Vienna (Second Period)

At first, we had trouble finding a place to live. Despite the 6,000 florins I had sent from Holland, my husband had not succeeded in buying a house. So we had to content ourselves with living as subtenants for an entire year on the Wilhelminenberg , until it became possible to find a better apartment in a villa on the Geroldgasse in Neuwaldegg . There was a wonderfully large garden there, but by then the great inflation had come, and all that money sufficed only for double windows, stoves, and a dumbwaiter. Still, we were happy to be together again and already looked forward to receiving our own furniture, which had remained in Hermannstadt . My husband set out on an adventurous journey to fetch it — everything there was still in chaos after the war — and he considered himself fortunate to obtain a wagon with which he was on the road for about a week.

Now I set about rebuilding my musical life and began by organizing an orchestral concert in the Great Hall of the Musikverein . On the program were my beloved Symphonie Espagnole , then an Irish Fairy Tale for Violin Solo and Orchestra (composed by me), and finally the Violin Concerto by Max Reger , which had not yet been performed in full in Vienna — only the slow movement once by Adolf Busch . It is a colossal concerto, lasting 70 minutes and very difficult, yet magnificent, especially the slow movement, which brims with beauty. That I succeeded in holding the audience’s attention until the very end, I credit both myself and the conductor Anton Konrath . But it certainly required courage.

My children were still too young to attend the concert, but they were allowed to come to the rehearsal. Prof. Konrath was very kind to them afterward; he sat my six‑year‑old son on his knee and let him hear various instruments demonstrated — the harp, trombone, and others — which impressed and pleased him visibly. The concert was well attended, and the proceeds went to a children’s home in Hütteldorf.

After this successful re‑entry, it was easy for me to become part of Viennese musical life again. I met Schönberg and his circle, and I became a member of the newly founded Schönberg Society . Regular concerts were held there featuring the most recent compositions by Schönberg, his students, and followers. The concerts were always an event, and when something particularly delicate or atonal was played — usually conducted by Schönberg himself — he would turn to the audience and say: “Well, now we shall play it again.” And the listeners had to endure it willingly or otherwise.

I had offered myself to participate, but at first could not, because the left‑handed violinist Kolisch claimed the exclusive right for himself. Until Schönberg spoke a decisive word and gave me the assignment to study the great Sonata by Busoni with the variations on a chorale by Bach. According to the custom of the Society, each work had to receive at least nine rehearsals, each under the supervision of a different musician chosen by Schönberg. Thus the pianist and I went from Dr. Benno Sachs to Alban Berg , Erwin Stein , and others. Each had his own opinion about the interpretation. I listened to all of them with interest, but in the end I followed my own instinct.

The final rehearsal took place at Schönberg’s home in Mödling , where he again wanted everything different. At the public performance, however, I presented the beautiful, large‑scale work as I envisioned it, and both Schönberg and the audience nodded approvingly.

In this period, I became acquainted with the pianist Berta Jahn‑Beer , a superb Beethoven interpreter, with whom I performed all the Beethoven Violin Sonatas in three public evenings. This brought me immense joy and satisfaction, crowned by great success.

Otherwise, I devoted myself almost entirely to modern music, for I wished to become familiar with it, as everything new interested me.

Through a Hungarian friend, I obtained the manuscript of Bartók’s Violin Sonata , and I decided to present its first performance in Vienna — naturally with Bartók’s permission. The brilliant pianist Eduard Steuermann agreed to play the piano part. We needed three weeks for this extremely difficult work, sometimes unsure whether anything would come of it, and not knowing how an audience would respond, for it was very atonal and demanded much from the listener. But already in the first movement, I felt that the large audience was following attentively; the beginning of the second movement — where the violin plays a slow, solitary melody without accompaniment — fully established the connection; and the final movement, with its fiery rhythms into which we poured all our temperament, aroused exuberant enthusiasm. The reviews were very good, and Bartók expressed his satisfaction in writing. One result was an invitation from the newly founded International Society for Chamber Music to perform with Bartók himself in Salzburg in the summer of 1922.

The rehearsals were to take place at my home in Neuwaldegg , and for this purpose Bartók came from Budapest and stayed with us. It was a remarkable and interesting week. Bartók was a gentle, quiet man who liked to sit in the garden to work. The rehearsals with him were extremely valuable to me, and his wise comments gave me much to reflect upon. Among other things, he said that the Polish composer Szymanowski had strongly influenced him, especially with his “ Trois Mythes ” for violin and piano, which I also greatly appreciated and had often performed publicly.

We then travelled together to Salzburg, where a large international audience had gathered. The programs contained many more‑or‑less interesting novelties — Bartók’s Sonata drew great interest — but for me the most enjoyable part were the cheerful evening gatherings at the inn, where Hindemith and Gieseking played a lively role and always lifted our spirits. A group photograph of the performers was also taken, though unfortunately Bartók is missing — he was nowhere to be found at that moment.

Back in Vienna and in everyday life again, a great deal of work awaited me.

During this time, the premiere of Schönberg’s “Pierrot Lunaire” took place, performed by a small ensemble and a speaking‑singing voice. It was well received by the audience — I personally could never quite warm to it — and it was performed several times. My cousin in Holland , Charles Boissevain , took an interest in it and invited Schönberg with the ensemble, at his expense, to come to Holland to present a performance in his home.

Since I did not participate in “Pierrot” , I was to play, as an introduction, a Violin Sonata by Reger together with Eduard Steuermann, so that I “would also be included.” It was a somewhat peculiar journey. The performance before an “exclusive” Dutch audience in the beautiful country house was successful, and Schönberg liked it so much there that he would gladly have stayed longer. But my cousin’s wife — who was not particularly enthusiastic about music — declined, and thus Schönberg was offended, and the farewell was not a warm one, much to my cousin’s regret.

Regarding my sold Stradivarius, I should add that after the First World War I managed to trace the new owner in the U.S.A. , with the help of another cousin — a brother of Charles — who lived there and was married to the well‑known poet Edna St. Vincent Millay . I received at least part of the remaining sum, allowing me to purchase a beautiful Fernando Gagliano violin here in Vienna .

Shortly after my return to Vienna, I met an unusual and interesting man: Karl Fisselthaler . One could not call him a violin maker, for he did not build violins himself, but either had them built according to his instructions or bought very inexpensive violins which he then made “come alive.” His aim was always that they should sound just as fine as the best Stradivarius. For years he worked at this, and he truly came ever closer to solving the problem. I became deeply interested and was willing to test the violins he “treated” and evaluate their tonal qualities. Later there was even a public demonstration at which the audience was to guess which instrument was the genuine Stradivarius. It was genuinely difficult — one could hardly tell the difference.

Fisselthaler himself was not yet satisfied and continued to work tirelessly.

Naturally, he incurred the wrath of all the violin makers in Vienna. But the government had taken notice of him and even offered to establish an institute for his work. Fisselthaler felt, however, that he was not yet ready and continued our joint efforts instead.

What he did with the violins was his secret, and he never revealed it. I only knew that he adjusted the various parts of the violin to one another and treated the top plate in a special way until the tone satisfied us both. He always brought me his finest work — until one day he presented me with such a beautifully sounding violin that I was allowed to keep it, and it became the instrument I played publicly from then on. I used to say that it played by itself, it responded so easily and was so effortless to handle.

When the time of the National Socialists came, they wanted to elevate his work and establish an institute for him in Berlin . But he declined, saying he could not perform his work without the Vienna Woods. After the Second World War, the Russians sent four men by airplane to bring him to Moscow , but he resisted vehemently, saying he had a heart condition and could not survive the journey. They then left him here. A few years later, he died — and with him his secret, which he had shared with no one.