To the intellect, music is a worthless entertainment, a selfish art, but to the heart, it is a celestial rhythm, defending against the devil. The young man understood the invaluable worth and emotion of music. He himself, expressed more in his cacophony than the ordinary pianist could in their most harmonious piece. For Lorenzo Pierre was neither a prodigy nor a genius-he was much more. He embodied the quintessence of music, possessing the ability for perfection with untamed creativity and emotion. Nonetheless, Monsieur Pierre could not find the root of fame. He had approached Ravel, who never looked his way;
Satie dismissed him as a lunatic; even Chaminade refused his talents. He had played for this man and that man, but it was the man that he needed to play for. It must be Marceau Mercure, France’s and, perhaps, the world’s musical deity. Inside the bustling Palais du ciel, Lorenzo squeezed past the throngs of commoners fighting for a seat. Mercure’s devotees murmured exaltations of their god, disgusted Lorenzo that they praised such a man. It should be for him. There beyond the crowd, he spotted his client Drouin. “Bonsoir, Monsieur Drouin. Why you are here? Are you watching Mercure? Pierre said, displeased by his client’s disloyalty.
Oui, I have been entranced by Monsieur Mercure’s indescribable technique. His style is that of someone much more experienced than one of his age. Of course, I have not forgotten you, my boy, but he is magnificent. I dare say you are here to see him? ” “Oui, but also to implore upon Mercure that he might give me his endorsement. Perhaps he may also prove his fans’ words. But, fame is not a sure measure of skill, and I cannot believe the common rumor. I am surprised too that you follow this momentary trend. ” “I can assure you that the an is a genius even if he is famous. Of course, he carries this conceit, rising above those around him.
I have ignored it for his talent. But if it afflicted another man just as much, that man would be my enemy. I wish you luck, Lorenzo. A tout a l’heure. ” Lorenzo Pierre ambled past the rows of ornate silk cushions to his seat directly before the orchestra-donated by an insultingly pitying client and accepted without thanks. A few minutes after taking his seat, the audience rose in a presumptive standing ovation, but Monsieur Pierre refused to follow suit, offering a reluctant clap instead. As the audience’s approval rang through the hall, Monsieur Mercure staggered to his stand.
He placed their praise upon his heart, worshiping himself, yet could not obscure the burden contained in his face. His eyes darted across the audience in an anticipating manner. They were filled with a smoldering flame. If one were to look behind that fire and peer through the shroud of smoke, he would find a profound wisdom lurking, that of a counsel of minds, strangly visible in spite of the flame’s radiant glow. After he had given a pompous bow, Mercure faced the orchestra, like a general speaking to his oldiers, and greeted the concertmaster with a pained smile. He stood by the piano.
With a sweep of his hand, he painted the music into the air. His face revealed an alleviation in leading the instruments-guiding them into prominence and to success in their campaign. From the very first note, Pierre was convinced of Mercure’s ingenuity as a conductor. Nonetheless, the man’s sophisticated artistry, one that had disappeared from other pianists after the Great War, emerged when he coaxed the piano’s first notes out. Marceau’s playing insisted upon a keen observation of every note the pianist pressed, and every tender ound and emotion echoing through Palais du ciel.
Of course, the aspect of performance was not to be overlooked. His hands danced across the piano faster than the audience could even think; his face calmed by this moment of peace. Mercure interpreted Chopin’s concerto like no one else. The sonorous melodies that rose from the piano were a sorrowful remembrance of times gone by. What had often been interpreted as a jubilant celebration had been rightly transformed into the regrets of its composer. Even Lorenzo had fallen unconscious under the music’s hypnotism. When the last ave of sound had crashed through Palais du ciel, a fermata silence held for a moment.
The hall pulsed with the emotions spurred by the music. Some may say that it was Chopin’s gift of melodies and harmonies, but Lorenzo knew this was not wholly true. Marceau Mercure had the art of playing that Chopin had possessed himself. He evoked a tenderness without affection and a energy without roughness from each passage. And the expression and technique showed the marks of an accumulation of centuries’ knowledge of music. Lorenzo knew Mercure was the man he needed. By this time, the crowd, even Pierre, had stood up, applauding the man and shouting his name. Marceau said, “I don’t deserve this.
I am just a man,” yet he basked in their awe of his expertise and dedication to music. Lorenzo watched the man wearily climb down from his podium and make his laborious way through the columns of musicians, giving them harsh feedback and never a compliment, despite the honor he received from them in self-respect. When he had woven through the entire orchestra, he gave a farewell bow and walked off the stage. Mercure’s mannerisms baffled Lorenzo. The man, though just a few years his elder, was weighed down y an inner burden. Yet every moment the audience worshipped him, he was relieved for a short time.
Nonetheless, Lorenzo had no time to ponder this mystery-he must meet the man. He must become even more acclaimed than Marceau. He clamored to the stage and asked the concertmaster, “Where is Mercure? l’d like to give him a performance, and I have no doubt that he’d enjoy it. ” “Play something for me first,” said the violinist, “for he does not care for an inferior pianist. ” With a nod, Pierre obeyed. He rested his hands upon the polished keys and played a brilliant showpiece by Franz Liszt, La Campanella-a iece void of any passion or meaning to him, but its impressive scales and climbs impressed the naive listener.
He was in. In the hall backstage, he heard the faintest strains of Handel, Debussy, Scriabine. After waiting a moment, he peered through the window of a door. Behind it, Marceau Mercure sat before a piano playing every composer known, much less restrained than before, allowing his prodigious mind absolute freedom to express more ideas at once, than what should be humanly possible. To the untrained ear, one would dismiss the playing as a musician’s lunatical rant, but to Lorenzo’s ear, an unknown orld of music at battle emerged.
Stravinsky launched a spray l a of fiery arrows; Tchaikovsky exploded with cannon shot after cannon shot; Schumann assembled his child army; Wagner rode out into battle and selected who was to be slain; Chopin snuck up upon his enemy in the tulip fields where the butterflies and hummingbirds play. The music overwhelmed Monsieur Pierre. It seemed to rip every nerve out of his body. After regaining his senses, he opened the door, breaking music’s trance upon Marceau. He peered in, seeing only the piano and the man before it.
Although Monsieur Mercure seemed very fatigued, he ddressed him in just seconds, “Bonsoir, who are you? “Lorenzo Pierre. I’d like to play for you. I am a fantastic pianist though I have been struggling to find an audience and I am here to ask for an endorsement. You could surely make me famous. And, perhaps, you will be my first understanding listener, for only the ignorant have heard me play. ” “For an unknown pianist to suggest a such skill is quite preposterous, but let me hear you. I shall gratify your wish for a listener such as that for I can only hope for one of those in this illiterate century. ” Lorenzo sat on the piano bench and he began his piece.
The conductor nodded in approval, recognizing the first of Chopin’s opus 28 preludes. As Lorenzo drifted through the cycle of preludes, he saw that Marceau fell into the depths of each one despite their minute qualities. After continuing through major and minor keys, he ended with a sprint to the finish line, prancing down the pianoforte. The conductor waited until the last notes had reverberated out of the room before speaking, “You play like the devil. I am not suggesting a wicked nature to your performance, but it was rather spirited, demented even-a bit in excess, but regardless a satisfactory performance.
Unfortunately, I must be going, but why don’t you dine at my estate in two weeks’ time? We may continue your performance there. ” “That would be magnificent. Au Revoir,” Lorenzo said, taken aback by Mercure’s comment. Through the fortnight before the dinner, Monsieur Pierre depended solely, despite the seldom sip of wine or crumb of bread, upon the pianoforte to carry him. He had spent them in a musical communion, willingly offering up his soul to Mussorgsky, Sibelius, Rachmaninoff, among the giants of art. This devotion had been ratified by Marceau’s suggestion of a too free-spirited playing.