The Shadow of Great Britain

And what about Hastings?

He announced his retirement from public performance at the peak of his career. His retreat was not out of cowardice, but out of moderation. He wished to leave the applause to others and keep the silence for himself.

Mr. Talberg once confessed in a private conversation: ”If it weren’t for substituting Sir Arthur Hastings at the London Philharmonic Association back then, and if I hadn’t witnessed him stepping down gracefully, I would never have understood what true grace is.”

This remark might sound excessively flattering, but I am willing to believe in Talberg’s sincerity.

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

I want to end this article with a good story.

I heard that Mr. Sindler, who serves as the music director in Cologne, was very angry because I criticized his white tie harshly in a quarterly report and claimed that his business card bore the words ”Friend of Beethoven.”

He denied the latter, but as for the tie, it was entirely true. I have never seen a more dreadful white tie or stiff monstrosity. But regarding the business card, out of human nature, I must admit that I also doubt whether those words actually appear on it.

This story is not something I made up, but perhaps I have put too much trust in the rumors about Mr. Sindler.

In the affairs of the world, potentiality is often more important than the truth itself. Possibility shows that one is assumed to do such a foolish thing, allowing us to gauge his true character, while the fact itself can only be an accident, devoid of characteristic significance.

I have not personally seen the business card mentioned in the article.

However, a few days ago I saw Chopin personally recalling in a letter those turbulent days of his exile in London: ”If Arthur hadn’t been willing to relinquish the stage for me, 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 ink scent not yet faded.

Heine reclined on the long sofa, his legs propped up nonchalantly, a smug expression on his face as he pointed at the Music Bulletin: ”So, was that slash sharp enough?”

Arthur was holding the newspaper, his eyelids twitching as if a drum, and when he read about being heralded as the ”God of Thunder,” he nearly twisted the newspaper into a knot.

He was usually adept at dealing with the sarcastic remarks of White Hall bureaucrats, but at this moment he resembled a schoolboy called out by the teacher, his face shifting with uncertainty.

The Great Dumas sat nearby, shoulders trembling. Although the fatty was trying hard to suppress laughter, he couldn’t hold it in, laughing like a broken bellows: ”Hahaha! Arthur, you’re in a fix this time. I heard that after reading this article, Liszt was so furious that he almost smashed his piano and sent people everywhere to find out if you’d really come to Paris. Judging by his relentless demeanor, he either wants to challenge you to an honor duel or have a public competition on the piano.”

Arthur closed the newspaper, trying to make his voice sound calm, though his constantly shaking thumb betrayed his inner emotions: ”Didn’t Frederick try to restrain Liszt a little? He should know that if it’s a duel, Liszt doesn’t stand a chance against me.”

”Restrain?” The Great Dumas laughed until tears rolled out, the fatty wiping with a handkerchief for a long while before squeezing out a few words: ”What good is restraining? Liszt has already announced he will crush you on stage. Arthur, Frederick did his best, but this time Heinrich’s article was indeed a bit too toxic.”

Seeing Arthur’s nervous demeanor, Heine spoke with some disdain: ”Arthur, what’s there to fear? If it’s a duel, ten Liszts wouldn’t be enough for you. If it’s a piano battle... I admit, Liszt does have some skill, but ultimately, who wins or loses still depends on how we write it, right? Besides, didn’t you come to Paris this time to dampen Liszt’s sharpness?”

Arthur’s expression instantly darkened, and he tossed the newspaper back onto the coffee table with a smack: ”Heinrich! When did I ever tell you that I’ve come to Paris to battle Liszt on the piano? I’m here on proper business!”

”Ah?” Heine asked doubtfully: ”But, Mr. Carter told me just the other day during a chat that you’re in Paris this time to test the level of piano performance here.”

”Mr. Carter? You mean Eld?” Arthur nearly leaped from his chair: ”When did a second-class clerk of the Navy Department become a news officer for the Police Commissioner Committee? I hadn’t even warmed my luggage after arriving in Paris and he already signed me up for the competition?”

Upon hearing this, Heine also found it difficult: ”Then... what do we do now? Paris isn’t London; you can’t have Scotland Yard police arrest Liszt, can you?”

Hearing this, Arthur couldn’t help but turn to the Great Dumas angrily: ”Alexander, where’s Eld? I haven’t seen him in two days.”

The Great Dumas leisurely sipped a Bordeaux, waving it off: ”How should I know where he’s sleeping tonight, but last night he should’ve been overnighting in Pauline’s apartment.”