My Young Years by Arthur Rubinstein

Author:Arthur Rubinstein [Rubinstein, Arthur]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

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Why did I choose Berlin, of all places? I have tried in vain to find a logical answer to this question. My departure from Warsaw, which was in a way morally forced on me, left me in a complete vacuum. One thing I knew for certain: It was impossible for me to return to Paris. Monsieur Astruc had no plans, no concert engagements to offer me. He was frankly disappointed in me and discouraged by my manque de serieux, as he called it, and by my nonchalance toward my career. My Polish successes never reached him or the Parisian press. On the other hand, the idea of staying in Weisweiller’s disgusting little flat and making a living on his lessons presented a very poor alternative, not to speak of the nightmare of my still unpaid debts. As to hopes for more of the soirees musicales which had been so profitable the spring before, I was well aware that my Salomé performances had become dated and that the moment had come to prove myself in some major public appearance.

Only when I arrived in Berlin at the old, familiar Friedrichstrasse station, on that cold and windy morning, did I realize that my decision to stay in this city was nothing but a cowardly compromise. The rest of the money I had earned in Poland could last two or three months, depending on my way of living. I rented at a monthly rate a nice room with a bathroom at the Hotel Bellevue, a not very expensive but quite distinguished residence at the central Potsdamer Platz. Mr. Metzger, the owner and director of the hotel, loved music, and did not object to my having a piano in my room. The house of Bechstein, the famous piano makers, sent me a baby grand without charge.

I was determined to remain incognito and to try to avoid meeting or visiting any of the old friends whom I had left so abruptly in 1904, especially the ones I liked best. Why I felt that way is difficult to explain. If I remember well, I went through a crisis, a sort of an inferiority complex, made up of a mixture of shyness and ambition. My career seemed to have reached a dead point, and I had no valid reason to offer for my presence in Berlin.

The only person I wanted to see was Emmy Destinn. She would not be interested in asking why I was in Berlin; she would simply take it for granted. I called her up and was touched hearing the familiar warm timbre of her voice: “How lovely to know you’re in town! Come right away to dinner — I want you to meet a friend of mine, and tomorrow you must see me in Carmen. It is a gala at the Opera, and Emperor Wilhelm will be present. I shall have a ticket for you.”

The prospect of seeing and hearing her again was the best medicine for my melancholic state of mind. When I

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