FRANZ LISZT AT ZURICH?--?SWISS, GREAT LOVERS OF MUSIC?--?WAGNER ONCE LIVED HERE?--?HIS SINGULAR WAYS?--?DR. WILLI?--?MADAME LUCCA’S VILLA?--?LISZT’S KISSING BEES?--?JEFFERSON DAVIS’ DAUGHTER?--?A LAUGHABLE MISTAKE.

September, 1877.?--?The Swiss have almost as much love for music as the Italians, though they have no composers of great reputation. Every city, town, and hamlet has its Music Guilds and clubs. The whole male population seems to sing. There are many fine instrumental performers among the women, but few good singers. The male bird is the vocalist here. Zurich is a center for great concerts, oratorios, etc., where Europe’s greatest artists appear. The “Tonhalle” orchestra is one of the best in Europe. These are the men who first rehearsed and played Wagner’s earlier operas. Seven years of Wagner’s life were spent in Zurich, in exile. The people here still talk of his singular ways as a citizen. Zurich was then, as now, a Wagner-music loving place, even at a time when London and Paris would not listen to a Wagner opera.

My friend here, Schulz-Beuthen, himself a composer, is the happy possessor of Wagner’s old piano, at which he composed some of his immortal works.

Wagner was poor when in Zurich, and lived by writing musical criticisms. For his own music, there was no sale. He had one or two rich friends here, however, notably the Wiesendoncks and the Willis, who encouraged not only his music, but a most singular method he had of getting rid of debts. It was a pretty way he had of calling on these opulent friends and, by the merest accident, leaving his grocer’s, tailor’s or hostler’s bills lying on the drawing-room table. His kind friends naturally discovered the missives, and quietly paid them. It was a little joke whispered about that the number of Wagner’s calls at rich men’s houses was entirely numbered by the bills he was owing. All the same, he had rather good times by the beautiful lake.

Dr. Willi had Wagner one whole season at his lakeside home. Just across the lake was the villa of the Wiesendoncks, and Wagner kept a little boat very busy, carrying his operatic “Motives” back and forth between his kind musical patrons.

Every now and then the “Tonhalle” has a red letter day. It is when artists like Sarasate play the violin, or when Franz Liszt or Rubinstein is at the piano.

Last week Franz Liszt was here. It was a great occasion, though not his first visit. At the close of the afternoon concert, I noticed many of the ladies gathered about him to have him kiss them, as he stood down in an aisle among the seats, holding an impromptu reception. Pretty soon they had him seated. They could get at him better that way. The men had little chance that afternoon, though in the evening I was one of those who had the honor of being presented to him. He received me very kindly, and spoke of certain clever Americans who had been pupils of his.

I had had a glimpse of him the morning before. Being an early riser, I was, as usual, down walking by the lake, near to the celebrated Baur-au-lac hotel. I happened to glance toward a window of the hotel that I heard open. I saw an astounding looking figure in a white night dress, leaning far out of the window, looking at the mountains. It was a great, smooth, ash-colored face that might have represented Charity in marble, set in a frame of long, white, silken hair. I knew from pictures that it was Franz Liszt, and so stopped and gazed. I never saw so striking a picture of a human being before. His figure in its loose gown nearly filled the window. His great eyes seemed to be shining a “good morning” to the lake and the mountains. It was the face of genius, illuminated and happy by the beauty of the morning and the glory of the scene.

I should like to have heard Franz Liszt sit down and improvise a fantasia at the piano, the moment he left that window. I am sure there would have been tones born of the morning, for his whole face reflected the powerful emotion within him. I wondered to myself that evening, when he was holding the vast audience in the charm of his music, if he were not thinking of that fair scene from his window in the morning.

When the concert was over the other night, a few friends gathered with Franz Liszt in a little back room of the “Tonhalle.” There was a little dinner and much champagne. And there was much bowing and kissing and getting down before this king of the piano. Men and women absolutely got down on their knees and kissed his hand, as if he were an object of adoration.

It was not exactly getting down before a “totem pole,” though almost as extravagant, for there were nobler ways of worshiping the genius of music than by being ridiculous. The great master, though, was used to that sort of thing?--?in fact, rather liked it?--?and so went on with his wine and his kisses till midnight, adding to the delight of his worshipers by at last seating himself at the piano and playing one of his own compositions.5

Another artist with world-wide reputation, who summers about Lake Zurich even now, is Madame Lucca, the prima donna. She owns beautiful Villa Goldenberg at the upper end of the lake. I often see her about town, on foot, shopping.

One day as I was passing “Goldenberg” on the steamer, I pointed to it, remarking to a fine-looking German with whom I was conversing, that it was “one of the prettiest spots of all.” “Yes,” he answered, “I have never regretted owning it.” “Owning it,” I exclaimed; “why Madame Lucca lives there, and I supposed she owned it.” “So she does,” he answered smilingly, as he gave me a little nudge; “so she does, but I own her. I am her husband.”

I meet many well-known characters in my frequent trips up and down the lake.

One evening lately, as I sat on the steamer deck, nearing my home at KÜssnacht, a rather prepossessing young lady inquired of me in English if that were the home of William Tell. After a little conversation she walked to the bow of the boat, and the middle-aged lady who seemed to be her companion, said to me: “Do you know who that is you were talking with? That is the daughter of Jefferson Davis.”

Pretty soon the girl came back, and I had the pleasure of communicating a bit of news to her that must have been of interest. I had read in the telegrams, that very day, of some famous admirer in America presenting to her father the magnificent estate of Bellevoir, on the Mississippi.

Amusing incidents occur, too, almost daily, from American travelers, going up and down the lake, supposing me to be a native, not acquainted with the American tongue. They are sometimes very free in their remarks about people they see on the boat.

The other evening, while sitting on the deck on my way home, I noticed a little party of three ladies and a gentleman, excitedly wringing their hands, talking English, and wondering what on earth they would do. They had lost the name of the place they were going to, and could not tell even how to get home again. Not a soul on the boat spoke a word of English; they were sure of that.

“Notice that man sitting there with a newspaper,” said the gentleman of the party, indicating myself. “Kate, you talk a little German,” he went on; “try your Dutch on him.” “Not for the world,” answered the lady appealed to. “That might be a prince, or a baron, or somebody.” “Well, his clothes don’t look like it, anyway,” chirped in a second of the young ladies. “Did you ever see such an unfashionable necktie in your life?” “An odd looking genius that, anyway. I would not be afraid of him.” “Go right up to him and blurt it out; he’s good natured, I’ll bet a dollar,” chimed in the gentleman. “Never mind his necktie; it’s information we’re after.” “Yes, but my German?--?I don’t know,” said the lady; “I don’t know three words, and you know I don’t.” “Oh! go on?--?nonsense?--?walk right up to him, and see how pretty he’d smile on you,” said all three.

She cleared her throat, and approached me, and in a few unintelligible words of bad German, spoke. I did smile, and answered her in plain American English, remarking that I had noticed that her party were Americans.

There was a sudden collapse of spirits, a queer winking and nudging of each other, and an inclination to walk away to the other end of the boat.

As I was leaving the steamer, the gentleman returned to me. “Excuse me, sir,” said he, “but you astonished our little party. May I not ask where on earth you, a Swiss, learned such perfect English? It is almost American.” “Oh! in knocking about the country here,” I answered, “and I see lots of Americans on the steamer and, when they talk, especially if it is about me, I always listen to them. Goodnight.”

I suppose that little quartette still think about the Swiss they met, with the queer necktie, who spoke the American English.