Every now and then the “Tonhalle” has a red letter day. It is when artists like Sarasate play the violin, or when Franz Liszt or Rubinstein is at the piano. Last week Franz Liszt was here. It was a great occasion, though not his first visit. At the close of the afternoon concert, I noticed many of the ladies gathered about him to have him kiss them, as he stood down in an aisle among the seats, holding an impromptu reception. Pretty soon they had him seated. They could get at him better that way. The men had little chance that afternoon, though in the evening I was one of those who had the honor of being presented to him. He received me very kindly, and spoke of certain clever Americans who had been pupils of his. I had had a glimpse of him the morning before. Being an early riser, I was, as usual, down walking by the lake, near to the celebrated Baur-au-lac hotel. I happened to glance toward a window of the hotel that I heard open. I saw an astounding looking figure in a white night dress, leaning far out of the window, looking at the mountains. It was a great, smooth, ash-colored face that might have represented Charity in marble, set in a frame of long, white, silken hair. I knew from pictures that it was Franz Liszt, and so stopped and gazed. I never saw so striking a picture of a human being before. His figure in its loose gown nearly filled the window. His great eyes seemed to be shining a “good morning” to the lake and the mountains. It was the face of genius, illuminated and happy by the beauty of the morning and the glory of the scene. I should like to have heard Franz Liszt sit down and improvise a fantasia at the piano, the moment he left that window. I am sure there would have been tones born of the morning, for his whole face reflected the powerful emotion within him. I wondered to myself that evening, when he was holding the vast audience in the charm of his music, if he were not thinking of that fair scene from his window in the morning. When the concert was over the other night, a few friends gathered with Franz Liszt in a little back room of the “Tonhalle.” There was a little dinner and much champagne. And there was much bowing and kissing and getting down before this king of the piano. Men and women absolutely got down on their knees and kissed his hand, as if he were an object of adoration. It was not exactly getting down before a “totem pole,” though almost as extravagant, for there were nobler ways of worshiping the genius of music than by being ridiculous. The great master, though, was used to that sort of thing--in fact, rather liked it--and so went on with his wine and his kisses till midnight, adding to the delight of his worshipers by at last seating himself at the piano and playing one of his own compositions.[5]