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A town of character bequeathes a rich heritage to its children.pre-1914 I was born in Mannheim, a town which since the reign of art-loving Elector Karl Theodor had endowed its citizens with a love of music and of drama, and had established a great cultural tradition which persisted through the years. The young Goethe admired its collections of art and literature; Mozart’s visit to Mannheim was a milestone in his artistic development. Charles Burney, Dr. Johnson’s friend, wrote in praise of Mannheim’s Electoral band in 1773: “... Indeed, there are more solo players and good composers in this, than perhaps any other orchestra in Europe; it is an army of generals, equally fit to plan a battle, as to fight it.” Lessing very nearly became director of Mannheim’s theater, and the beginnings of Richard Wagner’s career were influenced by his friend and early enthusiast, Emil Heckel, a citizen of Mannheim, founder of the first Richard Wagner Society in June 1871.

Mannheim was my native town.

My mother descended from one of the venerable families which had made Mannheim its home for almost two hundred years. Both my paternal grandfather and my father, his junior partner, were well-known lawyers. My father, in addition, was extremely musical. Business was never mentioned at home, but his passionate love for music constantly invaded his office. The concert society that he founded was run from there, and he even kept a violin there to play at odd moments.

My father played the violin and viola extremely well, and was a respected connoisseur of string instruments whose judgment was consulted by people from all over Germany and even from abroad. He carried on a wide, fascinating correspondence about instruments. In 1900 the collector’s dream came true. He was offered the Vieuxtemps Stradivarius. When he consulted Joachim, the famous violinist, about the instrument, he received a post card saying, “This Antonio is not a cardboard saint!” That decided him. He bought the Vieuxtemps, so called because it had been owned by the famous virtuoso.

The violin was made in 1710 which is considered Stradivarius’ best period. It has always been in careful hands and is still in a fine state of preservation. The golden-orange color for which it is noted, and which most Strads of that time share, is reminiscent of the golden hue of Rembrandt’s best period. The late Alfred Hill, world renowned London connoisseur, considered it among the handsomest Stradivarii that exist.

The violin was the delight of my father’s life, and he hardly ever parted from it. After his death my mother and I kept the instrument, for we cherished it far beyond all the tempting offers that we got for it. When I had to leave Hitler Germany, the export of such instruments was not yet forbidden, so the Strad was tucked under my arm, a symbol of all I had loved and was forced to leave behind. Except for a brief period in 1936 when I was in America, I kept it with me, until I placed it in the care of the Messrs. Hill during the blitz. It was removed from the danger zone during the blitz to one mysterious place after another. “Don’t you worry,” said Mr. Hill, “your fiddle is in the most illustrious company.” The roster of other instruments removed to safety with my Vieuxtemps was indeed impressive, and for a while, by one of those strange coincidences of an emergency, the Vieuxtemps Guarnerius was sheltered with the Stradivarius with which it had formerly alternated.

After my father had acquired his Stradivarius, his collecting zeal abated. He always kept a floating population of instruments in the house, however, at least enough for a quartet; and once a week during his entire life, his own quartet which he had organized gathered to play at our house. Nor was his enthusiasm for chamber music satisfied with those superlative amateur evenings of music. In those days, innumerable concert societies flourished all over Germany, supported, for the most part, by music-loving amateurs, many of whom were competent musicians themselves. With a few others, my father had guaranteed the money to found a concert society which, in the course of its four annual winter concerts, engaged all the famous quartets.

Concert days of “our concert society” were always exciting. The artists were often our guests, so the rehearsals were almost always held at our house, and after the concert we invariably entertained the musicians and a group of friends.

The life of the family was inextricably bound up with music. We were constantly entertaining famous musicians. We loved and respected the works of the great masters, but at the same time were keenly aware of the newest aspects of that brilliant era of German musical development. When Brahms’ works, particularly in chamber music, became more widely known, a big Brahms community sprang up in Mannheim. My family knew him personally and supported him ardently from the beginning, but their inherent devotion was to music, not to individuals, and for that reason they were able to accept Wagner too. Controversy raged about the work of the two men, but my family listened to them both with enjoyment.

Mother loved to illustrate the degree of that controversy with an account of her visit to Karlsruhe to hear Felix Mottl conduct the first local performance of Brahms’ Third Symphony which had had its premiere under Hans Richter in Vienna in December 1883. Mottl was frankly a Bayreuth man, a champion of Wagner, which in those days logically implied a sworn enemy of Brahms. After the Karlsruhe performance of the Third Symphony, Mottl burst into the artist’s room quite out of breath, exclaiming, “Thank God! We made short work of that!” He had falsified Brahms’ tempi to spoil the effect of the symphony.

Even Brahms himself was not a good interpreter of his work. When he played his concerto in B flat in the historic Rokokosaal of the Mannheim Theater, his clumsy fingers often hit the wrong notes, but in spite of it, the concert left a deep impression on the audience.

Mother went to Bayreuth, too. In 1889, when she was seventeen, she made the long, tiring journey to a Bayreuth far different from the one I was to know later. That year, royalty, musicians and people from all over the world flocked to hear Felix Mottl conduct Tristan with Alvary and Rosa Sucher, Hans Richter conduct Die Meistersinger and Hermann Levi, Parsifal with the incomparable Van Dyck in the title role and Amalie Materna and Therese Malten alternating as Kundry. And afterward they congregated in the restaurant to give further acclaim to the singers as they entered.

My childhood was full of such stories, people and the music that was behind them. As I quietly sat and listened to my father and his friends playing quartets, I got to know a great deal of chamber music by heart, and one of my greatest delights was to sit with him at the Society concerts, following his score with him while he pointed out the passages he loved and told me how they should sound. I became so involved in his correspondence about instruments, that I gained a considerable knowledge of the subject. I can never be grateful enough for that heritage. It makes a person strong in himself, gives him a kind of armor against all mishap, something which no circumstances can ever take away.

There was a perfect companionship between my father and myself. He would have preferred that I stuck to music as I grew up, and was not really in favor of a university career for me. But he was as responsible for my love of philosophy as for my love of music, and when I was 18 I overcame his protests and entered Heidelberg.

Heidelberg in 1910 was a wonderful place for a young and ardent student. The great scholars teaching there inspired a feeling of rapt discipleship, and the romantic surroundings of the old university town encouraged lasting friendships. I was the only woman at the University majoring in philosophy, and at father’s insistence concentrated first on the Greek. From the beginning, my family was concerned lest I neglect my violin, and lose my interest in the outside world in my concentration on philosophy and everything concerned with it. At first father simply selected my courses with care, but when I seemed to be growing overstudious, he interrupted my studies and sent me to England.

I adored England from the first. As a paying guest in a family in Harrow, I explored the world. I learned for the first time what it meant to live in a really free country, and my months of contact with unself-conscious Englishmen helped me overcome much of my shyness and quick embarrassment. I visited museums in London, waited in the pit queues of the theaters, saw all the Shakespeare I could, and for the first time in my life saw a ballet And what a ballet! The Pavlova Season at the Palace Theatre—the season during which Pavlova slapped her partner Mordkin’s face when he dropped her during Glazunof’s Bachanale, the climax, I learned years later, of jealousies because a woman mad about Mordkin had called for him after every number to Pavlova’s great irritation. Little did I think as I sat there, thrilled by that new world, that I would be working for the man who was to bring the Russian Ballet to England and be largely responsible for making London ballet conscious.

When I returned to the University, my time was divided between my studies and music. Then came the war. Mother was soon busy in one of the military hospitals, and I worked in an emergency hospital at the huge Heinrich Lanz plant. The ranks of Heidelberg were depleted, and since I could not go often, I confined myself to a private course at the home of my venerable teacher, Wilhelm Windelband, who read Kant’s Prolegomena and The Critique of Pure Reason with his eight students.

During those four war years, cultural and artistic life was kept up in Germany. Those really indispensable for the maintainance of cultural life, of opera, drama and concerts, were exempt from full-time war work. People met frequently for simple pleasures. An opera or a good play seemed even more enjoyable than in normal times. At home we played more chamber music than ever. Whether the news was good or bad, life was always stimulating.