## Chapter 170: Paganini’s Etude
The ballroom buzzed with the clinking of glasses and lively chatter as guests exchanged pleasantries, discussing topics that piqued their interest.
Several ladies, gazing at the London Philharmonic Orchestra members adjusting their instruments, couldn’t help but express their envy to Lady Codrington.
“To think you’ve actually managed to secure Mr. Moscheles for tonight,” one exclaimed. “I wonder which piece he’ll open with? His own ‘Alexander Variations’, ‘Tribute to Handel’, or perhaps one of Bach’s compositions? Or maybe Beethoven’s ‘Symphony No. 9’?”
Lady Codrington, her heart swelling with pride, feigned humility. “It all depends on Mr. Moscheles’s own arrangements. I never interfere with the creativity of musicians.”
Despite her words, Lady Codrington, like the other ladies, was just as curious about Moscheles’s musical selection for the evening.
Suddenly, she noticed Moscheles relinquishing the space beside the piano to Arthur, while he himself retrieved a pair of white gloves from his pocket and donned them.
Lady Codrington, a woman of discerning musical taste, was taken aback by this unexpected turn of events. She hastily excused herself from the group, her skirt swishing as she hurried towards Moscheles, her voice laced with concern.
“Mr. Moscheles, what are you doing? Are you feeling unwell?”
Moscheles turned to Lady Codrington, his face etched with apology. “Forgive me, Madam, I’m perfectly fine physically, but emotionally, I’m a bit troubled. As to why, you can ask Mr. Hastings later. But for now, please return to your seat and enjoy his performance of ‘La Campanella’.”
“La Campanella?” Lady Codrington gasped, her heart skipping a beat.
She knew the piece’s composer, for she was a newly minted fanatic of Paganini himself.
This year, Paganini’s 27 London concerts had ignited a veritable Paganini craze across Britain.
Despite ticket prices being twice the usual for other concerts, and front-row seats being scalped for four or five times the price on the black market, it couldn’t deter his fans from flocking to the Royal Opera House, a venue with a capacity of 3,300.
It wasn’t just music lovers either. Even businessmen with little knowledge of music saw an opportunity in Paganini. They churned out a host of merchandise featuring his likeness and name – canes, jewelry boxes, umbrellas, and more.
Restaurants near the Royal Opera House, with shameless audacity, added items like “Paganini Pie,” “Paganini Coffee,” and other nonsensical dishes to their menus.
Though these tactics were utterly absurd, gentlemen and ladies alike were willing to pay for anything with Paganini’s name attached. It was a surefire recipe for success.
As a self-proclaimed “Paganini devotee,” Lady Codrington had purchased a fair share of this merchandise. Tonight, she even wore a silver bracelet engraved with Paganini’s name.
She had also bought her husband a hat embroidered with Paganini’s name.
But General Codrington was fiercely resistant to wearing it. He would rather sport his unadulterated Mediterranean style than have Paganini’s name emblazoned on his head.
Lady Codrington, gazing at Arthur adjusting his posture on the piano bench, her voice tinged with disbelief, asked, “Mr. Hastings can actually play ‘La Campanella’?”
“Not play, but perform,” Moscheles replied, his voice a mixture of amusement and annoyance. “Mr. Hastings told me he rearranged the piece for the piano. And, most importantly, he informed me that he’s just starting out with the piano.”
“My God!” Lady Codrington exclaimed, placing a hand on her forehead. “You’re not joking, are you? Why didn’t you talk him out of it?”
Moscheles shrugged. “Madam, I did try, but Mr. Hastings wouldn’t listen. Not only that, he told me his nickname is ‘The Paganini of Scotland Yard.’ So, I think you should just sit back and enjoy the performance. If he’s truly ‘The Paganini of Scotland Yard,’ then I imagine this piece should be no problem for him.
You see, Mr. Paganini himself told me he hadn’t practiced the violin since he was eleven, but that didn’t stop him from becoming the greatest violinist in history. The world of music is never short of prodigies. Perhaps Mr. Hastings is one of them.”
With those words, Moscheles ended his conversation with Lady Codrington. He drew his baton from his waist, his hands gently lowering.
The accompanying musicians, noticing his gesture, fell silent. They knew Mr. Moscheles was getting serious.
Arthur, too, sensed the shift in the atmosphere. He took a deep breath, his hands hovering above the piano keys.
He understood that the moment he struck the first note, he would be giving the entire orchestra their cue.
Suddenly, the air grew still, and Arthur’s fingertips danced across the keys.
As the delicate, graceful melody filled the air, the guests’ conversations gradually died down.
After a brief piano solo, Moscheles’s strong arms flung wide, and the accompanying musicians followed his baton, their instruments blending with the piano.
As the performance transitioned into the high register, some of Paganini’s fans in the audience noticed something amiss.
“La Campanella?”
“Piano arrangement?”
“Seems like Mr. Moscheles and the London Philharmonic learned something from accompanying Paganini. They’ve picked up quite a few tricks.”
“Moscheles? It’s Hastings playing!”
“What? Are you sure?”
“Shhh! Keep it down.”
The lights dimmed, and amidst hushed whispers, all eyes were fixed on Arthur’s hands, which seemed to take flight on the keys, moving with incredible speed.
Perhaps not every lady in the audience was scientifically inclined, but they all understood the piano.
Arthur’s fingers leapt nimbly between sixteenth-note intervals. What was even more mind-boggling was that, despite witnessing the technique firsthand, they couldn’t comprehend how he managed to execute a series of continuous trills with his left hand alone without disrupting the melody.
His fingers, fluttering like butterflies, and his arms, ricocheting across the keys, created an unbelievable spectacle. A flicker of red light emanated from his black eyes, illuminating his knuckles, making them appear as if they were strung with the wires and red threads found on marionettes. One couldn’t help but feel a sense of dreamlike delusion upon witnessing this.
To the guests, it was as if the figure on stage wasn’t a brilliant young scientist, nor an upright Scotland Yard inspector, but a devil with bat wings and a face twisted with malice towards the world.
As the piano piece drew to a close, one lady, beads of sweat forming on her forehead, seemed to see horns slowly growing from Arthur’s head.
With a sudden gasp, she pointed at Arthur and cried out in a daze, “Devil!”
And then, she collapsed, falling to the ground like a floating piece of gauze.
The ballroom fell silent. Arthur flicked his tailscoat, slowly rising to his feet.
His forehead, shrouded in a cascade of unruly hair, was dotted with sweat. Despite his fatigued expression, he managed a strained smile.
“An arrangement of Mr. Paganini’s etude ‘The Bell,’ dedicated to the gentlemen and ladies present tonight.”
After a brief pause, the guests in the ballroom snapped out of their trance, and scattered applause quickly coalesced into a roaring inferno, erupting through the ballroom.
As guests busied themselves assisting the lady who had fainted, they began to shout in unison, “Devil!”
“Paganini is a devil, Hastings is a devil!”
“One is the violin devil of the Apennine Peninsula, the other is the piano devil of Great Britain.”
Amidst the enthusiastic applause and cheers, Moscheles lowered his baton and approached Arthur.
His face, which had been marked with disbelief, now radiated an unstoppable grin.
“Mr. Hastings, you’ve truly given me a grand surprise! I never imagined you were not only a master of science but also a virtuoso on the piano. To play this piece with such skill, are you really a beginner? My God! I have no idea how many secrets you’re keeping from us!”
Arthur let out a sigh of relief, pointing at Moscheles’s baton. “Mr. Moscheles, to be honest, I know a thing or two about wielding a stick.”
“You know how to conduct?” Moscheles exclaimed, his face alight with excitement. “I knew it! You’re definitely not a novice musician. You’re an old hand, am I right?”
Arthur waved his hands frantically. “No, no, no, you’ve got it all wrong. I don’t know how to conduct an orchestra. I usually use a stick to direct traffic. You might not know this, but I’m a Scotland Yard policeman.”
“A policeman?!” Moscheles exclaimed, his voice laced with disbelief as he clasped Arthur’s hands. “Oh, Mr. Hastings, God has blessed you with such perfect, 14-degree hands, and you tell me you usually use them to handle knives and guns?”
Arthur, a little embarrassed, replied, “Mr. Moscheles, it’s nothing special. I’ve used them to touch things even more unsavory than knives and guns.”
As soon as Arthur finished his sentence, the ladies in the room blushed, and Eldred, who had been seated nearby, enjoying a snack, couldn’t help but choke on his food. Fitzroy quickly handed him a glass of wine, preventing a premature end to his life.
Eldred coughed, sputtering, “Arthur, you can’t say things like that while I’m eating. I almost choked to death thanks to you!”
Arthur merely glanced at him, “Eldred, I was talking about the goats and fish on the Beagle. What did you think I was referring to?”
As soon as he finished, the gentlemen from the Royal Navy couldn’t hold back their laughter.
Only General Kirkland, feigning seriousness, said, “Mr. Hastings, you’re right. Small animals are indeed rather unclean. But we have no choice. To ensure a steady supply of fresh food, we have to keep those creatures on board. If the sailors had a say, we’d be having a bit more cleanliness.”
Arthur nodded apologetically. “Yes, General Kirkland, I hadn’t considered that.”
Meanwhile, Moscheles, eager to secure this talented individual, asked, “Mr. Hastings, would you mind giving me a copy of the sheet music for this piece later?”
“Certainly, no problem at all,” Arthur replied with a smile. “I’m sure with your talent, you’ll master this piece in no time. It’s not as difficult as you think. In fact, even without a piano, it can be performed.”
As soon as Arthur finished his sentence, Moscheles, who had just developed a liking for Arthur, furrowed his brow.
“What do you mean by that?”
Arthur didn’t answer. He simply smiled, retrieving a gramophone that had been hidden behind the piano stand.
He placed the needle on the record, and then, with a turn of the gramophone’s crank, the familiar melody echoed through the corner of the ballroom.
Although the sound wasn’t as crisp and clear as Arthur’s performance, and there were some unwelcome noises, the tune, with its beautiful, melodic qualities and high degree of similarity, was still recognizable.
Moscheles stared at the strange contraption of copper trumpets and boxes, his jaw dropping in disbelief.
“This… this is what?”
(To be continued)