absolutely correct. He never taught in the ordinary sense of the word.
During the entire time that I was with him I did not see him give a
regular lesson in the pedagogical sense. He would notify us to come up
to the Altenburg. For instance, he would say to me, "Tell the boys to
come up to-night at half-past six or seven." We would go there, and he
would call on us to play. I remember very well the first time I played
to him after I had been accepted as a pupil. I began with the "Ballade"
of Chopin in A flat major; then I played a fugue by Handel in E minor.
After I was well started he began to get excited. He made audible
suggestions, inciting me to put more enthusiasm into my playing, and
occasionally he would push me gently off the chair and sit down at the
piano and play a phrase or two himself by way of illustration. He
gradually got me worked up to such a pitch of enthusiasm that I put all
the grit that was in me into my playing.
I found at this first lesson that he was very fond of strong accents in
order to mark off periods and phrases, and he talked so much about
strong accentuation that one might have supposed that he would abuse it,
but he never did. When he wrote to me later about my own piano method,
he expressed the strongest approval of the exercises on accentuation.
"PLAY IT LIKE THIS"
While I was playing to him for the first time, he said on one of the
occasions when he pushed me from the chair: "Don't play it that way.
Play it like this." Evidently I had been playing ahead in a steady,
uniform way. He sat down, and gave the same phrases with an accentuated,
elastic movement, which let in a flood of light upon me. From that one
experience I learned to bring out the same effect, where it was
appropriate, in almost every piece that I played. It eradicated much
that was mechanical, stilted, and unmusical in my playing, and developed
an elasticity of touch which has lasted all my life, and which I have
always tried to impart to my pupils.
At this first lesson I must have played for two or three hours. For some
reason or other Raff was not present, but Klindworth and Pruckner were
there. They lounged on a sofa and smoked, and I remember wondering if
they appreciated the nice time they were having at my ordeal. However,
not many days afterward came my opportunity to light a cigar and lounge
about the room while Liszt put them through their paces.
Two or three hours is not a long time for a professional musician to
practise, and I had often spent many more hours at the piano, but never
under such strong incitement. I was exceedingly tired afterward, and
actually felt stiff the next day, as if I had performed some very
arduous physical work. Liszt heard of this, and turned it into a joke,
telling people that at the time set for the next lesson I appeared at
the Altenburg with my hand in a sling, and said that I had strained my
wrist while hunting, and would be unable to play. I think this is _non e
ver e ben trovato_, as I have no recollection of it.
LISZT IN 1854
The best impression of Liszt's appearance at that time is conveyed by
the picture which shows him approaching the Altenburg. His back is
turned; nevertheless, there is a certain something which shows the man
as he was better even than those portraits in which his features are
clearly reproduced. The picture gives his gait, his figure, and his
general appearance. There is his tall, lank form, his high hat set a
little to one side, and his arm a trifle akimbo. He had piercing eyes.
His hair was very dark, but not black. He wore it long, just as he did
in his older days. It came almost down to his shoulders, and was cut off
square at the bottom. He had it cut frequently, so as to keep it at
about the same length. That was a point about which he was very
particular.
HIS FASCINATION
As I remember his hands, his fingers were lean and thin, but they did
not impress me as being very long, and he did not have such a remarkable
stretch on the keyboard as one might imagine. He was always neatly
dressed, generally appearing in a long frock-coat, until he became the
Abbe Liszt, after which he wore the distinctive black gown. His general
manner and his face were most expressive of his feelings, and his
features lighted up when he spoke. His smile was simply charming. His
face was peculiar. One could hardly call it handsome, yet there was in
it a subtle something that was most attractive, and his whole manner had
a fascination which it is impossible to describe.
I remember little incidents which are in themselves trivial, but which
illustrate some character-trait. One day Liszt was reading a letter in
which a musician was referred to as a certain Mr. So-and-so. He read
that phrase over two or three times, and then substituted his own name
for that of the musician mentioned, and repeated several times, "A
_certain_ Mr. Liszt, a _certain_ Mr. Liszt, a _certain_ Mr. Liszt,"
adding: "I don't know that that would offend me. I don't know that I
should object to being called 'a _certain_ Mr. Liszt.'" As he said this
his face had an expression of curiosity, as though he were wondering
whether he really would be offended or not. But at the same time there
was in his face that look of kindness I saw there so often, and I really
believe he would not have felt injured by such a reference to himself.
There was nothing petty in his feelings.
LISZT'S INDIGNATION
On one occasion, however, I saw Liszt grow very much excited over what
he considered an imposition. One evening he said to us: "Boys, there is
a young man coming here to-morrow who says he can play Beethoven's
'Sonata in B Flat, Op. 106.' I want you all three to be here." We were
there at the appointed hour. The pianist proved to be a Hungarian, whose
name I have forgotten.
He sat down and began to play in a conveniently slow tempo the bold
chords with which the sonata opens. He had not progressed more than half
a page when Liszt stopped him, and seating himself at the piano, played
in the correct tempo, which was much faster, to show him how the work
should be interpreted. "It's nonsense for you to go through this sonata
in that fashion," said Liszt, as he rose from the piano and left the
room.
The pianist, of course, was very much disconcerted. Finally he said, as
if to console himself: "Well, he can't play it through like that, and
that's why he stopped after half a page."
This sonata is the only one which the composer himself metronomized, and
his direction is M.M. [Illustration: quarter-note] = 138. A less rapid
tempo, [Illustration: quarter-note] = 100 or thereabouts, would seem to
be more nearly correct, but the pianist took it at a much slower rate
than even this.
When the young man left I went out with him, partly because I felt sorry
for him, he had made such a fiasco, and partly because I wished to
impress upon him the fact that Liszt could play the whole movement in
the tempo in which he began it. As I was walking along with him, he
said, "I'm out of money; won't you lend me three louis d'or?"
A day or two later I told Liszt by the merest chance that the hero of
the Op. 106 fiasco had tried to borrow money of me. "B-r-r-r! What?"
exclaimed Liszt. Then he jumped up, walked across the room, seized a
long pipe that hung from a nail on the wall, and brandishing it as if it
were a stick, stamped up and down the room in almost childish
indignation, exclaiming, "Drei louis d'or! Drei louis d'or!" The point
is, however, that Liszt regarded the man as an artistic impostor. He had
sent word to Liszt that he could play the great Beethoven sonata, not an
inconsiderable feat in those days. He had been received on that basis.
He had failed miserably. To this artistic imposition he had added the
effrontery of endeavoring to borrow money from some one whom he had met
under Liszt's roof.
OBJECTS TO MY EYE-GLASSES
I have mentioned that Liszt was careful in his dress. He was also
particular about the appearance of his pupils. I remember two instances
which show how particular he was in little matters. I have been
near-sighted all my life, and when I went to Weimar I wore eye-glasses,
much preferring them to spectacles. Eye-glasses were not much worn in
Germany at that time, and were considered about as affected as the mode
of wearing a monocle. The Germans wore spectacles. I had not been in
Weimar long when Liszt said to me: "Mason, I don't like to see you
wearing those glasses. I shall send my optician to fit your eyes with
spectacles."
I hardly thought that he was serious, and so paid no attention to him.
But, sure enough, about a week later there was a knock at my door, and
the optician presented himself, saying he had come at the command of
Dr. Liszt to examine my eyes and fit a pair of spectacles to them. As I
was evidently to have no say in the matter, I submitted, and a few days
later I received two pairs, one in a green and one in a red case. I
thought them extremely unbecoming, but I was very particular to put them
on whenever I went to see Liszt.
Not long afterward Liszt went to Paris, and when we called to see him
after his return, and he was talking about his experiences there, he
said casually: "By the way, Mason, I find that gentlemen in Paris are
wearing eye-glasses now. In fact, they are considered quite _comme il
faut_, so I have no objection to your wearing yours." As he did not ask
me to send him the spectacles, I kept them, and have them to this day.
Klindworth, Pruckner, and I had played the Bach triple concerto in a
concert at the town hall, and had been requested to repeat it at an
evening concert at the ducal palace. An hour before the ducal carriage
arrived to take me to the concert, a servant came from the Altenburg
with a package which he said Liszt had requested him to be sure to
deliver to me. On opening it, I found two or three white ties. It was a
hint to me from Liszt that I most dress suitably to play at court.
This incident shows the care that Liszt bestowed on little things
relating to the customs and amenities of social life. He evidently sent
the ties as a precautionary measure. Possibly he was not sure whether
Americans were civilized enough to wear white ties with evening dress,
and was afraid I might appear in a red-white-and-blue one. Seriously,
however, it was very kind of him to think of a little thing like this.
A MUSICAL BREAKFAST
Before I went to Weimar I had not been of a very sociable disposition.
At Weimar I had to be. Liszt liked to have us about him. He wished us to
meet great men. He would send us word when he expected visitors, and
sometimes he would bring them down to our lodgings to see us. In every
way he tried to make our surroundings as pleasant as possible. It would
have been strange if, under such circumstances, we had not derived some
benefit from our intercourse with our great master and his visitors.
I shall always recall with amusement a breakfast which, at Liszt's
request, Klindworth and I gave to Joachim and Wieniawski, the
violinists, then, of course, very young men, and to several other
distinguished visitors. Liszt had been entertaining them for several
days. We knew that it was about time for him to bring them down to see
one of us. So I was not surprised when he turned to me one evening and
said, "Mason, I want you and Klindworth to give us a breakfast
to-morrow." I asked him what we should have. "Oh," he replied, "some
_Semmel_ [rolls], caviar, herring," etc.
The next morning Liszt and his visitors came. I remember looking out of
my window and watching them cross the ducal park, over the long
foot-path which ended directly opposite the house where Klindworth and I
lived. It had been raining, and the path was slippery, so that their
footsteps were somewhat uncertain.
The breakfast passed off all right. When he had finished, Liszt said,
"Now let us take a stroll in the garden." This garden was about four
times as large as the back yard of a New York house, and it was
unflagged and, of course, muddy from the rain of the previous night.
Never shall I forget the sight of Liszt, Joachim, Wieniawski, and our
other distinguished guests "strolling" through this garden, wading in
mud two inches deep.
LISZT'S PLAYING
Time and again at Weimar I heard Liszt play. There is absolutely no
doubt in my mind that he was the greatest pianist of the nineteenth
century. Liszt was what the Germans call an _Erscheinung_--an
epoch-making genius. Taussig is reported to have said of him: "Liszt
dwells alone upon a solitary mountain-top, and none of us can approach
him." Rubinstein said to Mr. William Steinway in the year 1873: "Put all
the rest of us together and we would not make one Liszt." This was
doubtless hyperbole, but nevertheless significant as expressing the
enthusiasm of pianists universally conceded to be of the highest rank.
There have been other great pianists, some of whom are now living, but I
must dissent from those writers who affirm that any of these can be
placed upon a level with Liszt. Those who make this assertion are too
young to have heard Liszt other than in his declining years, and it is
unjust to compare the playing of one who has long since passed his prime
with that of one who is still in it. In the year 1873 Rubinstein told
Theodore Thomas that it was fully worth while to make a trip to Europe
to hear Liszt play; but he added: "Make haste and go at once; he is
already beginning to break up, and his playing is not up to the
standard of former years, although his personality is as attractive as
ever."
In March, 1895, Stavenhagen and Remenyi were dining at my house one
evening, and the former began to speak in enthusiastic terms of Liszt's
playing. Remenyi interrupted with emphasis: "You have never heard Liszt
play--that is, as Liszt used to play in his prime"; and he appealed to
me for corroboration, but, unhappily, I never met Liszt again after
leaving Weimar in July, 1854.
The difference between Liszt's playing and that of others was the
difference between creative genius and interpretation. His genius
flashed through every pianistic phrase, it illuminated a composition to
its innermost recesses, and yet his wonderful effects, strange as it
must seem, were produced without the advantage of a genuinely musical
touch.
I remember on one occasion Schulhoff came to Weimar and played in the
drawing-room of the Altenburg house. His playing and Liszt's were in
marked contrast. He has been mentioned in an earlier chapter as a
parlor pianist of high excellence. His compositions, exclusively in the
smaller forms, were in great favor and universally played by the ladies.
Liszt played his own "Benediction de Dieu dans la Solitude," as pathetic
a piece, perhaps, as he ever composed, and of which he was very fond.
Afterward Schulhoff, with his exquisitely beautiful touch, produced a
quality of tone more beautiful than Liszt's; but about the latter's
performance there was intellectuality and the indescribable
impressiveness of genius, which made Schulhoff's playing, with all its
beauty, seem tame by contrast.
I was not surprised to hear from Theodore Thomas what Rubinstein had
told him concerning Liszt's "breaking up," for as far back as the days
of "die goldene Zeit" it had seemed to me that there were certain
indications in his playing which warranted the belief that his
mechanical powers would begin to wane at a comparatively early period in
his career. There was too little pliancy, flexion, and relaxation in his
muscles; hence a lack of economy in the expenditure of his energies.
He was aware of this, and said in effect on one occasion, as I learned
indirectly through either Klindworth or Pruckner: "You are to learn all
you can from my playing, relating to conception, style, phrasing, etc.,
but do not imitate my touch, which, I am well aware, is not a good model
to follow. In early years I was not patient enough to 'make haste
slowly'--thoroughly to develop in an orderly, logical, and progressive
way. I was impatient for immediate results, and took short cuts, so to
speak, and jumped through sheer force of will to the goal of my
ambition. I wish now that I had progressed by logical steps instead of
by leaps. It is true that I have been successful, but I do not advise
you to follow my way, for you lack my personality."
In saying this Liszt had no idea of magnifying himself; but it was
nevertheless genius which enabled him to accomplish certain results
which were out of the ordinary course, and in a way which others, being
differently constituted, could not follow. His advice to his pupils was
to be deliberate, and through care and close attention to important,
although seemingly insignificant, details to progress in an orderly way
toward a perfect style.
Notwithstanding this caution, and falling into the usual tendency of
pupils to imitate the idiosyncrasies and mannerisms, even faults or weak
points, of the teacher, some of the boys, in their effort to attain
Lisztian effects, acquired a hard and unsympathetic touch, and thus
produced mere noise in the place of full and resonant tones.
Before going to Weimar I had heard in various places in Germany that
Liszt spoiled all of those pupils who went to him without a previously
acquired knowledge of method and a habit of the correct use of the
muscles in producing musical effects. It was necessary for the pupil to
have an absolutely sure foundation to benefit by Liszt's instruction. If
he had that preparation Liszt could develop the best there was in him.
There is danger of unduly magnifying the importance of a mere mechanical
technic. In Liszt's earlier days he inclined in this direction, and
wrote the "Etudes d'Execution Transcendante." I remember his saying to
his pupils one day, when these were the subject of our conversation,
that having completed them, his interest in that direction had ceased
and he wrote no more. Moreover, he added, "I expected that some day a
pianist would appear who would make this subject his specialty, and
would accomplish difficulties that were seemingly impossible to
perform." It has been said of Liszt that he worshiped this kind of
technic. I think the assertion does him injustice. A friend of mine who
visited him in Weimar about the year 1858 wrote that Liszt, speaking of
one of his pupils, said: "What I like about So-and-so is that he is not
a mere 'finger virtuoso': he does not worship the keyboard of the
pianoforte; it is not his patron saint, but simply the altar before
which he pays homage to the idea of the tone-composer." A perfect
technic is more than a wonderful power of prestidigitation, or facility
in the manipulation of an instrument. It implies qualities of mind and
heart which are essential to an all-round musical development and the
ability to give them adequate expression.
LISZT AND PIXIS
In his concertizing days Liszt always played without the music before
him, although this was not the usual custom of his time; and in this
connection I remember an anecdote told to me by Theimer, one of
Dreyschock's assistant teachers. Pixis was an old-fashioned player of
considerable reputation in his day, and was the composer of
chamber-music, besides pianoforte pieces. Among other works of his was a
duo for two pianofortes. While this composition was yet in manuscript it
was played in one of the concerts of Pixis with the assistance of Liszt.
Pixis, knowing Liszt's habit of playing from memory, requested him on
this occasion at least to have the music open before him on the
piano-desk, as he himself did not like to risk playing his part without
notes, and he felt it would produce an unfavorable impression on the
public if Liszt should play from memory while he, the composer, had to
rely on his copy. Liszt, as the story goes, made no promise one way or
the other. So when the time came the pianists walked on the stage, each
carrying his roll of music. Pixis carefully unrolled his and placed it
on the piano-desk. Liszt, however, sat down at the piano, and, just
before beginning to play, tossed his roll over behind the instrument and
proceeded to play his part by heart. Liszt was young at that time,
and--well--somewhat inconsiderate. Later on he very rarely played even
his own compositions without having the music before him, and during
most of the time I was there copies of his later publications were
always lying on the piano, and among them a copy of the "Benediction de
Dieu dans la Solitude," which Liszt had used so many times when playing
to his guests that it became associated with memories of Berlioz,
Rubinstein, Vieuxtemps, Wieniawski, Joachim, and our immediate circle,
Raff, Bulow, Cornelius, Klindworth, Pruckner, and others. When I left
Weimar I took this copy with me as a souvenir, and still have it; and I
treasure it all the more for the marks of usage which it bears. I also
have a very old copy of the Handel "E Minor Fugue," which was given to
me by Dreyschock and which I studied with him and afterward with Liszt.
Dreyschock had evidently used this same copy when he studied the fugue
under Tomaschek. It has penciled figures indicating the fingering, made
by both Dreyschock and Liszt. A few years ago I missed this valuable
relic for a while, and was much grieved by my loss. Fortunately it was
discovered in the ash-barrel at the back of the house. Shades of
Tomaschek, Dreyschock, and Liszt!
LISZT CONDUCTING
In his conducting Liszt was not unerring. I do not know how far he may
have progressed in later years, but when I was in Weimar he had very
little practice as a conductor, and was not one of the highest class. He
conducted, however, and with good results on certain important
occasions, such as, for instance, when "Lohengrin" was produced.
On account of his strong advocacy of Wagner and modern music generally,
he had many enemies, as was to be expected of a man of his prominence.
If perchance a mishap occurred during his conducting there were always
petty critics on hand to take advantage of the opportunity and to
magnify the fault.
One of these occasions happened at the musical festival at Karlsruhe in
October, 1853, while he was conducting Beethoven's "Ninth Symphony." In
a passage where the bassoon enters on an off beat the player made a
mistake and came in on the even beat. This error, not the conductor's
fault, occasioned such confusion that Liszt was obliged to stop the
orchestra and begin over again, and the little fellows made the most of
this royal opportunity to pitch into him.
LISZT'S SYMPHONIC POEMS--REHEARSING "TASSO"
When Liszt first began his career as an orchestral composer two parties
were formed, one of which predicted success, the other disaster. The
latter asserted that he was too much of a pianist and began too late in
life for success in this direction. Even in Weimar, in his own
household, so to speak, opinions were divided. I remember one of my
fellow-pupils saying that he did not think it was his forte. Raff had
pretty much the same opinion, and I inclined to agree with them. Liszt
was in earnest, however, and availed himself of every means of
preparation for the work. Frequently upon his request the best
orchestral players came to the Altenburg, and he asked them about their
instruments, their nature, and whether certain passages were idiomatic
to them. About the time I came to Weimar to study with him he had nearly
finished "Tasso," and before giving it the last touches he had a
rehearsal of it, which we attended. We went to the theater, and he took
the orchestra into a room which would just about hold it. Imagine the
din in that room! The effect was far from musical, but to Liszt it was
the key to the polyphonic effects which he wished to produce.
EXTRACTS FROM A DIARY
As an illustration of some of the advantages of a residence at Weimar
almost _en famille_ with Liszt during "die goldene Zeit," a few extracts
from my diary are presented, showing how closely events followed one
upon another:
"Sunday, April 24, 1853. At the Altenburg this forenoon at eleven
o'clock. Liszt played with Laub and Cossmann two trios by Cesar Franck."
This is peculiarly interesting in view of the fact that the composer,
who died about ten years ago, is just beginning to receive due
appreciation. In Paris at the present time there is almost a Cesar
Franck cult, but it is quite natural that Liszt, with his quick and
far-seeing appreciation, should have taken especial delight in playing
his music forty-seven years ago. Liszt was very fond of it.
"May 1. Quartet at the Altenburg at eleven o'clock, after which
Wieniawski played with Liszt the violin and pianoforte 'Sonata in A' by
Beethoven."
"May 3. Liszt called at my rooms last evening in company with Laub and
Wieniawski. Liszt played several pieces, among them my 'Amitie pour
Amitie.'"