CHAPTER 912: 24 CHAPTERS HASTINGS FRENZY

"Constitutional Newspaper" April 6, 1833 edition, Literary Column ’The Paris Music Season of 1833’, "Liszt and Hastings, False and True Frenzy".

Author: Heinrich Heine.

I often hear fellow music enthusiasts say that there are only three pianists in today’s Paris worthy of serious attention.

Namely: Frederic Chopin, the piano poet capable of playing wonderful compositions, but unfortunately, he was very sick throughout last winter, and his presence was almost unseen.

Then there’s Jacob Mendelssohn, the gentleman of the music world, who doesn’t need to touch the piano to be welcomed anywhere; his music is elegant and pure, and most remarkably, he seems to truly regard his talent as a simple attribute. Among the many inheritors of Bach, only he has truly captured its essence.

And then, there is our dear Mr. Liszt, despite his many eccentricities and coarseness. He remains our dear Liszt, currently the culprit causing a stir in Parisian high society.

Yes, he is here, our Franz Liszt, the Knight Errant of all possible Medals, Doctor of Philosophy and Double Eighth Notes, or all imaginable bizarre ideas, the Doctor of Miraculous Music, the newly risen pied piper, the Faust of the new generation, always followed by a poodle named Belloni, this is the esteemed Liszt!

He is here, a modern Amphion, who plucks his chords to move the stones building Notre-Dame de Paris, gathering them like the walls of Thebes! He is here, a contemporary Homer. Germany, Hungary, and France, these three greatest civilizations, all claim him as their Homer, yet only seven small towns vied for the bard of the "Iliad"!

He is here—Attila, he is the "Scourge of God" of all classical pianos, trembling at the news of his coming, now once again shivering, bleeding, wailing under his hands. I feel the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals should really take good care of them!

He is here, the mad, handsome, ugly, mysterious, terrifying, and often very childish child of his time, a tall dwarf wielding the sword of Hungarian honor, the mad Orlando. Franz Liszt, healthy today but sick tomorrow, whose magic rules us, whose genius bewitches us, whose nonsense confuses our own senses, making us willing to loyally serve him under any circumstances, letting people know he has achieved exciting great frenzy here.

We frankly acknowledge the fact that he achieved great success, but how we interpret this fact according to our personal perspectives, or whether we agree or refuse to express our personal recognition of this outstanding music master, might be extremely irrelevant to him since our voices are just individual voices, and our authority in the art of music is not important.

At last week’s piano solo concert held in the Paris Opera House, how enthusiastically he was received with applause! People threw bouquets at his feet, he calmly let them fall upon him in the joy of victory, then smiled gracefully, pinning a red camellia plucked from one bouquet into his buttonhole.

What a spectacular sight it was! He did this before some young soldiers just returned from Algiers, yet what they saw in Algiers were not flowers, but bullets pouring down on them like rain. The soldiers’ chests were decorated with medals like red camellias made from their own congealed blood, yet these medals did not garner the same special attention from the Parisians as Liszt’s did.

"How strange! These Parisians who have seen Napoleon," I thought to myself: "Back then, Napoleon had to declare war on all of Europe to get their attention, yet these people are now clapping for our Liszt!"

Applause, flowers, honors, they have given all of these to Liszt. What a huge glory this is!

But what is the real reason for this phenomenon?

I believe the answer to this question should belong to the realm of pathology, not aesthetics.

In the crowded and oppressive crowd, the Devil releases electric-like motions, ecstatic contagion, perhaps also adding the magnetism inherent in music, which is a kind of mental illness that most of us have.

However, all of these phenomena have never left such a deep or painful impression on me as Liszt’s concert.

For this, I specifically interviewed a famous doctor, whose specialty is in treating women’s mental disturbances, known to be usually connected to fainting and swooning, which mirrored the performance at Liszt’s concert.

I talked to him about dear Mr. Liszt’s magic over his audience. The doctor smiled mysteriously, speaking of magnetism, electricity, and electric shocks, discussing the infectious madness, affectation, unbearable heart itchiness produced by music, as well as other indescribable indecent things occurring in a hot hall filled with hundreds of perfume- and sweat-soaked people illuminated by countless candles.

I believe these issues relate to the goddess Bonadia, who governs chastity, fertility, and healing diseases. However, perhaps the answer to this problem is not buried in such thrilling sea abysses but merely floating on the most boring water surface.