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Meggi
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22
Homecoming
It was already night when he opened the large door to the old noble hall, which had become the Philharmonic one hundred and fifty years ago. The heavy portal moved surprisingly easily and almost silently. A gentle breeze met him like the breath of history. This place embodied more than any other the former St. Petersburg. Here, the Tsar had opened balls, Pushkin had been a regular guest, and Tchaikovsky had performed for the last time just days before his death.
And Rachmaninoff had given his second piano concerto. In the artist's box still stood the same lacquered piano on which he had rehearsed. For of course, he had personally sat at the grand piano - in the tradition of the old masters, the art of composition, conducting, and virtuosity formed an inseparable unity for him.
It was that very work they had recorded today. It hadn't required many interruptions, after all, Mariss knew the Leningrad Philharmonic well from his time as assistant to Yevgeny Mravinsky, who had led the orchestra for fifty years and shaped it into one of the best ensembles in the world with iron discipline and rigor. Thus, the recording session had almost turned into a concert, for which the magnificent hall, on whose threshold he now stood, had been the perfect setting.
As he entered, he could almost smell the long-past festivities. A waxy-vanilla sweetness, an opulent, aged, even morbid floral scent. Even the lavish makeup of the highborn ladies seemed to linger in the air. And he could even sense the vapors of the later, intimate parts of the evening hidden in secluded corners. Where lush fragrances could no longer cover the all-too-human odors of heated bodies.
But within seconds, the image had vanished. He turned on all the chandeliers to full brightness, walked over to the piano, sat down, and began to play. At first, he tried a few bars of Chopin until his fingers glided effortlessly into the delicious Adagio sostenuto of Rachmaninoff. First hesitantly, then more powerfully, the solo part flowed from his fingers, while the spirit of practiced musicality added the orchestra. The floating triplet-like waves sparkled softly, as the flute and clarinet were allowed to present the melody.
The musicians had asked him earlier to postpone his departure for a few days for two spontaneous, joint concerts. Him, the former enemy of the people and dissident. In the years of his exile, he had vaguely imagined such an experience as a kind of triumphant return. But now he did not feel that way. He felt only joy and gratitude for being able to spend a little more time with great musicians.
After the last note had faded, he looked up and saw that he had had an audience. An old babushka sat quietly on a stool in the corner.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
------------------------
Freely based on: Michail Rudij writes about the recordings of Tchaikovsky's first and Rachmaninoff's second piano concertos with Mariss Jansons and the (at that time still) Leningrad Philharmonic in December 1990 - https://goo.gl/images/JtsWo5.
I thank Can777 for the sample.
And Rachmaninoff had given his second piano concerto. In the artist's box still stood the same lacquered piano on which he had rehearsed. For of course, he had personally sat at the grand piano - in the tradition of the old masters, the art of composition, conducting, and virtuosity formed an inseparable unity for him.
It was that very work they had recorded today. It hadn't required many interruptions, after all, Mariss knew the Leningrad Philharmonic well from his time as assistant to Yevgeny Mravinsky, who had led the orchestra for fifty years and shaped it into one of the best ensembles in the world with iron discipline and rigor. Thus, the recording session had almost turned into a concert, for which the magnificent hall, on whose threshold he now stood, had been the perfect setting.
As he entered, he could almost smell the long-past festivities. A waxy-vanilla sweetness, an opulent, aged, even morbid floral scent. Even the lavish makeup of the highborn ladies seemed to linger in the air. And he could even sense the vapors of the later, intimate parts of the evening hidden in secluded corners. Where lush fragrances could no longer cover the all-too-human odors of heated bodies.
But within seconds, the image had vanished. He turned on all the chandeliers to full brightness, walked over to the piano, sat down, and began to play. At first, he tried a few bars of Chopin until his fingers glided effortlessly into the delicious Adagio sostenuto of Rachmaninoff. First hesitantly, then more powerfully, the solo part flowed from his fingers, while the spirit of practiced musicality added the orchestra. The floating triplet-like waves sparkled softly, as the flute and clarinet were allowed to present the melody.
The musicians had asked him earlier to postpone his departure for a few days for two spontaneous, joint concerts. Him, the former enemy of the people and dissident. In the years of his exile, he had vaguely imagined such an experience as a kind of triumphant return. But now he did not feel that way. He felt only joy and gratitude for being able to spend a little more time with great musicians.
After the last note had faded, he looked up and saw that he had had an audience. An old babushka sat quietly on a stool in the corner.
He smiled at her, and she smiled back.
“Would you like a cup of tea?”
------------------------
Freely based on: Michail Rudij writes about the recordings of Tchaikovsky's first and Rachmaninoff's second piano concertos with Mariss Jansons and the (at that time still) Leningrad Philharmonic in December 1990 - https://goo.gl/images/JtsWo5.
I thank Can777 for the sample.
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