PIETRO MAZZINI, SEVEN-YEAR-OLD PIANIST PLAYED IN PARIS YESTERDAY

Large black eyes, holes of light under the rounded forehead, a supple face enlivened by the disorder of brown curls, the soft velvet suit, here is Pietro Mazzini, infant of blue tales. He is seven years old or almost. He was born in Charbonnières-les-Bains during the war, on December 12, 1917. The fairy of music looked after his youngest years. On November 22, 1919, he learned the notes. Three months later, he let his hands run effortlessly over the piano. And, in May 1920, he made his triumphant debut at the Théâtre Fémina. The child prodigy had, in one year, taken his place among the great virtuosos.

Pietro Mazzini is not this puny and pale child that one readily imagines when one speaks of small phenomena. He does not go into raptures over his art, which he nevertheless likes. But he is keen to keep the cheerfulness that is the prerogative of his seven years. If he studies the masters of ancient and modern music for three hours a day, if he puts all his young soul into piercing the mystery of sounds, into guessing in the rhythm the feeling that created it, Pietro Mazzini knows how to escape from scales for drawing or the humblest toys. He adores pencils, the charcoals that, a moment ago, were lying on his table, after his recital at the Théâtre Fémina. And he enjoys coloring a landscape or a still life when, Beethoven abandoned, the little virtuoso is nothing more than a toddler having fun...

Pietro Mazzini holds out his hand to me, laughing. But he knows journalists. And, as he senses that I am going to question him, he himself asks the questions and answers.

What do I like, sir? Beethoven, again Beethoven, always Beethoven. Because he is great, very great. And then Chopin for his reverie, Mozart for his lightness. I also like Debussy. They say I know him well. Between us, it is not true. I understand him, but I do not know him. I play only one piece of his. While Fauré... the Berceuse... This afternoon, I played it as an encore. We wanted something else. So I thought of Fauré. I wanted to give him my little personal tribute. It seems that we found it very good...

That is what this child likes. And also articulated animals... Ah! yes, those, he treats them like real brothers! In the evening, he falls asleep with them. And, just now, a tragedy threatened to break out, because of a dog, the sweet Zozor, a little marvel in stuffed animals, with a neck held by such a pretty pink bow! Zozor was forgotten in the car! Zozor did not hear Pietro and not even Beethoven, Fauré and Debussy. It was very difficult to dry the tears of the little virtuoso. But, all the same, he wanted to show himself to be a man. Repressing his sorrow, he played. He was acclaimed. He was given toys, sweets, a beautiful medal. He was happy. But, as I was leaving, the little prodigy, who is such a great pianist, turned to me. And, leaving the shadow of the masters for a moment longer, he asked me very simply
Won't I find him again, sir, my Zozor? -

Maurice Bourdet.