CHAPTER X MUSICAL MEMORIES

My Mother—Her Musical Friends—I Study with Masset—His Generous Offer—Litolff's Visit—My Mother's Musicales Develop into a Conservatoire—Rubinstein's Anger—His Refusal to Play for the Grand Duchess Helen—The Idols of the Musical World—A Friendly Jealousy—My Stratagem with Liszt—Glazounoff's Kindness—The Musicless


Our great poets Pouschkin and Lermontoff admired my mother's beauty; Yazikoff also wrote a lovely poem in which he says that

The ancient Greeks would have delighted
To kneel and worship at your feet,
To build you shrines of snowy marble,
Where clouds of fragrant incense sweet,
From golden altars night and morning,
Would rise your image fair to greet.


But my mother was not merely beautiful, she was also exceedingly kind and very artistic. The great musician and pianist Thalberg dedicated to her one of his lovely nocturnes, and I afterwards inherited Liszt's kindness for her memory. In the year 1860 my mother used to invite to our house every Thursday first-rate musicians like Nicolas Rubinstein (as fine a pianist as his brother Anton), eminent violinists like Laub and Wieniawski, the 'cellist Cossman, and other celebrated instrumentalists, {139} from whom we heard, with greatest enjoyment, examples of the finest classical music, which lasted from eight to ten. At ten the young people were allowed to dance, and I am ashamed to say that my young friends much preferred the second part of the evening to the first!

NICOLAS RUBINSTEIN, ANTON RUBINSTEIN
NICOLAS RUBINSTEIN, ANTON RUBINSTEIN

A year or two after my marriage, having (as mentioned in a previous chapter) been ordered by my parents-in-law to accompany them to Paris, I duly obeyed, and I think I may say that my life there was unique. From ten in the morning till ten in the evening, I almost invariably stayed with the old people, sitting with them in the Bois, or laying a "Patience" (the only one I know) at home. I gained, however, one great benefit. I managed to take daily singing lessons at the Conservatoire at half-past eight in the morning, from the celebrated Masset, who took great interest in my progress.

But at last my time was over, for I had to rejoin my husband and my boy in Petrograd. When I told Professor Masset that I was taking my last lesson, he seemed greatly surprised.

"Oh!" he said, "I guess why you are stopping your lessons. But you are wrong. I will give you lessons gratis for two years, on condition that you make your debut in Grand Opera. One reason why I ask high fees is in order not to be besieged by too many pupils."

"Well," said I, "of course twenty-five francs per lesson is a large sum for daily lessons, but that is not my reason. I am unfortunately obliged to interrupt my studies for another reason, my husband wants me to return home."

{140}

The Professor looked perfectly horrified. "Your husband! Are you then married?" he exclaimed.

"Yes, I am," I answered, "and I have a son."

"Voilà une surprise!" he cried. "And does your husband sing well?"

"Oh no, he does not sing at all."

"Then what does he do?"

I had to explain as well as I could my husband's position, to which Masset impatiently retorted, "Well, I only wish I had not taken such pains with your lessons!" which I thought more frank than polite, but the poor Professor was disappointed to find that he had been wasting his time on a mere amateur.

In order to practise singing without disturbing my old people, I took a little mansarde in the same house, and, when hidden there, the concierge had my order to say I was out. One afternoon, I went to my piano and was studying hard Gluck's "Orpheus," when suddenly, there was a violent knock at my door.

"Won't you let me in?" cried a voice. "Your stupid concierge insisted that you were out, but I heard your voice, which I recognised. Let me come in, I am Henri Litolff."

I opened the door, but I said, "You see that I have only a piano and one chair. I cannot receive visitors."

"I will take the chair, and will accompany you," was the answer. And then we had a charming improvised concert.

My mother's musical parties led to an important result. Struck by their success, Nicolas Rubinstein {141} and his friend the millionaire Tretiakoff, conceived the idea of founding a Conservatorium in Moscow. My dear native town is very enthusiastic and generous when she realises the importance of a great idea. A foundation for a Moscow Conservatorium was immediately arranged, whilst Nicolas Rubinstein's elder brother, Anton, submitted the same idea to the Grand Duchess Helen, who at once identified herself with a similar project for Petrograd. Thus we came to possess two Conservatoriums, with the two brothers Rubinstein as their Principals, Anton in Petrograd, Nicolas in Moscow, to the great adornment of both capitals.

In that enterprise the Grand Duchess Helen showed her true grandeur. And here again, as in the question of the emancipation of the serfs, she found a great supporter in her nephew the Grand Duke Constantine Nicolaievitch. I should like any English travellers who visit Moscow and Petrograd to make a point of seeing these two Conservatoriums, of which we certainly may be proud.

I continued to be on good terms with both the Rubinsteins, and the Grand Duchess Helen often invited Anton to her parties. But one evening something happened which was far from pleasant. Whilst Rubinstein was playing one of his lovely compositions, a young fellow very "well born," but very badly brought up, began turning on his heels muttering in an audible tone something about "Rubin, Rubin, Rubin" (inflamed, I was told, by jealousy in connection with a young girl who was extremely enthusiastic about the artist). Rubinstein stopped playing and left the palace. The next {142} day he called on Baroness Rhaden, lady-in-waiting to the Grand Duchess, and said, "The Grand Duchess is kind enough to offer me 2000 roubles for my performances; I must decline that payment, as also the honour of playing again at the palace. I am quite ready to play to the Grand Duchess when she is alone, but not otherwise."

A few days later the Grand Duchess sent for me. "Is it true," she said, "that the bear is playing at your house every Thursday?"

"The bear! Madame, do you by chance mean Rubinstein? If so, yes, he plays for me every Thursday."

"Well but, how do you manage to tame him? Do you know that he actually refuses to play at my palace on any terms?"

"The only thing I can suppose, Madame, is that, although I have no grandees to lend attraction to my receptions, my artist friends, like Rubinstein, Wieniawski, Litolff, etc., always meet with an attentive hearing—they are always accorded complete silence."

"Yes, but Rubinstein should understand that what occurred at the palace the other night was quite an unfortunate and exceptional mischance."

The Grand Duchess, as she looked at me, was evidently very angry, nor did she hasten to invite Rubinstein again. But very much later the storm subsided, and peace was restored.

The brothers Rubinstein were, naturally, the idols of the Russian musical world. In Petrograd it was Anton whose reputation was highest. In Moscow Nicolas was considered the superior. A {143} friendly jealousy on behalf of the two great musicians existed between the two cities. Anton in his later years had a charming villa at Peterhof where I have met also his wife and family. I remember that, at the conclusion of a discussion on Wagner's magnificent, but lengthy, Music Dramas, Rubinstein said he doubted whether anyone could listen to music with real attention and enjoyment for more than two hours at a time. A frank admission! But was he not right? He also endorsed Paganini's dictum about the necessity of daily study. "If I do not practise one day I notice it. If I do not practise two days, the public notice it." One of his friends and collaborateurs was Leopold Auer, who was for so long principal Violin Professor at the St. Petersburg Conservatoire, and to whose eminent talent the world owes so much.

Amongst other well-known musicians whom I have known in my earlier years, were Litolff (already mentioned, who, like Thalberg, dedicated a composition to my mother), Ferdinand Hiller, Halevy, Stockhausen, Ole Bull, Madame Pauline Viardot, Liszt, Tchaikovsky and others.

I knew Liszt well in Weimar, where I spent a few weeks. Once when he called on me at the Hotel de Russie, I happened to be changing my dress after a long walk. As I began to hurry my toilette, I heard enchanting sounds from my piano below. Judge of my delight to be listening to Liszt's improvisations. Instead, therefore, of hurrying, I prolonged my change of dress to what I considered would be the extremity of my visitor's patience. But I found him friendly and smiling, not in the least annoyed, when {144} I at last entered the room. Indeed, he evidently guessed why I had delayed so long, and was even amused at my little stratagem.

Here is a letter from him:


MADAME,

Le charme et l'émotion de votre chant m'a fait complètement oublier hier que je n'étais pas libre de mes heures aujourd'hui. Veuillez bien m'accorder indulgence et me permettre de venir un autre jour pour vous renouveler mes très respectueux hommages?


FR. LISZT.


It was Liszt also who introduced to me Lassen, who came every morning to teach me his lovely songs. In Weimar, Lassen was quite an artistic personage.

But I might ramble on for ever with such reminiscences. A few words only about later acquaintances in London. Amongst these I think I ought specially to mention my distinguished compatriots, Glazounoff and Safonoff.

Tchaikovsky was also here and had fully intended to return to London, where his glorious music had become so popular, and had indeed accepted the invitation of an English friend to be his guest during the forthcoming visit. His death in Petrograd occurred shortly afterwards, to our great loss.

On one of Glazounoff's visits I had a small musical gathering, at which the young Russian 'cellist, Varia Irmanoff, was to play her composition "Volga" (Air Russe pour Violoncelle), which she had dedicated to me. Unfortunately her accompanist never turned {145} up. Glazounoff, seeing the poor girl's embarrassment, then went very quietly to the piano and said, "I will accompany you." Very Russian in kindness and simplicity! I was proud of him.

A few minutes later, when my other pianist, the talented Miss Vera Margolies, came, Glazounoff seemed delighted to meet his favourite Russian artist-friend, just returned from new successes in Paris, and about to achieve another success at the Queen's Hall under the direction of our great Safonoff.

I must add a few words on Mrs. Rosa Newmarch. She has rendered great service to the artistic world in publishing her two big volumes on our great Tchaikovsky, and her works on The Russian Opera and The Russian Arts, and we Russians must always think of Mrs. Rosa Newmarch's efforts to bring about an artistic entente between Russia and England.

Safonoff, that grand artist so well known to London orchestras and audiences, used, in his lighter moments, to amuse us with his inimitable six-line caricatures on the back of menu cards, or on any handy scraps of paper.

In these later years I used frequently to meet that grand violinist August Wilhelmj, and shall never forget the rather rare examples he gave us of his extraordinary gift of tone, in that respect reminding me somewhat of Laub.

I used also to meet Auer on his occasional visits here, during which he introduced to me his celebrated pupils, Kathleen Parlow and Mischa Elman, who have since won world-wide fame.

Ernest De Munck, the eminent Belgian {146} violoncellist, formerly married to Carlotta Patti, I knew very well during his last residence in Londen, and often heard him perform on his beautiful "Strad." He had made his reputation throughout the world, and after the death in Paris of his celebrated wife, he spent his last years in London. We had many mutual friends in the musical world of former days.

The above are some of the dii majori of the musical profession past and present. But there is also much excellent amateur talent in English Society, to which I have often listened with real enjoyment. On the other hand, I must confess that some of my best friends have shown a conspicuous absence of "music in the soul," though far from being on that account "fit for treason's stratagems and spoils!" I need hardly repeat my well-known story of dear Kinglake, who used to be unutterably bored by music, and frankly admitted that, of all instruments, he preferred the drum! His attitude was, I suppose, somewhat like that of your celebrated Dr. Johnson, whose attention was called at a musical party (at which no doubt he unwillingly found himself) to a tour de force of an eminent performer on the violin. "Is it not wonderful?" said an ardent listener. "I wish, sir, it were impossible," replied the grim Doctor.