Franz Liszt, Volume 1 by Alan Walker

Author:Alan Walker [Walker, Alan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-307-83096-8
Publisher: Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group
Published: 2012-11-20T16:00:00+00:00

Liszt at the piano, a statuette by Dantan (1836). (illustration credit 11.2)

“What a humiliation!”

“What does it matter to me how much I weigh? What annoys me is that these people don’t recognize me, so there are still some people to whom I am unknown and when I pass by them not everybody says admiringly: It is He!…”

“Oh, the futility of celebrity!”

“Suppose we have some music.”

“Puzzi [Cohen], open the piano!”

At that command the God Puzzi springs up, passes over the heads of three Goddesses, and opens the piano. The God Franz seats himself; his mass of hair flows down to the parquet floor; he parts the curtain of his tresses to reveal his face.

Inspiration comes, the God’s eyes light up, his hair quivers, he clenches his fingers and strikes the keys fervently; he plays with his hands, his elbows, his chin, his nose. Every part that can hit, hits. Finally, to end the piece with a dazzling effect, Franz soars up and falls back to earth with his seat on the keyboard.

“It’s sublime!” they exclaim.

“That will cost me 20 francs in repairs,” says the Goddess of the house.

The God Puzzi says nothing, but swoons away.

“Franz, Thou art Thou!” says a deep-throated voice.

“Thank you,” replies the God, “thank you, George.”

The God thus named [Sand] is dressed in Turkish costume. As a turban he has a floss-silk shawl; he wears bombazine trousers and Turkish slippers of hardened leather. He is smoking cheap tobacco in a clay pipe.

The Turkish God’s posture is completely oriental; the puffs of smoke he blows out create a divine cloud around him; he’s at the centre of conversation. Some people say, “Hello, George!” and others “How are you, madame?”

“Well, Major” [Pictet], the God George says to another God, “how do you think I look in this outfit?”

“You look like a camel-dealer.”

“That lovely major, always so frank, so natural: but what are you doing rumpling my trousers?”

“Don’t pay any attention, I’m seeking the meaning of life.”

“That’s the spirit!” George replies … “but I’m thirsty.”

“Arabella, have them pour me a glass of the blood of the grape.”

Then a little weasel-faced God, spruced up and hopping about, whom they call Monsieur l’Abbé [Lamennais], unfurls a piece of paper; they form a ring around him. “It’s a speech against the Pope,” they say. “You’ll see how the abbé has dealt with him.”

The abbé reads; they applaud; midnight strikes; it’s time to retire. The Gods don’t like to stay up too late. They have chatted, played cards, made music, smoked, drunk, read; it has been a delightful evening. Franz sits down at the piano again and plays the popular song “Allez-vous-en, gens de la noce!” You take your hat and withdraw from Olympus, swearing that they’ll never get you back there again.…

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