On reaching Pesth I had a little pleasure party all to myself, in accordance with a promise made to myself while soaking in the Danube mud. I took a bath, drank two glasses of Tokay and slept twenty hours—not, however, without visions of boiling waters and lakes of mud. After which I set out on the war-path of concert-promoting, greatly helped by the kindness of Count Raday, superintendent of the National Theatre.
Now the Hungarians are nothing if not patriotic. In every shop window things are ticketed hony (national) and, by the advice of an amateur in Vienna, who had brought me a volume of Hungarian national airs, I chose the Rakoczy March and arranged it as it now stands as finale to the first part of my Faust.
No sooner did the rumour spread that I had written hony music than Pesth began to ferment.
How had I treated it? They feared profanation of that idolised melody, which for so many years had made their hearts beat with lust of glory and battle and liberty; all kinds of stories were rife, and at last there came to me M. Horwath, editor of a Hungarian paper—who, unable to curb his curiosity, had gone to inspect my march at the copyist’s.
“I have seen your Rakoczy score,” he said, uneasily.
“Well?”
“Well; I feel horribly nervous about it.”
“Bah! why?”
“Your motif is introduced piano, and we are used to hearing it started fortissimo.”
“Yes, by the gipsies. Is that all? Don’t be alarmed. You shall have such a forte as you never heard in your life. You can’t have read the score carefully; remember the end is everything.”