"I am about to make a very bold profession of faith--I adore the piano!
All the jests at its expense, all the anathemas that are heaped upon it,
are as revolting to me as so many acts of ingratitude, I might say as so
many absurdities.
"To me the piano is one of the domestic lares, one of our household
gods. It is, thanks to it, and it alone, that we have for ourselves and
in our homes the most poetic and the most personal of all the
arts--music. What is it that brings into our dwellings an echo of the
Conservatory concerts? What is it that gives us the opera at our own
firesides? What is it that unites four, five or six harmonious voices in
the interpretation of a masterpiece of vocal music, as the trio of Don
Juan, the quartet of Moses, or the finale of the Barber of Seville? The
piano, and the piano alone. Were the piano to be abolished how could you
have the exquisite joy of hearing Faure in your own chamber? I say
Faure, but I might say Taffanel, Gillet, all the instrumentalists, for
all instruments are its tributaries. They all have need of it; it alone
needs none.
"Auber said to me one day: 'What I admire, perhaps, most in Beethoven
are some of his sonatas, because in them his thought shows clearly in
all its pure beauty, unencumbered by the ornaments of orchestral
riches.' But for what instrument were the sonatas of Beethoven
composed? For the piano. I cannot forget that the entire work of Chopin
was written for the piano. Besides, it is the confidant of the man of
genius, of all that he does not write. Ah! if the piano of Weber might
repeat what the author of Der Freischuetz has spoken to it alone! And,
greatest superiority of all, the piano is of all the instruments the
only one that is progressive.
"A Stradivarius and an Amati remain superior to all the violins of
to-day, and it is not certain that the horn, the flute and the hautbois
have not lost as much as they have gained with all the present
superabundance of keys and pistons. The piano only has always gained in
its transformations, and every one of its enlargements, adding something
to its power of expression, has enabled it to improve even the
interpretation of the old masters.
"One day when Thalberg was playing at my home a sonata of Mozart on a
Pleyel piano, Berlioz said to me: 'Ah! if Mozart were with us, he would
hear his admirable andante as he sung it to himself in his breast!'
"One of my most precious musical memories is, then, to have not only
known but to have associated with and to have enjoyed in intimacy the
three great triumvirs of the piano--Liszt, Thalberg, and Chopin. The
arrival of Thalberg in Paris was a revelation, I could willingly say a
revolution. I know only Paganini, whose appearance produced the same
melange of enthusiasm and astonishment. Both excited the same feeling
that one experiences in the presence of the unknown, the mysterious, the
unexplainable. I attended Paganini's first concert (it was at the Opera)
in company with De Beriot. De Beriot held in his hand a copy of the
piece that Paganini was to play. 'This man is a charlatan,' he said to
me, 'he cannot execute what is printed here, because it is not
executable.' Paganini began. I listened to the music and watched De
Beriot attentively. All at once he exclaimed to himself, 'Ah! the
rascal, I understand! He has modified the tuning of his instrument.'
"There was a like surprise at Thalberg's first concert. It was at the
Theatre des Italiens, in the daytime, in the public foyer. I attended in
company with Julius Benedict, who was, it was said, Weber's only piano
pupil. I shall never forget his stupefaction, his amazement. Leaning
feverishly toward the instrument, to which we were very near, his eyes
fastened upon those fingers that seemed to him like so many magicians,
he could hardly believe his eyes or his ears. For him, as De Beriot,
there had been in the printed works of Thalberg something which he could
not explain. Only the secret this time was not in the instrument, but in
the performer. It was not this time the strings that were changed, it
was the fingers.
"A new method of fingering enabled Thalberg to cause the piano to
express what it had never expressed before. Benedict's emotion was all
the more intense that the poor fellow chanced to be in a very unique
frame of mind and heart. His young wife, whom he worshipped, had
departed that morning to join her parents at Naples. The separation was
to last only for less than six months, but he was profoundly sad, and it
was to distract his mind that I had taken him to the concert. But once
there, there took place in him the strangest amalgamation of the husband
and the pianist. At once despairing and enchanted, he reminded me of the
man in Rabelais who, hearing the church bells ring out, at almost the
same moment, the baptism of his son and the funeral service of his wife,
wept with one eye and laughed with the other. Benedict would break forth
into exclamations both comical and touching. He went from his wife to
Thalberg and from Thalberg to his wife. 'Ah! dear Adele, this is
frightful!' he would exclaim in one breath, and with the next, 'Ah! dear
Thalberg, that is delightful!' I have still ringing in my ears the
original duo that he sang that day to himself.
"Thalberg's triumph irritated Liszt profoundly. It was not envy. He was
incapable of any low sentiment. His was the rage of a dethroned king. He
called Thalberg's school disdainfully the Thumb school. But he was not a
man to yield his place without defending himself, and there ensued
between them a strife that was all the more striking that the antithesis
between the two men was as great as the difference in their talents.
"Liszt's attitude at the piano, like that of a pythoness, has been
remarked again and again. Constantly tossing back his long hair, his
lips quivering, his nostrils palpitating, he swept the auditorium with
the glance of a smiling master. He had some little trick of the comedian
in his manner, but he was not that. He was a Hungarian; a Hungarian in
two aspects, at once Magyar and Tzigane. True son of the race that
dances to the clanking of its spurs. His countrymen understood him well
when they sent him as a testimonial of honour an enormous sabre.
"There was nothing of the kind about Thalberg. He was the gentleman
artist, a perfect union of talent and propriety. He seemed to have taken
it for his rule to be the exact opposite of his rival. He entered
noiselessly; I might almost say without displacing the air. After a
dignified greeting that seemed a trifle cold in manner, he seated
himself at the piano as though upon an ordinary chair. The piece began,
not a gesture, not a change of countenance! not a glance toward the
audience! If the applause was enthusiastic, a respectful inclination of
the head was his only response. His emotion, which was very profound, as
I have had more than one proof, betrayed itself only by a violent rush
of blood to the head, colouring his ears, his face and his neck. Liszt
seemed seized with inspiration from the beginning; with the first note
he gave himself up to his talent without reserve, as prodigals throw
their money from the window without counting it, and however long was
the piece his inspired fervour never flagged.
"Thalberg began slowly, quietly, calmly, but with a calm that thrilled.
Under those notes so seemingly tranquil one felt the coming storm.
Little by little the movement quickened, the expression became more
accentuated, and by a series of gradual crescendos he held one
breathless until a final explosion swept the audience with an emotion
indescribable.
"I had the rare good fortune to hear these two great artists on the same
day, in the same salon, at an interval of a quarter of an hour, at a
concert given by the Princess Belgiojoso for the Poles. There was then
revealed to me palpably, clearly, the characteristic difference in their
talent. Liszt was incontestably the more artistic, the more vibrant, the
more electric. He had tones of a delicacy that made one think of the
almost inaudible tinkling of tiny spangles or the faint explosion of
sparks of fire. Never have fingers bounded so lightly over the piano.
But at the same time his nervosity caused him to produce sometimes
effects a trifle hard, a trifle harsh. I shall never forget that, after
a piece in which Liszt, carried away by his fury, had come down very
hard upon the keys, the sweet and charming Pleyel approached the
instrument and gazed with an expression of pity upon the strings. 'What
are you doing, my dear friend?' I asked, laughing. 'I am looking at the
field of battle,' he responded in a melancholy tone; 'I am counting the
wounded and the dead.'
"Thalberg never pounded. What constituted his superiority, what made the
pleasure of hearing him play a luxury to the ear, was pure _tone_. I
have never heard such another, so full, so round, so soft, so velvety,
so sweet, and still so strong! How shall I say it? The voice of Alboni.
"At this concert in hearing Liszt I felt myself in an atmosphere charged
with electricity and quivering with lightning. In hearing Thalberg I
seemed to be floating in a sea of purest light. The contrast between
their characters was not less than between their talent. I had a
striking proof of it with regard to Chopin.
"It is not possible to compare any one with Chopin, because he resembled
no one. Everything about him pertained only to himself. He had his own
tone, his own touch. All the great artists have executed and still
execute the works of Chopin with great ability, but in reality only
Chopin has played Chopin. But he never appeared in public concerts nor
in large halls. He liked only select audiences and limited gatherings,
just as he would use no other piano than a Pleyel, nor have any other
tuner than Frederic. We, fanatics that we were, were indignant at his
reserve; we demanded that the public should hear him; and one day in one
of those fine flights of enthusiasm that have caused me to make more
than one blunder I wrote in Schlesinger's _Gazette Musicale_: 'Let
Chopin plunge boldly into the stream, let him announce a grand soiree
musicale and the next day when the eternal question shall arise, "Who is
the greater pianist to-day, Liszt or Thalberg?" the public will answer
with us, "It is Chopin."'
"To be frank, I had done better not to have written that article. I
should have recalled my friendly relations with the two others. Liszt
would have nothing to do with me for more than two months. But the day
after the one on which my article appeared Thalberg was at my door at
ten in the morning. He stretched out his hand as he entered, saying,
'Bravo! your article is only just.'
"At last their rivalry, which in reality had never been more than
emulation, assumed a more accentuated, a more striking form. Until then
no pianist had ventured to play in the hall of a large theatre with an
auditorium of 1,200 or 1,500. Thalberg, impelled by his successes,
announced a concert in the Theatre des Italiens, not in the foyer, but
in the main auditorium. He played for the first time his Moses, and his
success was a triumph.
"Liszt, somewhat piqued, saw in Thalberg's triumph a defiance, and he
announced a concert at the Opera. For his battle horse he took Weber's
Concertstueck. I was at the concert. He placed a box at my disposal,
requesting that I should give an account of the evening in the _Gazette
Musicale_. I arrived full of hope and joy. A first glance over the hall
checked my ardour a trifle. There were many, very many, present, but
here and there were empty spaces that disquieted me. My fears were not
without reason. It was a half success. Between numbers I encountered
Berlioz, with whom I exchanged my painful impressions, and I returned
home quite tormented over the article I was to write. The next day I had
hardly seated myself at my table when I received a letter from Liszt. I
am happy to reproduce here the principal part of that letter, for it
discloses an unknown Liszt, a modest Liszt. Yes, modest! It only half
astonished me, for a certain circumstance had revealed this Liszt to me
once before. It was at Scheffer's, who was painting his portrait. When
posing Liszt assumed an air of inspiration. Scheffer, with his
surpassing brusqueness, said to him: 'The devil, Liszt! Don't put on the
airs of a man of genius with me. You know well enough that I am not
fooled by it.'
"What response did Liszt make to these rude words? He was silent a
moment, then going up to Scheffer he said: 'You are right, my dear
friend. But pardon me; you do not know how it spoils one to have been an
infant prodigy.' This response seemed to me absolutely delicious in its
sweet simplicity--I might say in its humility. The letter that I give
below has the same character:
"'You have shown me of late an affection so comprehensive that I ask
your permission to speak as a friend to a friend. Yes, my dear Legouve,
it is as to a friend that I am about to confess to you a weakness. I am
very glad that it is you who are to write of my concert yesterday, and I
venture to ask you to remain silent for this time, and for this time
only, concerning the defective side of my talent.'
"Is it possible, I ask, to make a more difficult avowal with more
delicacy or greater frankness? Do we know many of the great artists
capable of writing 'the defective side of my talent'?
"I sent him immediately the following response:
"'No, my dear friend, I will not do what you ask! No, I will not
maintain silence concerning the defective side of your talent, for the
very simple reason that you never displayed greater talent than
yesterday. Heaven defend me from denying the coldness of the public, or
from proclaiming your triumph when you have not triumphed! That would be
unworthy of you, and, permit me to add, of me. But what was it that
happened? and why this half failure? Ah! blunderer that you were, what a
strategic error you committed! Instead of placing the orchestra back of
you, as at the Conservatory, so as to bring you directly in contact with
your audience, and to establish between you and them an electric
current, you cut the wire; you left this terrible orchestra in its usual
place. You played across I know not how many violins, violoncellos,
horns, and trombones, and the voice of your instrument, to reach us, had
to pass through all that warring orchestra! And you are astonished at
the result! But, my dear friend, how was it two months ago at the
Conservatory that with the same piece you produced such a wonderful
effect? It was because that, in front alone, with the orchestra behind
you, you appeared like a cavalry colonel at the head of his regiment,
his horse in full gallop, his sabre in hand, leading on his soldiers,
whose enthusiasm was only the accompaniment of his own. At the Opera the
colonel abandoned his place at the head of his regiment, and placed
himself at its rear. Fine cause for surprise that your tones did not
reach us resounding and vibrant! This is what happened, my dear friend,
and this is what I shall say, and I shall add that there was no one but
Liszt in the world who could have produced under such conditions the
effect that you produced. For in reality your failure would have been a
great success for any other than you.
"'With this, wretched strategist, I send you a cordial pressure of the
hand, and begin my article.'
"The following Sunday my article appeared, and I had the great pleasure
to have satisfied him."