PROMETHEUS.
Liszt’s Letter to George Sand--Happiness of the Wanderer--Allusions
to Wagner--The Artist as an Exile--Sorrowful Character of his
lot--His Solitude--His Creative Moments and Inspirations--No
Sympathy Between the Artist and Society--Degradation of
Art--Artisans not Artists--Letter to Adolf Pictet--Why he Devoted
Himself to the Piano--His love for it--Estimate of its
Capabilities--Miss Fay’s “Music Study in Germany”--A Critical
Notice--The Author’s First Meeting with Liszt--Personal
Description--Grace of his Manner--Peculiarities of his Playing--His
Home--Pleasant Gatherings--Personal Incidents--Liszt and Tausig--The
Loss of “Faust”--Happily Recovered--The final Tribute.
On the 30th of April, 1837, Liszt writes to George Sand:
“Happy, a hundred times happy, the wanderer! Happy he who does not have
to traverse the beaten paths and to walk in the old tracks! Restlessly
rushing on, he sees things only as they seem, and men only as they show
themselves. Happy he who gives up the warm, friendly hand before its
pressure grows icily chill; who does not wait for the day on which the
affectionate glances of the loved one change to blank indifference! In
fine, happy he who breaks with relations before he is broken by them!
Of the artist it is specially true that he only pitches his tent for
the hour and never settles down in any permanent place.”
Thus declares the youthful storming Apollo and many a Marsyas he flayed
on these journeys of investigation, personal as well as social, over
all Europe; on many a Midas grew asses’ ears in sight of the world.
Read the “Letters of Travel of a Baccalaureate in Music.” There is
nothing more spiritedly humorous, more serene in its earnestness.
Scarce ten years later, what was the experience of Richard Wagner, to
whom a second supplementing genius was even more indispensable than
the tenor Nourrit to Rossini, with “the masterwork which sprang from
the brain of the Olympian god,” and still appeals to the multitude to
combine art with art, the spirit with spirit, light with light?
During his abode as an exile in Weimar, in May, 1849, he writes:
“Wonderful! through the love of this rarest of all friends, I gained
at a time when I was homeless, the real home for my art, long looked
for, always sought in the wrong places and never found. At the close
of my exile, my wandering about led me to a little place which was to
make a home for me.” This he did for him and for many another musician,
after his change in 1842, for he knew that the artist’s only home is
his art.
“Is he not always a stranger among men,” he continues, in his letter to
George Sand. “Whatever he may do, wherever he may go, he always feels
himself an exile. To him it is as if he had known a purer heaven, a
warmer sun, a better existence. What can he do to escape this boundless
sorrow, this unvoiced pain? Singing, must the artist rush through
the world and in hurrying by scatter his thoughts without inquiring
on what soil they fall, whether calumnies stab them, whether laurels
mockingly cover them. Sorrowful and great is the destiny of the artist.
A sacred predestination affixes its seal upon him at birth. He does not
elect his calling but his calling elects him and incessantly urges him
forward. However unpropitious his relations, the hostility of family
and the world and the pressure of his mournful wretchedness may be,
however insuperable the obstacles may seem, his will stands firm and
remains unalterably turned to the pole. This pole to him is his art; it
is his devotion to the mysterious and the divine in man and nature.
“The artist stands alone. The circumstances of his life force him
into society, and so his soul creates in the midst of inharmonious
influences an impenetrable solitude in which no voice of man is heard.
All the passions which agitate men--vanity, ambition, envy, jealousy,
even love itself, are outside the magic circle which incloses his inner
world. Withdrawing into this, as into a sanctuary, he contemplates and
worships that ideal which it is the object of his life to realize. Here
appear to him divine and incomprehensible forms, and colors such as his
eyes never beheld on the most beautiful flowers in the brightness of
spring. Here he listens to the harmony of the eternal, whose cadence
rules the worlds, and in which all the voices of creation join in a
marvelous celestial concert. Then an ardent fever seizes him. His
blood flows more quickly. A thousand consuming thoughts revolve in
his brain from which only the sacred labor of art can release it. He
feels as if he were the victim of an unutterable disease. An unknown
power urges him to reveal by words, colors or tones, the ideal which
dwells in him and fills him with a thirst of desire, with a torment
for possession, such as no man has ever experienced for an object
of actual passion. But when his work is ended and the whole world
applauds, he is not wholly satisfied. In his discontent he would
perhaps destroy it, did not some new phenomenon avert his glance from
his creations, to throw him anew into those heavenly, painful ecstacies
which make his life a constant struggle toward an unattainable goal, a
continual effort of all the powers of the spirit to raise itself to the
realization of that which he has conceived in those favored hours when
the eternal beauty disclosed itself without a cloud.”
Again he describes, with more gloomy tints, the social reception of the
artist to-day, in our enlightened century, and the necessity which has
been laid upon him, the mighty and high-throned one, at all times, and
now more than ever, to associate with the meanest existence, provided
it truly longs for the marvels of art, to lavish upon them the water of
life.
“The artist dwells these days outside of the social community,” he
writes, “for the poetical element, especially the religious agitation
of humanity, has disappeared from our modern public. What have they
who attempt to solve the problem of human happiness by granting a few
privileges, by an unlimited expansion of industry and of egoistic
well being--what have they to do with a poet or an artist? Why should
they trouble themselves with those who wander about, of no use to the
State-machinery of the world, to kindle sacred flames, noble feelings
and lofty inspirations, that by their achievements they may satisfy
the restless longing for the beautiful and the great which rests more
or less securely in the depths of every soul? Such beautiful times are
no more as when the blooming verdure of art spread itself and exhaled
its perfume over all Greece. Every citizen was then an artist, for
law-givers, warriors, philosophers, all were imbued with the idea of
moral, spiritual and physical beauty. The majestic astonished no one,
and great achievements were as common as those creations which at the
same time exhibited and prompted them.
“The strong and mighty art of the Middle Ages which built cathedrals
and summoned the enraptured people to them with peal of bells and
the sound of the organ, became extinct when faith was animated anew.
There is to-day the inward interest which unites art and society, but
that which brought power and glory to those other deep agitations, is
destroyed. The social art has gone and has not yet returned. Whom do
we principally meet in these days? Sculptors? No, the manufacturers
of statues. Painters? No, the manufacturers of pictures. Musicians?
No, the manufacturers of music. Everywhere artisans, nowhere artists.
Hence, there can only be cruel pain to one who was born with the pride
and the wild freedom of a genuine child of art. He is surrounded by
a swarm of mechanical workers who obsequiously devote their services
to the caprices of the populace and the fancies of the uncultivated
wealthy, at whose nod they bow themselves down to the earth, as if
they could not get close enough to it. The artist must accept them as
his brothers and as the multitude confounds them together, must see
himself and them rated at the same value and regarded with the same
childish, stupid astonishment. It can not be said that these are the
complaints of vanity and self-conceit. No, no--they who stand so high
that no rivalry can reach them, they know this. The bitter tears which
our eyes have shed belong to the worship of the true god, whose temple
is defiled with idols for whose sake the silly people have forsaken the
worship of the living god and bowed the knee before these degrading
divinities of stone.”
Thus speaks this proud and truly noble soul whose best efforts and
talents have been sacrificed to the silliness of idle caprice and to
the obstinate humors of shallow minds. He knows that the only remedy is
the old Grecian one, the personal contemplation of noble forms, of true
skill.
“It is a fact that thorough musical culture is confined to a very
few,” he says. “The majority are ignorant of the first rudiments of
art and in the upper circles nothing is rarer than an earnest study of
our masters. They are content with hearing a few good works from time
to time, and without choice, amongst a mass of miserable stuff which
spoils the taste and accustoms the ear to wretched poverty. In contrast
with the poet who speaks all languages and besides only devotes himself
to mankind, and whose mind has been cultivated by classical study, the
musician reveals himself in a mysterious language, the comprehension
of which, if it does not presuppose particular study, shows at least
a long accustomed familiarity with it. Besides that, in contrast with
the painter and sculptor, he has the disadvantage that they are devoted
more to the expression of form, which is more universal than the inward
conception of nature and the feeling for the infinite which are the
essence of music.”
How firmly also his knowledge was founded upon personal experience is
shown by the fact that like photography now-a-days, which represents
all and every phase of the treasures of the plastic arts, so the piano
for him could “gather the harvest, make use of the garnered treasures,
and invest with life again those which conduce to ideas of happiness.”
In his twenty-fifth year, he writes to Adolf Pictet, asking why he
was surprised that he devoted himself exclusively to the piano. He
hardly realized that he had touched upon the most sensitive point of
his very existence. “You do not know,” he says, “that if I should give
up my piano, which speaks so much, it would be to me a day of gloom,
robbing me of the light which illuminated all my early life and has
grown to be inseparable from it. For, look you, my piano is to me what
his vessel is to the seaman, his horse is to the Arab--nay, even more,
till now it has been myself, my speech, my life. It is the repository
of all that stirred my nature in the passionate days of my youth. I
confided to it all my desires, my dreams, my joys and sorrows. Its
strings vibrated with my emotions and its flexible keys have obeyed my
every caprice. Would you have me abandon it and strive for the more
brilliant and sounding triumphs of the theater or orchestra? O, no!
Even admitting that I were competent for music of that kind, even then
my resolution would be firm not to abandon the study and development
of piano-playing, until I had accomplished whatever is practicable,
whatever it is possible to attain now-a-days.”
In this he discloses those deep aspirations which now have a more
lively interest and higher significance for us, since we know that they
have not disappointed him.
“Perhaps the mysterious influence which binds me to it so strongly,
prejudices me,” he writes, “but I consider the piano as of great
consequence. In my estimation it holds the first place in the hierarchy
of instruments. It is the most enjoyable and the most common of all.
Its importance and popularity are due to the harmonious power which
it almost exclusively possesses, in consequence of which it is also
capable of compressing the whole art of music in itself. In the compass
of its seven octaves it includes the entire scope of the orchestra
and the ten fingers suffice for the harmony which is produced by a
band of a hundred performers. By its agency it is possible to diffuse
works which, owing to the difficulty of collecting an orchestra,
would remain unknown to the great majority. Consequently it is to the
orchestral composition what the steel engraving is to painting, which
it repeats over and over, and though it lacks color yet it can exhibit
light and shade.”
In order to reach the goal of an art which has been rightly designated
as the idea of the world and the soul of humanity, and to behold it
spreading over our age and extending to posterity, he settled down to
rest after his career as a virtuoso, and founded “Weimar.” It must
be in that Germany of which he wrote to his friend Berlioz, in 1838,
“the study of art is universally less superficial here, the feeling
is truer, the usages are better. The traditions of Mozart, Beethoven
and Weber are not lost. These three geniuses have taken deep root in
Germany.” Without this Weimar we should certainly have had no artistic
execution to-day which would be worthy of the modern or classic
productions. Indeed Munich and Baireuth themselves, how could they
have been possible without the master-scholars who by Liszt’s piano
instruction displayed in every form the expressive, soaring, flaming
revelation of minute details as well as of the whole.
In bringing to a close the review of Liszt’s moral and artistic
influence, alike fruitful and far-reaching, we give first of all an
animated descriptive sketch by a pupil of this Weimar school and then
the list of master-scholars, whom Liszt has educated, and who have
continuously assisted in the realization of his ideal wishes and hopes.
“Music Study in Germany,” says the “Allgemeine Deutsche Musikzeitung,”
of 1881, “is the name of a very comprehensive, elegant and spiritedly
written little American book. It is in the form of letters which the
American author, Miss Amy Fay, sent from Germany to her home, during
her studies with Tausig, Kullak and Deppe. She manifests not only great
musical and artistic intelligence in general, but also an unusual
knowledge of human nature. Miss Fay has a feeling for the finest
emotions of the soul. With genuine stereoscopic fidelity she points
out the grand characteristics and the little peculiarities of the
important personages with whom she has had the good fortune to come in
contact. Of the many beauties and charms contained in these letters,
those which relate to Liszt must naturally awaken the greatest, most
universal and lasting interest. We select from them a few brief
extracts, because we know that the feelings of reverence, love and
intense admiration, which the author cherishes for Liszt, are shared to
the full by thousands and thousands of hearts.”
Miss Fay saw the master first at the theater in Weimar, with three
ladies, one of whom was very handsome. “He sat,” so she says, “with
his back to the stage, not paying the least attention, apparently, to
the play, for he kept talking all the while himself, and yet no point
of it escaped him, as I could tell by his expression and gestures.
Liszt is the most interesting and striking man imaginable, tall and
slight, with deep set eyes, shaggy eyebrows and iron-gray hair. His
mouth turns up at the corners, which gives him, when he smiles, a most
crafty and Mephistophelean expression. His hands are very narrow, with
long and slender fingers, which look as if they had twice as many
joints as other people’s. They are so flexible and supple that it
makes you nervous to look at them. Anything like the polish of his
manners I never saw. When he got up to leave his box, for instance,
after his adieus to the ladies, he laid his hand on his heart and made
his final bow, not with affectation or in mere gallantry, but with a
quiet courtliness which made you feel that no other way of bowing to
a lady was right or proper. It was most characteristic. But the most
extraordinary thing about Liszt is his wonderful variety of expression
and play of feature. One moment his face will look dreamy, shadowy,
tragic, the next, insinuating, amiable, ironical, sarcastic, but always
the same captivating grace of manners. He is a perfect study. He is all
spirit, but half the time at least, I should say, a mocking spirit. All
Weimar adores him, and people say that women still go perfectly crazy
over him. When he goes out every one greets him as if he were a king.
Liszt looks as if he had been through everything, and has a face seamed
with experience. He wears a long Abbe’s coat, reaching nearly down to
his feet. He made me think of an old-time magician and I felt with a
touch of his wand he could transform us all.”
The recommendations of the Countess von Schleinitz secured the author’s
introduction to Liszt. She continues: “To-morrow I shall present
myself, though I don’t know how the lion will act when I beard him
in his den. I brought the B minor sonata of Chopin and intended to
play only the first movement, for it is extremely difficult and it
cost me all the labor I could give to prepare that. But playing to
Liszt reminds me of trying to feed the elephant in the Zoological
Gardens with lumps of sugar. He disposes of whole movements as if they
were nothing and stretches out gravely for more. One of my fingers
fortunately began to bleed and that gave me a good excuse for stopping.
Liszt sat down and played the whole last three movements himself. It
was the first time I had heard him and I don’t know which was the most
extraordinary, the Scherzo, with its wonderful lightness and swiftness,
the Adagio, with its depth and pathos, or the last movement where
the whole key-board seemed to thunder and lighten. There is such a
vividness about everything he plays that it does not seem as if it were
mere music you were listening to, but it is as if he had called up a
real living form and you saw it breathing before your face and eyes.
It gives me almost a ghostly feeling to hear him, and it seems as if
the air were peopled with spirits. Oh! he is a perfect wizard! It is as
interesting to see him as it is to hear him, for his face changes with
every modulation of the piece and he looks exactly as he is playing. He
has one element that is most captivating and that is a sort of delicate
and fitful mirth that keeps peering out at you here and there! It is
most peculiar, and when he plays that way the most bewitching little
expression comes over his face. It seems as if a little spirit of joy
were playing hide and go seek with you.
“On Friday Liszt came and paid me a visit and even played a little
on my piano. Only think what an honor! At the same time he invited
me to a matinee he was going to give on Sunday for some countess of
distinction. * * * He played five times, the last three times duets
with Capellmeister Lassen, and made me come and turn the leaves.
Gracious! how he does read! It is very difficult to turn for him, for
he reads ever so far ahead of what he is playing, and takes in fully
five bars at a glance, so you have to guess about where you think he
would like to have the page over. Once I turned it too late, and once
too early, and he snatched it out of my hand and whirled it back. Not
quite the situation for timorous me, was it? At home Liszt doesn’t
wear his long Abbe’s coat, but a short one in which he looks much more
artistic. It is so delicious in that room of his. It was furnished and
put in order for him by the Grand Duchess of Weimar herself. The walls
are pale gray with 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. 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 the gentlemen
can light their cigars.
“There is a carpet on the floor, a rarity in Germany, and Liszt
generally walks about, and smokes, talks 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 can
not conceive, without hearing him, how poetic he is, or the thousand
nuances which he can throw into the simplest thing. 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 can not be treated as one.
He is a monarch, and when he extends his royal scepter you can sit
down and play to him. You never can ask him to play anything for you
no matter how much you are dying to hear it. You can not 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.
“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 the 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?”
A talented pupil of Henselt’s arrived and played for Liszt with great
success. Miss Fay says: “She played with the greatest aplomb, although
her touch had a certain roughness about it to my ear. But 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 emotions. He is a many-sided person and reflects
back the light in all colors, no matter how you look at him. His pupils
adore him, as in fact every one 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 Stuttgart Conservatory, played a Liszt concerto. His
name is V. Liszt kept up a little running fire of satire all the time
he was playing, but in a good-natured way. Everything that he says is
so striking. In one place where V. was playing the melody rather feebly
Liszt suddenly took his place at the piano, and said: ‘When I play, I
always play for the people in the gallery so that those persons who pay
only five groschen for their seats may also hear something.’ Then he
began and I wish you could have heard him. The sound didn’t seem 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 it
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.
“How he can bear to hear us play, I can not imagine. 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
pedals are the secrets of his playing, and then he seems to dive down
into the most hidden thoughts of the composer, and fetch them to the
surface, so 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. 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.
“Liszt does such bewitching little things. The other day, for instance,
Fraulein Gaul was playing something to him, and in it were two runs,
and after each run two staccato chords. She did them most beautifully
and struck the chords immediately after.
“‘No, no,’ said Liszt, ‘after you make a run you must wait a minute
before you strike the chords as if in admiration of your own
performance. You must pause, as if to say, ‘now nicely I did that.’
Then he sat down and made a run himself, waited a second, and then
struck the two chords in the treble, saying as he did so, ‘Bra-_vo_,’
and then he played again, struck the other chord, and said again,
‘Bra-_vo_,’ and positively, it was as if the piano had softly
applauded! That is the way he plays everything. It seems as if the
piano were speaking with a human tongue.
“You can not conceive anything like Liszt’s playing of Beethoven.
When he plays a sonata it is as if the composition rose from the dead
and stood transfigured before you. You ask yourself, ‘did I ever play
that?’”
Once Miss Fay asked the master to tell her how he produced a certain
effect in one of his great passages. He smiled and then immediately
played the whole passage. “‘Oh! I’ve invented a great many things,’
he said, indifferently, ‘this for instance,’ and he began playing a
double roll of octaves in chromatics in the bass of the piano. It was
very grand and made the room reverberate. ‘Magnificent,’ said I. ‘Did
you ever hear me do a storm?’ said he. ‘No.’ ‘Ah! you ought to hear me
do a storm, storms are my forte.’ Then to himself between his teeth,
while a weird look came into his eyes as if he could indeed rule the
blast--‘Then crash the trees.’ How ardently I wished he would play a
storm, but he did not. Alas, that we poor mortals here below should
share so often the fate of Moses and have only a glimpse of the
Promised Land, and that without the consolation of being Moses!
“Liszt sometimes strikes wrong notes when he plays, but it does not
trouble him in the least, on the contrary he rather enjoys it when
he comes down squarely wrong, as it affords him an opportunity of
displaying his genius and giving things such a turn that the false
note will appear simply a key leading to new and unexpected beauties.
An accident of this kind happened to him in one of the Sunday matinees
when the room was full of distinguished people and of his pupils. He
was rolling up the piano in arpeggios in a very grand manner indeed,
when he struck a semi-tone short of the high note upon which he had
intended to end. I caught my breath and wondered whether he was
going to leave us like that, in mid air, as it were, and the harmony
unresolved or whether he would be reduced to the humiliation of
correcting himself like ordinary mortals and taking the right chord.
A half smile came over his face, as much as to say, ‘don’t fancy that
this little thing disturbs me,’ and he instantly went meandering down
the piano in harmony with the false note he had struck, and then
rolled deliberately up in a second grand sweep, this time striking
true. I never saw a more delicious piece of cleverness. It was so
quick-witted and so exactly characteristic of Liszt. Instead of giving
you a chance to say ‘He has made a mistake,’ he forces you to say, ‘He
has shown how to get out of a mistake.’
“Another day I heard him pass from one piece into another by making
the finale of the first one play the part of prelude to the second.
So exquisitely were the two woven together that you could hardly tell
where the one left off and the other began. Ah, me! such a facile
grace! Nobody will ever equal him with those rolling basses and those
flowing trebles. And then his Adagios! When you hear him in one of
those you feel that his playing has got to that point where it is
purified from all earthly dross and is an exhalation of the soul that
mounts straight to heaven.”
This little book contains many more beautiful passages but we are
reluctantly forced to desist. One charming trait of Liszt is related,
however, which we can not pass over in closing. Miss Fay says:
“Gottschal, organist in Weimar, told me that one time when Tausig
was ‘hard up’ for money, he sold the score of Liszt’s ‘Faust’ for
five thalers, to a servant, along with a great pile of his own notes.
Gottschal, hearing of it, went to the man and purchased them. Then he
went to Liszt and told him that he had the score. As it happened, the
publisher had written for it that very day and Liszt was turning the
house upside down, looking for it everywhere. He was in an awful state
of mind because his score was nowhere to be found. ‘A whole year’s
labor lost,’ he cried, and he was in such a rage that when Gottschal
asked him for the third time what he was looking for, he turned and
stamped his foot at him and said: ‘You confounded fellow, can’t you
leave me in peace and not torment me with your stupid questions?’
Gottschal knew perfectly well what was wanting but he wished to have
a little fun out of the matter. At last he took pity on Liszt and
said: ‘Herr Doctor, I know what you have lost! It is the score to your
Faust.’ ‘O,’ said Liszt, changing his tone immediately, ‘do you know
anything of it?’ ‘Of course, I do,’ said Gottschal, and proceeded to
unfold Master Tausig’s performance and how he had rescued the precious
music. Liszt was transported with joy that it was found and cried out:
‘We are saved, Gottschal has rescued us,’ and then Gottschal said that
Liszt embraced him in his transport, and could not say or do enough
to make up for his having been so rude to him. Well, you would have
supposed that it was now all up with Master Tausig, but not at all.
A few days after was Tausig’s birth-day. Madame C. took Gottschal
aside and begged him to drop the subject of the note-stealing, for
Liszt doted so on his Carl that he wished to forget it. Sure enough,
Liszt kissed Carl and congratulated him on his birth-day and consoled
himself with his same old observation: ‘You’ll either turn out a great
blockhead, my little Carl, or a great master.’”
“O, thou amiable grand master Liszt!”
Thus closes our notice of this genial book. Since the “soulful
fantasies” of Bettina about Beethoven, nothing comparable with it from
a lady’s hand has appeared.
In closing, we append, with the master’s own approval, as the
fac-simile in our own little work shows, a list of his principal
scholars. We preface it with a sentiment of the master, which shows how
much that remark of Beethoven’s to Bettina about music was to him--“The
elevated types of the moral sense also constitute its foundations,” or
truth and the will combined. It reads:
“It belongs to the higher mission of art, not only to exhibit and
celebrate in song the heroic spirit but to inspire it. Hence the artist
should feel it, preserve it and diffuse it like a sacred flame.”
APPENDIX.
A LETTER FROM LISZT’S FATHER.
The _Harmonicon_, an English musical journal, of June, 1824, contains
the following interesting letter, addressed to its editor by Liszt’s
father:
PARIS, 1824.
SIR:--The expressions which you frequently employed in speaking of
my son have been so flattering, that I can not but be sensible of
your kindness, and therefore take this opportunity of testifying
my gratitude. I must say, that I by no means anticipated the high
degree of success with which he was honored by the public of Paris,
and above all, was not prepared for the comparison, by no means
advantageous, which they were pleased to draw between the rising
talents of my son, and those of our great Mozart. I recognize in this
amiable exaggeration that spirit of French politeness, the boast of
which I have all my life been accustomed to hear, and my son will
think himself most happy, if hereafter he shall have the good fortune
to share some degree of celebrity with the masters of the German
school, though he must remain at a very humble distance from him
whom it glories in placing at its head.
You must however allow me, Sir, to make a few observations upon the
following expression that occurred in one of your journals: “The
parents of young Liszt are poor, and he supports them by the product
of his talents.”
Fortune, it is true, has not loaded me with her favors, yet I have
no reason to complain of her neglect. For the space of twenty-three
years I have been in the service of Prince Esterhazy, where I filled
the situation of steward of part of his sheep-farms. The immense
income of this prince, and the noble and generous manner in which he
acts toward those who have the good fortune to belong to any of his
establishments, have long since placed me in that _aurea mediocritas_
so happily described by the Latin poet.
Having observed in my only son, from a very early age, a decided
predilection for music, and having from my youth cultivated
the art as an amateur, I myself, for the space of three years,
superintended his first musical education with that constancy
and perseverance which form one of the characteristic traits of
our nation. I afterward placed him for eighteen months under the
instruction of Messrs. Salieri and Czerny, from the first of whom he
received lessons in harmony and counter-point, and from the second,
instruction on the piano-forte, and to both of whom he is indebted
for their kind care and attention. I am happy to be thus able
publicly to render them the homage of my grateful acknowledgments.
I came to Paris with the permission of the prince, and by the advice
of my friends, in order to perfect my son’s talents, by affording
him an opportunity of hearing the numerous artists whom this capital
contains, and of cultivating the French language, of which he has
already some general idea; a language which justly lays claim to the
title of being that of Europe. At the same time, I have not neglected
to take advantage of the eagerness testified by the Parisians to
hear his performance, in order to indemnify myself for the expenses
necessarily attendant upon a long journey, and the removal of my
whole family.
Accept my best acknowledgments, and believe me, etc.,
ADAM LISZT.
Accompanying this letter is the following editorial comment:
“The young Francis Liszt, with his father, arrived in London last
month, and has exhibited his talents to many people of rank, and to
some of the most distinguished professors of this metropolis, who all
agree in considering him as a performer that would be ranked very
high, even were he arrived at full manhood, and therefore a most
surprising instance of precocious talent at so early an age as twelve.
He executes the most difficult of the modern piano-forte music without
the smallest apparent effort, and plays at sight things that very few
masters would venture upon, until they had given to them a little
private study. But his extemporaneous performances are the most
remarkable. Upon any subject that is proposed to him he improvises
with the fancy and method of a deliberating composer, and with the
correctness of an experienced contrapuntist. His hand is not unusually
large, but is amazingly strong, and his touch has all the vigor of
maturity. He has reached the usual growth of boys of his age, and
possesses an open, intelligent and agreeable countenance, with a
frankness, but at the same time a propriety of manner, that indicates
a good temper and a correct understanding.”
LISZT’S ONE OPERA.
A German correspondent of the _Harmonicon_ sent that paper the
following account of the performance of Liszt’s Opera, “Don Sancho,” on
Oct. 18, 1825, at the Academie Royale de Musique, Paris:
“The extraordinary youth, the composer of this opera, has but just
entered his thirteenth year. He has been acknowledged by some of
the first connoisseurs of Germany and France to merit a place among
the principal pianists of Europe; nay, some have gone so far as to
say that he yields the palm to Hummel only, whose immense talent as
an improvisatore undoubtedly stands as yet alone and unrivaled. But
the youthful Liszt is also a composer and gifted with the talent of
improvisation in a high degree. Aware of this, and wishing early--we
trust not too soon--to develop his talents, the admirers of the
youthful compatriot of Mozart desired him to try his strength on a
wider field; they procured a poem adapted, as they supposed, to his
powers. He has for some time been diligently engaged upon it, and the
present is the result of his labors. * * * *
“The subject of the opera is taken from a tale of Florian, entitled
‘_Don Sancho_,’ one of the feeblest of all this author’s works. It
is a kind of allegory, in which Love appears in person, armed with
his bow and arrows. The little god is the lord and master of an
almost inaccessible castle, the gate of which can be entered only by
two and two at a time. The drawbridge is never let down, save to a
knight accompanied by his lady. Elvira, persecuted by one whom she
detests, and who is attempted to be forced upon her as a husband,
disguises herself as a knight, and finding a favorable moment for
escape, sallies forth alone from the castle of the King, her father.
In the midst of a forest she meets with Don Sancho, who, being in
quest of adventures, is desirous of entering into conversation with
the unknown. Piqued at being answered only in monosyllables, he finds
means to excite a quarrel. A combat ensues. Elvira, as every child
could have foreseen, is vanquished. She sinks to the earth and her
helmet falling off discovers the features of a beauteous female. The
victor is on his knees before his lovely foe; Elvira no longer merits
that title. She also is in love with Don Sancho at first sight. But
a fearful storm comes on, and they hasten to the Castle of Love (_Le
Chateau d’ Amour_) which is seen in the distance. On the way they
are encountered by Rostubalde--for such is the name of the odious
rival--who wishes to prevent their entrance into the castle. Don
Sancho rushes upon him but is wounded; Elvira avenges the wound of
her lover by the death of Rostubalde. At length the two lovers are
at the gates of the castle. The winged god appears upon one of the
towers. ‘Open to us,’ cries Elvira, ‘we are two faithful ones who
love, and will love forever.’ At this magic word ‘_ever_,’ the gates
fly open. Cupid with a single touch heals the wound of Don Sancho.
Elvira returns with him to the court of the good-natured King, her
father, who asks not a word of explanation relative to the absence
of his blooming daughter from her home, but hastens to unite the two
lovers.
“In the outline here given of this dull and insipid pastoral, will,
with a very few exceptions, be found the general story of the opera
in question. The principal change is that of the person of Rostubalde
into an enchanter, of the name of Alidor; but even this resource,
such as it is, the authors have turned but to little account. In a
word, we consider our young artist as dragged to the earth by the
dead weight of this mass, which he has attempted in vain to leaven by
his genius.
“But we must now speak of the music. The overture contains many happy
motives, and passages of great beauty and effect. If it fails in
being strongly characteristic, we should impute the fault in a great
measure to the subject. An overture should be the preface to the
work, but what must be the preface to a work without interest! Among
the airs, the most admired was that of the Magician, and above all,
two romances, one sung by Don Sancho and the other by the Page. Many
of the orchestral parts are treated with a vigor and intelligence
which would do honor to composers long disciplined in their art.
“Upon a cool and dispassionate view of the whole composition, we
must remark, that the young Liszt ought to view this, his first
dramatic work, only in the light of an experiment on the extent of
his powers. Mozart was only twelve years of age when he composed his
‘Finta Semplice’ for the theater of Vienna. The distance is immense
indeed between that essay and his ‘Don Giovanni’; but the question is
whether he would ever have created the latter wondrous opera, if his
first steps in the career of excellence had been inhumanly arrested.”
BIHARY.
A review of Liszt’s “Bohemiens” which appeared in the London _Athenæum_
of 1859 gives the following interesting sketch of Bihary, the gypsy
virtuoso:
“Next we come to John Bihary, who seems to have been ‘the highest
expression’ of the gypsy virtuoso,--a brilliant player, courted at
all the courts and royally repaid for his playing:--a man as impudent
as an Italian _tenore_ of the worst class. Bihary lived in our own
time, for he gave a performance before Maria Louisa in 1814, and
there made himself so remarkable by his undisguised admiration of
one of the Imperial Princesses present, that his hostess found it
necessary to rebuke his audacious eyes. The violinist was called up
and was asked if he was a married man. His answer was ‘Yes;’ and that
his wife was with him in Vienna. On this he was bidden to present her
forthwith. Bihary’s wife was sent for on the spot. A striking looking
and still young woman, magnificently attired in the gypsy dress, was
brought. On receiving her, the Empress said to Bihary, that since
heaven had given him so beautiful and faithful a helpmate, he was
inexcusable in being so sensitive to the beauty of any princess,
recommended to him more propriety for the future, and after paying
marked compliments to Eve (Bihary’s wife), caused fifty ducats to be
given to her, and sent the pair home in one of the court carriages.
A second anecdote concerning Bihary is little less characteristic
of manners. About the year 1824 a carriage accident disabled him
for life. With true gypsy improvidence he had laid by nothing for a
rainy day, and could hardly toil through the least important part
in the band of which he had been the king. In this fallen estate it
chanced that he fell in at a tavern with some Hungarian noblemen,
who had known him in his days of court splendor and insolence. He
was prevailed on to play slowly one or two of the very easy pieces
of national music which he had yet power to master. His arm was soon
tired. On his stopping, one of his princely auditors bound it up in
bank-notes. Bihary died in 1827.”
THE HUNGARIAN GYPSY MUSIC.
“The Hungarian gypsy merely _plays_ Hungarian; he sings little or
not at all; and what is his principal instrument, and at the same
time the principal instrument of the Hungarian popular music? It is
the dulcimer or cimbalo. This instrument, consisting of a triangular
wooden frame, with a bottom and sounding board, over which wires by
twos or threes are stretched upon bridges, which are struck with two
wooden hammers, covered on the upper part with cloth or leather, is
peculiarly fitted to infuse into the little gypsy orchestra that
palpitating, feverish, tremulous essence, by which the performance of
a _Magyar nota_ gains so much. With this are associated the string
quartet, together with the contra-basso and also quite willingly
the clarinet. On the contrary all other instruments, as oböes,
flutes, fagotti, horns, trumpets, etc., are entirely excluded from a
Hungarian gypsy orchestra.
“What does the gypsy produce with these instruments? Is his music,
is the popular instrumental music any mere dance music? Essentially,
perhaps; but ere the dancing mood begins, ere joy and appetite for
pleasure hurry the _Magyar ember_ into dance and play, and make
him forget himself, he must first, in the slow, sustained tones of
a _Lassu_ (Adagio) in the minor, pour out his complainings, roll
away the sighs which hold his soul imprisoned in a melancholy gloom.
Not suddenly can his soul plunge into the fresh major tones of his
national dances; nay, he often clings to the dear minor mood after
his sadness is supposed to have given place to idle joy and pleasure.
The kind of music which we would here indicate is called in general
_Csardas_. This signifies both the dance itself and the dance music;
and as every Hungarian dance is preceded by an introductory _Lassu_,
this also is included in the term. The _Lassu_, soaring beyond the
possibility of being represented as a dance, is usually followed by
a _Frisded_, or Allegretto, of a quicker movement, but usually kept
also in the minor, yet shaped already to the dance, but only for
the _solo_ dance of men. If the _Magyar ember_ allows himself to be
drawn away from his sombre mood into a dance, it is at first only a
_solo_ dance; self-satisfied, he spins round in a circle and as yet
covets not an object for his love; only when the third part in this
psychological economy of the dance, with its quick, strong strokes,
has hurried him completely out of himself, does he begin to know no
moderation and no goal. His eye sparkles, his feet stamp, like those
of an untamed horse. To think, it is good that a man do not remain
alone, and to grasp at a maiden, are one act, and he begins with
her that wild, unbridled dance, which is called _Csardas_ in the
narrower sense of the word, or by way of distinction, _Friss_ (i. e.,
Allegro, Presto). Already in the _Lassu_, the dull brooding in which
the soul of the _Magyar ember_ swims, is crossed by some occasional
gleams of enthusiasm; but in the _Frisded_ the dark clouds of sadness
begin first to break away, and the _Friss_ tears away entirely the
thin veil which yet lay on his soul and left him in a self-contented
solitude. Now no repose is longer to be thought of; from melancholy
it becomes impetuous passion; from pain unbounded pleasure; in short,
his Me, delivered from itself, riots and storms away until his feet
refuse their service.”--_Neue Zeitschrift fuer Musik._
HEINE ON LISZT.
“That such a restless head, driven and perplexed by all the needs and
doctrines of his time, feeling the necessity of troubling himself
about all the necessities of humanity, and eagerly sticking his nose
into all the pots in which the good God brews the future, that Franz
Liszt can be no still piano-forte player for tranquil townsfolks
and good-natured nightcaps is self-evident. When he sits down at
the piano, and has stroked his hair back over his forehead several
times, and begins to improvise, he often storms away right madly
over the ivory keys, and there rings out a wilderness of heaven-high
thoughts, amid which, here and there, the sweetest flowers diffuse
their fragrance, so that one is at once troubled and beatified, but
troubled most.
“I confess to you, much as I love Liszt, his music does not operate
agreeably upon my mind; the more so that I am a Sunday child and
also _see_ the specters which others only hear; since, as you
know, at every tone which the hand strikes upon the key-board the
corresponding tone-figure rises in my mind; in short, since music
becomes visible to my inward eye. My brain still reels at the
recollection of the concert in which I last heard Liszt play. It
was in a concert for the unfortunate Italians, in the hotel of
that beautiful, noble and suffering princess who so beautifully
represents her material and her spiritual fatherland, to wit,
Italy and Heaven. * * * * (You surely have seen her in Paris, that
ideal form which yet is but the prison in which the holiest angel
soul has been imprisoned. * * But this prison is so beautiful that
every one lingers before it as if enchanted, and gazes at it with
astonishment.) * * It was in a concert for the benefit of the unhappy
Italians when I last heard Liszt, last winter, play, I know not
what, but I could swear he varied upon themes from the Apocalypse.
At first I could not quite distinctly see them, the four mystical
beasts; I only heard their voices, especially the roaring of the lion
and the screaming of the eagle. The ox with the book in his hand I
saw clearly enough. Best of all he played the Valley of Jehosaphat.
There were lists as at a tournament, and for spectators, the risen
people, pale as the grave and trembling, crowded round the immense
space. First galloped Satan into the lists, in black harness, on a
milk-white steed. Slowly rode behind him, Death on his pale horse. At
last Christ appeared, in golden armor, on a black horse, and with His
holy lance He first thrust Satan to the ground, and then Death, and
the spectators shouted.”
HEINRICH HEINE.
A LETTER FROM BERLIOZ TO LISZT.
The following is an extract from a letter written by Berlioz to Liszt
in 1843, as it appears in the former’s “Musical Wandering through
Germany:”
“Proudly you can exclaim, like Louis XIV, ‘I am the orchestra! I am
the chorus! At my grand piano I sing, dream, rejoice, and it excels
in its rapidity the nimblest bows. Like the orchestra, it has its
whispering flutes and pealing horns, and without any preparation
can, like that, breathe the evening breeze from its silvery clouds
of magic chords and tender melodies. It requires no scenes, no
decorations, no spacious stage; I need not weary myself with
tedious rehearsals; I want neither a hundred, nor fifty, nor twenty
assistants; I need not one, and can even do without music. A large
hall, a grand piano, and I am master of a whole audience. Applause
resounds through the room.’ When his memory awakens brilliant
fantasies under his fingers, shouts of enthusiasm welcome them. Then
he sings Schubert’s _Ave Maria_, or Beethoven’s _Adelaide_, and
every heart bounds to meet him, every breath is hushed in agitated
silence, in suppressed amazement. Then, high in air ascend the
thundering strife and glittering finale of these mighty fireworks
and the acclamations of the admiring public. Now, amid a shower
of wreaths and blossoms, the priest of harmony ascends his golden
tripod, beautiful maidens approach, to kiss with tears the hem of
his garment; to him belongs the sincere admiration of earnest minds,
as well as the involuntary homage of the envious; to him bend noble
forms, to him bow hearts who do not comprehend their own emotions.
“And the next day, having poured forth the inexhaustible treasure of
his inspiration, he hastens away, leaving behind him a glittering
train of glory and enthusiasm. It is a dream! One of those golden
dreams which one has when he is named Liszt or Paganini.”
HESSE’S CRITICISM OF LISZT.
Hesse, the famous German organist, after hearing Liszt play at Breslau,
in 1859, recalls his playing sixteen years previously in the same
place. He writes to the Breslauer _Zeitung_:
“On the 9th of May, a grand concert was arranged in the Schiesswerder
Hall, by Herr Doctor Leopold Damrosch, in honor of, and with the
cooperation of, the Court-Capellmeister Herr Doctor FRANZ LISZT.
Liszt, the great, genial master of the piano-forte, who with his
achievements on this instrument alarmed the world, gave eleven
concerts here in Breslau in the year 1843, with ever increasing
success. He electrified his hearers by such playing as _no one_ had
shown before. Whoever thought to give himself up to his playing with
the calm and comfortable feeling that he would to the performances
of Hummel and other masters, was greatly mistaken. Liszt transferred
his moods to the piano. He screwed up the feelings of the hearer to
a pitch of feverish excitement, but he allowed them also to subside
occasionally. We were at that time so fortunate as to be daily
in his presence and admire his magical play. His repertoire was
multifarious; he played all masters.
“We will not waste words about his gigantic _technique_, his art
of singing on the instrument, etc.; these are well-known things;
thousands have heard him. But we can not forbear alluding to one
composition; we mean his ‘Reminiscences from Don Juan,’ one of the
most genial of piano pieces. We lament for any one who has not heard
him play these reminiscences. The marble guest on horseback, the
insinuating Don Juan with his _La ci darem_, the struggling and at
last consenting Zerlina, the Champagne song, etc., all this did
Liszt pass before our minds in such a way that we forgot Liszt,
concert-hall and all; one awoke from the performance as from a
blissful dream. Four times we heard this piece by him, and always
with the same emotions.”
LISZT’S PRINCIPAL SCHOLARS.
HANS VON BUELOW, Meiningen.
[B]CARL TAUSIG.
[B]FRANZ BENDEL.
HANS VON BRONSART, Hanover.
CARL KLINDWORTH, Moscow.
ALEXANDER WINTERBERGER, St. Petersburg.
JULIUS REUBKE.
[B]THEODORE RATZENBERGER.
[B]ROBERT PFLUGHAUPT.
FREDERICK ALTSCHUL.
[B]NICHOLAS NEILISSOFF.
CARL BAERMANN, Munich.
DIONYS PRUCKNER, Stuttgart.
FERDINAND SCHREIBER.
LOUIS ROTHFELD.
J. SIPASS, Budapest.
GEORGE LEITERT.
JULIUS RICHTER.
LOUIS JUNGMANN, Weimar.
WILLIAM MASON, New York.
MAX PINNER, New York.
JULES ZAREMBSKY, Brussels.
G. SGAMBATI, Rome.
CARLO LIPPI, Rome.
SIEGFRIED LANGAARD, Denmark.
CARL POHLIG.
ARTHUR FRIEDHEIM.
L. MAREK, Limberg.
F. REUSS, Baden-Baden.
BERTHRAND ROTH, Frankfort.
---- KOLLERMAN.
CARL STASNY.
JOSEPH WIENIAWSKY.
INGEBORG STARK-BRONSART.
SOPHIE MENTER-POPPER.
[B]SOPHIE PFLUGHAUPT.
[B]ALINE HUNDT.
PAULINE FICHTNER-ERDMANNSDOERFER.
AHRENDA BLUME.
ANNA MEHLIG.
VERA TIMANOFF, Russia.
MARTHA REMMERT.
SARA MAGNUS-HEINZE.
DORA PETERSON.
ILONKA RAVACZ, Hungary.
CECILIA GAUL, America.
MARIE BREIDENSTEIN, Erfurt.
AMY FAY, America.
FOOTNOTES:
[A] Hungarian for “Franz.”
[B] Deceased.
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
The cover image for this eBook was created by the transcriber and is
entered into the public domain.