10 Classical Music Facts That Sound Fake But Are True

 by Emily E. Hogstad  June 13th, 2026

Classical music history is often seen as dignified and serious – all powdered wigs, solemn portraits, and stuffy concert halls.

But scratch the surface, and the past turns out to be far stranger.

Behind some of the most revered composers in Western music are stories that sound like modern internet myths: fan hysteria bordering on mass delusion, obscene jokes set to immaculate counterpoint, creative breakdowns cured by hypnosis, murder plots abandoned at the last minute, and lifelong obsessions with things like trains and numerology.

Remarkably, these stories aren’t apocryphal. In many cases, they’re documented in letters, memoirs, contemporary reports, and firsthand accounts.

Here are ten classical composer facts that sound fake – but are completely true.

1. Franz Liszt caused celebrity hysteria.   

During the 1840s, Franz Liszt inspired a phenomenon that writer Heinrich Heine famously dubbed Lisztomania, which can be compared to the Beatlemania of the twentieth century.

Audiences screamed, fainted, and picked up his cigar stumps in the street.

Liszt concert cartoon

Lisztomania even had an impact on fashion: women wore cameos with his portrait, made his piano strings into bracelets, and collected his discarded gloves and handkerchiefs.

Thanks to his virtuosity, Liszt became an international celebrity decades before visual mass media, creating a template for the fame of musical superstars of the future.

2. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart wrote a canon whose text is literally “lick me in the arse.”   

Mozart‘s scatological humour is well documented, and one of his canons bears the unforgettable title Leck mich im Arsch (K. 231) (“Lick me in the Arse”).

Barbara Krafft: W. A. Mozart, 1819 (Gesellschaft der Musikfreunde)

Historians have surmised that it was a party piece for a group of friends to sing together.

The canon is harmonically correct, neatly constructed – and unapologetically vulgar.

After Mozart’s death, when his remaining work was being catalogued and published, the publisher changed the lyrics to “Let Us Be Glad!” The original text was rediscovered in 1991.

3. A full performance of Erik Satie’s Vexations can last 18 to 24 hours.  

Satie‘s Vexations consists of a short, eerie piano phrase with the instruction that it be repeated 840 times.

When taken at a slow, meditative tempo – as Satie may have intended – a complete performance can last nearly an entire day.

Erik Satie

The first full performance took place in 1963 and was organised by composer John Cage. It involved multiple pianists rotating in shifts, with audience members coming and going throughout the night.

That performance lasted for eighteen hours. One audience member heard the entire thing.

4. Johann Sebastian Bach once walked 250 miles just to hear an organist.

Bach – Passacaglia in C minor BWV 582 – Smits | Netherlands Bach Society   

In 1705, the 20-year-old Johann Sebastian Bach walked roughly 250 miles from the town of Arnstadt to the town of Lübeck to hear the legendary organist Dieterich Buxtehude.

Depiction of Dieterich Buxtehude in the painting “The Musical Party” 1674 by Johannes Voorhout

That year, Buxtehude was scheduled to lead weekly performances of his music during the Advent season. At least one performance included a 25-member violin section, a brass section, and multiple choirs, so it’s easy to see why Bach would be so interested in hearing it.

Bach was granted a short leave from his job to experience this event, but he overstayed it by several months, studying Buxtehude’s playing and compositional style.

The journey would have permanently shaped Bach’s approach to music, expanding his idea of what was possible.

5. Hector Berlioz, composer of the Symphonie fantastique, once planned a triple murder.   

After composing his famous Symphonie fantastique, based on his fixation with actress Harriet Smithson, Hector Berlioz turned around and fell in love with a virtuoso pianist named Camille Marie Moke, and the two became engaged.

Marie Pleyel

Around the same time, Berlioz won the prestigious Prix de Rome and, as part of his prize, travelled to Rome to live and compose.

One day, he got a letter letting him know that Moke had married a wealthy piano manufacturer instead of him.

Blinded by rage, he devised a detailed plan to murder Moke, her mother, and her husband before killing himself. He even acquired poison and a disguise (a maid’s costume).

Fortunately, the plan collapsed before it could be carried out. He wrote in his memoir that he didn’t follow through because he didn’t want to deprive the world of his music.

It’s one of the more disturbing pieces of trivia in the history of classical music.

6. Sergei Prokofiev died the same day as Stalin.

Prokofiev: Symphony No. 7 / Gergiev · London Symphony Orchestra  

Prokofiev died of a cerebral haemorrhage on March 5, 1953 – the exact same day as Joseph Stalin.

Grave of Sergei Prokofiev

The dictator’s death dominated Soviet media, leaving Prokofiev’s passing largely unnoticed. (In fact, one Soviet music periodical didn’t include a notice of his death until page 116; all preceding pages were devoted to Stalin.)

Prokofiev’s funeral only drew thirty mourners, including his sometimes-rival Dmitri Shostakovich.

Prokofiev’s ex-wife Lina – who was living in a Siberian gulag at the time – only heard about her husband’s death months later, via the radio.

7. Arnold Schoenberg was terrified of the number 13.

Arnold Schoenberg: Verklärte Nacht  

Schoenberg suffered from severe triskaidekaphobia (i.e., a fear of the number thirteen).

Throughout his life, he did things like avoiding hotels with 13 floors and altering the title of his opera from Moses und Aaron to Moses und Aron to avoid writing an opera with 13 letters.

His anxiety became worse as he aged. He was especially despondent when he turned 76, because seven plus six equals thirteen.

Arnold Schoenberg

That said, maybe his fear was justified. He died on 13 July 1951 – just 13 minutes before midnight – having reportedly spent the entire day in terror. He was 76.

8. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart could memorise and recreate entire works after one hearing.

Miserere mei, Deus – Allegri – Tenebrae conducted by Nigel Short  

At age 14, Mozart attended a performance of priest and composer Gregorio Allegri’s Miserere in the Sistine Chapel: a piece whose score was closely guarded and forbidden to copy.

After hearing it once, Mozart wrote the entire work down from memory. He later returned to correct minor details.

The Vatican ultimately praised the feat rather than punishing him.

9. After the disastrous premiere of his first symphony, Sergei Rachmaninoff needed hypnosis to write again.  

The premiere of Rachmaninoff‘s First Symphony in 1897 was a catastrophe, partly due to a poorly rehearsed and inebriated conductor.

Kubey-Rembrandt Studios: Sergei Rachmaninoff, 1921

The failure plunged the composer into a deep depression and creative paralysis that lasted several years.

Rachmaninoff eventually underwent hypnotherapy, which helped restore his confidence, leading directly to the composition of his wildly successful Piano Concerto No. 2. Today, that concerto is one of the most popular ever written.

He even dedicated the score to his therapist in gratitude for the help.

10. Antonín Dvořák had a hyperfixation with trains.  

Antonín Dvořák was intensely fascinated by trains.

Antonín Dvořák, 1904

He memorised timetables, kept a journal of his train travels, spent hours at stations watching engines arrive and depart, and could identify individual trains by sight and sound.

He even once famously remarked that he would have given up all of his symphonies to have invented the locomotive.

Conclusion

Taken together, these stories reveal something essential about classical music history: it is far messier, funnier, darker, and more human than the myths suggest.

The same figures who wrote sacred masses, symphonies, and operatic tragedies were also capable of crude jokes, obsessive fixations, emotional collapses, and spectacular lapses in judgment.

History doesn’t need embellishment to be fascinating. Sometimes, the truth is already stranger than fiction.

Why a besotted piano student held Liszt at gunpoint

Terry Blain

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Liszt's disgruntled piano student threatens to kill him

In mid-October 1871, a message was cabled from New York City to Franz Liszt in Europe. In itself, this was nothing unusual. Nearing 60 years old, the Hungarian composer and pianist had long been a globally famous musician, attracting 2,000 letters a year in correspondence. But this new communication was startlingly different. It was from a former pupil of his, the 26-year-old Olga Janina, and her message was brutal: she was returning by steamship to Europe, and she was going to kill him.

Liszt was no stranger to extremes of human behaviour. As a pianist his extraordinary skill and charisma had roused audiences to unprecedented levels of adulation. Women in particular adored him, fainting at his concerts and scrambling to lay hold of his personal possessions in a frenzied hero-worship known as ‘Lisztomania’. But Janina’s ghoulish cable was something else again – an explicit, unmistakable threat of assassination. Could it possibly be serious?   

'She wore a belted dagger with a poisoned tip'

Those around Liszt certainly believed it could. As a pupil of the great pianist, Janina had cut an arresting figure among her fellow students and acolytes. She cut her hair short, smoked cigars, dressed in jacket and trousers, and wore a belted dagger with (allegedly) a poisoned tip on it. Unnervingly, she also carried a revolver and bit her fingernails so aggressively that blood dripped on the keyboard when she played the piano. Unsurprisingly, Janina was viewed as dangerously unstable by her circle of acquaintances, one of whom advised Liszt to be on his guard ‘against the vengeance of a hysterical madwoman’.  

• More Liszt at gunpoint...

A dangerous, passionate obsession... made worse by opium addiction

But what was Janina feeling vengeful about? After all, Liszt had, it seems, done much to further the career of the aspiring young pianist from Lemberg (now Lviv, Ukraine). He taught her, gave her work as a copyist, arranged concert opportunities and made her part of his travelling entourage. Janina’s relationship to Liszt, however, quickly became emotionally obsessive. One observer spoke of her ‘headstrong passion’ for her mentor, another described her as ‘a little, witty, foolish person, mad about Liszt’. 

Janina’s unsteady grip on reality was further weakened by an addiction to opium and other pharmaceutical substances. She began styling herself ‘Countess’ and ‘the Cossack’ – images extravagantly at odds with her solidly bourgeois upbringing (her father’s money came from a patented boot polish). She also made several attempts at suicide, prompted by her father’s death in 1870 and her subsequent struggles with money.

More Liszt at gunpoint...

A humiliating public scolding... and rejection

How did these dangerously swirling energies suddenly fasten on a plan to murder Liszt? One possible factor was a series of memory lapses Janina suffered while playing Chopin’s Ballade in G minor at a prestigious house concert hosted by Liszt in Budapest. Visibly irritated, Liszt stamped his foot and ‘upbraided her more than angrily’. A public scolding by the greatest living pianist left painful scars, and further destabilised Janina’s already precarious mental position.   

By now, Liszt was tiring of Janina’s difficult nature and her socially embarrassing habits. He partly engineered her departure for the US in July 1871 as an attempt to relaunch a professional career that had sputtered only fitfully in Europe. But the trip was fruitless, and Janina was angered by Liszt’s ‘pitiless’ reaction to her failures and frustrations. And so the threatening cable to her erstwhile idol and benefactor was sent. 

More Liszt at gunpoint...

She burst into his apartment, a revolver in one hand and poison in the other

Janina was not long in acting on it. On 25 October 1871, she burst into Liszt’s Budapest apartment, a revolver in one hand and bottles of poison in the other. She had, she said, come to shoot Liszt and then die by suicide. A tense few hours followed, as Liszt attempted to talk Janina down. At one point she swallowed the poison and went into convulsions, but a doctor later confirmed that the ‘poison’ was in fact harmless. The ‘terrible disturbance’, as Liszt termed it, appeared to be over.  

Liszt at gunpoint: the aftermath

It did, though, have an unsavoury afterlife. In 1874, Janina published a purportedly autobiographical novel, in which she none too subtly intimated that her relationship with Liszt had been sexual. There is no reliable evidence that this was true, but the book enjoyed a succès de scandale, in the process causing Liszt considerable upset and embarrassment.    

Janina went on to marry twice more, and died aged 69 in 1914. ‘Of all the crises that Liszt was called upon to endure in his long and chequered life,’ writes Liszt biographer Alan Walker, ‘it is arguable that none caused him more anguish.’ Liszt’s own take on l’affaire Janina was notably more phlegmatic. ‘She was not malicious, merely unbalanced,’ he later commented. ‘And, in my opinion, also talented.’ 

The Most Passionate Composer Love Letters of All Time, Part 1

 by Emily E. Hogstad  February 5th, 2026

Artists and composers are famous for their wild love lives. Turns out, their love letters are just as fascinating as you’d expect.

Today, we’re looking at love letters from ten composers, including Mozart being very saucy on a business trip, Brahms pining over Clara Schumann, and Haydn making a shocking confession to his mistress.

Joseph Haydn, 1791

Joseph Haydn

In these two love letters to his mistress, singer Luigia Polzelli, Haydn writes about her husband’s fatal illness…and longs for “four eyes [to] be closed”, a reference to his hope that his own wife will die, too!

London, 14th March 1791

Most esteemed Polzelli,

I am very sorry for you in your present circumstances, and I hope that your poor husband will die at any moment; you did well to put him in the hospital, to keep him alive…

London, 4th August 1791

Dear Polzelli!

…As far as your husband is concerned, I tell you that Providence has done well to liberate you from this heavy yoke, and for him, too, it is better to be in another world than to remain useless in this one. The poor man has suffered enough. Dear Polzelli, perhaps, perhaps the time will come, when we both so often dreamt of, when four eyes shall be closed. Two are closed, but the other two – enough of all this, it shall be as God wills.

Learn more about why Haydn hated his wife so much.

Ludwig van Beethoven, 1812

Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony, finished in 1812   

In 1812, Beethoven wrote an impassioned love letter to an unknown woman. This letter has come to be known as the letter to the Immortal Beloved.

Beethoven in 1803

Though still in bed, my thoughts go out to you, my Immortal Beloved, now and then joyfully, then sadly, waiting to learn whether or not fate will hear us – I can live only wholly with you or not at all – Yes, I am resolved to wander so long away from you until I can fly to your arms and say that I am really at home with you, and can send my soul enwrapped in you into the land of spirits – Yes, unhappily it must be so – You will be the more contained since you know my fidelity to you. No one else can ever possess my heart – never – never – Oh God, why must one be parted from one whom one so loves. And yet my life in V is now a wretched life – Your love makes me at once the happiest and the unhappiest of men – At my age I need a steady, quiet life – can that be so in our connection? My angel, I have just been told that the mail coach goes every day – therefore I must close at once so that you may receive the letter at once – Be calm, only by a calm consideration of our existence can we achieve our purpose to live together – Be calm – love me – today – yesterday – what tearful longings for you – you – you – my life – my all – farewell. Oh continue to love me – never misjudge the most faithful heart of your beloved. ever thine, ever mine, ever ours…

Read more about Who was the Immortal Beloved?

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, 1783

Mozart’s Die Entführung aus dem Serail overture   

Here’s a suggestive love letter from Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart to his wife Constanze, written in 1783 when he was about to return home to Vienna after overseeing a production of his opera Die Entführung aus dem Serail in Prague.

On June 1st I’ll sleep in Prague, and on the 4th – the 4th? – I’ll be sleeping with my dear little wife; – Spruce up your sweet little nest because my little rascal here really deserves it, he has been very well behaved, but now he’s itching to possess your sweet [word erased by some unknown hand]. Just imagine that little sneak, while I am writing, he has secretly crept up on the table and now looks at me questioningly; but I, without much ado, give him a little slap – but now he is even more [word erased by some unknown hand]; well, he is almost out of control, the scoundrel.

Find out what life was like with the Mozarts in the 1780s.

Hector Berlioz, 1832

Berlioz’s Symphonie Fantastique   

Berlioz wrote this letter to actress Harriet Smithson, a woman whom he had been obsessed over and stalking for years, for whom he had composed the Symphonie fantastique and Lélio. He was begging her to return his letter:

Harriet Smithson in Romeo and Juliet

If you do not desire my death, in the name of pity (I dare not say of love) let me know when I can see you. I cry mercy, pardon on my knees, between my sobs!!! Oh, wretch that I am, I did not think I deserved all that I suffer, but I bless the blows that come from your hand, await your reply like the sentence of my judge.

Learn more about the insane love story between Hector and Harriet.

Franz Liszt, 1834

Liszt’s Liebestraum No. 3  

In 1834, Franz Liszt wrote this to his new mistress, Countess Marie d’Agoult:

Marie d’Agoult in 1861

My heart overflows with emotion and joy! I do not know what heavenly languor, what infinite pleasure, permeates it and burns me up. It is as if I had never loved!!! Tell me whence these uncanny disturbances spring, these inexpressible foretastes of delight, these divine tremors of love. Oh! All this can only spring from you, sister, angel, woman, Marie! All this can only be, is surely nothing less than a gentle ray streaming from your fiery soul, or else some secret poignant teardrop which you have long since left in my breast.

Learn more about the passionate nature of Liszt and Marie d’Agoult’s early relationship.

Robert Schumann, 1837

Robert Schumann

In December 1837, composer Robert Schumann was in love with virtuoso pianist Clara Wieck. They’d gotten engaged a few months earlier and were doing their best to navigate their relationship, given that Clara’s father didn’t approve of their romance.

New Year’s Eve, 1837, after 11 p.m.

I have been sitting here for a whole hour. Indeed, I meant to spend the whole evening writing to you, but no words would come. Sit down beside me now, slip your arm round me, and let us gaze peacefully, blissfully, into each other’s eyes…

How happy we are, Clara! Let us kneel together, Clara, my Clara, so close that I can touch you, in this solemn hour.

On the morning of the 1st, 1838.

What a heavenly morning! All the bells are ringing; the sky is so golden and blue and clear – and before me lies your letter. I send you my first kiss, beloved.

Learn more about the brutal court case between Robert, Clara, and her father.

Johannes Brahms, 1858

Brahms’s Piano Concerto No. 1, Movement 2 (he once told Clara this was a portrait of her)    

Brahms had complicated feelings for his mentor and dear friend Clara Wieck Schumann.

In 1858, her husband Robert had died two years earlier, and Clara was on tour in the Netherlands to make money to support her family. Brahms came to her home in Düsseldorf, in part to help watch her children. He wrote to her during her tour:

My beloved friend,

Night has come on again, and it is already late, but I can do nothing but think of you and am constantly looking at your dear letter and portrait. What have you done to me? Can’t you remove the spell you have cast over me? …

How are you? I did not want to ask you to write, but do so long for letters from you. Besides, I know only too well how you are – you are holding your head up. So just write me a word or two occasionally, and I shall be happy – just a friendly greeting to say that you are keeping well and that you will be back in 14, 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 days!…

Do cheer me with writing me a few lines. I want them so badly, but above all, I want you.

Brahms and the Schumanns

Learn more about the friendship and love triangle between Robert, Clara, and Johannes.

Richard Wagner, 1863

Richard Wagner and Cosima Wagner

Richard Wagner and Cosima Wagner’s marriage became one of the most influential in music history. However, the relationship had an inauspicious start. Richard wrote this letter to his mistress Maria Volkl shortly after first declaring his love to Cosima (!):

Now, my darling, prepare the house for my return, so that I can relax there in comfort, as I very much long to do… And plenty of perfume: buy the best bottles, so that it smells really sweet. Heavens! How I’m looking forward to relaxing with you again at last. (I hope the pink drawers are ready, too???) – Yes, indeed! Just be nice and gentle, I deserve to be well looked after for a change.

Gustav Mahler

During their engagement, Gustav Mahler wrote this letter to his fiancée Alma, to let her know she must decide between becoming his wife or pursuing her passion for composing music.

Almschi, I beg you, read this letter carefully. Our relationship must not degenerate into a mere flirt. Before we speak again, we must have clarified everything, you must know what I demand and expect of you, and what I can give in return – what you must be for me. You must “renounce” (your word) everything superficial and conventional, all vanity and outward show (concerning your individuality and your work) – you must surrender yourself to me unconditionally… in return you must wish for nothing except my love! And what that is, Alma, I cannot tell you – I have already spoken too much about it. But let me tell you just this: for someone I love the way I would love you if you were to become my wife, I can forfeit all my life and all my happiness.

Learn more about the beautiful Alma Schindler’s background, her marriage to Gustav, and why he wrote this letter.

Jean Sibelius, 1891   

Sibelius wrote this letter to his fiancée Aino in early January 1891:

My own Aino darling,

Thank you for your letter and your Christmas cards. Your relatives have all been very kind to me. Please give them my respects and thank them most warmly, won’t you. But it is you who loves me more than anyone else has done, and I want you to be sure that I love you and belong to you with all my heart. Every time you write to me, I discover some new aspect of your personality. It makes me feel as if you are a store of treasures to which only I have the key, and you can imagine how proud I am to own it. You are so natural and sincere, which I like. When in the future we have a home of our own and are together alone, we must never be anything other than wholly ourselves, natural, tender towards each other, and devoted. I think and hope that you will be content with me in this respect. It is perhaps unmanly to say so, but you know, Aino, that I have always wanted to be caressed and have always missed its absence. At home, I was the only one who was demonstrative, and this in spite of the fact that I was basically very shy. But up to now, only you have caressed me, and perhaps you have thought it tiresome of me to ask you often to do this, my darling. This could well have remained unwritten, but as I am writing as quickly as I am thinking (hence my superb handwriting!), and this came into my head, it can just as well go into the letter. I sometimes cannot believe that a person like you loves me, for you are a wonderful woman.

Aino and Jean Sibelius

Yuja Wang - Liszt Piano Concerto No. 1

Franz Liszt: Dante Symphony Premiered on 7 November 1857

by Georg Predota

Franz Liszt, 1858

Enjoying the shores of Lake Como with Marie d’Agoult in 1837, Franz Liszt (1811-1886) immersed himself in a close reading of Dante’s Divine Comedy. The idea of composing a symphony to Dante’s Divine Comedy, one that would combine music, poetry and the visual arts, gradually took shape. Initially, Liszt suggested that the performance might be accompanied by the projection of lanternslides, showing scenes painted by Bonaventura Genelli. Apparently, he even considered “the use of an experimental wind machine at the end of the first movement to evoke the winds of Hell.”

Dante and His Poem by Domenico di Michelino

In the event, in June 1855, Liszt wrote to his future son-in-law Richard Wagner. “So you are reading Dante. He’s good company for you, and I for my part want to provide you with a kind of commentary on that reading. I have long been carrying a Dante Symphony around in my head – this year I intend to finish it. Three movements, Hell, Purgatory and Paradise – the first two for orchestra alone, the last with chorus. When I visit you in the autumn I shall probably be able to bring it with me; and if you don’t dislike it you can let me inscribe your name on it.” Wagner was enthusiastic, but advised against including a choral finale on the grounds that “Paradise could not be depicted in music.”

Royal Theatre in Dresden

On the advice of Wagner, Liszt discarded the idea of a choral finale and added a brief setting for women’s voices of the first two verses of the “Magnificat,” all ending with a “Hallelujah.” When Liszt played the Dante symphony for Wagner in Zürich in October 1856, Wagner greatly disliked the fortissimo conclusion. He wrote in his autobiography, “If anything had convinced me of the man’s masterly and poetical powers of conception, it was the original ending of the Faust Symphony, in which the delicate fragrance of a last reminiscence of Gretchen overpowers everything, without arresting the attention by a violent disturbance. The ending of the Dante Symphony seemed to me to be quite on the same lines, for the delicately introduced “Magnificat” in the same way only gives a hint of a soft, shimmering Paradise. I was the more startled to hear this beautiful suggestion suddenly interrupted in an alarming way by a pompous, plagal cadence. No! I exclaimed loudly, not that, away with it! No majestic Deity! Leave us the fine soft shimmer!” Liszt kept both endings; the loud one is indicated in his version for two pianos, but in the orchestral score it is usually omitted. The Dante Symphony is dedicated to Richard Wagner, and the first performance took place at the Royal Theatre in Dresden on 7 November 1857. Liszt conducted, and Hans von Bülow—still married to Liszt’s daughter Cosima—wrote, “the occasion proved a fiasco.” The press was hostile and Liszt wrote that the performance was “very unsuccessful from lack of rehearsal.”

Sandro Botticelli: Chart of Hell

A published preface functioning as a program guided audiences through the composition, but the music continued to challenge audiences for decades to come. George Bernard Shaw reviewed the work in 1885 and wrote, “the manner in which the program was presented by Liszt could just as well represent a London house when the kitchen chimney is on fire.” In terms of musical narrative, the opening movement is entitled “Inferno” and guides us through the nine Circles of Hell. The “Gates of Hell” sing slow recitative-like themes, and at “The Vestibule and First Circle Hell” the music becomes frantic. When Dante and Virgil enter the “Second Circle of Hell,” the infernal “Black Wind” that perpetually shakes the damned greets them. Here we find the tragic love of Francesca, whose adulterous affair with her brother-in-law Paolo cost her life and soul. The “Black Wind” motif returns in the “Seventh Circle of Hell,” and Liszt writes, “this entire passage is intended to be a blasphemous mocking laughter.” The “Eight” and “Ninth Circles of Hell” present slightly varied themes, and Dante and Virgil gradually emerge from Hell. They ascend Mount Purgatorio in the second, initially solemn and tranquil movement. Dante and Virgil ascend the two terraces of Ante-Purgatory, where souls repent their sins. The “Seven Cornices of Mount Purgatory” represent the seven deadly sins, and “Earthly Paradise” guides the soul to Paradise. In the score, Liszt directs that the choir be hidden from the audience in the concluding “Magnificat.” Liszt wrote, “Art cannot portray heaven itself, only its image in the hearts of those souls, which have turned to the light of heavenly grace. Thus for us the radiance is still shrouded, although it increases with the clarity of understanding.”