“I think so,” I said.  “It does not seem very difficult,” and hummed it.

“I had better write it for you,” he said, “so that you will not forget it.”  And he took out his visiting-card and wrote it on the back. (I send it to you.)

[Illustration:  FROM F. LISZT Handwritten music score.]

Liszt is not always as amiable as this.  He resents people counting on his playing.  When Baroness K. inveigled him into promising to take tea with her because he knew her father, she, on his accepting, invited a lot of friends, holding out hopes that Liszt would play.  She pushed the piano into the middle of the room—­no one could have possibly failed to see it.  Every one was on the qui vive when Liszt arrived, and breathless with anticipation.  Liszt, who had had many surprises of this sort, I imagine, saw the situation at a glance.  After several people had been presented to him, Liszt, with his most captivating smile, said to the hostess: 

“Ou est votre piano, chere madame?” and looked all about for the piano, though it was within an inch of his nose.

“Oh, Monseigneur!  Would you, really...?” advancing toward the piano triumphantly.  “You are too kind.  I never should have dared to ask you.”  And, waving her hand toward it, “Here is the piano!”

“Ah,” said Liszt, who loves a joke, “c’est vrai.  Je voulais y poser mon chapeau.”

Very crestfallen, but undaunted, the Baroness cried, “But, Monseigneur, you will not refuse, if only to play a scale—­merely to touch the piano!”

But Liszt, as unkind as she was tactless, answered, coldly, “Madame, I never play my scales in the afternoon,” and turned his back on her and talked with Madame Helbig.

As they stood there together, he and Madame Helbig, one could not see very much difference between them.  She is as tall as Liszt, wears her hair short, and is attired in a long water-proof which looks like a soutane; and he wears his hair long, and is attired in a long soutane which looks like a water-proof.  As regards their clothes, the only noticeable difference was that her gown was buttoned down the front and his was not.  Both have the same broad and urbane smile.

One of the last dinners with Liszt before he left Rome was at the Duke and Duchess Sermonetas’—­the Minghettis, the Keudells, Schloezer, and ourselves.  Lenbach, the celebrated painter, was invited, but forgot all about the invitation until long after the dinner.  Then he hurriedly donned a redingote and appeared, flurried and distressed.  Liszt was in one of his most delightful moods, and began improvising a tarantella, and Madame Minghetti jumped up suddenly and started to dance.  Schloezer, catching the spirit of it, joined her.  Who ever would have thought that the sedate German Minister to the Pope could have been so giddy!  He knelt down, clapping his hands and snapping his fingers to imitate castanets.  Madame Minghetti, though a grandmother, danced like a girl of sixteen, and Liszt at the piano played with Neapolitan gaiety!  It was a moment never to be forgotten.  Keudell’s kind eyes beamed with joy.  Lenbach looked over his spectacles and forgot his usual sarcastic smile.  We all stood in an enchanted circle, clapping our hands in rhythmical measure.