Soul of the Age (56 page)

Of course, it was only in old age that I began listening to the radio, and when I think back on my musical experiences, I see that the pleasures of broadcast or canned music are not all that significant; they didn't make me a music lover or, in some areas, even a demi-connoisseur. No, before I began lapping up music all alone in my room, I spent decades attending hundreds of public concerts, operas, festivals, and solemn performances of church music in the “proper,” venerable places—that is, concert halls, theaters, and churches—amid a congregation of like-minded and similarly receptive souls, whose faces were attentive yet lost in contemplation, full of reverent devotion, illuminated from within, in a manner that reflects the beauty of their perceptions, and, for several measures, I paid them as much attention as the music. For decades I haven't been able to listen to the final chorus of
St. John's Passion
without recalling a performance in the Zurich Concert Hall under the direction of Andreä.
496
Sitting on the chair in front of me was an elderly lady whom I had hardly noticed during the concert. The last chorus had died away, and the congregation was beginning to leave, Volkmar was laying down his baton, and I, too, was taking my leave and preparing to return to the secular world, with feelings of reluctance and regret—something that happens frequently to me on such occasions—when the old lady in front arose slowly, stood there for a moment before leaving, and when she turned her head a little to one side, I could see tear after tear coursing across her cheeks.

My eyes and ears did more than glance at, and feast on, my neighboring worshippers: my eyes witnessed the solemn, sprightly, or tempestuous motions of the strings, the energetic parallel motions of the violin bows, the heavy sawing of the basses. I observed the director and the soloists, who were often close friends of mine. Those friendships and encounters with composers, directors, virtuosi, male and female singers were an indispensable part of my musical life and musical education, and whenever I recall particularly striking concerts in the festival hall or church, I not only hear the music again and sense the special atmosphere and temperature of those houses, but also see the touching apparition of Dinu Lipatti, and elegant Paderewski, versatile Sarasate, also the blazing eyes of Schoeck, the casual, lordly manner of Richard Strauss, the fanatical style of Toscanini, the nervous style of Furtwängler; I see Busoni's wonderful face sunk in raptures over the keys, see Philippi in a vestal oratorio pose, Durigo with her eyes wide open at the conclusion of the “Lied von der Erde,” Edwin Fischer's sturdy childlike head, Hans Huber's sharp, gypsylike profile, Fritz Brun's beautiful, wide arm movements executing a movement in andante, and twenty or a hundred other noble and wonderful figures, faces, and gestures. None of this comes across on the radio, and I only know about television from hearsay.

I would like to jot down some brief notes on two passages in Valentin's book, so you can pass them along to the author. In one passage he quotes Mörike as hearing “Strauss” sing. The Strauss in question was undoubtedly the famous opera singer Agnese Schebest, who was unhappily married to D. F. Strauss, the even more famous author of
The Life of Jesus.
The correspondence between Strauss and Fr. Th. Vischer tells that heartrending tale, with greater accuracy than one might find desirable.

The other passage I would like to comment on, and correct as well, concerns my friend and patron H. C. Bodmer. Valentin states: “The Zurich physician H. C. Bodmer was a Beethoven specialist.” That's inadequate and somewhat incorrect. My friend Bodmer wasn't a physician nor was he a specialist of any kind. It's true that he started studying medicine at the age of thirty-six, and took all the tests including the doctoral exam, but he never practiced. He had studied music in his youth and would probably have most liked to be a director; he was friends all his life with a great many significant musicians and became a musical Maecenas on a grand scale. Over the decades he built up one of the largest and most valuable Beethoven collections, which, in keeping with his characteristically regal generosity, he donated to the Beethoven Archive in Bonn. But his horizons were far broader than those of a specialist, and even though he reserved his greatest love and enthusiasm for Beethoven, he also had a thorough grasp of later music history, and loved several contemporaries deeply, Mahler in particular.

But I promised to tell you about my wonderful radio experience.

It was an evening of Chopin, performed by a Chinese named Fou Tsong. I had never heard his name before and still know nothing about his age, schooling, or other personal data. The program was beautiful, and I was naturally enthralled by the wondrous prospect of hearing the great love of my youth, Chopin, performed by none other than a Chinese. I have heard the elder Paderewski, the child prodigy Raoul Koschalski, Edwin Fischer, Lipatti, Cortot, and many other great pianists playing Chopin. The style varied considerably: cool but correct, melodious, animated, or moody and idiosyncratic, some emphasizing the rich timbre, others the rhythm, pious here, frivolous there, some anxious, others cheerful; although the performances were often extremely beautiful, they seldom corresponded to my notion of how Chopin ought to be played. Of course, I was convinced, naturally, that this ideal method corresponded to Chopin's own style as a performer. And I would have given a lot to hear A. Gide playing one of the ballades. As a pianist, Gide had worked intensively on Chopin all his life.

Well, the unknown Chinese gained my respect in the first few minutes, and acquired my love soon thereafter; he was utterly equal to the challenge. I had unwittingly expected the highest degree of technical perfection—one takes that for granted in view of Chinese perseverance and ingenuity. His virtuoso, technical perfection couldn't have been surpassed by Cortot or Rubinstein. But that wasn't all. I wasn't just hearing a masterly performance, but rather Chopin, the real Chopin. It brought to mind Warsaw and Paris, the Paris of Heinrich Heine and the young Liszt. There was a fragrance of violets, rain in Mallorca, and exclusive salons; the sound was both melancholic and courtly, and the rhythmic differentiation and dynamics were of equal sensitivity. It was a miracle.

But I would have liked to see that highly talented Chinese with my own eyes. Perhaps his bearing, gestures, and face would have answered a question that had occurred to me after the program: Has this highly gifted individual arrived at an inner understanding of this European, Polish, Parisian music, with all its melancholia and skepticism, or is there a teacher, colleague, master, or model whose music he has learned by heart and is now imitating down to the last detail? I would like to hear him playing the same program again repeatedly, on several different days. If everything was genuine and priceless, if Fou Tsong was truly the musician I felt inclined to see in him, then each new performance would constitute something new, unique, and individual—even if only noticeable in small details—and wouldn't merely replay an extremely beautiful record.

Well, maybe an answer will be forthcoming someday. The thought hadn't disturbed me during the concert, only afterward. And as I listened to him, I almost glimpsed for a few moments the man from the East, not the real Fou Tsong, of course, but a creature I myself had imagined, created, and conjured up. He resembled a figure from Chuang-tze or the Kin Ku Ki Kwan, and I felt that, as it played, his hand became the same kind of eerily sovereign, utterly relaxed, and devout instrument, under the guidance of the Tao, that allowed the painters of ancient China to get their brushes close to what in a happy moment can be intuitively apprehended as the meaning of the world and of life itself.

TO OTTO ENGEL

[
October 1960
]

You deserve a lot of credit for having written this good and, ultimately, consoling letter while still in the throes of severe suffering.

I tend to shrug off the abuse and mockery that the young literary roughnecks occasionally fling at me. People are more cruel as youngsters than they are later in life, and in the past I myself have poked fun mercilessly at several venerable figures, although not in public. In such cases, Meng Hsiä
497
says: “Child throws dirt at old fellow. Old fellow brushes off his coat.” And, of course, there is some truth in the avant-garde's critique: I have always tried to find a decent form for my work, and have also employed artistic practices that merely heed a spirit of play, but on the whole I considered the what as important as the how, a horrific notion to any pure artist, whether he swears by Mallarmé, George, or the Surrealists. In addition to a love of play and the usual artistic ambition, I have always had other concerns, which could be called religious, psychoanalytic, whatever—and at an early stage I sensed the atmosphere of decline in the West, and since I didn't always manage to keep my head stuck in the sand, I often felt drawn toward the wisdom and doctrines that we inherited from the ancients and the Orient.

Your letter is the fruit of a severe illness, from which you haven't yet recovered, and this lends weight to the courageous statement of your beliefs. Like all who are enlightened, you accept the Buddha's doctrine that suffering is a central part of life, but what you find lacking in him is any reference to the delicate effect of beauty and joy on the fabric of existence. Indian scholars of Buddhism would laugh at that idea, but I couldn't agree with you more, since I'm of the same opinion myself: “One shouldn't reject anything in life, even its delightful blessings.” We children like to hear that.

May you persevere, and may life shine on you again!

Ninon is spending fourteen days in Paris, and will be seeing Carlo Isenberg's daughter, who is now a fine scholar in Romance languages.

GREETINGS TO A HESSE FESTIVAL IN PRETORIA
498

[
June 1961
]

I haven't been able to accede to Herr Etzel's
499
request for tape-recorded greetings addressed to the participants and audience at the Hesse Festival. One of the scourges afflicting me in old age is having to contend with a certain impediment in my voice and speaking ability. But I would certainly like to convey my heartfelt greetings to those present. What I find especially pleasing about the honor accorded me is the honor conferred thereby on the German language. The dear German language has been my fond comrade and solace in life, my greatest treasure, together with its great works, which range from the
Song of the Nibelungs
through Luther and Goethe to the present. As a language, it is rich, elastic, powerful, playful, moody, and frequently irregular; strongly musical, animated, and humorous. At any celebrations in honor of works or writers in this language, the language itself should get most of the credit. We writers are indeed helping to build up and refine the language, but even the contributions made by the greatest writers are as nothing when compared to what the language gives us and means to us. These words are intended as a reminder of this.

TO HIS SONS

June 1961

We had to renew my contract with Suhrkamp, which had expired, and have inserted a few minor changes. The following provision is important for you: After my death, Ninon will assume responsibility for negotiating with the publishers. She understands my thoughts and wishes regarding the future of my works, and will advise the publishers on such matters. My sons need only concern themselves with these matters after Ninon's death. Since there are three of you and the publishers cannot discuss whatever controversial issues arise with each of you separately, you should assign the power of attorney to one of you for negotiations with the publishers.

Ninon will carry out my wishes as long as she is still alive. Rather than making any provision beyond that point, I wish to leave any eventual decisions up to you. For instance, I have never allowed any of my books to be turned into a film. If this question should ever arise again, you're free to arrive at your own decision. Thus if somebody should come with a film offer when you're experiencing financial difficulties, there isn't any prohibition on my part. In that case, just do what you think is right; you can have total confidence in Dr. Unseld, Suhrkamp's successor.

TO RUDOLF KAYSER

Sils Maria
[
August 12, 1961
]

Thanks for your letter. I have had a lot of contact and correspondence with Israel, also with Buber. My relationship to Germany is similar to yours. In my case the “emigration” occurred before the first war, in 1912, and ever since then I have been living in Switzerland, which was my homeland as a child. I was last in Germany about twenty-six years ago. I would have liked to revisit the haunts of my childhood, but first the Nazis came along, and then bombs demolished almost everything that I cherished. I found Germany after 1945 far more alien and unappealing than the Germany of 1912, even with its Kaiser, generals, and gleaming weaponry.

TO ERIKA MANN

[
October 4, 1961
]

It's been a few weeks since your kind letter, and I was reminded of this by Klaus's anniversary
500
and Kantorovicz's radio program (Heinrich and Thomas).
501
Many things came to mind as I was reading your father's letters to Heinrich,
502
especially those from his youth. I believe your father's first visit to Florence coincided with mine; we must have strolled through the same Gothic alleys without having any idea of each other. I lived on the third floor above the Piazza Signoria, and could see the Loggia dei Lanzi
503
and the place where Savonarola's funeral pile had stood. I went carousing in Lapi's tavern.

Kantorovicz seems a nice man; his account of the “brotherly row” speaks highly in his favor. He would like to call on me sometime, and I shall indeed see him, whereas I don't regret not having received Becher,
504
etc.