In the spring of 1882 I sailed for Europe. My father wanted me to know
his old friend, Liszt, and to hear the first performances of “Parsifal”
in Bayreuth. My throat was also still bothering me and the doctor
thought that a cure at Ems would be a good thing.
I was naturally overwhelmed at the idea of seeing the great Liszt face
to face. His name had been, ever since I could remember, a household
word in our family. My father and mother had told me so much of his
friendship for them, his genius and his triumphs as a piano virtuoso,
and of his voluntary relinquishment of all this to devote himself
exclusively to creative work, and toward helping the entire modern
school of young composers. My father had kept up a desultory
correspondence with Liszt during the years he had spent in America, and
as soon as I arrived in Weimar I went to the little gardener’s cottage
in which he lived to pay my respects to the old master. I entered his
room in great trepidation, and when I managed to stutter a few words to
tell him that I was the son of Doctor Leopold Damrosch, I was amazed at
the kindness of his reception. He immediately spoke of my father and
mother with such love that I forgot some of my timidity. He asked me
about an opera on Shakespeare’s “Romeo and Juliet,” which my father had
composed in the old Weimar days but which he had subsequently destroyed
as he was dissatisfied with it. He then asked me how long I expected to
stay in Weimar. I said two days and that I was then going to Ems for a
cure and then to Bayreuth to hear the first “Parsifal” performances.
A curious change came over Liszt as I spoke. He repeated several times,
“Two days, ha, yes, ‘Parsifal,’ of course, Bayreuth.—‘Parsifal,’ of
course,” and then he picked up a box of cigars.
“Well, at least you’ll take a cigar before you leave Weimar?”