HEINE

There are several reminiscences of Liszt to be found in the collected

works of the great German author. Heine, writing in 1844 at Paris, says:

"When I some time ago heard of the marvellous excitement which broke out

in Germany, and more particularly in Berlin, when Liszt showed himself

there, I shrugged my shoulders and thought quiet, Sabbath-like Germany

does not want to lose the opportunity of indulging in a little

'permitted' commotion; it longs to stretch its sleep-stiffened limbs,

and my Philistines on the banks of the Spree are fond of tickling

themselves into enthusiasm, while one declaims after the other, 'Love,

ruler of gods and men!' It does not matter to them, thought I, what the

row is about, so long as it is a row, whether it is called George

Herwegh (the "Iron Lark"), Fanny Essler or Franz Liszt. If Herwegh be

forbidden we turn to the politically 'safe' and uncompromising Liszt. So

thought I, so I explained to myself the Liszt mania; and I accepted it

as a sign of the want of political freedom on the other side of the

Rhine. But I was in error, which I recognised for the first time at the

Italian Opera House where Liszt gave his first concert, and before an

assembly which is best described as the elite of society here. They

were, anyhow, wide-awake Parisians: people familiar with the greatest

celebrities of modern times, totally blase and preoccupied men, who had

'done to death' all things in the world, art included; women equally

'done up' by having danced the polka the whole winter through. Truly it

was no German sentimental, Berlin-emotional audience before which Liszt

played--quite alone, or rather accompanied only by his genius. And yet,

what an electrically powerful effect his mere appearance produced! What

a storm of applause greeted him! How many bouquets were flung at his

feet! It was an impressive sight to see with what imperturbable

self-possession the great conqueror allowed the flowers to rain upon him

and then, at last, graciously smiling, selected a red camellia and stuck

it in his buttonhole. And this he did in the presence of several young

soldiers just arrived from Africa, where it did not rain flowers but

leaden bullets, and they were decorated with the red camellias of their

own heroes' blood, without receiving any particular notice either here

for it. Strange, thought I, these Parisians have seen Napoleon, who was

obliged to supply them with one battle after another to retain their

attention--these receive our Franz Liszt with acclamation! And what

acclamation!--a positive frenzy, never before known in the annals of

furore."

Heine relates the following curious conversation he had with a medical

man about Liszt:

"A physician whose specialty is woman, whom I questioned as to the

fascination which Liszt exercises on his public, smiled very strangely,

and at the same time spoke of magnetism, galvanism, and electricity, of

contagion in a sultry hall, filled with innumerable wax-lights, and some

hundred perfumed and perspiring people, of histrionic epilepsy, of the

phenomenon of tickling, of musical cantharides, and other unmentionable

matters, which, I think, have to do with the mysteries of the bona dea;

the solution of the question, however, does not lie perhaps so strangely

deep, but on a very prosaic surface. I am sometimes inclined to think

that the whole witchery might be explained thus--namely, that nobody in

this world knows so well how to organise his successes, or rather

their mise en scene, as Franz Liszt. In this art he is a genius,

a Philadelphia, a Bosco, a Houdin--yea, a Meyerbeer. The most

distinguished persons serve him gratis as comperes, and his hired

enthusiasts are drilled in an exemplary way."

This amusing anecdote about Liszt and the once famous tenor, Rubini, is

also told by Heine:

"The celebrated singer had undertaken a tour with Franz Liszt, sharing

expenses and profits. The great pianist took Signor Belloni about with

him everywhere (the entrepreneur in general of his reputation), and to

him was left the whole of the business management. When, however, all

accounts had been settled up, and Signor Belloni presented his little

bill, what was Rubini's horror to find that among the mutual expenses

there appeared sundry considerable items for 'laurel wreaths,'

'bouquets,' 'laudatory poems,' and suchlike 'ovation expenses.'

"The naive singer had, in his innocence, imagined that he had been

granted these tokens of public favour solely on account of his lovely

voice. He flew into a great rage, and swore he would not pay for the

bouquets which probably contained the most expensive camellias."

That Heine could appreciate Liszt seriously, these extracts testify

sufficiently:

"He (Liszt) is indisputably the artist in Paris who finds the most

unlimited enthusiasm as well as the most zealous opponents. It is a

characteristic sign that no one speaks of him with indifference. Without

power no one in this world can excite either favourable or hostile

passions. One must possess fire to excite men to hatred as well as to

love. That which testifies especially for Liszt is the complete esteem

with which even his enemies speak of his personal worth. He is a man of

whimsical but noble character, unselfish and without deceit. Especially

remarkable are his spiritual proclivities; he has great taste for

speculative ideas, and he takes even more interest in the essays of the

various schools which occupy themselves with the solution of the

problems of heaven and earth than in his art itself. It is, however,

praiseworthy, this indefatigable yearning after light and divinity; it

is a proof of his taste for the holy, for the religious....

"Yes, Franz Liszt, the pianist of genius, whose playing often appears to

me as the melodious agony of a spectral world, is again here, and giving

concerts which exercise a charm which borders on the fabulous. By his

side all piano players, with the exception of Chopin, the Raphael of the

piano, are as nothing. In fact, with the exception of this last named

artist alone, all the other piano players whom we hear in countless

concerts are only piano players; their only merit is the dexterity with

which they handle the machine of wood and wire. With Liszt, on the

contrary, the people think no more about the 'difficulty overcome'; the

piano disappears, the music is revealed. In this respect has Liszt,

since I last heard him, made the most astonishing progress. With this

advantage he combines now a reposed manner, which I failed to perceive

in him formerly. If, for example, he played a storm on the piano we saw

the lightning flicker about his features; his limbs fluttered as with

the blast of a storm, and his long locks of hair dripped as with real

showers of rain. Now when he plays the most violent storm he seems

exalted above it, like the traveller who stands on the summit of an Alp

while the tempest rages in the valley; the clouds lie deep below him,

the lightning curls like snakes at his feet, but his head is uplifted

smilingly into the pure ether."

The following remarks on Liszt, to be found in Heine's letters to his

friends, are also interesting:

"That such a restless head, driven and perplexed by all the needs and

doctrines of his time, feeling compelled to trouble 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

quiet piano player for tranquil townfolks and good-natured night-caps 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-height thought, amid which here and there the

sweetest flowers diffuse their fragrance, so that one is at once

troubled and beatified, but troubled most."

To another he writes:

"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 spectres which others only hear; since, as you know, at every

tone which the hand strikes upon the keyboard 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 at

a concert for the benefit of the unhappy Italians where I last heard

Liszt, during the past 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 Jehoshaphat. 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 armour,

on a black horse, and with His holy lance He first thrust Satan to the

ground, and then Death, and the spectators shouted. Tumultuous applause

followed the playing of the valiant Liszt, who left his seat exhausted

and bowed before the ladies. About the lips of the fairest played that

melancholy smile."

Heine also relates:

"On one occasion two Hungarian countesses, to get his snuff-box, threw

each other down upon the ground and fought till they were exhausted!"