“The director of an orchestra,” one of the great-aunts informed Levadski, “is a bureaucrat responsible for the correct measure, nothing more.”
“An intelligent windmill rooted to the spot who’ll never fly,” her sister added.
Filled with sympathy, Levadski looked at the conductor, a mortal being, permanently in danger of slipping on the conductor’s podium and toppling off in the heat of battle and besmirching the immortal music on account of his mortification. The pianist, the conductor’s fellow sufferer, fared better in that respect: being seated, she was unable to stumble.
Where was the composer, Levadski wanted to know from his great-aunts. “Everywhere, my child, everywhere!” Levadski looked and marveled. Most of the time the composer, a curly-haired seraph, sat on God’s shoulder, smiling bashfully at his much celebrated failings.
“It’s getting exciting down there,” the sisters said, speaking through their noses, their blurry gaze directed at the front rows in the hall. From the lofty perch of their cheap seats in the organ balcony they were in a good position to speak, for they knew its advantages: the view and the movement — everything that you couldn’t deny yourself as a true music lover.
“Down there they don’t get to experience the movement at all,” they whispered in Levadski’s ear. “… Not real music lovers … A load of philistines. They don’t even dare to cough, sitting there rusting in their patent leather shoes, all in the first rows for the sake of being seen, stiff and empty as they are … Pitiful!”
“In the old days,” the sisters enthused, “champagne corks flew through the air, people joked and laughed to their heart’s content, you paid the neighboring box a visit, a little tête-à-tête, a kiss on the hand, oh, and now? Now, without the bubbly, we have stepped slightly closer to the music …,” remembering they were speaking in front of the innocent child Levadski. “Only the vanities remain the same old ones,” they added.
From up high, Levadski marveled at all these people who monopolized his great-aunts’ music. They must, Levadski suspected, have arrived at the enjoyment of music through a stroke of fate and forced the real music lovers into the cheap, if marvelous, seats in the balconies over-looking the stage by the organ. The pain of an unendurable loss could be seen in the hangdog expression on the two sisters’ faces, precisely where the hangers-on sported a smile. This pain was of such magnitude that even the rays of music, the reason everyone was gathered here in the Golden Hall of the Musikverein, could not properly warm Levadski’s great-aunts. Not least because they appeared to be continuing a silent battle from their organ balcony — the right of the firstborn had to be put on display for all to see, as an unmistakable pedagogic greeting to everyone down there. The aunts were only able to relax during the intermissions, in the circle of the old elite.
“At last among the like-minded!” the sisters sighed on the way to the buffet, wiping the dust from the marble steps with the hems of their shabby dresses. With a dignified impatience, holding Levadski by the hand, they hurried towards the people who understood music. They recognized each other from a distance, intimated a bow or a kiss on the hand; ladies wearing arm-length gloves shook each other’s hands. You could see the sparkle of pocket watches on gold chains, wilting carnations in the buttonholes of gentlemen gave off a barely perceptible scent, so heavy were the clouds of perfume of the supposedly weaker sex who had done their best to dress up to the nines. People conversed during the intermissions as if this were the last opportunity to impart something of essence to the world. The topic of conversation was music; after all it brought the old elite together, veterans of an out-and-out lost and futile war. A folding fan dropped to the parquet floor, was picked up with a smile and a slight creaking of the spine, people continued to converse about music. People offered toasts to the music.
This group of people was even more suspect to Levadski than their opponents who, with champagne glasses filled to the brim, skirted around the island of the elites, as if they were ashamed of the course that history had taken. Levadski found it difficult to distinguish between the true and the false music lovers, for both clans were equally convinced of their love of the art. The hangers-on gave the impression of being clueless and inquisitive, which made them a little more sympathetic in Levadski’s eyes than those who were of his great-aunts’ ilk, so immersed in their knowledge of the essence that there seemed to be no room for music itself in their emotional life. In spite of this, Levadski’s passion for music was kindled by these partially unintelligible conversations in the buffet hall of the Musikverein, in between the canapés with carefully counted caviar roe and the tinkling drops of crystal chandeliers warmed by the breath of the people, slowly circling around themselves. The Musikverein hall was gold, the pearls of the champagne were a dusty gold in the flutes, like wax candles forming a circle around the speaker with the gold tooth in his mouth. Levadski listened to him, hanging on every word. Like crumbs of gold, the man scattered his words into the circle of altar boys and girls holding wax candles in their hands.
“How, ladies and gentlemen, can music free itself from its fetters? From which fetters? the eyes of the youngster (Levadski ducks) ask rightly. My friend! From which fetters? The answer is simple — from the fetters of its existence as a masterpiece! Called back into life through the palpable feelings of the interpreter. But, my dear sir, the charming ladies (looking over at Levadski’s great-aunts) will object, what about fidelity to the work and the historically correct way of playing it? (Pauses for a drink, scans the circle with a mischievous glance.) Are we academic classicists? Do we belong to that pedantic breed of people who blindly believe that the work will speak for itself if the interpreter restrains his feelings and snatches those of the composer out of thin air? (Levadski’s great-aunts shake their heads decisively.) No, no and no again! What an absurd thought! How, if not by means of a tender heart, is the musician meant to understand the composer? It is only through the living, through our presence, that the idea of a work can be realized. But (the prophet raises a chubby forefinger) how to play, in particular the younger ones among us ask (looking at the shrinking Levadski), in order to do the composer justice? Let us forget, dear friends, (conciliatory nodding of the head) our misgivings about the personal touch. A respectful virtuoso will never vainly abuse it. Where would that get us, yes, where would that get us? (Pauses for a drink, absent-minded wiping of the moustache.) The composer is dead! (Fixed stare into the circle.) Yet for as long as he lived, he found consolation in this one thought: his music will outlive him and be played by generations to follow. Irrespective of the personal touch, the music has survived the composer. Ladies (pause) and gentlemen, it is only, I repeat, it is only when it is in harmony with our time that music is alive and able to move us deeply. (Small outbreak of applause with a confused Levadski at its head.) And I am most decisively saying this aloud to all the academic classicists!”
“Bravo!” the great-aunts shouted. It was not in the hall, but during the intermissions, when speeches like this were bandied about, that they truly seemed to come alive.
“In the time of our grandfathers, everything was played according to their own perception of it,” a heavily powdered beauty from times gone by announced. “The adaptation by a virtuoso was considered more significant that the original score!” Levadski’s great-aunts nodded, gazing into the distance with nostalgia.