The Shadow of Great Britain

During this time when Queen Adelaide has unfortunately lost her spouse, Mr. Brugrof’s performance, expressing comfort to Queen Adelaide in the audience, is naturally fitting.

After Mr. Brugrof’s ”D Major Fantasy” concluded, the one taking the stage was none other than Mr. John Strauss, who has recently risen to fame in Vienna.

His Waltz Suite ”Tribute to Queen Victoria of England” was clearly a dedicated offering.

However, these London music scene luminaries, though certainly talented, do not quite belong on the same playing field as Liszt.

Therefore, what truly captures his attention are the upcoming four piano pieces.

Felix Mendelssohn, director of the Leipzig Textile Hall Orchestra, takes the stage with his new work, ”Majestic Variations,” Op. 54.

Frederic Chopin, who recently rejected Tsar Nicholas I’s offer, steadfastly declined the position as chief court pianist of Russia, offering up ”Nocturne” (B-flat minor) and ”Polish Dance” (A-flat major ”Heroic”).

Currently Europe’s most prominent pianist, Sigismund Thalberg showcases his signature piece ”Moses Fantasy.”

And following Thalberg’s performance, the one stepping on stage is the King of Piano, Franz Liszt.

Tonight, on the platform of Buckingham Palace’s concert, with ”Memories of Don Juan,” Liszt will vie against Thalberg, intending to show all of Europe who truly deserves the title of Europe’s premier pianist.

Seeing this, Liszt couldn’t help but close his eyes and regulate his breathing.

The more crucial the moment, the more one must maintain composure. After all, in Liszt’s view, as long as he performs normally, Thalberg doesn’t stand a chance; he’s that confident in his own prowess.

Suddenly, Liszt opened his eyes.

He abruptly remembered something.

Liszt picked up the program again, scanning it from beginning to end.

He was searching for a name.

Where is Arthur Hastings?

Liszt hadn’t forgotten that his visit to London wasn’t solely to defeat Thalberg but also to challenge this piano coward Hastings who dared not confront him directly.

Yet, with such grandiose arrangements at Buckingham Palace’s concert, why can’t Hastings be seen?

Is he just listed under the guest conductor category?

Where’s the piano?

Where’s the piece?

Is the non-battle sign hanging high again?

At this thought, Liszt laughed in frustration and casually slammed the program onto the table beside him: ”What is this? Listed as guest conductor but didn’t dare play a single piece.”

He walked over to the dressing mirror, undid the first button on his collar, took a deep breath to adjust his breathing, and slowly buttoned up: ”Clever guy. By not playing, he never makes mistakes; by not stepping into the fray, he never loses. But you’re too naive. Tonight, once I take the stage, the whole venue will instantly know who is Europe’s number one pianist. At that time, I want to see whether you’ll pretend to be deaf or blind while sitting at the conductor’s stand.”

Standing upright, he retrieved the program, folded it into thirds, and pocketed it, contemplating how best to confront Arthur later.

Liszt was pondering how best to phrase his words to make this Arthur Hastings, a coward who only dared to show in the newspapers, squirm on stage.

The heavy red-painted wooden door of the backstage dressing room suddenly creaked open.

Chopin walked in.

He looked as if he had just crawled out of the Thames River, his face pale to the point of transparency, with his loose-fitting black tailcoat dangling and sweat trickling down his forehead.

Chopin hesitated at the door for a few seconds, seemingly unsure if he had entered the wrong room.

Liszt could instantly tell something was wrong with his complexion, his lips were slightly purple, and his breathing was somewhat shallow.

Liszt understood this well; Chopin wasn’t sick but showing a typical ”Chopin-style nervous reaction.”

Whenever the performance venue was too grand, the audience overly numerous, and the aristocrats crowding the front rows, his talented Polish friend would become anxious.

”Frederick.” Liszt went up to him, jokingly said, ”Did you see a beautiful lady? Don’t worry, no matter how lovely she is, you deserve her.”

Chopin managed a forced smile but didn’t reply; instead, he took off his gloves, clutching them in his hand.

His gaze moved to the teapot on the table, then back to Liszt’s face, finally lowering his voice: ”Seems quite crowded outside.”

”Oh, it’s not just crowded.” Liszt patted his shoulder with a laugh: ”Half the world is sitting out there. Queen Victoria, King Leopold, Princess Mary, along with Prussia’s sashes, Russia’s beards, Spain’s perfumes, and coffee beans and rum from America.”

Chopin didn’t respond, just gave Liszt a wistful glance, his mouth slightly quivering.

Seeing this, Liszt laughed even more: ”Relax, dear. If you play a wrong note, it’s no big deal. I occasionally make mistakes too, but to most of the audience, sometimes even your mistakes can be regarded as a kind of taste.”

Chopin took a gentle breath: ”It’s not the fear of playing the wrong note.”

”Then is it the fear of playing correctly?” Liszt leaned down to open the sugar jar next to the teapot, took out two cubes of sugar, dropped one into his cup, and tossed the other to Chopin: ”You can’t possibly be worried about playing too well, causing others to mistakenly think you’re provoking them, right?”