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In the spring and summer we’d chance to scale the roof and make our way to the great man’s window. It was about ten minutes by foot if you knew the alleys, which we did, but it was dicey to go up from the street, even after dark. The rails on my balcony were loose and for a time we were skinny enough to wriggle under. George went first because I was the meeker of us and he’d lend a steady hand while we crossed the gutter, and then it was a half hour at least. We never did get caught so I can’t say for sure what would have happened but George was adamant on stealth.

We’d seen Liszt play a year before by pure luck. George’s uncle Pierre was concierge at The Beaumont and then The Beaumont was more than it was now so he knew a good many of the Parisian elite. The countess, still very much in love with Liszt then, maintained a suite at The Beaumont and in their regular small talk, Pierre got to know some of her schedule. This was before the renovations and so the suite was proper, with its own drawing room. It had a larder and a kitchen and beds for servants too. 

For months, George had badgered Pierre to bring us on to run food and drink for the Countess with no avail, until one night in late summer. After lessons, we raced to don the starchy red and white of The Beaumont. Pierre gave us a stern lecture and a box on the ear and brought us to the suite. We loaded two platters with kettles and cups and Pierre sent us down the dank and narrow passage that joined the drawing room. One of the more sizable divots in the tile flooring swallowed my ankle towards the end and collapsed in a loud shattering of dishware. We heard the soiree go still and I went cold in fear. George froze and I began to tear as footfalls approached from the other side. A deep muffled voice preceded a great white head of hair and we sent slackjawed.

The man himself! Liszt chuckled at the state of us and bid me calm myself. Whether it was his words or the warmth of his tone or the mere sight of him that did it I am not sure but I came immediately still. 

He disappeared for a moment to quip to the expectant crowd, “I fear our relations to China are finished.” The crowd did not stir, in fact a lady cried out softly, and we remained still. He pointed to the broken teapot, smiling mischief, and beckoned me bring it to him. I took the shards onto my platter, George watching.

Time froze and thought ceased as I stepped forward. But the maestro effused kindness and took my shoulder in his hand to usher me in. Clustered inside the opulent room were forty odd men and some women. 

As I became visible to the patrons, Liszt finished his quip ”unless the countess keeps a store of glue on hand.”

The entire room burst into knowing laughter which sent a great jolt through my body. I would have fainted backwards if not for Liszt who held me solid. As the laughter subsided I began to take in the room but it was not until later on our return that George explained it to me.

–

“Now it makes sense why my uncle brought us on,” he burst. “Don’t you see?”

I didn’t.

“That was the Chinese Premier I think. And all his people. And Talleyrand too. It was privacy. We’re just kids, they wanted privacy.  It was a negotiation, or a meeting. It was something!”

What had happened, unbeknownst to the both of us, was that the crown prince had made a trip to Peking the month before with a great many of his friends. You can find the sordid details, but suffice to say, the Chinese royal family did not take kindly. Talleyrand had arranged for a meeting and knowing the ambassador to be a great fan of Liszt, levered his relationship with the Countess in hopes of softening the ambassador’s resolve. My little mishap, which I thought to be the end of me, not only endeared me to Liszt, but provided a natural break in the tension of the whole affair. 

This information, although perhaps more impactful in the grander scheme of goings on, is in fact ancillary to my story. 

Liszt later told me he had no intention of performing that night but found his mood so elevated by the laughter he received from his quip that he felt he could not dampen the proceedings by refusing to play.

This is the difficult thing of it, to put it in words. I’m a musician and not a writer. Even as a musician I am still far removed from him. He had a sonorous tone, that is what I would say. But that is not to say that he favored the lower register, nor that he found difficulty in the higher octaves. He was a virtuoso in the truest sense of the word. He was integrated with the keyboard totally. And I heard all of them play, you know. Chopin, Rubinstein, Schumann, Tausig, Brahms, Mendelssohn. Each of them did one thing better than the rest and he did all of those things better than all of them.

But that is really not the purpose of my story, remember the rooftops?

We’d scamper across them and when we got to his we’d slow and tread lightly and then we’d listen. And we’d listen and listen, for hours on end, for nights and nights, till fall when it got cold and then too slippery. And alone, he never played other than scales.