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[The following is from a booklet entitled, “Recollections of Wilhelm Furtwängler: Time in Lübeck 1911-1915.” The name “L. Dieckmann” is handwritten on the cover, and in the lower right-hand corner is a typed note, “From Letters to my Mother.” The booklet consists of 62 bound xeroxed or mimeographed pages, 17 cm x 21.5 cm, each numbered and typewritten on one side. A copy was given by Frau Elisabeth Furtwängler to WFSA member Hanni Raillard, who has translated it from German into English. In a dedication on the last page, Frau Elisabeth wrote, “About the young Furtwängler, and yet already the same.”]
January 1915.
Our entire being is still borne by the incomparable, heightened impression of the evening before: Furtwängler — Eroica! A heavenly gift of grace, to have experienced this! The most grand and powerful that one could ever hear!
How often have I already heard the Eroica. I was -introduced to it by Schuh — Weingartner unlocked it for me — Nikisch excited me — Furtwängler, he shook us through and through. He is a giant, who has freshly re-created this work.
With an insufficient, severely reduced ensemble, his genius has outshone all the brilliant achievements of -first class orchestras. He is the greatest conductor of Beethoven alive — perhaps the greatest who has ever lived. The Eroica, in any event, can never have been played more monumentally, more grippingly.
February 1915.
With Furtwängler’s production, the Theater gave a brilliant impression; “one” made an appearance, in grand toilette, the War notwithstanding. Furtwängler’s conception of the “Fidelio” was ideal, of a beauty and sanctity aglow with compassion and holiness. What he’d fashioned out of the choirs and elicited from the soloists was astounding.
Furtwängler had struck out all the cheery and -unnecessary portions from the dialog — indeed even from the music. (Rocco’s aria, “Doesn’t one also have money -besides,” [Hat man nicht auch Geld daneben] fell away.) Thus was any numerical rigidity avoided, and a wonderful purity of the work was achieved. The introduction to the quartet, and the most subtle correlation of the singer’s voices under his direction, they were a singular accomplishment. Unforgettable for as long as one lives: the adagio-bars, “After the overwhelming sorrow” [Nach uebergrossem Leide] in the jubilant duet, “O nameless joy” [O namenlose Freude] — Furtwängler leaned far back with eyes closed — forcing the orchestra and singers into the most internalized reinterpretation — and in his movement, his hands, in his noble features lay all the sorrow suffered, the agonies -endured.
Since the poorest, with his weekly 4-pound war-bread never has enough, I had sent him my weekly ration covered with flowers and the notes “Here, take this bread, you poor man.” [from “Fidelio”: Da nimm das Brot, Du armer Mann]
The whole audience remained seated at the end of the performance, and the curtain must have risen ten times with the ever-increasing applause until Furtwängler finally appeared — i.e., was “dragged in.” But even then, he just barely emerged from the wing and paid no attention whatsoever to the flowers and packages presented to him.
By the way, we heard through Szanto a splendid story that happened during the stage-rehearsal: the tenor who was to sing the First Prisoner declared in a haughty voice, “I sing this only in the dress-rehearsal. After all, this whole thing is just a favor I’m doing.” Szanto sees how Furtwängler turns green and white — in the next moment he hurls his baton at the upstart and roars: “Hold your shameless tongue, you moron!” Then a leap over the stands and the kettledrum and onto the stage, to beat him up. Szanto and three other musicians on Furtwängler’s coattails, wrestling with him in an attempt to forestall the catastrophe, that fortunately succeeds. “It’s dangerous to wake the Lion.”
March 1915.
Now Fate has dealt us a blow — Furtwängler is -leaving us and going to Mannheim.
A delegation from the theater there sat in the Fidelio and immediately engaged him, without a trial guest--performance as is usually required, offering the most attractive artistic benefits. Top-ranked figures had, -moreover, applied for this position, who are far more -renowned in the music-world than our tall blond one.
April 1915.
Yesterday was the last symphony concert — Brahms’s C-Minor — Beethoven’s Eighth. Heavenly — but so sad — I had to pull myself together so as not to bawl out loud when it ended. Many people had tears in their eyes; Frau Boy-Ed was undone.
It’s an entire life-chapter that we have lived with this wonderful artist and which now irretrievably comes to an end.
While he stood up there — showered with laurels and red roses — the small Szanto, deathly pale with painful agitation, presented him with a wreath from the ensemble that would allow itself to be poured out for him. The overfilled hall erupted in endless applause — the orchestra played a rousing fanfare — it was so sad and moving. I couldn’t bring myself to utter a sound. It was exactly the same with Reino and Schlodtmann, and we silently pressed one another’s hands, full of sympathy and understanding.
Frau Boy-Ed is so right: we who were close to him are really losing a piece of our lives with Furtwängler’s departure. As little as one saw of him, as little as he needed us — he gave us so much to ponder, to cherish, to enjoy. Therefore he became a part of us, to a far greater degree than the actual friendship alone could account for.
April 1915.
This afternoon Furtwängler visited me still once more all by himself — very punctual and so kind.
His position at Mannheim is fabulous — he is a king in charge of everything, like Schuh in Dresden. He himself declared right away that he would conduct only two Mozart, one Gluck, Fidelio, Meistersinger, Tristan, Ring and Parsifal. And what kind of performances these will be! -Nothing but festival-presentations, which is surely what he has in mind.
We let all the riches of the last four years parade past us once again, the serene and the most exalted.
“What I actually liked best was conducting the -popular-music concerts; there I could dream up experiments, make different attempts, and try out effects without any great responsibilities. It was so carefree and very -educational besides.” Oh yes, the popular-music concerts — when his pinscher, Lord, showed up utterly unfazed -during the music and navigated straight across the hall to his beloved master — we remembered him, too.
Upon leaving, Furtwängler said the hours up here with me had actually been the loveliest he’d spent in Lübeck, and the only regrettable thing was that during the two final years they had become much too infrequent.
Although I suspect that the big bowl of whipped cream and the nut-torte had put him in an especially friendly mood — a milligram of that perhaps is still genuine, since he mentioned the same to Szanto. Insofar as he takes an interest in people, he’ll always keep a place for us in his heart — this I believe. And wherever in life one happens to meet him, one can’t expect anything from him because he’s always preoccupied with something else — but from his Art endless blessings will always stream forth.
April 1915.
Yesterday, we had the farewell-evening for Furtwängler at our house.
Since the last symphony concert, our hearts — by which I also refer above all to Schlodtmann’s and Szanto’s — are tuned only to just one note. A beautiful melancholy idyll in this time of raging war.
Yesterday we were very close, just six of us — which is always the most beautiful. In keeping with the solemnness of the evening, formal gowns and smoking-jackets were called for. Furtwängler, however, arrived after a long walk in the woods with dusty boots and a light gray suit — 3/4 hours late — true to himself until the very end.
The table was strewn with Keys-to-Heaven [Himmelsschluessel — wild yellow primroses] as if to say, “How often he unlocked Heaven for us.” There was an -extensive menu of mouth-watering items such as Furtwängler loves — above all a selection of sweet dishes which garnered me his especial praise. On the written menu could be read, “‘Furtwängler-Dish’ — unfathomable — -unattainable — inimitable — one of a kind.”
Schlodtmann gave the toast at our request, and this speech was so deep and exhaustive, so touching how he opened his innermost heart with its great love for Furtwängler — that when the glasses clinked together softly and solemnly there were tears in everyone’s eyes.
To briefly sketch what, with a stirring voice, he told us, I want to write you his train of thought. Alas, you won’t be able to hear how beautifully everything was said, what a treasury of quotations he wove into it. Since his speech was entirely extemporaneous — I had asked him only just -before the meal to speak on behalf of us all — I unfortunately cannot even obtain the text from him as a memento. He said something like what follows: He agreed to speak because that was our wish. Just recently at the official Society -function, after the unworthy, incomprehensible words of the Chairman, he had very much wanted to speak, but in that circle had withdrawn shuddering into himself. Here, -however, in the Dieckmann house, was the proper setting for it, because here he had spent the loveliest hours with Furtwängler; here Furtwängler, the man, had been entirely himself. Thereupon Schlodtmann moved on to some -especially memorable artistic achievements, both in the -concert-hall and here with us. But then he said that he didn’t want to speak of Furtwängler the artist, but the man. He’d loved him from the very first meeting and felt himself drawn to him as seldom to any person. This deep and understanding love had been steadily growing — this one-sided love, for such it was — as I recently put it and thereby summed the whole thing up, “He really didn’t need any of us.”
Wonderful quotations then followed, wherein -geniuses roam the heights and others look up to them. “No — he doesn’t need any of us” — and Schlodtmann’s voice trembled with love and resignation. But how is it then, that even though he roams so high in golden heights, so far -beyond our reach — we nevertheless are allowed to feel we were close to him? In the end it’s probably due to the fact that Furtwängler has much of the “holy fool” in him. With infinitely fine psychological speculation he elaborated -further upon this thought and ended his speech with an almost delicate warmth. This was so precisely what our hearts felt and worthy of the evening.
We sat at the table for a long time in the glow of the candlelight. Furtwängler talked at marvelous length about Beethoven and Bruckner — and about how, as an 11-year-old boy, he once had head-lice, 14 of them. On this topic he gladly lingered for quite some time. The reputation had then preceded him — he had lice! We all agreed that this may well have been his initial reputation. Now it is said in the musical press that his “shining reputation” precedes him. How fortunate that the little lice-reputation expired after the originators had been killed.
After this topic had been exhausted, we went upstairs and the music began. Band-leader Rosenstein, who worships Furtwängler and can go with him to Mannheim, turned the pages. We three listeners sat in the darkened ladies’ parlor and eagerly absorbed every sound and every movement. Over the present happiness hung a deep ache, “For the last time.”
First was played Brahms’ A-Major Sonata in -incomparable beauty — and the expression on Furtwängler’s face! If only one could capture this head from moment to moment in pictures. Then followed the Beethoven Concerto — a swan-song! Furtwängler sat like the holy Cecilia [patron saint of music] at the piano. Oh, the sanctified tones of this concert will now for us forevermore be associated with this evening, with this farewell — they gave the hour its true expression and sanctity.
April 1915.
And now came the last of all — to make use of Goethe-esque expressions — the popular-symphony concert.
When I entered the hall at 7:45, the historic apple already couldn’t get to the floor anymore, and still hundreds who were no longer able to gain admission stood in the street and now hoped to catch a few notes at least through the windows and walls.
I seated myself way over to the side, right next to the stage. The acoustics were good, and I had a wonderful new pleasure — I could look right into Furtwängler’s face.
The play of his facial expressions, reflecting each -increment of feeling from highest holiness to the cruelest imperialism, was indescribably beautiful. What a man! Fidelio’s line, “What goes on inside of me cannot be put into words,” came to my mind. Yes, what must go on inside of him, what swings must the world of his feelings encounter during one single evening! Szanto played the Beethoven Concerto aglow with an all-encompassing soulfulness. With it, he laid his entire being at Furtwängler’s feet. Later on he said, “As I played I kept looking at him and said to myself — I love you — I love you — I love you.”
During the last movement of the symphony, the -musicians counted the bars which they were still able to play under Furtwängler’s direction — still 50 — 30 — 20 — only 10 more — and then it was over forever.
The applause at the end was overwhelming — handkerchiefs waved, hands and feet labored, throats uttered their strongest sounds. And the adored blond youth stood up there and thanked us with an enigmatic smile. Finally, a person of the masculine persuasion jumped on a chair full of enthusiasm and gave a well-intentioned but extremely unpolished speech which Furtwängler, standing far back in the orchestra, listened to while intensely studying his boots.
Furtwängler’s inner response to the evening’s overwhelming offering of love was indeed very great; he was deeply moved, as indicated by an almost otherworldly smile that came to his expression. He never appeared to us more ideal, more unique, than in this hour; something like a halo shown around his blond hair. And now he stepped forward and spoke, and whenever I think about his “speech” I’m once again overcome with emotion. All he said, in a soft voice, was, “I just wanted to say that I thank you for your fellowship and that I won’t ever forget Lübeck.” And these few words — spoken like a child that’s fighting back tears — came drop by drop, trembling softly with inner emotion.
Frau Boy-Ed literally dissolved, along with many, many others.
At the rehearsal that morning, he also wanted to give a farewell speech to the orchestra. He began one sentence — with luck managed to move onto the second — then his gaze fell upon the already-opened score and, forgetting his speech altogether, he suddenly said, “So, at this point in e-flat major, the basses play fff.”
We still intended to bring this wistfully beautiful evening to a close together with Schlodtmann and Szanto. Furtwängler also had shared the same wish, but now, -however, was too exhausted.
When we were standing on the packed streetcar and just about to take off, he came out, cheered by an enthusiastic crowd. He ran up to us, warmly pressed our hands without saying a word — then he went on his way alone and with great strides disappeared in the darkness.
Yes, he is a loner — in spite of all the people that crowd around him, that applaud him, that love him — to whom he represents the highest artistic achievement. And a loner is what he has to be and will always remain — for his ways are different than ours — and his solitude is filled and -illuminated by the radiance of Divinity.
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