when the music strikes up after a longish pause, how eyes sparkle, legs twitch and faces begin to laugh. That is why one makes music.”
“Very good, Herr Pablo. But there is not only sensual music. There is spiritual also. Besides the music that is actually played at the moment, there is the immortal music that lives on even when it is not actually being played. It can happen to a man to lie alone in bed and to call to mind a melody from the Magic Flute or the Matthew Passion , and then there is music without anybody blowing into a flute or passing a bow across a fiddle.”
“Certainly, Herr Haller. ‘ Yearning ’ and ‘ Valencia ’ are recalled every night by many a lonely dreamer. Even the poorest typist in her office has the latest one-step in her head and taps her keys in time to it. You are right. I don’t grudge all those lonely persons their mute music, whether it’s ‘ Yearning ’ or the Magic Flute or ‘ Valencia .’ But where do they get their lonely and mute music from? They get it from us, the musicians. It must first have been played and heard, it must have got into the blood, before anyone at home in his room can think of it and dream of it.”
“Granted,” I said coolly, “all the same it won’t do to put Mozart and the latest foxtrot on the same level. And it is not one and the same thing whether you play people divine and eternal music or cheap stuff of the day that is forgotten tomorrow.”
When Pablo observed from my tone that I was getting heated, he at once put on his most amiable expression and touching my arm caressingly he gave an unbelievable softness to his voice.
“Ah, my dear sir, you may be perfectly right with your levels. I have nothing to say to your putting Mozart and Haydn and ‘ Valencia ’ on what levels you please. It is all one to me. It is not for me to decide about levels. I shall never be asked about them. Mozart, perhaps, will still be