Liszt Expected at an Evening Party
It is enough to say that Liszt had come. The whole town spoke of him and of nothing else.... Not only was it considered an inevitable requisite for a person of culture to have heard at least one of his concerts, but for those of musical proclivity it was a question of life and death to have seen the virtuoso at their own house. A salon was greatly in danger of losing its painfully acquired reputation if Liszt had not honoured it with a visit. Much higher than the musical treat, which was easily attainable for two thalers, stood the consciousness of being able to say at the proper moment, with apparent nonchalance, but with the blessed assurance of crushing a less fortunate rival: “Do you know, my dear, Liszt was with us on Thursday? We had only a few friends to meet him. He played the Erlkönig!” Thereupon your rival would go home, lie down on the sofa, and have ice and cologne applied to her throbbing forehead.
When the excitement in town had reached its height I found, one evening after coming home exhausted by a round of lessons to untalented beginners, an invitation from Frau Medicinalräthin Pfeffermünze. She asked me to put in an appearance at her salon that very evening at eight o’clock; something very unusual must have occurred. Her instrumental and vocal clients were in the habit of assembling on a Saturday, once a fortnight; this was evidently an extra under difficulties. We had never before been asked so late.
The note bore signs of haste; Frederick the Great and Napoleon had granted themselves more time to sign the orders of cabinet than had the Frau Medicinalräthin. I pitched into my dress-coat head over heels, for there was not a moment to spare, and hastened to the Charlotten Strasse.
The first storey was illuminated with an unreasonable profusion of oil and wax. A gentle shiver passed over my back; in the little reception-room, the inviolable sanctuary of the Medicinalrath in the eyes of young and giddy musicians, glittered the lights of a chandelier. The hall door stood wide open with that philosophically resigned hospitality which in general confines itself to funerals with four horses. At such supreme moments the lesser laws of life become void, and each sympathetic soul, who would never be asked to a place at the family table, is made welcome.
“Heavens!” I exclaimed in a whispered monologue, “it cannot be that the Medicinalrath has died an unexpected death!” The absurdity of the supposition immediately became apparent, for, passing through the reception-room, the head of the house appeared before me in person, at the right of the gilded mirror, surrounded by satellites, and saluted me graciously with a mild wave of his hand. As long as we could remember he had not condescended to receive any ordinary musicians, such as we were personally, for we were never invited to the higher esoteric fêtes. To make his presence more emphatically imposing, he had adorned himself with three or four little badges of honour instead of wearing merely the ribbons belonging thereto.
What had occurred? What was about to occur?
The Medicinalrath was to me an unapproachable entity. I dared not ask him. Etiquette demanded that I should confine myself to replying if he should address me. His lady might be looked upon as more condescending, but to-day I should have to forego any polite advances. Like the vestal High Priestess in Spontini’s opera, she stood in the centre of a group of maidens festively arrayed. Man, at any other time a much-sought-for article, had evidently fallen in price. The young gentlemen, even the boldest lions of society, stood close together, and did not venture above a whisper.
What had occurred? What was about to occur?
My vague forebodings became certainty as I heard a pale and criminally lean gentleman, one notorious for his festive odes, say to his neighbour: “He is coming! You will see the godlike youth face to face.” The person addressed like the contrite Brahmin stared at the tip of his nose, and preserved a worshipful silence. “I breakfasted with him yesterday. A most delightful companion! The very picture of unpretentious simplicity,” continued the other. Ah, could he but breakfast with him every day, life had looked brighter to him!
Among the bards near by a wild state of excitement made itself felt. Their leader distributed printed leaflets among them, and the poet stepped nearer to designate a certain passage in the third stanza which required a decided crescendo. Just then the Frau Medicinalräthin came rustling into the circle.
“Would it not be better,” she said, smiling benignly, but struggling with a nervous tremor, “if the chorus were to retire into the adjoining room, so as to have the music come from a greater distance?”
“Frau Medicinalräthin is right,” exclaimed the poet encouragingly, urging the youths of Berlin into the next room. “The chant should impress him as coming from another, purer world. Then in the third and last stanzas the angels descend and greet the genius here below as a brother. Carry out my suggestions, gentlemen, and go into the other room.”
The chorus would greatly have preferred to be present from beginning to end, after the fashion of its antique prototypes in Sophocles and Euripides, but there was nothing for it but to yield. It took a covered position, attentively re-read the melodious lyric made to fit a well-known tune, and cleared its throat.
The clock on the mantel struck nine; the Medicinalrath still stood sentinel at the right of the mirror, conversing with the aristocratic element. In the background preparations for a sacrificial offering of tea seemed to be going on, but no one ventured to begin the solemn ceremony. My conjecture was that the hostess feared thereby to offend the august spirit of the expected genius.
It struck a quarter, it struck half-past—still no Liszt!—
The Medicinalrath and his æsthetic wife moved nearer to the windows, and convulsively started every time a carriage passed near enough to give one reason to suspect it of an intention of stopping. The assembled guests had said everything they had to say, and the need of an impetus, physical or psychical, was making itself sadly felt.
“We certainly cannot have tea served now. He may come at any moment. The effect would be quite lost!” whispered the Frau Medicinalräthin as her husband approached her, reminding her of the bodily needs of her guests.
A general restlessness took possession of those assembled. “Punctuality is the politeness of kings, but not of geniuses!” a young lawyer, who was at other times the Aristophanes of these receptions, ventured to remark with some bitterness.
“Liszt did not name the hour, I should say by way of vindication; he merely promised to come. You know that his time is tasked to the utmost. A king may seclude himself from his worshippers, but a virtuoso has not an hour of the day to call his own,” said the Medicinalrath, soothingly.
A carriage came rattling wildly up to the door and stopped. “It is he!” cried an academic youth, whom the master of the house had stationed as a sentry at the first window.
The moment was overwhelming. As fast as circumstances would permit the guests grouped picturesquely. The Medicinalrath took the centre at the right of the mirror; his lady, our gracious patroness, seized the white silk ribbons on which the ode had been printed in gilt letters. The chorus of priestesses arranged itself artistically about her; the chorus of Berlin youths began to sing in the adjoining room; we mutes sent greedy eyeshots to meet the expected.
A nimble young man put his small, coal-black head through the door, and seemed undecided to whom to turn.
“Pfeffermünze,” whispered an old gentleman to the Medicinalrath, “that is not Liszt!”
“That is not the blond head of our Samson. Avaunt, venal slave!” muttered the manufacturer of festive odes. The black-headed little fellow was actually one of the secretaries of the genius sent out to calm the assembly on account of his late arrival; perhaps, also, if I rightly judge the much-enduring virtuoso, to ward off the boisterous ovations in store for him. The inhabitants of dangerously-situated Alpine villages erect plough-shaped stone walls as a security against avalanches; the mass of snow is disrupted, and falls powerless on either side.
There was a universal disappointment; the chorus of youths was hushed with difficulty, the gilt-illumined ode was laid aside, the secretary was surrounded, and by way of reward for his good news that his master was following, he was made much of. The commotion was so turbulent that no one noticed the entrance of a slender young man, stooping perceptibly, with lank arms and long yellow hair, who had been peeled out of a magnificent sable greatcoat in the reception-room by a servant. But he did not escape the eagle eye of our patroness.
“Mein Gott, Liszt!” she exclaimed in a broken voice, and then she sank into the arms of two robust alto singers, who, always on the alert for such unaccountable tricks of destiny, were ever at her side. There was a sympathetic movement among the guests, only the one most nearly concerned, the Medicinalrath, retaining a posture of stoic composure. The master of tone also did not seem quite inexperienced in the treatment of such misadventures. He rapidly approached the invalid, seized the right hand of the lady overcome by the magnitude of her feelings, ordered “things strengthening and refreshing,” like Mozart’s Don Ottavia, and raised her spirits with marvellous speed.
So Liszt was come; but all the effects arranged for his reception had failed. But his tortured soul was not spared the ode. He was compelled to sit down between two ladies and listen to the song. Then the artistic hostess presented the silk ribbon. It was entwined about a fresh laurel wreath.
During this offering of gratitude I had been making some remarks of condolence to the secretary. Since nightfall his liege lord had been visiting five families of distinction. The Erlkönig had been wrung from him at four places. The burden of pianoforte fame weighs heavy; at the thought the trials of teaching dwindled. Was the genius to escape the Erlkönig here? From out of the music-room the concert-grand loomed forth majestically like the heavy cannons in forts that are used to practise recruits.
The illustrious one bore all of the trials inflicted upon him with rare firmness; he deported himself somewhat as a prince humouring a company of persons of little estate, permitted aspiring instrumentalists and singers, professionals and amateurs, to be presented, said something apt and encouraging to each, jested with the ladies in a courtly manner, and endured the aged with a philosophic resignation rare in one of his years. He escaped from tea, it probably having been urged upon him five times already. The whole company was intoxicated by the charm of his manner. More than twenty album-leaves had been clandestinely introduced by the ladies, and he wrote his name on each without a groan. I feared in secret that one of the fair Delilas might stealthily draw a pair of scissors out of her pocket and clutch the lion’s mane as a signal for the lurking envy which began to show signs of being abroad. But the god of the muses watched over his precious head; he kept his locks and his titanic strength, and he permitted himself to be persuaded to play. Counting by the programmes of previous concerts, and the receipts consequent upon the high price of admission, he magnanimous fellow played, at a modest estimate, for 375 thalers.
The Frau Medicinalräthin would have given a great deal to induce him to finish the fourth hundred, and she did her very best to force the poor unfortunate to give her the Chromatic Gallop. It was not possible. Inexorable fate still had a souper in store with which the genius was to finish the day’s task. It became necessary to dismiss him.
As he went all the guests escorted him to the ante-chamber, his appreciative host and hostess personally exerted themselves to get him into his sable greatcoat. Deep sorrow shone in the eyes of the Frau Medicinalräthin, perhaps at her inability to be able to induce the vocal youths of Berlin to prostrate themselves before him by way of a musical carpet to the master’s carriage.
The reputation of her salon had been established for one generation.
E. Kossak (1814-1880).