Paris, 25 April 1844 1 A tout seigneur tout honneur. We begin today with Berlioz, whose first concert opened the musical season and could be regarded, so to speak, as the overture of the same. The more or less new pieces that were presented to the public here found the applause they deserved, and even the most sluggish hearts were swept away by the power of the genius that is revealed in all creations of the great Master. Here is a wing-beat that reveals no ordinary songbird, it is a colossal nightingale, a thrush the size of an eagle, of the sort that are said to have existed in prehistoric times. Indeed, for me, Berlioz’s music as a whole has something prehistoric, if not antediluvian, about it; it reminds me of extinct animal species, of fabulous kingdoms and sins, of piled-up impossibilities: of Babylon, of the hanging gardens of Semiramis, of Nineveh, of the wonders of Mizraim, such as we see in the paintings of the Englishman Martin. Indeed, if we look around for an analogy in the art of painting, we find the most elective affinity between Berlioz and the mad Briton—the same feeling for the uncanny, the gigantic, for material immeasurability. In the one, the harsh effects of light and shadow, in the other screeching instrumentation; in the one, little melody, in the other, little color; in both, little beauty and no sensibility at all. Their works are neither ancient nor romantic, they recall neither Greece nor the Catholic Middle Ages; instead, they reach up much higher, to the Assyrian-Babylonian-Egyptian period of architecture, and to the massive passion that was expressed in it.
What a properly modern man, in contrast, is our Felix Mendelssohn-Bartholdy, the much celebrated compatriot, whom we mention first of all, today, on account of the symphony that was given by him in the concert hall of the Conservatory. We have the active zeal of his friends and sponsors here to thank for this pleasure. Although the reception of this symphony of Mendelssohn’s in the Conservatory was very frosty, 〈indeed offensively cold,〉 it nevertheless deserves the recognition of all true connoisseurs of art. 〈The second movement (scherzo in F major) and the third; Adagio in A major, in particular, are full of character, with passages of genuine beauty. The instrumentation is excellent and the entire symphony is〉 among Mendelssohn’s best works. 〈But〉 how does it happen that, following the performance of Paulus that was imposed on the public here, no laurel wreath wants to bloom on French soil for this so worthy and highly talented artist? How does it happen, here, that all efforts come to naught, and the last desperate measure of the Odeon Theatre, the performance of the choruses from Antigone , 〈will also produce〉 only a pathetic result? Mendelssohn always gives us an opportunity to reflect on the loftiest problems of aesthetics. Specifically, we are usually reminded, in his case, of the great question: what is the difference between art and 〈labor〉? We admire this Master’s great talent for form, for style, his gift for appropriating the most extraordinary things, his charmingly beautiful construction, his fine lizard’s ear, his tender antennae, and his earnest, I would almost like to say passionate indifference. If we search for an analogous phenomenon in a sister art, we will find it this time in poetry, and its name is Ludwig Tieck. This Master, too, always knew how to reproduce the most excellent things, whether writing or reading, he even understood how to make something naïve, and yet never created anything that was compelling to the masses and lived on in their hearts. 〈Particular to both is the most fervid wish for dramatic accomplishment, and Mendelssohn, too, will perhaps grow old and ill-tempered without having brought anything truly great to the stage. He will probably try, but must fail in the attempt, for here truth and passion are what is sought above all.〉
Besides Mendelssohn’s symphony, we heard at the Conservatory, with great interest, a symphony by the late lamented Mozart, and a no less talented composition 〈from an oratorio〉 by Handel. They were received with great applause. 〈These two, Mozart and Handel, have finally managed to attract the attention of the French, something that, admittedly, took considerable time, since no propaganda of diplomats, Pietists, and bankers was active on their behalf.〉
sponsors here to thank for this pleasure. Although the reception of this symphony of Mendelssohn’s in the Conservatory was very frosty,
it nevertheless deserves the recognition of all true connoisseurs of art. 〈It is of genuine beauty and belongs〉
among Mendelssohn’s best works. How does it happen that, following the performance of Paulus that was imposed on the public here, no laurel wreath wants to bloom on French soil for this so worthy and highly talented artist? How does it happen, here, that all efforts come to naught, and the last desperate measure of the Odeon Theatre, the performance of the choruses from Antigone , 〈also produced〉 only a pathetic result? Mendelssohn always gives us an opportunity to reflect on the loftiest problems of aesthetics. Specifically, we are usually reminded, in his case, of the great question: what is the difference between art and 〈a lie〉? We admire this Master’s great talent for form, for style, his gift for appropriating the most extraordinary things, his charmingly beautiful construction, his fine lizard’s ear, his tender antennae, and his earnest, I would almost like to say passionate indifference. If we search for an analogous phenomenon in a sister art, we will find it this time in poetry, and its name is Ludwig Tieck. This Master, too, always knew how to reproduce the most excellent things, whether writing or reading, he even understood how to make something naïve, and yet never created anything that was compelling to the masses and lived on in their hearts. 〈Mendelssohn, as the more talented of the two, would find it easier to create something everlasting, but not where truth and passion are immediately demanded, on the stage; Ludwig Tieck, in spite of his most fervid desires, was never able to achieve a dramatic accomplishment either.〉
Besides Mendelssohn’s symphony, we heard at the Conservatoire, with great interest, a symphony of the late lamented Mozart, and a no less talented composition by Handel. They were received with great applause.
〈However great the names that we have just mentioned, our excellent countryman Ferdinand Hiller enjoys too much recognition among true connoisseurs of art for us not to name him, too, among those composers whose works found well-deserved recognition at the Conservatoire. Hiller is more a thinking than a feeling musician, and furthermore he is accused of having too great a scholarly bent. Intellect and academic knowledge may, admittedly, seem a bit chilling at times in the compositions of this doctrinaire man, but nonetheless his works are always graceful, charming, and beautiful. Here is no trace of twisted-mouth eccentricity; Hiller possesses There was no lack of concert-giving pianists this year either. In particular, the Ides of March were very remarkable days in this regard. They all start tinkling away and are desirous of being listened to, or at least to appear to be listened to, so that on the other side of the Parisian barrier they can behave like great celebrities. These artistic apprentices know the proper way to exploit every scrap of praise that they have begged or swindled from the feuilletons
, especially in Germany, and consequently the advertisements there announce that the famous genius, the great Rudolf W.,
6
has arrived, the rival of Liszt and Thalberg, the pianistic hero who aroused such excitement in Paris and was even praised by the critic Jules Janin, hosanna! Whoever has come across such a poor creature in Paris, and, in general, knows how little notice is taken here of much more significant personages, finds the credulity of the public very amusing and the crude shamelessness of the virtuosos very disgusting. But the evil lies much deeper, namely in the condition of our daily press, and this, again, is only a result of even more fateful circumstances. I must come back again and again to the fact that there are only three pianists who deserve serious consideration, namely: Chopin, the beauteous composer, who, however, was unfortunately very ill and little visible this winter; then Thalberg, the 〈noble figure〉 who would not even have to play the piano in order to be greeted everywhere as a beautiful phenomenon, and who really seems to regard his talent as a mere appanage;
and then our Liszt, who despite all the wrong-headedness and rough edges still remains our dear Liszt, and at this moment has 〈generated not only in all Paris, but even in the otherwise so calm writer of these pages, an excitement that cannot be denied.〉 Yes, he is here, the great agitator, our Franz Liszt, the errant knight of all possible orders,
the Hohenzollern-Hechingen court councilor, the doctor of philosophy and miracle doctor of music, the resurrected Pied Piper of Hamlin, the new Faust always followed by a poodle in the form of Belloni, 7 〈the Hungarian sword of honor of his century,〉 the knighted and noble Franz Liszt! He is here, the modern Amphion, who by sounding his strings during the construction of the Cologne cathedral made the stones move until they fit themselves together like the fabled walls of Thebes! an artistic elective affinity with his compatriot Wolfgang Goethe. Like Goethe, Hiller was also born in Frankfurt, where I saw his paternal house the last time I passed through. It is called “At the Green Frog,” and the image of a frog can be observed above the front door. But Hiller’s compositions never make one think of such an unmusical beast, only of nightingales, larks, and other springtime birds.〉
There was no lack of concert-giving pianists this year either. In particular, the Ides of March were very remarkable days in this regard. They all start tinkling away and are desirous of being listened to, or at least to appear to be listened to, so that on the other side of the Parisian barrier they can behave like great celebrities. These artistic apprentices know the proper way to exploit every scrap of praise that they have begged or swindled from the feuilletons , especially in Germany, and consequently the advertisements there announce that the famous genius, the great Rudolf W., has arrived, the rival of Liszt and Thalberg, the pianistic hero who aroused such excitement in Paris and was even praised by the critic Jules Janin, hosanna! Whoever has come across such a poor creature in Paris, and, in general, knows how little notice is taken here of much more significant personages, finds the credulity of the public very amusing and the crude shamelessness of the virtuosos very disgusting. But the evil lies much deeper, namely in the condition of our daily press, and this, again, is only a result of even more fateful circumstances. I must come back again and again to the fact that there are only three pianists who deserve serious consideration, namely: Chopin, the beauteous composer, who, however, was unfortunately very ill and little visible this winter; then Thalberg, the 〈musical gentleman〉 who would not even have to play the piano in order to be greeted everywhere as a beautiful phenomenon, and who really seems to regard his talent as a mere appanage; and then our Liszt, who despite all the wrong-headedness and rough edges still remains our dear Liszt, and at this moment has 〈again generated great excitement among the Parisian beau monde.〉
Yes, he is here, the great agitator, our Franz Liszt, the errant knight of all possible orders 〈with exception of the French Legion of Honor, which Louis-Philippe does not wish to give to a virtuoso); he is here〉, the Hohenzollern-Hechingen court councilor, the doctor of philosophy and miracle doctor of music, the resurrected Pied Piper of Hamlin, the new Faust always followed by a poodle in the form of Belloni,
the knighted and 〈yet〉 noble
Franz Liszt! He is here, the modern Amphion, who by sounding his strings during the construction of the Cologne cathedral made the stones move until they fit themselves together like the fabled walls of Thebes! He is here, the modern-day Homer, whom Germany, Hungary, and France, the three greatest nations, advertise as their native son, while the singer of the Iliad
was only claimed by seven little provincial cities! He is here, the Attila, the Scourge of God of all Erard pianos, which already trembled at the mere news of his coming and which now, under his hand, twitch, bleed, and whimper in such fashion that the humane society ought to take an interest in them! He is here, the mad, beautiful, ugly, mysterious, fateful and sometimes very childish child of his times, 〈the today hale and hearty, tomorrow once again very ill Franz Liszt, whose magic power compels us, whose genius delights us, whose madness confuses even our senses, and whom we—in any case want to do justice to!
8
〉
Earlier, when I heard of the swoon that befell Germany, and specifically Berlin, when Liszt appeared there, I shrugged my shoulders sympathetically and thought: Quiet, Sabbath-like Germany doesn’t want to miss the opportunity for a little bit of allowable activity, it wants to bestir its sleep-drunk limbs a little, and my Abderites 9 on the Spree like to tickle themselves into an available enthusiasm and declaim one after another: “Amor, ruler of men and gods!” 10 The spectacle, for them, is a matter of the spectacle itself, the spectacle an sich , whatever name the occasion bears, be it Herwegh, 〈Saphir,〉 Liszt, or Fanny Elssler; 11 if Herwegh is forbidden, they make do with Liszt, who is harmless and uncompromising. Thus I thought, thus I explained the Lisztomania to myself, and I took it for a characteristic of the 〈political〉 situation on the far side of the Rhine. But I was wrong, after all, and I noticed that last week in the Italian Opera House, where Liszt gave his first concert in front of a gathering that one could well call the flower of local society. 12 In any case, it was sharp-eyed Parisians, people familiar with the most elevated phenomena of the present, who had lived for a more or less long time through the great drama of the period, among them so many invalids of all artistic pleasures, the most exhausted men of action, women who were also very tired after having danced the polka all winter long, a large number of busy and blasé souls—it was truly no German-sentimental, Berlin-over-sensibilitized public that Liszt played before, all alone, or rather accompanied only by his genius. And yet, how powerful, how shattering was the effect of his mere appearance! How riotous was the He is here, the modern-day Homer, whom Germany, Hungary, and France, the three greatest nations, advertise as their native son, while the singer of the Iliad was only claimed by seven little provincial cities! He is here, the Attila, the Scourge of God of all Erard pianos, which already trembled at the mere news of his coming and which now, under his hand, twitch, bleed, and whimper in such fashion that the humane society ought to take an interest in them! He is here, the mad, beautiful, ugly, mysterious, fateful and sometimes very childish child of his times, 〈the gigantic midget, the raving Roland with the Hungarian sword of honor, the inspired Hans the Fool, whose madness confounds even our senses, and for whom we, in any case, do the loyal service of calling public attention to the public furor that he incites here. We affirm the fact of his enormous succès without equivocation; how we interpret this fact in our private musings, and whether we privately give or withhold our acclaim for the celebrated virtuoso, is likely of no concern to the latter, since ours is merely an individual voice and our authority in regard to the musical art is of no particular significance.〉
Earlier, when I heard of the swoon that befell Germany, and specifically Berlin, when Liszt appeared there, I shrugged my shoulders sympathetically and thought: Quiet, Sabbath-like Germany doesn’t want to miss the opportunity for a little bit of allowable activity, it wants to bestir its sleep-drunk limbs a little, and my Abderites on the Spree like to tickle themselves into an available enthusiasm and declaim one after another: “Amor, ruler of men and gods!” The spectacle, for them, is a matter of the spectacle itself, the spectacle an sich , whatever name the occasion bears, be it 〈Georg〉 Herwegh, 〈Franz〉 Liszt, or Fanny Elssler; if Herwegh is forbidden, they make do with Liszt, who is harmless and uncompromising. Thus I thought, thus I explained the Lisztomania to myself, and I took it for a characteristic of the 〈politically unfree〉 situation on the far side of the Rhine. But I was wrong, after all, and I noticed that last week in the Italian Opera House, where Liszt gave his first concert in front of a gathering that one could well call the flower of local society. In any case, it was sharp-eyed Parisians, people familiar with the most elevated phenomena of the present, who had lived for a more or less long time through the great drama of the period, among them so many invalids of all artistic pleasures, the most exhausted men of action, women who were also very tired after having danced the polka all winter long, a large number of busy and blasé souls—it was truly no German-sentimental, Berlin-over-sensibilitized public that Liszt played before, all alone, or rather accompanied only by his genius. And yet, how powerful, how shattering was the effect of his mere appearance! How riotous was the applause, 〈and how long-lasting! All week long I had to hear how grandiose the calm was with which the conqueror〉 allowed the bouquets to rain down upon him, and
stuck a red camellia, which he plucked from one such bouquet, on his breast! 〈I heard this again yesterday evening,〉 in the presence of young soldiers just back from Africa, where they saw not flowers, but lead bullets rain down upon them, and their breast was decorated with the red camellias of their own heroic blood, without anyone here or there taking particular notice. Strange, I thought, these Parisians, who have seen Napoleon, who had to deliver one battle after another in order to capture their attention, now they are celebrating our Franz Liszt. And what a celebration! A true madness, unheard of in the annals of furor! But what is the reason for this phenomenon? The answer to this question may belong more to pathology than to aesthetics. 〈The electric effect of a demonic nature on a crowd that is all pressed together, the infectious power of ecstasy, and perhaps the magnetism of music itself, this spiritualistic illness of the age, which vibrates in almost all of us—I have never encountered these phenomena so distinctly and so frighteningly as in the concert by Liszt.〉
applause 〈that was clapped in his direction! Bouquets, too, were thrown at his feet! It was a noble scene, the way the conquering hero calmly〉 allowed the bouquets to rain down upon him, and 〈finally, with a gracious smile,〉 stuck a red camellia, which he pulled from one such bouquet, on his breast. 〈And he did this〉 in the presence of 〈several〉 young soldiers just back from Africa, where they saw not flowers, but lead bullets rain down upon them, and their breast was decorated with the red camellias of their own heroic blood, without anyone here or there taking particular notice. Strange, I thought, these Parisians, who have seen Napoleon, who had to deliver one battle after another in order to capture their attention, now they are celebrating our Franz Liszt! And what a celebration! A true madness, un-heard of in the annals of furor! But what is the reason for this phenomenon? The answer to this question may belong more to pathology than to aesthetics. 〈A doctor whose specialty is female ailments, and whom I asked about the spell that Liszt casts over his audience, gave me a most peculiar smile and told me all kinds of things about magnetism, galvanism, electricity, about the contagion of a sultry hall filled with innumerable wax candles and several hundred perfumed and sweating human beings, about Histrionalepilepsy, 2 the phenomenon of tickling, musical cantharides 3 and other scabrous things, which, I believe, bear some relation to the mysteries of the bona dea. 4 But perhaps the answer to the question is not to be found in such adventurous depths, but rather on a very prosaic surface. Sometimes it will seem to me as if the whole witchery could be explained by the fact that no one in this world knows how to organize his successes, or rather the mise en scène of them, as well as our Franz Liszt. In this art, he is a genius, a Philadelphia, a Bosco, indeed a very Meyerbeer. 5 The most elevated personages serve as his compères , and his paid enthusiasts are trained in exemplary fashion. Popping champagne bottles and the reputation of wasteful generosity, trumpeted by the most reputable journals, is something that lures recruits in any city. Nevertheless, it may be the case that our Franz Liszt really is by nature very munificent and free of stinginess, a squalid vice that adheres to so many virtuosos, specifically the Italians, and that we have found even in the sweet-voiced Rubini, whose miserliness has become the subject of an anecdote that is very funny in every respect. Namely, the famous singer had undertaken an artistic tour in collaboration with Franz Liszt, at shared expense, with the profit from the concerts that they were to give in various cities to be divided between them. On this occasion, the great pianist, who takes the general manager of his fame, the above-mentioned Signor Belloni, along everywhere, gave the latter responsibility for all their business affairs. But when, at the end of
The transition from lion to rabbit is rather abrupt. Nevertheless, I must not leave unmentioned those tamer piano players who distinguished themselves in the current season. We cannot all be great prophets, and there must also be lesser prophets of whom twelve make up a dozen. As the greatest among the lesser, we here name Theodor Döhler. His playing is nice, pretty, pleasing, sensitive, and he has a very particular manner of touching the keys with his hand extended horizontally, through the bent fingertips alone. After Döhler, H—é deserves special mention among the lesser 〈figures〉; he is 〈more or less one of those whom even a whale cannot abide and has to spit out again. 13 〉
I cannot forbear to mention Herr Schad 〈here, as well; he is a kind of Habakuk 14 and earns quite a good deal of applause. Herr Antoine de Kontski, a young Pole of respectable talent who has also already attained his celebrity, gave a quite outstanding concert. Among the remarkable phenomena of the season was the debut of the young Matthias, a talent of eminent standing. The older Pharaohs are left behind more completely with every passing day and are sinking into dejected darkness.〉
the tour, Signor Belloni handed in his bill, Rubini noticed with horror that among the shared expenses was a significant sum for laurel wreaths, bouquets of flowers, hymns of praise, and other ovation costs. The naïve singer had imagined that people had thrown him these signs of approbation on account of his beautiful voice. Now he flew into a rage and did not, by any means, want to pay for the bouquets, among which the most costly camellias may have been found. If I were a musician, this quarrel would offer the very best subject for a comic opera.
〈But, ach! Let us not examine all too closely the reverences that were paid to the famous virtuosos. The day of their vain fame is after all very short, and the hour will soon strike when the titan of music will perhaps shrivel up into a municipal musician of very short stature, who regales the regulars in his coffee house and tells them, on his honor, how people once tossed him bouquets of flowers with the most beautiful camellias, and how once two Hungarian countesses, in order to get hold of his handkerchief, even fell to the floor and fought until they drew blood! The fleeting reputation of the virtuosos evaporates and echoes away, desolate, leaving no trace, like the wind of a camel in the desert.〉
The transition from lion to rabbit is rather abrupt. Nevertheless, I must not leave unmentioned those tamer piano players who distinguished themselves in the current season. We cannot all be great prophets, and there must also be lesser prophets of whom twelve make up a dozen. As the greatest among the lesser, we here name Theodor Döhler. His playing is nice, pretty, pleasing, sensitive, and he has a very particular manner of touching the keys with his hand extended horizontally, through the bent fingertips alone. After Döhler, Hallé deserves special mention among the lesser 〈prophets〉; he is 〈a Habakuk whose merit is as modest as it is real. In addition,〉
I cannot forbear to mention Herr Schad, 〈who among the piano players is perhaps to be accorded the same rank as Jonas among the prophets; may he never be swallowed by a whale!〉
1. Source: Heinrich Heine, Säkularausgabe , vol. 10, ed. Lucienne Netter (Berlin, Akademie-Verlag, and Paris, Éditions du CNRS, 1979), pp. 229–33
2. “Honor to whom honor is due.” French proverb.
3. Heine mentions the hanging gardens of the Assyrian queen Semiramis in Babylon; Nineveh, the capital of the Assyrian empire; Mizraim, the biblical name for Egypt. The English painter John Martin (1789–1854) was famous for his large-scale paintings with disastrous scenes, such as The Fall of Babylon (1819) and The Fall of Ninevah (1828).
4. This is a reference to Goethe’s novel Die Wahlverwandtschaften (Elective Affinities) .
5. Mendelssohn’s Symphony no. 3 in A Minor (“Scottish”) had been performed on 14 January 1844 at the concert of the Société des concerts du Conservatoire.
6. The pianist Heinrich Rudolph Willmers (1821–78).
7. Gaëtano Belloni was Liszt’s secretary since 1841 and accompanied him on his concert tours until 1847. In Goethe’s Faust (part I ), Mephistopheles follows Faust in the form of a poodle.
8. In the first version, which Heine sent to the editor of the Allgemeine Zeitung before Liszt’s first concert, the entire passage on Liszt reads: “And then our Liszt, whom we must name here and who despite all his unpleasantnesses always remains our Liszt! As we write this, we hear that he is here in Paris, has rented the Salle Ventadour for four evenings, and will thus be giving four concerts. Yes, he is here, our Franz Liszt, the knighted and yet noble Franz Liszt, the great court councilor of Hechingen and extraordinary member of the Cologne Carnival Society, the knight of all possible orders (except for the Legion d’honneur that he would like to have), the sword-of-honor-bearing Franz of Hungary, the Attila, the Scourge of God of all Erard pianos, which already tremble and whimper at the word of his coming. —He is here, the modern Amphion, who by sounding his strings during the construction of the Cologne cathedral made the stones move until they fit themselves together like the fabled walls of Thebes! He is here, the Homer of the piano, whom Germany, Hungary, and France, the three greatest countries, advertise as their native son, while the Homer of the Iliad, instead, was only claimed by some cities! He is here, the splendid, generous Franz Liszt, the Maecenas of talented princes, the man who spends the most considerable sums on the costs of advertising his philanthropy and yet is capable of letting you feel that he once gave a breakfast for you—the Ariel-Caliban who can sometimes be as ugly as Pixis and then again as celestially beautiful as Panofka—the Napoleon-Scapin, as the Archbishop of Malines, who died a few days past, would call him. —I am nevertheless happy to see him again—and despite my aversion to pianos I am looking forward to his first concert, which, as I hear, he will give for the benefit of Queen Pommare.” The following paragraph from “Earlier” until “as in the concert by Liszt” is missing completely.
Here is the German: “Und dann unser Liszt, den wir hier nennen müssen und der trotz all seiner Unangenehmheiten immer unser Liszt bleibt! Während wir dieses schreiben, hören wir dass er hier in Paris sey, die Salle Ventatur für vier Abende gemietet habe und also vier Konzerte geben wird. Ja, er ist hier, unser Franz Liszt, der geadelte und dennoch edle Franz Liszt, der grosse hechingsche Hofrath und ausserordentliches Mitglied des Kölner Karnevalvereins, der Ritter aller möglichen Orden mit Ausnahme der Legion d’honneur die er gern haben möchte, der ungarische Ehrensäbelfranz, der Attila, die Geissel Gottes aller Erardschen Pianos, welche schon bey der Nachricht seiner Ankunft erzittern und wimmern. —Er ist hier, der moderne Amphion, der durch die Töne seines Saitenspiels beim Kölner Dombau die Steine in Bewegung setzt, dass sie sich zusammen fügen wie einst die Mauern von Theben! Er ist hier, der Homer des Claviers, den Deutschland, Ungarn und Frankreich die drey größten Länder als Landeskind reklamieren, statt dass der Homer der Ilias nur von einigen Städten in Anspruch genommen ward! Er ist hier, der prächtige, freigebige Franz Liszt, der Mäzen talentvoller Fürsten, der Mann der allein für die Inserationskosten seiner Wohltätigkeit die größten Summen ausgibt, und doch im Stande ist es dir fühlen zu lassen dass er dir mal ein Frühstück gegeben—der Ariel-Kaliban, der manchmal so häßlich seyn kann wie Pixis und dann wieder so himmlisch schön wie Panofka—der Napoleon-Scapin wie ihn der Erzbischof von Malines nennen würde, der vor einigen Tagen gestorben ist. —Ich bin dennoch froh ihn wieder zu sehen—und trotz meiner Klavierscheu freue ich mich auf sein erstes Konzert, welches er, wie ich höre, zum Besten der Königin Pommare geben wird.”
9. The inhabitants of the Greek city of Abdera in Christoph Martin Wieland’s novel Die Abderiten (1774), decribed there as dull-witted fools.
10. Sophocles, Antigone , chorus in act 3, scene 2.
11. Georg Herwegh (1817–75), German socialist poet who had been exiled from Prussia in 1842; Moritz Gottlieb Saphir (1795–1858), writer and critic, editor of the review Der Humorist; Fanny Elssler (1810–84), famous prima ballerina.
12. Liszt’s first concert (of four) took place in the Théâtre Italien (Salle Ventadour) on 16 April 1844. Heine had received two tickets from Liszt and attended the concert accompanied by his wife.
13. Charles Hallé (1819–95), English pianist and conductor of German birth. Heine alludes to the story of the prophet Jonas who was swallowed and spit out again by a whale.
14. One of the lesser prophets of the Old Testament.
1. Source: Heinrich Heine, Historisch-kritische Gesamtausgabe der Werke (Düsseldorfer Ausgabe) , ed. Volkmar Hansen (Hamburg: Hoffmann und Campe, 1990), vol. 14, pp. 127–33. The original book, Lutetia , was published by Hoffmann und Campe in 1854.
2. In German “Histrionalepilepsis,” a word coined by Heine.
3. Medication and aphrodisiac made from Spanish flies.
4. The “good goddess” of ancient Rome, revered by women. Her feast on 1 May became an occasion for sexual excesses.
5. In his Lutetia , Heine repeatedly reproaches the opera composer Giacomo Meyerbeer (1791–1864) for owing his fame mainly to money and relations, though what Heine most resented was Meyerbeer’s close relationship to the Prussian court. Heine compares him and Liszt here with the English “magician” Jakob Philadelphia and the Italian conjurer Bartolommeo Bosco.