There’s my next Christmas present sorted, then: the box of all 11 volumes of Jean-Efflam Bavouzet’s complete Haydn survey, please (surely Chandos must be planning it?). And that’s saying a lot, from someone who used to consider herself a Haydn-sceptic. Having had the pleasure of reviewing three of the series, I can say that my admiration for Bavouzet’s pianism and my love for Haydn’s piano music have grown in parallel. And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better, this last volume hits new heights. All the buoyancy, charm and wit are there once again, but unless it’s my imagination, there’s a magical and deeply touching, almost nostalgic hue to this one, as if enjoying the company of a beloved old friend before parting.

The juxtaposition of some of the earliest works and two of the last sonatas showcases not only the evolution of Haydn’s piano idiom but also Bavouzet’s understanding of it, conveyed through boundless resources of timbre, timing and touch. How superbly the delicate ending of the simple yet delightful Variations in C major is supplanted by the trenchant opening chords of the late E flat major Sonata, to take one of any number of instances. Here and throughout, Bavouzet takes the listener straight into Haydn’s thought process; above all he is a master at conveying Haydn’s pauses, each one teasing the ear with a myriad of possible solutions, of which the most unexpected – yet in retrospect the most inevitable – always seems to be the answer.

This is no mere appendix, then, even when it comes to the apparently slighter works on this 80-minute programme. Bavouzet makes a compelling case for the G major Capriccio, where he seeks dynamic and stylistic solutions to what he sees as two contrary worlds: that of a rough peasant song about eight men castrating a boar and that of a highly elaborate and sophisticated labyrinth of harmonic inventions. He makes no attempt to beautify or gloss over, and the outcome is all the more convincing.

For all the virtuosity on display (take the mind-blowing C major Fantasia with its glissando octaves and vertiginous hand-crossings), it is the last piece, an Allegretto for miniature clockwork organ, that steals the show. This feels like Bavouzet’s Prospero moment, yet one entirely devoid of pomp or ceremony. In its pure loving sincerity, which Bavouzet conveys through a daring use of the pedal, it somehow captures the essence of the entire survey. How I shall miss such treasurable discoveries and such revelatory rediscoveries.