May 21.--To-day being my birthday, I thought I must go to Liszt by way of celebration. I wasn't really ready to play to him, but I took his second Ballade with me, and thought I'd ask him some questions about some hard places in it. He insisted upon my playing it. When we came in he looked indisposed and nervous, and there happened to be a good many artists there. We always lay our notes on the table, and he takes them, looks them over, and calls out what he'll have played. He remarked this piece and called out "_Wer spielt diese grosse machtige Ballade von mir?_ (Who plays this great and mighty ballad of mine?)" I felt as if he had asked "Who killed c.o.c.k Robin?" and as if I were the one who had done it, only I did not feel like "owning up" to it quite so glibly as the sparrow had, for Liszt seemed to be in very bad humour, and had roughed the one who had played before me. I finally mustered up my courage and said "_Ich_," but told him I did not know it perfectly yet. He said, "No matter; play it." So I sat down, expecting he would take my head off, but, strange to say, he seemed to be delighted with my playing, and said that I had "quite touched him." Think of that from Liszt, and when I was playing his own composition! When I went out he accompanied me to the door, took my hand in both of his and said, "To-day you've covered yourself with glory!" I told him I had only _begun_ it, and I hoped he would let me play it again when I knew it better. "What," said he, "I must pay you a still greater compliment, must I?" "Of course," said I.

"_Il faut vouz gater?_" "Oui," said I. He laughed.

CHAPTER XVIII.

Liszt's Drawing-room. An Artist's Walking Party. Liszt's Teaching.

WEIMAR, _May 29, 1873_.

I am having the most heavenly time in Weimar, studying with Liszt, and sometimes I can scarcely realize that I am at that summit of my ambition, to be _his_ pupil! It was the Baroness von S.'s letter that secured it for me, I am sure. He is so overrun with people, that I think it is a wonder he is civil to anybody, but he is the most amiable man I ever knew, though he _can_ be dreadful, too, when he chooses, and he understands how to put people outside his door in as short a s.p.a.ce of time as it can be done. I go to him three times a week. At home Liszt doesn't wear his long abbe's coat, but a short one, in which he looks much more artistic. His figure is remarkably slight, but his head is most imposing.--It is _so_ delicious in that room of his! It was all furnished and put in order for him by the Grand d.u.c.h.ess herself. The walls are pale gray, with a 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 (he receives a new one every year). 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 he and the gentlemen can light their cigars. There is a carpet on the floor, a rarity in Germany, and Liszt generally walks about, and smokes, and mutters (he can never be said to _talk_), and calls upon one or other of us to play. From time to time he will sit down and play himself where a pa.s.sage 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 cannot conceive, without hearing him, how poetic he is, or the thousand _nuances_ that he can throw into the simplest thing, and 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 cannot be treated like one.

He is a monarch, and when he extends his royal sceptre you can sit down and play to him. You never can ask him to play anything for you, no matter how much you're dying to hear it. If he is in the mood he will play, if not, you must content yourself with a few remarks. You cannot 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. We bring the same piece to him but once, and but once play it through.

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 that 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?

Weimar is a lovely little place, and there are most beautiful walks all about. Ascension being a holiday here, all we pianists made up a walking party out to Tiefurt, about two miles distant. We went in the afternoon and returned in the evening. The walk lay through the woods, and was perfectly exquisite the whole way. As we came back in the evening the nightingales were singing, and I could not help wishing that P. were there to hear them, as he has such a pa.s.sion for birds. There are cuckoos here, too, and you hear them calling "cuckoo, cuckoo." Metzdorf and I danced on the hard road, to the edification of all the others. In Tiefurt we partook of a magnificent collation consisting of a mug of beer, brown bread and sausage! Some of the party preferred coffee, among whom was Metzdorf, who made us laugh by sticking the coffee-pot into his inside coat pocket as soon as he had poured out his first cup, in order to make sure that the others didn't take more than their share; he would coolly take it out, help himself, and put it back again. The servant who waited got frightened, and thought he was going to steal it. Afterwards when we were playing games and wanted the door shut, the host came and opened it, and would not allow us to shut it, because he said we might carry off something! How's that!

WEIMAR, _June 6, 1873_.

When I first came there were only five of us who studied with Liszt, but lately a good many others have been there. Day before yesterday there came a young lady who was a pupil of Henselt in St. Petersburg. She is immensely talented, only seventeen years old, and her name is Laura Kahrer. It is a very rare thing to see a pupil of Henselt, for it is very difficult to get lessons from him. He stands next to Liszt. This Laura Kahrer plays everything that ever was heard of, and she played a fugue of her own composition the other day that was really vigorous and good. I was quite astonished to hear how she had worked it up. She has made a grand concert tour in Russia. I never saw such a hand as she had.

She could bend it backwards till it looked like the palm of her hand turned inside out. She was an interesting little creature, with dark eyes and hair, and one could see by her Turkish necklace and numerous bangles that she had been making money. She played with the greatest _aplomb_, though her touch had a certain roughness about it to my ear.

She did not carry me away, but I have not heard many pieces from her.

However, all playing sounds barren by the side of Liszt, for _his_ is the living, breathing impersonation of poetry, pa.s.sion, 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 emotion. He is a many-sided prism, and reflects back the light in all colours, no matter how you look at him. His pupils _adore_ him, as in fact everybody 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 Stuttgardt conservatory played a Liszt Concerto. His name is V., and he is dreadfully nervous. Liszt kept up a little running fire of satire all the time he was playing, but in a good-natured way. I shouldn't have minded it if it had been I. In fact, I think it would have inspired me; but poor V. hardly knew whether he was on his head or on his feet. It was too funny. Everything that Liszt says is so striking. For instance, in one place where V. was playing the melody rather feebly, Liszt suddenly took his seat at the piano and said, "When _I_ play, I always play for the people in the gallery [by the gallery he meant the c.o.c.k-loft, where the rabble always sit, and where the places cost next to nothing], so that those persons who pay only five groschens for their seat also hear something." Then he began, and I wish you could have heard him! The sound didn't seem to be 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 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. One day, when I was playing, I made too much movement with my hand in a rotatory sort of a pa.s.sage where it was difficult to avoid it. "Keep your hand still, Fraulein," said Liszt; "_don't make omelette_." I couldn't help laughing, it hit me on the head so nicely. He is far too sparing of his playing, unfortunately, and, like Tausig, only sits down and plays a few bars at a time, generally. It is dreadful when he stops, just as you are at the height of your enjoyment, but he is so thoroughly _blase_ that he doesn't care to show off, and doesn't like to have any one pay him a compliment. Even at the court it annoyed him so that the Grand d.u.c.h.ess told people to take no notice when he rose from the piano.

On the same day that Liszt was in such high good-humour, a strange lady and her husband were there who had made a long journey to Weimar, in the hope of hearing him play. She waited patiently for a long time through the lesson, and at last Liszt took compa.s.sion on her, and sat down with his favourite remark that "the young ladies played a great deal better than he did, but he would try his best to imitate them," and then played something of his own so wonderfully, that when he had finished we all stood there like posts, feeling that there was _nothing_ to be said. But he, as if he feared we might burst out into eulogy, got up instantly and went over to a friend of his who was standing there, and who lives on an estate near Weimar, and said, in the most commonplace tone imaginable, "By the way, how about those eggs? Are you going to send me some?" It seems to be not only a profound bore to him, but really a sort of sensitiveness on his part. How he can bear to hear _us_ play, I cannot imagine. It must grate on his ear terribly, I think, because everything _must_ sound expressionless to him in comparison with his own marvellous conception. I a.s.sure 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 pedal are two secrets of his playing, and then he seems to dive down in the most hidden thoughts of the composer, and fetch them up to the surface, so that 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. All my musical studies till now have been a mere going to school, a preparation for 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, and in studying Liszt's playing, I can see where Tausig got many of his own wonderful peculiarities. I think he was the most like Liszt of all the army that have had the privilege of his instruction.--I began this letter on Sunday, and it is now Tuesday.

Yesterday I went to Liszt, and found that Bulow had just arrived. None of the other scholars had come, for a wonder, and I was just going away, when Liszt came out, asked me to come in a moment, and introduced me to Bulow. There I was, all alone with these two great artists in Liszt's _salon_! Wasn't _that_ a situation? I only stayed a few minutes, of course, though I should have liked to spend hours, but our conversation was in the highest degree amusing while I _was_ there. Bulow had just returned from his grand concert tour, and had been in London for the first time. In a few months he had given one hundred and twenty concerts! He is a fascinating creature, too, like all these master artists, but entirely different from Liszt, being small, quick, and airy in his movements, and having one of the boldest and proudest foreheads I ever saw. He looks like strength of will personified. Liszt gazed at "his Hans," as he calls him, with the fondest pride, and seemed perfectly happy over his arrival. It was like his beautiful courtesy to call me in and introduce me to Bulow instead of letting me go away. He thought I had come to play to him, and was unwilling to have me take that trouble for nothing, though he must have wished me in Jericho. You would think I paid him a hundred dollars a lesson, instead of _his_ condescending to sacrifice his valuable time to _me_ for nothing.

CHAPTER XIX.

Liszt's Expression in Playing. Liszt on Conservatories. Ordeal of Liszt's Lessons. Liszt's Kindness.

WEIMAR, _June 19, 1873_.

In Liszt I can at last say that my ideal in _something_ has been realized. He goes far beyond all that I expected. Anything so perfectly beautiful as he looks when he sits at the piano I never saw, and yet he is almost an old man now.[E] I enjoy him as I would an exquisite work of art. His personal magnetism is immense, and I can scarcely bear it when he plays. He can make me cry all he chooses, and that is saying a good deal, because I've heard so much music, and _never_ have been affected by it. Even Joachim, whom I think divine, never moved me. When Liszt plays anything pathetic, it sounds as if he had been through everything, and opens all one's wounds afresh. All that one has ever suffered comes before one again. Who was it that I heard say once, that years ago he saw Clara Schumann sitting in tears near the platform, during one of Liszt's performances?--Liszt knows well the influence he has on people, for he always fixes his eyes on some one of us when he plays, and I believe he tries to wring our hearts. When he plays a pa.s.sage, and goes _pearling_ down the key-board, he often looks over at me and smiles, to see whether I am appreciating it.

But I doubt if he feels any particular emotion himself, when he is piercing you through with his rendering. He is simply hearing every tone, knowing exactly what effect he wishes to produce and how to do it.

In fact, he is practically two persons in one--the listener and the performer. But what immense self-command that implies! No matter how fast he plays you always feel that there is "plenty of time"--no need to be anxious! You might as well try to move one of the pyramids as fl.u.s.ter _him_. Tausig possessed this repose in a technical way, and his touch was marvellous; but he never drew the tears to your eyes. He could not wind himself through all the subtle labyrinths of the heart as Liszt does.

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, 'How 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.

Our cla.s.s has swelled to about a dozen persons now, and a good many others come and play to him once or twice and then go. As I wrote to L.

the other day, that dear little scholar of Henselt, Fraulein Kahrer, was one, but she only stayed three days. She was a most interesting little creature, and told some funny stories about Henselt, who she says has a most violent temper, and is very severe. She said that one day he was giving a lesson to Princess Katherina (whoever that is), and he was so enraged over her playing that he s.n.a.t.c.hed away the music, and dashed it to the ground. The Princess, however, did not lose her equanimity, but folded her arms and said, "Who shall pick it up?" And he had to bend and restore it to its place.

I've never seen Liszt look angry but once, but then he was terrific.

Like a lion! It was one day when a student from the Stuttgardt conservatory attempted to play the Sonata Appa.s.sionata. He had a good deal of technique, and a moderately good conception of it, but still he was totally inadequate to the work--and indeed, only a _mighty_ artist like Tausig or Bulow ought to attempt to play it. It was a hot afternoon, and the clouds had been gathering for a storm. As the Stuttgardter played the opening notes of the sonata, the tree-tops suddenly waved wildly, and a low growl of thunder was heard muttering in the distance. "Ah," said Liszt, who was standing at the window, with his delicate quickness of perception, "a fitting accompaniment." (You know Beethoven wrote the Appa.s.sionata one night when he was caught in a thunder-storm.) If Liszt had only played it himself, the whole thing would have been like a poem. But he walked up and down the room and forced himself to listen, though he could scarcely bear it, I could see.

A few times he pushed the student aside and played a few bars himself, and we saw the pa.s.sion leap up into his face like a glare of sheet lightning. Anything so magnificent as it was, the little that he _did_ play, and the startling individuality of his conception, I never heard or imagined. I felt as if I did not know whether I were "in the body or out of the body."--GLORIOUS BEING! He is a two-edged sword that cuts through everything.

The Stuttgardter made some such glaring mistakes, not in the notes, but in rhythm, etc., that at last Liszt burst out with, "You come from Stuttgardt, and play like _that_!" and then he went on in a tirade against conservatories and teachers in general. He was like a thunder-storm himself. He frowned, and bent his head, and his long hair fell over his face, while the poor Stuttgardter sat there like a beaten hound. Oh, it was awful! If it had been I, I think I should have withered entirely away, for Liszt is always so amiable that the contrast was all the stronger.--"_Aber das geht Sie nichts an_ (But this does not concern you)," said he, in a conciliatory tone, suddenly stopping himself and smiling. "_Spielen Sie weiter_ (Play on)."--He meant that it was not at the student but at the conservatories that he had been angry.

Liszt hasn't the nervous irritability common to artists, but on the contrary his disposition is the most exquisite and tranquil in the world. We have been there incessantly, and I've never seen him ruffled except two or three times, and then he was tired and not himself, and it was a most transient thing. When I think what a little savage Tausig often was, and how cuttingly sarcastic Kullak could be at times, I am astonished that Liszt so rarely loses his temper. He has the power of turning the best side of every one outward, and also the most marvellous and instant appreciation of what that side is. If there is _anything_ in you, you may be sure that Liszt will know it. Whether he chooses to let you think he does, may, however, be another matter.

WEIMAR, _July 15, 1873_.

Liszt is such an immense, inspiring force that one has to try and stride forward with him at double rate, even if with double expenditure, too!

To-day I'm more dead than alive, as we had a lesson from him yesterday that lasted four hours. There were twenty artists present, all of whom were anxious to play, and as he was in high good-humour, he played ever so much himself in between. It was perfectly magnificent, but exhausting and exciting to the last degree. When I come home from the lessons I fling myself on the sofa, and feel as if I never wanted to get up again.

It is a fearful day's work every time I go to him. First, four hours'

practice in the morning. Then a nervous, anxious feeling that takes away my appet.i.te, and prevents me from eating my dinner. And then several hours at Liszt's, where one succession of concertos, fantasias, and all sorts of tremendous things are played. You never know before whom you must play there, for it is the musical headquarters of the world.

Directors of conservatories, composers, artists, aristocrats, all come in, and you have to bear the brunt of it as best you can. The first month I was here, when there were only five of us, it was quite another matter, but now the room is crowded every time.

Liszt gave a matinee the other day at which I played a "Soiree de Vienne," by Tausig--awfully hard, but very brilliant and peculiar. I don't know how I ever got through it, for I had only been studying it a few days, and didn't even know it by heart, nor had I played it to Liszt. He only told me the evening before, too, about eight o'clock--"To-morrow I give a matinee; bring your Soiree de Vienne." I rushed home and practiced till ten, and then I got up early the next morning and practiced a few hours. The matinee was at eleven o'clock.

First, Liszt played himself, then a young lady sang several songs, then there was a piece for piano and flute played by Liszt and a flutist, and then I came. I was just as frightened as I could be! Metzdorf (my Russian friend) and Urspruch sat down by me to give me courage, and to turn the leaves, but Liszt insisted upon turning himself, and stood behind me and did it in his dexterous way. He says it is an art to turn the leaves properly! He was _so_ kind, and whenever I did anything well he would call out "_charmant!_" to encourage me. It is considered a great compliment to be asked to play at a matinee, and I don't know why Liszt paid it to me at the expense of others who were there who play far better than I do--among them a young lady from Norway, lately come, who is a most _superb_ pianist. She was a pupil of Kullak's, too, but it is four years since she left him, and she has been concertizing a good deal. Yesterday she played Schumann's A minor concerto magnificently. I was surprised that Liszt had not selected her, but one can never tell what to expect from Liszt. With him "nothing is to be presumed on or despaired of"--as the proverb says. He is so full of moods and phases that you have to have a very sharp perception even to begin to understand him, and he can cut you all up fine without your ever guessing it. He rarely mortifies any one by an open snub, but what is perhaps worse, he manages to let the rest of the cla.s.s know what he is thinking while the poor victim remains quite in darkness about it!--Yes, he can do very cruel things.

After all, though, people generally have their own a.s.surance to thank, or their own want of tact, when they do not get on with Liszt. If they go to him full of themselves, or expecting to make an impression on _him_, or merely for the sake of saying they have been with him, instead of presenting themselves to sit at his feet in humility, as they ought, and learn whatever he is willing to impart--he soon finds it out, and treats them accordingly. Some one once asked Liszt, what he would have been had he not been a musician. "The first diplomat in Europe," was the reply. With this Machiavellian bent it is not surprising that he sometimes indulges himself in playing off the conceited or the obtuse for the benefit of the bystanders. But the real _basis_ of his nature is compa.s.sion. _The bruised reed he does not break, nor the humble and docile heart despise!_

Fraulein Gaul tells a characteristic story about the "Meister," as we call Liszt. When she first came to him a year or two ago, she brought him one day Chopin's B flat minor Scherzo--one of those stock pieces that every artist _must_ learn, and that has also been thrummed to death by countless tyros. Liszt looked at it, and to her fright and dismay cried out in a fit of impatience, "No, I _won't_ hear it!" and dashed it angrily into the corner. The next day he went to see her, apologized for his outburst of temper, and said that as a penance for it he would force himself to give her not one, but two or three lessons on the Scherzo, and in the most minute and careful manner--which accordingly he did!

Fancy any music teacher you ever heard of, so humbling himself to a little girl of fifteen, and then remember that Tausig, the greatest of modern virtuosi, said of Liszt, "No mortal can measure himself with Liszt. He dwells upon a solitary height."

But you need not fear that I am "giving up American standards" because I reverence Liszt so boundlessly. Everything is topsy-turvy in Europe according to _our_ moral ideas, and they don't have what we call "men"

over here. But they _do_ have artists that we cannot approach! It is as a Master in Art that I look at and write of Liszt, and his mere presence is to his pupils such stimulus and joy, that when I leave _him_ I shall feel I have left the best part of my life behind!

CHAPTER XX.

Liszt's Compositions. His Playing and Teaching of Beethoven. His "Effects" in Piano-playing. Excursion to Jena. A New Music Master.

WEIMAR, _July 24, 1873_.