The Shadow of Great Britain

”The Sun” (The Sun was founded in 1792, one of Britain’s earliest ”penny dailies,” not directly related to the more widely known The Sun founded in 1964, although their reporting styles are similar.)

August 25, 1837 issue · Society Commentary Column

”Liszt and His Countess, Salute to the Fire-playing Piano Genius”

The candlelight of Buckingham Palace has yet to extinguish, and the echoes of last night’s concert still linger within the palace walls. Those who heard Mr. Liszt play are likely still striving to discern whether they were moved by the music or merely dazzled by the young performer’s flowing locks.

Reportedly, he played Mozart’s ”Don Juan” at the Buckingham Palace concert last night, turning it into a symphony of confession and seduction. As the piano piece progressed to the Chapter where Don Juan was dragged into Hell, an unusual cheer erupted from the audience. We naturally understand that a pianist’s art should ”burn,” but if the blaze spreads from the piano keys to the boudoir, that might become a bit troublesome.

Parisian society is already familiar with Franz Liszt’s pianistic flames. It’s well-known that the piano genius is always surrounded by admirers. To navigate through a sea of flowers without any leaf clinging to one’s self is indeed an impossible challenge for most. From Paris to Rome, from Rome to Geneva, this young ”Piano Savior” played his way, saving souls but also lonely noblewomen.

Though Mr. Franz Liszt is not yet thirty, he is already dubbed ”the most dangerous instrument to European women.” Every performance of his is akin to a fire. Each tour is like an expedition. Parisian newspapers often claim he never prays before a performance, merely tidies his hair in front of the mirror to leave married, unmarried, and newly vowed celibate women alike repenting to the sound of his music.

Despite his outstanding performance at last night’s Buckingham Palace concert, his true masterpiece, ”Memories of Don Juan,” doesn’t quite make the cut. The duet he penned beyond the world of piano with Countess Mary Dagu remains his most glorious moment in this lifetime.

This Countess was originally the wife of Count Charles Louis Constant Dagu, and they had two daughters. Yet, it seems that after attending one of Liszt’s solo concerts, the Countess suddenly realized the grand discovery that ”Heaven might indeed have piano accompaniment.” Thus, she put down the Ten Commandments and shed her wedding ring, abandoning husband and daughters to elope across the Alps with her ”music mentor” towards Switzerland.

It is said they co-wrote diaries by Lake Geneva.

It is said they co-wrote scores in Italian hotels.

Some say they wrote nothing during the journey, merely inscribing each other’s surnames on their palms.

Count Dagu is reportedly still waiting in his French family castle for her return, while her piano hero is currently in London’s noble salons eloquently discussing the spirit of Romanticism. However, whether it be spirit or body, this romantic journey now finds a new audience—Her Majesty the Queen.

We certainly dare not insinuate anything improper. God bless, London journalists only discuss art! Yet, some say the Queen’s expression appeared overly focused while Liszt played ”Memories of Don Juan” last night. Others say Viscount Melbourne’s face, usually steady, bore a trace of untimely jealousy.

If this is true, it would indeed be a spectacle. The Prime Minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland succumbing to jealousy at a palace music concert would probably be more worth discussing than Downing Street’s budget.

We might remind Mr. Liszt that the gas lamps of London differ from the candlelight of Paris in that the former are far less romantic and only reveal scandals. As for the Countess Dagu staying far in Paris, perhaps we should advise her to cease writing to Liszt.

Because each of her letters will only evoke a chuckle worth three pennies on the streets of London. Of course, it might be worth seven pennies, provided the distinguished, haughty, snobbishly condescending The Times and Chronicle Morning Paper favor my manuscript.

However, regardless, ultimately music is noble; only when a pianist turns himself into a topic do Londoners feel obliged to turn him into a joke. In last night’s ”Memories of Don Juan,” Don Juan was ultimately consumed by the fires of Hell. And tonight’s Liszt should perhaps take warning, for public opinion is London’s Hell.

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In the Secretary-General’s Office of the Police Commissioner Committee, Arthur reclined on the sofa with his legs crossed, a copy of ”The Sun” spread on his lap, accompanied by the rustling of turning pages and the clicking sounds from Arthur puffing his pipe.

It was evident he was savoring it.

This was the third time he had read it.

The literary critique penned by someone under the name ”By A Moral Observer” was placed prominently beneath the Literary column of ”The Sun,” unmistakably exuding the foul yet intense aroma of Fleet Street.

Of course, you could think positively and call such signatures the fashion of Fleet Street.

Every time Fleet Street’s newspapers publish a column that harbors ambiguity, satire, or semi-gossip nature, they use such half-satirical, half-postured signatures.