Mozart and Weber are two of the composers whom he plays with
the most natural instinct, for in both he finds and unweaves that dainty
web of bright melody which Mozart made out of sunlight and Weber out of
moonlight. There is nothing between him and them, as there is in
Beethoven, for instance, who hides himself in the depths of a cloud, in
the depths of wisdom, in the depths of the heart. And to Pachmann all
this is as strange as mortal firesides to a fairy. He wanders round it,
wondering at the great walls and bars that have been set about the
faint, escaping spirit of flame. There is nothing human in him, and as
music turns towards humanity it slips from between his hands. What he
seeks and finds in music is the inarticulate, ultimate thing in sound:
the music, in fact.
It has been complained that Pachmann's readings are not intellectual,
that he does not interpret. It is true that he does not interpret
between the brain and music, but he is able to disimprison sound, as no
one has ever done with mortal hands, and the piano, when he touches it,
becomes a joyous, disembodied thing, a voice and nothing more, but a
voice which is music itself.
Pages:
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204
205
206
207