shadow of britain

Chapter 880 Hastings, come to the streets of Paris, don't let me see you.

Music Gazette, August 1837
The Paris Music Season of 1837

Author: Heinrich Heine
As I've already mentioned, Paris is unbearably hot and humid this summer, but this heatwave isn't entirely due to the weather; it comes from a young man named Liszt.

Each of his concerts was like a catastrophic fire: a raging spectacle, sparks flying everywhere, and the audience filled with vomiting and screaming.

The ladies of Paris trembled as if electrocuted by his playing, then slumped back in their chairs, covering their faces with handkerchiefs as if they had just completed a martyrdom.

Ah! If Joan of Arc could be resurrected at this moment, she would probably be ashamed of this hysterical illusion of French women.

But please don't misunderstand me. I'm not denying Liszt's talent. On the contrary, I'm willing to admit that his hands were indeed capable of creating miracles. It's just that these miracles were more like epileptic seizures at sermons than artistic revelations.

The exquisite technique, the precise key press, and the fusion with string instruments transform the pianist into a resonant instrument—a feat now praised and celebrated as the highest artistic achievement. Piano masters flock to Paris every year like locusts, less for the money and more for the fame and fortune they seek to gain in other countries.

Paris is like their billboard; their reputation is printed here in huge letters. I say their reputation is audible here because it is the Parisian media that proclaims this to a gullible world, and those artistic masters are masters of using newspapers and journalists.

They know how to deal with even the most hard-of-hearing people, because people always love flattery and are even willing to play the role of protector, whitewashing one hand while the other remains untainted. But the dirtier hands are rarely those of journalists. For these vain flatteries, journalists are willing to become fools, only to receive the illusory reality of befriending artists as a reward.

People often talk about the greed of the media these days, but they are sorely mistaken. On the contrary, the media is often deceived, especially when it comes to famous artists. These artists are renowned, or rather, they themselves, or their brothers and mothers, have spent exorbitant sums of money on advertisements to make them famous. It's almost unbelievable how they humbly beg for even the smallest praise from the newspapers, how twisted and vulgar they are.

I have witnessed firsthand more than once how renowned musicians grovel before music magazine editors, crawling and waving their arms, just to gain a few words of praise in their publications. Meanwhile, the moment these illustrious masters step out of the editorial office, they are immediately treated like triumphant princes, revered in capitals across Europe. How absurd is this?
In the office of the aforementioned music newspaper, I once met an old man dressed in rags who claimed to be the father of a famous musician and asked the magazine editor to publish an advertisement highlighting some of the noble aspects of his son's artistic career.

For example, this celebrity once gave a highly acclaimed concert in the south of France, and donated the proceeds to support an old Gothic cathedral on the verge of collapse. On another occasion, he played for a widow who had lost everything in a flood, and for a seventy-year-old headmaster who had lost his only cow, and so on.

During my long conversation with this kind man's father, the old man naively admitted to me that his son had indeed not done his best for him, sometimes even letting him go hungry. But out of a simple sense of morality, I would like to advise this musical celebrity that before he performs for the widow and the old headmaster, he would be better off taking the time to put on a concert for his old father's worn-out trousers.

What is the highest realm of art?
It is the freedom of spiritual self-awareness.

In fact, the essence of this free and self-aware art is mainly revealed through its methods of handling and performance, rather than through its subject matter.

On the contrary, we can be certain that artists who choose freedom and liberation as their subject matter are usually narrow-minded, intellectually constrained, and deeply servile.

This observation is equally true of German poetry today. We are horrified to find that most of the most unrestrained and unruly free singers are, in the sunlight, nothing more than narrow-minded mediocrities, mayflies with their braids peeking out from under their red hats.

If Goethe were alive, he would probably evaluate them in this way:

Stupid flies! How angry they are!
They buzzed, shamelessly...

To the tiny fly droppings,
Drip it onto the tyrant's nose!
Dear reader, please forgive me for using these greenbottle flies to amuse you, but their annoying buzzing will eventually tempt even the most patient person to pick up a fly swatter.

As a responsible journalist, please allow me to tell you some good things.

The French version of "Turandot," with lyrics by Alexandre Dumas and music by Sir Arthur Hastings, was recently premiered at the historic theater on Rue de la Temple.

Here, we must note the shared spirit between the poet and the composer. They both understood how to enhance their talents through diligent and noble effort, and how to develop themselves more through external training than solely through internal originality.

Therefore, neither of them ever completely succumbed to evil, as is sometimes the case with original genius. They consistently produced works that were refreshing, beautiful, respectable, academically rigorous, and classic. Both were equally noble and worthy of respect. While the absence of Meyerbeer and Berlioz from this year's music season is regrettable, in an era where gold is stingy in hiding itself, we should not dismiss the silver in circulation with contempt.

At that moment, the concert halls of Paris seemed to be invaded by some invisible plague, with everyone chanting "Liszt" as if the name were some kind of life-saving prayer. Ironically, those self-important music journalists were willingly becoming Liszt's missionaries.

They wrote lengthy lies in their newspaper columns, calling his roars heavenly, his dizziness ecstasy, and his madness inspiration. Once these papers reached the provinces, the gentry there believed that Paris had invented a new religion, with desperate women as its followers and the collective fainting spells of its audience as its miracles.

However, I must reiterate that I am not denying Liszt's talent. I simply want to point out that if this talent continues to dissipate in this way, it will eventually be extinguished like a cheap firework. It can only illuminate a night in Paris, but it cannot warm the whole of Europe during winter.

In comparison, Talberg's art appears more stable.

He displayed an innate wit in his art. His playing was so gentlemanly, so rich, so proper, so unpretentious, without any of the self-aggrandizement that masks inner frustration, a frustration that we often see in some performers.

Healthy women loved him. Sickly women were just as devoted to him, even though he didn't use pre-playing seizures to win their sympathy, and even though he neither excited nor thrilled them. He didn't need a group of fainting female listeners to prove his greatness, unlike Liszt.

He sat quietly before the piano, his ten fingers weaving a delicate, veil-like net, gently draping the melody over the listeners. His playing was devoid of fireworks, yet possessed the warmth of a hearth; devoid of hysteria, yet orderly; devoid of shouts, yet resonant.

His art is a true asset, not paper money that can be squandered at will.

It is a miracle that healthy women love him and sick women do not dislike him.

I admire only one person more than him, and that is Chopin, but he is more of a composer than a performer. Listening to Chopin, I completely forget his exquisite piano playing and immerse myself in a sweet abyss. His music, in its bittersweetness, is both profound and tender. Chopin was a great and talented composer; he should be compared to Mozart, Beethoven, or Rossini.

However, I must remind readers of an easily forgotten fact: Talberg, who now wins much acclaim in Paris, was once just Sir Arthur Hastings's substitute pianist at the London Philharmonic Society.

Yes, Talberg only got a chance to play when Hastings was absent.

Parisians might see this as a coincidence, but Londoners see it as a straightforward ranking of strength.

Who would have thought that the caution and prudence he used to show when he was a substitute pianist would become his strength today?
The real protagonist, Hastings, had already announced that he would no longer perform publicly, generously giving the stage to others.

The person who made Hastings step down from the stage was Frédéric Chopin.

Nevertheless, his name did not disappear.

His "The Bell" remains a bestseller in music bookstores, and its melody continues to resonate in the fingertips of children learning the piano. When "The Bell" rings out in the salon, the entire room falls silent.

Liszt's piano playing can make people scream, Talberg's playing can make people smile, but Hastings's melodies can make everyone stand at attention, as if witnessing some irresistible destiny.

I have listed Mr. Talberg and Sir Arthur Hastings as the most outstanding pianists of the season.

The former received special treatment for his piano performance, while the latter received the highest praise for his personal character.

I truthfully report to the readers that I have selected Hastings as one of the greatest pianists of all time and have placed him alongside the most famous pianists in history.

Compared to this Thor, Franz List was merely an idol of the wind.

Hastings could bind storms like birch branches and use them to tame the sea, but Lister could not.

A pianist's greatness lies not only in how many notes he can play, or in how he can torment a poor instrument like a hound run over by a wheel; true greatness often lies in his spiritual cultivation.

Hastings never struck a mad pose at the salon entrance, nor would he grovel for a cheap compliment in the newspaper. His humility was not a hypocritical facade, but a genuine inner calm.

He did not want to be a fleeting presence on the stage, but rather preferred to solemnly present art as a gift to the world.

In Paris, how many musicians are willing to flaunt their flesh and blood like gladiators in ancient Rome for a few words of praise, and how many people are willing to belittle their friends' names to nothing just to get on stage.

And Hastings?

At the height of his career, he announced he would no longer perform publicly. His retirement was not out of cowardice, but out of self-discipline. He preferred to leave the applause to others and keep the silence to himself.

In a private conversation, Mr. Talberg once confessed: "If I hadn't replaced Sir Arthur Hastings in the London Philharmonic Society back then, and if I hadn't witnessed him step down, I would never have understood what true grace is."

This may sound like an overly flattering compliment, but I'm willing to believe Talberg's sincerity.

Because Hastings was not only a mentor in music, but also a role model in character.

I'd like to end this article with a good story.

I heard that Mr. Schindler, who was the music director in Cologne, was very angry because I had made a great disparagement of his white tie in a quarterly report and claimed that his business card read "Friend of Beethoven".

He denied the latter, but as far as the tie was concerned, it was absolutely true; I had never seen a more horrifying white tie and a stiff monster. But as for the business card, out of human nature, I must admit I myself doubted whether those words were actually on it.

This story is not something I made up, but perhaps I believed too much of the rumors about Mr. Schindler.

In all things, possibility is often more important than the truth itself. Possibility proves that a person is thought to be capable of such foolishness and allows us to gauge their true nature, while the fact itself can only be a coincidence and has no distinguishing significance.

I have never seen the business card mentioned in the article.

However, just a few days ago I saw Chopin recall his difficult experience of exile in London in a letter: "If Arthur hadn't been willing to give me the stage, my first concert in London might never have been heard by the world."

……

In Heine's apartment, the curtains were half-drawn, and the night breeze rustled the newspapers on the table, the scent of ink still lingering.

Heine leaned back on the sofa, legs casually crossed, a smug look on his face. He pointed to the "Musical Gazette": "How about it? Was that a clean cut?"

Arthur was holding the newspaper, his eyelids twitching as if they were drumming. When he read that he had been nominated as "Thor," he almost twisted the newspaper into a pretzel.

He was usually adept at dealing with the sarcastic remarks of Whitehall bureaucrats, but at this moment he looked like a primary school student being called on by the teacher, his expression shifting constantly.

Dumas sat to the side, his shoulders shrugging. Although the fat man was trying very hard to suppress his laughter, he finally couldn't hold it in and laughed like a broken bellows: "Hahaha! Arthur, you're in trouble this time. I heard that after Liszt read this article, he was so angry that he almost smashed his piano. He also sent people everywhere to find out if you really came to Paris. Judging from his relentless attitude, he either wants to challenge you to a duel of honor or to have a public piano duel with you."

Arthur closed the newspaper, trying to sound calm, but his trembling thumb betrayed his inner turmoil: "Didn't Frederick stop Lister at all? He should have known that if it were a duel with me, Lister would have no chance."

"Stop them?" Dumas laughed until tears streamed down his face. The fat man wiped his eyes with a handkerchief for a long time before finally managing to squeeze out a few words: "What's the use of stopping them? Liszt has already declared that he's going to crush you on stage. Arthur, Frederick has done his best, but Heinrich's article was indeed a bit too harsh this time."

Seeing Arthur's timid demeanor before the battle even began, Heine said with a hint of disdain, "Arthur, what do you have to be afraid of? If it's a duel, ten Liszts wouldn't be enough for you. If it's a piano duel... I admit, Liszt does have some skill, but in the end, who wins and who loses still depends on how we write it, doesn't it? Besides, didn't you come to Paris this time precisely to dampen Liszt's arrogance?"

Arthur's face instantly darkened, and he slammed the newspaper back onto the coffee table: "Heinrich! When did I ever tell you I came to Paris to have a piano duel with Liszt? I'm here on a serious business!"

"Huh?" Heine asked with some skepticism, "But Mr. Carter told me the other day that you came to Paris to test the level of the Parisian piano performance circle."

“Mr. Carter? You mean Elder?” Arthur nearly jumped out of his chair. “When did he, a second secretary in the Navy, become the press officer for the Police Commissioner’s Committee? I haven’t even had time to settle into my luggage in Paris, and he’s already registered me for the competition?”

Hearing this, Heine also felt somewhat troubled: "Then... what do we do now? Paris is not London. You can't just let the Scotland Yard police arrest Lister, can you?"

Upon hearing this, Arthur angrily turned to Dumas and said, "Alexander, where is Elder? I haven't seen him for two days."

Alexandre Dumas took a leisurely sip of his Bordeaux and waved his hand, saying, "How would I know where he's sleeping tonight? But he probably spent the night at Polina's apartment last night."

(End of this chapter)