THIRTY-TWOLATE in the wonderful Rhineland springtime preceding my twenty-fourth summer, my bright little path again crossed the blazing highway of Liszt. Only thirty-one years old, he was widely famed in France, Belgium, and England, while in Germany, Austria, Hungary, Poland, and Russia he was idolized in an almost hysterical fashion. There were a thousand stories told about him, every new one sure of an avid hearing. When on a secret visit to Italy, he had walked into a great music publisher’s in Milan and announced himself by sitting down at the piano, the proprietor in an inner room, hearing the keyboard in melodic convulsions, exclaimed, “That’s either Liszt or the devil!” He was at present separated from Countess Meran; according to reports, he had had two love affairs of late, one w
