| "Some Personal Tributes. By Albert Steinberg (excerpts)," (New York, 1899) "Some Personal Tributes. By Albert Steinberg (excerpts)," in Anton Seidl. A Memorial by His Friends (New York, 1899), pp. 104-11. SEIDL THE MAN On an early winter afternoon, about fifteen years ago, there stood near the dingy railway station in Bayreuth a slender, smooth-faced man--he looked scarcely more than a boy then-- who could not conceal his grief as did the older people who endeavored to console him. First a man with a reddish beard and huge spectacles approached him and spoke a few kind words. This was Hans Richter, and every one, even the foreigners, instantly recognized the High Priest of Wagnerian Art. The couple were presently joined by a veritable giant of a man, who had in his pale blue eyes the dreamy and yet the penetrating glance of a prophet. "Albert Niemann," whispered the crowd of mourners, for Richard Wagner's body was expected from Venice, and the little town of Bayreuth was draped from end to end in mourning and the lanterns were flickering feebly, it being a dark, bleak and miserable day. The little group referred to grew larger every minute. Levi, Piglhein, Lenbach, Reichmann and a host of other notabilities appeared upon the scene. They all spoke in hushed tones and the young man seemed never to hear a word. Who was he that he should grieve so much more than the others? An artist without a doubt. His sensitive features and the shock of hair that flew wildly about his face would have told you as much the moment you set eyes on him. A MAN TO KNOW But was he also near of kin to the dead man that he should be so utterly unnerved? The writer of these lines addressed himself to the Count Schukowski, the master of ceremonies on that lamentable day, and was told that the disconsolate young man was "no other than Anton Seidl. He had at one time been Wagner's private secretary, and had triumphantly taken Angelo Neumann's 'Wagner-Theatre,' not alone through Germany, but also through Italy. The master always had a great affection for Seidl," the Count continued, "had taken the warmest interest in his career; he feels, of course, as if he had lost his dearest friend. You should know him, for he is a man of great, personal charm and surely a remarkable artist, for you know that Richard Wagner never had the least patience with any one who wasn't." Little did I think that the man who interested me so much then was destined to spend nearly the remainder of his days in America. For in the fall of '85 I was suddenly accosted on the street by a friend, who, before I knew it, presented me to Anton Seidl. I told him that it wasn't our first meeting, and when I recalled to him the incidents of that mournful day in Bayreuth he instantly grasped me by the hand as if I were indeed an old friend. He spoke sadly and reminiscently of the first meeting, but when I said: "Now, really, Kapellmeister, what did you think of the funeral march from Gotterdammerung as it was played by the Bayreuth town band at Wagner's funeral?" he burst into uncontrollable laughter, for his sense of musical humor was of the keenest. "LOHENGRIN" REVEALED ANEW A few weeks after this encounter Seidl conducted for the first time in New York, Lohengrin being the opera. We all thought we knew that opera perfectly well, and yet it sounded so differently that many of us were greatly puzzled. Not alone were the climaxes built up in a strange manner, the melos brought out in a more plastic fashion, and a hundred lovely poetic details supplied that were formerly missing, but the opera, as I have already observed, sounded differently. Being asked why this was so, Mr. Seidl smiled and even winked, but refused to give any further explanation. For my own part, I think that Mr. Seidl may have had the same experience with Lohengrin in New York that Hans Richter had in London. When the latter rehearsed the opera the first time in the English capital it suddenly leaked out that the parts contained no less than one hundred and eighty-six errors, and that it had been given in this way, mistakes and all, for something like a quarter of a century. Let that be as it may, Anton Seidl was acclaimed a musician of the highest type the moment he made himself heard here. And his success grew apace. With every new interpretation the number of his adherents became larger, their admiration more fervent. AN "AMERICAMANIAC" Wherefore Mr. Seidl determined forthwith to settle down here with his wife--who, as Auguste Kraus, was known as one of the brightest ornaments of the German Opera Company-- and to become an American citizen. In those days he was afflicted with "Americamania" in its acutest form. Everything appealed to him--our democratic ways, our enthusiasm for the works of Wagner, our mixed drinks, our Welsh rarebits, our American clubs, our American scenery. He lived for a while with his wife in West Thirty-eighth street, but decamped quickly for reasons that had better not be told, though a French maker of farces would embrace you for telling him these reasons. Resolving never to be taken in again, Anton Seidl and his wife took up their quarters for a while in the apartments of the Metropolitan Opera House, but it was not until they took a house of their own that even their intimate friends had the slightest notion of the couple's charming domestic attributes or never was there a house in which you met with such boundless hospitality, with such truly interesting people . . . . EARLY FRIENDS IN AMERICA In the early days of his American life Mr. Seidl had only a few friends who saw much of him. He cared but little for society and he did not acquire the English language as easily as did his wife. The circle then consisted of Mr. Edgar J. Levey, now assistant Deputy Controller, who was so brimful of musical enthusiasm that he even studied German to make himself intelligible; of Mr. Oscar B. Weber, of Niemann, the most commanding figure of the German operatic stage, and several others. Wagner's music was not as familiar then as it is nowadays, and nothing gave Anton Seidl greater joy than to sit down at the piano and unfold to his friends the beauties of Wagner's scores. He had little or no technique from a virtuoso's point of view. And yet he played the instrument in a manner that was unique. His touch was so beautiful that the piano seemed to sing, and he could play in a manner that was truly orchestral. THE MUSIC HE LOVED The music of Wagner was, of course, his religion, but he loved Bach passionately. If ever you took him in his study un- awares you found him pondering over a prelude or a sonata of the pious old cantor. Latterly he was wrapped up in Tschaikovsky, too, and these three masters--Bach, Wagner, and Tschaikovsky--he revered more, I think, than any other composers. They appealed more strongly to his temperament; but it must not be thought for that reason that he was not in sympathy with other things he undertook, for he was a firm believer in the old saw that what is worth doing at all is worth doing well, and nothing could have been more unjust than the charges which were frequently brought that Mr. Seidl slighted all music that was not Wagnerian. These rumors frequently prejudiced people against him, especially distinguished singers and pianists. Yet when Mr. Seidl unexpectedly led Faust one evening Jean de Reszke, who had never sung this opera under him before, remarked to me: "I was never so surprised in my life, for I never sang with so much ease and assurance before. The man seemed to anticipate everything I did, and accompanied me as if we had studied the part together for years." Similarly did Mr. Joseffy express himself to me when he first played to Seidl's accompaniment one of the Tschaikovsky concertos in Philadelphia some years since. "Seidl can conduct anything--when he wants to," was the virtuoso's verdict . . . . |