Chapter 2025: Chapter 190: Hastings, Come to Paris Avenue, Don’t Let Me See You_2
Therefore, neither of them ever fully succumbed to evil, as original geniuses sometimes do. They consistently created refreshing, beautiful, and respectable works that were academically strong and classic. Both were equally noble and deserving of respect. Indeed, the absence of Meyerbeer and Berlioz this music season is lamentable, yet in an age when gold is stingily hiding itself, we should not disdainfully criticize the silver that circulates.
At this moment, music halls in Paris seem invaded by some invisible plague, with everyone chanting "Liszt," as if this name were some kind of prayer for salvation. Amusingly, those self-important music journalists willingly became missionaries for Liszt.
They composed lengthy columns of lies in the newspapers, calling his roars heavenly music, his dizziness ecstasy, and his madness inspiration. Once these papers reach the provinces, the country squires there believe that Paris has invented a new religion, with desperate women as followers and the collective fainting of listeners as its miracles.
However, I must declare again, I am not denying Liszt’s talent. I merely wish to point out that if such talent continues to dissipate in this manner, it will inevitably extinguish like cheap fireworks. It can only illuminate one night in Paris but cannot warm the entire European winter.
In contrast, Talberg’s artistry appears more steady.
He demonstrates innate wit in his art. His performance is gentlemanly, affluent, appropriate, and utterly unaffected, without the self-promotional exaggerations we often see in some performers as a guise for inner dismay.
Healthy women love him. Even the sickly ones are fond of him, though he doesn’t use pre-performance epileptic fits to elicit their sympathy, nor does he excite or stir them. Unlike Liszt, he does not need a throng of fainting female listeners to prove his greatness.
He sits quietly at the piano, letting his ten fingers weave a gossamer-like net, gently draping the melody over the audience. His performance lacks fireworks but possesses the warmth of a hearth, lacks epilepsy but maintains order, lacks shouting but has echoes.
His art is genuine wealth, unlike currency that can be squandered at will.
Healthy ladies love him, and the ailing ones do not dislike him either, which in itself is a miracle.
I only admire one person more than him, and that is Chopin, but he is more of a composer than a performer. When listening to Chopin, I completely forget his exquisite piano performance and immerse myself into a sweet abyss. His music, amidst the painful sweetness, is profound yet gentle. Chopin is a great genius composer who should be compared to Mozart, Beethoven, or Rossini.
Still, I must remind the readers of an easily forgotten fact: the now-celebrated Talberg in Paris was once just a substitute pianist for Sir Arthur Hastings at the London Philharmonic Society.
Indeed, it was only during Hastings’ absence that Talberg would get the opportunity to perform.
Parisians may consider this a mere coincidence, but to Londoners, it is a straightforward ranking of skill.
Who would have thought that the cautiousness of being a substitute pianist would become a strength today?
And the real protagonist, Hastings, has long announced his retirement from public performance, generously yielding the stage to others.
The one who moved Hastings to yield the stage at that time was Frederic Chopin.
Nevertheless, his name has not since disappeared.
His "Clock" still sells well in music score shops, and his melodies still sway under the fingers of children learning piano.
When "Clock" sounds in a salon, the entire room suddenly quiets down.
Liszt’s piano sound can make people scream, Talberg’s performance can make people smile, but Hastings’ tunes can make everyone stand solemnly, as if witnessing some irresistible fate.
I have listed Mr. Talberg and Sir Arthur Hastings as the most outstanding pianists of the season.
The former gains respect through piano performance, and the latter receives the highest accolade for personal character.
I truthfully report to the readers that I have nominated Hastings as one of the greatest pianists in history, and compare him with the most famous pianists in history.
Franz Liszt, compared to this God of Thunder, is merely an idol of the wind.
Hastings can bind storms like bundles of birch branches and use them to tame the sea, which Liszt cannot do.
The greatness of a pianist does not solely lie in how many notes he can strike or in tormenting a pitiful instrument like a hound run over by cart wheels. True greatness often lies in his mental cultivation.
Hastings never postures madly at the salon doors nor stoops for cheap praise in the papers. His humility is not a hypocritical mask, but an inner serenity.
He prefers not to become the revolving spectacle on stage, but rather to solemnly deliver art as a gift to the world.
In Paris, many musicians are willing to flaunt flesh like Ancient Roman gladiators for a few words of praise, and many sacrifice their friends’ names for the stage.
