Liszt is going away to-day. He was to have left several days ago, but the Emperor of Austria or Russia (I don't know which), came to visit the Grand Duke, and of course Liszt was obliged to be on hand and to spend a day with them. He is such a grandee himself that kings and emperors are quite matters of course to him. Never was a man so courted and spoiled as he! The Grand d.u.c.h.ess herself frequently visits him. But he never allows anyone to ask him to play, and even she doesn't venture it. That is the only point in which one sees Liszt's sense of his own greatness; otherwise his manner is remarkably una.s.suming.

Liszt will be gone until the middle of August, and I shall be thankful to have a few weeks of repose, and to be able to study more quietly.

With him one is at high pressure all the time, and I have gained a good many more ideas from him than I can work up in a hurry. In fact, Liszt has revealed to me an entirely new idea of piano-playing. He is a wonderful _composer_, by the way, and that is what I was unprepared for in him. His oratorio of _Christus_ was brought out here this summer, and many strangers and celebrities came to hear it, Wagner among others. It was magnificent, and one of the n.o.blest, and decidedly the grandest oratorio that I ever heard. I've never had time to write home about it, for I felt that it required a dissertation in itself to do it justice. I wish it could be performed in Boston, for his orchestral and choral works, I am sorry to say, make their way very slowly in Germany. "Liszt helped Wagner," said he to me, sadly, "but who will help Liszt? though, compared with Opera it is as much harder for Oratorio to conquer a place as it is for a pianist to achieve success when compared to a singer." So he feels as if things were against him, though his heart and soul are so bound up in sacred music, that he told me it had become to him "the only thing worth living for." He really seems to care almost nothing for his piano-playing or for his piano compositions.

And yet, what beauty is there in those compositions! In Berlin I had always been taught that Liszt was a would-be composer, that he could not write a melody, that he had no originality, and that his compositions were merely glitter to dazzle the eyes of the public. How unjust and untrue have I found all these a.s.sertions to be! Here I have an opportunity of hearing his piano works _en ma.s.se_, and day by day (since all the young artists are playing them), and my previous ideas have been entirely reversed. If Liszt is _anything_, he is _original_. One can see that at a glance, simply by imagining his music taken out. Where is there anything that would fill its place? When artists wish to make an "effect" and stir up the public--"to fuse the leaden thousands," as Chopin expressed it--what do they play? LISZT!--Not only is his music brilliant--not only does he pour this wealth of pearls and diamonds down the key-board, but his pieces rise to great climaxes, are grandiose in style, overleap all boundaries, and whirl you away with the vehemence of pa.s.sion. Then what lightness of touch in the lesser _morceaux_, where he is often the acme of tenderness, grace and fairy-like sportiveness, while in the melancholy ones, what subtle feeling after the emotions curled up in the remote corners of the heart! They are so rich in harmony, so weird, so wild, that when you hear them you are like a sea-weed cast upon the bosom of the ocean. And then what could be more deep and poetic than Liszt's transcriptions of Schubert's and Wagner's songs? They are altogether exquisite. Finally, Liszt's compositions stand the severest test of merit. They _wear_ well. You can play them a long time and never weary of them. In short, they embrace every element _except_ the cla.s.sic, and the question is, whether these airy or intense ideas that appeal to you through their veils of shimmer and sheen are not a sort of cla.s.sics in their own way!

Liszt's Christus is arranged for piano for four hands, and I wish I had it, and also Bulow's great edition of Beethoven's sonatas--Oh! you cannot _conceive_ anything like Liszt's playing of Beethoven. When _he_ plays a sonata it is as if the composition rose from the dead and stood transfigured before you. You ask yourself, "Did _I_ ever play that?" But it bores him so dreadfully to hear the sonatas, that though I've heard him teach a good many, I haven't had the courage to bring him one. I suppose he is sick of the sound of them, or perhaps it is because he feels obliged to be conscientious in teaching Beethoven!

When one of the young pianists brings Liszt a sonata, he puts on an expression of resignation and generally begins a half protest which he afterward thinks better of.--"Well, go on," he will say, and then he proceeds to be very strict. He always teaches Beethoven with notes, which shows how scrupulous he is about him, for, of course, he knows all the sonatas by heart. He has Bulow's edition, which he opens and lays on the end of the grand piano. Then as he walks up and down he can stop and refer to it and point out pa.s.sages, as they are being played, to the rest of the cla.s.s. Bulow probably got many of his ideas from Liszt. One day when Mr. Orth was playing the Allegro of the Sonata Op. 110, Liszt insisted upon having it done in a particular way, and made him go back and repeat it over and over again. One line of it is particularly hard.

Liszt made every one in the cla.s.s sit down and try it. Most of them failed, which amused him.--"Ah, yes," said he, laughing, "when I once begin to play the pedagogue I am not to be outdone!" and then he related as an ill.u.s.tration of his "pedagogism" a little anecdote of a former pupil of his, now an eminent artist. "I liked young M. very much," said he. "He played beautifully, but he was inclined to be lazy and to take things easily. One morning he brought me Chopin's E minor concerto, and he rather skimmed over that difficult pa.s.sage in the middle of the first movement as if he hadn't taken the trouble really to study it. His execution was not clean. So I thought I would give him a lesson, and I kept him playing those two pages over and over for an hour or two until he had mastered them. His arms must have been ready to break when he got through! At the next lesson there was no M. I sent to know why he did not appear. He replied that he had been out hunting and had hurt his arm so that he could not play. At the lesson following he accordingly presented himself with his arm in a sling. But I always suspected it was a stratagem on his part to avoid playing, and that nothing really ailed him. He had had enough for one while," added Liszt, with a mischievous smile.

On Monday I had a most delightful tete-a-tete with Liszt, quite by chance. I had occasion to call upon him for something, and, strange to say, he was alone, sitting by his table and writing. Generally all sorts of people are up there. He insisted upon my staying a while, and we had the most amusing and entertaining conversation imaginable. It was the first time I ever heard Liszt really talk, for he contents himself mostly with making little jests. He is full of _esprit_. We were speaking of the faculty of mimicry, and he told me such a funny little anecdote about Chopin. He said that when he and Chopin were young together, somebody told him that Chopin had a remarkable talent for mimicry, and so he said to Chopin, "Come round to my rooms this evening and show off this talent of yours." So Chopin came. He had purchased a blonde wig ("I was very blonde at that time," said Liszt), which he put on, and got himself up in one of Liszt's suits. Presently an acquaintance of Liszt's came in, Chopin went to meet him instead of Liszt, and took off his voice and manner so perfectly, that the man actually mistook him for Liszt, and made an appointment with him for the next day--"and there I was in the room," said Liszt. Wasn't that remarkable?

Another evening I was there about twilight and Liszt sat at the piano looking through a new oratorio, which had just come out in Paris upon "Christus," the same subject that his own oratorio was on. He asked me to turn for him, and evidently was not interested, for he would skip whole pages and begin again, here and there. There was only a single lamp, and _that_ rather a dim one, so that the room was all in shadow, and Liszt wore his Merlin-like aspect. I asked him to tell me how he produced a certain effect he makes in his arrangement of the ballad in Wagner's _Flying Dutchman_. He looked very "_fin_" as the French say, but did not reply. He never gives a direct answer to a direct question.

"Ah," said I, "you won't tell." He smiled, and then immediately played the pa.s.sage. It was a long arpeggio, and the effect he made was, as I had supposed, a pedal effect. He kept the pedal down throughout, and played the beginning of the pa.s.sage in a grand _rolling_ sort of manner, and then all the rest of it with a very pianissimo touch, and so lightly, that the continuity of the arpeggios was destroyed, and the notes seemed to be just _strewn_ in, as if you broke a wreath of flowers and scattered them according to your fancy. It is a most striking and beautiful effect, and I told him I didn't see how he ever thought of it.

"Oh, I've invented a great many things," said he, indifferently--"_this_, for instance,"--and he began playing a double roll of octaves in chromatics in the ba.s.s of the piano. It was very grand, and made the room reverberate. "Magnificent," said I. "Did you ever hear me do a storm?" said he. "No." "Ah, you ought to hear me do a storm! Storms are my _forte_!" Then to himself between his teeth, while a weird look came into his eyes as if he could indeed rule the blast, "_Da_ KRACHEN _die Baume_ (Then _crash_ the trees!)"

How ardently I wished he _would_ "play a storm," but of course he _didn't_, and he presently began to trifle over the keys in his _blase_ style. I suppose he couldn't quite work himself up to the effort, but that look and tone told how Liszt _would_ do it.--Alas, that we poor mortals here below should share so often the fate of Moses, and have only a glimpse of the Promised Land, and that without the consolation of being Moses! But perhaps, after all, the vision is better than the reality. We see the _whole land_, even if but at a distance, instead of being limited merely to the spot where our foot treads.

Once again I saw Liszt in a similar mood, though his expression was this time _comfortably_ rather than _wildly_ destructive. It was when Fraulein Remmertz was playing his E flat concerto to him. There were two grand pianos in the room, and she was sitting at one, and he at the other, accompanying and interpolating as he felt disposed. Finally they came to a place where there were a series of pa.s.sages beginning with both hands in the middle of the piano, and going in opposite directions to the ends of the key-board, ending each time in a short, sharp chord.

"_Alles zum Fenster hinaus werfen_ (Pitch everything out of the window)," said he, in a cozy, easy sort of way, and he began playing these pa.s.sages and giving every chord a whack as if he _were_ splitting everything up and flinging it out, and that with such enjoyment, that you felt as if you'd like to bear a hand, too, in the work of general demolition! But I never shall forget Liszt's look as he so lazily proposed to "pitch everything out of the window." It reminded me of the expression of a big tabby-cat as it sits and purrs away, blinking its eyes and seemingly half asleep, when suddenly--!--! out it strikes with both its claws, and woe be to whatever is within its reach! Perhaps, after all, the secret of Liszt's fascination is this power of intense and wild emotion that you feel he possesses, together with the most perfect control over it.

Liszt sometimes strikes wrong notes when he plays, but it does not trouble him in the least. On the contrary, he rather enjoys it. He reminds me of one of the cabinet ministers in Berlin, of whom it is said that he has an amazing talent for making blunders, but a still more amazing one for getting out of them and covering them up. Of Liszt the first part of this is not true, for if he strikes a wrong note it is simply because he chooses to be careless. But the last part of it applies to him eminently. It always amuses him instead of disconcerting him when he comes down squarely _wrong_, as it affords him an opportunity of displaying his ingenuity and giving things such a turn that the false note will appear simply a key leading to new and unexpected beauties. An accident of this kind happened to him in one of the Sunday matinees, when the room was full of distinguished people and of his pupils. He was rolling up the piano in arpeggios in a very grand manner indeed, when he struck a semi-tone short of the high note upon which he had intended to end. I caught my breath and wondered whether he was going to leave us like that, in mid-air, as it were, and the harmony unresolved, or whether he would be reduced to the humiliation of correcting himself like ordinary mortals, and taking the right chord. A half smile came over his face, as much as to say--"Don't fancy that _this_ little thing disturbs me,"--and he instantly went meandering down the piano in harmony with the false note he had struck, and then rolled deliberately up in a second grand sweep, _this_ time striking true. I never saw a more delicious piece of cleverness. It was so quick-witted and so exactly characteristic of Liszt. Instead of giving you a chance to say, "He has made a mistake," he forced you to say, "He has shown how to get out of a mistake."

Another day I heard him pa.s.s from one piece into another by making the finale of the first one play the part of prelude to the second. So exquisitely were the two woven together that you could hardly tell where the one left off and the other began.--Ah me! _Such_ a facile grace!

_n.o.body_ will ever equal him, with those rolling ba.s.ses and those flowery trebles. And then his Adagios! When you hear him in one of _those_, you feel that his playing has got to that point when it is purified from all earthly dross and is an exhalation of the soul that mounts straight to heaven.

WEIMAR, _August 8, 1873_.

The other day we all made an excursion to Jena, which is about three hours' drive from here. We went in carriages in a long train, and pulled up at a hotel named The Bear. There we took our second breakfast. There was to be a concert at five in a church, where some of Liszt's music was to be performed. After breakfast we went to the church, where Liszt met us, and the rehearsal took place. After the rehearsal we went to dinner.

We had three long tables which Liszt arranged to suit himself, his own place being in the middle. He always manages every little detail with the greatest tact, and is very particular never to let two ladies or two gentlemen sit together, but always alternately a lady and a gentleman.

"_Immer eine bunte Reihe machen_ (Always have a little variety)," said he. The dinner was a very entertaining one to me, because I could converse with Liszt and hear all he said, as he was nearly opposite me.

I was in very high spirits that day, and as Kellerman, Bendix and Urspruch were all near me, too, we had endless fun. We had new potatoes for dinner, boiled with their skins on, and Liszt threw one at me, and I caught it. There was another young artist there from Brussels named Gurickx, whom I didn't know, because he spoke only French, and as I do not speak it, we had never exchanged words in the cla.s.s. I wasn't paying any attention to him, therefore, when suddenly my left-hand neighbour touched my arm. I looked round and he handed me a flower made of bread "from Monsieur Gurickx." I wish you could have seen it! It had the effect of a tube rose. Every little leaf and petal was as delicately turned as if nature herself had done it. The bread was fresh, and Gurickx had worked it between his fingers to the consistency of clay, and then modelled these little flowers which he stuck on to a stem. It was so artistically done, and it was such a dainty little thing to do, that I saw at once that he was interesting and that he possessed that marvellous French taste.

Since then we have become very good friends, and he is teaching me to speak French. He plays beautifully, and was trained in the famous Brussels conservatory, of which Dupont is the head. Servais also got his musical education there. They both advise me to go there for a year, as Dupont is a very great master indeed, and Brussels is the very home and centre of art and taste of every description--a "little Paris"--but more earnest, more German. Gurickx went through the art-school in Brussels as well as the conservatory, so that he paints as well as plays, and he had quite a struggle with himself to decide to which art he should devote himself. His style is the grandiose and fiery. Rubinstein is his model, and he plays Liszt's Rhapsodies as I never heard any one else. He brings out all their power, brilliancy and careering wildness, and makes the greatest sensation of them. Such tremendous sweeping chords! Liszt himself doesn't play the chords as well as Gurickx;--perhaps because he does not care now to exert the strength.

But to return to Jena. After dinner Liszt said, "Now we'll go to Paradise." So we put on our things, and proceeded to walk along the river to a place called Paradise, on account of its loveliness. We pa.s.sed the University, on one corner of which is a tablet with "W. von Goethe" written against the wall of the room which Goethe occupied. It seemed strange to me to be pa.s.sing the room of my beloved Goethe, with our equally beloved Liszt!--This walk along the river was enchanting.

The current was very rapid, and the willows were all blowing in the breeze. There is an odd triangular-shaped hill that rises on one side very boldly and abruptly, called the Fox's Head. The way was under a double row of tall trees, which met at the top and formed a green arch over our heads. It was all breeze and freshness, and the sunlight struck picturesquely aslant the hill-sides. I started to walk with Liszt, but he was so surrounded that it was difficult to get near him, so I walked instead with an interesting young artist named O., who was at once extraordinarily ugly and extremely clever.

After our walk we went to the concert, which was lovely, and then at seven we were all invited to tea at the house of a friend of Liszt's. He was a very tall man, and he had a very tall and hospitable daughter, nearly as big as himself, who received us very cordially. The tea was all laid on tables in the garden, and the sausages were cooking over a fire made on the grounds. We sat down pell-mell, anywhere, I next to Liszt, who kept putting things on my plate. When supper was over he retreated to a little summer house with some of his friends, to smoke.

We sauntered round the gra.s.s plat in front of it until Liszt called us to come in and sit by him, which we did until he was ready to go.

I've heard of a new music master lately. When my friend Miss B. was here, she told me that she had met a "Herr Director Deppe" in Berlin, after I left, and had told him all about me and my struggle to conquer the piano. He seemed very much interested and said, "O, if she had only come to me! _I_ would have helped her," and from all I can hear I think he must be the man for me. He is interested in Sherwood, who used to talk to me about him last winter. Sherwood says he is wholly disinterested and devoted to art, and lives entirely in music, and that he is a n.o.ble-hearted man, and the "most musical person he ever met."

Sherwood often wavers between him and Kullak, and Deppe would like to teach Sherwood if he could, simply out of interest for him.--Deppe has a pupil whom he has trained entirely himself, and whom he is going to bring out next winter. Sherwood says he never heard anything so beautiful as her playing. She is spending the summer near Deppe, and he hears her play the programme she is going to give in Berlin next winter, every day. Think what immense certainty that must give!

CHAPTER XXI.

Liszt's Playing. Tausig. Excursion to Sondershausen.

WEIMAR, _August 23, 1873_.

Liszt has returned from his trip, and I have played to him twice this week, and am to go again on Monday. He praised me very much on Tuesday, and said I played admirably. I knew he was pleased, because whenever he corrected me he would say, "_Nein, Kindchen_" in such a gentle way!

"_Kind_" is the German for child, and "_Kindchen_" is a diminutive, and whenever he calls you that you can tell he has a leaning toward you.

This week is the first time that I have been able to play to him without being nervous, or that my fingers have felt warm and natural. It has been a fearful ordeal, truly, to play there, for not only was Liszt himself present, but such a crowd of artists, all ready to pick flaws in your playing, and to say, "She hasn't got much talent." I am so glad that I stayed until Liszt's return, for now the rush is over, and he has much more time for those of us who are left, and plays a great deal more himself. Yesterday he played us a study of Paganini's, arranged by himself, and also his Campanella. I longed for M., as she is so fond of the Campanella. Liszt gave it with a velvety softness, clearness, brilliancy and pearliness of touch that was inimitable. And oh, his grace! _n.o.body_ can compare with him! Everybody else sounds heavy beside him!

However, I have felt some comfort in knowing that it is not Liszt's genius alone that makes him such a player. He has gone through such technical studies as no one else has except Tausig, perhaps. He plays everything under the sun in the way of _Etuden_--has played them, I mean. On Tuesday I got him talking about the composers who were the fashion when he was a young fellow in Paris--Kalkbrenner, Herz, etc.--and I asked him if he could not play us something by Kalkbrenner.

"O yes! I must have a few things of Kalkbrenner's in my head still," and then he played part of a concerto. Afterward he went on to speak of Herz, and said: "I'll play you a little study of Herz's that is infamously hard. It is a stupid little theme," and then he played the theme, "but _now_ pay attention." Then he played the study itself. It was a most hazardous thing, where the hands kept crossing continually with great rapidity, and striking notes in the most difficult positions.

It made us all laugh; and Liszt hit the notes every time, though it was disgustingly hard, and as he said himself, "he used to get all in a heat over it." He had evidently studied it so well that he could never forget it. He went on to speak of Moscheles and of his compositions. He said that when between thirty and forty years of age, Moscheles played superbly, but as he grew older he became too old-womanish and set in his ways--and then he took off Moscheles, and played his Etuden in his style. It was very funny. But it showed how Liszt has studied _everything_, and the universality of his knowledge, for he knows Tausig's and Rubinstein's studies as well as Kalkbrenner and Herz. There cannot be many persons in the world who keep up with the whole range of musical literature as he does.

Liszt loved Tausig as his own child, and is always delighted when we play any of his music. His death was an awful blow to Liszt, for he used to say, "He will be the inheritor of my playing." I suppose he thought he would live again in him, for he always says, "Never did such talent come under my hands." I would give anything to have seen them together, for Tausig was a wonderfully clever and captivating man, and I can imagine he must have fascinated Liszt. They say he was the naughtiest boy that ever was heard of, and caused Liszt no end of trouble and vexation; but he always forgave him, and after the vexation was past Liszt would pat him on the head and say, "_Carlchen, entweder wirst du ein grosser Lump oder ein grosser Meister_ (You'll turn out either a great blockhead or a great master)." That is Liszt all over. He is so indulgent that in consideration of talent he will forgive anything.

Tausig's father, who was himself a music-master, took him to Liszt when he was fourteen years old, hoping that Liszt would receive the little marvel as a pupil and protege.

But Liszt would not even hear the boy play. "I have had," he declared positively, "enough of child prodigies. They never come to much."

Tausig's father apparently acquiesced in the reply, but while he and Liszt were drinking wine and smoking together, he managed to smuggle the child on to the piano-stool behind Liszt, and signed to him to begin to play. The little Tausig plunged into Chopin's A flat Polonaise with such fire and boldness that Liszt turned his eagle head, and after a few bars cried, "I take him!" I heard Liszt say once that he could not endure child prodigies. "I have no time," said he, "for these artists _die_ WERDEN _sollen_ (that _are_ to be)!"

WEIMAR, _September 9, 1873_.

This week has been one of great excitement in Weimar, on account of the wedding of the son of the Grand Duke. All sorts of things have been going on, and the Emperor and Empress came on from Berlin. There have been a great many rehearsals at the theatre of different things that were played, and of course Liszt took a prominent part in the arrangement of the music. He directed the Ninth Symphony, and played twice himself with orchestral accompaniments. One of the pieces he played was Weber's Polonaise in E major, and the other was one of his own Rhapsodies Hongroises. Of these I was at the rehearsal. When he came out on the stage the applause was tremendous, and enough in itself to excite and electrify one. I was enchanted to have an opportunity to hear Liszt as a concert player. The director of the orchestra here is a beautiful pianist and composer himself, as well as a splendid conductor, but it was easy to see that he had to get all his wits together to follow Liszt, who gave full rein to his imagination, and let the _tempo_ fluctuate as he felt inclined. As for Liszt, he scarcely _looked_ at the keys, and it was astounding to see his hands go rushing up and down the piano and perform pa.s.sages of the utmost rapidity and difficulty, while his head was turned all the while towards the orchestra, and he kept up a running fire of remarks with them continually. "You violins, strike in _sharp_ here." "You trumpets, not too loud there," etc. He did everything with the most immense _aplomb_, and without seeming to pay any attention to his hands, which moved of themselves as if they were independent beings and had their own brain and everything! He never did the same thing twice alike. If it were a scale the first time, he would make it in double or broken thirds the second, and so on, constantly surprising you with some new turn. While you were admiring the long roll of the wave, a sudden spray would be dashed over you, and make you catch your breath! No, never was there such a player! The nervous intensity of his touch takes right hold of you. When he had finished everybody shouted and clapped their hands like mad, and the orchestra kept up such a _fanfare_ of applause, that the din was quite overpowering. Liszt smiled and bowed, and walked off the stage indifferently, not giving himself the trouble to come back, and presently he quietly sat down in the parquet, and the rehearsal proceeded. The concert itself took place at the court, so that I did not hear it. Metzdorf was there, however, and he said that Liszt played fabulously, of course, but that he was not as inspired as he was in the morning, and did not make the same effect.

WEIMAR, _September 15, 1873_.

The other day an excursion was arranged to Sondershausen, a town about three hours' ride from Weimar in the cars. There was to be a concert there in honour of Liszt, and a whole programme of his music was to be performed. About half a dozen of the "Lisztianer"--as the Weimarese dub Liszt's pupils--agreed to go, I, of course, being one. Liszt himself, the Countess von X. and Count S. were to lead the party. The morning we started was one of those perfect autumnal days when it is a delight simply to _live_.

After breakfast I hurried off to the station, where I met the others, everybody being in the highest spirits. Liszt and his t.i.tled friends travelled in a first cla.s.s carriage by themselves. The rest of us went second cla.s.s, in the next carriage behind. We were very gay indeed, and the time did not seem long till we arrived at Sondershausen, where we exchanged our seats in the cars for seats in an omnibus, and drove to the princ.i.p.al hotel. There were not sufficient accommodations for us all, owing to the number of strangers who had come to the festival, so Mrs. S. and I went to a smaller hotel in a more distant part of the town to engage rooms, intending to return and dine with Liszt and the rest.

Just as our noisy vehicle clattered up to the inn and some of the gentlemen jumped out to arrange matters, the solemn strains of a chorale were heard from a church close by, with its grand and rolling organ accompaniment. Somehow it made me feel sad to hear it, and a sense of the _transitoriness_ of things came over me. It seemed like one of those voices from the other world that call to us now and then.

After we had engaged our rooms, we drove back to the hotel where Liszt was staying, and where we were to dine immediately. It was in the centre of the town, and directly opposite the palace, which rose boldly on a sort of eminence with great flights of stone steps sweeping down to the road on each side. It looked quite imposing. An avenue wound up the hill to the right of it. In the dining-room of the hotel a long table was spread and all the places were carefully set. My place was next Count S.

and not far from Liszt. So I was very well seated. Everybody began talking at once the minute dinner was served, as they always do at table in Germany. Toward the close of it were the usual number of toasts in honour of Liszt, to which he responded in rather a bored sort of way. I don't wonder he gets tired of them, for it is always the same thing. He did not seem to be in his usual spirits, and had a fatigued air.

After dinner he said, "Now let us go and see Fraulein Fichtner."

Fraulein Fichtner was the young lady who was going to play his concerto in A major at the concert that evening. She is a well-known pianist in Germany, and is both pretty and brilliant. We started in a procession, which is the way one always walks with Liszt. It reminds me of those snow-b.a.l.l.s the boys roll up at home--the crowd gathers as it proceeds!

When we got to the house we entered an obscure corridor and began to find our way up a dark and narrow staircase. Some one struck a wax match. "Good!" called out Liszt, in his sonorous voice. "_Leuchten Sie voraus_ (Light us up)." When we got to the top we pulled the bell and were let in by Fraulein Fichtner's mother. Fraulein Fichtner herself looked no ways dismayed at the number of her guests, though we had the air of coming to storm the house. She gaily produced all the chairs there were, and those who could not find a seat had to stand! She was in Weimar for a few days this summer. So we had all met her before, and I had once heard her play some duets by Schumann with Liszt, who enjoyed reading with "Pauline," as he calls her. It is to her that Raff has dedicated his exquisite "_Maerchen_ (Fairy story)." She is a sparkling brunette, with a face full of intelligence. They say she writes charming little poems and is gifted in various ways. Not to tire her for the concert we only stayed about twenty minutes.

Going back, Liszt indulged in a little graceful _badinage_ apropos of the concerto. You know he has written two concertos. The one in E flat is much played, but this one in A very rarely. It is exceedingly difficult and is one of the few of his compositions that it interests Liszt to know that people play. "I should write it otherwise if I wrote it now," he explained to me as we were walking along. "Some pa.s.sages are very troublesome (_haecklig_) to execute. I was younger and less experienced when I composed it," he added, with one of those illuminating smiles "like the flash of a dagger in the sun," as Lenz says.

When we reached the hotel everybody went in to take a siesta--that "Mittags-Schlaf" which is law in Germany. I did not wish to sleep and felt like exploring the old town. So Count S. and I started on a walk.

Sondershausen is a dreamy, sleepy place, with so little life about it that you hardly realize there are any people there at all. It is pleasantly situated, and gentle hills and undulations of land are all about it, but it seems as if the town had been dead for a long time and this were its grave over which one was quietly walking. We took the road that wound past the castle. It was embowered in trees, and behind the castle were gardens and conservatories. The road descended on the other side, and we followed it till we came unexpectedly upon a little circular park. Such a deserted, widowed little park it seemed! Not a soul did we encounter as we wandered through its paths. Bordering them were great quant.i.ties of berry-laden snow-berry bushes, of which I am very fond. The park had a sort of rank and unkempt aspect, as if it were abandoned to itself. The very stream that went through it flowed sluggishly along, and as if it hadn't any particular object in life.--I enjoyed it very much, and it was very restful to walk about it. One felt there the truth of R.'s favourite saying, "It doesn't make any difference. _Nothing_ makes any difference."