Liszt's Playing. Tausig. Excursion to Sondershausen.
WEIMAR, _August 23, 1873_.
Liszt has returned from his trip, and I have played to him twice this
week, and am to go again on Monday. He praised me very much on Tuesday,
and said I played admirably. I knew he was pleased, because whenever he
corrected me he would say, "_Nein, Kindchen_" in such a gentle way!
"_Kind_" is the German for child, and "_Kindchen_" is a diminutive, and
whenever he calls you that you can tell he has a leaning toward you.
This week is the first time that I have been able to play to him without
being nervous, or that my fingers have felt warm and natural. It has
been a fearful ordeal, truly, to play there, for not only was Liszt
himself present, but such a crowd of artists, all ready to pick flaws in
your playing, and to say, "She hasn't got much talent." I am so glad
that I stayed until Liszt's return, for now the rush is over, and he has
much more time for those of us who are left, and plays a great deal more
himself. Yesterday he played us a study of Paganini's, arranged by
himself, and also his Campanella. I longed for M., as she is so fond of
the Campanella. Liszt gave it with a velvety softness, clearness,
brilliancy and pearliness of touch that was inimitable. And oh, his
grace! _Nobody_ can compare with him! Everybody else sounds heavy
beside him!
However, I have felt some comfort in knowing that it is not Liszt's
genius alone that makes him such a player. He has gone through such
technical studies as no one else has except Tausig, perhaps. He plays
everything under the sun in the way of _Etuden_--has played them, I
mean. On Tuesday I got him talking about the composers who were the
fashion when he was a young fellow in Paris--Kalkbrenner, Herz,
etc.--and I asked him if he could not play us something by Kalkbrenner.
"O yes! I must have a few things of Kalkbrenner's in my head still," and
then he played part of a concerto. Afterward he went on to speak of
Herz, and said: "I'll play you a little study of Herz's that is
infamously hard. It is a stupid little theme," and then he played the
theme, "but _now_ pay attention." Then he played the study itself. It
was a most hazardous thing, where the hands kept crossing continually
with great rapidity, and striking notes in the most difficult positions.
It made us all laugh; and Liszt hit the notes every time, though it was
disgustingly hard, and as he said himself, "he used to get all in a heat
over it." He had evidently studied it so well that he could never forget
it. He went on to speak of Moscheles and of his compositions. He said
that when between thirty and forty years of age, Moscheles played
superbly, but as he grew older he became too old-womanish and set in his
ways--and then he took off Moscheles, and played his Etuden in his
style. It was very funny. But it showed how Liszt has studied
_everything_, and the universality of his knowledge, for he knows
Tausig's and Rubinstein's studies as well as Kalkbrenner and Herz. There
cannot be many persons in the world who keep up with the whole range of
musical literature as he does.
Liszt loved Tausig as his own child, and is always delighted when we
play any of his music. His death was an awful blow to Liszt, for he used
to say, "He will be the inheritor of my playing." I suppose he thought
he would live again in him, for he always says, "Never did such talent
come under my hands." I would give anything to have seen them together,
for Tausig was a wonderfully clever and captivating man, and I can
imagine he must have fascinated Liszt. They say he was the naughtiest
boy that ever was heard of, and caused Liszt no end of trouble and
vexation; but he always forgave him, and after the vexation was past
Liszt would pat him on the head and say, "_Carlchen, entweder wirst du
ein grosser Lump oder ein grosser Meister_ (You'll turn out either a
great blockhead or a great master)." That is Liszt all over. He is so
indulgent that in consideration of talent he will forgive anything.
Tausig's father, who was himself a music-master, took him to Liszt when
he was fourteen years old, hoping that Liszt would receive the little
marvel as a pupil and protégé.
But Liszt would not even hear the boy play. "I have had," he declared
positively, "enough of child prodigies. They never come to much."
Tausig's father apparently acquiesced in the reply, but while he and
Liszt were drinking wine and smoking together, he managed to smuggle the
child on to the piano-stool behind Liszt, and signed to him to begin to
play. The little Tausig plunged into Chopin's A flat Polonaise with such
fire and boldness that Liszt turned his eagle head, and after a few bars
cried, "I take him!" I heard Liszt say once that he could not endure
child prodigies. "I have no time," said he, "for these artists _die_
WERDEN _sollen_ (that _are_ to be)!"
* * *
WEIMAR, _September 9, 1873_.
This week has been one of great excitement in Weimar, on account of the
wedding of the son of the Grand Duke. All sorts of things have been
going on, and the Emperor and Empress came on from Berlin. There have
been a great many rehearsals at the theatre of different things that
were played, and of course Liszt took a prominent part in the
arrangement of the music. He directed the Ninth Symphony, and played
twice himself with orchestral accompaniments. One of the pieces he
played was Weber's Polonaise in E major, and the other was one of his
own Rhapsodies Hongroises. Of these I was at the rehearsal. When he came
out on the stage the applause was tremendous, and enough in itself to
excite and electrify one. I was enchanted to have an opportunity to hear
Liszt as a concert player. The director of the orchestra here is a
beautiful pianist and composer himself, as well as a splendid conductor,
but it was easy to see that he had to get all his wits together to
follow Liszt, who gave full rein to his imagination, and let the _tempo_
fluctuate as he felt inclined. As for Liszt, he scarcely _looked_ at the
keys, and it was astounding to see his hands go rushing up and down the
piano and perform passages of the utmost rapidity and difficulty, while
his head was turned all the while towards the orchestra, and he kept up
a running fire of remarks with them continually. "You violins, strike in
_sharp_ here." "You trumpets, not too loud there," etc. He did
everything with the most immense _aplomb_, and without seeming to pay
any attention to his hands, which moved of themselves as if they were
independent beings and had their own brain and everything! He never did
the same thing twice alike. If it were a scale the first time, he would
make it in double or broken thirds the second, and so on, constantly
surprising you with some new turn. While you were admiring the long roll
of the wave, a sudden spray would be dashed over you, and make you catch
your breath! No, never was there such a player! The nervous intensity of
his touch takes right hold of you. When he had finished everybody
shouted and clapped their hands like mad, and the orchestra kept up such
a _fanfare_ of applause, that the din was quite overpowering. Liszt
smiled and bowed, and walked off the stage indifferently, not giving
himself the trouble to come back, and presently he quietly sat down in
the parquet, and the rehearsal proceeded. The concert itself took place
at the court, so that I did not hear it. Metzdorf was there, however,
and he said that Liszt played fabulously, of course, but that he was
not as inspired as he was in the morning, and did not make the same
effect.
* * *
WEIMAR, _September 15, 1873_.
The other day an excursion was arranged to Sondershausen, a town about
three hours' ride from Weimar in the cars. There was to be a concert
there in honour of Liszt, and a whole programme of his music was to be
performed. About half a dozen of the "Lisztianer"--as the Weimarese dub
Liszt's pupils--agreed to go, I, of course, being one. Liszt himself,
the Countess von X. and Count S. were to lead the party. The morning we
started was one of those perfect autumnal days when it is a delight
simply to _live_.
After breakfast I hurried off to the station, where I met the others,
everybody being in the highest spirits. Liszt and his titled friends
travelled in a first class carriage by themselves. The rest of us went
second class, in the next carriage behind. We were very gay indeed, and
the time did not seem long till we arrived at Sondershausen, where we
exchanged our seats in the cars for seats in an omnibus, and drove to
the principal hotel. There were not sufficient accommodations for us
all, owing to the number of strangers who had come to the festival, so
Mrs. S. and I went to a smaller hotel in a more distant part of the town
to engage rooms, intending to return and dine with Liszt and the rest.
Just as our noisy vehicle clattered up to the inn and some of the
gentlemen jumped out to arrange matters, the solemn strains of a chorale
were heard from a church close by, with its grand and rolling organ
accompaniment. Somehow it made me feel sad to hear it, and a sense of
the _transitoriness_ of things came over me. It seemed like one of those
voices from the other world that call to us now and then.
After we had engaged our rooms, we drove back to the hotel where Liszt
was staying, and where we were to dine immediately. It was in the centre
of the town, and directly opposite the palace, which rose boldly on a
sort of eminence with great flights of stone steps sweeping down to the
road on each side. It looked quite imposing. An avenue wound up the hill
to the right of it. In the dining-room of the hotel a long table was
spread and all the places were carefully set. My place was next Count S.
and not far from Liszt. So I was very well seated. Everybody began
talking at once the minute dinner was served, as they always do at table
in Germany. Toward the close of it were the usual number of toasts in
honour of Liszt, to which he responded in rather a bored sort of way. I
don't wonder he gets tired of them, for it is always the same thing. He
did not seem to be in his usual spirits, and had a fatigued air.
After dinner he said, "Now let us go and see Fräulein Fichtner."
Fräulein Fichtner was the young lady who was going to play his concerto
in A major at the concert that evening. She is a well-known pianist in
Germany, and is both pretty and brilliant. We started in a procession,
which is the way one always walks with Liszt. It reminds me of those
snow-balls the boys roll up at home--the crowd gathers as it proceeds!
When we got to the house we entered an obscure corridor and began to
find our way up a dark and narrow staircase. Some one struck a wax
match. "Good!" called out Liszt, in his sonorous voice. "_Leuchten Sie
voraus_ (Light us up)." When we got to the top we pulled the bell and
were let in by Fräulein Fichtner's mother. Fräulein Fichtner herself
looked no ways dismayed at the number of her guests, though we had the
air of coming to storm the house. She gaily produced all the chairs
there were, and those who could not find a seat had to stand! She was in
Weimar for a few days this summer. So we had all met her before, and I
had once heard her play some duets by Schumann with Liszt, who enjoyed
reading with "Pauline," as he calls her. It is to her that Raff has
dedicated his exquisite "_Maerchen_ (Fairy story)." She is a sparkling
brunette, with a face full of intelligence. They say she writes charming
little poems and is gifted in various ways. Not to tire her for the
concert we only stayed about twenty minutes.
Going back, Liszt indulged in a little graceful _badinage_ apropos of
the concerto. You know he has written two concertos. The one in E flat
is much played, but this one in A very rarely. It is exceedingly
difficult and is one of the few of his compositions that it interests
Liszt to know that people play. "I should write it otherwise if I wrote
it now," he explained to me as we were walking along. "Some passages are
very troublesome (_haecklig_) to execute. I was younger and less
experienced when I composed it," he added, with one of those
illuminating smiles "like the flash of a dagger in the sun," as Lenz
says.
When we reached the hotel everybody went in to take a siesta--that
"Mittags-Schlaf" which is law in Germany. I did not wish to sleep and
felt like exploring the old town. So Count S. and I started on a walk.
Sondershausen is a dreamy, sleepy place, with so little life about it
that you hardly realize there are any people there at all. It is
pleasantly situated, and gentle hills and undulations of land are all
about it, but it seems as if the town had been dead for a long time and
this were its grave over which one was quietly walking. We took the road
that wound past the castle. It was embowered in trees, and behind the
castle were gardens and conservatories. The road descended on the other
side, and we followed it till we came unexpectedly upon a little
circular park. Such a deserted, widowed little park it seemed! Not a
soul did we encounter as we wandered through its paths. Bordering them
were great quantities of berry-laden snow-berry bushes, of which I am
very fond. The park had a sort of rank and unkempt aspect, as if it were
abandoned to itself. The very stream that went through it flowed
sluggishly along, and as if it hadn't any particular object in life.--I
enjoyed it very much, and it was very restful to walk about it. One felt
there the truth of R.'s favourite saying, "It doesn't make any
difference. _Nothing_ makes any difference."
Count S. rattled on, but I didn't hear more than half of what he said.
He is a pleasure-loving man of the world, fond of music, but a perfect
materialist, and untroubled by the "_souffle vers le beau_" which
torments so many people. At the same time he is appreciative and very
amusing, and one has no chance to indulge in melancholy with _him_. We
sauntered about till late in the afternoon, and then returned to the
hotel for coffee before going to the concert, which began at seven. The
concert hall was behind the palace and seemed to form a part of it.
Liszt, the Countess von X., and Count S. sat in a box, aristocratic-fashion.
The rest of us were in the parquet. I was amazed at the orchestra, which
was very large and played gloriously. It seemed to me as fine as that of
the Gewandhaus in Leipsic, though I suppose it cannot be.--"Why has no
one ever mentioned this orchestra to me?" I asked of Kellermann, who sat
next, "and how is it one finds such an orchestra in such a place?" "Oh,"
said he, "this orchestra is very celebrated, and the Prince of
Sondershausen is a great patron of music." This is the way it is in
Germany. Every now and then one has these surprises. You never know when
you are going to stumble upon a jewel in the most out-of-the-way corner.
We were all greatly excited over Fräulein Fichtner's playing, and it
seemed very jolly to be behind the scenes, as it were, and to have one
of our own number performing. We applauded tremendously when she came
out. She was not nervous in the least, but began with great _aplomb_,
and played most beautifully. The concerto made a generally dazzling and
difficult impression upon me, but did not "take hold" of me
particularly. I do not know how Liszt was pleased with her rendering of
it, for I had no opportunity of asking him. She also played his
Fourteenth Rhapsody with orchestral accompaniment in most bold and
dashing style. Fräulein Fichtner is more in the bravura than in the
sentimental line, and she has a certain breadth, grasp, and freshness.
The last piece on the programme was Liszt's Choral Symphony, which was
magnificent. The chorus came at the end of it, as in the Ninth Symphony.
Mrs. S. said she was familiar with it from having heard Thomas's
orchestra play it in New York.--That orchestra, by the way, from what I
hear, seems to have developed into something remarkable. It is a great
thing for the musical education of the country to have such an
organization travelling every winter. And what a revelation is an
orchestra the first time one hears it, even if it be but a poor
one!--Music come bodily down from Heaven! And here in their musical
darkness, the Americans in the provinces are having an orchestra of the
very highest excellence burst upon them in full splendour. What _could_
be more American? They always have the best or none!
At nine o'clock in the evening the concert was over, and we all returned
to the hotel for supper. We were all desperately hungry after so much
music and enthusiasm. Everybody wanted to be helped at once, and the
waiters were nearly distracted. Count S. sat next me and was very funny.
He kept rapping the table like mad, but without any success. Finally he
exclaimed, "_Jetzt geh'_ ICH _auf Jagd_ (Now _I'm_ going hunting)!" and
sprang up from his chair, rushed to the other end of the dining-room,
possessed himself of some dishes the waiters were helping, and returned
in triumph. I couldn't help laughing, and he made a great many jokes at
the expense of the waiters and everybody else. I could not hear any of
Liszt's conversation, which I regretted, but he seemed in a quiet mood.
I do not think he is the same when he is with aristocrats. He must be
among _artists_ to unsheathe his sword. When he is with "swells," he is
all grace and polish. He seems only to toy with his genius for their
amusement, and he is never serious. At least this is as far as _my_
observation of him goes on the few occasions I have seen him in the
_beau monde_. The presence of the proud Countess von X. at Sondershausen
kept him, as it were, at a distance from everybody else, and he was not
overflowing with fun and gayety as he was at Jena. She, of course, did
not go with us to see Fräulein Fichtner, which was fortunate. After
supper one and all went to bed early, quite tired out with the day's
excitement.
This haughty Countess, by the way, has always had a great fascination
for me, because she looks like a woman who "has a history." I have often
seen her at Liszt's matinees, and from what I hear of her, she is such a
type of woman as I suppose only exists in Europe, and such as the
heroines of foreign novels are modelled upon. She is a widow, and in
appearance is about thirty-six or eight years old, of medium height,
slight to thinness, but exceedingly graceful. She is always attired in
black, and is utterly careless in dress, yet nothing can conceal her
innate elegance of figure. Her face is pallid and her hair dark. She
makes an impression of icy coldness and at the same time of tropical
heat. The pride of Lucifer to the world in general--entire abandonment
to the individual. I meet her often in the park, as she walks along
trailing her "sable garments like the night," and surrounded by her four
beautiful boys--as Count S. says, "each handsomer than the other." They
have such romantic faces! Dark eyes and dark curling hair. The eldest is
about fourteen and the youngest five.
The little one is too lovely, with his brown curls hanging on his
shoulders! I never shall forget the supercilious manner in which the
Countess took out her eye-glass and looked me over as I passed her one
day in the park. Weimar being such a "_kleines Nest_ (little nest)," as
Liszt calls it, every stranger is immediately remarked. She waited till
I got close up, then deliberately put up this glass and scrutinized me
from head to foot, then let it fall with a half-disdainful,
half-indifferent air, as if the scrutiny did not reward the trouble.--I
was so amused. Her arrogance piques all Weimar, and they never cease
talking about her. I can never help wishing to see her in a fashionable
toilet. If she is so _distinguée_ in rather less than ordinary dress,
what _would_ she be in a Parisian costume? I mean as to grace, for she
is not pretty.--But as a psychological study, she is more interesting,
perhaps, as she is. She always seems to me to be gradually going to
wreck--a burnt-out volcano, with her own ashes settling down upon her
and covering her up. She is very highly educated, and is preparing her
eldest son for the university herself. What a subject she would have
been for a Balzac!
We stayed over the next day in Sondershausen, as there was to be another
orchestral concert--this time with a miscellaneous programme. Fräulein
Fichtner had already departed, but the first violinist played
Mendelssohn's famous concerto for violin.--Not in Wilhelmj's masterly
style, but extremely well. We took the train for Weimar about five P. M.
Going back I was in the carriage with Liszt. He sat opposite me, and
gradually began to talk. The conversation turned upon Weitzmann, my
former harmony teacher, who, you remember, was so determined to make me
learn. Liszt remarked upon the extent of his knowledge and said, "If I
were not so old I should like to go to school again to Weitzmann." He
was talking to Weitzmann one day, he said, and Weitzmann proposed to him
that he should write a canon. "I sat down and worked over it a good
while, but finally gave it up.--I know not why, but I never had any
success in writing canons. Weitzmann then sat down, and in half an hour
had produced two excellent ones." He gave this as an instance of
Weitzmann's readiness.--A canon, you know, is a sort of musical puzzle.
The right hand plays the theme. The left hand takes it up a little later
and imitates the right. The two interweave, and the theme forms the
melody and the accompaniment at the same time, according as it is played
by the right or left hand--something on the principle of singing rounds.
The difficulty consists in avoiding monotony with this continual
iteration of the theme, which can be brought on at different intervals,
inverted, etc., at will. It seems to be more a mathematical than a
musical style of composition. I should suppose that _Bach_ could fire
off canons without end! He developed it in every imaginable
form.--Liszt, however, is of rather a different school!
We got back to Weimar about eight in the evening, and this delicious
excursion, like all others, _had to end_. But the quiet old town, with
its musical name and its great orchestra, will long remain in my memory.
Adieu, Sondershausen!