And so his playing of Bach, as in the Italian Concerto in F, reveals
Bach as if the dust had suddenly been brushed off his music. All that in
the playing of others had seemed hard or dry becomes suddenly luminous,
alive, and, above all, a miracle of sound. Through a delicacy of
shading, like the art of Bach himself for purity, poignancy, and
clarity, he envelops us with the thrilling atmosphere of the most
absolutely musical music in the world. The playing of this concerto is
the greatest thing I have ever heard Pachmann do, but when he went on to
play Mozart I heard another only less beautiful world of sound rise
softly about me. There was the "glittering peace" undimmed, and there
was the nervous spring, the diamond hardness, as well as the glowing
light and ardent sweetness. Yet another manner of playing, not less
appropriate to its subject, brought before me the bubbling flow, the
romantic moonlight, of Weber; this music that is a little showy, a
little luscious, but with a gracious feminine beauty of its own. Chopin
followed, and when Pachmann plays Chopin it is as if the soul of Chopin
had returned to its divine body, the notes of this sinewy and feverish
music, in which beauty becomes a torture and energy pierces to the
centre and becomes grace, and languor swoons and is reborn a winged
energy.
Pages:
178
179
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202