"The phenomenal success of the twenty-two concerts which Liszt gave in Berlin during the winter of 1841-1842, soon became a subject of gossip in Petersburg, and his arrival was awaited with unprecedented excitement. He reached the capital early in April, and was almost immediately presented to Nicholas I. On entering the audience chamber, the Emperor, ignoring the presence of numerous generals and high officials who were awaiting an audience, went straight to Liszt saying, "Monsieur Liszt, I am delighted to see you in Petersburg," and immediately engaged him in conversation. A day or two later, on the 8th of April, Liszt gave his first concert in the Salle de la Noblesse, before an audience of three thousand people. This concert was both a novel and an important event in Russia. Not only was it the first recital ever heard there—for before Liszt's day, no single artist had attempted to hold the public attention by the spell of his own unaided gifts—but it was also the first tie in a close and lasting bond between the great virtuoso and the Russian people. In after years, no one was quicker to discern the attractive qualities of Russian music, nor more assiduous in its propagation than Franz Liszt.
"In the memoirs of contemporary Russian writers there are many interesting references to Liszt's first appearance in Petersburg. Not only do these reminiscences show the extraordinary glamour and interest which invested the personality of the master; they throw some light upon social life in Russia during the first half of the century.
"The brilliant audience which flocked to the Salle de la Noblesse to hear Liszt, numbered no greater enthusiasts than the two young students of the School of Jurisprudence, Stassov and Serov. Both were destined to attain celebrity in after-life; the former as a great critic, and the chief upholder of national art; the latter, as the composer of at least one popular opera, and the leading exponent of the Wagnerian doctrines in Russia. Stassov's reminiscences are highly picturesque. We seem actually to see the familiar figure of the pianist as he entered the magnificent Hall of the Nobility, leaning on the arm of Count Bielgorsky, an "elderly Adonis" and typical dandy of the forties. Bielgorsky was somewhat inclined to obesity, moved slowly, and stared at the elegant assemblage with prominent, short-sighted eyes. His hair was brushed back and curled, after the model of the Apollo Belvedere, while he wore an enormous white cravat. Liszt also wore a white cravat, and over it the Order of the Golden Spur, bestowed upon him a short time previously by the Pope. He was further adorned with various other orders suspended by chains from the lapels of his dress coat. But that which struck the Russians most was the great mane of fair hair reaching almost to his shoulders. Outside the priesthood, no Russian would have ventured on such a style of hair-dressing. Such dishevelment had been sternly discountenanced since the time of Peter the Great. Stassov, afterward one of the warmest admirers of Liszt, both as man and musician, was not altogether favourably impressed by this first sight of the virtuoso. "He was very thin, stooped a great deal, and though I had read much about his famous 'Florentine profile' and his likeness to Dante, I did not find his face beautiful. I was not pleased with his mania for decking himself with orders, and afterwards I was as little prepossessed by his somewhat affected demeanour to those who came in contact with him."
"After the first hush of intense curiosity, the entire assembly began to discuss Liszt in a subdued murmur. Stassov, who sat close to Glinka and a well-known pianist—Madame Palibin—caught the following conversation. Madame Palibin inquired if Glinka had already heard Liszt. He replied that he had met him the night before at Count Bielgorsky's reception. 'Well, what did you think of him?' Glinka answered, without a moment's hesitation, that sometimes Liszt played divinely—like no one else in the world; at other times atrociously, with exaggerated emphasis, dragging the 'tempi,' and adding—even to the music of Chopin, Beethoven, and Bach—tasteless embellishments of his own. 'I was horribly scandalised,' says Stassov. 'What! Did our "mediocre" Russian musician' (this was Stassov's first sight of Glinka, and a short time before the appearance of Russlane and Lioudmilla) 'venture thus to criticise the great genius Liszt, who had turned the heads of all Europe!' Madame Palibin, too, seemed to disapprove of Glinka's criticism, and said laughingly, 'Allons donc, tout cela, ce n'est que rivalité de métier!' Glinka smiled urbanely, shrugged his shoulders, and replied, 'As you please.'
"At this moment Liszt mounted the platform, and, pulling his dog-skin gloves from his shapely white hands, tossed them carelessly on the floor. Then, after acknowledging the thunderous applause—such as had not been heard in Russia for over a century—he seated himself at the piano. There was a silence as though the whole audience had been turned to stone, and Liszt, without any prelude, began the opening bars of the overture to William Tell. Criticism, curiosity, speculation, all were forgotten in the wonderful enchantment of the performance. Among other things, he played his fantasia on Don Juan, his arrangements of Adelaïde, and The Erl King, and wound up the recital with his showy Galop Chromatique.
"'After the concert,' says Stassov, 'Serov and I were like madmen. We scarcely exchanged a word, but hurried home, each to write down his impressions, dreams, and raptures. But we both vowed to keep the anniversary of this day sacred for ever, and never, while life lasted, to forget a single incident of it. We were like men in love, or bewitched. What wonder? Never before had we come face to face with such a gifted, impassioned, almost demoniacal personality as that of Liszt, who seemed alternately to let loose the forces of the whirlwind, or to carry us away on a flood of tenderness, grace, and beauty.'
"Serov felt even more strongly the fascination of Liszt's genius. The same evening he sent to Stassov the following record of his impressions: 'First, let me congratulate you on your initiation into the great mysteries of art, and then—let me think a little. It is two hours since I left the Hall, and I am still beside myself. Where am I? Am I dreaming, or under a spell? Have I indeed heard Liszt? I expected great things from all the accounts I had heard, and still more from a kind of inward conviction—but how far the reality surpassed my expectations! Happy, indeed, are we to be living in 1842, at the same time as such an artist! Fortunate, indeed, that we have been privileged to hear him! I am gushing a great deal—too much for me, but I cannot contain myself. Bear with me in this lyrical crisis until I can express myself calmly.... What a festival it has been! How different everything looks in God's world to-day! And all this is the work of one man and his playing! What a power is music! I cannot collect my thoughts—my whole being seems in a state of abnormal tension, of confused rapture!'
"Do we experience this exaltation nowadays? I think not. Rarely do we partake of the insane root. Are there no more enchanters like Liszt? Or has the capacity of such enthusiasm and expansion passed away for ever with the white stocks, the 'coiffure à l'Apollon Belvédère' and the frank emotionalism of the early Victorian period?"