Ysaye plays it on his violin,
and the thing begins to breathe, has found a voice perhaps more
exquisite than the sound which Bach heard in his brain when he wrote
down the notes. Take the instrument out of Ysaye's hands, and put it
into the hands of the first violin in the orchestra behind him; every
note will be the same, the same general scheme of expression may be
followed, but the thing that we shall hear will be another thing, just
as much Bach, perhaps, but, because Ysaye is wanting, not the work of
art, the creation, to which we have just listened.
That such art should be fragile, evanescent, leaving only a memory which
can never be realised again, is as pathetic and as natural as that a
beautiful woman should die young. To the actor, the dancer, the same
fate is reserved. They work for the instant, and for the memory of the
living, with a supremely prodigal magnanimity. Old people tell us that
they have seen Desclee, Taglioni; soon no one will be old enough to
remember those great artists. Then, if their renown becomes a matter of
charity, of credulity, if you will, it will be but equal with the renown
of all those poets and painters who are only names to us, or whose
masterpieces have perished.
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