eled an entire day.

Now let me whisper something in your ear--I once studied with Liszt at
Weimar! Does this seem incredible to you? An adorer of Thalberg,
nevertheless, once upon a time I pulled up stakes at Paris and went to
the abode of Liszt and played for him exactly once. This was a
half-century ago. I carried letters from a well-known Parisian music
publisher, Liszt's own, and was therefore accorded a hearing. Well do I
recall the day, a bright one in April. His Serene Highness was at that
time living on the Altenberg, and to see him I was forced to as much
patience and diplomacy as would have gained me admittance to a royal
household.

_Endlich_, the fatal moment arrived. Surrounded by a band of disciples,
crazy fellows all--I discovered among the rest the little figure of Karl
Tausig--the great man entered the _saal_ where I tremblingly sat. He was
very amiable. He read the letters I timidly presented him, and then,
slapping me on the back with an expression of _bonhomie_, he cried aloud
in French: "_Tiens!_ let us hear what this admirer of my old friend
Thalberg has to say for himself on the keyboard!" I did not miss the
veiled irony of the speech, the word _friend_ being ever so lightly
underlined; I knew of the famous Liszt-Thalberg _duello_, during which
so much music and ink had been spilt.

But my agony! The _via dolorosa_ I traversed from my chair to the piano!
Since then the modern school of painter-impressionists has come into
fashion. I understand perfectly the mental, may I say the optical,
attitude of these artists to landscape subjects. They must gaze upon a
tree, a house, a cow, with their nerves at highest tension until
everything quivers; the sky is bathed in magnetic rays, the background
trembles as it does in life. So to me was the lofty chamber wherein I
stood on that fateful afternoon. Liszt, with his powerful profile, the
profile of an Indian chieftain, lounged in the window embrasure, the
light streaking his hair, gray and brown, and silhouetting his brow,
nose, and projecting chin. He alone was the illuminated focus of this
picture which, after a half-century, is brilliantly burnt into my
memory. His pupils were mere wraiths floating in a misty dream, with
malicious white points of light for eyes. And I felt like a disembodied
being in this spectral atmosphere.

Yet urged by an hypnotic will I went to the piano, lifted the
fall-board, and in my misery I actually paused to read the ma