Düsseldorfs high society. There were, to be sure, Baron and Baroness Hoffman, as close to royalty as one got in this region, a pair who, unlike their hostess, bedecked themselves with medals and ribbons (in his case) and necklaces, brooches, bracelets and earrings (in her) so that together, as they entered the foyer and moved into the dining room, they formed a gigantic human chandelier. Following after them at a slow, respectful pace was an assembly of lesser celebritiesâcivic officials (who knew little about music and cared less but relished an opportunity to appear cultured); Dr. Julius Illing, chairman of the local music society; a handful of writers and journalists in threadbare evening clothes, all of whom, despite their influence, looked as though they could stand a good meal and some decent wine.
In the dining room, the Schumannsâ guests fell upon the food and drink as though fortifying themselves for a stark desert crossing rather than a gentle evening of chamber music. Inwardly, I congratulated Georg Adelmann on his foresight in arriving early and getting to the buffet before the others.
But where was the guest of honour himself? It was well past the time when Franz Liszt ought to have made his appearance. To be fashionably late for an event of this sort was customary among socialites, and indeed a grand entrance was never truly grand if made precisely on schedule. But a half-hour had gone by, and still no Liszt. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Schumanns glancing at a mantel clock in the dining room and looking a bit anxious. If Liszt was to enjoy the benefits of the buffet, he would have to arrive very soon or be content with scraps.
Georg Adelmann, at last, had filled his stomach and attached himself to Helena Becker in a quiet corner of the drawing room, feasting now on the sight of Helena's figure. The peculiarities of the cello obliged Helena to wear a full skirt performing. Though such a garment ordinarily would reveal nothing about the natural contours of the player, in Helena's case there was something tantalizing about this costume, which did not fail to register on Adelmann. Splendid! I thought. I wanted the old glutton to become enchanted with my cellist friend, so enchanted that he might divulge to her information about the Schumanns that he would hesitate to divulge to a police official like me. Catching sight of me across the drawing room, Helena nodded and gave me a sweet smile. I smiled back with what I hoped was a signal of encouragement.
A full hour had now passed, and still no sign of the guest of honour. The Schumanns kept eyeing the mantel clock. Some of the men began checking the time on their pocket-watches. People were beginning to murmur discreetly, some guessing that Liszt had forgotten, although it seemed preposterous, others taking it for granted that the famed virtuoso traditionally eschewed banquets in order to maintain the lithe figure that he presented on stage. âNo doubt he will show up,â Adelmann said, âoffer profuse apologies, charm everyone with his pretense of humbleness, and outshine even the jewels on Baroness Hoffman's encrusted bodice.â
At nine o'clock, after exchanging worried glances, Robert and Clara Schumann summoned everyone to take their seats in the drawing room. Looking exasperated, Schumann said, âLadies and gentlemen, the players are ready, and we are going to proceed with our program despite the absence of our guest of honour, who has probably experienced a delay in his travel arrangements. He should grace us with his presence before long. Before we present Beethoven's D-major Trio, and my own Piano Quintet, we have a very special and pleasant surprise for you. You are going to hear for the first time a young composer, who in my opinion is already a soaring eagle in the musical heaven and who will play for you two of his recent pieces for piano. Because our young genius is inclined to shyness, I will tell you
In the dining room, the Schumannsâ guests fell upon the food and drink as though fortifying themselves for a stark desert crossing rather than a gentle evening of chamber music. Inwardly, I congratulated Georg Adelmann on his foresight in arriving early and getting to the buffet before the others.
But where was the guest of honour himself? It was well past the time when Franz Liszt ought to have made his appearance. To be fashionably late for an event of this sort was customary among socialites, and indeed a grand entrance was never truly grand if made precisely on schedule. But a half-hour had gone by, and still no Liszt. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the Schumanns glancing at a mantel clock in the dining room and looking a bit anxious. If Liszt was to enjoy the benefits of the buffet, he would have to arrive very soon or be content with scraps.
Georg Adelmann, at last, had filled his stomach and attached himself to Helena Becker in a quiet corner of the drawing room, feasting now on the sight of Helena's figure. The peculiarities of the cello obliged Helena to wear a full skirt performing. Though such a garment ordinarily would reveal nothing about the natural contours of the player, in Helena's case there was something tantalizing about this costume, which did not fail to register on Adelmann. Splendid! I thought. I wanted the old glutton to become enchanted with my cellist friend, so enchanted that he might divulge to her information about the Schumanns that he would hesitate to divulge to a police official like me. Catching sight of me across the drawing room, Helena nodded and gave me a sweet smile. I smiled back with what I hoped was a signal of encouragement.
A full hour had now passed, and still no sign of the guest of honour. The Schumanns kept eyeing the mantel clock. Some of the men began checking the time on their pocket-watches. People were beginning to murmur discreetly, some guessing that Liszt had forgotten, although it seemed preposterous, others taking it for granted that the famed virtuoso traditionally eschewed banquets in order to maintain the lithe figure that he presented on stage. âNo doubt he will show up,â Adelmann said, âoffer profuse apologies, charm everyone with his pretense of humbleness, and outshine even the jewels on Baroness Hoffman's encrusted bodice.â
At nine o'clock, after exchanging worried glances, Robert and Clara Schumann summoned everyone to take their seats in the drawing room. Looking exasperated, Schumann said, âLadies and gentlemen, the players are ready, and we are going to proceed with our program despite the absence of our guest of honour, who has probably experienced a delay in his travel arrangements. He should grace us with his presence before long. Before we present Beethoven's D-major Trio, and my own Piano Quintet, we have a very special and pleasant surprise for you. You are going to hear for the first time a young composer, who in my opinion is already a soaring eagle in the musical heaven and who will play for you two of his recent pieces for piano. Because our young genius is inclined to shyness, I will tell you