Jake Dell
H-Band

Untamed Passion

Prologue

It was that time of day between twilight and dusk, which can only be quantified by those who dwell in it. It was after the rush of the day, the hustle and bustle of the working and the leisure of the wealthy, before the night crawlers emerge, suckling on the dark that scares us so. Though all the taverns and what not were officially closed, there were the few who lingered on the street, either carrying a lantern or succumbing to darkness. This night fell onto a two-story stucco building, in a street crowded with very similar structures.
Visible through a window of this dwelling was a man sitting in front of a fire, holding a newspaper. He was what the aristocrats would call refined, with a fine three-piece gray suit, pocket watch folded in the vest and well polished shoes dangling off his enormous legs. The man sat rigidly, with perfect composure. In contrast there was another man by his side, hunched over. A tray lay in his wrinkly old hands, with a tea kettle and cup.
“Thank you Lazar,” said the gentleman. “Over there will be fine.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Could you fetch me my night attire?”
“Yes, sir. Right away.”
The old man, Lazar, hurried down the stairs into a magnificent room, with ceilings as tall as the walls of Troy, and decorated with furniture to match any Scottish castle. Enormous dressers held on their backs even larger mirrors, though one would wonder its actual purpose. The entire house had a feeling of a museum or art gallery, in which people could look, but certainly not touch. Lazar pulled open a drawer revealing immense amounts of clothes, all neatly organized by style. Snatching a particular set of clothing, he hurried back up the stairs into the initial room.
“Here, sir.”
“Thank you my good man,” he said, taking the pile of clothes.
“Please, you do not need to amuse me by addressing me like that.”
“Well, I am a humble man, despite popular belief.”
“Despite, sir?”
“Oh yes Lazar, believe it. Throughout town I am known as an arrogant fellow.”
“I was not aware.”
“You’ve been here, what, six months now?”
“Actually, sir, I believe it’s nine.”
“Tell me a little bit about yourself.”
“Well, I grew up in the South of town, in the outskirts-”
“Forget it. I don’t really need to know everything. Give the abridged version.”
“Starting where, sir?”
“Wherever you would like.”
The two men talked for some time, beginning with life stories and moving on to trivial, inconsequential details including weather and local politics among others. They laughed and bantered, although that really was all on the part of the master of the house. Lazar would occasionally laugh, but mostly pulled back and pithily answered assaulting questions.
“Did you know that I play the piano Lazar?”
“No, sir, I was completely unaware.”
“Yes, I was a composer. I dabble from time to time in the classical art.”
“Actually, I used to serve a composer.”
“Oh really? Tell me, what was his name?”
“Perhaps you’ve heard of him, Franz Liszt?”
“Oh.”
“He was and is considered by many as the Romantic compo—“
“I do not like Liszt.”
“Why sir?”
“His music is wild.”
“That is to be expected.”
“How do you mean?”
“He was a crazy man sir.”
“Please, tell me his story.”
“Yes sir, I’ll start from the beginning:

Chapter 1

“‘It was this time of year, approximately twenty years ago. As we’ve come to expect of Vienna, the wind was strong, so much so that many of the signs on the street had fallen off. I was in the house, a sturdy two-floor painted light blue with red shutters, heading upstairs to my master. I slowly knocked on the door, however there was no response. Wondering whether I was needed or not, I decided to venture in the room. Liszt was sitting at the piano, with his face in his hands.
Liszt motioned me toward the corner. Naturally, I slouched into the dark recesses of the room, prepared to accept any command I was given. For nearly 45 minutes I watched as Liszt beat his head one minute, and the next turn to the keys and create what sounded like a symphony. When his hands were on the piano, the sounds were magnificent. Beautiful harmonies filled the room, and the sweet combinations made one think of love. I do not pretend to know much about the technicalities of music; however I believe his artistry to be flawless.
Without warning Liszt jumped out of his seat like a madman and ran across the room to me. He held his head cocked to the side as a chicken or dog does when it is unsure of its location. Snatching the candle out of my hand, he headed back towards the piano. On his right leg he placed an absurd pile of papers of blank music sheets and files. His right hand held a pen with which he scribbled on these various pieces of paper. His left hand however, was busy banging on the piano or contorting his face, whichever pleased his fancy at the specific moment. He leaned into the candle resting on the piano to look closely at a recently written note, but went too close to the fire, burning the upper right corner of cheek above his jaw.
I heard rustling downstairs, and slow footsteps ascending the stairs. Standing, I opened the door for the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes upon. Day and night I dreamt for the beauty Katalin, who was destined for the life of an angel. Her long blond hair bounced as she climbed the stairs, her bosoms wound tightly. I knew I would never have the opportunity to be with her. Assuming she would even consider a man of my status, that she was my master’s girlfriend was not in my favor.
“Hello Lazar.”
“Ms. Gertund, m’am. Is there anything I can do for you?”
“No thank you.”
I returned to my slouched position in the corner of the room, where it was acceptable. Katalin approached her lover and kissed him. She noticed the burn mark on his cheek, gasping.
“Franz, what is this?”
“An accident.”
“How in the Holy’s name did you do this?”
“I was writing music. What else do I do up here?”
“This is not natural.”
“I’m fine.”
“No Franz, this is not fine. Last week you smashed your head into a wall.”
“Another accident.”
“I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be.”
“Why don’t you go to Dr. Greundo?”
“I have no need to.”
“No need? Look at you!”
“I’m fine.”
“You know what the problem is, don’t you?”
“There is no problem.”
“It’s your music.”
“Nothing is wrong.”
“Maybe you should stop playing and writing music.”
Liszt stood in rage and threw his sheets of paper. He slammed down the piano and stormed across the room to the window. Katalin attempted to say something, but was met by a barrage of attacking screams. After several minutes of silence, she slowly approached and put her hand on his shoulder, coaxing him back to ‘sanity.’ She whispered into his ear for some time until he was completely relaxed. Then she again brought up his health, and his need to stop playing the piano. A cyclical argument lasted for a couple of hours, with Katalin continually nagging him about his health, Liszt always denying the problem, and then an explosion. I would intermittently manage to escape downstairs, before being called back up for some trite reason.
When Katalin finally left the house, Liszt called me back into the music suite. He asked for my opinion on some piece he was creating. Overwhelmed with joy, I cherished the chance to become a part of the musical world, even if for a brief moment. As soon as Liszt sat at the piano, all his concerns seemed to leave his body. His stature become straighter and his movements more fluid. The natural rhythm of his body influenced his music, and once again the incredible sounds lingered in the air before piecing the heart. At the end of his composition, Liszt turned to me with a look of sheer disappointment.
“Lazar,” he said, “I am sorry to have burdened you with listening to such garbage.”
“What do you mean sir? That was incredible.”
“Garbage!”
There was a brief silence, when he continued, “I have never been more ashamed of my own playing. Perhaps I am getting too old. My fingers can no longer perform at the level they used to.”
He stood up and began to move his fingers slowly, continually increasing the speed. After a couple of minutes, his fingers were moving so quickly, that you could barely see them. He rotated his hand front to back, all the while stretching his fingers then pulling them back in tightly. This continued for some more time until he started screaming. He began flicking his wrists all the while continuing his maddened ‘exercises.’ His arms were flailing in every direction, his body contorting to the movement of his fingers and his head bobbing at his hands.
Terrified I ran from the room as fast as I could. This was unlike anything I had ever witnessed in my life, so utterly berserk and out of this world. Liszt had taken on inhuman qualities, and I believed that I was in danger. From my quarters I could hear banging and smashing, undoubtedly the sound of the creature furthering its crazed state.
Several hours later I ventured upstairs, only when I was certain the madness had ceased. I slowly approached the door and peered inside. The room was a disaster, with papers scattered about. Tables and seats had been thrown across the room, and glass covered the floor. Creaking along, I felt chilled to the bone. The chilly November wind had taken over the room, leaking in from the shattered windows. There was no sight of my master, and I feared the worst. I believed that he had committed suicide, that the pressure of the competitive world had gotten the best of him.
Something glimmered in the corner of the room. It was a body. I have never been more frightened in my entire life. Franz Liszt was hanging from the ceiling, but not by the normal noose around the neck. Rather he was hanging by his fingers. His body was red with the imprints of his own two hands.
His closed eyes opened without warning and he stared at me.
“Sir? What in God’s name are you doing?”
“Lazar, my friend.”
“Are you alright?”
“Absolutely.”
“Let me help you down, sir.”
“That will not be necessary.”
“But you are hanging by your fingers!”
“Precisely.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I couldn’t reach the chords…”
“Yes?”
“So I’m stretching my fingers!”
“But Sir?”
“Don’t be concerned.”
“But how will you get down?”
“The same way I got up.”
“How was that?”
“That chair over there.”
“Sir, you are not able to reach that.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“I’ll retrieve Katalin. I’ll send a messenger.”
“No! She must not know.”
“Is she not your lover?”
“She worries too much.”
“If I may say so sir, I believe you are delirious and in need of dire help.”
“I am fine. You’ll see, I’ll play better music now. It’s all about untamed passion.”

Chapter 2

‘After that horrific occurrence, the heated battles between the two lovers ceased, but more importantly, so too did the conversation. Katalin seemed to stop caring about Franz’s health; he seemed unconcerned about life. Awkward silences between the two began to emerge, with occasional strained banter.
On the following Friday, I believe it was, I had finished a long day’s work and was deep in sleep. I was dreaming beautiful dreams, of a wealthy life, one in which I was master. Ah, wishful thinking. So entangled in my dream world, I hardly noticed what was actually happening. There was a loud scream, and a crash on the roof above my head. Startled, I remained in bed, hoping I could ignore the situation. Again however, there was a roar and a violent thud. Slowly I emerged from my bed, lighting a candle, and grabbing the largest object closest to me.
As I ascended the winding stairs, the sounds started increasing both in frequency and in magnitude. With the previous week’s events in my mind, I was terrified. The screams were in fact coming from Liszt’s room, and I ventured inside. He was rolling back and forth in his bed, with his fists clenched firmly. Every so often he would bellow out some profanity or an incomprehensible phrase. There seemed to be no logic to his madness. His hands were flailing in every direction at once, knocking over every object on his bedside table. He was sweating profusely, with the covers at his feet. Grasping the pillow from under his head, he threw it in my direction.
I heard footsteps entering the room and quickly turned to see who it could be. It was another servant, responsible for cleaning the lower level of the house. Bianka was young and naïve. She had very little contact with the master, and was very uncertain of how life and servitude functioned.
“W-what is going on? I heard screams and—”, she started.
“The master must be having a nightmare.”
“I see.”
“You need not be here,” I responded.
“I, well, you see…”
“Yes?”
“This is very frightening.”
“Yes.”
“Shouldn’t we do something?” she inquired.
“Such as?”
“I don’t know. But we should help him.”
At this point, Liszt let out a tremendous roar and smashed his fist against the wall.
“What do you think? Should we wake him?” I asked sarcastically.
“That may not be wise. Maybe you were right.”
“Maybe.”
There was a brief and total silence for several seconds, in which neither of us dared to move, and Liszt had ceased his inner turmoil. That however, did not last, and soon thereafter, my master went into another hysterical fit, at which point I said,
“Perhaps we should leave him to his nightmare. It is a personal journey and he must overcome his own fears.”
“It just seems dangerous to leave him there alone.”
“Our master is a strange man, and he has his own unique methods. In the end though, he accomplishes his goals with great strength.”
Upon this final realization Bianka went to the window to let in some fresh air. She believed it would help relax Liszt and ease his nightmare. As soon as she got there however, she called my name to hurry to the window.
“Look, it is Katalin.”
“Oh, yes,” I monosyllabically replied.
“What is she doing? Why is she just standing outside, especially alone at this time?”
“How am I supposed to know?”
“Oh no,” she gasped. “Look at that man, over there in the shadows. He is going to hurt her. We must warn her, or help her, or…or, I don’t know.”
“Please Bianka, that man is harmless. It is Deszo.”
“Who is he?”
“The composer.”
“I do not know him.”
“He and the master are good friends; they often play in the same recitals.”
Liszt’s scream’s painted the background as we silently watched his girlfriend and best friend. They seemed to talk sternly, we presumed about Liszt’s mal health. Then they kissed, deeply and passionately for several seconds.
We were shocked. Never had we expected this. In a way we felt betrayed yet had no idea why. It was just our master. But the combination of his bloodcurdling screams and her buoyancy and blissfulness chilled us profoundly.

Chapter 3

‘When I entered his room he was hanging by his fingers. These exercises were common by this point, and I no longer so much as gave it a second thought. I simply brought him his finger ‘weights’. I say this sarcastically because they were in fact any heavy object he could concoct to be pullies that would help stretch and strengthen his digits. Dangling in the air, he was meditating, visualizing the upcoming music. You see, it was a performance night, and these were part of his usual preparation rituals. After an hour or so, he brought himself down, used the weights, and then went to the piano. He would improvise for half an hour, an unbelievable mixture of sounds in a chaotic whirlwind. When he felt he had warmed up sufficiently, his practice would begin.
I watched my master as he sat on the piano bench, his arms outstretched towards the keys. He had an awkward hunch in his shoulders, and his neck seemed to strain forward. Apparently Liszt noticed this as well, and concluded that he was too far from the piano. To remedy the situation, rather than pull himself forwards with the bench, he brought the entire instrument to him. The tremendous piano dragged along the floor scraping the wood, creating a horrific sound. This however, seemed to have no effect on him.
Beautiful music flowed from the keys, enveloping the entire room. Even the shutters, swaying in the wind, appeared as if they appreciated the music. They rocked back and forth in rhythm with the sweet harmonies the deeply diffused into my soul. I did not feel like anybody’s servant. Rather I was an equal, equally appreciating Romanticism at its finest. Liszt had a way of creating music for the individual heart.
By this time Katalin had come upstairs. She had entered the room inconspicuously, and sat in the corner of the music suite with a great frown upon her face.
“M’am, can I help you?” I whispered, my discreet way of asking her what was wrong.
“No. Leave me be.”
“Certainly.”
“It will kill him you know,” she blurted out. “He is going to die. There is nothing any of us can do. I’m sure you know it by now. It’s his damn music.”
“That is not necessarily true.”
“Yes, yes it is,” she affirmed. “I loved him once. I loved his music. He was quirky, but there was a magical quality to him.”
“Why are you telling me this? He is my master.”
“Not for long.”
“Why do you say such things?”
“Forget it. Forget I said anything.”
Liszt continued to play, filling the void created by the silence. His mastery of the piano was undeniable, his ‘quirkiness’ irrefutable. There was a quality about him that seemed unattached to the real world, and Katalin was aware of this. As if responding, Liszt abruptly ended his piece and turned toward us.
“Lazar,” he shouted.
“Yes?”
“Fetch me clothing.”
“Would you like to change in your room sir?”
“No, I prefer to change here and talk with Katalin,” he exclaimed, at which point Katalin turned uncomfortably to the window.
“Clothing for the performance?”
“Yes. Vienna Opera. The black one, and the nice silver watch. Oh yes.”
“Certainly.”
I hurried to retrieve the clothes, taking the back stairs as was protocol for all the servants. Liszt’s dressers were very peculiar in that they contained two sets of clothing, one informal and one formal. For evening wear, there were outrageous clothes, vests and collars of varying color intensity with equally interesting pants; his eccentricities could be summed up by the content of these drawers. Hurriedly I selected an outfit and proceeded back upstairs to my master.
I knocked on the door as I entered the room. My master was standing by the piano completely nude. I was completely and utterly stunned, unable to move. Katalin was standing by the window, staring distantly on the horizon.
“Come,” said Liszt. “Bring the clothes here.”
I approached my master, but was tripped up by his clothes on the floor. Liszt’s clothing went flying in the air, and I hit the floor hard. My master, stark naked, dove across the room to me. He helped me up, letting the elegant garments scatter on the dirty floor.
“Are you well?” Liszt asked me.
“I am fine sir. I am sorry.”
“Don’t worry. It’s fine.”
“Here you are sir,” I said, bouncing back up from the floor and retrieving the speckled attire.
“Thank you,” he said, grabbing the clothing.
I shrunk back into the corner, awaiting my next command. Liszt got dressed slowly, deliberately checking each crease and crinkle.
“Katalin,” he said. “Did you find out who will be there?”
“Yes Franz. It will be a big crowd tonight.”
“Ah, very well. I am glad to hear this.”
“Don’t overwork yourself,” she pleaded.
“Yes, yes. You always say that. Anyway, do you know who will attend? Give me names. I am very curious.”
“Bencho, Krastek, Findka. Others I presume.”
“And Deszo?”
There was an a slight pause, and Katalin shot an empty glance towards the window before responding affirmatively.
“Very good,” said Liszt. I am very excited to see my old friend. We have not spoken in some time. You know, he respects me.”
“Yes Franz. Are you finished dressing?”
“Yes. Come Katalin. Lazar?”
“Yes sir,” I responded.
“Please prepare for a celebration. I will be bringing everyone who attends back here.”
“Certainly.”

Chapter 4

“Many servants spent the rest of the night preparing the house for the party. As I was cleaning one of the serving trays, I noticed a little cricket hopping along the window sill. I went over to brush it out of the house, but a strong gust of wind howled and sucked the poor creature outside into the real world. That little cricket was clueless, completely lost in its own world. Now, however, it is most likely crushed.
The party arrived at about nine o’clock from the opera house. They were elegantly dressed and well-spoken, much like you. Gold time pieces gold hung from vests, intricate dresses flowed through the doors and spectacles dangled on the tips of crooked noses. In the mix there were a select few so varied, so outrageous that I cannot begin to explain the magnitude of my curiosity and their peculiarity. Hair thrown in every direction at once, disheveled clothing, as if a mountain lion had attacked them on their way to Mr. Liszt’s dwelling. They looked about, unaware of their whereabouts. Their movements were jerky, unpredictable, seemingly giving in to their body’s immediate wishes. As a matter of fact, they looked very similar to Liszt during one of his practices. It struck me as odd though that they would do this in public.
Mr. Liszt was the leader of this assorted pack, guiding them through the doors and welcoming them into his house with Katalin by his side. He motioned to me and I began my duties, serving food and wine.
The first group I approached consisted of well-dressed men who eyed me with contempt. They were speaking of politics, something of the imperial government of sorts, something of that manner – I’ve never been one for aristocratic governmental policies and such. I believe them to be unimportant in my line of work and daily life. Why bother at all, right? As I was saying, this group of wealthy men rarely looked at the rest of the people in the room.
Next to them was a group of relatively fancy men, this time with women. They were discussing the evening’s opera.
“Splendid,” said one particularly beautiful woman.
“Absolutely.”
“Yes, well, Liszt was simply astounding. His performance mind-boggling.”
“The Sonata in A was stupendous.”
“Truly amazing,” they babbled on and on.
On the other side of the room my master was engaged in various conversations. He would drift from one group to another, from the wealthy to the crazy and back, paying no mind as to who he would speak to. He simply did as he pleased, seeing as how it was his house. He was talking to a group of aristocrats when I approached.
“Mr. Liszt, that was a wonderful performance.”
“Thank you Bencho. I am honored by your presence,” my master replied.
“Mention it not.”
“And you Findka? Did you enjoy yourself this evening?”
“Honestly?” the short, rotund man asked.
“Yes. How did you like the Menuet?”
“I was not impressed.”
“Truly?”
“Yes. It was too wild.”
“How do you mean?” Liszt inquired.
“The rhythm was off, the style not strict, the harmonies too jumpy.”
“That is music.”
“No, that is noise. Music is structured.”
“With all due respect, you are wrong. Music is feeling, it is expression.”
“Now gentleman,” intervened Bencho. “Please, no arguing. This is a celebration. If nothing else, appreciate his ability Findka.”
“Certainly.”
Liszt strode off in irritation, his normally effervescent gait now streaked with disdain. People tried to catch his attention, but he walked straight into the kitchen. I was unable to see what he was doing, but it did not sound pleasant. I believed that the best thing for me to do was to find Katalin, so I fanatically searched for her while attempting to keep my composure to the crowd in front of me. Ten minutes later, with Liszt still in the back and my search having gone in vain, I slouched to the window. I hoped in some small way that God would answer my prayers.
It was not my prayers that he answered. It was my fear.
Outside I found Katalin. Under different circumstances I would not be concerned; however she was in the arms of Deszo. If my master were to discover this it would be more than a disaster, more than a catastrophe…
As if by fate, Liszt reemerged from the kitchen. He seemed serene, like nothing had happened. He strolled across the room, and engaged himself and a couple of brief conversations. I walked over to my master, in the hopes that I could steer him clear of impending doom.
“Sir.”
“Ah, Lazar. Go, fetch me some wine.”
“Yes right away.”
“And some for my friend here.”
I hurried into the kitchen, snatched the Italian import and ran back to my master, all before he could go to the window.
“Thank you. As I was saying Krastek, the development of the theme was not so much a direc – Yes?” he looked pointedly at me.
“Could I get you anything sir.”
“No. Can’t you see I’m in the middle of a conversation?”
“Yes sir.”
“Liszt,” said one of the other two wealthy men. “I’m going to step outside for a minute.”
“Certainly. But first, let me ask you, have you seen Deszo?”
“Yes, I saw him much earlier, but I do not know where he is now.”
“Alright, thank you. If you see him, let me know.”
“Yes my friend.”
“I haven’t spoken to him in a long time,” he said, turning to Krastek.
“Rilshdat?”
“No Deszo.”
“I do not know him.”
“He is a good man. In his music he combines the two elements.”
“How so?”
“His tempo is strict but his melodies flutter.”
I left my master at this point, convinced that fate had been avoided, and so continued my duties. The various groups had begun to mingle, aristocrat with bourgeois, which I remember finding particularly odd. Perhaps it was the wine. I saw my master continue to make his way around the room, talking a little bit with everyone.
He sauntered over to a group by the window. My heart raced as he apparently stopped mid-sentence. He began to scream, a loud, piercing scream that sent shivers down the back of the spine. On cue the woman in the room shrieked in terror. Their high-pitched voices made you cringe, clench your fists tight and slap your face all at the same time. The men just looked around them frightened, unsure whether to risk their masculinity for safety by running. It was like a terrible chorus.
Luckily air began to run out of everybody’s lungs, and the penetrating shrills subsided. The madness however did not cease. Rather it seemed to just began. Liszt began running in circles, his fists clenched in rage. He was smashing every light in sight and throwing all the furniture he could lift.
The house had cleared out by now, and I was the only one left. He was thrusting his fists wildly, and I attempted to calm my master and friend.
“Please sir. Calm down.”
But he was too busy screaming to hear me.
“Sir, sir, SIR!”
“What?” he hissed.
“Please, just sit down one minute and relax.”
“Relax? Relax?”
“Yes.”
“How in God’s name can I relax?”
“It’s not the end of the world.”
“Do you even know what happened?”
“Yes.”
“Katalin and Deszo. This is unbelievable.” Pause. “Unbelievable. That traitor. I bought her the finest clothing and jewelry, took her to operas, museums, theaters. Numerous plays.”
“Yes sir.”
“Deszo and Katalin.”
“Sir?”
“Katalin and Deszo.”
“Sir?”
“What?”
“Perhaps you could work this out.”
This enraged him even more. He turned his shouts towards me and began violently cursing me, even throwing a light at my head. But he stopped.
“Lazar?”
“Yes master?”
“You said you knew what happened. How?”
“Pardon?”
“You know what I’m talking about,” he screamed. “How did you know about Deszo and Katalin if you didn’t see what I saw. Did you know about this?”
“I-I-I – ”
“You knew about this! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want to upset you.”
“You work for me, do you not?”
“Yes.”
“You are a traitor. Katalin is a traitor.”
“Do you not blame Deszo at all?”
“No. I blame Katalin for acting and you for lying. Now leave.”

Epilogue

“That was the last day I work for Franz Liszt.”
“Lazar, that is quite a story.”
“Yes.”
“I agree with what Liszt said in the end.”
“About what sir?”
“Your place is not to conceal. If I were in his position, you would tell me.”
“I know now sir.”
“Yes Lazar.”
The well-dressed man still sat in front of his fireplace, though the fire had long since been extinguished. Lazar was now hunched over next to him, his feet weary from standing so long.
“There is more to the story sir,” said Lazar.
“Oh yes?”
“Well, just a little more. And to be fair, I was not even there.”
“How can you be certain?”
“Remember Bianka sir, the other servant I mentioned? I have kept in contact with her and she was there till the bitter end.”
“Go on then.”
“Throughout the following week, Liszt would not leave his house. He just sat in his room all day long and would yell at everyone who came into his room. He refused to eat or drink, and so became extremely ill. He developed a nasty cough and would throw up often. The entire house began to smell from his decrepit body. He dismissed the servants for a weekend, explaining that he had hired a private nurse to tend to him in their absence. When they came back the following Tuesday, Liszt was gone, and there was no trace of his ever having lived there. There was, however, a piece of music on the piano stand and a police officer in the foyer. He had killed Deszo. Using a knife from the kitchen, he had hunted his former friend down, and stabbed him fifteen times in the chest, neck and groin. Liszt had dragged Katalin with him, and forced her to watch. He smeared the blood of Deszo on his face and on his old girlfriend, saying ‘goodbye’ to her. Castrating himself, he then ended his own life. Concealed in his pocket was a piece of music, his farewell, a final symphony to be played at his own funeral.”
The man sat in utter shock; his mouth hung wide open. He continued to stare into the empty fire pit, as daylight slowly crept in through the musky window. The street lamps had turned off, and the only thing awake at this hour was Lazar and his master.

-Essay-Romanticism in Music

-Bibliography