shadow of britain

Chapter 883 Playing music? I'm no good. Playing dirty tricks? You're no good.

The music column of the Constitutional Gazette, published on August 5, 1837.

On the Art of Piano and True Mastery

Author: Arthur Hastings
Paris has always been known as the art capital of the world, where dazzling performances on stage and lively discussions on the streets are the norm.

Whether in the 18th or 19th century, the Parisian music scene has never lacked dazzling figures.

François Couperin established the paradigm of "French style" with his elegant and delicate keyboard works in the courts of Louis XIV and Louis XV.

Jan Radislav Dusek's warm and soulful playing established Parisian audiences' first impression of the "singing" quality of the modern piano.

Friedrich Karl Brenner not only dominated the Parisian piano teaching scene for nearly two decades, but also established new standards for piano recitals. To this day, he is still regarded as a model of the "academic school" by countless young pianists.

Among these names, Mr. Franz List is undoubtedly the most prominent.

His playing was passionate and technically brilliant, igniting fervor wherever he went. Many critics have called him "the Paganini of the piano," and I believe such praise is well-deserved. Mr. Liszt on stage truly possessed a captivating power.

I am willing to frankly admit that when it comes to stage brilliance and the ultimate mastery of technique, I, as a fellow technically skilled pianist, am ashamed of my inferiority.

Mr. Lister's hands possess an almost magical power that any of his peers must take seriously.

However, technique is not the end of music.

It is a bridge, not a palace.

The value of music lies not in its noise.

Its mission is not to show off the nimbleness of the fingers, but to touch the depths of the human heart. It is precisely because the piano can balance rational order and emotional richness that it has been able to move from the corner of private salons to the wider theater in just a few decades.

For this reason, Mr. Sigismund Talberg's efforts are worth mentioning.

His performances may not pursue dazzling displays, but they can bring listeners a sense of supreme satisfaction with clear melodies and well-ordered arrangements.

It was a peace that came from within, not a momentary dizziness. He may not have been as boisterous as Mr. Liszt, but the sense of order and the beauty of the melody were unforgettable for the listener.

Unfortunately, I recently read some writings that were quite harsh, criticizing Mr. Talberg's art, saying that his music was empty and mediocre, that his scores were full of childish chords and chromatic scales, and even insultingly pointing out that Mr. Talberg's music lacked thought.

In my opinion, such criticism is unfair.

First of all, music is not a gladiatorial arena. If art is used as a place for fighting, it loses its inherent nobility.

Secondly, true musicians ultimately let their work speak for itself. In my view, true masters don't need to elevate themselves by belittling others. I understand that stage applause is alluring. It can mislead people into thinking that enthusiastic cheers are a measure of value. But history tells us that fleeting enthusiasm cannot last.

Shakespeare may not have won the applause of everyone during his lifetime, yet centuries later, his plays remain the cornerstone of major theaters in London and Paris. He became a giant whose influence continues to resonate centuries later, not because of a fleeting moment of fame, but through the power of his works themselves.

Indeed, Shakespeare's place in history is due to his magnificent language and writing style.

However, if a pianist also wants to become famous through writing, then one has to wonder if he has chosen the wrong profession.

Of course, I'm not saying this to be against technique.

In fact, I myself was once known for my virtuosity, and in my youth I often won applause with my difficult musical pieces.

However, as time went by, I gradually realized that if technique is not carried by melody and emotion, it is no different from street juggling.

This is also why I chose to leave the performing stage a few years ago.

At the time, the Third Orchestra of the London Philharmonic Society had reserved a pianist's spot for me. It was an honor that many people dreamed of, and if I had wanted, I could have continued sitting there, reaping applause and cheers with one dazzling arrangement after another.

However, I know very well that the stage is not the ancient Roman Colosseum where the sound of shouting is compared.

So I reserved the position for Mr. Sigismund Talberg.

Because I saw that he might not win with an exaggerated style, but rather with a clear melody and a restrained rhythm, touching the quietest part of people's hearts.

I don't see this as a "loss." On the contrary, it's the most dignified tribute I can give to music. True artists don't need to rush to the stage before others, fearing to lose even a shred of glory, or even resorting to belittling their peers in newspapers to elevate themselves, like some people do. Such victories might bring a momentary sensation, but they won't earn the respect of history.

And I'm willing to admit: technically, I may not be as good as those who are known for their groundbreaking style. But if the value of music is only to win a moment of applause, then such a victory is nothing but a mirage, and can never be like a clear spring, flowing gently but steadily.

……

Paris, Marais district.

The morning sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting a slanted glow on a desk piled high with sheet music and books.

Sigismund Talberg was wearing a casual light-colored robe and looked somewhat tired.

He had been sleeping poorly lately, and this period had been the most difficult time of his life since he arrived in France in 1836.

Last April, he held his first solo recital in Paris, and later caused a sensation in Lyon and Brussels. However, since Liszt returned to Paris at the beginning of this year, the situation has taken a sharp turn for the worse.

This is reflected not only in Liszt's series of aggressive articles published in the Music Gazette, but also in the frequency with which Liszt held solo concerts.

Who would have thought that Liszt would hold a crazy twenty concerts in less than two months, while Talberg only held a paltry two during the same period.

Talberg did consider retaliating against Liszt. In fact, the day after Liszt published his satirical articles against him, he publicly stated that he would fight back and immediately decided to hold a concert at the music academy on Sunday afternoon, performing his signature pieces, "God Saves the King Fantasy" and "Moses Fantasy".

In response, Liszt held a similar concert at the Paris Opera the following weekend afternoon, with an audience ten times larger than Talberg's.

Talberg gazed at the birds perched on the branches outside the window and couldn't help but sigh.

He knew that if things continued this way, he would soon lose his foothold in Paris.

When that time comes, he'll only have the option of trying his luck in Vienna, or returning to London...

After all, at least at the Tower of London, there was the guidance of teacher Mochelles, and the income of the London Philharmonic Society wasn't low...

but……

How could he possibly be willing to accept this?

Just as Talberg was lost in thought, there was a soft knock at the door. "Sir, your breakfast."

The apartment's servant pushed open the door and entered, carrying a silver tray with freshly baked butter bread and a steaming cup of chocolate.

Beside the silver platter, two newspapers were neatly stacked: one was the "Music Bulletin," and the other was the "Constitutional Gazette," which had just been delivered.

Talberg glanced instinctively at the familiar "Music Gazette," a sense of unease rising within him. He reached around the piece of paper that gave him a headache and picked up the "Constitutional Gazette" directly.

The light from the blinds fell perfectly on the title:
On the Art of Piano and True Mastery

Author: Arthur Hastings
Talberg paused, then slowly unfolded the newspaper, his eyes scanning downwards.

As names like Couperin, Dussek, and Karl Brenner appeared one after another, his expression remained calm, as if this were just a routine music review.

But when he read that “Mr. Franz List is undoubtedly the most prominent,” his fingers clenched slightly, and he even considered putting the newspaper down.

He thought this was yet another article praising Liszt while simultaneously belittling himself.

However, what followed made him hold his breath.

"That is why Mr. Sigismund Talberg's efforts are worth mentioning." Talberg couldn't help but read this passage aloud.

He gripped the newspaper tightly and read it again in disbelief: "He may not have won through exaggerated gestures..."

Talberg's gaze followed the text downwards, and when he read, "I have reserved this position for Mr. Sigismund Talberg," his chest tightened suddenly, as if a surge of heat rushed to his throat.

He did remember that day when Arthur patted him on the shoulder and told him, "Siggie, from now on, the Third Orchestra is yours."

In the past, Talberg had doubted the skill level of this predecessor who had only ever played one piece in his life, but now...

He stood up instinctively, the chair legs scraping against the wooden floor with a harsh sound. The edges of the newspaper were crumpled from his grip, but he didn't notice.

“My God, he’s in Paris?” he murmured. “And… he announced his retirement from performing, so… it was because of me…”

The servant, somewhat startled, quickly asked, "Sir? Would you like me to heat up your chocolate?"

“No, no need.” Talberg suddenly raised his head, his eyes sparkling with a long-lost light, as if sweeping away months of gloom: “Do you know where Sir Arthur Hastings is living in Paris now?”

The servant froze, his face full of bewilderment: "Sir Arthur Hastings? Forgive my ignorance... sir, I've never heard of that name... who is he?"

"Who is it?" Talberg repeated the servant's question in a low voice. He put away the Constitution and said, "The best technical pianist in London, the one I'm going to see right away."

……

On Rue Saint-Honoré, inside the brightly lit mansion, crystals under the chandeliers refracted layers of golden light, making the surrounding murals and reliefs seem to dance.

Alexandre Dumas's salon has always been a major event in Parisian cultural circles.

Here, you'll find both up-and-coming poets and seasoned critics. There are elegant ladies in fine clothes and young writers with disheveled hair, clutching their new manuscripts.

Someone in a corner loudly recited a sonnet they had just written, drawing applause. Others gathered around the piano, their fingers nimbly striking chords on the keys, seemingly ready to improvise at any moment to prove their point. Waiters moved among the guests, silver platters laden with champagne and Brie cheese. The air was thick with the scents of tobacco, wine, and rose perfume, the atmosphere so warm and inviting it seemed to melt the entire room.

However, outside this bustling vortex, in a corner near the fireplace, there was a solitary figure.

Countess Marie de Dacourt sat there, still dressed in her magnificent attire, her skirt trailing on the ground, her pearl earrings shimmering slightly in the lamplight.

But there was a blank space around her, as if even the air instinctively kept its distance from her.

When people see her, they will give a perfunctory bow and a nod and a smile, but no one is willing to actually stop and talk to her.

Her eyes drooped slightly, the fan in her hand closed gently, and her expression carried a forced smile. Anyone could see that she was in a helpless and isolated situation.

Although no one has spoken out about it, everyone knows the truth. Ever since news of her elopement with Liszt spread in Paris two years ago, her former status in various social salons has shattered like a mirror.

Many noble ladies directly added her to their unwelcome lists, and those who verbally expressed sympathy for her, while not publicly forbidding her from attending their salon banquets, would mostly just chuckle and offer excuses like "I accidentally forgot" whenever Mary asked them why she hadn't received an invitation.

Nowadays in Paris, the only salon owners willing to accept her are probably a handful of generous people like Alexandre Dumas.

Just because Alexandre Dumas was willing to accept her did not mean that the guests attending the salon ball were willing to accept her.

Mary's fingers gently caressed the fan handle, as if it were her only support at that moment.

Laughter and applause came intermittently from the surroundings, but she always felt as if she were encased in a transparent glass dome, with the discussions muffled and distant.

She understood that the vague glances directed at her carried not goodwill, but a subtle probing and indifference, as if she had become a living example of what not to do—beautiful and passionate, but lacking in propriety.

The firelight from the fireplace made her face appear pale, and the shawl on her shoulder slipped down to one corner, but she didn't bother to fix it.

The waiter approached with a glass of champagne, bowing slightly in politeness, but did not offer any pleasantries as he would to other ladies of high society.

Mary took the glass, her fingertips trembling slightly, barely daring to look up.

She suddenly regretted attending the salon hosted by Alexandre Dumas. If Liszt hadn't run back to Paris alone from Geneva, she probably would never have returned to this city that treated her so differently.

Just then, a hearty laugh broke through the salon's clamor.

This was the salon owner Alexandre Dumas's usual dramatic entrance. His figure stood out as tall and strong among the crowd. The bestselling playwright in Paris walked along, joking with several poets. As they talked, Dumas's eyes suddenly caught sight of a solitary figure by the fireplace.

He paused briefly, then apologized to his friends before walking over with his glass in hand.

“Mary!” He stopped beside Mary, leaned down slightly, and said half-jokingly, “What, one of the main characters tonight is sitting alone in the corner?”

Mary looked up, her eyes slightly red, and forced a smile: "Alexander, it's been a long time."

Alexandre Dumas glanced around and couldn't help but frown, asking, "Where's Franz? Didn't he come with you today?"

As he spoke, Dumas took out his pocket watch and glanced at it: "This guy has absolutely no sense of time. We agreed to start at eight o'clock, and it's already eight-thirty."

“He…” Mary’s fingers tightened suddenly, the liquid in her glass swirled slightly, and she bit her lip, as if forcing herself to hold back something: “He said he needs to rehearse a new piece…it might be a little later…”

(End of this chapter)