Little Journeys to the Homes of the Great Volume 14

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And so is the world deceived by the Eternal Paradox of things--that law
of antithesis which makes opposites look alike. Beneath the calm dignity
of matronly demeanor the fires of love were banked. Probably even the
Countess herself did not know of the volcano that was smoldering in her
heart. But there came a day when the flames burst forth, and all the
reserve, poise, quiet dignity, caution and discretion were dissolved
into nothingness in love's alembic.

Poor Franz Liszt!

Poor Countess d'Agoult!

They were powerless in the coils of such a passion. It was a mad tumult
of wild intoxication, of delicious pain, of burning fears, and vain,
tossing unrest. The woman's nature, stifled by its six years of coaxing
marital repression, was asserting itself. Liszt did not know that a
woman could love like this--neither did the woman. Once they parted,
after talking the matter over solemnly and deciding on what was best for
both--they parted coldly--with a mere touching of the lips in a last
good-by.

The next week they were together again.

Then Liszt fled to the Abbe Lamennais, and in tears sought, at the
confessional and in dim retirement, a surcease from the passion that was
devouring him. Here was a pivotal point in the life of Liszt, and the
Church came near then, claiming him for her own. And such would have
been the case, were it not for the fact that one of the children of the
Countess d'Agoult was sick unto death. He knew of the sleepless
vigils--the weary watching of the fond mother.

The child died, and Franz Liszt went to the parent in her bereavement,
to offer the solace of religion and bid her a decent, respectful
farewell, ere he left Paris forever. He thought grief was a cure for
passion, and that in the presence of death, love itself was dumb. How
could he understand that, in most strong natures, tears and pain, and
hope and love are kin, and that each is in turn the manifestation of a
great and welling heart!

Liszt stood by the side of the Countess as the grave closed over the
body of her firstborn child. And as they stood there, under the
darkening sky, her hand went groping blindly for his. She wrote of this,
years and years after, when seventy winters had silvered her hair and
her steps were feeble--she wrote of this, in her book called,
"Souvenirs," and tells how, in that moment of supreme grief, when her
life was whitened and purified by the fires of pain, her hand sought
his. The deep current of her love swept the ashes of grief away, and she
reached blindly for the hands--those wonderful music-making hands of
Liszt--that they might support her. And standing there, side by side, as
the priest intoned the burial service, he whispered to her, "Death shall
not divide us, nor is eternity long enough to separate thee from me!"

* * * * *

It was only a few days after that Liszt left Paris--but not for a
monastery. He journeyed to Switzerland, and stopping at Basle he was
soon joined by the Countess, her two children, and her mother.

All Paris was set in an uproar by the "abduction." The George Sand
school approved and loudly applauded the "eclat"; but it was condemned
and execrated by the majority. As for the injured husband, it is said he
gave a banquet in honor of the event; his feelings, no doubt, being
eased by the fact that the goodly dot his wife had brought him at her
marriage was now his exclusive possession. He had never gauged her
character, anyway, and he inwardly acknowledged that her mind was of a
sort with which he could not parry.

And now she had wronged him; yet in his grief he took much satisfaction,
and in his martyrdom there was sweet solace.

The chief blame fell on Liszt, and the accusation that he had "broken up
a happy home" came to his ears from many sources. "They blame you and
you alone," a friend said to him.

"Good! good!" said Liszt, "I gladly bear it all."

George Sand, plain in feature, quiet in manner, soft and feminine when
she wished to be, yet possessing the mind of a man, went to Switzerland
to visit the runaway Liszt and the "Lady Arabella." At first thought,
one might suppose that such a visit, after the former relationship,
might have been a trifle embarrassing for both. But the fact that in the
interval George Sand had been crunching the soul of Chopin formed an
estoppel on the memory of all the soft sentiment that had gone before.
George Sand brought her two children, Maurice and Solange, and the "Lady
Arabella" had two of her own to keep them company. A little family party
was made up, and with a couple of servants and a guide, a little journey
was taken through the mountain villages, all in genuine gipsy style.
George Sand, who worked up all life, its sensations and emotions, into
good copy, has given us an account of the trip, that throws some very
interesting side-lights on the dramatis personae.

The recounter and her children were all clothed in peasant
costume--man-style, with blouses and trousers. Gipsy garbs were worn by
the servants, and Liszt was arrayed like a mountaineer, and carried a
reed pipe, upon which he, from time to time, awoke the echoes. When the
dusty, unkempt crew arrived at a village inn, the landlord usually made
hot haste to secrete his silverware. Once when a sudden rainstorm drove
the wayfarers into a church, Liszt took his seat at the organ and
played--played with such power and feeling that the village priest ran
out and called for the neighbors to come quickly, as the Angel Gabriel,
in the guise of a mountaineer, was playing the organ. Anthem, oratorio,
and sweet, subtle, soulful improvisation followed, and the villagers
knelt, and eyes were filled with tears. George Sand records that she
never heard such playing by the Master before; she herself wept, and yet
through her tears she managed to see a few things, and here is one
picture which she gives us: "The Lady Arabella sat on the balustrade,
swinging one foot, and cast her proud and melancholy gaze over the lower
nave, and waited in vain for the celestial voices that were supposed to
vibrate in her bosom.

"Her abundant light hair, disheveled by the wind and rain, fell in
bewildering disorder, and her eyes, reflecting the finest hue of the
firmament, seemed to be wandering over the realm of God's creation after
each sigh of the huge organ, played by the divine Liszt.

"'This is not what I expected,' said she to me languidly.

"'Ah, that is what you said of the mountain peaks and the glacier,
yesterday,' said I."

It will be seen, by those who have read between the lines, that George
Sand did not much like "the fair Lady Arabella of the wondrous length of
limb." In passing, it is well to note, in way of apology for this
allusion as to "length of limb," that George Sand was once spoken of by
Heine as "a dumpy-duodecimo." It is to be regretted that we have no
description of George Sand by the Lady Arabella.

Years passed in study and writing, with occasional concert tours,
wherein the public flocked to hear the greatest pianist of his time. The
power, grasp and insight of the man increased with the years, and
wherever he deigned to play, the public was not slow in giving him that
approbation which his masterly work deserved. Liszt was one of the Elect
Few who train on. On these short concert trips his wife (for such she
must certainly be regarded) seldom accompanied him--this in deference to
his wish, and this, it seems, was the first and last and only cause of
dissension between them.

The Countess was born for a career and her spirit chafed at the forced
retirement in which she lived.

Ten years had gone by and three children had been born to her and Liszt.
One of these, a boy, died in youth, but one of the daughters became, as
we know, the wife of Richard Wagner, and the other daughter married
Oliver Emile Ollivier, the eminent statesman and man of letters--member
of the Cabinet in that memorable year, Eighteen Hundred Seventy, when
France declared war on Germany. Both of these daughters of Liszt were
women of rare mentality and splendid worth, true daughters of their
father.

Position is a pillory; sometimes the populace will pelt you with
rose-leaves--at others, with ancient vegetables. Liszt believed that for
his wife's peace of mind, and his own, she should not crowd herself too
much to the front--he feared what the mob might say or do. We can not
say that she was jealous of his fame, nor he of hers. However, as a
writer she was winning her way. But the fateful day came when the wife
said, "From this day on I must everywhere stand by your side, your wife
and your equal, or we must part."

They parted.

Liszt made princely provision for her welfare, and the support of their
children, as well as those that had come to her before they met.

She went south to Italy, and he began that most wonderful concert tour,
where, in Saint Petersburg, sums equal to ten thousand dollars were
taken at the door for single entertainments.

Countess d'Agoult was the respected friend of King Emmanuel, and her
salon at Turin was the meeting-place of such men as Renan, Meyerbeer,
Chopin, Berlioz and Rossini. She carried on a correspondence with
Heinrich Heine, was the trusted friend of Prince Jerome Bonaparte,
Lamartine and Lamennais, and was on a footing of equality with the
greatest and best minds of her age. She wrote several plays, one of
which, "Jeanne d'Arc," was presented at the Court Theater of Turin, with
the Royal Family present, and was a marked success. Her criticism on the
work of Ingres made that artist's reputation, just as surely as Ruskin
made the fame of Turner. But one special reason why Americans should
remember this woman is because she first translated Emerson's "Essays"
and caused them to be published in Italian and French.

I am not sure that Liszt ever quite forgave her for not dying of broken
heart, when they parted there at Lake Maggiore. He thought she would
take to opium or strong drink, or both. She did neither, but proved, by
her after-life, that she was sufficient unto herself. She was worthy of
the love of Liszt, because she was able to do without it. She was no
parasitic, clinging vine that strangles the sturdy oak.

The Abbe Lamennais, the close friend of Liszt, once said, "Liszt is a
great musician, the greatest the world has ever seen, but his wife can
easily take a mental octave which he can not quite span."

The Countess d'Agoult died March Fifth, in Eighteen Hundred Seventy-six,
at the age of seventy years. When tidings of her passing reached the
Abbe Liszt, he caused all of his immediate engagements to be canceled
and went into monastic retirement, wearing the robe of horsehair and a
rope girdle at his waist. He filled the hours for the space of a month
with silent reverie and prayer.

And even in that cloister-cell, with its stone floor and cold, bare
walls, the leaden hours brought the soundless presence of a tall and
stately woman. Through the desolate bastions of his brain she glided in
sweet disarray, looked into his tear-dimmed eyes, smoothing softly the
coarse pillow where rested that head with its lion's mane which we know
so well--a head now whitened by the frost of years. No sound came to him
there, save a soft voice which Fate refused to silence, and this voice
whispered and whispered yet again to him: "Death shall not divide us,
nor is eternity long enough to separate thee from me!"

* * * * *

Religion is not the cure of love. Perhaps religion is love and love is
religion--anyway, we know that they are often fused. For a time after
Liszt had parted from the Countess, fortune smiled. Then came various
loans to friends, managerial experiments, the backing of an ill-starred
opera, and a season of overwrought nerves.

Luck had turned against the supposed invincible Liszt. Then it was that
the Princess Wittgenstein appears on the scene. This fine woman,
earnest, strong in character, intellectual, had tried ten years of
marital hard times and quit the partnership with a daughter and a goodly
dot.

The Princess had secretly loved Liszt from afar, and had followed him
from town to town, glorying in his triumphs, feeding on his personality.

When trouble came she managed to have a message conveyed to him that an
unknown woman would advance, without interest or security, enough money
for him to pay all his debts and secure him two years of leisure in
which he might regain his health and do such work as his taste might
dictate.

Of course Liszt declined the offer, begging his unknown friend to
divulge her identity that he might thank her for her disinterested faith
in the cause of Art.

A meeting was brought about and the result was as usual. The Grand
Duchess of Saxe-Weimar, in the face of scandal, took the Abbe and
Princess under protection, giving them the Chateau of Altenburg, near
Weimar, for a retreat. There Liszt, guarded from all intrusion, composed
the symphonies of "Dante" and "Faust," sonatas, masses and parts of
"Saint Elizabeth." For thirteen years they lived an idyllic existence.
Then, having married her daughter by her first husband to Prince
Hohenlohe, the Princess set out for Rome to obtain a dispensation from
the Pope, so she and the Abbe could be married. Her husband, who was a
Protestant, had long before secured a divorce and married again. Pope
Pius the Ninth granted her wish, and she hastened home and prepared for
the wedding. It was said that flowers were already placed on the altar,
the marriage feast was prepared, the guests invited, when news came that
the Pope had changed his mind on the argument of one of the lady's
kinsmen. We now have every reason to believe, though, that the Pope
changed his mind on the earnest request of Liszt.

On the death of the Princess Wittgenstein, the Pope dispensed Liszt from
his priestly ties, but he was called the Abbe until his death.

Whenever I find any one who can write better on a subject than I can, I
refuse to go on.

There is a book called, "Music Study in Germany," written by my friend
Amy Fay, and published by The Macmillan Company, from which I quote.

If Amy Fay had not chosen to be the superb pianist that she is, she
might have struck thirteen in literature.

There are a dozen biographies of Liszt, but none of them has ever given
us such a vivid picture of the man as has this American girl. The
simple, unpretentious little touches that she introduces are art so
subtile and true that it is the art which conceals art. The topmost
turret of my ambition would be to have Amy Fay Boswellize my memory.

Says Amy Fay:

Liszt is the most interesting and striking-looking man imaginable,
tall and slight, with deep-set eyes, long iron-gray hair, and
shaggy eyebrows. His mouth turns up at the corners, which gives him
a most crafty and Mephistophelian expression when he smiles, and
his whole appearance and manner have a sort of Jesuitical elegance
and ease. His hands are very narrow, with long and slender fingers
that look as if they had twice as many joints as other people's.
They are so flexible and supple that it makes you nervous to look
at them. Anything like the polish of his manner I never saw. When
he got up to leave the box, for instance, after his adieux to the
ladies, he laid his hand on his heart and made his final bow--not
with affectation, or in mere gallantry, but with a quiet
courtliness which made you feel that no other way of bowing to a
lady was right or proper.

But the most extraordinary thing about Liszt is his wonderful
variety of expression and play of feature. One moment his face will
look dreamy, shadowy, tragic; the next he will be insinuating,
amiable, ironical, sardonic; but always the same captivating grace
of manner. He is a perfect study. He is all spirit, but half the
time, at least, a mocking spirit, I should say. All Weimar adores
him, and people say that women still go perfectly crazy over him.
When he walks out, he bows to everybody just like a king! The Grand
Duke has presented him with a beautiful house situated on the Park,
and here he lives elegantly, free of expense.

Liszt gives no paid lessons whatever, as he is much too grand for
that, but if one has talent enough, or pleases him, he lets one
come to him and play to him. I go to him every other day, but I
don't play more than twice a week, as I can not prepare so much,
but I listen to others. Up to this point there have been only four
in the class beside myself, and I am the only new one. From four to
six o'clock in the afternoon is the time when he receives his
scholars. The first time I went I did not play to him, but listened
to the rest. Urspruch and Leitert, two young men whom I met the
other night, have studied with Liszt a long time, and both play
superbly.

As I entered the salon, Urspruch was performing Schumann's
"Symphonic Studies"--an immense composition, and one that it took
at least half an hour to get through. He played so splendidly that
my heart sank down into the very depths. I thought I should never
get on there! Liszt came forward and greeted me in a very friendly
manner as I entered. He was in a very good humor that day, and made
some little witticisms. Urspruch asked him what title he should
give to a piece he was composing. "Per aspera ad astra," said
Liszt. This was such a good hit that I began to laugh, and he
seemed to enjoy my appreciation of his little sarcasm. I did not
play that time as my piano had only just come, and I was not
prepared to do so, but I went home and practised tremendously for
several days on Chopin's "B minor sonata." It is a great
composition and one of his last works. When I thought I could play
it, I went to Liszt, though with a trembling heart. I can not tell
you what it has cost me every time I have ascended his stairs. I
can scarcely summon up courage to go there, and generally stand on
the steps a few moments before I can make up my mind to open the
door and go in.

Well, on this day the artists Leitert and Urspruch, and the young
composer Metzdorf, were in the room when I came. They had probably
been playing. At first Liszt took no notice of me beyond a
greeting, till Metzdorf said to him, "Herr Doctor, Miss Fay has
brought a sonata." "Ah, well, let us hear it," said Liszt. Just
then he left the room for a minute, and I told the three gentlemen
they ought to go away and let me play to Liszt alone, for I felt
nervous about playing before them. They all laughed at me and said
they would not budge an inch. When Liszt came back they said to
him, "Only think, Herr Doctor, Miss Fay proposes to send us all
home." I said I could not play before such artists. "Oh, that is
healthy for you," said Liszt with a smile, and added, "you have a
very choice audience now." I don't know whether he appreciated how
nervous I was, but instead of walking up and down the room, as he
often does, he sat down by me like any other teacher, and heard me
play the first movement. It was frightfully hard, but I had studied
it so much that I managed to get through with it pretty
successfully. Nothing could exceed Liszt's amiability, or the
trouble he gave himself, and instead of frightening me, he inspired
me. Never was there such a delightful teacher! and he is the most
sympathetic one I've had. You feel so free with him, and he
develops the very spirit of music in you. He doesn't keep nagging
at you all the time, but he leaves you your own conception. Now and
then he will make a criticism or play a passage, and with a few
words give you enough to think of all the rest of your life. There
is a delicate point to everything he says as subtle as he is
himself. He doesn't tell you anything about the technique; that you
must work out for yourself. When I had finished the first movement
of the sonata, Liszt, as he always does, said "Bravo!" Taking my
seat he made some little criticisms, and then he told me to go on
and play the rest of it.

Now, I only half-knew the other movements, for the first one was so
extremely difficult that it cost me all the labor I could give to
prepare that. But playing to Liszt reminds me of trying to feed the
elephant in the Zoological Garden with lumps of sugar. He disposes
of whole movements as if they were nothing, and stretches out
gravely for more! One of my fingers fortunately began to bleed, for
I had practised the skin off, and that gave me a good excuse for
stopping. Whether he was pleased at this proof of industry, I know
not; but after looking at my finger and saying, "Oh!" very
compassionately, he sat down and played the whole three last
movements himself. That was a great deal and showed off his powers.
It was the first time I had heard him, and I don't know which was
the most extraordinary--the Scherzo, with its wonderful lightness
and swiftness, the Adagio with its depth and pathos, or the last
movement, where the whole keyboard seemed to "donnern und blitzen."
There is such a vividness about everything he plays that it does
not seem as if it were mere music you are listening to, but it is
as if he had called up a real, living form, and you saw it
breathing before your face and eyes. It gives me almost a ghostly
feeling to hear him, and it seems as if the air were peopled with
spirits. Oh, he is a perfect wizard! It is as interesting to see
him as it is to hear him, for his face changes with every
modulation of the piece, and he looks exactly as he is playing. He
has one element that is most captivating, and that is a sort of
delicate and fitful mirth that keeps peering out at you here and
there. It is most peculiar, and when he plays that way, the most
bewitching expression comes over his face. It seems as if a little
spirit of joy were playing hide-and-go-seek with you.

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 Duchess 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 (he
receives a new one every year,) stands in one window. The other
window is always open and looks out on the park. There is a
dovecote just opposite the window, and doves promenade up and down
upon 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 match. Everything is in
bronze--inkstand, 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, and calls upon one or the other of us to play. From time
to time he will sit down and himself play where a passage 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 can not 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.

Liszt is not at all like a master, and can not be treated as one.
He is a monarch, and when he extends his royal scepter 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 can not 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 thing 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 noticed that funny little expression come over
his face, which he always has when he means to surprise you, and he
then 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?

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