Yefim Bronfman is an old-fashioned pianist, in many ways. He plays repertoire that other people pooh-pooh. If he’s playing a concerto, and people applaud after the first movement, he’s liable to stand up and bow, rather than glare at them. And in recital, he’s apt to offer a varied program: not a one-composer evening, not a series of pieces inspired by Jack Kerouac. He’s giving a piano recital, not lecturing in musicology.

And he gave a recital to remember at Carnegie Hall on Monday night. Mr. Bronfman began with Beethoven’s Sonata in E flat, Op. 27, No. 1, “Quasi una fantasia.” This is a cousin of the Sonata in Csharp minor, Op. 27, No. 2, known to humanity as the “Moonlight.” You could argue with some of Mr. Bronfman’s choices in the E-flat-major sonata. But he is a careful thinker, and always has a case.

He began the sonata very, very quietly — almost too quietly. But soon enough his two hands were chatting together contentedly. And when Mr. Bronfman feels like unleashing a little bravura on you — boy, can he unleash bravura. Yet he does so with clarity and intelligence.

Beethoven’s second movement relies on evenness — and this, Mr. Bronfman provided easily. He was also ghostly or incisive, depending on the demands of the music. Interestingly, he missed a fair number of notes, proving that he’s human (which was in doubt). The third movement, Adagio con espressione, had some of the uplift and purposefulness of a hymn. And Mr. Bronfman used very little pedal, which was impressive — and created an unusual effect.

The final movement is one of Beethoven’s best closers, among all the sonatas. To my mind, it is sprightly, fleet, merry — almost scherzo-like. But Mr. Bronfman didn’t quite see it that way. From him, it was heavy, and somewhat clumsy, which was very surprising. Before the coda, there was little suspense, little buildup; and that coda, instead of emitting joyous yelps, was rather sober. Again, surprising.

From Beethoven, Mr. Bronfman went to Schumann: his Fantasy in C, Op. 17, one of those “old-fashioned” pieces previously mentioned. It is a bear to play, from a technical point of view — but practically any music is a lamb for Mr. Bronfman. The technique being in the bag, you can simply concentrate on the music, as Mr. Bronfman does.

He played the Fantasy with a mixture of Russian Romanticism and German Classicism. Overall, it was highly Schumannesque. He exercised the right amount of freedom, and the right amount of strictness. A few weeks ago, listening to the tenor Michael Schade sing Schumann songs, I noticed that the singer brought out one of Schumann’s signature traits: a beautiful nobility. Mr. Bronfman embodied the same trait. The middle movement of the Fantasy was a beautiful, unforced march — accomplished with no pounding, or any silliness whatsoever.

After the Schumann, as intermission began, a fellow critic said to me, “Yefim Bronfman is completely unpretentious” — which is completely true. He is an honest pianist, without false ego, serving music as it deserves to be served. He is also a remarkably complete pianist — excelling in pretty much everything, “from Bach to Offenbach,” as Shostakovich liked to say. The second half of this recital began with a test and masterpiece from the literature of French Impressionism: Ravel’s “Gaspard de la nuit.” Mr. Bronfman put on an amazing display of digital dexterity and mental acuity.

Much of this work — a three-parter, as you recall — was a shimmering dream. “Le gibet” had its spooky inevitability. And “Scarbo” was duly wizardly, almost blinding in its intricacy, colors, and speed. You could argue that there should have been a speck — a speck — more scintillation at various moments in “Gaspard” at large. But that would make you very greedy indeed.

In the last year and a half, Carnegie Hall has seen two masterly performances of this work, though the two were different from each other — the first came from Jean-Yves Thibaudet.

As though the previous material had not been hard enough, technically, Mr. Bronfman closed his printed program with Balakirev’s “Islamey: An Oriental Fantasy.” This is an anthem of Russian virtuosos (and Mr. Bronfman is Russian-born, though now an American). Funny thing is, Mr. Bronfman didn’t play it like a showpiece — like a mere exhibition. I have never noticed so much beauty in “Islamey” — it was an “Oriental fantasy” indeed.

But don’t let me fool you: There was plenty of virtuosity — of eye-popping, thunderous agility — where it counted.

Needless to say, the crowd at Carnegie Hall wanted encores, and Mr. Bronfman first obliged with more Schumann: two excerpts from “Carnival Jest from Vienna.” Then he ended the evening with the last movement of Prokofiev’s Sonata No. 7 — that toccata, marked Precipitato.

Ladies and gentlemen, it was stupendous. It was wild, mesmerizing, and flooring. Mr. Bronfman would probably not have played it this way — so wildly, so fast, with so much abandon — if he had been concluding the complete sonata (i.e., if he had been playing the Precipitato “in context”). Neither would he have played it this way, probably, if he had been recording the work in a studio. But as the final encore of a Carnegie Hall evening — perfect. Mr. Bronfman let it all hang out (though with musical control). We who heard it will not soon forget it.

I’ve said it before — particularly when talking of Mr. Bronfman — and must say it again: Not all the great pianists are dead, you know.