Impressions of Ferruccio Busoni

Abstract

WITHIN the compass of this short lecture to mark the centenary of the birth of my master Ferruccio Busoni, it is certainly not my intention to present an all-embracing picture, or to delve through many levels of analysis, still less to evaluate his multiple personality, or to introduce him as composer, pianist, poet, and thinker. What I want to do is to give you some impressions of Busoni as I saw him through the eyes of a pupil who was in personal contact with him. I got to know Busoni in 1921 when he returned to Berlin after World War I, part of which he had spent in Switzerland, and took up residence again in his beautiful apartment in the Viktoria-Louisenplatz. I registered with him as a pupil in his master course for composition at what was then the Academy of Fine Arts. My first impression of Busoni was slightly unnerving and ambivalent. What struck me were the vitality of his mind, its clarity and power, and its bubbling wit; the universality of his culture, his frenzied laughter that burst out like gunfire, and a malicious tongue, which often hid a goodness of heart that was not always appreciated by everybody. Busoni once said: mustn't think that people are all of a kindly disposition at heart. We Italians, for instance, certainly aren't, and if anyone is 'unkind' to us, we think it perfectly natural. One can either laugh or be angry.... So we never quite trust anybody to begin with. And then-probably alluding to my Russian ancestry-he said: The Russians, on the other hand, are basically people of kindly disposition, frank and open-hearted. But once anyone takes advantage of their openness, they are mistrustful towards one for ever after and close up like clams. As I had imagined Busoni to be in the prime of life--he was in his middle fifties at the time-I was much struck by his appearance. His features already wore the indelible stamp of advanced age. I saw and felt it and the fact did not escape Busoni. And thus we stood in silence, sharing what was fated, what was inevitable, in silence. Probably that was the start of that unvoiced sense of mutual closeness which bound me to Busoni from the