right of being able to destroy, and then only if he alone is affected by the consequences. Taking into consideration everything, now is the best time of my life. I look into the future firmly and happily and am glad that you take part in it all. I am expecting a new edition of “Le nouveau monde” from the “Atlantic” (A bookshop)…. According to the prospectus, the book refers to America, and not, (as one might expect from V(illiers)) to an ideal world… (Am curious to know who will write a new “Aida“ for the opening of the Panama Canal.) HOTEL BAGLIONI, BOLOGNA, 13 June 1914. I decided, yesterday at five o’clock, “without a moment’s hesitation,” and moved to this place. To remain in the villa alone was impossible, or at least very difficult to put up with. I felt it was harming me morally, and that had a bad effect on me physically. It required strength of mind to return there every evening, for it gets lonelier and darker all the way back… How gladly I went to bed last night, and how cheerfully I woke up this morning! I almost feel as if I were on the way home… Four short pieces, which Bach calls Duette, gave me great pleasure when I was preparing the Bach edition. I shall play them in public, for they are as mature and on as high a level as the last Bagatelles by Beethoven. One is always discovering new things in Bach… I have changed the way in which I am going to produce the “Bach Edition,” and Part II of the Wohltemperiertes Clavier will be very remarkable, if I am able to carry it out. However, the later I begin it, the more valuable and full of experience my work for it may be. There was a strike for three days; all shops were closed, no newspapers, post not delivered, telegraph wires were cut, railway lines taken up; amongst other things, there were fights, and even fatal incidents. - Mon Dieu! - The man from the Francesca struck too, but when he was asked, he did not know why, himself!… Dr. Augusto took his so-called holidays. But he suffers from the interruption to his usual routine of work more than he is able to enjoy the freedom. (I understand this from my own experience)…. BOLOGNA, 15 June 1914. In the meanwhile, I got your good letter, and the envelope with the newspapers. Richard Strauss was too much “for them“ at first, but now his compositions are esteemed, “they demand more of them in an almost threatening way… By the way, only this morning, I found the story of the “Miracle“ recounted again in the “Nouveaux Contes Cruels.” [1] Quite different from Gottfried Keller’s “Legend“; more aristocratic, shorter and stronger; only seven pages… As I have told nobody that I am living in the Baglioni, nobody finds me. I am as well hidden as the openly displayed letter in Poe’s tale. Thank God, I am better. Staying in the hotel has given me a feeling of being on my way home and the last week begins to-day. In a story by Villiers de L’Isle-Adams, a diabolical priest discloses “the secret of the church.” “There is,” he says, “no purgatory!” Dear Gerda, I know differently. Just as in America no one has heard me play as I can play (because the country makes it impossible), nobody has heard me here either… because in this circle I cannot think, speak or behave as I am able to in my own circle. There is continual misunderstanding… Enough. I must make a plan for my life again, and for that I must be at home. I am waiting for the moment already, and I am curious to know how the consultation with myself will turn out, how it will go on, and to what place the new “step“ will lead me… [1] By Villiers de L’Isle-Adam. BOLOGNA, 17 June 1914. …When I am a long time from home and in one place, I feel as if I were far away from myself and had to come back to myself. In the end, the only thing left of me in the foreign place is my body, and that I drag round with difficulty. Only a few days now! But the feeling of waiting just for the days to pass is demoralizing too… In other respects, I am in a state of happy expectation. BOLOGNA, 21 June 1914. Is it to-day that summer begins? It does for me, for to-day is the last day of the school. To--morrow, I shall start… Vollmoeller was with me yesterday for half-an-hour between trains. I was another person during that half-hour. One could talk about things without first explaining what the things were. One could see the bird’s-eye view without first having to climb the hill! For instance the theatre here is an important thing in most people’s lives. Yet I have never met anybody who knew what a permanent theatre in Germany is, or could understand the meaning of it. Once or twice I have tried to explain and saw in front of me open mouths and eyes falling out, but no comprehension and no wish to make further enquiries into the question. (That is only one example.) They remain too much in their own country. They weaken each other mutually with discussions about their own conditions. Everything is personal, and culminates in discussing where they can get help from personal influence. Vollmoeller was three months in America and came back very refreshed and invigorated. (He did not play the piano there!) You know, I should like to go to America, and have no tour, just once, to try… I shall break the journey for two days, and arrive on Thursday or Friday… Another chapter ended. I look forward to our beautiful meeting…. |
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1915 |
(Addressed to New York) CHICAGO, 27 March 1915. I am here already, and with pleasant feelings - relatively. I consider it necessary to be alone for the next few days in order to get some composure. Kansas City, in spite of its size, is a town which is quite in its infancy, built entirely without plan, and unfinished everywhere. They have not thought yet about how things look. Although the revolver has been laid aside, it is genuinely Wild West in tone and customs. But the impression one gets is that the people there are a human society, still free from social presumption and that they all have a common aim, which is to lay a firm foundation and not trouble about anything else for the present… I feel that our whole system of life is difficult and false, and this feeling is confirmed by Wells in an excellent book called “In the Days of the Comet,” which I brought with me. He sketchs a masterly picture of the absurdities of our conditions as seen by someone in the future, after the Comet has grazed the earth and purified the air chemically. As the result of this purification, which kills all poisonous matter, people become clear in their ideas and think rightly. In this book, written in 1906, he writes prophetically of the present war, condemning it unconditionally …And now he is a war fanatic! Italy will join in yet. I have always felt this and there will be no end to the War. Oh, Gerda dear, I never used to complain about “bad times.” I thought all times were alike. But this is worse than anything has been before. Everybody has to struggle with himself (too little importance is attached to this), and every country has enough to do and to sacrifice just to keep itself morally clean. And the madness over machinery is just as unprogressive, just as destructive, and promotes as much unhappiness as war. There is no difference between the big employer, sacrificing the existence of a hundred thousand people for his own satisfaction, and the maker of wars. If one looks into the heart of England’s industrial district, the picture is just as infernal as that of a battle-field. Workers and soldiers have a similar lot; an identical situation. And the artificial kind of places, which the wealthy people build as health resorts, and think they look beautiful, look miserable, and produce an overwhelming feeling of melancholy. And the system to-day for “dispensing” Art is altogether distorted and unhealthy. The wonderful thing about art is that in spite of everything it is still alive and creative. Really, everything has been done to stifle it. Apart from these reflections, which are always with me, the state of my mood is fairly well balanced. In thought I have resigned myself to the fact that I shall be unable to work for some time; but that cannot be otherwise… One must make a “reason“ for oneself, and wait; and use the time of waiting in the best possible way. I hope to get your letter, and I embrace you and the boys… (Addressed to New York) CHICAGO, 28 March 1915. There was a concert yesterday evening. I went to it out of politeness. How it happened that everyone knew I was here already, I don’t know. 1. Schumann, Symphony in C major. With the exception of two or three exciting moments, and when something begins which arouses expectation, it is a weak piece and full of deficiencies. 2. Bach’s Chaconne, arranged by Middelschulte for string orchestra and organ… There are so many possibilities if once one begins making variations with this piece, that it is difficult for a contrapuntalist to show why he has chosen one possibility rather than another. Whenever they came to a well-known passage, the violinists played in the style of a David or Joachim, which was always disturbing! 3. The first Cellist played a violoncello concerto by Molique. 4. Tschaikowsky’s “Hamlet.” Imagine, please, Hamlet and Tschaikowsky. A beautiful combination. Everything sounds old-fashioned and without talent. Even Stock admitted this. Altogether the programme was like an animal with a pig’s tail, dog’s head and donkey’s back… After the concert, I played Beethoven’s Bagatelles to myself (it was very late, so I played softly). I saw that the Chaconne would not do for a big apparatus. It loses in bigness. It always sounds best transcribed for the piano… (Addressed to New York) CHICAGO, 30 March 1915. …I am occupied the whole day, read, think, play, eat, occasionally go out, but come home almost at once, write, drink tea, smoke. I was carried away by Wells’s book, but it feels as one closes it as if one were awaking from a beautiful dream to bitter reality. I am looking forward very much to the concert here. To-day is the 30th March. This year has been horrible. “Lift up your hearts, ye everlasting doors.” Greetings from the bottom of the heart of Your FERRUCCIO. (Addressed to New York) CHICAGO, 31 March 1915. I have received your letter with gratitude and joy. I have two external reasons for the ending I have thought of for my composition. [1] 1. I am following the tradition of the Marionettes. 2. It makes a striking picture. And if I obey the inner logic, this ending is inevitable. This man is wise enough to be able to make his own laws, but he has not used his wisdom well, for he is guilty of several murders and really no good deed can be put down to his credit. Then, as a nightwatchman, the devil, no longer connected with evil, is brought into everyday human affairs, so that the situation is hardly symbolic any longer. Finally, Faust himself says, “If life is only an illusion, What else can death be?” So that a doubt is raised as to the reality of the idea of the devil, which therefore lessens its importance. What has the last Act got to do with the devil? A man, ill, disappointed, tormented by his conscience, dies of heart failure and is found by the nightwatchman. The last word, too, is “a victim” (and not “condemned,” or anything like it). What brought me to this conclusion was that I cannot feel it in any other way, and I was led straight to this point in the same strange state of somnambulism in which the whole seems to have been dictated to me. This morning I woke up as the sun came out of the water like a ball, just opposite to my bed. It looked uncanny and prehistoric… [1] Dr. Faust. (Addressed to New York) CHICAGO, 1 April 1915. The orchestra greeted me with a “noisy flourish” at the rehearsal to-day. [1] The prices of the seats are raised for the concert to-morrow and the hall will be sold out. I had a pleasant lunch with Stock, Middelschulte and Gunn. The piano people have answered in the same strain as before and so I have “finished” with the concert at St. Louis… Then there will be some calm, and we must take counsel together… [1] It was Busoni’s 49th birthday. (Addressed to New York) CHICAGO, 3 April 1915. It seems almost uncanny that to-day should be the 3rd April. But my time in Chicago has not been quite lost. Middelschulte and I discussed many contrapuntal questions which will benefit the Wohltemperiertes Clavier. I have been getting on with my Rondo Harlequinesque, and I had a beautiful concert yesterday… The great industries of Chicago, which carry on a fabulous export business with Europe, believe that they can make an estimate of the state of European finances by the orders and payments they receive. They think that the War must be over in August at latest on account of money conditions. Good and bad. Such an end to the War would satisfy nobody, no-one would be the victor, and hatred would not be extinguished. Peace without superiority on one side and without reconciliation is a very uncertain peace… I have thought a good deal more about the puppet show and cannot help thinking that the last scene is good just as it is. The idea of reconciliation would be possible in only one form, namely: that the Students should find the corpse on their return and that the nightwatchman should come too late. In this way, Wagner, the Famulus, would triumph. That is not strong enough and not simple enough… A young American pianist (Reuter) is going to play my two Sonatinas to me to-day. People are beginning to laugh rather indulgently at Debussy and there is a reaction (again almost unjust) against Wagner. In ten years’ time he will stand in his right place and nobody will discuss the matter further. Such is history! (Addressed to New York) ST. LOUIS, 5 April 1915. Your letter, and this indescribably sunny morning (by the river!) make a beautiful welcome to St. Louis… My windows are open and the sun floods over everything, penetrates everywhere and makes a radiant picture, even out of this monstrous heap of human misery… The morning looks as though it heralded a new and more perfect epoch. People had a wonderful opportunity to create something beautiful in this part of the globe, which was discovered so late. And how unskilful they have shown themselves to be. I believe it is as impossible to construct a country as it is a language… I can’t work my way through Björnson’s tales; but I read his plays with pleasure. Heroic dramas with old Nordic content were what he began with too, then he went over to the conversation play (where the people all talk so “naturally”!) and ended with symbolizing an abstraction. Anyhow, that shows the important personality of the man. Has it ever occurred to you that Ibsen (with the exception of a few poems) never wrote anything but pure drama? I at least know nothing of his which contains any of his opinions or theories. (Perhaps in his letters?) He never seems to have tried storytelling. There is a remarkable unity and singleness of purpose in this man, whereas Björnson must have had the arrogant intention of being a Goethe of the north… |
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1917 |
(Addressed to Zürich) BERN, 6 September 1917. The impression made by Bern just now is not a very sympathetic one, and it is full of people of various types: Diplomats of every description, the younger ones dressed in sports clothes, with very reserved expressions… Some people with faces like policemen, people suffering from spinal complaints, and Frenchmen looking like baritones in the old operas. Amongst them all some matter-of-fact Swiss women who might be sisters of the legionary soldiers; Austrian Jews with Virginia cigars peeping out of their waistcoat pockets; rich types of prostitutes (belles femmes with evil expressions); flappers, and youths looking like the youth of Bismarck’s time. And all these are crowded into a small space not 500 yards long. At 2.55 I start for Geneva again - Why ? Heaven knows… (Addressed to Geneva) ZÜRICH, 29 September 1917. This very moment - just after the mid-day meal - I have written the last bar of the 1st scene of my fourth opera [Dr. Faust]. Now I can turn my mind to something else, which is very necessary for me at the moment. (Addressed to Geneva) ZÜRICH, 30 September 1917. …I am satisfied with the result of my summer work. I have looked through the new part of this score as objectively as possible to-day, and I came to the conclusion that it contains some of the best work I have done. With this score to do I shall be in harness again for some time…. There is still some work to do on the end of the libretto. I must wait for a happy inspiration. |
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1918 |
(Addressed to Degersheim) ZÜRICH, 6 August 1918. Strolled about nearly all day yesterday, half-unsatisfied. Staying at home to-day. At midnight was still writing a new chapter of Arlecchino, “the geese of the Capitol” (good, I think)… Sketched the idea for a 5th sonatina using a Bach theme; also the appearance of Gretchen’s brother at the end. Wrote several letters. (Anyhow, something done)… (Addressed to Degersheim) ZÜRICH, 13 August 1918. Yesterday I constructed and transcribed a concert suite from “Idomeneo,” and it makes an attractive little work… To-day I wrote down a large page of the score, the first part of a number of pages (almost finished in my head)… Considering how much I miss you, the time passes surprisingly quickly; but this feeling is only connected with my work… (Addressed to Degersheim) ZÜRICH, 18 August 1918. …I don’t know what to do about the publishing of the libretto of Faust. Shall I simply have it printed in its original form, without regard to the changes which will have to be made because of the music, or shall I wait?… I have made a small, separate piece out of the part for the 6 spirits; like a set of variations. (I have thought of doing this for a long time.) At the fifth the chorus joins in; at the sixth there is an outburst of evil mockery, to intimidate Faust. It is stopped by Faust’s great cry, “Be silent.” Now that joins on organically to “A single one remains. I hesitate To destroy the last hope.” You see what a lot has to be changed. That is why a composer must be a poet too…. (Addressed to Degersheim) ZÜRICH, 20 August 1918. …Yesterday and the day before I composed a short sonatina on 3 bars of Bach, with which I am very satisfied… (Addressed to Degersheim) ZÜRICH, 21 August 1918. …Dear Derdi, I only work till 4 o’clock. After that there are still 8 hours to waste, loitering about in the most despicable way. Mozart and Bach must have been quite different; they must have slaved at their work. I must live like this. I love “dawdling” then and it does me no harm… I am expecting Jarnach, to whom I have dedicated the new sonatina. No news - have worked well. Late afternoon. I gave Jarnach the sonatina, which pleased him very much. I showed him the introduction to the last scene of “Faust”; he took it in extraordinarily well. After that, in retrospect, he sketched a picture of my development as a composer, which gave evidence of his possessing exceptional sagacity and good instinct. He quite moved me. There is a great deal in this man… The score progresses well; there will be still more fruit ripe to-morrow. I rejoice now at every forward step… ZÜRICH, 23 August 1918. Yesterday afternoon we had a “housefull” here; to-day I won’t see anyone!… the last was X -- with his silly, idle talk going round in circles, and in the end I had rather to snub him. With his “If I can only touch the money” and “Well, what do you want? “- his passport and railway privileges, his exemptions and his bulging pocket-book – “if you only have a pull in the right quarter,” - he infuriated me. “Here’s a roaring lions’ den,” says he. However, he borrowed something to read on the journey, and even wanted to go off with a paper knife! (Addressed to Degersheim) ZÜRICH, 25 August 1918. I am already in a state of happy expectation. I hope that this “strenuous cure” has not been too much for your nerves. The beautiful weather, unfortunately, is over suddenly. Yesterday evening there was a warning of autumn in the air. What will autumn bring? The first half of the Faust score, for certain, and that is something; then I believe I shall be forced to make a decision. Perhaps the autumn will bring our Benni, and that would be one point cleared up. In any case I look at everything with deliberate calm, and beg you to arm yourself with cheerfulness (I don’t say liveliness) and to practise your loving patience still further. News. None. But lots of things will turn out well…
(Addressed to Degersheim) |
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1919 |
(Addressed to Ascona) ZÜRICH, 15 April 1919. …I have looked through my score of Faust and I am satisfied with it; I am hoping for a new inspiration to take me a good deal further. Some passages are dated 1917! But it must be made as perfect as possible. By the time a work is finished the author has made so much progress that, taking his continual development for granted, the work itself is behindhand. This forces one to begin a new work, and in this way progress is always being made without everything having been said. (This has been proved in the cases of Michelangelo, Goethe, Verdi) Just think, in Paris, on the 50th anniversary of Berlioz’ death, they wanted to give a festival of his compositions, but could not do so because there were no more copies to be bought at the French publishers. They were so little in demand that they were out of print. And they did not want to apply to Breitkopf & Härtel! There is a revolution going on in the Vienna School of Music and Bopp has gone. But “Director” Loewe is there in his place… (Addressed to Ascona) ZÜRICH, 17 April 1919. Schoek’s opera, Ranudo, yesterday was quite delightful; some very good moments, and the performance satisfying from a spectacular and musical point of view…. Herr Avenarius has taken the 2nd part of Goethe’s Faust and rewritten it ”in the light of modern research.” This is the secret republic of letters. Two long articles in the Zürcher Zeitung give an account of it - without a sign of indignation - and call this piece of simple folly “the ripe fruits of the war“ or something of the sort… (Addressed to Ascona) ZÜRICH, Saturday, 19 April 1919. …Feeling a little downcast at having to pass Easter Sunday without you. I received an Easter Egg from Ascona, with little parcels which I shall open to-morrow at lunch time. I am well, thank God. Yesterday I went to Lochbrunner’s doctor in order to be reassured. He sounded me very carefully and decided there is nothing wrong with me. That is a pleasant Easter present for you, and I am glad! But I need some kind of recreation. The question is what kind? Great fuss in the paper about Schoek’s opera. Everybody, to-day, must belong definitely to some country. Liszt and I are left alone. Wolfrum sent me his preface to Liszt’s church music (for the collected edition). Nobody wanted to have anything to do with him. Not even the Catholics of Regensburg… We must not be idle and we must go on hoping. Your very loving F. M. (Addressed to Rovio) ZÜRICH, 23 July 1919. …I have skimmed through “La porte étroite” by Gide; it seems to be completely without character. A letter from London announces that my first concert will be in Liverpool on 2nd October… I appear with Mme Melba - What miserable buffoonery! I shall demand a double fee… (Addressed to Rovio) ZÜRICH, 24 July 1919. …Everybody wishes they were going away; “peace psychology“ is shown by a desire to see the world, striking out into new plans and changing centers… Yesterday, after a long interval, I went to the Bellevue again. It seems so long ago that I was a frequent visitor there, on account of the opera, that I might have been away in between… (Addressed to Rovio) ZÜRICH, 25 July 1919. The gathering here in the afternoon was British this time… Miler said, “English people have good taste.” I said, “They avoid the bad taste, I think that is all.” (Milner agreed at once.) My aphorism about B. Shaw was a great success: He is a minister disguised as a clown. There has been a Zilcher week in Munich! What a pity that this feeling of good will is lacking in Italy. “O, Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets and stonest them which are sent unto thee!“ It seems to me that the “Prophet” is working well… (Addressed to St. Moritz) ZÜRICH, 16 August 1919. …Bösendorfer left some last instructions: the news of his death was not to be made public until he had been buried. The coffin was to be driven to the churchyard by his own workmen in the piano van. His wishes were carried out. He remained the same up to the end, and kept his original simplicity and his simple originality. A delightful figure, not to be forgotten. The Brautwahl has occupied me for 2 days. There is so much in it. It is much too sincere. It will be performed again; if I am able to change it to a certain extent… (With the exception of the letters on the 15th and 16th October all the following letters in 1919 are addressed to Zürich.) PARIS, 21 September 1919. Yesterday I was on the Boulevard Magenta, the Champs-Elysées and Place Malesherbes, but not on the “left side of the river.” I walked to the Porte St. Martin and then in the opposite direction up to the Place de la Madeleine as far as to where Philipp lives. The Grand Boulevard looks horribly like the East Fourteenth Street in New York now; it looks ignoble, glaring and dirty. The Faubourgs do not seem to have changed, from what I have seen of them; the little bourgeois people, always preoccupied and anxious, buying the necessities of life for exaggerated prices. The uselessness of everything is so obvious; and Paris sad - it has not the allure of a victorious city… The taxis are perpetually on the move and always engaged; none of them are ever stationary and one catches them on the wing. I paid 1 franc 80 cts. from my hotel to the Boulevard Magenta, and in Zürich that would have cost 18 frs…. One sees many American soldiers, with indifferent, insolent-looking faces; and even officers of my age with cheap prostitutes, who have raised their prices for the occasion. They walk by their sides without gaiety and without speaking, simply because they believe it is the right thing to do in Paris. They call themselves the “Knights of Columbus.” They are not liked… All this is neither gay, fitting, nor moral; it makes me think of the last chapter in Dr. Moreau, where the beasts fall down on all fours and behave according to their original nature… I paid Philipp a long visit. To-day we are going to lunch together and recapitulate our conversation of yesterday. His one idea is that my place, from henceforth, is in Italy. He even recommends me to return to - Bologna!… People have violent ideas about Zürich here. I do not quite understand it. Philipp certainly likes me and had the highest opinion of me. He begins to look like a “kindly Clemenceau.” He has suffered horribly from the war; whilst telling me about it he cried many times. I am glad that I avoided the countries which were at war. Who knows what point I should have reached in my development by now? I am eager for London, provided there is no new disillusionment. We must always hope and try to direct hope to the path of realization… I feel that you think of me. I love you and embrace you, my three dear ones… I think of Giotto [1] and feel moved whenever I see a dog. [1] Busoni’s Newfoundland dog. LONDON, 24 September 1919. It was very nice to find a letter from home on the very first day. Kiss Benni for me and tell him I hope he will feel well and will like the little town which has given us so many good things… I hoped to get a feeling of liberation from London and the first impressions have been very beautiful. The town has not changed, but I am another person. I notice that I expect nothing from outside and formerly I expected everything. This does not make me unhappy, but quieter and more alone. “Nothing comes back again as it was,” A. France says in a book which I brought with me from Paris. It is called “La Vie Littéraire” in 4 volumes (it is a collection of articles). “That makes the charm of the past.” “The change makes us sad and amuses us at the same time.” England, which up to the time of the war was the most democratic of all countries, is now - -unchanged - the most aristocratic of them all. How attentive and considerate the people are individually, in spite of all the hurry and competition! I was travelling for 19 hours from Paris to London!… The country round Southampton is enchanting. What lovely meadows and old trees!… I was received like a relation by Powell, at Monico’s… Philipp told me he had been present when Debussy heard Liszt’s “Les Jeux d’Eaux” for the first time, and how dumbfounded Debussy was by it! Yes, Liszt in his last period was prophetic… LONDON, 26 September 1919. Up to the present I have not discovered how to resume connections with my old outside world: that, too, is not quite the same as it was, for the social conditions seem to be quite threatening. This is obvious in Paris too, and is shown quite brazenly. I think of you all every morning and evening. About Benni’s plans and of Giotto too, who, it is to be hoped, understands who Benni is… If I can be with you all again at Christmas, like Arlecchino, I shall be able to say: “The three minutes are ended “… Send me the photos of Giotto. LONDON, 28 September 1919. …I take everything with calm and deliberation, am less nervous than I was in Zürich. Reading Anatole France’s “gentle philosophy” has fortified me very much… But things do not look well in the world; even the gentlest philosopher must admit that!… LONDON, 29 September 1919. “Atlantide” [1] has disappointed me very much, and finally I decided it was “rubbish.” Fundamentally, all these novels originate from Poe’s “Gordon Pym.” J. Verne was more kindly and instructive. As the representation of a super-woman Atlantide, who is really only a Parisian, misses fire altogether. In order to make her extraordinary power comprehensible the author should have endowed her with extraordinary gifts. It is impossible to decide her age and one is led to suppose that, to her, a hundred years are like twenty years to other people. To every man she ought to appear as his ideal seen in dreams; every man should see her differently, too, and how she looks in reality should remain a secret. Riddles like this are thought out and solved in a more magnificent way in the 1001 Nights. Reading this book is like going to a fair, a “Luna Park,” and Anatole France’s causerie, which is so quiet, good and clear, is like enjoying the peace of home afterwards. He is only malicious once, and that is over a book by George Ohnet. He writes sharply and without consideration about Zola too. It is strange how I have always avoided Ohnet instinctively, although at one time he was in everybody’s hands… There are three articles dedicated to marionettes, written very sympathetically… [1] By Pierre Benoit. LONDON, 30 September 1919. …As far as the strike is concerned, it is serious… They have funds to keep the strike going for three weeks. That will mean general disaster. At present only the railways and mines have ceased working; but they say the omnibuses are going to join the strike too. That is disturbing and dangerous. People do not seem to be able to recover from their momentary troubles and difficulties and so no good work can be done and no good idea put into practice. We are still in a stupor and we shall go on being in it. The Idealists are like beautiful blossoms of poisonous plants; they bloom and blossom in vain, and then fall off. Perhaps, with age, the poison in the plants will decrease (such a thing has been known), but epochs must pass before this can take place and the plants will never be altogether harmless. In the afternoon. At Steinways’ everything is dormant, and one looks round for cobwebs. They have three old grands, fit for a museum, and nothing more… Dear Caufall has gone; I hoped to find him here still… In Zürich I was still able to “educate” people musically but here - where can one begin? An Englishman who admits Wagner is very enlightened and with this admission he has made the greatest possible effort for the progress of genuine music. Besides, at bottom, nobody is interested in music. No, all that is worse than I feared. I am still reserving my judgment and collecting impressions and observations, and my decisions will be directed by what comes out of them all. A little patience is still necessary. I like the “Embankment” best this time in London. The river with its bridges, Westminster, St. Paul’s, the Tower, wharves, ships, and the wonderfully rich façade of Buckingham Palace. One can see some of it from the windows at the back of the hotel; it is equally beautiful in sunshine or fog. I look less at the people than I usually do, for I dislike the expression in their faces profoundly. I should describe the architecture of London as “cautious.” It is like someone playing a piece very correctly, with taste, and not without understanding, but playing it too slowly and not so loudly as it ought to be played. I remember what I used to say, that an Englishman can be tasteful without being artistic. Even in architecture they are anxious not to be “out of the ordinary“ (and woe betide them if they try!) It is beautiful how architecture (and this is an old thought) quietly keeps its position as the solid background for moving history; that is what I call strength and victory. Waterloo Bridge is good. Between each of the arches, which are very powerful, there is a Doric double column, of primitive simplicity, with the abacus jutting out exaggeratedly and without a socle; but this is repeated without swing or rhythm for the whole length of the bridge. All my little old bookshops have been swallowed up by the War… LONDON, 1 October 1919. To-day, October 1st, is the fourteenth day since I started: have experienced much movement and noise during these two weeks, and “summa summarum” nothing has happened, and I have done nothing which connects at all with what happened last! I have never noticed so much movement with so little result before; and that, it seems to me, is one of the bad characteristics of the moment. My passivity is almost pathological and as I look on I am neither amused nor annoyed. But indirectly I suffer. For the result of this quite confused activity is that the people have no attention or interest left to give to other things… LONDON, 2 October 1919. …If I am not to have come to England for nothing, I shall be obliged to take a car to Manchester to-morrow… Yesteday I wrote one page of music. I have been lifted quite out of the saddle; the English air is not very good for creative work. Nothing more from outside. From inside, I have considered whether I could get a one-act libretto from Bernard Shaw’s pen. Who knows! If Arlecchino should be given in two parts, I shall want another piece for the Turandot evening. Anyhow, it is an exciting thought… LONDON, 4 October 1919. …These morning hours are charming, the sight of old trees is consoling… I see a garden once more, which it gives me pleasure to look at… To-day, for the first time since I have been in London, I am morally better and quieter. The first week was really not good. The strike continues and the first two concerts have had to be given up. For this reason I am giving my own recital at the Wigmore Hall on the 15th; and in November Wood will give a programme, which I shall choose. Philipp, who is always taking trouble for me, wrote yesterday to tell me that there would be a concert of my compositions. This March in Paris promises many pleasant things. There is almost half a year till then. The world is bound to look a little different by then, but which direction will the bias take? It seemed to me that in Paris especially, everything was working up for an explosion… It is evening now and the post has brought nothing from you, and to-morrow is Sunday. I suffer very much from having nobody to talk to. The people understand nothing, not even that a man can be used up after six years and a war… I am in fact convinced that they think I am not worth so much as I was before the war… You will not be able to complain of this letter being instructive. Here one forgets what one has learnt. Nobody listens… LONDON, 5 October 1919. …I know that Zürich is not a kingdom of dreams, but consequently not one of nightmares either - -as the big cities are now. With the exception of the glorious trees in Regent’s Park (which, however, I only enjoy in the morning and not, like Walt Whitman, in the evening too), I have really experienced nothing beautiful here. One Saturday evening, the red sky lighted by the sunset, with an endless perspective of bright yellow lights from the lamps, made a very beautiful effect. The workpeople were driving home, standing in lorries which were packed. Then there are still the inexhaustible book-shops. Smoking and drinking is made very difficult and is bad. Elegance in the streets has almost disappeared. One sees only shabby people. The atmosphere is uncertain, everybody anxious and unquiet, the whole tone of society is coarsened. Here in “West Wing,” certainly, everything looks quite idealistic - even if uneventful and lonely; but to make up for that, a great number of men, blinded in the war, are lodged in the next building; a stimulating sight for those who, unfortunately, can see. All this does not look like victory, and peace, nor like a country that has made a very good transaction. The strike oppresses everyone and interferes with all communications. For me, personally, it is a satisfaction to know that at last, in England, someone is ”protesting,” but I would rather it were already over, or that it had begun later. A strange discordant time! Still in the middle ages and the future that has been striven for is still not here. A twilight; and one does not know whether it precedes morning or night. Interesting? Oh yes. But not excessively so. It is astonishing, how undistinguished, conventional, and of secondary importance the musical life is here. About new books, too, I can hear of nothing which attracts my attention… I am starving for the companionship of a man like Jarnach, for instance. Van Dieren is in Holland, unfortunately. So I am very isolated and wait for something to happen; an idea, or an experience. But on the whole, I feel that concert tours are unworthy and only lead to new and endless misunderstandings… LONDON, 6 October 1919. It was thought yesterday evening that the strike would be called off this morning. The Times confirms this news to-day, so this incubus is lifted! Deo gratia! The train service will be normal to-morrow. What next? One has to ask oneself that these days. I am curious to see what it will look like in the streets to-day. It was said that there were 250,000 volunteer helpers during the strike who drove the trains in order to provide for the food in the towns. Yesterday afternoon I walked from here to Piccadilly Circus. It took me almost an hour. I have to get used to the proportions again; I miscalculate the distances. But on a Sunday, this walk was bitterly dismal, such an inhospitable road; on the way not a single bench on which to sit, not a single place to turn into and have a rest, everything locked up in front of one’s nose, as if walks on a Sunday were a crime and would be punished. Because of this, there is hardly anybody out of doors… The whole of Regent’s Park is full of barracks which still serve for post-military purposes; filled with wounded soldiers who are led about by affectionate “nurses“; but they are often the soldiers’ wives, who come - sometimes even singing - to visit “our“ blind. LONDON, 7 October 1919. …The strike delayed the distribution of the post. To-day, everything is working again. (But the same thing will recur. Everything always comes again; unreasonable, but alarming.) Meanwhile, the beloved “great Wagner night” runs its usual course at the Queen’s Hall; conducted by Wood, with his usual “devotion.” When I think that I have passed the best years of my life in foreign places, waiting for a concert to take place (as now again), I don’t value my sense of discernment very highly! Thank God, the autumn is so very beautiful! (I am waiting for the next post)… The old trees are touchingly beautiful, with all their leaves on still, and still almost green. Sometimes my heart overflows when I look at them… To-day, I woke up-contented. I thought over my life work and of what I still hope to bring to completion… I have been looking through ”Crime and Punishment” again. What a distressing book! How big and how childish at the same time! In short: how Russian! I am reading it in English, and that does not harmonize with the content of the book. England terrorizes the world at large, without guns, but not less than others do with them… A remarkable, indefatigable kind of policy to take for oneself and forbid others to do the same! (All the same, things are not going at all well for them here). To-morrow it will be three weeks since I left you: nothing done!… LONDON, 9 October 1919. …Have just come back from Bradford, a place which I know well, the audience similar to one in Western America. “Old Melba” (she is over sixty) is doing what Patti did. Although she is old and very rich, she cannot give up singing in public. It is a great strain for her now, but the production of the voice in her clarinet style is exemplary in its own way and enjoyable even now. Only, I can no longer understand this form of “art for art’s sake” which makes the mastery of the instrument with the cheapest possible effect its sole aim. And this form is the only one which the great English audience expects and demands and by which it is charmed. To prove that this is not just an antiquated idea, a young tenor appeared who had the same ambition; I should describe him as something between Caruso and a head waiter. There was nothing much more in the whole affair than could be done by trained animals… 10 a.m. …To-day I begin to be active again. I shall begin to prepare for the London Recital (Goldberg Variations, “106,” Liszt Group); then I have promised Philipp Cadenzas for Mozart’s C Major Concerto, which I must do soon… Thank God there are things to be done. For me, this condition is as necessary as health… LONDON, 13 October 1919. Your letters are always a warm consolation to me… The programme advertised is in horrible taste. I almost regret that my compositions are in it. It is like a fair! Here, they never seem to get away from the idea of a Variety programme in its most ordinary sense. The problem is, are concerts there for people, or are the public there for musicians? It becomes so confused that one would like to be able to sweep them both out of the world… I sent Philipp one of the promised Cadenzas for Mozart’s C major Concerto. The finale bit has still to be done… (Addressed to Geneva) LONDON, 15 October 1919. …To-day I give my London recital, which makes me a little tense. For this reason, I am not in a state to undertake anything particular in writing. An evening, as it will be to-night, makes the “moment” worth while. In other respects it has actually been a characteristic weakness of mine to let the moment pass by in imagining a future one of more importance, whilst the “clever” people take advantage of the “moment“ as of something real and present. Who is right? Probably we all deceive ourselves, each according to his temperament and grade of intelligence…. (Addressed to Geneva) LONDON, 16 October 1919. Although I feel “done up” this morning, I must quickly write a few words to you; for I am taking a holiday and going out for lunch. The crowded hall in Wigmore Street welcomed me warmly yesterday evening! I was obliged to get up from my seat three times before I could begin. I was really touched. I played with great intensity and with success throughout the concert; the piano was obedient. The clamour at the end was such as had not been heard at a London concert for years; so the people told me. All the people who spoke German formerly speak English now, and if they risk a sentence in German, they whisper it, as if they were going to tell an indecent story. Stupid world, weak people!!… EDINBURGH, 19 October 1919. It is Sunday, and a beautiful morning in Edinburgh… Yesterday was full of little annoyances. I had to wait many hours for a room and when I got it finally - about eleven o’clock - was surprised by the news that the concert was in the afternoon instead of in the evening. I had brought no clothes for an afternoon concert, so played in street clothes, because in this inflexible country this after all was considered more correct than dress clothes. As I was half asleep and half frozen, you can imagine how beautiful the concert was! I comforted myself with a nice meal afterwards. Before I started, I finished the missing Cadenza and sent it off to Philipp… Dr. Milner is my escort. Through him, I was able to have a fire in my room, which in hotels now can only be had by showing “a Doctor’s certificate.” Miler was clever enough, therefore, to bring forward his “Dr.,” and enforce the fire. These are uninteresting details, but I have nothing important to relate. To-morrow evening in Glasgow- - always with Melba - and then the most unpleasant part is over… It means that with patience I have to pass two days here. On Tuesday morning, I hope to be in Regent’s Park. Edinburgh is just as beautiful as ever, but this time the surprise is missing, for during previous visits I have often examined the town in detail. Thank God, in spite of making efforts, and being frozen, I am comparatively well. I am looking forward, like a child, to finding letters in London. Still another month, which perhaps may still produce something pleasant; but one is safer if one expects nothing. Scotland remained fairly untouched by the war. It is, so it seems, a very contented country: but quite out of the world (Perhaps on this account, more contented)… EDINBURGH, 20 October 1919. Yesterday, Sunday, a day of senseless doing nothing, also came to an end. I feel freer to-day. In an hour I start for Glasgow, and back to London in the evening… Miler took endless trouble to lighten the Sunday for me; the good fellow… I got a volume of Villiers de L’Isle-Adam in which are a couple of things unknown to me. I had the confidence to read the others again (for the details). There is not one unnecessary I word here, nor is the choice of them ever accidental: the details, incidental remarks and reflections, are all thought and felt. But - the sum total of every piece is simply an aphorism; an aphorism with decorations, so to speak. But the “style” has some connecting link with my last compositions - in so far as such a comparison is permissible. Even the unsuspecting “ Scotsman” writes to-day that the frame in which I appeared was not big enough for me…. It is interesting to notice how every so-called Impresario awakens in me “exactly the same kind of antipathy and suspicion”; whether Jew, Christian, Englishman, or anything else. I mean a definite kind and a definite degree of antipathy, which is not to be confused with other antipathies. Perhaps in about the same way that a dog arouses a definite nuance of sympathy in me. I felt that again when I saw a bulldog yesterday; indescribably ugly and wonderfully benevolent. And now I am going to start… The world is bearable to-day… LONDON, 21 October 1919. From Villiers de L’Isle-Adam: A poet with two friends was celebrating his birthday in an attic; they heard groans from the next room as if someone were dying. The poet said an old king in exile was lying there, sceptre in hand, dreaming of his treasures. The other two thought that was a beautiful picture but that one ought to go and see what was happening. Do go: said the poet, and settle the matter. But I warn you, if you go, you will never have any imagination. Dear Gerda, how extraordinarily true and simple this is (Of course it is amplified much more). LONDON, 22 October 1919. Yesterday and to-day letters came from you; they have done me so much good. The tale which Rilke [1] told you is fine and worthy of consideration. What I feel to be necessary at this moment, to counterbalance Dr. Faust, is something short and amusing. Something that could be given on the same evening as Turandot, if Arlecchino parts 1 and 2 take up an evening to themselves. [1] Rilke had related the tale of a little mystical story to Mrs. Busoni in Geneva. LONDON, 22 October 1919. During the afternoon, when I was occupied with music, an excellent letter from Philipp arrived. First of all, he writes the following, word for word, which, of course, has cheered me very much: “The oftener I read your Arlecchino, the more I like it. It is a hundred years away from Rossini, it is a work of genius. What invention, what rhythm, what life there is in it all! I believe that they would understand your work here.” LONDON, 23 October 1919. Herewith: this very beautiful plan for March in Paris: From the 5th to the 23rd March, Paris Two concerts in the Conservatoire of the Société des Concerts: I. E flat major Concerto, Beethoven. Concerto, Saint-Saëns. II. Mozart Concerto. - Indian Fantasie. Two recitals in the Salle Erard. Two concerts for the Association of Old Pupils. I. My compositions with orchestra, including concerto with chorus. II. Liszt Recital. That is really worthy and festive, but it means a lot of work for me! Philipp begged me to dedicate the Cadenzas to his old favourite Mlle Marcelle Herrenschmidt. I knew her before, I saw her again the other day in Paris; she is extremely sympathetic. I received a pretty letter of thanks from her to-day, full of happiness… If one looks out of the window, one is aware of the trees only because one knows they are there - everything all round is hidden by such a thick fog… Benni has not grasped yet that we have to thank others for the chief part of our means of existence and therefore we dare not repulse people, but we have to hold out our hands to one another. The right to turn others aside will necessarily be achieved with difficulty, for to do that, it is necessary to surpass others in something; and that is a thing which always remains relative… I have too little to do here, really; I try to occupy myself with something of my own. It always requires strength of mind to go out - from here - it generally means disarrangement of many things. You know, one cannot get home so easily in London… London was never the town for harmless adventures (for which, too, I have little inclination) - so books and my own little reflections are the only things left with which to fill up the days. I see remarkably few people. Now I have been chatting a little… Do you hear from Berlin? BOURNEMOUTH, 25 October 1919. Whilst waiting for the time when my concert begins (at three o’clock) I am thinking of you, and send you a greeting. A nice, quiet place, you know, lots of old ladies in rocking chairs. The concert grand is ten years old… Yesterday I revised the Rondo of that Mozart Concerto, which I am going to play in Zürich. It is full of places which are not worked out, obviously written quickly, easily and brilliantly. I believe it will be splendid now. That occupied me from early morning till 5.30 p.m. Last night, I thought over the necessity for recomposing the music for the third and fourth spirits in Dr. Faust - and the seventh (Mephistopheles) is still on the lap of the gods… LONDON, 28 October 1919. …They are making plans for a permanent Shakespeare theatre here and Bernard Shaw was called upon to make a public speech about it. He began something like this: “This is a highly ‘national‘ affair which concerns every Englishman. The subscription list is opened. So far, there has been only on subscriber, and he is a German, and he has sent £25,000.” (Isn’t that amusing?) I have not seen him yet. You may be quite right in what you think… My newest friend is an old tom-cat belonging to the house. He seems to love me - sits next to me on my chair at table. He is old, should be quite white, but is of an uncertain grey colour. An old dog called ”Beauty“ resides here too, he is toothless and holds growling conversations with himself. He, on the other hand, is quite black… It is very delightful to observe how well Milner is developing here. He has made marked progress in his thought, and what he says is often quite right and sensible. At the same time he is always affectionate and true, but he is (one might almost say, unfortunately) no longer so unsuspecting as he was in Zürich. Da Motta wrote me a second remarkably beautiful letter. He will have me in Portugal “at any price“ (meant literally)… I think of you so very much, even more than before. That is beautiful but almost painful, for I cannot always see the way yet, and feel that it is hard for you to bear. Everything might have been so good at this moment; put up with it patiently, meanwhile, with my love, till the better things come (and I believe they will come)… LONDON, 30 October 1919. …The streets of London are changed, it seems to me, although I could not say precisely how much of this impression is due to my own way of looking at things. In any case it is certainly true that the people are uglier and that elegance has almost disappeared. Many in uniforms (it is distressing to see women in uniform), many cripples too: perhaps it is a comfort, on the whole, to gain respect through wearing a uniform; rationing and closed bars add their note to the picture! a defiant manner amongst those who serve, and in consequence of all these things, a deterioration in taste. It is not good; and it seems as if the houses, and even daylight itself, no longer exercised their magic; for democratic rule treads on holy ground with heavy boots. LONDON, 31 October 1919. …Now I am sitting at lunch, and to-day is the last day of the month of October, which to me has seemed a very long one; for outwardly it contained many more experiences than we are accustomed to in Zürich. For my inner self this does not signify much gain; the only thing it has done is to put me in contact again with bigger conditions. The revision of Mozart’s E flat Concerto (completed yesterday) is the only work I have done during this time. (Also the little Cadenzas to the C. Major one)… Miler is having good luck, for he is singing ”lago“ at Covent Garden on Monday. I studied this with him once. (In England, he is considered a very versatile actor)… The Beecham Opera Company is giving no less than five Russian Operas, together with the Russian ballet. I saw the piano score of the “famous“ Prince Igor, by Borodin. It is utterly weak. Altogether, there is much Russian music given, even in concerts. The condition of everything is quite lamentable! In the showrooms which were formerly Bechstein’s, there are twenty to twenty-five beautiful pianos standing in a row, like books - and one is not allowed to play on them! Is it not mad? We must thank God for our little bit of clear sight. I am quite well, to-day especially so… LONDON, 1 November 1919. Yesterday afternoon, G. B. Shaw came to tea (which he did not drink). He is now 63, very tall, and in appearance he might be a brother of old Hase, a wittier, more lively, and sharper brother. He talks too much and he cannot cloak his vanity. He began at once by shooting off one of his witty little darts. Maudi was saying that she had just come out of a nursing home. “I wonder that you are still alive,” said G.B.S., “for in a hospital they throw you out into the street before you are half cured, but in a nursing home they don’t let you out until you are dead.” (“There is a remedy for that,” I said. “You can stop paying.”) During tea he spoke chiefly about music, and evidently wished to display his knowledge. He loves Mozart with understanding. “Mozart was my master, I learnt from him how to say important things, and yet remain light and conversational.” “How do you make that tally,” I asked, “with your admiration for Wagner? “Oh, there is room for many different things in the world. And it was necessary at that time to protest against senseless misunderstandings. But I confess, much as I love Tristan, I could wish that Tristan might die a little sooner.” “Why,” I asked, “have you never written that?” But he did not know how to answer that. Then he began to praise Elgar, and his intimate knowledge of the orchestra. “He showed me,” (said S.), “how one could make a place in Leonora, which never sounds well, acceptable.” He described how Elgar corrects it, which is bad. “Excuse me,” (I said again), “but I should do so and so, as one can see it done in Mozart’s compositions.” (And I explained my example.) “I had not thought of that,” he said, somewhat abashed. He does not seem to have considered the nature of opera. “He couldn’t write a libretto, he would write just as he always wrote.” I said, “It would attract me to try and write music for the scene in hell in ‘Man and Superman.’” “That would be waste of work,” (said S.), “because it could bring in no profit.” “That is not what attracts me,” I said. “Oh, but you must reckon with that, everybody has to reckon with it. Of course, I am now a famous artist, (he added, half jokingly), I can allow myself to ride hobby horses“ (or something similar). Now that was not very nice, and still less tactful. He talks so much and so quickly that the result is very unequal; he often says things like an impudent youth, things which are not weighed or proved, and not wise; and for his age, not dignified. As a musician, he is still an amateur; of course, such an intelligent amateur is incomparably better than professionals like the conductors, C. or K. But what stamps the amateur is joy in his own discoveries and pleasure in different things which do not belong to one another… His tone was almost unbearably inconsiderate (softened by humour and liveliness), but I (without agreeing with everything) spoke respectfully and quietly… He is coming to Wood’s concert on the 22nd. Then he will begin to know me… LONDON, 2 November 1919. …Yesterday, I wrote a detailed account of G.B.S. (In England, it is a sign of the greatest popularity to be spoken of by your initials); I mean about George Bernard Shaw. I omitted to say that he is a shade like the Danish Georg Brandes; especially in his excessive talkativeness and the accompanying self-satisfaction. He is writing - so he says - a big play, divided into four performances, with the title “Back to Methuselah,” in which he demonstrates that the things of the world have become so extensive and complicated that life is too short to see them all, and manage them. For this reason, modern man develops long life and endeavours to reach the age of Methuselah - 300 years. During the piece people achieve this. The first part is in Paradise, before people knew that they had to die, and death appears on the earth for the first time. The second part is played in the present time. Lloyd George and Asquith bring a bill into Parliament for settling the age of man at 300 years. The third part is played some hundreds of years later, when people have, in fact, reached that age. (Meanwhile, an American had discovered a means for breathing under water, which was much advertised.) In these new times, the situations are still more complicated and absurd. He does not himself know yet what he will do with the fourth part. It will take place several thousand years later, and he (Shaw) has not yet been able to think out for himself what the world would be like at this stage. He begins a piece without any plan and relies on an idea for its continuation. (Yes, one feels that too.) Oh, respected Shaw! what realism, what a machinery for making people happy! Shaw loves the people theoretically (his telegraphic address is “Socialist,” London). He is certainly a great egoist himself. Now he is training himself to become a second Methuselah, and plays at being a “lively youth.” It is settled that my last date in England will be the 6th December. Still one month and four days! I am not suffering, I am even enjoying some things. But yet, the time seems to me to be wrongly employed. I have got accustomed to the conditions. (They seem less big to me than they were before.) It is easier for me now, with more mature eyes, to survey everything. The masses stream past and there are new faces to be seen every day, with every step; but the existence of each one is small, wretched and uninteresting. The faces one sees in the streets look strikingly unimportant. Greatness does not lie in quantity. But here the quality is perhaps lower than elsewhere. LONDON, 6 November 1919. …There is still one more “Melba-Concert,” in the Albert Hall, next Sunday, and then I have finished with “this kind” of concert. It is one of the saddest things imaginable to see how people have learnt absolutely nothing from this last convulsion of the world! Only this morning, I received a letter asking me if I would not play Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu at my next concert. This well-known piece, a shallow salon study, will never be criticized badly, in the way Liszt’s compositions are so frequently criticized. Robert Newman lost a son in the war, he saw him die; he has a paralysed eye, and is white and old. He thinks, however, that it is of the utmost importance that I should play the Chappell pianos! He called on purpose to see me about this… Rosamond has hunted out a copy of Carlyle’s Frederick the Great for me in Cambridge. I said jokingly, “Having got that, the aim of my journey is accomplished! Now I can go home.” I have collected 50 volumes again here. Don’t know how I shall bring them home… LONDON, 9 November 1919. To my dismay, I see it is Sunday again!… Time moves quickly, and yet it crawls. I still have to stop here another four weeks exactly from to-day and that seems an endless time to me. Schopenhauer’s comparison of looking the wrong way through opera glasses suits the case perfectly again. Philipp, who at first found the Cadenzas “charming,” says now: “I have looked more closely at your Cadenzas for the concerto in C. They are two little master-pieces full of spirit and subtlety. How the composer of the ‘Sonatina in diem Nativitatis’ is able to write the fine embroideries of these Cadenzas, is the secret of genius.” Da Motta writes about the Sonatina, “To me it is like Gothic sculpture both in its firmness of line and in its ethereal serenity.” The evening post yesterday brought your letter with the description of the concert. It amused me very much… Between the comfortable-going Swiss school of music and some uncomfortable “Futurists“ of this country, lies the golden throne of what is genuine, beautiful, and exalted… The piano pieces by X and XX, which are beginning to be popular here, are “beautiful“ too. They have neither imagination, nor feeling, nor form, it is only an attempt to produce sound, but that is distressing. It surely cannot be that I have remained stationary! These pieces are demonstrably bad. (I should like to put this down to the war, which seems to have brought everything to stagnation or intoxication.) Mr. G. has written a piece, in A major for the right hand and A flat major for the left hand. Those are old jokes that we used to make at Kamps Hotel after the ”coffee with avec”! This piece is quite a commonplace (and boring) waltz, merely with the harmonies displaced… I do not want to end this letter with dissonances, but make it ring with the pure union of our hearts… LONDON, 10 November 1919. The concert yesterday was rather more respectable than those in the provinces. The Albert Hall was full! One must first imagine between eight and ten thousand people, and then think what the quality of such a mass can be, on a Sunday… The artists’ room was full of Australians. Melba, her accompanist, Clutsam and his wife. These Australians are different from Americans. They have not the flagrant self-consciousness and do not “advertise“ their country as their older cousins do… I made myself a little “fine” for the concert and Maudi was charmed; she thought I looked as I did twenty years ago… I play now with great deliberation, without effort and without any nervousness. So it gives me pleasure. I am looking forward a little to the 22nd with Wood. I have helped the drunken programme on to its legs a bit; everything that concerns me is now to be played in the first part, before the interval. We shall see how that works. I shall conduct my own compositions… I am quite well, although the day looks like “Autumn multiplied by London” . LONDON, 10 November 1919. I have just had two charming experiences; I rave made the acquaintance of one of Mozart’s smaller concertos (F major) that begins playfully and becomes more and more complicated; everything gracious and lively: and I have received a parcel by post, containing Frederick II, by Carlyle; a present from Rosamond… Tak-tak-tak goes on under my window. Those are the blind, tapping with their sticks on the railings in order to find their way… LONDON, 13 November 1919. Reproaches are useless in this case and it is of no help to see the matter clearly. The case is as follows: As soon as I make the aim of anything a profitable one, from the moment it begins to be a practical advantage to do it, something in me begins to bleed, a kind of disablement overtakes me, and it is only with pain and effort that I can carry through what otherwise I could achieve easily, happily, and better. (You know that I can be industrious and energetic.) A similar feeling comes over me when I see others behaving and thinking in a purely utilitarian manner in matters connected with art (and outside art too); a nausea against it sets in. If I play only because of the fee, I always play badly, worse than the average pianist. Besides this, I am always ashamed whilst I am playing and afterwards too, and that is distressing… I think there is a similar vein in Benni, which has become excessively potent… He is a purely distilled anti-utilitarian and for this side of him I have extraordinary sympathy; it is the perfection of what I am myself. But unfortunately he has only this one side, for the æsthetically egoistic energy, the merciless development of his own talents, which is what should be in the other side of the scales, is hardly present at all. Or perhaps he has an instinctive philosophy which tells him that even the best and most beautiful things are illusory and of no purpose. Fundamentally this is true of them as it is of fame and money. Isn’t Giotto beautiful and likeable just for himself and not because he wins a prize or wears an expensive collar or is shown as a pedigree dog at dog shows? This is the only way in which one should value people, too, but exactly the contrary happens; and even the people who know better are forced to adjust themselves to this wrong valuation, if they are afraid of not being rightly esteemed or of being considered inferior. So we only need money, because we are required by others, who cannot see our true value, to prove it by means of money. And fame, about which, unfortunately, the artist is more sensitive, plays a similar part in the world, for the lesser artists have put it up on a false pedestal. I read this simple, strong definition of genius in Carlyle. “A man of genius (Frederick II), that is, a man of originality and veracity: capable of seeing with his eyes and incapable of not believing what he sees.” What a letter! Where have I got to! Enough ruminating! Yesterday, I had the pleasure of seeing a charming young Indian woman. Her nose is absolutely straight, the under-lip a thought projecting, the dull complexion quite smooth, and besides that, eyes like deep black velvet. (The whole a little under life-size.) When one sees a living person like that, one begins to understand Indian miniatures… LONDON, 14 November 1919. There are some things to tell you about again. (After all, that is the point of one’s being in London.) Yesterday evening for the first time, I saw the inside of Covent Garden. I thought it lovely. (Obviously made from an Italian model, or perhaps built by an Italian.) It is well proportioned, not so enormous as I feared, but with comfortable proportions. Milner had got a seat for me in my favourite place, immediately behind the conductor; so that I was in contact with the orchestra, (who probably knew me), and I kept up my little correspondence with the players, as I used to in Zürich. I heard and saw Verdi’s ”Otello,” with the “demoniacal“ Miler; also a solid, excellent tenor (who resembled the late violinist, Halir); some scenery, partly from the Russian ballet, and partly from Liberty’s shop; a good orchestra, and rather a vain young conductor, who neither felt nor understood the work. An unequal composition and it brought back my first impressions of it… [1] Much of it is too long and not quick enough compared with the concise and thrilling moments of genius which flash like lightning in between… The subject, according to my feeling, is thoroughly opposed to music, which in the coarse climaxes becomes brutal noise… The first of my three rehearsals took place to-day. A warm reception by the Queen’s Hall orchestra. Applause at the end of the rehearsal. Sir Henry Wood was very kind; he said, “A wonderful impression and completely original. We will play the pieces in Manchester too.” That takes place on November 29th. It was a pleasant morning; there was a light fog, but it was dry. As I went into the hall, I heard sounds of Berlioz’ “Queen Mab.” This piece is a little miracle… [1] In the year 1887, Busoni, at that time in Leipzig, wrote a review of the opera, from the piano score. LONDON, 15 November 1919. The work for the gramophone records begins on Monday. That is also one of the things that I am half-hearted about; the result of this discord in me about business things is that they only, half come off. I won’t quite spoil the business and I won’t quite lie - so it is impossible for anything to succeed. (I know that I have faults; I am continually working to improve them.) I took a quiet day again to-day, thinking quietly about many things… These kind of days, in their way, are often quite productive. LONDON, 17 November 1919. …Dent paid us a visit yesterday. He had this little show, the same evening, to which he invited me and to which I went. Far in the south-west, in the evening, Sunday, and raining. A small theatre - people smoked pipes. The harpsichord player, a lady of about 65, played on a pretty old instrument like a little witch. The scenery and costumes quite in the style of Hogarth. One could almost think one was looking at one of his etchings. The tone of Dent’s speech suspiciously under the influence of B. Shaw. “He (Pergolesi) died of consumption, of course not before he had written a Stabat Mater, which church music is written in the style of a comic opera.” (When will people understand that music is only “music“ and that the idea of “church,” “theatre“ and so on only comes through the words!) On the whole, though, quite an interesting little experience getting home was complicated (Underground-on foot-by taxi). It was not unromantic, the remote quarter, London by night and in the rain! Anywhere else it would only have been uncomfortable, here there was something else beside… Imagine, dear Gerda, I have an almost painful longing for Giotto; he would have had such a good time here and I should have had him with me… LONDON, 18 November 1919. …Please read through the Manchester programme! It would not be passed even in the Café des Banques. Look at the rubbish from Milan too! Toscanini as a candidate for the election! It is high time that I began my political career. Today I had my first sitting for the gramophone records. This too: a via crucis. Senseless. There is no hope of anything better! Why strive? Because one cannot do otherwise. Such a man is Your loving Husband. LONDON, 20 November 1919. …My suffering over the toil of making gramophone records came to an end yesterday, after playing for 3 hours. ! I feel rather battered to-day, but it is over. Since the first day, I have been as depressed as if I were expecting to have an operation. To do it is stupid and a strain. Here is an example of what happens. They wanted the Faust waltz (which lasts a good ten minutes) but it was only to take four minutes! That meant quickly cutting, patching and improvising, so that there should still be some sense left in it; watching the pedal (because it sounds bad); thinking of certain notes which had to be stronger or weaker in order to please this devilish machine: not letting oneself go for fear of inaccuracies and being conscious the whole time that every note was going to be there for eternity; how can there be any question of inspiration, freedom, swing, or poetry? Enough that yesterday for 9 pieces of 4 minutes each (half an hour in all) I worked for three and a half hours! Two of these pieces I played four or five times. Having to think so quickly at the same time was a severe effort. In the end, I felt the effects in my arms; after that, I had to sit for a photograph, and sign the discs. - At last it was finished!… LONDON, 23 November 1919. Yesterday (most of my letters begin with “yesterday“) everything went well. The people with understanding were delighted with the Mozart Concerto, and I was too, and both my compositions [1] were excellently played and there were three recalls. I was pleased with my good music, in which there are no dead places, and no patches. The only paper I have read to-day passes over it lightly and without any understanding; as they do over the Cadenzas too, which “leap over quite a hundred years“ because they know that I wrote them. You often say that I do very little for my own things. I assure you I really regret having done what little I have done. However, we will wait for all the opinions. It made a great impression on all my intimate friends (Dent included). Wood was enthusiastic, or behaved as if he were; said to Maudi, “He is now so great,” and lifted his arms… Delius has come back from Frankfurt, full of enthusiasm. He is the first to bring good news from Germany. His “Niels Lyhne” was performed there at great expense and with much care… It was a relief to hear something good about Germany for once… [1] Sarabande and Cortège from “Dr. Faust.” LONDON, 24 November 1919. It is a very sympathetic trait in A. to wish for money in order to give it away. The fault lies with those who wish to make money for the sake of money, in order to make more money out of it - not to mention those who make a standard out of it for measuring the value of people. And to think that really - it does not exist! For wealth and possession (also only an idea) are only the soil and work. But no “essay” to-day… I thoroughly dislike the business-like ways of S. Between the quiet artist and the obvious charlatan stands the career-maker the commonest type. But why in our “practical” times do we not have the courage to go a step further and make undisguised use of advertisement? That would be a sensible proposition. One would read in the tram, for instance, ”N.N.’s songs are the most beautiful” or “A song by N.N. is recommended in every musical family before going to bed”… or “No compositions are more original and startling than mine; Wassili Dreksky provides you with an exciting quarter of an hour”… Have just read “The Times.” It has made me sad. Therefore I shall not write any more and I embrace you as my only friend… LONDON, 25 November 1919. Yours and Andreae’s impressions of Stravinsky are alike. He no longer excites interest except in so far as he gives the thoughtless public and the critics without any judgment a false picture of what should be progressive in music. What is new in music will be judged by this example. I have suffered from it again here. The ”Daily Telegraph“ was more sensible than the other papers and took the trouble to “listen.” (“They hear what they believe and do not believe what they hear.”) An interesting piece is boring, a boring one is interesting, according to the attitude they have chosen to adopt beforehand in relation to what they will hear and what they wish to hear… You will know from my letter yesterday what I feel about my own ”Propaganda.” Nevertheless, one could think over Geneva. (Really, I have a horror of it.) I met Delius and his wife in the street yesterday. At his wish, we arranged to meet for dinner. As he was going, he turned round again, as if he had forgotten some form of politeness. “I like the Sarabande best,” he said in a consoling voice. I turned my back on him. And in the taxi, I let myself go: I was obliged to cry. To-day, I am better… London makes much less impression on me this time, I see only individual and commonplace things and I no longer look upon a “mass“ of anything as a mysterious power - as I used to feel when I was young. But there is always something remarkable to see in London. Yesterday, in the middle of big bus traffic, down the middle of Shaftesbury Avenue, trotted my dear, heaven-sent donkey, [1] peaceful and innocent. All the cars had to swerve past him, for he went more slowly than they did. That went to my stupid heart… Kaikhusru Sorabji turns out to be an Indian, quite young. I gave him a letter of introduction for which he asked me. A fine, unusual person, in spite of his ugly music. A primeval forest with many weeds and briars, but strange and voluptuous… [1] There is a donkey in Busoni’s Arlecchino. LONDON, 28 November 1919. I received a letter from B. Shaw this morning. I should think it would be impossible for him to express himself more warmly and it rejoiced me to get it. What a good sentence this is, and how true: “But you should compose under an assumed name. It is incredible that one man could do more than one thing well; and when I heard you play, I said, ‘It is impossible that he should compose: there is not room enough in a single life for more than one supreme excellence.’ You seem to be a virtuoso of the first order in handling instruments: in fact, your danger is an excessive sensitiveness to shades of tone and delicacies of harmonies“… LONDON, 1 December 1919. Your letter to-day was really wonderful, so uplifting and strengthening, I cannot thank you enough for it! Meanwhile some good reviews have appeared. After Shaw’s letter there was a beautiful article by Dent in the “Athenum,” “Busoni as a Composer,” and it makes me realize that, at the bottom, Dent loves me very much. I took the whole thing a little too much to heart this time; it was not exactly this thing, but the well-known “drops” which overflowed. As a physical result of this, I had pimples all over my body; a nervous outbreak, accompanied by a little fever… Lamond has proved himself to be a very dear friend who always comes to hear me and expresses himself very warmly. I am very tired to-day (but not unwell) and a little exhausted in my head… LONDON, 3 December 1919. Everything looked better to-day, when I woke from a wonderful sleep - unbroken until broad daylight. And now (about 12), your dear letter has come… I rejoice with all my heart to hear that M. Klinger is still alive. [1] A pity he mixed himself up with music so much and only made “discoveries” honestly and comfortably within the limits of his country and his epoch. He wanted to break his chains, and only clanked about with them. Beethoven as Zeus, with a background of pre-Raphaelite heads of angels, and the Crucifixion - what a confused summary of everything that Germany honoured with so much gravity from 1875-95 (with all respect for the seriousness of the idea and the artistic effort). But I am glad that he is living. Perhaps he will see and admit to many other things now… War and money - money and war - God the Father need not have planted the tree of knowledge in Paradise for that. It is called in Italian l’albero del bene e del male, which almost looks as if the first men had the choice between good and evil - and God washed his hands in the oceans and said, It is not my fault - which happened again with his son and Pilate. Revenge I Whereupon M. Klinger stirs the broth with – Beethoven… Not only concert programmes, but everything else too has gone downhill here. They fear competition from Germany, and - don’t work! Not on Saturday or Sunday, not on Thursday afternoon; and work is over at six o’clock every day. The licensing hours have been very restricted, 12-2, 6-10, because. the people who came back from the war did nothing but drink all day. That, of course, brings disorder, poverty and crime in its train. About midnight London was a drunken Carnival. Manners are looser (in the wrong sense) and the novelists write openly about questions of sex. Literature is perhaps in a worse state than anything. What a desert! I received Shaw’s last volume yesterday, which I have, not read yet. Now I must prepare for the journey. My passport is already in order, on Tuesday, perhaps, I shall start for Paris, where I shall remain for as short a time as possible. And then, dear Gerda, how beautiful it will be!… [1] His death had been reported. LONDON, 7 December 1919. …It is Sunday morning once more, a soft winter sunshine over the Park, a fire in the grate and - peace. The latter, in me, is relative only, and urges me to work, after three wasted months… I am very tired to-day. The programme looked more harmless on paper than it proved to be in performance. The standard of the recital was as high as that of the first one; quite successful and perfect, the hall sold out, the best kind of audience that it is possible to get here. It was again something which had my entire interest and consequently I have expended very much strength both mentally and physically. When I had changed (what heat and perspiration!) I held a petite cour in the artists’ room, and finally there was a small intimate dinner at Dorothy’s (I now like her very much) with Sybil and Maudi… If we draw up the net result of my visit, there have been only three important occasions, the London ones, and Mr. Powell has had nothing to do with them, for I arranged them myself. Whereas everything which Mr. Powell thought out, undertook and carried through, was done tradesman fashion, and was unworthy, painful and even harmful. Counting the records for the Gramophone Company, I have made 15 appearances. The best things yesterday were the Waldstein Sonata, and the fourth Chopin Ballade. In that atmosphere they sound extremely serious pieces and they seemed monumental. The “Caprice über die Abreise” was a small gem in the programme. Many people came from outside London, between 200 and 300 people had to be turned away because there were no seats for them. The Hall Manager was proud. “It is a record,” he said. It is eighteen years since the hall was opened by me, and many of the virtuosi, whose portraits hang on the walls in the artists’ room, are no longer alive. Others, such as Galston and Ysaye, are in the shade, now. (Ysaye’s faithful friend, Ortmans, said, “He can play no more.”) It is not easy to keep one’s position. Above all, the people always want to be aroused and impressed afresh and events are constantly taking place which cause everything to be forgotten again. New powers and new movements arise and in order to make a fresh impression one has to overcome distaste and unwillingness in oneself. This is easier for me now, thank God, but it is still not quite effortless and good strength is valuable, and should be used only for good things. That is why I think that this will be the last “Tour” of this type… LONDON, 9 December 1919. This 44th letter will be my last one from England before I leave. I have settled to go the day after to-morrow (Thursday the 11th). This time I can go by the short route to Paris (Folkestone-Boulogne). The recital made quite a stir. On Sunday many people called: Lamond, Dent, Major Trevor (“Daily Express” critic), a charming and understanding man. Lamond was extraordinarily kind and friendly, even affectionate. I was very touched by it. Milner sang some of Arlecchino… It was pleasant at breakfast this morning to receive a few lines from Benni: the little letter was charming; I believe we can rejoice very much indeed over our boys; they are fine persons… It rains engagements here… LONDON, 10 December 1919. The 45th after all; because I must tell you that I experienced the great pleasure yesterday of receiving a quite unexpected letter from - Galsworthy! I do not know him, but (as you know) I have a very high esteem for him. My playing, he writes, “is a lesson in the long task, which confronts us all, of expressing the utmost of emotion in forms perfect and controlled - the only indestructible art. One goes to one’s work refreshed and inspirited.” I was told that Galsworthy went to Spain yesterday morning. That he wanted to write a letter to me the evening before he started makes me very happy… |
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1920 |
(Addressed to Zürich) LUGANO, 31 January 1920. …Arriving in Lugano gave me the impression of a dream and that encouraged me to remain here for some days. My room in the hotel overlooks a terrace and all the rooms in my row lead out on to it. Old black trees, moonlight, bubbling springs below, and behind that, the lake: it was (as I said) like the 500 _ th night. Now, of course, with my damned conscientiousness, I am thinking that I really ought to go to Milan this evening. But it wouldn’t be very much good, because I should not be in a very fresh condition to try the piano… I am well known here, more so than I expected! Even at the station I was greeted by name, and the same thing happened here in the Hotel. In the small Gasthof Croce Rossa in Chiasso I sat at the same table with Italians, evidently men of the world, who had a young Swedish woman with them whom they were showing round; and a gentleman from Padua. They had all been in Germany and Austria lately; were of the opinion that things did not look well. But they all thought that Germany would soon come up again… Best birthday wishes to Lello! I love him dearly… Wish him a beautiful day and numberless ones, just as beautiful, to follow. I feel I have come to a very good understanding with Benni. He has joined on again, and with his excellent thinking powers he will develop quickly now… I embrace you all with my whole heart… (Addressed to Paris) ZÜRICH, 10 June 1920. …I am at last on the track of the shape my Mephistopheles must take; for even a devil must have a shape. Couldn’t practise. Was in a nervous state because of your going away… I made every effort to hide my disquietude from you; in the end I felt my brain galloping; perhaps the journey will be good for that… (Addressed to Paris) LONDON, 5 July 1920. …Your card this morning rejoiced me; now you are on the go and are roaming through Paris. May God preserve your freshness. Discuss things a little with Philipp. It is so hard for me to say yes, and still harder to say no. The young man Walton (who was at the Spanish Restaurant) sent me some manuscript music. He has a little gift for counterpoint. In other respects, they all write according to a formula: notes, notes, notes, all “hither and yon“, without imagination or feeling. Taste in connection with the conception of beauty is certainly changeable. Wagner’s music, for instance, is often “beautiful“; he knew very well that this too belongs to the craft. Talent is really at the root of the matter and is the deciding factor. Dear Gerda, be happy; think a little too, about Your loving FERRUCCIO. (Addressed to Paris) LONDON, 8 July 1920. …These days have been very “enervating“ and I feel that I must stop doing this kind of work as soon as possible. I have already given it two weeks longer than I calculated. Sybil and Dent got the Faust. [1] Sybil was “away”; Dent used the word “meraviglioso.” (I believe for the first time.) I am glad about both the successes… Everything else (there is not much) I will tell you when we meet. I feel so liberated to-day. (What a pity one can’t” dawdle “round for a bit.)… [1] The libretto. (Addressed to Zürich) BERLIN, 11 September 1920. I have been scarcely two hours in Berlin and must write to you without delay… It was a pleasure to arrive at the German frontier and find the Customs officials friendly and human… It is touching to see how bashfully proud the South Germans are about “having everything.” The cultivation of the country in Swabia looked splendid. Compared with the Swiss towns, Stuttgart made an imposing and fantastic effect seen from above. One sees the town from above first of all and then one travels downwards in a long spiral, so that the town alternately disappears and comes into sight again, nearer each time. There was confusion at the station! The sleeping-car arrangements were normal and the train arrived punctually. I have only seen Berlin between 8-9 in the morning as yet, in beautiful weather… The porter at our house welcomed me like a father. The flat is astonishingly well kept and looks so rich and beautiful… I must collect myself a little… Afternoon. There is a strange contrast between the modest, often poor clothing one sees, and the high prices which are taken as a matter of course… On the whole, I am still not able to judge… This letter is quite disjointed, at which you will not be surprised; for I am not quite clear, and a little excited. But the flat is beautiful. Everything is radiant. A little beaming, too, is Your F. (Addressed to Zürich) BERLIN, 12 September 1920. I sit in my library - “la cité des livres,” says A. France - where every book (as far as I can see) is in its place; paper, ink, pen and everything for writing is all ready! I was timid about entering this room, and only decided to do so this morning. [1] It is Sunday and it is raining, so I shall remain comfortably at home. Here, inside it is glorious. Unfortunately, outside it is not so. It is once more a fight to keep one’s standard high. After America and Zürich - now Berlin. But I can say nothing definite to-day. You will see how things are. If this does not do, we must make another choice. But I am still convinced that it will have to be tried. We must take over the house in order to decide what is best; in order to know everything… I think I shall do much work. I shall concentrate. I miss Giotto quite lamentably. Yes, I am looking forward to work, even to experimenting at the piano again. The first night was passable… Buddha looks as if he were made of flesh and blood, and as if he might move. I often think he does move. And that is all for to-day. I will write again to-morrow… Yesterday, I met Hans Herrmann (Berlin king of lieder singing). “Well, Busoni, it is good to meet you. I want you to sign a fan for a lady.” Is such a thing possible? [1] Busoni had anxiously guarded the key of his library for more than five years, and always carried it with him. (Addressed to Zürich) BERLIN, 14 September 1920. …Everybody was very cordial, altogether the tone in Berlin is human and pleasant. I have scarcely been out of the house. (I have so much to occupy me and take pleasure in it)… It is like a dream to think this is already the fourth day since I came here. I await your arrival with impatience. Your short but very dear letter made my heart throb, I was so rejoiced to get it. Thank you. I will write more to-morrow. I kiss you three dear people, you, Benni and Lello… (Addressed to Zürich) BERLIN, 16 September 1920. To-day - at last - I have finished the Toccata, really finished it, with date and signature… I feel I could work if they would only leave me in peace! At home it is, of course, really inspiring… Letters are raining in. After finishing the Toccata I am feeling rather like a holiday, and also tired… (Addressed to Zürich) BERLIN, 19 September 1920. It is already the second Sunday! To-day, at my invitation, the master-bookbinder, Schmid, came. I thought I would establish a little atmosphere in my library. I have been busy; am very contented with the Toccata; to-day, for a “joke,” I wrote a- Tanzwalzer… And when are you coming? I am waiting impatiently for you. Poor Gerda, who knows how tired you are! You ought really to enjoy a holiday now in Switzerland. Please, do just what you like best. I can get on here quite well for the present, although I wish for you. I kiss you lovingly and gratefully… (Addressed to Zürich) BERLIN, 21 September 1920. …I am working pleasantly, have “re-Toccata-ed” the Toccata and am scoring the Tanzwalzer… To-day the X’s came. Have I gone forward, or have they gone back? I try to keep my door barred, but something always trickles through. I am in a strange situation, but as “officially” I am still incognito, I cannot know how it will all develop… These weeks have been the hardest of my life, on the whole; I am surprised that I have preserved quite a lot of harmony and am glad to be able to tell you this. I rest in my own way, am occupied in my library and go out in the streets a little in the later afternoon… I have drawn up the concert plan with piano recitals and three orchestral concerts of my own cornpositions. I should not like more for the present… Milner’s programme is all right. I once made a good transcription of the “An den Wassern zu Babel“ for Clark, which I have mislaid or lost… I kiss you, and should like you to enjoy yourself a little longer there still… I also had a delightful card from Jarnach and friends… (Addressed to Zürich) BERLIN, 24 September 1920. My beloved Gerda, I do not know if this letter will reach you. But I cannot leave you without news, in case you might still be in Zürich. It is true I have nothing important to report. Have done more to the scoring of the Tanzwalzer; I settled the composition concerts and reviewed the so-called Busoni Number of the “Anbruch.” I should like it to be a good issue. The prospect seems very hopeful at present. Otherwise, I shut myself in and live for myself. It is very calming and attractive… Many things here are stunted, but not unbearably so; and one can watch them improving… I am so glad about you. Hope for a letter to-morrow… LONDON, 6 October 1920. I did not see much of Edinburgh this time, because the concert was in the middle of the day. I was only able to go for a walk at seven in the evening and then I walked for two hours (how thankful I was for the chance of doing it). It was Saturday, the shops were closed and the principal streets were thronged with the “populace.” The “plebs” in Edinburgh and Glasgow belong to the lowest and rawest of their kind that I have ever seen. By comparison, the West American is something “genteel.” On Saturday evening they are let loose and make a vicious tumult… The “Todtentanz” by Strindberg is a strange, almost demoniacal piece. At the first glance it seems to be the description of a bad marriage: but afterwards one sees that the whole thing turns round the character of the man. That the woman who is with him most frequently and for the longest time should come in for the strongest reactions is natural, but yet it is not principally the story of a marriage… The play appealed to me strongly and is fearfully suggestive; it gets one down (as they say). All the same, I do not count it a work of art, and am not sure whether it was right to choose the dramatic form. And on the other hand, the role of the “Captain” makes one want to become an actor at once in order to play the part. I can say nothing about the language (the translation is not very good) but in any case it is not poetical; it keeps the technique of naturalness and Ibsen; that is to say, everyday things are said in an everyday form. Only here and there it is lighted up by a philosophical thought, a sentence of real experience, an aphorism… An individual technique, all the same. The laconic style and the tempo are often full of virtuosity and effect. Only what is absolutely necessary is said, but it hits the nail on the head. From Strindberg to Friend Backhaus is a leap, but quite a wholesome one. Here is a tale he related: Rubinstein had advertised a Beethoven recital and a Chopin recital in Liverpool. The Beethoven recital was empty and Rubinstein went off without waiting for the second recital. (“I will not play again in this village.”) When Backhaus had got as far as this with the story, he shook his head in a dissatisfied way and remarked, “I believe that was a mistake.” “What do you mean?“ I asked, extremely amused and a little nonplussed. “The Chopin recital was sold out,” he concluded in a resigned voice. It is Sunday morning, rather wintry. I have just come back from Edinburgh; have a day’s rest, which I need badly. The week was as follows: Monday, arrived. Tuesday, 5 hours to Leeds, evening concert, 6 hours’ night journey back again. Wednesday, arrived 6 a.m. Worked. Thursday, 3 _ hours to Cheltenham, 3 _ hours back, and in between, a concert. Friday, 4 _ hours to Liverpool, rehearsal with Kreisler, concert; at night to Glasgow. Saturday, from Glasgow to Edinburgh, concert; at night back to London - arrived Sunday, To-day, 6th October, free. My own recitals were sold out, the concerts with Kreisler less good. Kreisler plays very well, very carefully, has some little violin specialities. Is a dear fellow at heart, and his manner with me is admirable. We got on very well together this time… |
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1921 |
HAMBURG, 15 January 1921. It was a magical, sunny winter morning when I woke up to-day. As a “precaution,” Brecher was ready by nine o’clock. The orchestra is morally and artistically in ruins… I have made the painful discovery that nobody loves and feels music. Some practise it as a trade, some as time-beaters, and some from vanity. (I was quite angry at the rehearsal. Of course, the people in the audience thought I was behaving like a “star,” although they did not listen to my playing.) After all, the “time-beaters” are the ones most worthy of respect, even if they are as far away from music as the others… I arrived yesterday at midnight. The journey was cold… I think of you as the only woman… (Addressed to Grosz-Gmain bei Salzburg) BERLIN, 20 July 1921. …The scoring goes on by itself; it pulls me along, instead of my leading it - like Giotto! (I am working at this scene with the greatest pleasure and it promises to be some of my best work)… (Addressed to Grosz-Gmain) BERLIN, 23 July 1921. This very moment I have finished scoring the students’ scene; it is, perhaps, technically the most perfect piece I have done in an opera. (At the same time very lively.) …So far, I have had only a card from you and - in spite of your not being here - the week is suddenly at an end (to-day is Saturday)… My mind is in the best state possible, thank God, touch wood, and I am looking forward to my next assault on the libretto… (Addressed to Grosz-Gmain) BERLIN, 30 July 1921. …I rejoice over the good impression you have of Salzburg, which unfortunately I do not know; although they stuffed me enough with the “beauties of Austria” in the “lovely days of Youth.” That was the time when many illustrated luxury editions were published and they appeared in numbers “in order to make it possible even for the less well-to-do to possess the treasury.” I must tell you about Frau B. sending me a volume like this to look at. It was a volume of Goethe’s dramas; Faust is made to look like Dr. Wilhelm Kienzl, always sitting in old German wine shops, on ”Luther chairs,” with bottle-glass window panes as a background. I returned the volume with thanks, with the remark that it was not according to my taste… The young men [1] come on Mondays and Thursdays, but I can send them away after an hour or an hour and a half. I work regularly and have got on a good deal; in thought still more than on paper, but on paper too it is already well advanced. I am expecting you with impatience… [1] His composition pupils. |
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1922 |
LONDON, 20 January 1922. On the assumption that the letter will arrive before your departure I write to announce my safe landing after a normal crossing. The passport officials were charming. “How long will you stay this time in England, Mr. Busoni? Are you going to play soon?” And the customs officials chalked my things without asking any questions. Two Dutchmen who travelled with me took me for a diplomat travelling to England on a mission for the Government. The first “half” of genuine Heidsieck in the Dutch restaurant car was quite a little experience. When he was asked if he would take German money, the waiter said, Yes, and he reckoned up 650 marks for the half bottle. “And how much do you reckon it to be in English money?” He said, “Thirteen shillings.” So I paid him in English money, because optically and acoustically it gives one an easier conscience. One is still so dependent on “numbers.” I have thought of nothing the whole day, this I consider is an impossible condition to be in. And how boring it is!!… Unfortunately, nobody met me at the station. And now I am looking forward to your arrival… (Addressed to Paris) LONDON, 20 February 1922. A deaf and dumb emptiness seems to surround me since you left the hotel. I send these lines hurrying after you to keep us in touch. It is terrifying to feel what a stranger one always remains in this country; how the people here automatically accept everything without giving anything in exchange, except in their own “circle.” The two or three who are unselfishly loyal cannot alter this national feature. - What power there is in this defensive attitude. But it breaks in time, and the time has begun. India and Ireland are rising, and inside the island the ugly demon of industrial unrest is raising its head. It was these clever fools themselves who invented the “strike”! I am longing for my workroom (and for a city of refuge on the Mediterranean). I have a lot of work to do in Paris… (Addressed to Paris) LONDON, 21 February 1922. Yesterday evening I ordered a fire to be lighted at eight o’clock this morning and spent the morning in front of the fireplace at my “Workroom“ [1] as I usually do when I am alone… Prince Fürstenburg has again invited me to take part in the next music festival. Yesterday, I wrote a good letter about Berlioz to Ernest New-man; last Sunday he called him “an opera composer manqué.” (But with regard to Berlioz, the French have much on their conscience.) I must be here next Monday, in order to get this absurd gramophone business out of my life! (Addressed to Paris) MANCHESTER, 24 February 1922. …I shall probably come to Paris on the 1st March - a day earlier, if I can. To-morrow, Saturday, I shall hear Egon’s recital in London; then I must pack the books which he is taking with him. Sunday, prepare gramophone programme. Monday, “Recording.” Therefore, I think I must draw a breath on Tuesday. Wednesday is the 1st March. I don’t see clearly how I can have the five programmes ready for Paris. My own compositions I hardly know at all yet. Yesterday Wagner’s “Faust“ Overture was played. Almost everything that he did later is in it: Holländer, Tristan, Parsifal. But stiff, ungifted and even badly scored! And why is Wagner’s composition called “Faust”? Puzzle. I have still to thank you for your dear letter. I had already discovered the grey dress next to the two thermos flasks. It was touching to look at this forsaken still-life… [1] Consisting of “table” and chair. Busoni made the table himselfby placing his little suitcase on a chair. That is how he worked in hotels. HAMBURG, 25 March 1922. This sheet of paper should lie on the breakfast table on Monday: as a morning greeting… Werner Wolff is a very respectable musician and conductor who manages everything creditably, and with taste. The Sarabande and Cortege were better played here to-day than in Paris; in spite of the humbler orchestra. Fiat justitia. The pieces again quite pleased me. This gives me still more courage to complete the work… The town from outside looks well ordered and busy. It made a grand picture as we came into it. But in the evening, directly after the shops close, everything is dark and empty… Hamburg really is quite separate from the realm of Germany, almost like an island. “A pocket edition of England.” HAMBURG, 26 March 1922. That was really dear of you to write, and what you write is correct. I played very well at the rehearsal yesterday, in spite of not having touched the piano in between. The Hall was sold out, the audience very warm (about my compositions too);, Pfohl was very pleased. The performances were not quite so good as at the first rehearsal; for that reason it will go better again to-morrow. All kinds of proposals were raining in to the artists’ room. Next season with Pollack; if possible, even a recital this April; Rahter’s successor wanted to order a “suite“; and finally, a man from New York was there, with big plans. Piano-playing pleases me better again; I should still like to acquire yet another side to it; and I almost think that I shall do it!… |
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1923 |
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