With the concurrence of Hans von Bülow, who was the honorary president of the Raff
Conservatoire [in Frankfurt], I set out for Weimar, armed with a letter of introduction to
Liszt. It was a serene Sunday morning in the early days of June, 1885. I was
accompanied by Arthur Friedheim, one of the best pupils of Liszt, who acted as his
secretary. The meeting took place in the music room of Liszt’s house, which was a villa
called the Hofgärtnerei, in the grounds of the Grand Ducal Palace. I remember it as a
pleasant room with tall windows looking on to the park, which was interspersed with an
occasional oak tree and some sycamore bushes. It breathed the atmosphere of infinite
peace and culture; something of the spirit of Goethe and Schiller hovered over the house:
it was indeed a haven of rest and a source of inspiration for the Poet and Musician. In the
room were two pianos – a Bechstein grand and an Ibach upright. There were no portraits
on the wall, but on the writing desk were two small photographs – one of Hans von
Bülow and the other of Marie Moukhanoff, a life-long friend of Liszt. Off the study on
the right-hand side of the room, as I saw later, was Liszt’s bedroom. Over the bedstead
hung a large cross and a picture of his name-saint, St Francis of Assisi.
Suddenly the door of his bedroom opened, and there before me stood the man who as a
child had received the kiss of consecration from the mighty Beethoven himself: who had
been, during their lifetime, the friend of Chopin, of Paganini: the pioneer for Hector
Berlioz and Richard Wagner: the inventor of a new forming orchestral music, namely the
symphonic poem: the teacher, the preceptor of Carl Tausig and Hans von Bülow, and all
the great pianists from the ‘forties of the last century down to that day in 1885. Here was
the astounding personality who had exercised such an incredible influence on music, not
only in France and Germany, but in Russia. It would have been a moving experience to
meet such a man today. To the boy I was then it was simply overwhelming.
He read the letter of introduction, turned to me with his commanding, yet kindly, eye and
said: ‘Schwarz writes that you play among other things the Fugue from Opus 106.’ Here
he hummed the theme, which sounded from his lips like the growl of a lion, and said,
giving me a friendly slap on the shoulder: ‘Tomorrow you play the Fugue from Opus
106’ – and the interview was at an end. I rushed from that room in an indescribable state
of mind. Friedheim, my good friend, followed me in more leisurely fashion, murmuring:
‘Isn’t he wonderful!’ Ah – glorious youth! As we wandered down the alley on that
unforgettable Sunday morning, all the birds on the trees – the innumerable bullfinches,
the magpies, the blackbirds, the robin red breasts – seemed to warble more joyously,
more melodiously than usual. I took it for granted that they were singing ‘St. Francis’s
Sermon to the Birds’ one of the finest of Liszt’s inspirations.
We who were studying with Liszt, met together every second day at the Hofgärtnerei.
Sometimes there were only a few of us. He could be very strict, even severe in his
remarks. The mere mechanical attainments of pianoforte technique meant very little to
him. Speed, pure and simple, of which so much is made by many pianists of the present
day, he held in contempt. I remember a pianist who was performing Chopin’s Polonaise
in A-flat with great gusto. When he came to the celebrated octave passage in the left
hand, Liszt interrupted him by saying: ‘I don’t want to listen to how fast you can play