The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1885-04-04

When the really sultry weather sets in, about
August he goes to the Vile dEste, at Tivoli,
eighteen miles distant The villa is the prop
erty of the German Cardinal Prince Hohelohe,
and in IL is a suit of apartments looking out
over the Roman Campagna, fitted up expressly
for the great pianist. On the door of the great
salon is the monogram: IL. Franz List" He
goes to Rome every Saturday to spend the
Sunday. went to Genzano at the foot of the
Alban hills, that summer. But when he went
into the city he would send me word, and then
would 1 mount little black fend of horse
"a Campagna mustang-and canter across
the Via Appia in the early morning when
the sun, peeping over the Volscan hills
specialized myself and pony ever so far ahead,
and the setting sun did likewise on my way
home. This is not the place to memorabilia the
innocent happiness of those days. But one even
ing galloped across the Campagna to the mount
aims ecstatically happy. / had brought the
maestro another song, which he not only did not
lacerate with his merciless pencil, but into
which he inserted few of those ravishing har-
monte combinations which are so peculiarly his
own. Read carefully his music to Heine's Lore
ley and you will see what mean. AS | arose
to depart, when the lesson was ended. he gave me
the apostolic embrace putting his arms about
me and kissing me on the neck. Franz Liszt is
ELUSIVE
The man who would attempt so analyze the
character of List would soon lose his moorings,
1t is composed OF so many glaring inconslsten-
cies. Plus TX, with pregnant brevity, called
him I'm fritto miSto-a mixed fry. During the
summer of which write DR.. Hans Won Bulow,
the eccentric pianist and conductor, paid him a
visit Hans and List were cronies from the
beginning. Hans married one of Liszts daught-
ers. And yet when Richard Wagner saw Frau
Won Bulow and ordained at once, after his dicta-
torial way, that she must become Frau Wag-
ner, List with barbaric indifference, gave
away the bride whom he first given to
Won Bulow Yet Hans Won Bulow and
Franz List remained the same old
cronies STILL and such they are to this day. The
most satisfactory explanation Of the whole muddle
would be to say that musicians are madmen, or,
mayhap entitled to those privileges of the stage
coachmen, so graphically set forth by Tony Wei
ler Be this as it may, Hans visited Franz that
summer and if the gossip of Tivoli spoke the
truth. the two with Sgambati, raised Satan at
the Villa d'Este. Another guest, whom in def
erence to his modesty shall not name, told me
that he thought the devil had gotten into their
fingers, when the two of them inaugurated a
piano tournament after the dinner at which a
classical gentleman called Bacchus ruled pro-
fusely.
1 returned to Rome that.year in October and
Immediately called upon List. 1t was in the
early evening and the candies had just been
brought into the room. There were present be-
side the maestro, Pinelli. the violinst and cele-
DRAFTED director of quartet music, Sgambati and
two sy! German ~ ladies, both past the grand
climacteric. They were talking about ScEu-
mann, whom the ladies had known we'll The
conversation turned upon his death. (He died
mad.l List said that he had composed few
short threnes on the death of his friend, and the
ladies begged him to try and remember
them. He sat down at the instrument No
preludial fourishes No tentative chords to
evoke from the long untraversed caverns Of his
memory the measures of those mortuary themes
He played one of them. The motif was sub
dued, hushed, so to speak, as if the dead were
there present-nay, not dead but slumbering,
and the musician feared lest he'might wake him.
Nor was it in the minor key, the proverbial asso
ciate of sorrow Sorrow there was of sweet
kind, rich in harmonious effect But the genius
of the piece was history-the history of the man
who wrote the "Kinder-scenen," 'Traumerei"
and the "Nachtstucke." When he had
finished there was a dead silence 1t
is not every day that one hears the great
List pronounce, in musical numbers, the pan
egyric of Robert Schumann. He began again.
The second number not unlike the first, in
that it was composed by the same man. But it
was more heroic; besides, the fingers of the
magician had warmed up, and from the cata-
falque which bore the remains Of Schumann
we were borne INCREASINGLY, hither and thither
through the Deutschland he loved. so dearly
on the wings of robust cadences that spoke of
Immortality. 1t was good to be there. The
ladies left soon after he ceased playing, but not
before he had kissed both effusiyey