The Shadow of Great Britain

Paris, Marais District.

The morning sunlight slanted through the shutters, spilling over a desk piled with scores and books.

Sigismund Thalberg, draped in a casual light-colored robe, appeared somewhat fatigued.

His quality of sleep had been poor for a while, ever since he arrived in France in 1836, this period could almost be considered his most arduous days.

Last April, he held his first solo concert in Paris, followed by causing a sensation in Lyon and Brussels, but since the beginning of this year, when Liszt returned to Paris, the situation took a sharp turn.

This was not only reflected in a series of aggressive articles published by Liszt in the Music Bulletin, but also in the frequency of Liszt’s personal concerts.

Who could have imagined that Liszt would hold an astounding twenty concerts in less than two months, while Talberg only held a mere two in the same period.

Talberg did consider retaliating against Liszt. In fact, the day after Liszt published those satirical articles targeting him, he publicly stated he would fight back and immediately decided to hold a concert at the Music Academy on Sunday afternoon, performing his signature pieces ”God Save the King Fantasy” and ”Moses Fantasy.”

However, in response, Liszt held a concert at the Paris Opera House the following Sunday afternoon, where the audience was ten times more numerous than Talberg’s.

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

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

By that time, he would either have to seek a way out in Vienna, or return to London...

After all, no matter what, at least in the Tower of London, there’s still the teacher, Mozesales’ care, and the income from the London Philharmonic Association isn’t low...

But...

How could he possibly be content?

Just as Talberg was sunk in worries, a gentle knock sounded at the door.

”Sir, your breakfast.”

The apartment servant entered, carrying a silver tray with freshly baked cream bread and a cup of steaming hot chocolate.

Beside the tray, two newspapers were neatly stacked, one was the Music Bulletin, and the other was the just-delivered Constitutional Newspaper.

Talberg instinctively glanced at the familiar Music Bulletin, a sense of rejection rising within him. He bypassed the paper that gave him headaches and directly picked up the Constitutional Newspaper.

The light from the shutters fell perfectly on the headline:

”On Piano Art and True Accomplishment”

Author: Arthur Hastings

Talberg was taken aback. He slowly unfolded the newspaper, his eyes scanning downward.

When names like Couperin, Dussek, and Carl Czerny appeared one by one, his expression remained calm, as if it were just a common music review.

But when he read ”Mr. Franz Liszt is undoubtedly the most noticeable,” his fingers involuntarily tightened, almost prompting him to put down the newspaper.

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

However, the subsequent text made him hold his breath.

”Precisely because of this, Mr. Sigismund Thalberg’s efforts deserve mention.” Talberg couldn’t help but read this passage aloud.

He gripped the newspaper fiercely, incredulously rereading: ”He may not win with ostentatious postures...”

Talberg’s gaze followed the text downward, and when he read ”I reserve this position for Mr. Sigismund Thalberg,” his chest suddenly tightened, as if a surge of warmth rushed to his throat.

He indeed remembered that day when Arthur patted his shoulder and told him, ”Sigi, from now on, the Third Orchestra is yours.”

In the past, Talberg had once suspected the proficiency of this predecessor who played only one piece all his life, but now...

He instinctively stood up, the chair leg scraping against the wooden floor with a piercing sound. The newspaper’s edges were crumpled in his grip, yet he was oblivious.

”My God, he’s come to Paris?” he murmured, ”And... he announced leaving the performance scene, was it because of me...”

The servant beside him was somewhat startled and quickly asked, ”Sir? Do you need me to heat up the chocolate for you?”

”No, no need.” Talberg suddenly raised his head, his eyes alight with a long-lost sparkle, as if the gloom of months had been swept away: ”Do you know where Sir Arthur Hastings is staying in Paris now?”

The servant was stunned, utterly bewildered: ”Sir Arthur Hastings? Forgive my ignorance... sir, I’ve never heard of this name... who is he?”

”Who is he?” Talberg repeated the servant’s question, his voice deep, as he put away the Constitutional Newspaper: ”The best technical pianist in London, and the person I’m going to meet right away.”

...

On Saint Honore Street, the resplendent mansion with chandeliers radiated layers of golden light from the crystals, making the surrounding murals and reliefs seem alive.

Great Dumas’s salon, always a grand event in Paris’s cultural circle.

Here, there were both emerging poets and elderly critics. There were elegant noblewomen and young writers with disheveled hair holding their new manuscripts in their arms.

Someone in a corner loudly recited their freshly penned sonnet, prompting applause. Some were gathered around the piano, discussing with enthusiasm, fingers lightly tapping the keys to create chords, looking like they could engage in an impromptu performance anytime to prove a point. Waiters moved among the guests, silver trays carrying champagne and Brie cheese. The air was a blend of tobacco, wine, and rose perfume, the atmosphere so lively as if it could melt the entire room.