Liszt closed his career as a virtuoso, and accepted a permanent
engagement at Weimar, with the distinct purpose of becoming identified
with the new school of music which was beginning to express itself so
remarkably through Richard Wagner. His new position enabled him to bring
works before the world which would otherwise have had but little chance
of seeing the light of day, and he rapidly produced at brief intervals
eleven works, either for the first time, or else revived from what had
seemed a dead failure. Among these works were "Lohengrin," "Rienzi," and
"Tannhâuser" by Wagner, "Benvenuto Cellini" by Berlioz, and Schumann's
"Genoveva," and music to Byron's "Manfred." Liszt's new departure
and the extraordinary band of artists he drew around him attracted
the attention of the world of music, and Weimar became a great musical
center, even as in the days of Goethe it had been a visiting shrine for
the literary pilgrims of Europe. Thus a nucleus of bold and enthusiastic
musicians was formed whose mission it was to preach the gospel of the
new musical faith.
Richard Wagner says that, after the revolution of 1849, when he was
compelled to fly for his life, he was thoroughly disheartened as an
artist, and that all thought of musical creativeness was dead within
him. From this stagnation he was rescued by a friend, and that friend
was Franz Liszt. Let us tell the story in Wagner's own words:
"I met Liszt for the first time during my earliest stay in Paris, at
a period when I had renounced the hope, nay, even a wish of a Paris
reputation, and, indeed, was in a state of internal revolt against the
artistic life which I found there. At our meeting he struck me as the
most perfect contrast to my own being and situation. In this world into
which it had been my desire to fly from my narrow circumstances, Liszt
had grown up from his earliest age so as to be the object of general
love and admiration at a time when I was repulsed by general coldness
and want of sympathy. In consequence, I looked upon him with suspicion.
I had no opportunity of disclosing my being and working to him, and
therefore the reception I met with on his part was of a superficial
kind, as was indeed natural in a man to whom every day the most
divergent impressions claimed access. But I was not in a mood to look
with unprejudiced eyes for the natural cause of this behavior, which,
though friendly and obliging in itself, could not but wound me in the
then state of my mind. I never repeated my first call on Liszt, and,
without knowing or even wishing to know him, I was prone to look on
him as strange and adverse to my nature. My repeated expression of this
feeling was afterward told to him, just at the time when my "Rienzi"
at Dresden was attracting general attention. He was surprised to find
himself misunderstood with such violence by a man whom he had scarcely
known, and whose acquaintance now seemed not without value to him. I am
still moved when I think of the repeated and eager attempts he made to
change my opinion of him, even before he knew any of my works. He acted
not from any artistic sympathy, but led by the purely human wish of
discontinuing a casual disharmony between himself and another being;
perhaps he also felt an infinitely tender misgiving of having really
hurt me unconsciously. He who knows the selfishness and terrible
insensibility of our social life, and especially of the relations
of modern artists to each other, can not be struck with wonder, nay,
delight, with the treatment I received from this remarkable man.... At
Weimar I saw him for the last time, when I was resting for a few days in
Thuringia, uncertain whether the threatening persecution would compel me
to continue my flight from Germany. The very day when my personal
danger became a certainty, I saw Liszt conducting a rehearsal of my
'Tannhouser,' and was astonished at recognizing my second self in
his achievement. What I had felt in inventing this music, he felt in
performing it; what I had wanted to express in writing it down, he
expressed in making it sound. Strange to say, through the love of this
rarest friend, I gained, at the very moment of becoming homeless, a real
home for my art which I had hitherto longed for and sought for in
the wrong place.... At the end of my last stay in Paris, when, ill,
miserable, and despairing, I sat brooding over my fate, my eye fell on
the score of my 'Lohengrin,' which I had totally forgotten. Suddenly I
felt something like compassion that this music should never sound from
off the death-pale paper. Two words I wrote to Liszt; the answer was
that preparation was being made for the performance on the grandest
scale which the limited means of Weimar permitted. Everything that
man or circumstances could do was done to make the work understood....
Errors and misconceptions impeded the desired success. What was to be
done to supply what was wanted, so as to further the true understanding
on all sides and, with it, the ultimate success of the work? Liszt saw
it at once, and did it. He gave to the public his own impression of the
work in a manner the convincing eloquence and overpowering efficacy of
which remain unequaled. Success was his reward, and with this success he
now approaches me, saying, 'Behold, we have come so far! Now create us a
new work, that we may go still farther.'"
Liszt remained at Weimar for ten years, when he resigned his place
on account of certain narrow jealousies and opposition offered to his
plans. Since 1859 he has lived at Weimar, Pesth, and Rome, always
the center of a circle of pupils and admirers, and, though no longer
occupying an active place in the world, full of unselfish devotion to
the true interests of music and musicians. In 1868 he took minor orders
in the Roman priesthood. Since his early youth Liszt had been the
subject of strong paroxysms of religious feeling, which more than once
had nearly carried him into monastic life, and thus his brilliant career
would have been lost to the world and to art. After he had gained every
reward that can be lavished on genius, and tasted to the very dregs
the wine of human happiness, so far as that can come of a splendid
prosperity and the adoration of the musical world for nearly half a
century, a sudden revulsion seems to have recalled again to the surface
that profound religious passion which the glory and pleasure of his busy
life had never entirely suppressed. It was by no means astonishing to
those who knew Liszt's life best that he should have taken holy orders.
Abbé Liszt lives a portion of each year with the Prince-Cardinal
Hohenlohe, in the well-known Villa d'Esté, near Rome, a château with
whose history much romance is interwoven. He is said to be very zealous
in his religious devotions, and to spend much time in reading and
composing. He rarely touches the piano, unless inspired by the presence
of visitors whom he thoroughly likes, and even in such cases less for
his own pleasure than for the gratification of his friends. Even his
intimate friends would hardly venture to ask Liszt to play. His summer
months are divided between Pesth and Weimar, where his advent always
makes a glad commotion among the artistic circles of these respective
cities. Of the various pupils who have been formed by Liszt, Hans von
Bulow, who married his daughter Cosima, is the most distinguished,
and shares with Rubenstein the honor of being the first of European
pianists, now that Liszt has for so long a time withdrawn himself from
the field of competition.