Lithuanian pianist Indré Petrauskaité boasts a distinguished pedagogy that includes Peter Flankl, John O’Conor, Robert Levin, Boris Berman, Leif Ove Andsnes, and Paul Lewis. The present all-Liszt-transcriptions album, recorded in 2007, embraces a portion of the Liszt legacy especially attracted to other composers for their potential as creative, virtuoso show-pieces that demonstrate the fecundity of the piano as both a salon and “symphonic” instrument.
Petrauskaité opens the recital with Liszt’s transcription of Robert Schumann’s 1840 lied “Widmung,” a florid arrangement of a love song meant for Clara Schumann, the composer’s newly-wed. The recording by Ruth Slenczynska set a standard that yet endures, and the present rendition projects its own, ardent lyricism, given that Liszt embellishes the left hand with a throbbing ardor and then proceeds, via cascades and daring leaps, to imbue the second half of the song with vehemence worthy of a virtuoso étude that echoes Schubert’s Ave Maria at the coda.
The 1867 transcription of “Isoldes Liebestod” unfolds slowly, in liquid figures under Petrauskaité, the harmonies unwilling to resolve as the tension mounts in symphonic evocations of erotic love and transcendent death. Some pianists prefer Moszkowski’s passionate rendering of this music, but Liszt has a full, titanic grasp of the symbolism of this sustained spasm of emotion, ending with the intertwining of the thumbs, the ivy and the vine. The sparkle and flavor of Petrauskaité’s closing arpeggios more than suggest her capacities in Debussy.
The 1860 transcription of Wagner’s “Spinning Chorus” from The Flying Dutchman flaunts keyboard virtuosity in runs and trills, all executed by a light hand. The influence of Mendelssohn’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream seems no less a presence, elfin and transparent. The layering of the registers as we approach the darting motions of the coda enjoys an astonishing fleetness of execution. A very different affect ensues, in the form of Schubert’s eerie lied after Heine, “Der Doppelgänger,” of 1828. The B minor tonality, as sustained by repetitive, dark chords and tremolos, attains a dire menace, as the narrator gazes upon his old beloved’s home to find it occupied by himself! In this rendition, Dostoyevsky might have found an echo of his reflections on this disturbing motif.
The urge to self-destruction finds grim realization in Schubert’s 1823 “Der Müller und der Bach,“ Liszt’s transcription’s dating from 1846. The recitative-like progression bears the weight of fatal self-reflection; and it is here that, in her liner notes, that Petrauskaité reveals the presence of a new Steinway instrument, a strong sonority long denied the concert halls of her home city, Kleipeda, Lithuania. Emotional consolation follows, in the form of Schubert’s 1820 lied “Frühlingsglaube,” the poem by Uhland set for solo keyboard by Liszt in 1838.
The need for affective calm establishes itself in A-flat major, a lovely parlando that allows Liszt to introduce – within this Spring evocation – improvisatory elements and their assuaging colors. A beautiful transparency illuminates the reading. The last of the Schubert song transcriptions, “Hark, Hark, the Lark” (1826), derives from Cymbeline, Shakespeare’s 1611 Celtic romantic tragedy. Liszt set this song for solo piano between 1837-38. The virtuosity in this piece is most subtle, lying in degrees of touch and inflection rather than bold, stentorian declamations.
In a rather percussive mode, Petrauskaité sails into Schubert’s Soirées de Vienne, arrangements by Liszt of selected Schubert waltzes, which exist in plenty. When the pulverized dust clears, some enchanting dances emerge, swaying, lilting, and darting forward as the impulse requires. Liszt’s idea of improvisation lies in adding fioritura to the waltz in variation, shifting registers and accents while maintaining a basic pulse, a lesson well taught by Chopin. For seven minutes, we bask in the throes – not always gentle but splendidly ornamented – of the salon world well documented by Stefan Zweig in The World of Yesterday.
For her grand coda, Petrauskaité chooses what would offer the most bravura opportunity: Gounod’s Faust waltz as arranged by Liszt. Our artist in her notes mentions Gyorgy Cziffra as among the great exponents of this brilliant piece, but she opts for a lyrically subdued reading, although her instrument projects its own, upper-register pearls. Introspective, the interpretation gives us the meditative Faust, less in the throes of Mephistopheles than of Gretchen (or Marguarite, if you prefer), rippling and advancing by such water drops as we find in the Villa d’Este. Liszt’s own fioritura, of course, must intrude, and we soon feel as though in the grip of one of the more pungent Hungarian Rhapsodies. The last pages serve as cadenza-coda, a super changed plummet above and below, ending with the hammer blows of fate.