He could not, himself, approach any nearer to the music practised by
Gerda and her friend Herr Pfühl; Gerda herself, exclusive and impatient
where her art was concerned, made it cruelly hard for him.
Never had he dreamed that music was so essentially foreign to his
family as now it seemed. His grandfather had enjoyed playing the flute,
and he himself always listened with pleasure to melodies that possessed
a graceful charm, a lively swing, or a tender melancholy. But if he
happened to express his liking for any such composition, Gerda would be
sure to shrug her shoulders and say with a pitying smile, “How can you,
my friend? A thing like that, without any musical value whatever!”
He hated this “musical value.” It was a phrase which had no meaning
for him save a certain chilling arrogance. It drove him on, in Hanno’s
presence, to self-assertion. More than once he remonstrated angrily,
“This constant harping on musical values, my dear, strikes me as rather
tasteless and opinionated.” To which she rejoined: “Thomas, once for
all, you will never understand anything about music as an art, and,
intelligent as you are, you will never see that it is more than an
after-dinner pleasure and a feast for the ears. In every other field
you have a perception of the banal--in music not. But it is the test
of musical comprehension. What pleases you in music? A sort of insipid
optimism, which, if you met with it in literature, would make you throw
down the book with an angry or sarcastic comment. Easy gratification
of each unformed wish, prompt satisfaction before the will is even
roused--that is what pretty music is like--and it is like nothing else
in the world. It is mere flabby idealism.”
He understood her; that is, he understood what she said. But he could
not follow her: could not comprehend why melodies which touched or
stirred him were cheap and worthless, while compositions which left
him cold and bewildered possessed the highest musical value. He stood
before a temple from whose threshold Gerda sternly waved him back--and
he watched while she and the child vanished within.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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