One winter, about ten years ago, I went to Berlin in the company of Mr Frederick Dawson, the famous English pianist, who had planned to give two recitals there. We stayed at the Fürstenhof, a luxurious and enervating hotel where we had a suite of rooms facing the front. In the large drawing-room that Karl Klindworth had engaged for Dawson was a good piano.

Now, music in Berlin is just a trade. Everyone plays or sings and everybody teaches somebody or other to play and sing. Unless you are an artist of colossal merit (and sometimes even if you are), you will find it practically impossible to persuade anybody to listen to you if you are not prepared to “square” the critics. In the season, twenty, thirty, forty concerts are given nightly, and by far the greater number of them are given to empty stalls. That does not matter: no artist of any European experience expects anything else. A musician does not go to Berlin to get money: he goes to get a reputation. Berlin’s cachet is (or, most decidedly, I should say was) absolutely indispensable for any pianist, violinist or singer who wishes to make a permanent and wide reputation. Before the war, Mr Snooks could play as hard and as fiercely and as long in London as he liked, but unless he was known in Berlin, and unless it was known that he was known in Berlin, he was everywhere considered but as a second-rate kind of person, a mere talented outsider. So that it is quite within the facts 213to say that few artists have gone to sing or play in Berlin except for the purpose of obtaining Press notices, favourable Press notices, Press notices that glow with praise and reek of backstairs influence. An American, a French or a Danish artist will go to Berlin with a few years’ savings, give a short series of recitals, cut his Press notices from the papers, go back to his native land, and then advertise freely—his advertisements, of course, consisting of judicious excerpts (not always very literally translated) from his Berlin notices. This visit to Berlin, with the hire of a concert hall, etc., may cost a couple of hundred pounds, but it is counted money well spent, well invested.

Frederick Dawson had already paid several visits to Berlin and Vienna, and was so well known in both cities that his appearance in either always attracted large and enthusiastic audiences; but, apart from Dawson himself, d’Albert and Lamond, no other British artist or semi-British artist had, I imagine, the power to do so.

I was introduced to many critics and many artists. The critic was almost invariably a Herr Doktor and the Herr Doktor was almost invariably a Herr Professor: they all had degrees and they all taught. They were overworked, “doing” five or six concerts a night and receiving very little pay. They would dash about from one concert hall to another in taxi-cabs, jot down a few notes, and look down their noses; when they wished to leave a particular hall, they would look round furtively, gather their coat-tails together, and sidle slimly or roll fatly to the door.

Some of these gentlemen, I heard, were very shady in their dealings with young and inexperienced artists. They plied a trade of gentle blackmail, kid-gloved blackmail, of course, but the kid gloves contained the claws of a hungry eagle. The following describes one of their pretty little customs.

214Hearing of the arrival in Berlin of a singer or pianist whose agent had been advertising the fact that his client would shortly give a series of three recitals, the critic would call upon him, express interest in his work, and ask to have the pleasure of hearing the artist sing or play. The artist, flattered and already sure of one good “notice” at least, would immediately accede; having done his best or worst, something like the following conversation would take place:—

Critic. Quite good. But that A-minor study of Chopin’s is, of course, rather hackneyed; you are not, I presume, including it in any of your programmes?

Artist (rather taken aback). I must confess I had intended doing so. But if you think....

Critic. I do. Most decidedly I do. There are in Berlin at least ten thousand people who play it; why should you be the ten thousand and first? Debussy, now. Why not Debussy? Or even Busoni. Busoni can write, you know.

Artist (eagerly). Yes, yes; I’m playing some Debussy: Les Poissons d’Or and Clair de Lune.

Critic. Clair de Lune is a little vieux jeu, don’t you think? However, play it. Play it now, I mean.

The artist, half angry, but tremulously anxious to please, does as he is told.

Critic. Oh yes; you have talent. I think, yes, I rather think I shall be able to praise you in my paper. However, we shall see. But there is something, just a little of something, lacking in your style. Your rhythm is not sufficiently fluid. It should, if I may say so, sway more. And your use of tempo rubato.... Well, now, I could show you. You see, I have heard Debussy himself play that, and I know pre-cise-ly how it should go.

Artist (absolutely staggered). Oh ... er ... yes. Quite.

Critic (having allowed time for his remarks to sink in). 215Now what would you say if I were to suggest that I give you a few lessons—say a couple. I would charge you a guinea and a half each: lessons of half-an-hour, you know.

Artist (looking wildly round). If you were to suggest such a thing—of course, you haven’t done so yet—but if you were to suggest it....

Critic (with most un-German suavity). Of course, when I said “lessons,” I used entirely the wrong word. What I meant was hints and suggestions. Mere indications. A passing on of a tradition—passing it on, you understand, from Debussy to yourself. Not everyone, I need scarcely say, has heard Debussy play. If you were to play Debussy as I know he should be played, you would be one of the first to do so in Berlin, and I in my paper should record the fact.

Artist. I see. Yes, I do see. I think that perhaps you are right. You believe I could—I am rather at a loss for a word—you believe I could, shall we say “absorb,” the tradition in a couple of lessons?

Critic. I don’t see why you shouldn’t, though, of course, I may decide—I mean, we may agree—that a third lesson is necessary. Shall we have our first lesson now?

Artist (now quite at his ease, slyly). Lesson? You mean my first “hint,” “suggestion,” “indication.” Right-o.... Let’s get along with it.

They are friends: they understand each other. Within twenty-four hours three guineas pass from the pocket of the artist to the pocket of the critic, and, in due time, half-a-dozen lines of praise, golden-guinea praise, appear in the critic’s paper.

After all, how simple, how friendly, how altogether right and jovial!

You may think the artist a fool to pay so much for so little, but, really, you are quite wrong. It isn’t “so 216little.” It is a good deal. Those half-dozen lines, in the old pre-war days, would help to secure valuable engagements not only in New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, and the scores of large towns that lie in between, but also in London, Manchester, Bradford, Leeds; in Paris, Lyons, Rouen, Marseilles, Bordeaux, Brussels, Ghent, Antwerp. But not in Germany. Germany knows better. Not in Mannheim, Cologne, Hanover, Dresden. The secrets of Berlin were known in all the cities and towns of Germany some years before the war, and the playful little habits of the critics of that most wonderful city were looked at askance ... were looked at askance ... were looked at askance and imitated. And the imitators had for their secret motto: Honi soit.
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A beastly city was Berlin. And yet not all of Berlin was beastly. But the artistic, the musical, part of it was “low, very low,” as Chawnley Montague said, on an historic occasion, of the slums of Sierra Leone.

But Karl Klindworth had nothing of beastliness in him. In writing about Klindworth I shall, I am convinced, feel rather old, and you, when reading about him, will, I greatly fear, also feel rather old. You see Klindworth belongs so awfully to the past. Yet he was a very great man in his day, and there must be still in London many people who knew him in those silly, savage days when stupid people (and they were brutally stupid) thought of Wagner what brutally stupid people think to-day of Richard Strauss.

Klindworth was not only a disciple of Wagner’s but he was also one of Wagner’s prophets: a forerunner. A great pianist, also: a great conductor: a great man. Frederick Dawson, one of the most generous-hearted of men, took me to Klindworth’s, and said some jolly, flattering things about me to the great musician. Klindworth was very old, about eighty years, and, when he 217spoke, it was like listening to the voice of a man who had just got beyond the grave and was not unhappy there.

I egged him on to speak of Wagner.

“What can I say?” he mused. “Nothing. Wagner was from God.”

His large eyes, two great ponds of colour in a face not white but stained with ivory, smouldered and suddenly burst into flame. His hands, always trembling a little, now shook rather violently. I could not help feeling, as I gazed upon this old man, that Wagner lived in him as strongly as he lives in the mighty scores of Die Meistersinger and Tristan und Isolde.

We sat silent. Frau Klindworth, an Englishwoman speaking English most charmingly with a foreign accent, folded her hands and gave a little sigh. Dawson shot me a significant look which meant: “Keep quiet; if you do, he will begin to talk.”

And for a little while he did. Without a gesture, without a movement, Klindworth, looking with unfocussed eyes into space, began to talk. (He spoke in English, for he knew that I knew very little German.)

“No one,” said he, “who was a gentleman, I mean no one who had ordinary feelings of chivalry, could meet Wagner without feeling that he was in the presence of one of the Kings of our world. Certain people, both in England and Germany, have written stupid things of him; they have pointed fingers at his faults, banged their fists upon his sins. I hate those people. Faults and sins? Who has not faults? Who has not committed sins? You English have a word ‘uncanny.’ Or is it you Scottish people? Wagner was uncanny. He dived into things. Yes, he dived. And every time he lost his body in the blue sea, he brought back a pearl. A pearl? No: pearls have no mystery. He brought back, each time, a hitherto undiscovered gem.... ‘Gem’! 218What silly sounds you have in English.... Jem.... Djem!”

His old mind, outworn and very weary, appeared to cease its functioning. He sat with no sign of life in him. It was as though a clock had stopped, as though a light had gone out. And then, without any apparent cause, he came to life again.

“Let us go to the piano,” he said, rising.

So we left the little room in which we were sitting and moved to the large music-room at the far end of which was a grand piano. Frau Klindworth, Dawson and I sat in the semi-darkness near the door; Klindworth’s tall but rather shrunken figure moved down the room to the little light that hung above the keyboard. He played some almost unknown pieces of Liszt, interpreting them in a style at once noble and half-ruined. The excitement of playing seemed to increase rather than add strength to his physical weakness, and many wrong notes were struck.

It was very pathetic to see this old man trying to revive the fires within him, trying and failing; and I felt that if, by some miraculous effort, he had succeeded, if the ashes of long-spent fires had indeed broken into hot flame, his frail body would have been consumed.

He gave me his photograph and wrote on the back some message, and when I left him I thought I should never see him again. But, a few days later, I saw him in the front row of one of Frederick Dawson’s recitals, and I occasionally heard from him a deep-noted “Bravo!” as Dawson electrified us with one of his stupendous performances.

Klindworth lingered on for some years later and, when I was in Macedonia last year, I saw in some newspaper a few lines recording his death. In the seventies he was a great figure in London, and Wagner-worshippers of those days worshipped Klindworth also, not only for his genius, but 219also for his loyalty, his noble-mindedness, his devotion to his art.
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