In 1885, one year before his death, I had the good fortune to know Liszt and receive his
instruction.
When I was introduced by Miss Stahr, the well-known Weimar piano teacher, and
stepped into his house, I saw his mighty figure, clothed in the long black abbot’s coat,
surrounded by his disciples, mostly ladies. When I was introduced, he said slowly:
‘From Portugal?’ and after reflecting briefly he added: ‘It is now forty years since I was
in Portugal.’ An admirable memory, for the calculation was exactly right. Immediately
requested to perform, I played his ‘Gnömenreigen’ because, unfortunately, in my
ignorance of his great unselfish spirit, I believed that I was obligated to play him one of
his compositions, an erroneous idea shared by many who came to him: By playing only
his works, they believed they would flatter him; as if they wanted to show that next to his
no other music had value. What a petty conception of the most great-hearted
comprehensive musician who ever lived!
He only commented: ‘Not so fast, somewhat more controlled. Come again,’ and
graciously extended his hand to me. Full of rapture, I kissed it, as, by the way, everyone
did who came to him. After closer acquaintance, he kissed them on the cheek, which
made the ladies especially happy. But for us men the kiss of Liszt signified more: it was
a critique; for if he was satisfied with your playing, he denied the kiss, and then you
worked fervently without ceasing until you won it back.
Much has been said of Liszt’s disastrous spirit of toleration. He had a system that only
the initiated understood and that was definitely detrimental to the naïve. His system
consisted of this: when he saw that a student had no talent, he offered no criticism.
‘Why?’ he said, ‘because it is of no use.’ He would listen very quietly and, as the more
insightful observers realized, with obvious boredom; he would then speak in French – a
very serious sign at which the inner circle immediately smiled with deep understanding.
When seemingly satisfied, he would say with great indifference to the young lady ‘Très
bien’ and she would ardently lean toward him to receive the kiss. The others translated
the ‘Très bien’ into ‘How awful’ (But his worst criticism was: ‘You have indeed studied
at a conservatory? So, between Riga and Dresden.’
But he certainly knew how to speak in a different tone if the performer interested him and
he considered the success worth the pains. To be sure, he never became as violent as
Bülow, but he reprimanded sharply and did not spare the mockery. ‘Clean linen! Don’t
come to me with that,’ he cried with a roar when someone played uncleanly. When
Lamond played Beethoven’s op. 10 he listened with keen interest and corrected a passage,
to which Lamond timidly wanted to take exception: ‘Bülow told me – but at that Liszt
interrupted him and harshly let fly at him: ‘What, he comes here with his own wisdom?’
On this occasion I also heard him remark: ‘I do not much like the Bülowian rests for
breath [Luftpausen]’ – something very characteristic of both masters’ individuality.
He never chose what each person should play. One brought what one wished, and he
liked to hear almost everything. Only for old French music, Rameau, Couperin, he had