shadow of britain

Chapter 910 Peak Showdown
Liszt's smile had not yet completely faded, and the stage was so quiet that the faint crackling of the candlelight could be heard.

He slowly sat down, his slender fingers tapping lightly on the piano lid, as if reminding the audience to hold their breath.

At that moment, it was as if the air itself had been sucked away, and even the crystal chandeliers on the palace dome stopped.

The first chord has fallen.

The melody was like lightning piercing the long night.

The Memories of Don Juan.

The melody at the beginning is light, elegant, and almost unrestrained, like a graceful dancer dancing in a magnificent palace.

But then the rhythm came suddenly like a storm, with the low notes of the left hand surging wildly and the high notes of the right hand soaring rapidly.

It seemed that every note was mocking, mocking those mortals who thought they could stand shoulder to shoulder with him on the piano.

Even the Red Devil couldn't help but hold his breath.

He could almost see the air around Liszt ignited by the music, flames rolling and burning. It was not an ordinary performance, but a desecration of the limits of humanity.

His body leaned slightly forward, the piano keys gleaming hot under Liszt's hands, even the music stand trembled.

Suppressed gasps of amazement occasionally rose from the audience. The London ladies widened their eyes, as if they finally understood why Franz Liszt was the King of the Piano, and why so many girls in Paris were captivated, roared, and went mad for Liszt.

However, Arthur, standing backstage, remained motionless.

He stood in the shadows behind the curtain, his gaze fixed intently on those hands.

Those hands were so fast, almost inhuman.

At that speed, however, what he heard was not simply a display of skill, but an almost cold-blooded attitude of pleasure.

Liszt's music shifted from magnificence to mockery, and then from mockery to defiance.

He made the piano cry, and he made the piano laugh.
At last,
Let the piano pray.

Arthur knew the structure of the piece and was familiar with the transitions of each theme and every variation.

Although Liszt once publicly criticized Arthur's adaptation of Paganini in the "Musical Gazette", Liszt himself was also a master of adaptation.

If we're being really strict, then "Memories of Don Juan" can't really be considered a work by Liszt either.

This piece is based entirely on Mozart's opera Don Giovanni, and it incorporates Mozart's "Champagne Aria," "Là ci darem la mano" (We walk hand in hand there), and "Commendatore Scene" (The Scene of the Stone Statue).

However, it would be unfair to use this as a basis to criticize Liszt for plagiarism.

Because he didn't simply copy them verbatim, but rather treated them with extreme polyphony.

In Liszt's arrangement of the "Là ci darem la mano" passage, he not only had to use his right hand to play the duet melody of Don Juan and Celina in the high register, but at the same time his left hand had to continuously vibrate to create the underlying tone symbolizing desire. This musical pattern was so complex that the performer had to use a crossed-hand technique to complete it.

Only by doing this can we ensure that the audience can hear the lyrical quality of the melody while maintaining the balance of the accompaniment below.

Such an arrangement naturally requires the performer to be able to cover tenth or even eleventh chords simultaneously, which is nothing short of torture for ordinary performers.

Even for a pianist like Arthur, with his large hands and exceptional talent, just imagining himself sitting in Liszt's seat and playing the entire "Reminiscences of Don Juan" would be incredibly difficult.

He stared intently at Liszt's fingertips dancing across the keys, as if silently calculating the span of those hands.

His hands swept across the piano keys, tenths, elevenths... and with the addition of cross glissando, without the slightest hesitation.

Those were hands that could easily span thirteen notes.

True connoisseurs are often able to appreciate Liszt's madness better than any audience member.

To onlookers, it sounds dazzling, but only the true performer understands that it is a power that defies the structure of the human body.

Liszt smiled gently, and the melody suddenly changed.

The tempo suddenly quickened, like a group of devils reveling in a ball with champagne in hand.

The left hand's low register arpeggios roll like ocean waves, while the right hand races and flashes in the high register, like flames burning on silver.

That was unrestrained display of skill, and contemptuous laughter.

Arthur could tell that Lister was mocking him.

He mocked his fellow technique-oriented colleagues, and also those traditional perfectionists.

The bass register collapsed abruptly, and the heavy blow from the left hand was like the gates of hell suddenly opening.

The chords in the right hand rose sharply, sharp and fierce, almost tearing the atmosphere apart, vividly depicting the scene of Don Juan being dragged into hell.

It was a moment when human will was crushed to dust in the face of supernatural phenomena, but Liszt played out the taste of victory in this music that symbolized punishment, making the trial sound like a triumph.

On stage, Liszt had already pushed the piece to its most frenzied climax.

The frivolous tone at the beginning of the piece has disappeared, leaving only a gradual descent into euphoria and destruction.

He was practically burning with passion in front of the piano.

Sweat streamed down his forehead as his hands moved with lightning speed, creating dazzling trails of double notes and chromatic scales in the air.

Liszt's hands flew across the black and white keys, his fingers almost invisible, as he unleashed a torrent of double notes.

People gasped in amazement, and some even let out soft screams.

But Liszt continued, as if all the wrong notes, gasps, and exhaustion were trampled under his feet.

He translated Mozart's elegance into pure violence.

From the mockery of desire to the destruction of reason.

He does not seek beauty, much less harmony.

He is creating delusional hallucinations.

When the final chord struck, the world seemed to shatter into pieces in that instant.

The aftershocks of the piano lid still echoed, and the candle flame trembled slightly in the air currents, as if it were afraid of something.

Then came a deathly silence.

That kind of deathly silence that only descends after the smoke of battle has cleared.

The audience stared wide-eyed, seemingly holding their breath.

Those ladies who were just immersed in the melody now had one hand hanging in mid-air, seemingly forgetting to applaud.

The mouths of the several ambassadors to Britain were half-open, but no sound came out.

Only a few listeners, including Mocheres, Kramer, and Novello, who were also musicians, spontaneously stood up.

The first sound wasn't applause, but a sharp gasp.

The sound came from a lady sitting in the front row, whose folding fan fell to the ground with a thud.

The soft sound was like a spark falling on dry grass.

Applause surged forth from the depths of the corridor, from the seats in the front and back rows, and from the shadows of the marble pillars, like a tsunami.

Some people stood up, some clapped until their palms turned red, and others shouted "Bravo!" and "Encore!" as if they were begging for that blasphemy against romanticism to happen again.

The dome of Buckingham Palace was shaking, and the crystal fragments of the chandeliers were scattering and dancing in all directions.

A maidservant couldn't help but cover her face with her fan; her shoulders trembled, whether from shock or awe, it was hard to tell. Even the Duke of Wellington, sitting next to Leopold, shook his head slightly. His hearing was poor, but he had heard Liszt's playing clearly: "That's the sound of hell."

Leopold chuckled and chimed in, "If this is truly the voice of hell, then the devil's methods are far too sophisticated."

Before Leopold could finish speaking, he heard his niece Victoria take a soft breath, her slender fingers covering her chest, her gaze fixed on the stage.

"My God..." she murmured softly, her voice trembling with shock, "I never imagined a piano could sound like that. Those hands... so fast, so dazzling..."

Victoria's voice was almost drowned out by the applause: "Sir Arthur must have gone to great lengths to invite him, right?"

The applause on stage continued.

Liszt rose from the piano bench, the candlelight illuminating his sweat-dampened hair, making it almost dazzling.

He seemed not to hear the applause, and didn't even smile.

He simply turned around, his gaze passing over the bustling crowd and landing in the shadows behind the curtain.

He knew Arthur was watching him, and he was watching Arthur too.

Their eyes met for a fleeting moment through the curtain.

It was a fleeting moment, so brief that even the candle flame didn't have time to flicker.

He's not playing "Reminiscences of Don Juan" today; he's playing the King of Piano's challenge to the coward of the piano.

The audience was still applauding enthusiastically; if the occasion hadn't been so formal, some would have even wanted to stand on the backs of their chairs to cheer.

Lister finally nodded slightly, raised his right hand, gently drew an arc in the air and pressed it to his chest, then bowed to the audience.

Then, Liszt's long fingers suddenly turned slightly, as if the conductor was indicating that the movement was not yet over.

The audience, who had initially thought he was going to perform another song, became excited again.

However, Liszt suddenly revealed a meaningful smile.

He tapped the piano lid twice lightly with his left hand, the sound so soft that it strangely drowned out the noisy applause.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he said in his Hungarian-accented French, half-jokingly, "I'm afraid I can't claim this honor for myself tonight. Please save your applause for now; perhaps... you'll need it later."

Flora, who had been clapping along with the crowd backstage, her amazement still lingering on her face, tightened her grip on Arthur's hand when she heard these words. Even though Arthur was about to go on stage, she was even more nervous than him.

She understood Lister's tone perfectly.

That's not humility, but rather a polite invitation to one's opponent to come up on stage and be punished.

Flora's fingertips almost dug into the back of Arthur's hand, and she could feel her palm trembling slightly.

She glanced down at Arthur's hand, where she had pinched him until it was red, then suddenly looked up, wanting to apologize: "I'm sorry, Arthur, I..."

However, before Flora could finish speaking, she froze.

She looked at that familiar figure, Arthur Hastings, the man who could silence all the Scotland Yard officers at the conference table, now just standing quietly by the curtain.

Light streamed in through the gaps in the stage, falling on his shoulders and casting a pale golden glow.

He remained completely calm.

On the contrary, his composure was almost dangerous.

The sea before a storm is always unusually calm on the surface, but only it knows what kind of power lies hidden beneath that calm exterior.

His hands, those hands that held hers, were so gentle they took her breath away.

Now he appears so calm, so powerful, with such distinct knuckles; the veins on the back of his hand are faintly visible, reflecting a pale blue hue in the candlelight.

Flora's throat tightened slightly.

She suddenly recalled that night many years ago, at the Covent Garden Theatre, when Arthur made his debut as a pianist with the London Philharmonic Society's Third Orchestra. Back then, she wasn't the person she is now, and she had no idea that she would one day cross paths with this seemingly young and promising performer on stage.

At that moment, Arthur sat down on the piano bench and opened the piano lid, and the entire audience fell silent, as if he were born to be in the spotlight.

And now, that familiar feeling has returned.

“Don’t worry, Flora.” Arthur’s voice was deep and steady, with a hint of warmth, without a trace of bravado, vanity, or impulsiveness from being provoked: “He just wants to hear how I’ll respond. In that case… let him hear it.”

Flora wanted to say something more, but she noticed that Arthur's eyes, which shone with a pale red light, were already looking at the stage.

He slowly raised his hand and smoothed the wrinkles in his cuffs. Everyone at the London Philharmonic Society knew that this was Arthur's preparatory gesture before each performance.

However, this move hasn't been performed on stage for four or five years.

Flora's heart was pounding so hard she could almost hear the blood rushing to her eardrums.

She wanted to stop him, but she didn't dare.

Because everything tonight feels like a dream, and people in dreams shouldn't be woken up by reality.

“Arthur…” she called out almost in the air.

Arthur has already taken a step.

Each step was taken with utmost lightness, so light that not even the wooden planks beneath their feet made a sound.

The stage lights at the other end of the stage were gradually swallowed up by him. He walked neither fast nor slow, withdrawing from the shadows as if he were walking towards some kind of destiny.

Flora watched him disappear behind the curtain and reappear on the stage in front of everyone, and suddenly felt a strange sense of peace.

She didn't know what he would play tonight, or whether he could win.

But she was certain that as long as he stepped onto the stage, even if all the candles went out, he could use his voice to light up the world again.

So she gently closed the fan.

Her palms were still burning hot, but a smile played on her lips.

That smile contained fear, but also reassurance, and even something she herself dared not admit—she loved him terribly the way he looked at that moment.

The waiters were hurriedly pushing away the piano, and a few drops of Liszt's sweat could be faintly seen on the gleaming black keys.

The piano king, who had just completed a perfect performance, was walking out from backstage, the long corridor leading to the side door illuminated by curtains.

He took off his gloves and casually tossed them onto his assistant's arm.

For a pianist who can perform 80 pieces and 50 pieces from memory in a single performance, playing "Reminiscences of Don Juan" is by no means exhausting. He did not look tired, nor was he particularly proud. He simply conquered the audience as always.

However, when he turned the corner at the end of the corridor, he found Arthur coming from the other end.

One has just left the battlefield, and the other is about to take the stage.

Separated by the shadow of a marble pillar, the two stopped in their tracks at the same time, as if by unspoken agreement.

The waiters around held their breath, and even slowed down their movements when moving the piano stool.

"Sir Arthur, I had hoped to hear you play the piano tonight. I never expected you to choose to conduct. I must say, this is a pity."

"Perhaps, but you must understand one thing: to win a war, you need more than just soldiers; you also need generals, just like the Wellington March that I am about to conduct."

Lister bowed slightly upon hearing this, his smile still perfect: "Then I look forward to your battle tonight. I wish you... a smooth march."

Arthur responded with a very slight smile: "Thank you for your heroic efforts tonight. Without your and Siggi's hard work, all my preparations would have been meaningless."

(PS: I owed 4 chapters last month, but I got 5 extra chapters for 1 monthly votes, so I currently owe 9 chapters. This month, I will update daily plus the chapters I owe, so the update plan is 39 chapters.)
(End of this chapter)