I was very glad to meet Liszt again at the soirée given for Villiers
de l'Isle-Adam by the Countess Muchanoff. Very soon after my entrance I
recognized that he, also, was impatient to speak to me, for he threw me
a questioning look, and as soon as we could draw a little away from the
others he said to me:--
"Well, what news?"
Then I told him how my letter, repeating his words, had caused a
commotion of joy at Tribschen, had given them a blessed release from
harrowing cares, and the consolation of knowing that the affection
of a heart so dear was not lost. From that certainty they could draw
strength for the struggle to come! As for me, simply the messenger, the
master had sent me his blessing.
Liszt, his eyes shining with tears quickly dried, seized my hand and
rapidly whispered to me:
"Guard well the secret that I confide to you; I will do my best on my
return to Italy, to stop a few hours at Lucerne in order to embrace my
daughter and my grandchildren."
And then he, who always refused to play, went to the piano, lifted the
cover with a quick movement, and ran his masterful fingers over the
keys in an impetuous, thrilling and passionate improvisation.
The ovation which this called forth approached delirium, but he hardly
noticed it.
It was now the turn of Villiers to charm the audience. Well curled,
his Maltese cross in the right place on his left side, he looked very
magnificent. Yet he appeared to me a little nervous and disturbed....
Was it possible that the vast ornate drawing-room of the mansion
overwhelmed him, and that this gathering of noble, well-dressed ladies,
of high functionaries, of artists, forming a half circle as in a
theatre, and staring at him in silent attention, abashed him more than
the Olympian intimacy of Tribschen? In full light, standing at the end
of the grand piano, he seemed to hesitate, he did not speak. But at
last, with a proud toss of his head, he threw back his waving hair and
began to read in a firm, clear voice.
I was reassured; Villiers, very certain of himself, was taking plenty
of time and managing his effects; the audience was interested, a
flattering murmur followed certain passages, they applauded; then
again, the respectful silence was renewed, and they listened intently.
But, alas! What is happening? Suddenly Villiers is silent, he drops
his manuscript and looks at his audience with wide open eyes filled
with fright. With an hysterical gesture he un-hooks the belt of his
trousers, then he takes off his shoes and seats himself on the top
of the piano. Oh, horror! What can he mean? Is that in the play? A
mystification? A wager? In any case it is in very bad taste! There is a
mocking uproar and everyone rises; they come to me; they question me.
What can I say? How can I make them understand that Villiers believes
himself in danger of death, and that therefore he has done what he
thinks is best for himself, irrespective of propriety. He has had,
without doubt, a little nervous spasm of the heart; some physician,
chaffing him, perhaps, once told him that if anything of the kind
happened, he must loosen his clothing quickly, take off his shoes and
stockings, and seat himself high up so that his feet would hang. And
now they can see that the invalid has conformed to this order in every
particular.
Much laughter was stifled behind fans. They pretended to forget the
incident.
Villiers had fled, bearing his shoes with him, while our little group,
not daring to follow him in beating a retreat, remained feeling very
much embarrassed, and experiencing the isolation of the vanquished.
Franz Servais was filled with consternation; he walked about
feverishly, his hands in his pockets, the long pale wisps of his hair
hanging and almost meeting again in his mouth, which constantly opened
to give vent to vehement recriminations.
"There is only one thing that can save the situation," cried he. "There
is only one excuse that Villiers can make. Death! Yes, yes, for the
honour of us all he must die!"