Free Murder in A-Major by Morley Torgov

another part of the front row, where Franz Liszt too had risen to his feet. But his applause? “Polite” would be a fitting word to describe it. In fact, after a moment or two Liszt ceased clapping, looked about as though he were dumfounded by the outpouring of enthusiasm that surrounded him, then resumed applauding in a mechanical fashion, the corners of his lips upturned in a patronizing smile, as though what he had just heard was music to be tolerated rather than enjoyed.
    When finally it became evident that the players were too exhausted to favour the audience with an encore, Robert Schumann stepped to the centre again. Looking directly at Liszt, he said, “And now, dear friends, do we dare hope that our guest of honour, Maestro Franz Liszt, will make the evening perfect…or perhaps I should say more perfect…by playing for us?” Schumann gestured toward the two pianos. “These keyboards have never before felt the magical fingers of Maestro Liszt, and—” Here Schumann began to chuckle at the witticism he was about to deliver. “And it may be said, ladies and gentlemen, that a grand piano is not truly grand until it has been touched by the master himself, Franz Liszt.”
    Liszt half rose from his seat to acknowledge the applause that greeted Schumann's announcement, then promptly sat down in what his host must have taken as a sign of modesty. This apparent reluctance on Liszt's part was not what I had expected. From all accounts, and bearing in mind what Clara Schumann had said about him earlier in the evening, I assumed that Liszt would not require a second invitation. Yet here he was, seemingly glued to his chair and shaking his head from side to side in a very determined refusal.
    Schumann, opening his arms expansively, said, “You are too modest, my dear Liszt. The piano awaits you. Please!”
    â€œThank you, my dear Schumann,” Liszt called from his seat, “but I could not possibly play now. I mean, my music would be totally inappropriate after what we have just listened to…after music that is so…so very Leipzig .”
    The expression “so very Leipzig ”, heard clearly from one end of the room to the other, had an immediate and strange effect; it seemed to drain all the oxygen out of the place, leaving everyone momentarily speechless and immobile. Something in the way Liszt had uttered it smacked of condescension.
    What followed after a split-second of stunned silence was dreadful. In a sudden, violent rage Schumann lunged at Liszt, seized him by the shoulders and lifted him from his chair with a force that was nothing short of an assault.
    â€œHow dare you speak of our work in such a demeaning way?” Schumann shouted.
    As a mere onlooker, I found Schumann's actions frightening. Liszt must have found them terrifying.
    Without another word, Schumann released his hapless guest of honour, swung swiftly about on his heels and stalked out of the drawing room, slamming the heavy doors behind him.
    Considering the gross indignity he had just suffered, Liszt managed to regain his composure, outwardly at least, with incredible aplomb. Calmly, carefully, he straightened the lapels of his tailcoat and pulled the collar down snugly back into place. His oversized black bowtie, which had been knocked askew, was restored to its proper location and given just the right pinch at the ends to tighten the knot. With firm downward strokes, Liszt brushed the creases from his slim-fitted trousers. Once again he was every inch Franz Liszt: the perfect pianist, the perfect man-about-town.
    But now he was also Franz Liszt, the imperfect guest, the man who—perhaps innocently (although I wondered about this)—had managed to transform what had begun as a brilliant evening into a smouldering ruin. Everyone in the room glared at poor Liszt as though he had just dumped a cartload of refuse in their midst. To his credit, he realized he had made a grievous