Letters of Franz Liszt, vol 1, Paris to Rome | Page 9

M. Gaston Calmann-Levy in Paris.]
Nous disons: "Il est temps. Executons, c'est l'heure." Alors nous retournons les yeux--La Mort est la! Ainsi de mes projets.--Quand vous verrai-je, Espagne, Et Venise et son golfe, et Rome et sa campagne,
Toi, Sicile, que ronge un volcan souterrain, Grece qu'on connait trop, Sardaigne qu'on ignore, Cites de l'Aquilon, du Couchant, de l'Aurore, Pyramides du Nil, Cathedrales du Rhin! Qui sait?-- jamais peut-etre!
[We say: "Now it is time. Let's act, for 'tis the hour." Then turn we but our eyes--lo! death is there! Thus with my plans. When shall I see thee, Espagna, And Venice with her gulf, and Rome with her Campagna; Thou, Sicily, whom volcanoes undermine; Greece, whom we know too well, Sardinia, unknown one, Lands of the north, the west, the rising sun, Pyramids of the Nile, Cathedrals of the Rhine! Who knows? Never perchance!]
Earthly life is but a malady of the soul, an excitement which is kept up by the passions. The natural state of the soul is rest!
Paris, May 2nd [1832]
Here is a whole fortnight that my mind and fingers have been working like two lost spirits, Homer, the Bible, Plato, Locke, Byron, Hugo, Lamartine, Chateaubriand, Beethoven, Bach, Hummel, Mozart, Weber, are all around me. I study them, meditate on them, devour them with fury; besides this I practice four to five hours of exercises (3rds, 6ths, 8ths, tremolos, repetition of notes, cadences, etc., etc.). Ah! provided I don't go mad, you will find an artist in me! Yes, an artist such as you desire, such as is required nowadays!
"And I too am a painter!" cried Michael Angelo the first time he beheld a chef d'oeuvre...Though insignificant and poor, your friend cannot leave off repeating those words of the great man ever since Paganini's last performance. Rene, what a man, what a violin, what an artist! Heavens! what sufferings, what misery, what tortures in those four strings!
Here are a few of his characteristics:--
[Figure: Liszt here writes down several tiny excerpts from musical scores of Paganini's violin music, such as his famous "Caprices"]
As to his expression, his manner of phrasing, his very soul in fact!----
May 8th [1832]
My good friend, it was in a paroxysm of madness that I wrote you the above lines; a strain of work, wakefulness, and those violent desires (for which you know me) had set my poor head aflame; I went from right to left, then from left to right (like a sentinel in the winter, freezing), singing, declaiming, gesticulating, crying out; in a word, I was delirious. Today the spiritual and the animal (to use the witty language of M. de Maistre) are a little more evenly balanced; for the volcano of the heart is not extinguished, but is working silently.--Until when?--
Address your letters to Monsieur Reidet, the receiver-general at the port of Rouen.
A thousand kind messages to the ladies Boissier. I will tell you some day the reasons which prevented me from starting for Geneva. On this subject I shall call you in evidence.
Bertini is in London; Madame Malibran is making her round of Germany; Messemaecker (how is he getting on?) is resting on his laurels at Brussels; Aguado has the illustrious maestro Rossini in tow.--Ah--Hi--Oh--Hu!!!

6. To Ferdinand Hiller
[This letter, published by F. Niecks ("F. Chopin, Man and Musician," Vol. 1. German by Langhans. Leipzig, Leuckart, 1890), was written by Liszt and Chopin jointly, and was also signed by Chopin's friend Franchomme, the violoncellist. The part written by Chopin is indicated here by parentheses ().--Addressed to the well-known composer and author, afterwards Director of the Conservatorium and Concert Society at Cologne (1811-1885).]
This is the twentieth time, at least, that we have tried to meet, first at my house, then here, with the intention of writing to you, and always some visit, or some other unforeseen hindrance, has occurred. I don't know whether Chopin will be strong enough to make excuses to you; for my part, it seems to me that we have been so unmannerly and impertinent that no excuses are now permissible or possible.
We sympathized most deeply in your bereavement, and more deeply did we wish that we could be with you in order to soften, as far as possible, the grief of your heart. [Hiller had lost his father.]
(He has said it all so well that I have nothing to add to excuse me specially for my negligence or idleness, or whim or distraction, or--or--or--You know that I can explain myself better in person, and, this autumn, when I take you home late by the boulevards to your mother, I shall try to obtain your pardon. I am writing to you without knowing what my pen is scribbling, as Liszt is at this moment playing my Studies, and transporting me away from all suitable ideas. I wish I could steal his manner of rendering