People shot to their feet applauding, calling for an encore, in an ovation that focused on the slight figure in the emerald green gown. Behind her in the shadows stood her husband, his eyes watery, joining in the applause, looking somehow as if he'd had little to do with all of this.
In the front row stood Johannes Brahms, a soft smile on his smooth face. I have some acquaintance with that kind of smile and knew where it had its origin. If Brahms was not hopelessly in love, then my powers of perception were hopelessly failing.
I cast my eyes to another part of the front row, where Franz Liszt too had risen to his feet. But his applause? “Polite” would be a fitting word to describe it. In fact, after a moment or two Liszt ceased clapping, looked about as though he were dumfounded by the outpouring of enthusiasm that surrounded him, then resumed applauding in a mechanical fashion, the corners of his lips upturned in a patronizing smile, as though what he had just heard was music to be tolerated rather than enjoyed.
When finally it became evident that the players were too exhausted to favour the audience with an encore, Robert Schumann stepped to the centre again. Looking directly at Liszt, he said, “And now, dear friends, do we dare hope that our guest of honour, Maestro Franz Liszt, will make the evening perfect…or perhaps I should say more perfect…by playing for us?” Schumann gestured toward the two pianos. “These keyboards have never before felt the magical fingers of Maestro Liszt, and-” Here Schumann began to chuckle at the witticism he was about to deliver. “And it may be said, ladies and gentlemen, that a grand piano is not truly grand until it has been touched by the master himself, Franz Liszt.”
Liszt half rose from his seat to acknowledge the applause that greeted Schumann's announcement, then promptly sat down in what his host must have taken as a sign of modesty. This apparent reluctance on Liszt's part was not what I had expected. From all accounts, and bearing in mind what Clara Schumann had said about him earlier in the evening, I assumed that Liszt would not require a second invitation. Yet here he was, seemingly glued to his chair and shaking his head from side to side in a very determined refusal.
Schumann, opening his arms expansively, said, “You are too modest, my dear Liszt. The piano awaits you. Please!”
“Thank you, my dear Schumann,” Liszt called from his seat, “but I could not possibly play now. I mean, my music would be totally inappropriate after what we have just listened to…after music that is so…so very Leipzig.”
The expression “so very Leipzig”, heard clearly from one end of the room to the other, had an immediate and strange effect; it seemed to drain all the oxygen out of the place, leaving everyone momentarily speechless and immobile. Something in the way Liszt had uttered it smacked of condescension.
What followed after a split-second of stunned silence was dreadful. In a sudden, violent rage Schumann lunged at Liszt, seized him by the shoulders and lifted him from his chair with a force that was nothing short of an assault.
“How dare you speak of our work in such a demeaning way?” Schumann shouted.
As a mere onlooker, I found Schumann's actions frightening. Liszt must have found them terrifying.
Without another word, Schumann released his hapless guest of honour, swung swiftly about on his heels and stalked out of the drawing room, slamming the heavy doors behind him.
Considering the gross indignity he had just suffered, Liszt managed to regain his composure, outwardly at least, with incredible aplomb. Calmly, carefully, he straightened the lapels of his tailcoat and pulled the collar down snugly back into place. His oversized black bowtie, which had been knocked askew, was restored to its proper location and given just the right pinch at the ends to tighten the knot. With firm downward strokes, Liszt brushed the creases from his slim-fitted trousers. Once again he was every inch Franz Liszt: the perfect pianist, the perfect man-about-town.
But now he was also Franz Liszt, the imperfect guest, the man who-perhaps innocently (although I wondered about this)-had managed to transform what had begun as a brilliant evening into a smouldering ruin. Everyone in the room glared at poor Liszt as though he had just dumped a cartload of refuse in their midst. To his credit, he realized he had made a grievous mistake. He lost no time in offering an apology to his hostess. “I do beg your pardon, most sincerely, Clara. The fault is all mine. Blame it on a slip of the tongue.”
This excuse only added fuel to the fire. Clara shot back, “I would prefer that you confine your slips of the tongue to Weimar. They are not welcome in this house.”
Her anger left Liszt no choice. “I won't burden you further with my company, madam,” he said. Given that he had just been invited in no uncertain terms to leave the premises, his tone was respectful, even gracious. “May I say only this, madam: you and your husband are the only people in the world from whom I would accept so calmly the insult just handed me.”
All of us watched in deathly silence as Liszt turned and began to make his way out of the drawing-room. But as Liszt passed in front of Johannes Brahms, he paused. “Young man,” he said, “I regret that I arrived too late to hear your performance. Perhaps on another occasion. By the way, that piano-” Liszt pointed to the instrument Clara Schumann had played on. “That piano is in need of a good tuning. I have perfect pitch, and the ‘A’ is at least a full quarter-tone too high.” Shaking his head, Liszt added, “What a pity.”
Chapter Eleven
" I have done with him forever!” “Him” was-of course-Franz Liszt. The person making this vow for all to hear was-of course-Clara Schumann.
I had no difficulty understanding her anger. For a man with a reputation for social grace, Liszt had acted with incredible insensitivity, almost boorishness.
What was difficult to understand, at least for me, was Clara's apparent indifference to the whereabouts at that moment of her husband. For all we knew, he might have been in the attic attempting to hang himself from a rafter. Or he might have been in the cellar drinking himself into a stupor-something he was known to do all too frequently whenever things went badly for him. Or he might have stormed out into the night, coatless and hatless, roaring aimlessly into the uncaring February wind.
Stationing herself in the foyer, her head high, her composure restored despite everything, she bade a polite “Goodnight, thank you so much for coming” to her guests as they bundled into their heavy outerwear and, muttering awkward expressions of sympathy, filed out.
Only four persons remained now: Clara Schumann, Brahms, Helena Becker and I.
I was committed of course to escorting Helena back to her apartment, but a sense of unfinished business hung in the air, and though I had the distinct feeling that my hostess and her protégé were eager to see the last of Helena and me, I made no move to assist Helena to pack her cello in its case, nor did I don my overcoat, which the Schumanns’ housekeeper had handed me. Instead, I turned to Brahms. “Tell me, sir,” I said, “was there any truth to what Liszt said to you on his way out?”
“You mean about wanting to hear me play my own music?” Brahms gave me an ironic smile. “Hardly. Our music is worlds apart, his and mine. Liszt's is the music of a swindler, a showcase of empty confections…bonbons that are hollow inside. I am proud to be called a ‘Leipziger’. As far as I'm concerned, it's the ultimate compliment.” As Brahms said this, he and Clara exchanged looks of unguarded fondness.
Pretending to be merely curious, I said, “My question had to do with Liszt's observation that the piano was out of tune. Did you agree with him?”
“Nonsense!” Brahms said.