Liszt's Drawing-room. An Artist's Walking Party. Liszt's Teaching.
WEIMAR, _May 29, 1873_.
I am having the most heavenly time in Weimar, studying with Liszt, and
sometimes I can scarcely realize that I am at that summit of my
ambition, to be _his_ pupil! It was the Baroness von S.'s letter that
secured it for me, I am sure. He is so overrun with people, that I think
it is a wonder he is civil to anybody, but he is the most amiable man I
ever knew, though he _can_ be dreadful, too, when he chooses, and he
understands how to put people outside his door in as short a space of
time as it can be done. I go to him three times a week. At home Liszt
doesn't wear his long abbé's coat, but a short one, in which he looks
much more artistic. His figure is remarkably slight, but his head is
most imposing.--It is _so_ delicious in that room of his! It was all
furnished and put in order for him by the Grand Duchess herself. The
walls are pale gray, with a gilded border running round the room, or
rather two rooms, which are divided, but not separated, by crimson
curtains. The furniture is crimson, and everything is so
_comfortable_--such a contrast to German bareness and stiffness
generally. A splendid grand piano stands in one window (he receives a
new one every year). The other window is always wide open, and looks
out on the park. There is a dove-cote just opposite the window, and the
doves promenade up and down on the roof of it, and fly about, and
sometimes whirr down on the sill itself. That pleases Liszt. His
writing-table is beautifully fitted up with things that all match.
Everything is in bronze--ink-stand, paper-weight, match-box, etc., and
there is always a lighted candle standing on it by which he and the
gentlemen can light their cigars. There is a carpet on the floor, a
rarity in Germany, and Liszt generally walks about, and smokes, and
mutters (he can never be said to _talk_), and calls upon one or other of
us to play. From time to time he will sit down and play himself where a
passage does not suit him, and when he is in good spirits he makes
little jests all the time. His playing was a complete revelation to me,
and has given me an entirely new insight into music. You cannot
conceive, without hearing him, how poetic he is, or the thousand
_nuances_ that he can throw into the simplest thing, and he is equally
great on all sides. From the zephyr to the tempest, the whole scale is
equally at his command.
But Liszt is not at all like a master, and cannot be treated like one.
He is a monarch, and when he extends his royal sceptre you can sit down
and play to him. You never can ask him to play anything for you, no
matter how much you're dying to hear it. If he is in the mood he will
play, if not, you must content yourself with a few remarks. You cannot
even offer to play yourself. You lay your notes on the table, so he can
see that you _want_ to play, and sit down. He takes a turn up and down
the room, looks at the music, and if the piece interests him, he will
call upon you. We bring the same piece to him but once, and but once
play it through.
Yesterday I had prepared for him his _Au Bord d'une Source_. I was
nervous and played badly. He was not to be put out, however, but acted
as if he thought I had played charmingly, and then he sat down and
played the whole piece himself, oh, _so_ exquisitely! It made me feel
like a wood-chopper. The notes just seemed to ripple off his fingers'
ends with scarce any perceptible motion. As he neared the close I
remarked that that funny little expression came over his face which he
always has when he means to surprise you, and he suddenly took an
unexpected chord and extemporized a poetical little end, quite different
from the written one.--Do you wonder that people go distracted over him?
Weimar is a lovely little place, and there are most beautiful walks all
about. Ascension being a holiday here, all we pianists made up a walking
party out to Tiefurt, about two miles distant. We went in the afternoon
and returned in the evening. The walk lay through the woods, and was
perfectly exquisite the whole way. As we came back in the evening the
nightingales were singing, and I could not help wishing that P. were
there to hear them, as he has such a passion for birds. There are
cuckoos here, too, and you hear them calling "cuckoo, cuckoo." Metzdorf
and I danced on the hard road, to the edification of all the others. In
Tiefurt we partook of a magnificent collation consisting of a mug of
beer, brown bread and sausage! Some of the party preferred coffee, among
whom was Metzdorf, who made us laugh by sticking the coffee-pot into his
inside coat pocket as soon as he had poured out his first cup, in order
to make sure that the others didn't take more than their share; he would
coolly take it out, help himself, and put it back again. The servant who
waited got frightened, and thought he was going to steal it. Afterwards
when we were playing games and wanted the door shut, the host came and
opened it, and would not allow us to shut it, because he said we might
carry off something! How's that!
* * *
WEIMAR, _June 6, 1873_.
When I first came there were only five of us who studied with Liszt, but
lately a good many others have been there. Day before yesterday there
came a young lady who was a pupil of Henselt in St. Petersburg. She is
immensely talented, only seventeen years old, and her name is Laura
Kahrer. It is a very rare thing to see a pupil of Henselt, for it is
very difficult to get lessons from him. He stands next to Liszt. This
Laura Kahrer plays everything that ever was heard of, and she played a
fugue of her own composition the other day that was really vigorous and
good. I was quite astonished to hear how she had worked it up. She has
made a grand concert tour in Russia. I never saw such a hand as she had.
She could bend it backwards till it looked like the palm of her hand
turned inside out. She was an interesting little creature, with dark
eyes and hair, and one could see by her Turkish necklace and numerous
bangles that she had been making money. She played with the greatest
_aplomb_, though her touch had a certain roughness about it to my ear.
She did not carry me away, but I have not heard many pieces from her.
However, all playing sounds barren by the side of Liszt, for _his_ is
the living, breathing impersonation of poetry, passion, grace, wit,
coquetry, daring, tenderness and every other fascinating attribute that
you can think of! I'm ready to hang myself half the time when I've been
to him. Oh, he is the most phenomenal being in every respect! All that
you've heard of him would never give you an idea of him. In short, he
represents the whole scale of human emotion. He is a many-sided prism,
and reflects back the light in all colours, no matter how you look at
him. His pupils _adore_ him, as in fact everybody else does, but it is
impossible to do otherwise with a person whose genius flashes out of him
all the time so, and whose character is so winning.
One day this week, when we were with Liszt, he was in such high spirits
that it was as if he had suddenly become twenty years younger. A student
from the Stuttgardt conservatory played a Liszt Concerto. His name is
V., and he is dreadfully nervous. Liszt kept up a little running fire of
satire all the time he was playing, but in a good-natured way. I
shouldn't have minded it if it had been I. In fact, I think it would
have inspired me; but poor V. hardly knew whether he was on his head or
on his feet. It was too funny. Everything that Liszt says is so
striking. For instance, in one place where V. was playing the melody
rather feebly, Liszt suddenly took his seat at the piano and said, "When
_I_ play, I always play for the people in the gallery [by the gallery he
meant the cock-loft, where the rabble always sit, and where the places
cost next to nothing], so that those persons who pay only five groschens
for their seat also hear something." Then he began, and I wish you could
have heard him! The sound didn't seem to be very _loud_, but it was
penetrating and far-reaching. When he had finished, he raised one hand
in the air, and you seemed to see all the people in the gallery drinking
in the sound. That is the way Liszt teaches you. He presents an _idea_
to you, and it takes fast hold of your mind and sticks there. Music is
such a real, visible thing to him, that he always has a symbol,
instantly, in the material world to express his idea. One day, when I
was playing, I made too much movement with my hand in a rotatory sort of
a passage where it was difficult to avoid it. "Keep your hand still,
Fräulein," said Liszt; "_don't make omelette_." I couldn't help
laughing, it hit me on the head so nicely. He is far too sparing of his
playing, unfortunately, and, like Tausig, only sits down and plays a few
bars at a time, generally. It is dreadful when he stops, just as you are
at the height of your enjoyment, but he is so thoroughly _blasé_ that he
doesn't care to show off, and doesn't like to have any one pay him a
compliment. Even at the court it annoyed him so that the Grand Duchess
told people to take no notice when he rose from the piano.
On the same day that Liszt was in such high good-humour, a strange lady
and her husband were there who had made a long journey to Weimar, in the
hope of hearing him play. She waited patiently for a long time through
the lesson, and at last Liszt took compassion on her, and sat down with
his favourite remark that "the young ladies played a great deal better
than he did, but he would try his best to imitate them," and then played
something of his own so wonderfully, that when he had finished we all
stood there like posts, feeling that there was _nothing_ to be said. But
he, as if he feared we might burst out into eulogy, got up instantly and
went over to a friend of his who was standing there, and who lives on an
estate near Weimar, and said, in the most commonplace tone imaginable,
"By the way, how about those eggs? Are you going to send me some?" It
seems to be not only a profound bore to him, but really a sort of
sensitiveness on his part. How he can bear to hear _us_ play, I cannot
imagine. It must grate on his ear terribly, I think, because everything
_must_ sound expressionless to him in comparison with his own marvellous
conception. I assure you, no matter how beautifully we play any piece,
the minute Liszt plays it, you would scarcely recognize it! His touch
and his peculiar use of the pedal are two secrets of his playing, and
then he seems to dive down in the most hidden thoughts of the composer,
and fetch them up to the surface, so that they gleam out at you one by
one, like stars!
The more I see and hear Liszt, the more I am lost in amazement! I can
neither eat nor sleep on those days that I go to him. All my musical
studies till now have been a mere going to school, a preparation for
him. I often think of what Tausig said once: "Oh, compared with Liszt,
we other artists are all blockheads." I did not believe it at the time,
but I've seen the truth of it, and in studying Liszt's playing, I can
see where Tausig got many of his own wonderful peculiarities. I think he
was the most like Liszt of all the army that have had the privilege of
his instruction.--I began this letter on Sunday, and it is now Tuesday.
Yesterday I went to Liszt, and found that Bülow had just arrived. None
of the other scholars had come, for a wonder, and I was just going away,
when Liszt came out, asked me to come in a moment, and introduced me to
Bülow. There I was, all alone with these two great artists in Liszt's
_salon_! Wasn't _that_ a situation? I only stayed a few minutes, of
course, though I should have liked to spend hours, but our conversation
was in the highest degree amusing while I _was_ there. Bülow had just
returned from his grand concert tour, and had been in London for the
first time. In a few months he had given one hundred and twenty
concerts! He is a fascinating creature, too, like all these master
artists, but entirely different from Liszt, being small, quick, and airy
in his movements, and having one of the boldest and proudest foreheads I
ever saw. He looks like strength of will personified. Liszt gazed at
"his Hans," as he calls him, with the fondest pride, and seemed
perfectly happy over his arrival. It was like his beautiful courtesy to
call me in and introduce me to Bülow instead of letting me go away. He
thought I had come to play to him, and was unwilling to have me take
that trouble for nothing, though he must have wished me in Jericho. You
would think I paid him a hundred dollars a lesson, instead of _his_
condescending to sacrifice his valuable time to _me_ for nothing.