Chapter 2024: Chapter 190: Hastings, Come to the Streets of Paris—Don’t Let Me See You
"Music Bulletin" August 1837 Issue
"1837 Paris Music Season"
Author: Heinrich Heine
I have already mentioned that this summer Paris is unbearably hot, yet this heatwave is not solely from the heavens but from a young man named Liszt.
Each of his concerts seems like a disastrous fire: grand and majestic, sparks fly, and the audience is filled with vomit and screams.
The ladies of Paris tremble under his performance as if struck by lightning, then collapse onto their chair backs, covering their faces with handkerchiefs as if they had just completed a martyrdom.
Ah! If Joan of Arc could be resurrected at this moment, she would probably be ashamed of this hysterical illusion of French women.
But please don’t misunderstand me. I am not denying Liszt’s talent. On the contrary, I am willing to acknowledge that his hands can indeed perform miracles. It’s just that these miracles resemble the convulsions of a revival meeting more than revelations of art.
Exquisite technique, precise keystrokes, integration with string instruments, transforming people into a resonant instrument—nowadays, this is praised and exalted as the highest realm of art. Piano masters flock to Paris like locusts every year, not so much to earn money but rather to make a name for themselves here, in order to gain richer financial rewards in other countries.
Paris is like their billboard, where their fame can be printed in gigantic letters. I say their fame can be read here because it is precisely the Parisian media that proclaim this to the gullible world, and these artistic masters are the true masters of utilizing newspapers and journalists.
They know how to deal with even the deafest of humans because humans are always humans, loving flattery, even willing to play the role of a protector, one hand washing the other, but the dirtier hand is rarely the journalist’s. For these vain flattery, journalists would rather become deceived fools just to gain the illusory reality of befriending an artist in return.
Nowadays, people often discuss the greed of the media, but they are gravely mistaken. On the contrary, the media is often deceived, especially by those renowned artistic masters. These artists are either famous or, they or their brothers and mothers spent lavishly on advertisements to make themselves famous. They so humbly plead for even the slightest praise from newspapers, they are so twisted and despicable, it’s almost unbelievable.
I have witnessed more than once how these famous musicians grovel and kneel at the feet of a music magazine editor, crawling forward in front of him, waving their arms just to receive a modicum of praise in his magazine. Meanwhile, as soon as these illustrious performance masters step out of the editor’s office, they are immediately admired like triumphant princes in the capitals of European countries—how absurd this reality is!
In the office of the aforementioned music newspaper, I once met a ragged old man who claimed to be the father of a famous musician, and he pleaded with the magazine editor to publish an advertisement highlighting certain noble aspects of his son’s artistic career.
For instance, this celebrity once held a concert in southern France, received great acclaim, and used the proceeds to support an old Gothic church on the verge of collapse. Another time, he played for a widow who lost everything in a flood, and once more for a seventy-year-old school principal who lost his only cow, and so on.
During my long conversation with this kind man’s father, the old man naively conceded to me that the son did not actually strive to do anything for him and sometimes even let him go hungry. But out of a simple moral sense, I would suggest to this musical celebrity that before playing for widows and old schoolmasters, he should find time to hold a concert for his old father’s worn-out pants.
What is the highest realm of art?
It’s the freedom of spiritual self-awareness.
In fact, the essence of this free self-awareness in art is mainly presented through the handling, through the form of performance, rather than through the subject matter.
Conversely, we can be sure that those artists who choose freedom and emancipation as a subject matter usually have narrow minds, constrained thoughts, and deep servility.
This observation is equally true in today’s German poetry, where we are terrified to find that those most unabashed, unruly, libertine singers are mostly nothing more than narrow-minded mediocrities under the sun—small creatures whose pigtails peek out from under their red caps.
If Goethe were alive, he would probably assess them like this:
Stupid flies! How furious they are!
They buzz, brazenly,
Dropping tiny fly dung,
Onto the noses of tyrants!
Dear readers, forgive me for using these greenbottles to entertain you, but their annoying buzzing eventually makes even the most patient person tempted to grab a flyswatter.
As a conscientious journalist, allow me to introduce some good news.
At the Historical Theatre on Temple Street, a French version of "Turandot" recently premiered, with lyrics by Alexander Dumas and music by Sir Arthur Hastings.
Here we must note the kinship of spirit between the poet and the composer. They both understand how to enhance their talents through earnest, noble endeavors, relying more on external training than merely relying on internal originality to develop themselves.
