LISZT IN LONDON.

New Zealand Herald, Volume XXIII, Issue 7656, 5 June 1886, Page 2 (Supplement)

LISZT IN LONDON.

A SCENE OF ENTHUSIASM. The Rev. H. R. Haweis writes a description of the visit of Liszt to London in tho Pall Mall Gazette. Wo quote the following : —I could describe the excellent and interesting programme patiently enough had Liszt not been there, had Liszt not played. But in my own mind up to a certain moment, or in the minds of everyone then present, expressed or unuttered, there was bub oho thought, "Would Liszt play "If lie docs," I whispered to Mr. Burnett, the violinist, " mark me, it will be after young Wcb'oe has finished the Liszt concerto." lam proud of the prophecy. Miss Dora Bright, who played Sterndale Bennet's Caprice in E with great elegance and finish; Miss Winnifred Robinson, pupil of Sainton, who, I am told, at short notice mastered C. Mackenzie's difficult violin conccrto : each had descended to receive tho master's encouraging word of approval as he rose and shook each aspirant to fame warmly by tho hand. But the applause which greeted Wcbba continued long after Webbo had gone and the master had resumed his seat. He rose, twice bowed all round, and sat down twice. Then something like an agony of despair and suspeuso seized upon the audience. They leaned forward with renewed and more vehement applause. All eyes seemed magnetising Liszt with an intent, beseeching gaze. 1 never saw the wishing or willing game played with such effect. 1 never saw such a scene in a concert room or theatre. I havo seen transports of enthusiasm at Beyrouth when Wagner appeared in front of the curtain on the last great day of the " Gottcrdammernng I have seen tho people at St. James's Hall rise at Rubinstein : but I never saw anything comparable to what took place at the Royal Academy on Tuesday, when Liszt; roue for the third time and instead of sitting down moved towards the platform. When he reached the piano, people were standing on their scats beside themselves. The ladies tore the daffodils and lilies from the bosoms and tluug them at him, and a perfect shower of flowers greetnd the venerable master as ho sat down. Then a stillness as of death fell on the excited assembly. Liszt looked into the air in front of him. He was grave, dreamy, and lilro one who saw before him the forms and visions long ago. Inexpressibly tender, with a sich as out of the past, the music stole softly from the keys. It was his own exquisite transcription of Chopin's " Lithuanischer Lied it was not piano playing ; it was tho whisper, the plaint, the meditation, of a soul —all tho lechniqur, though absolutely perfect and the touch beyond compare, was entirely forgotten, as he seemed to forget his Sogers, and beckon to tho dream figures that passed beforo him with expressive look and the kindling of a quiet eye that saw things behind thn veil we could not sec. But tho mingled pathos and repose cf tho sweet memorial theme left tho consummate delicacy of tho Chophien'jW musical embroideries unimpaired. The multitudes of little subsidiary notes slipped in liko the spray of a fountain broken iu the wind. Liszt seemed scarcely to heed them ; they fell about him, those wondrous passages, like magic ; tho noble face still looked into the air—seemed to havo nothing to do with the keyboard ; tho sou! was far away in another world—a world of buried regrets, of loves long since grown cold in tho sepulchre, of youth blown out like the roses of past summers—aye, and a world of old familiar faces seen only now in dreams, but seen calmly, with the quiet eyes that had looked on splendour and decay, aud taken the measure of each unappallod ; but at the close of that "Lithuanischer Lied" there went up the piano a something wholiy indescribable—from tho bass to the treble -a soft, melting flow of sound, not notes, but a mingliug of notes. It was like a gently swelling ripple, that went welling up tho keyboard and ceased only like a spent wave, breaking on a lonely strand, and leaving a silence as of twilight and ineffable rest. Liszt played yet more, after the first burst of applause had subsided. Why attempt still further to describe that other improvised and majestic strain, that was liko a legend out of tho older time, told by soma Merlin to a Vivien. A hardened critic—middle aged and not easily pleasedturned to me aud echoed my own thoughts. " I should like to havo cried outright," lie said, "if I hadn't been ashamed 1" As for myself, I not ouly felt like people all round me, moved to tears while Liszt was playing tho " Lithuanischer Lied," but for at least two hours afterwards I had a peculiar choking sensation and perceptible quickening of the pulse a3 bits of it came floating into my head. The cxcitemetit of the students was unexampled. Tho two greatest virtuosi who have ever appeared, as far »3 wo can gather, aro I'aganini aud Liszt. Few in that room could say they had heard Paganini—but Liszt, in one of his sweetest, solemuest moods, was, at all events, heard to perfection. I understand Rubinstein's saying, " There is only one pianist — Liszt." I understand Von Bulow'a despair when he exclaimed, after listening to his great master, " What business have all we woodchoppers to play the piano— after him 2"