Book Excerpts

"My dearest friend, my dear pianoforte.
All other pleasures give way upon seeing you...
How you will be favoured!
Ah! how you will be savoured!"
- Song "The arrival of the pianoforte", Paris, 1771

It's 1816 in Paris and a spectacular harpsichord is going up in flames. It's delicate filigree designs and gilded, doe-like legs crackle as the flames lick at its sides, setting the painted birds and the animal musicians on its wing free as a phoenix. It's snapping, melting strings twang and zing as they release from the soundboard, their agony a swan song to a passing era.

That particularly cold winter, the harpsichords huddled in a neglected heap at the Paris Conservatory of Music. They were giving up their ghosts in an effort to keep music students from freezing, their deaths a cacophony of twangs and pings.

No one gave the demise of those regal, whisper voiced instruments a second thought because, after all, no one was playing them, not since that bold, ballsy instrument, the pianoforte had come to town.

Practically invisible next to that brash, new instrument, somewhere between 20 and 100 harpsichords gave up their sweet voices to the flames, their fragile marquetry curling and glowing into ash while music students ran their warm fingers up and down the ivory keyboards of the new kid on the block. The fiery departure of those harpsichords marked the end of their reign; like the bad boy with the cigarette pack rolled into the cuff of his T-shirt, the piano, or pianoforte, had arrived, and nothing was going to be the same – ever.

Sébastien Erard was showing off. He was Paris' leading pianoforte builder and the 50-day French Industrial Exposition of 1823 seemed the perfect venue to unveil what was hiding in the bellies of the grand pianos he had on display. Not only was the Exposition held on the ground floor of the prestigious Louvre, but it featured over 1,642 exhibitors displaying the cream of French industry.

There were numerous eye-popping innovations to gawk at, like the models of the first suspension bridge, but Sébastien was certain his invention would cause a stir, because he had been working on it for the last few years and it did something that had never been seen or heard. When he demonstrated his invention Sébastien held down a note and then with lightening speed repeated that note, again and again and again. Heads turned and the whispers of astonishment became a wave of appreciation. While quickly repeating notes on a piano may not sound like much, in 1823 it was a big deal. For over 100 years it had been impossible to quickly repeat the same note until Érard came up with his new patented innovation which let the pianist hold down a note and without fully releasing the key, strike that note over and over and over, again. This innovation, beyond giving annoying children a new way to torment their elders, was such a game changer that from then on every modern piano would incorporate it.

Antoine Marmontel, a pianist and piano history writer later wrote that this invention allowed for "sensitivity of touch on the keyboard… (and) transmitted in essence the most intimate expression of the soul of the artist." So what was this miraculous innovation? It was called the double escapement, and despite Marmontel's exaggerated prose and love of hyperbole, it really was the cat's pyjamas.

On a spring day in 1834 Paris, two men faced off thirty paces apart. They aimed their single-shot pistols at each other. Nervous and hesitant they strode haltingly forwards.

Henri Herz' student, Edouard Billard, was one of the duelists. He was young and a promising pianist with a light touch and an engaging character. The other duelist was the music publisher Maurice Schlesinger, an important and prosperous player in the world of serious classical music. At the agreed 20 paces Billard shot first. His bullet whistled through Schlesinger's overcoat, and just missed his chest. Schlesinger, stood calmly, steely determination reflected in his eyes. His bullet hit Billard in the gut but did not pierce his flesh. He would have a nasty bruise.

Lucky for music, there were no fatalities. While Schlesinger probably owed his life to the fact that the pistols of the time were far from accurate, Billard owed his life to human intervention. Franz Stoepel, the music critic, had loaded the pistols with false charges to weaken the impact of the bullets. Had Stoepel not had the sense to interfere, Billard's bruise might have been fatal.

What was all this daring do and manly affront about? Music! Schlesinger was on the side of high art, and had to defend serious music against the onslaught of lowly, popular entertainment of the sort Billard specialized in. For Schlesinger, Billard and his ilk were sullying music and needed to be put in their place.

While Parisian politicians were sorting themselves out another, a perhaps more profound, but less obstreperous revolution was taking place in the arts. The Romantic Movement was a revolt against the earlier age of Enlightenment which had focused on reason and logic. What good was reason and logic when it could produce “The reign of Terror” when thousands lost their heads during the revolution. “The reasoning spirit, in destroying the imagination, saps the foundations of the fine arts,” is how the writer Chateaubriand put it. Reason was out, and imagination was in. In the arts, the focus was on being new, different and individualistic. Inspiration was to be drawn from the spirit, nature and the ego (often leaning heavily on the latter). It was summed up best by Heinrich Heine, the German poet who had recently arrived in Paris. “Paris arises as a Pantheon of the living. Here is being created a new art, a new religion, a new life; it is here the creators of the new world are joyously stirring things up.”

The Romantic movement also sounded a new note for musical audiences. In its determination to celebrate the human spirit, music ventured into new and dynamic areas. It also marked the shift from music patrons to paying customers and if they were paying you needed to wow them. For musicians, the patron saint of the musical wow was Beethoven. While Beethoven was from the Classical period, his music was passionate, emotional, evocative and, for some, disturbing. The headstrong Beethoven, who was lucky to have patrons who financially supported him in Vienna, had always done things his own way. He was opinionated, sullen, grumpy, struggling with deafness, in poor health. Granted he was not the easiest person to get along with but that was okay since he was a genius with a capital G. “The God of gods”3A as one Parisian musician deigned to called him, was the perfect role model for the next generation of musicians. As Delacroix was heard to say on leaving a concert that featured Beethoven on the program: “Beethoven moves us most, because he is the man of our times: he is romantic to the supreme degree.”

The morning of June 4, 1835, a stagecoach rattled into the small Swiss French border town of Basel. Liszt stepped wearily from the coach. It had been a long four-day journey from Paris but as disgruntled as he was, he wasted no time heading for the post office to retrieve a letter that had been waiting impatiently for his arrival. "Let me know right away the name of your hotel and your room number. Do not go out." Almost frantic Liszt checks into the Cigogne Hotel and immediately writes a reply, "Since you have summoned me, I am here," he writes in French but then switches to English to make sure only the recipient of the message understands. "I shall not go out till I see you." He includes directions to his room, "the first floor – on the right" and sends it on its way to the luxury Hotel of the Three Kings on the left bank of the Rhine River. Within an hour there's a discreet, but somehow impatient knock, on his door. The Countess d'Agoult, Liszt's former mistress, has arrived at his door.

"Thalberg is the first pianist in the world! – And Liszt?..."

What pianist could possibly be worth 40 francs?! Outrageous when everyone else charged 5 francs! And yet the concert was sold out!

It was the afternoon of a day long charity event at the salon of the Princess La Belgiojoso, and it was packed. The most notable aristocrats, rich bourgeois and artists had all coughed up the 40-franc fee to partake in the day's events which had started with some chamber music and singers, prepping the audience for the main event. When the aristocratic, calm, and composed Thalberg approached the solitary piano the crowd jostled up against the cordoned off area and then grew quiet as Thalberg's placid gaze turned on them. He would play first and then it would be Liszt's turn. The piano duel that had been brewing for months was about to begin.

Stephen Heller had had enough. He grabbed the two parallel wooden bars that comprised Kalkbrenner's patented hand guide, wrested them from the keyboard and threw them in the fire. The mute keyboard he had used for practice when no piano was available went sailing out the window, and finally, he amassed a huge pile of the most lauded piano exercises and studies and tore them to shreds. While Heller had come to Paris with the express intent of becoming a virtuoso, he couldn't take it anymore. He was caught up in the push-me pull-you between being a musician artist or a piano virtuoso, but now, finally, he had made up his mind. He had hoped a career as a virtuoso would make him enough money to marry a German frauline he fancied, but he just couldn't take it any longer. While other wannabe virtuosos toiled away endlessly at exercises and studies in the hopes of becoming the next Thalberg or Liszt, Heller had made his decision. He would be a musician and artist first, money, and lovely frauline, be damned.

Back in the mid 1830s any piano virtuoso worth their salt knew that to become truly famous they had to meet their fate in Paris, the world's piano mecca, and now it was Clara Wieck's turn. She knew Paris was critical to her success, and she was feeling the pressure, "I'm scared to death about my trip to Paris; when I hear someone like Thalberg or Liszt, I always feel so insignificant… I could cry!"

And fear of failure wasn't the only reason for her jittery nerves. Clara was going it alone because her father, Frederic Wieck, was steadfastly set on thwarting her dream of marrying Robert Schumann. Frederic had been her teacher, manager and the overall organizing and controlling force in her life, and now, even though he had countenanced her trip to Paris, he refused her his help and guidance. He hoped she would fail and come running back to daddy. "Father's attitude has hurt me, deeply," wrote a resigned but determined Clara. She had never had to organize her own concerts, hire musicians, or even find her own lodgings because he had always taken care of everything. By cutting her loose, he was hoping to regain control over her, but Clara knew what he was up to and choosing her future with Robert as motivation she stepped out into her independence. Wanting to make it look like he was letting her test her wings, but at the same time still needing to control her, Papa Wieck had even gone so far as to hire a complete stranger as her chaperon, and his spy, and in a final swipe of destructive arrogance he had assured her that she would soon return to Leipzig because he knew she was going to flounder without him.

Nonetheless, Clara, who had stopped over in Stuttgart on her way to Paris, missed her father and remained hopeful that his affection for her would win out, "I think Father is going to surprise me with a visit any day, any minute now," but no letter came, and he did not show up. To add to her anxiety, Clara had had no letters from her fiancée Robert Schumann as his letters had been forwarded and were waiting for her in Paris. Schumann, was deeply concerned about her solo trip, and wrote frequent supportive letters hoping they would keep Clara strong and motivated. So, fatherless and letterless, alone in Stuttgart, the 19-year-old Clara hesitated. "What should I do?", she wrote Schumann still hoping her father would come, "I don't know if he will come here or I should go to Paris myself; I don't know a thing." Mulling it over she realized that returning to Leipzig would be an admission of her reliance on Papa and would spell the end of any chance at independence and of marrying Robert. She decided to pack up for Paris. On the eve of her departure, she finally received that much awaited letter.

"Imagine, eight pages and nothing but reproaches that I wasn't doing anything right… that he was not coming to Paris," she wrote to her beloved Robert. "Have courage, my Robert, right?" Clara Weick picked up her baggage, her determination and her dignity and headed for the city of lights.

A virtuoso pianist is playing a fantasy in concert and starting "such a fast movement that it was humanely impossible to finish," noted a Paris music writer. As the torrent of notes increases, the public wonders how the pianist can keep up. It is like watching a tightrope walker who has reached the midpoint and one wonders if they will falter. But this pianist has a safety net. Just as the piece becomes too difficult to continue, a lady in the audience, overtaken by the frenzied playing, faints. The virtuoso pianist rushes to the aid of the poor lady "leaving everyone in the hall believing that had this regrettable incident not happened, the prodigious pianist would have completed the largest of miracles," continues the music writer. It turns out as the writer explains that the pianist had "paid ladies 25 francs per concert to seemingly faint" so that the pianist would not have to continue the impossible avalanche of notes. On another occasion, the same pianist was playing a very demanding Weber Concerto. At a difficult virtuoso passage another lady had been paid to faint on cue to relieve the pianist from his tinkering torture. But this time the lady fell asleep, and the pianist had to continue through the passage. Not sure how to get out of his predicament, the pianist himself faints. The unconscious pianist was "taken to the foyer; men applauded energetically, women fluttered their handkerchiefs in enthusiasm, and the lady who was supposed to faint, woke up and fainted for real perhaps in despair for having missed her cue," reports the same writer.

While the writer telling this story never reveals the name of the pianist, (simply referring to him as a German pianist), there are elements in the story that remind one of Liszt. During the "Lisztomania" concerts in Berlin, one of the drawings of the audience showed a woman fainting. There was also the time that Liszt fainted in a Paris concert after playing for a long time in a stuffy hall. Many believed at the time that Liszt had conveniently fainted and that woman who fainted at his concerts had been paid to do so for effect. But Liszt had no problems with a difficult Weber composition, the Concertstruck which he played often and was one of his showpieces. In the 1840's Liszt's showpiece was the Grand Chromatic Galop that had dazzled audiences with its frantic speed and boisterous energy. One audience member related how when he played the Galop, Liszt "had control of my pulse, and his playing accelerated it so much I became giddy." While Liszt could be a showy pianist, it was not his goal that others follow his example. But others saw that audiences reacted to the flashier stuff. They roared with delight when a pianist could make a piano thunder with sound and go at speeds that seemed superhuman. "Foudroyante" which translates as "thundering lightning", is how reviewers often referred to the effect on audiences of these types of pianists. And one pianist who played loudly and prodigiously fast was Alexander Dreyschock.

"For the next fifteen minutes Mr. Meyer is the monster-pianist, the lion-pianist, the prodigal pianist, because we assume that illustrious others will arrive every half hour."

In the early months of 1845, Léopold de Meyer was the hot virtuoso pianist in Paris. A caricature of de Meyer at the piano added to the tongue-in-cheek tone of the above review. His body overwhelms the piano as the tip of his left foot is on top of the far end of the keyboard, as is his left elbow which seems to block the knee, also poised to strike the keyboard. (In a later caricature of de Meyer, no elbow blocked the knee from reaching the keyboard). He has a long beard, mustache, and goatee like mane, which is probably one of the reasons he was called the lion-pianist. In the first caricature de Meyer is looking out at us with a smug look as if to say "can anyone else do this?" It is not even sure he did it himself. There were times he used only his thumbs, fists and elbows to play, (which delighted his audiences), but it not sure if he ever used his feet and knees.

He was not thin and elegant like Thalberg or Liszt, but short, fat and perspired a lot when he played. Like a good virtuoso of the moment, he overwhelmed the piano and in the caricature one of the legs of the piano stool is giving way. Of course, he had an Érard which could take whatever part of his limbs he threw at it. In the caricature on the side of the piano is prominently written in all caps: "PIANO ERARD, A TOUTE EPREUVE" which basically translates as "Piano Érard, up to all challenges." Like Dreyschock, he played fast and loud and his stunts made him a worthy member of the "flying trapeze" school of piano playing. But in the exaggerated caricature of him and the proud statement of his Érard piano being able to take a beating, de Meyer was revealing a new growing aspect to the piano virtuoso: a large publicity campaign promising all the wonders of the world. Paris was in full-on puff pianist mode.

"[T]aken all in all, modern virtuosity has benefited art very little."
-Robert Schumann

"Ah! this virtuosity… Have we beaten you enough in the name of Art, with a capital A."
- Camille Saint-Saens

In a Paris journal of 1886 appeared a series of caricatures of Liszt's life entitled Brilliant Fantasy on Liszt. Prominent in the center of the various images depicting the now 75-year-old Liszt, is the older Liszt at a piano with multiple hands flying around the keyboard and destroying the keys beneath him. Strapped to his waist is a cartoonishly oversized version of the saber of honour which he received in Hungary. As if to match a previous caricature of Thalberg at the piano with 8 hands, Liszt also has 8 hands, four for each side of the keyboard, butchering the piano. The caption under the caricature notes that Liszt had given up using the saber "when he realized he could do more damage to the piano just using his hands." Even though Liszt had given up his virtuoso career almost 40 years earlier, the image of his flamboyant days as the dominator of pianos still resonated. This even though Paris by 1886 was no longer the capital of romantic piano virtuosity. Germany was now the center of piano making and musicianship and serious music was favoured over flamboyant virtuosity. As a piano history written in the late 19th century noted, in the 1830's and 40's "[t]he splendour of virtuosity lay like the eternal sun over Paris," but by the end of the 19th century another piano history remarked that "[m]ere virtuosity now leads but a sorry life." Paris was no longer Pianopolis.