both in real and literary romances, of "never meeting again," "parting
forever," etc., etc.; and people will now meet over and over again, no
matter by what circumstances parted, or to what distance thrown from
each other; whence I draw the moral that our conduct in all the quarters
of the globe had better be as decent as possible, for there is no such
thing nowadays as losing sight of people or places--I mean, for any
convenient length of time, for purposes of forgetfulness. I forget
whether, when you left us in London, my father had come to the
determination of not accompanying but following us, which he intends
doing as soon as he feels well enough to travel.
Rubens's paintings have given us extreme delight.... I was much
interested by the lace-works at Brussels and Mechlin, and very painfully
so. It is beginning to be time, I think, in Christian countries, for
manufactures of mere luxury to be done away with, when proficiency in
the merest mechanical drudgery involved in them demands a lifetime, and
the sight and health of women, who begin this twilight work at five and
six years old, are often sacrificed long before their natural term to
this costly and unhealthy industry.
I hope to see all such manufactures done away with, for they are bad
things, and a whole moral and intelligent being, turned into ten
fingers' ends for such purposes, is a sad spectacle. I (a
lace-worshipper, if ever woman was) say this advisedly; I am sorry there
is still Mechlin and Brussels lace made, and glad there is no more
India muslin, and rejoice in the disuse of every minute manual labor
which tends to make a mere machine of God's likeness. But oh, for all
that, how incomparably inferior is the finest, faultless, machine-made
lace and muslin to the exquisite irregularity of the human fabric!...
Good-bye, my dearest Harriet. We start for Aix-la-Chapelle at eight
to-morrow. I am not in very good strength; the fact is, I am now never
in thoroughly good plight without exercise on horseback, and it is a
long time since I have had any, and, of course, it is now quite out of
the question. I beg, desire, entreat, and command that you will
immediately get and read Balzac's "Eugenie Grandet," and tell me
instantly what you think of it.
Your affectionate
FANNY.
WIESBADEN, Friday, September, 1841.
MY DEAREST HARRIET,
Walking along the little brook-side on the garden path under the trees
towards the Sonnenberg, you may well imagine how vividly your image and
that of Catherine Sedgwick were present to me. You took this walk
together, and it was from her lively description of it that I knew, the
moment I set my feet in the path, both where I was and where I was
going. That walk is very pretty. I did not follow it to the end, because
my children were with me, and it was too far for them; but yesterday I
went to the ruin on horseback, and came home along the rough cart-road,
on the hill on the other side of the valley, whence the views reminded
me somewhat of the country round Lenox, in Massachusetts, though not
perhaps of the prettiest part of the latter.
I have not yet in my travels seen anything much more picturesque than
the prettiest parts of the American Berkshire; and upon the whole
(castles, of course, excepted) was rather disappointed in the Rhine,
which is not, I think, as beautiful a river as the Hudson. Knowing the
powerful charm of affectionate association, and the halo which happiness
throws over any place where we attain to something approaching it, I
have sometimes suspected that my admiration of and delight in that Lenox
and Stockbridge scenery was derived in some measure from those sources,
and that the country round them is not in reality as beautiful as it
always appears in my eyes and to my memory. But, comparing it now with
scenery admired by the travelling taste of all Europe, I am satisfied
that the American scenery I am so fond of is intrinsically lovely, and
compares very favorably with everything I have seen hitherto on the
Continent.
As for your friend Anne (my children's American nurse), coming up the
Rhine she sat looking at the shores, her brown eyes growing rounder and
rounder, and her handsome face full of as much good-humored contempt as
it could express, every now and then exclaiming, "Well, to be sure, it's
a pretty river, and it's well enough; but my! they hadn't need to make
such a fuss about it." The fact is, that the noble breadth of the river
forms one of its most striking features to a European, and this, you
know, is no marvel to "us of the new world." Moreover, I suspect Anne
does not consider the baronial castles "of much 'count," either; and, to
confess the truth, I am rather disturbed at the little emotion produced
in me by the romantic ruins and picturesque accompaniments of the Rhine.
But it seems to me that I am losing much of my excitability; my
imagination has become disgracefully tame, and I find myself here, where
I have most desired to be, with a mind chiefly intent upon where, when,
how, and on what my children can dine, and feelings principally occupied
with the fact that I have no one with me to sympathize in any other
thought or emotion if I should attempt to indulge in such.
We arrived at Coblentz one melting summer afternoon, and I walked up to
the top of the fortress alone, and the setting of the sun over beyond
the lands and rivers at my feet, and the uprising of the moon above, the
bristling battlements behind me, filled me with delight; but I had no
one to express it to.
This evening at Ehrenbreitstein, and the cathedral at Cologne, are my
two events hitherto; the only two things that have stirred or affected
me much. That cathedral is a whole liturgy in stone--eloquent, devout
stone,--uttering so solemnly its great unfinished God-service of silent
prayer and praise through all these centuries. I have seen many
beautiful churches, but was never impressed by any as by this huge
fragment of one.
My father, as I have written you, stayed behind, saying that he would
follow us. He has not done so yet, and I do not expect that he will, for
reasons which I will not repeat, as I gave them to you in a long letter
which I wrote to you from Liege, which I heartily hope you have
received.
[On arriving at Coblentz on a brilliant afternoon, so much of lovely
daylight yet remained that I was most desirous to cross the river
and ascend the great fortress of the Broad Stone of Honor, to see
the sunset from its walls. I could not inspire anybody else with the
same zeal, however; and, under the combined influence of
disappointment and eager curiosity, started alone, at a brisk walk,
and, crossing the bridge, began the ascent, and, gradually
quickening my pace as I neared the summit, arrived, on a full run,
breathless before the sentinel who guarded the last gates and
amiably shook his head at my attempt to enter. The gates were open,
and I saw, across the wide parade-ground, or _place d'armes_, where
groups of soldiers were standing and loitering about, the parapet
wall of the fortress, whence I had hoped to see the day go down over
the Rhine, the Moselle, and all the glorious region round their
confluence. "Oh, _do_ let me in," cried I in very emphatic English
to the sentry, who gravely shook his head. "Where is your father?"
quoth he in German, as I made imploring and impatient gestures,
significant of my despair at the idea of having had that stupendous
climb all for nothing. "I have none," cried I, in English and French
all in a breath. Both were equally Greek to him. He gravely shook
his head. "Where is your husband?" quoth he in German, to which I
replied in German--oh, such German!--that "I had none, that I was a
woman" (which he probably saw), "only a woman, an Englishwoman"
(which he probably heard), "and that I could do no harm to his
fortress; that I had come all alone, and run half the way up, and
that I could not turn back, and he _must_ let me in!" He still shook
his head gravely. I had the tears in my eyes, and felt ready to cry
with vexation. Just then an officer approaching the gates from
within, I addressed my eager supplications in sputtering, stuttering
fragments of German, French, and English to him; and he, laughing
good-naturedly, gave the sentinel the order to admit me; when I made
straight across the great parade-ground, surrounded with the masses
of the huge fortification, to the low parapet wall, whence I beheld
the glorious landscape I had hoped to see, bathed in the sunset--a
vision of splendor, which surpassed even what I had expected, as I
looked down from the dizzy height, over the magnificent river and
its beautiful tributary, and all the near and distant landscape,
melting far away into golden vapory indistinctness. I did not dare
to stay long, having to return again alone; so, thanking my kind
conductor, who had evidently enjoyed my ecstasy at the beauty of his
_Vaterland_, I left the fortress, stopping again at the gate to ask
the name of my friendly sentinel whose resistance to my impetuous
storming of the fort had been as mild and gentle as was consistent
with his resolute refusal to admit me. Having not a scrap of paper
with me, I wrote his name with my pencil on my glove, determined,
when I returned through Coblentz, to bring him some token of my
gratitude for his patient forbearance; and so I ran all the way down
and back to the hotel.
On our return, some weeks after, we visited Ehrenbreitstein with all
the decorous solemnity of decent sight-seeing travellers; and, one
of a party of four, I drove in state, in an open carriage, up the
formidable approach that I had scaled so vehemently before. Duly
armed with admits and permits, and all proper justifications of our
approach, we drove under the huge archway, where stood another
sentinel, and were received with courteous ceremony by some military
gentlemen, under whose escort I leisurely went over the scene of my
first visit, standing again, in more dignified enthusiasm, at the
parapet where I had panted before in the breathless excitement of my
run up the hill, my fight with the sentry, and my victory over him.
Now, having been duly led and conducted and ushered and escorted all
round, as we were about to depart, I begged, as a favor of the
commanding officer, to be allowed to see again my friendly sentinel,
for whom I had brought up a meerschaum of a pretty pattern that I
had bought for him. "What was his name?" "Schneider." "Oh, there are
several so called among the men. Should you know him again?" "Oh
yes, indeed." And now ensued a general cry for Schneiders to present
themselves. One after another was marched up, but without any
resemblance to my friendly foe. Presently a word of command was
given, followed by a brisk rolling of drums, when all the men came
pouring out of the surrounding buildings, and formed in ranks on the
ground. "You have seen them all--all the Schneiders," said the
kindly commandant. "Ah, no! here is yet one;" and from the back
ranks was pushed and pulled and thrust and shoved, perfectly crimson
with shyness and suppressed laughter, one of the handsomest lads I
ever saw. "Is this your man?" said the commanding officer, with a
profound bow, and his face puckered up with laughing. "No," cried I
(for it wasn't), quite overcome with confusion and the general
laughter that followed the production of this last of the
Schneiders. One of the officers then said that some of the troops
had been sent elsewhere, not long after my first visit. "Ah, then,"
said the commandant, who had interested himself in my search with
considerable amusement, "your Schneider, madame, has left
Ehrenbreitstein." And so did we; I, not a little disappointed at not
having seen again the worthy man who had not bayoneted me away from
the gates, when I assailed them and him in such a frenzy.]
We overtook my sister at Mayence, or rather, I and the children remained
there, while some of our party went on to Frankfort, where she was. They
returned to Mayence in a body: ----, Adelaide, Henry, Miss Cottin, Mary
Anne Thackeray, our London friend Chorley, and the illustrious Liszt.
Travelling leisurely, as we were compelled to do on account of the
children, I missed, to my great regret, my sister's first two public
performances--a concert, and a representation of Norma, which she gave
at Frankfort, and of which everybody spoke with the greatest enthusiasm.
On the evening of the day when she joined us at Mayence, she sang at a
concert, and this was the first time that I really have heard her sing
in public; for I did not consider the concert at Stafford House a fair
test of her powers--the audience was too limited, in number and quality,
to deserve the name of a public. The sweetness and freshness of her
voice struck me more than ever, but it appears to me rather wanting in
power; and the same impression was produced upon me when I heard her
sing in the Kursaal here. If there should be deficiency of power in the
voice, it will, I fear, affect her success in so large a theatre as
Covent Garden.... She sings Norma again to-night at Mayence, and I am
going--of course without any anxiety, for her success is already
established here; and with great anticipations of pleasure--more even,
if possible, from her acting than her singing; for the latter I am
already familiar with, but of the former I have no experience, and have
always entertained the greatest expectations of it, and I think I shall
not be disappointed.
We have obtained very pleasant apartments here, and I have established
Anne and the children quite comfortably; they were beginning to suffer
from the perpetual moving about, and I shall let them remain undisturbed
here, during the rest of our stay in Germany, and shall either stay
quietly with them, or accompany my sister, if it is determined that we
are to do so, to the places of her various engagements.
Since writing the above, I have seen my sister act Norma, and her
performance fully equalled my expectation; which is great praise, for I
have always had the highest opinion of her dramatic powers, and was, as
I believe you know, earnest with her at one time to leave the opera
stage and become an actress in her own language, as I was very sure of
her entire success, and thought it a better and higher order of thing
than this mere uttering of sound, and perpetual representation of
passion and emotion, comparatively unmixed with intellect. To be sure,
that would be to sacrifice some of her fine natural endowments, and the
art and science of music, in which she has, at so much cost of time and
labor, so thoroughly perfected herself, and which is in itself so
exquisite a thing.... Her carriage is good, easy, and unembarrassed; her
gestures and use of her arms remarkably graceful and appropriate. There
is very little too much action, and that which appears to me redundant
may simply seem so because her conception of the character is, in some
of its parts, impulsive, where it strikes me as concentrated, and would
therefore be sterner and stiller in its effect than she occasionally
makes it. But she has evidently thought over the whole most carefully,
considered the effects she intends to produce, and the means of
producing them; and it is a far more finished performance, without any
of the special defects which I should have expected in so great a
lyrical tragic part, given by so young an artist. I suspect, however,
that the severely mechanical element in music renders certainty in the
performer's intentions necessary beforehand, to a much greater degree
than in a merely dramatic performance; and thus a singer can seldom do
the things which an actor sometimes does, upon the sudden inspiration
of the moment, occasionally producing thus extraordinary effects. Some
of the things my sister did were perfect--I speak now of her acting:
they were as fine as some of Pasta's great effects, and her whole
performance reminded me forcibly of that finest artist. I cannot help
thinking, however, that she is cramped by the music, and I confess I
should like to see her act Bianca without singing it, as I am satisfied
that she would represent most admirably all characters of power and
passion, and find in the great dramatic compositions of our stage, and
especially in Shakespeare's plays, scope for her capacity which Italian
operas cannot afford.
Her voice is not as powerful as I expected, nor as I think it would have
been if she had not striven to acquire artificial compass; that is, high
notes which were not originally in her natural register,--the great aim
of all singers being to sing the highest music, which is always that of
the principal female character. The consequence of this is sometimes
that the quality of the natural voice is in a measure sacrificed to the
acquisition of notes not originally within its compass....
I have room for no more, dearest Harriet. Good-bye, and God bless you.
Ever affectionately yours,
FANNY.
I wrote you an interminable letter from Liege. Did you ever get it?
[The time we spent on the Rhine during this summer afforded me an
opportunity of almost intimate acquaintance with the celebrated
musician who had persuaded my sister to associate herself with him
in the concerts he gave at the principal places on the Rhine where
we stopped.
Our whole expedition partook more of the character of a party of
pleasure than a business speculation; and though Liszt's and my
sister's musical performances were professional exhibitions of the
highest order, the relations of our whole party were those of the
friendliest and merriest tourists and _compagnons de voyage_.
Nothing could exceed the charm of our delightful travelling through
that lovely scenery, and sojourning in those pleasant picturesque
antique towns, where the fine concerts of our two artists enchanted
us even more, from personal sympathy, than the most enthusiastic
audiences who thronged to hear them.
Liszt was at this time a young man, in the very perfection of his
extraordinary talent, and at the height of his great celebrity. He
was extremely handsome; his features were finely chiselled, and the
expression of his face, especially when under the inspiration of
playing, strikingly grand and commanding.
Of all the pianists that I have ever heard, and I have heard all the
most celebrated of my time, he was undoubtedly the first for fire,
power, and brilliancy of execution. His style, which was strictly
original, and an innovation upon all that had preceded it, may be
called the "Sturm und Drang," or seven-leagued-boot style of playing
on the piano; and in listening to him, it was difficult to believe
that he had no more than the average number of fingers, or that they
were of the average length,--but that, indeed, they were not; he had
stretched his hands like a pair of kid gloves, and accomplished the
most incredible distances, while executing, in the interval between
them, inconceivable musical feats with his three middle fingers.
None of his musical contemporaries, Moscheles, Mendelssohn, Chopin,
nor his more immediate rival, Thalberg, ever produced anything like
the volcanic sort of musical effect which he did, perfect eruptions,
earthquakes, tornadoes of sound, such as I never heard any piano
utter but under his touch. But though he was undoubtedly a more
amazing performer than any I ever listened to, his peculiar
eccentricities were so inextricably interwoven with the whole mode
and manner of his performances that, in spite of the many imitators
they have inspired, he could by no means be regarded as the founder
of anything deserving the name of a school of piano-playing. M.
Rubinstein, I presume, in our own day, represents Liszt's peculiar
genius better than any one else.
The close, concise, crowded, and somewhat crabbed style of the great
learned musical school of the Bachs, which may almost be called the
algebra or geometry of musical composition, at any rate its higher
mathematics, had certainly challenged a spirit of the most daring
contrast in the young Hungarian prodigy, who electrified Paris, and
carried its severe body of classical critics by storm, with the
triumphant audacity of his brilliant and powerful style. Liszt
became, at the very opening of his career, so immediately a miracle,
and then an oracle, in the artistic and the great world of Paris
that he was allowed to impose his own terms upon its judgment; and
suffering himself the worst consequences of that order of success,
he achieved too early a fame for his permanent reputation. A want of
sobriety, a fantastical seeking after strange effects--in short, the
characteristics of artistic _charlatanerie_--mixed themselves up
with all that he did, and, as is inevitably the case, deteriorated
the fine original gifts of his genius. When I first heard him, he
had already reached the furthest limit of his powers, because they
were exerted in a mistaken direction; and the exaggeration and false
taste which were covered by his marvellous facility and strength
gradually became more and more predominant in his performances, and
turned them almost into caricatures of the first wonderful specimens
of ability with which he had amazed the musical world.
He could not go on being forever more astonishing than he had ever
been before, and he paid the penalty of having made that his
principal aim. His execution and composition alike became by degrees
incoherent acrobatism, in which all that could call itself art was a
mere combination of extraordinary and all but grotesque
difficulties, devised for the sole purpose of overcoming them;
musical convulsions and contortions, that forever recalled Dr.
Johnson's epigram.
In the summer of 1842 Liszt was but on the edge of this descent; his
genius, his youth, his personal beauty, and the vivid charm of his
manner and conversation had made him the idol of society, as well as
of the artistic world, and he was then radiant with the fire of his
great natural gifts, and dazzling with the success that had crowned
them; he was a brilliant creature....
After this I never saw Liszt again until the summer of 1870. I had
gone to the theatre at Munich, where I was staying, to hear Wagner's
opera of the "Rheingold," with my daughter and her husband. We had
already taken our places, when S---- exclaimed to me, "There is
Liszt." The increased age, the clerical dress, had effected but
little change in the striking general appearance, which my daughter
(who had never seen him since 1842, when she was quite a child)
recognized immediately. I went round to his box, and, recalling
myself to his memory, begged him to come to ours, and let me
present my daughter to him; he very good-naturedly did so, and the
next day called upon us at our hotel, and sat with us a long
time....
His conversation on matters of art (Wagner's music, which he and we
had listened to the evening before) and literature was curiously
cautious and guarded, and every expression of opinion given with
extreme reserve, instead of the uncompromising fearlessness of his
earlier years; and the abbe was indeed quite another from the Liszt
of our summer on the Rhine of 1842.
Liszt never composed any very good music; arrangement of the music
of others was his specialty; and his versions of Schubert's,
Weber's, and Mozart's finest melodies for the piano were the _ne
plus ultra_ of brilliant and powerful adaptation, but required his
own rendering to produce their full effect; and by far the most
extraordinary exhibition of skill I ever heard on the piano was his
performance of the airs from the Don Giovanni, arranged by himself.
His literary style had the same qualities and defects as his music:
brilliancy and picturesqueness, and an absence of genuineness and
simplicity. He wrote a great deal of musical criticism, and an
interesting life of Chopin.
His conversation was sparkling and dazzling, and full of startling
paradoxes; he had considerable power of sarcastic repartee, and once
or twice is reported to have encountered the imperious queen of
Austrian society, Madame de Metternich, with her own weapons, very
successfully.