In the development section he was alert again, hearing new things, an onsurge of latent drama, the first subject transformatively propelled, but inconclusively so, as if this were a search for the material’s true destiny and Philip was driving that hunt, then sidestepping into a parallel reverie, the wandering dream that interrupted Chopin’s quest for order.
Something had clicked, he was certain, by the end of the first movement. He had an ingrained sense of command, and as he dusted his forehead with a hanky, he wondered how long this renewed mastery had been incubating, because it seemed now so assured, so deeply founded, so new. He felt the tension of his own desire for expression as a fabulous power over sound.
But he had to pay attention before the scherzo, which started molto vivace, in a gossamer rush of quavers, leggierissimo, and had to be whirring along before it began, like a butterfly, already airborne, flickering on a current of air that whooshed to the height of the keyboard and down again; and as always with this movement you had to think your hand into a shimmering lightness of touch before contact with the keys, so everything was immediately on course.
In the third movement he began to feel something drawing on him, an undertow. The first two movements had roused all his powers, all aspects of touch and dexterity exercised to fullest life; all reflexes, all impulses, everything he could be aware of was drawn to the tips of his fingers, and now the music simply drew him into its mood of stoic tranquillity; and he felt as he played the full value of every note, the rise and fall of long lines, the essence of the work flowing through his arms. And as the movement closed he felt in his whole being how the final bars arrested everything that had gone before, all the momentum behind the first two movements, everything that had contended to have a place in the sonata was laid to rest by the last cadence; and yet, as his fingers compressed the low B major chord, softly resonating, almost humming; as his fingers depressed that last B major chord, a lovely chord, a chord that leaves a dying glow of sound before its release, a chord that collects and gathers everything into a carrying softness, even in that peerless moment of resolution infinite energy was stored. And as he held fast to that last chord and heard its balm travel deep into the auditorium, enthralling his listeners until the last sounds had long since died away, so he felt an upsurge of tempestuous energy.
The implacability of those initial octaves, great bars of sound, bottom, middle, top and round again, that set the instrument ringing, rousing the audience - like winching a crossbow to the point of maximum tension before releasing the bolt - even as he hit the keys with a steel touch, he felt the teetering precariousness of the energy they released. All his strength and nervous energy was evoked, set tingling in his neck and shoulders.
The audience were moving, getting on to the edge of their seats.
He had it, that ominous rhythm in his body, and as he watched his left hand stretch and creep on its belly, he was suffused by the eeriness of music that started soft and low in the keyboard, rocking and loping, its innate violence in tether, and then cranked up an octave, flecked with desperation, like a stalking beast barely in control of its own ferocity.
The B major chord was like cannon shot, and now as the rhythms reconfigured and energy exploded, and as he played with full attack, detonating chords, which released teeming right-hand semiquavers over a stentorian tenor motif, he felt he was playing for his life in every sense, in the midst of furious battle, in the grip of relentless drama and constant technical danger that he had to outwit and surpass. Bass octaves thundered. His semiquavers were super-articulate. He was hearing everything, desperation billowing from the instrument, because the situation was desperate, absolutely desperate, and as his hands converged and the main theme came back but with more to do in the left hand, complicating the rhythm, now at the limit of urgency, he sensed in a flash that he was fighting for Poland, a sidelight that vanished as the first subject cranked up an octave and once again he was riding for his life, caught in the current, with its shifts of voicing and harmonic slinks like a churning of tonal mud under cavalry hooves.
There had come a point, as there often would, when he saw himself playing - a moment of astral detachment - saw himself caught up in the mayhem, as if from a front-row seat, looking on at this concentration and hyperactivity as though he could see for a moment what it was like from outside to witness this furious catharsis, and just for a moment he was oddly self-conscious, suddenly detached, his immersion lost, so that it took a whole page of dreamlike playing to catch up with himself, to get back on the bus, and several seconds longer to embed himself in the onward rush and catch up with his fingers. And then the fast scales came back, brilliant runs from the top of the keyboard at spinning speed, twirling into the bass like missiles, and these you could not play without total togetherness and whiplash commitment; and when the main theme returned for the last time, the left hand spinning out cartwheels of semiquavers, which gave the impression of stabilised velocity, a fusion of effort and urgency, of absolute inexorable determination to force this theme over the brink, to get beyond this time, to convert this desperate headlong figure for better or worse; when he came to this point, goosebumps went up the back of his neck, both in terror at the coming crisis and at the glory in sight. He fastened on and pushed, driving himself beyond strict control into untethered expression, feeling and playing with unbridled intensity, and felt his heart race, so nearly there; and this was the bit they would love, had been waiting for, up, up and over, and now the notes came down, razor sharp, brilliant, a spangling arpeggio in the home key, followed by an eruption, scintillating, right up and around, pure tension, the climax of Chopin almost; throttling back for the final climb, the right hand travelling chromatically up, the left hand beating out that ominous figure for the last time, and then a spilling-over of glitter and sparkle; the final chords ratcheting, bass octaves thundering, straining to the ultimate cadence, deep B, grand, growling, right hand teeming from on high, the triumph, the summation, the last crash of octaves dispatched, skewered to victory, instrument ringing. Arms back. Wild release. Victory.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Grateful thanks to Mike Jones, Liz Calder, Mary Tomlinson, and all at Bloomsbury, to Felicity Rubinstein, my agent, and to the following readers and friends for their helpful comments and/or assistance: Margaret, Roderick and Rowland Williams, Pip Torrens, Claire Wrathal, Mark Roberts, Isobel Dixon, David Sherwin, Lucy Parham, Christina Lawrie, Katrine Mac-Gibbon, Tony Mulholland, Mark McCrum, Sue Spence and Clive Kaye. Thanks also to Carole Blake and Julian Friedmann for their kind support. I am eternally grateful to Fiona Williams.
The following books were also helpful: Lipatti by Dragos Tanasescu & Grigore Bargauanu, Kahn and Averil (1988); Sviatoslav Richter Notebooks and Conversations by Bruno Monsaingeon, Faber and Faber (2001); Arthur Rubinstein, A Life by Howard Sachs, Phoenix (1997); Solo, by Bryan Crimp, Appian Publications and Recordings (1994); Remembering Horowitz, edited by David Dubal, Schirmer Books (1993); Conversations with Arrau by Joseph Horowitz, Limelight (1984); The Lives of the Great Composers by Harold C. Schonberg, Abacus (1998); A Winter in Majorca by George Sand, Palma de Majorca (1992); Chopin’s Funeral by Benita Eisler, Knopf (2003); Chopin by A. Boucourechliev, Thames and Hudson (1963); Chopin by Arthur Hedley, Dent (1966); Piano Notes, The Hidden World of the Pianist by Charles Rosen, Allen Lane (2003); Great Pianists of Our Time by Joachim Kaiser, Allen & Unwin (1971).
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
Conrad Williams was born in Winnipeg and lives in Willesden. He read English and Law at Cambridge, qualified as a barrister and now works as a film agent. His first novel, Sex & Genius, was published by Bloomsbury in 2002. He is married with two children.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
SEX & GENIUS
UNFINISHED BUSINESS
Also available by Conrad Williams
Sex & Genius
In Michael Lear’s opinion, James Hilldyard is the master of the contemporary novel. Travelling to this genius’s home in Ita
ly, Michael is bafflingly offered a job as the great man’s literary secretary. This peaceful break from his failing London media career seems just what Michael needs – until beautiful actress Adela Fairfax comes to town, followed by a pack of Hollywood hounds sniffing at her heels, all trying to buy the film rights on Hilldyard’s as yet unpublished novel…
Sex & Genius is set on that high plane where creative genius and big business clash. Williams knows the territory well and he plays out his drama there with tension and panache.
‘An assured literary debut’ Bookseller
‘Conrad Williams writes like a dream … Exciting reading … This is a supremely intelligent and intense novel’ Publishing News
http://www.bloomsbury.com/author/conrad-williams
http://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/sex-genius-9780747561521/
Unfinished Business
Mike is a literary agent with high standards and a passion for great writing. He is equally discriminating in matters of the heart and ready to fall in love. But when his best client sacks him and his hopes of marriage are dashed, Mike begins to fall apart. Emotionally reeling, he seeks respite in the beautiful wilderness of the Black Mountains, only to discover that his old flame, Madelin, and her husband now live there too. Drawn into the midst of their marital crisis, his humiliation is perfected as their superfluous middle man.
But when a top agent suggests a plot to restore his fortunes, Mike begins to come alive again. It looks like love and achievement might be his at last – if he is prepared to do the wrong thing, and do it ruthlessly.
Unfinished Business is an entertaining novel about literary and romantic affairs in marriage and work.
http://www.bloomsbury.com/author/conrad-williams
http://www.bloomsbury.com/uk/unfinished-business-9781448215515/
First published 2006
This electronic edition published in 2016 by Bloomsbury Publishing Plc
© Conrad Williams, 2006
Conrad Williams has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The moral right of the author has been asserted
All rights reserved.
You may not copy, distribute, transmit, reproduce or otherwise make available this publication (or any part of it) in any form, or by any means (including without limitation electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, printing, recording or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ePub ISBN: 978 1 4088 8105 7
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The Concert Pianist Page 27
