Where others
give you hammering on an anvil, he gives you thunder as if heard through
clouds. And he is full of leisure and meditation, brooding thoughtfully
over certain exquisite things as if loth to let them pass over and be
gone. And he seems to play out of a dream, in which the fingers are
secondary to the meaning, but report that meaning with entire felicity.
In the playing of the "Moonlight" sonata there was no Paderewski, there
was nothing but Beethoven. The finale, of course, was done with the due
brilliance, the executant's share in a composition not written for
modern players. But what was wonderful, for its reverence, its
perfection of fidelity, was the playing of the slow movement and of the
little sharp movement which follows, like the crying and hopping of a
bird. The ear waited, and was satisfied in every shade of anticipation;
nothing was missed, nothing was added; the pianist was as it were a
faithful and obedient shadow. As you listened you forgot technique, or
that it was anybody in particular who was playing: the sonata was
there, with all its moonlight, as every lover of Beethoven had known
that it existed.
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