In the personal conversation of Liszt, there is nothing eccentric or bizarre, as is often found with celebrated artists. He is attentive, cordial, takes an interest in general subjects of conversation, and is affable to all. Only where his dignity as an artist is concerned, does he show that imposing manner, of earnestness bordering on severity or gloom, which has been noticed as belonging to him. He speaks with a measured propriety of his own performances; hears every opinion respecting it with careful attention, but will never depart from what tends to the development of his own ideas in art. He yields as much as justice requires to the critics, but will never permit them to mould him by their judgment. “As I have begun, and carried on thus far, I will complete,” said he once. The original artist must live out his own system.
Liszt commonly speaks quickly, rapidly, and abruptly; he often hesitates in his speech, from the want of words. His mind is so active, his perceptions so quick, that it is difficult to find ready expression; and while thus embarrassed, his countenance assumes a fixed, stern look, the brow contracted as if in anger. But when any one helps him out with a word, he smiles, and nodding his head, replies “yes—yes”—moving his head while listening, and waiting for what the other will say. In social intercourse he is thoroughly at his ease, and seems to forget that he is at all distinguished. He always shows himself ready to comply with the most timidly expressed wish that he should play for a dance; but it pleases him well when his wild, original Galoppe chromatique cannot be danced by. “It will not do;” he will say. “It will not give up the place where it belongs.”
Liszt’s whole physiognomy is of the Hungarian character; his thick fair brown hair falls in masses on his neck, where it is cut off short; his features are all strongly marked; his eyes rather long than large, bright and deepset, shadowed by dark eyebrows. His look is penetrating, and has something in it of conscious superiority; yet though it may occasion uneasiness to the object, it has too much mildness to inspire fear. All the portraits represent him too strong and stout. Liszt is of a slight and thin figure; his shoulders are drawn up from constant playing, but his hands are delicate and well proportioned; seeing them, one can hardly understand how he can play such things as the Symphonies and the Robert-Fantaisies. In this respect, he has something that might be called Paganinish; unbounded energy of spirit, and indomitable strength of will—developed in the most delicate physical organization. In short, the whole appearance of Liszt betokens, to the most casual observer, the indwelling of that high and wonderful genius, before which the world has bowed in reverential acknowledgment. His entrance into the concert-room generally draws from the assembly—particularly from the ladies—the exclamation, “Ah! what an interesting man! What an interesting figure!”
FOOTNOTES:
[11] Uebertragungen.
[12] A musical club.
TAMBURINI.
It was rather late in the evening of a day in autumn, 182-, that two well dressed persons were seen standing before a small house in one of the principal streets of Milan. They leaned against the railing at the foot of the steps, and were listening with such apparent attention, that their attitude and employment might have excited observation, but that a certain high-bred air indicated them to be above suspicion, and the delicious music heard from the house fully justified them in pausing to listen.
The music was low, plaintive and touching, and accompanied by a clear and melodious male voice. Now and then it swelled into deeper pathos, the voice being evidently interrupted by sobs; and one of the listeners, deeply moved, turned aside to brush a tear from his eyes. After it had continued some time with these alternations of harmonious complaint, it was suddenly broken off, and a dead silence succeeded.
“Poor Antonio!” said one of the gentlemen, with a deep sigh; “this affliction will kill him.”