At about the same time followed the publishing of the great "Fantasia" (C major) in three movements, which he dedicated to me; my dedication to him in return for this glorious and noble work was only made three years ago in my "Sonata" in B minor.
At the beginning of the winter of 1840 I traveled from Vienna back to Paris by way of Prague, Dresden, and Leipzig. Schumann paid me the friendly attention of welcoming me immediately on my arrival in Dresden, and we then travelled together to Leipzig. Wieck, afterwards Schumann's father-in-law, had at that time a lawsuit against him to prevent his marriage with Clara. I had known Wieck and his daughter from Vienna days, and was friendly with both. None the less I refused to see Wieck again in Dresden, as he had made himself so unfriendly to Schumann; and, breaking off all further intercourse with him, I took Schumann's side entirely, as seemed to me only right and natural. Wieck without delay richly requited me for this after my first appearance in Leipzig, where he aired his bitter feelings against me in several papers. One of my earlier pupils, by name Hermann Cohen—a native of Hamburg, who in later years aroused much attention in France, and who, as a monk, had taken the name of Frere Augustin (Carme dechausse [Barefooted Carmelite])—was the scapegoat in Leipzig for Wieck's publicly inflamed scandal, so that Cohen was obliged to bring an action for damage by libel against Wieck, which action Hermann won with the assistance of Dr. Friederici, barrister-at-law.
In Leipzig Schumann and I were together every day and all day long—and my comprehension of his works became thereby more familiar and intimate. Since my first acquaintance with his compositions, I have played many of them in private circles in Milan, Vienna, etc., but without being able to win over my hearers to them. They lay, happily, much too far removed from the insipid taste, which at that time absolutely dominated, for it to be possible for any one to thrust them into the commonplace circle of approbation. The public did not care for them, and the majority of pianists did not understand them. In Leipzig even, where I played the "Carneval" at my second concert in the Gewandhaus, I did not succeed in obtaining my usual applause. The musicians, together with those who were supposed to understand music, had (with few exceptions) their ears still too tightly stopped up to be able to comprehend this charming, tasteful "Carneval," the various numbers of which are harmoniously combined in such artistic fancy. I do not doubt that, later on, this work will maintain its natural place in universal recognition by the side of the "Thirty-three Variations on a Waltz of Diabelli" by Beethoven (to which, in my opinion, it is superior even in melodic invention and importance). The frequent ill-success of my performances of Schumann's compositions, both in private circles and in public, discouraged me from including and keeping them in the programmes of my concerts which followed so rapidly on one another—programmes which, partly from want of time and partly from carelessness and satiety of the "Glanz- Periode" ["Splendor period">[ of my pianoforte-playing, I seldom, except in the rarest cases, planned myself, but gave them now into this one's hands, and now that one, to choose what they liked. That was a mistake, as I discovered later and deeply regretted, when I had learned to understand that for the artist who wishes to be worthy of the name of artist the danger of not pleasing the public is a far less one than that of allowing oneself to be decided by its humors
—and to this danger every executive artist is especially exposed, if he does not take courage resolutely and on principle to stand earnestly and consistently by his conviction, and to produce those works which he knows to be the best, whether people like them or not.
It is of no consequence, then, in how far my faint-heartedness in regard to Schumann's pianoforte compositions might possibly be excused by the all-ruling taste of the day, but I did without thinking of it thereby set a bad example, for which I can hardly make amends again. The stream of custom and the slavery of the artist, who is directed to the encouragement and applause of the multitude for the maintenance and improvement of his existence and his renown, is such a pull-back, that, even to the better- minded and more courageous ones, among whom I am proud to reckon myself, it is intensely difficult to preserve their better ego in the face of all the covetous, distracted, and—despite their large number—backward-in-paying We.
There is in Art a pernicious offence, of which most of us are guilty through carelessness and fickleness; I might call it the Pilate offence. Classical doing, and classical playing, which have become the fashion of late years, and which may be regarded as an improvement, on the whole, in our musical state of things, hide in many a one this fault, without eradicating it:—I might say more on this point, but it would lead me too far.
For my part I need not, at least, reproach myself with having ever denied my sympathy and reverence for Schumann; and a hundred of the younger companions in Art in all lands could bear witness that I have always expressly directed them to a thorough study of his works, and have strengthened and refreshed myself by them.
If these particulars have not wearied you, dear Wasielewski, I will gladly continue them, and tell you about everything from my second visit to Leipzig (at the end of 1841) which was brought about by Schumann, up to my last meeting with him at Dusseldorf (in 1851). Friendly greetings
From yours most sincerely,
F. Liszt