szt as a man. The
man always impressed people as immeasurably bigger than what he did,
great as that was. His nature had a lavishness that knew no bounds. He
lived for every distinguished man and beautiful woman, and with every
joyous thing. He had wit and sympathy to spare for gentle and simple,
and his kindliness was lavished with royal profusion on the scum as well
as the salt of the earth. This atmosphere of personal grandeur radiated
from him, and invested his doings, musical and otherwise, with something
peculiarly fine and fascinating. And then as a player Liszt rose above
his mates as something of a different genius, a different race, a
different world, to every one else who has ever handled a piano. He is
not to be considered among the great composers, also pianists, who have
merely treated their instrument as an interpreting medium, but as a
poet, who executively employed the piano as his means of utterance and
material for creation. In mere mechanical skill, after every one else
has ended, Liszt had still something to add, carrying every man's
discovery further. If he was surpassed by Thalberg in richness of sound,
he surpassed Thalberg by a variety of tone of which the redoubtable
Viennese player had no dream. He had his delicate, light, freakish
moods in which he might stand for another Chopin in qualities of fancy,
sentiment, and faery brilliancy. In sweep of hand and rapidity of
finger, in fire and fineness of execution, in that interweaving of
exquisite momentary fancies where the work admits, in a memory so vast
as to seem almost superhuman; in that lightning quickness of view,
enabling him to penetrate instantaneously the meaning of a new
composition, and to light it up properly with its own inner spirit (some
touch of his own brilliancy added); briefly, in a mastery, complete,
spontaneous, enjoying and giving enjoyment, over every style and school
of music, all those who have heard Liszt assert that he is unapproached
among players and the traditions of players.

In a letter from Berlioz to Liszt, the writer gives us a vivid idea of
the great virtuoso's playing and its effects. Berlioz is complaining of
the difficulties which hamper the giving of orchestral concerts.
After rehearsing his mishaps, he says: "After all, of what use is such
information to you? You can say with confidence, changing the mot of
Louis XIV, '_L'orchestre, c'est moi; le chour, c'est moi; le chef
c'est encore moi_.' My piano-for