My first memory of live theatre of any kind is of going en famille to the London Palladium to see a pantomime (I think Cinderella), sitting spellbound in a box (like the one the Royal Family sat in). Incidentally, a handy tip. If you ever book tickets to go to the Palladium, avoid booking a box: they are right at the side and the seats are set back, so that your view of one front corner of the stage is blocked by the wall of the box. On one or two occasions during the afternoon (this was, of course, a matinee), below us and to the left apparently hilarious or shocking things happened of which we remained completely unaware.

My second memory of live theatre – and here we inch inexorably closer to our subject this week – is of The Mousetrap, the Agatha Christie murder mystery which opened in London’s West End on 25 November 1952, and ran continuously until 16 March 2020, when the thing I promised last week not to mention for a couple of weeks forced the closure of London theatres. That’s worth restating: an unbroken run of over 26,000 performances, spanning a period of more than 68 years. That is a world record. (Incidentally, the radio news bulletin that is heard at one point in the play was originally recorded by Dereck Guyler, whose name and distinctive voice will be known to many of you. Guyler’s original recording has been used throughout the 68-year run.)

How to explain the production’s longevity? I’ll offer three suggestions.

First, the Ambassador’s theatre, where the play opened, seats 444 patrons, and the next-door St Martin’s theatre, to which it transferred without a break in 1974, seats 550 patrons, both of which are small full houses by London standards (the London Palladium, by contrast, holds over four times as many), so it was bound to take longer to exhaust its potential audience.

Second, since its opening it has been very cleverly marketed. When patrons leave the theatre, they are requested not to reveal the surprise ending. In addition, in the United Kingdom, only one production of the play in addition to the West End production can be performed annually, and, under the contract terms of the play, no film adaptation can be produced until the West End production has been closed for at least six months.

Finally, the play is very English, evoking an England fondly remembered, not overlong, and, while it is a detective mystery, it is not, in terms of language or plot development, complex to follow. All of this meant that, once it had earned a reputation for being long-running, it became a popular theatre choice for foreign tourists.

None of which is the reason why I brought The Mousetrap up. Here comes the reason. I can remember almost nothing of that production, other than the opening moments, which represent a wonderful moment of theatre. (Spoiler alert: if you plan to see the play when theatres reopen in London, skip to the next-but-one paragraph.) The audience settle in their seats; the lights go down; we wait for the stage to be lit. There is an awkward pause. The audience starts to wonder whether there has been a technical glitch.

We are now sitting in total darkness, waiting for something to happen. We hear the notes of Three Blind Mice being picked outonthe piano. The effect of the music is chilling, sinister and menacing., Then, after a further silence, a single pistol shot rings out. The audience land back in their seats, having leapt a foot or two in the air, and, here and there, patrons fan fellow-theatregoers with programmes, in the hope that they will regain consciousness.

And so, today’s question is: Why? Why the piano? This choice is not arbitrary, as I first became aware several years ago, when I started walking the wadi paths around Maale Adumim several times a week, and wanted something to listen to. Music was out, because the extraneous noise would ruin my appreciation of music. I soon discovered that radio drama represented the audio content that combined maximum interest (to make the time fly) with optimum level of concentration required (so that I neither lost sight of the flora and fauna around me nor lost the thread of the plot).

As a consequence, I listened to a great deal of BBC radio drama in a fairly short space of time. (I had my 45-minute Afternoon Theatre walks, my 60-minute Saturday Night Theatre walks, and even my 90-minute Drama on 3 walks.) One thing which I noticed over time was that different instrumental arrangements lent themselves to different genres. My most striking observation was that the piano is the best accompaniment to psychological drama or mystery of any kind.

Why is that? Well, as you know, I’m never loath to offer a theory, so here goes. I would suggest that it lies partly in the qualitative nature of the sound of a note played on a piano, in contrast to, for example, a violin.

The soundwave that a violin produces is much more complex (you could say much richer) than the one produced by a piano. The violin strings and soundbox add resonance to the base note, to create a multi-layered sound. The following soundwave simulations make the point visually.

Here is the sine wave that would represent a single ‘pure’ note.

When that same note is played on a violin, although the pitch is the same as the basic wave (as shown by the fact that the length of the wave is the same), the shape of the wave is far more complex.

In contrast, here is the soundwave produced by a piano.

While more complex than the basic wave, it is far less complex than the wave produced by a violin. The piano produces a sound that you could describe as ‘cleaner’ than the violin’s.

I’m going to suggest (in only the very loosest sense, and with all the requisite caveats, and recognizing that it is a ridiculous generalization) that the violin is emotional, artistic, and the piano is intellectual, logical. Yes, I know about Chopin’s Ballade in A flat major Op. 47; I even know that Liszt, in his piano recitals, was the first genuine music idol, with society ladies screaming, swooning and fighting each other for a handkerchief that he had held.

I also know that the Chaconne from Bach’s Second Partita for solo violin is, according to Yehudi Menuhin and Joshua Bell, “the greatest structure for solo violin that exists” and “structurally perfect”. Nevertheless, I’m going to stick by my broad generalization: the violin is the instrument of the heart; the piano of the mind.

Three hundred words back, I suggested that the piano’s distinction from the violin “lies partly in the qualitative nature of the sound”. My more careful readers have therefore been waiting for me to suggest what the other part is. So here goes. It lies, I am convinced, in the silence, the gaps between the notes. If a reticule is a network of holes held together by string, then piano music is, to some extent, a series of gaps separated from each other by notes.

This simply isn’t true of the violin. Listening to the violin, I often feel: the song has ended, but the resonance lingers on. Here’s Itzhak Perlman, (in the first 40 seconds) illustrating my point with his customary charm and humour. On the piano, however, unless the pianist uses the damper or sustaining pedal, then, as soon as she releases a piano key, the string stops vibrating. This produces extraordinary clarity of sound and makes it possible to isolate single notes very cleanly.

Let me approach this from a different direction, with all of my arrogance as a non-musician. My favourite pianist is Alfred Brendel: I could listen to him all day. (I would certainly rather listen to him than watch him, because of his facial contortions, which I find very distracting. See, for example, the 30 seconds from 12:56 here.) I have a 5-CD set of Brendel playing all of Beethoven’s variations and bagatelles. Some of this is great music (for example, the Diabelli variations), but some of it is less so (the variations on God Save the King, for example). However, Brendel’s playing exposes and celebrates the sublime structure of all of this music.

Now, the piano, unlike the violin, is not a difficult instrument to produce music on. Some years ago, I started learning piano. (It was a short-lived experiment, but that is another story.) To my astonishment, I found that I was able to produce sounds that did not disgust me, almost from the very start.

The piano requires none of the violinist’s skilful control of bowing and fingering, none of the embouchure and breath control of the flautist, to produce notes of music. All of the hard work at that level is being done by the instrument itself. This leads me to ask: where, then, does the greatness of a pianist lie, and what is it that we prefer about one pianist’s playing?

Well, obviously, there are technical matters, such as span and speed of fingering. There is also, undoubtedly, delicacy of touch. However, there is primarily sensitivity of interpretation, and I believe that a lot of that sensitivity is exhibited in precisely those spaces between the notes.

Consider Mozart. I am sure that I once read a quote from a great pianist that Mozart’s piano music is so simple that it takes a genius to play it. However, I haven’t been able to trace the quote online. Be that as it may, it is certainly true that Mozart is offered up to beginning players (like a sacrifice, I often feel), because the notes are usually very easy to play.

The pianist Artur Schnabel’s comments are relevant here: “The sonatas of Mozart are unique: too easy for children, too difficult for adults. Children are given Mozart to play because of the quantity of notes; grown-ups avoid him because of the quality of notes.”

The composer Gabriel Fauré wrote: “Mozart’s music is particularly difficult to perform. His admirable clarity exacts absolute cleanness: the slightest mistake in it stands out like black on white. It is music in which all the notes must be heard.” That exposure is most pronounced on the piano.

The pianist Wanda Landowska wrote: The works of Mozart may be easy to read, but they are very difficult to interpret. The least speck of dust spoils them. They are clear, transparent, and joyful as a spring, and not those muddy pools which seem deep only because the bottom cannot be seen.”

In conclusion. I believe I might be able to distinguish between different great violinists by hearing them play a few unconnected chords. I am much less confident that I would be able to distinguish between great pianists on that basis. On the piano, the differentiation is on the basis primarily of phrasing, and phrasing is, of course, a consequence of the gaps between the notes.

And that seems like as good a place as any to pause…for just the right length of time…and offer you a different kind of skilled fingering.

Clearly, in delicatessen, his father’s son, his grandfather’s grandson, and his great-grandfather’s great-grandson,