The Shadow of Great Britain

Liszt’s smile had not fully faded, and the stage was so silent that the faint crackling of candle flames 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 seemed as if the air was being drawn away, and even the crystal chandelier on the palace dome was at a standstill.

The first chord fell.

The melody pierced through the long night like lightning.

”Memories of Don Juan.”

The opening melody was light, elegant, almost wanton, like a carefree dancer swaying gracefully in a splendid palace.

But the subsequent rhythms descended like a sudden storm, the left hand’s bass thunderously tumbling, while the right hand’s treble urgently soared.

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

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

He could almost see the air around Liszt ignited by the piano’s sound, flames tumbling and burning, it wasn’t an ordinary performance, but a desecration of human limits.

His body leaned slightly forward, the keys under Liszt’s hands emitted a searing light, even the music stand trembled.

Occasionally, a few suppressed exclamations came from the audience, the ladies of London widened their eyes, at this moment they seemed to finally understand why Franz Liszt was the King of Piano, and why so many girls in Paris swooned, roared, and went mad for him.

However, Arthur standing backstage remained motionless.

He stood in the shadow behind the curtain, his gaze inch by inch locked on those hands.

Those hands were so fast, almost inhumanly so.

Yet beneath that speed, what he heard wasn’t mere technical display, but an attitude of joy almost cruel in its nature.

Liszt’s music turned from magnificence to mockery, and from mockery to defiance.

He made the piano cry and laugh,

and finally,

made the piano pray.

Arthur knew the structure of this piece, familiar with every twist of theme and variation in it.

Though Liszt had publicly criticized Arthur’s adaptations of Paganini in the Music Bulletin, in truth, Liszt himself was also a master at adaptation.

If one must be pedantic, ”Memories of Don Juan” couldn’t be considered Liszt’s original work.

Because the foundation of this piece was entirely built upon Mozart’s opera ”Don Juan,” incorporating Mozart’s ”Champagne Aria,” ”Là ci darem la mano,” and the ”Commendatore Scene.”

However, to accuse Liszt of plagiarism wouldn’t be fair either.

Because he didn’t simply copy, but subjected them to extreme contrapuntal treatment.

In Liszt’s adaptation of the ”Là ci darem la mano” passage, he not only played the duet melody of Don Juan and Zerlina in the treble with the right hand, but also had to maintain a constant tremolo in the bass with the left to symbolize desire, a complexity that required the performer to cross hands to achieve.

Only by doing so could the audience hear the melodic singing while maintaining the balance of the accompaniment below.

And such adaptation naturally demands the performer to be able to cover ten or even eleven chords simultaneously, which for an ordinary performer is tantamount to torture.

Even for a pianist like Arthur, with wide palms and exceptional talent, imagining himself in Liszt’s place, merely playing the complete piece ”Memories of Don Juan” would be challenging enough.

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

His hand skimmed across the keys, ten, eleven intervals... plus cross-hand glissando, yet there was not the slightest hesitation.

Those were hands capable of easily spanning thirteen octaves.

A truly knowledgeable performer often understands Liszt’s madness better than any audience.

Others heard the dazzling display, only a true performer realized it was a power defying the human body’s design.

Liszt smiled slightly, and the melody suddenly shifted.

The tempo accelerated abruptly, as if a group of devils were holding champagne, reveling at a ball.

The broken chords in the left hand’s bass area rolled like waves, while the right hand raced and shimmered in the treble, like flames burning on silverware.

It was indulgence in virtuosity, scorn amid laughter.

Arthur could tell, Liszt was mocking.

Mocking his fellow technicians, as well as mocking the traditional perfectionists.

The bass region suddenly collapsed, the left hand’s heavy pounding like the gates of Hell suddenly opening.

The right hand’s chords climbed steeply, sharp, fierce, nearly tearing the atmosphere apart, the scene of Don Juan being dragged into Hell vividly emerged.

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

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

The frivolous meaning at the beginning of the piece was long gone, only the gradual immersion in ecstasy and destruction remained.

He was almost entirely burning in front of the piano.

Sweat trickled down his forehead, those hands crisscrossed like lightning, drawing dazzling trails in the air with continuous tone clusters and semitones.

Sonic speed freaks, Liszt’s hands flew over the black and white keys, his fingers almost invisible.

People marveled, and some even let out faint screams.

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

He translated Mozart’s elegance into pure violence.