Any discussion of the “Waldstein” Sonata begins and ends with what Beethoven chose to delete. After composing a lovely if meandering slow movement, he decided at the very last minute to cut it out of the work entirely, eventually publishing it on its own as the “Andante favori.” In its place, he fashioned an improvisatory interlude of only three minutes length, linking the two great, action-packed outer movements, both in C major. As a result, Beethoven established two precedents. First, the piece is the beginning of a series of heroic sonatas that encompasses both the “Appassionata” and the “Hammerklavier.” Second, the new form, with the middle movement introducing the more powerful finale, was employed throughout this creative period, not just in chamber music, but also in the last two concertos for piano and the concerto for violin.

The “Waldstein” was on the program as Irish pianist John O’Conor presented his recital on Thursday evening at the Metropolitan Museum. I am not a pianist, but 50 years of observation has alerted me to the phenomenon that certain senior keyboard artists have reached a state of satori, of being at one with the music. My two favorite Beethoven interpreters, Arrau and Kempff, fell into that category, and it appears that Mr. O’Conor does as well. Oddly, I do not feel this way about older violinists or cellists or tuba players. But pianists replicate the creative process of most of our beloved composers. At the museum, it was possible to think of this recital as being given by Beethoven himself.

Some touches that lent an air of authenticity to this performance were Mr. O’Conor’s supreme confidence in playing quite softly, even in the “action hero” sections where the audience witnessed his protean sense of style and arresting ability to turn an entire movement on one leading tone. The last note of that belated second Waldstein movement rang out so noticeably, and was sustained for such a long time, that a listener could easily understand the entire construction of the piece in an instant. You really have to know your stuff to punctuate so decisively.

Also on the program was the Sonata in C minor, Op. 111, the one with the striking opening reminiscent of Greek tragedy (Richard Strauss, whose piano pieces (Op. 3) is a reworking of Beethoven’s fate motif from the Fifth Symphony, must have taken notice when first contemplating the opening of “Elektra”). This was a dramatic study in contrast; Mr. O’Conor ratcheted up the volume without seeming to labor or struggle. Continuing the Greek imagery, this performance was oracular.

Not that there weren’t problems. Young people have their cellular telephones and the older crowd has its hearing aids – parenthetically, Mr. O’Conor and I felt like callow youths in this audience – one of which provided a metallic obbligato to the proceedings. I finally had to move to the back of the hall to avoid its interference. Also, Mr. O’Conor may have lost a step with regard to accuracy, but overall his technique was solid.

There was also Schubert on the menu, specifically 12 early waltzes and Four Impromptus, D. 899. The dances had that special Schubertian poignancy, the music of the wallflower rather than the participant, a spirit so brilliantly captured by Mahler in several of his middle movements. The Impromptus were well-crafted; from the stateliness of the C minor to the rippling water imagery of the G flat major, Mr. O’Conor exhibited poetic mastery. I will always be grateful to him for introducing so many of us to the piano music of his countryman John Field, and this set in its sheer beauty recalled that forgotten tone poet.

This recital was part of the Piano Forte series at the museum wherein the recitalists are given a choice of using more than one piano an evening. Mr. O’Conor and his audience were more than content to stick with one tried and true Steinway.