The Russian councillor and the author of the well-known work, Beethoven
et Ses Trois Styles, has contributed quite a small library of articles
on Liszt, but as it is impossible to quote all of them, we select the
following, which refers more particularly to his own intimacy and first
acquaintance with the great musician:
"In 1828 I had come to Paris, at the age of nineteen, to continue my
studies there, and, moreover, as before, to take lessons on the piano;
now, however, with Kalkbrenner. Kalkbrenner was a man of Hebrew
extraction, born in Berlin; and in Paris under Charles X he was the
Joconde of the drawing-room piano. Kalkbrenner was a Knight of the
Legion of Honour, and the fair Camille Mock, afterward Madame Pleyel,
who was not indifferent to Chopin or Liszt, was the favourite pupil of
the irresistible Kalkbrenner. I heard her, between Kalkbrenner and
Onslow, play in the sextuor of the last named composer at the house of
Baron Tremont, a tame musical Maecenas of that day in Paris. She played
the piano as a pretty Parisian wears an elegant shoe. Nevertheless I was
in danger of becoming Kalkbrenner's pupil, but my stars and Liszt willed
it otherwise. Already on the way to Kalkbrenner (who plays a note of his
now?), I came to the boulevards, and read on the theatre bills of the
day, which had much attraction for me, the announcement of an extra
concert to be given by Liszt at the Conservatoire (it was in November),
with the piano concerto of Beethoven, in E flat, at the head. At that
time Beethoven was, and not in Paris only, a Paracelsus in the concert
room. I only knew this much of him, that I had been very much afraid of
the very black-looking notes in his D-major trio and choral fantasia,
which I had once and again looked over in a music shop of my native
town, Riga, in which there was much more done in business than in music.
"If any one had told me as I stood there innocently, and learned from
the factotum that there were such things as piano concertos by
Beethoven, that I should ever write six volumes in German and two in
French on Beethoven! I had heard of a septet, but the musician who wrote
that was called J. N. Hummel.
"From the bill on the boulevards I concluded, however, that anyone who
could play a concerto of Beethoven in public must be a very wonderful
fellow, and of quite a different breed from Kalkbrenner, the composer of
the fantasia, Effusio Musica. That this Effusio was mere rubbish I
already understood, young and heedless though I was.
"In this way, on the then faithful boulevards of Paris, I met for the
first time in my life the name of Liszt, which was to fill the
world. This bill of the concert was destined to exert an important
influence on my life. I can still see, after so many years, the
colours of the important paper--thick monster letters on a yellow
ground--the fashionable colour at the time in Paris. I went straight to
Schlesinger's, then the musical exchange of Paris, Rue Richelieu.
"'Where does Mr. Liszt live?' I asked, and pronounced it Litz, for the
Parisians have never got any further with the name of Liszt than Litz.
"The address of Liszt was Rue Montholon; they gave it me at
Schlesinger's without hesitation. But when I asked the price of _Litz_,
and expressed my wish to take lessons from him, they all laughed at me,
and the shopmen behind the counters tittered, and all said at once, 'He
never gives a lesson; he is no professor of the piano!'
"I felt that I must have asked something very foolish. But the answer,
no professor of the piano, pleased me nevertheless, and I went
straightway to the Rue Montholon.
"Liszt was at home. That was a great rarity, said his mother, an
excellent woman with a true German heart, who pleased me very much; her
Franz was almost always in church, and no longer occupied himself with
music at all. Those were the days when Liszt wished to become a
Saint-Simonist. It was a great time, and Paris the centre of the world.
There lived Rossini and Cherubini, also Auber, Halevy, Berlioz and the
great violinist, Baillot; the poet, Victor Hugo, had lately published
his Orientales, and Lamartine was recovering from the exertion of his
Meditations Poetiques. Georges Sand was not yet fairly discovered;
Chopin not yet in Paris. Marie Taglioni danced tragedies at the Grand
Opera; Habeneck, a German conductor, directed the picked orchestra of
the Conservatoire, where the Parisians, a year after Beethoven's death,
for the first time heard something of him. Malibran and Sontag sang at
the Italian Opera the Tournament duet in Tancredi. It was in the winter
of 1828-9 Baillot played quartets; Rossini gave his Guillaume Tell in
the spring.
"In Liszt I found a thin, pale-looking young man, with infinitively
attractive features. He was lounging, deep in thought, lost in himself
on a broad sofa, and smoking a long Turkish pipe, with three pianos
standing around him. He made not the slightest movement on my entrance,
but rather appeared not to notice me at all. When I explained to him
that my family had directed me to Kalkbrenner, but I came to him because
he wished to play a concerto by Beethoven in public, he seemed to smile.
But it was only as the glitter of a dagger in the sun.
"'Play me something,' he said, with indescribable satire, which,
however, had nothing to wound in it, just as no harm is done by summer
lightning.
"'I play the sonata for the left hand (pour la main gauche principale),
by Kalkbrenner,' I said, and thought I had said something correct.
"'That I will not hear; I don't know it, and don't wish to,' he
answered, with increased satire and suppressed scorn.
"I felt that I was playing a pitiful part--doing penance, perhaps, for
others, for Parisians; but I said to myself, the more I looked at this
young man, that this Parisian (for such he seemed to be by his whole
appearance) must be a genius, and I would not without further skirmishes
be beaten off the field. I went with modest but firm step to the piano
standing nearest to me.
"'Not that one,' cried Liszt, without in the least changing his half
reclining position on the sofa; 'there, to that other one.'
"I stepped to the second piano. At that time I was absorbed in the
'Aufforderung zum Tanz'; I had married it for love two years before, and
we were still in our honeymoon. I came from Riga, where, after the
unexampled success of the 'Freischuetz,' we had reached the piano
compositions of Weber, which did not happen till long after in Paris,
where the Freischuetz was called Robin des Bois(!). I learnt from
good masters. When I tried to play the first three A-flats of the
Aufforderung, the instrument gave no sound. What was the matter? I
played forcibly, and the notes sounded quite piano. I seemed to myself
quite laughable, but without taking any notice I went bravely on to the
first entry of the chords; then Liszt rose, stepped up to me, took my
right hand without more ado off the instrument, and asked:
"'What is that? That begins well!'
"'I should think so,' I said; 'that is by Weber.'
"'Has he written for the piano, too?' he asked with astonishment. 'We
only know here the Robin des Bois.'
"'Certainly he has written for the piano, and more finely than any one!'
was my equally astonished answer. 'I have in my trunk,' I added, 'two
polonaises, two rondos, four sets of variations, four solo sonatas, one
which I learned with Wehrstaedt, in Geneva, which contains the whole of
Switzerland, and is incredibly beautiful; there all the fair women smile
at once. It is in A flat. You can have no idea how beautiful it is!
Nobody has written so for the piano, you may believe me.'
"I spoke from my heart, and with such conviction that I made a visible
impression on Liszt. He answered in a winning tone: 'Now, pray bring me
all that out of your trunk and I will give you lessons for the first
time in my life, because you have introduced me to Weber on the piano,
and also were not frightened at this heavy instrument. I ordered it on
purpose, so as to have played ten scales when I had played one. It is an
altogether impracticable piano. It was a sorry joke of mine. But why did
you talk about Kalkbrenner, and a sonata by him for the left hand? But
now play me that thing of yours that begins so seriously. There, that is
one of the finest instruments in Paris--there, where you were going to
sit down first.'
"Now I played with all my heart the 'Aufforderung,' but only the melody
marked wiegend, in two parts. Liszt was charmed with the composition.
'Now bring that,' he said; 'I must have a turn at that!'
"At our first lesson Liszt could not tear himself away from the piece.
He repeated single parts again and again, sought increased effects, gave
the second part of the minor in octaves and was inexhaustible in praise
of Weber. With Weber's sonata in A flat Liszt was perfectly delighted. I
had studied it in much love with Wehrstaedt at Geneva, and gave it
throughout in the spirit of the thing. This Liszt testified by the way
in which he listened, by lively gestures and movements, by exclamations
about the beauty of the composition, so that we worked at it with both
our heads! This great romantic poem for the piano begins, as is well
known, with a tremolo of the bass on A flat. Never had a sonata opened
in such a manner! It is as sunshine over the enchanted grove in which
the action takes place. The restlessness of my master became so great
over the first part of this allegro that even before its close he pushed
me aside with the words, 'Wait! wait! What is that? I must go at that
myself!' Such an experience one had never met with. Imagine a genius
like Liszt, twenty years old, for the first time in the presence of such
a master composition of Weber, before the apparition of this knight in
golden armour!
"He tried his first part over and over again with the most various
intentions. At the passage in the dominant (E flat) at the close of the
first part (a passage, properly speaking, the sonata has not; one might
call it a charming clarinet phrase interwoven with the idea) Liszt said,
'It is marked legato. Now, would not one do it better _pp._ and
staccato? Yet there is a leggieramente as well." He experimented in all
directions. In this way it was given me to observe how one genius looks
upon another and appreciates him for himself.
"'Now what is the second part of the first allegro like?' asked Liszt,
and looked at it. It seemed to me simply impossible that any one could
read at sight this thematic development, with octaves piled one on
another for whole pages.
"'This is very difficult,' said Liszt, 'yet harder still is the coda,'
and the combining of the whole in this close, here at this centrifugal
figure (thirteenth bar before the end). The passage (in the second part,
naturally in the original key of A flat), moreover, we must not play
staccato; that would be somewhat affected; but we must also not play it
legato; it is too thin for that. We'll do it spiccato; let us swim
between the two waters.'
"If I had wondered at the fire and life, the pervading passion in the
delivery of the first part by Liszt, I was absolutely astonished in the
second part at his triumphant repose and certainty, and the self-control
with which he reserved all his force for the last attack. 'So young, and
so wise!' I said to myself, and was bewildered, absorbed, discouraged.
"In the andante of the sonata I learned in the first four bars more from
Liszt than in years from my former good teachers. 'You must give out
this opening just as Baillot plays a quartet; the accompanying parts
consist of the detached semiquavers, but Baillot's parts are very good,
and yours must not be worse. You have a good hand, and can learn it. Try
it, it is not easy; one might move stones with it. I can just imagine
how the hussars of the piano tear it to pieces! I shall never forget
that it is through you I have learned to know the sonata. Now you shall
learn something from me; I will tell you all I know about our
instrument.'
"The demi-semiquaver figure in the bass (at the thirty-fifth bar of this
andante) is heard only too often given out as a 'passage' for the left
hand; the figure should be delivered caressingly--it should be an
amorous violoncello solo. In this manner Liszt played it, but gave out
in fearful majesty the outbursts of octaves on the second subject in C
major, that Henselt calls the 'Ten Commandments'--an excellent
designation. And now, as for menuetto capriccioso and rondo of the
sonata. How shall I describe what Liszt made of these genial movements
on a first acquaintance? How he treated the clarinet solo in the trio of
the menuetto, and the winding of the rondo? How Liszt glorified Weber on
the piano; how like an Alexander he marched in triumphant procession
with Weber (especially in the 'Concertstueck') through Europe, the world
knows, and future times will speak of it."