Sacred and Profane Love. Arnold Bennett

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СКАЧАТЬ resumed his place at the piano, and touched the keys.

      ‘Another thing that makes me more sure that I am not deceiving myself to-night,’ he said, taking his fingers off the keys, but staring at the keyboard, ‘is that you have not regretted coming here. You have not called yourself a wicked woman. You have not even accused me of taking advantage of your innocence.’

      And ere I could say a word he had begun the Chromatic Fantasia, smiling faintly.

      And I had hoped for peace from Bach! I had often suspected that deep passion was concealed almost everywhere within the restraint and the apparent calm of Bach’s music, but the full force of it had not been shown to me till this glorious night. Diaz’ playing was tenfold more impressive, more effective, more revealing in the hotel parlour than in the great hall. The Chromatic Fantasia seemed as full of the magnificence of life as that other Fantasia which he had given an hour or so earlier. Instead of peace I had the whirlwind; instead of tranquillity a riot; instead of the poppy an alarming potion. The rendering was masterly to the extreme of masterliness.

      When he had finished I rose and passed to the fireplace in silence; he did not stir.

      ‘Do you always play like that?’ I asked at length.

      ‘No,’ he said; ‘only when you are there. I have never played the Chopin Fantasia as I played it to-night. The Chopin was all right; but do not be under any illusion: what you have just heard is Bach played by a Chopin player.’

      Then he left the piano and went to the small table where the glasses were.

      ‘You must be in need of refreshment,’ he whispered gaily. ‘Nothing is more exhausting than listening to the finest music.’

      ‘It is you who ought to be tired,’ I replied; ‘after that long concert, to be playing now.’

      ‘I have the physique of a camel,’ he said. ‘I am never tired so long as I am sure of my listeners. I would play for you till breakfast to-morrow.’

      The decanter contained a fluid of a pleasant green tint. He poured very carefully this fluid to the depth of half an inch in one glass and three-quarters of an inch in another glass. Then he filled both glasses to the brim with water, accomplishing the feat with infinite pains and enjoyment, as though it had been part of a ritual.

      ‘There!’ he said, offering me in his steady hand the glass which had received the smaller quantity of the green fluid. ‘Taste.’

      ‘But what is it?’ I demanded.

      ‘Taste,’ he repeated, and he himself tasted.

      I obeyed. At the first mouthful I thought the liquid was somewhat sinister and disagreeable, but immediately afterwards I changed my opinion, and found it ingratiating, enticing, and stimulating, and yet not strong.

      ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

      I nodded, and drank again.

      ‘It is wonderful,’ I answered. ‘What do you call it?’

      ‘Men call it absinthe,’ he said.

      ‘But—’

      I put the glass on the mantelpiece and picked it up again.

      ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he soothed me. ‘I know what you were going to say. You have always heard that absinthe is the deadliest of all poisons, that it is the curse of Paris, and that it makes the most terrible of all drunkards. So it is; so it does. But not as we are drinking it; not as I invariably drink it.’

      ‘Of course,’ I said, proudly confident in him. ‘You would not have offered it to me otherwise.’

      ‘Of course I should not,’ he agreed. ‘I give you my word that a few drops of absinthe in a tumbler of water make the most effective and the least harmful stimulant in the world.’

      ‘I am sure of it,’ I said.

      ‘But drink slowly,’ he advised me.

      I refused the sandwiches. I had no need of them. I felt sufficient unto myself. I no longer had any apprehension. My body, my brain, and my soul seemed to be at the highest pitch of efficiency. The fear of being maladroit departed from me. Ideas—delicate and subtle ideas—welled up in me one after another; I was bound to give utterance to them. I began to talk about my idol Chopin, and I explained to Diaz my esoteric interpretation of the Fantasia. He was sitting down now, but I still stood by the fire.

      ‘Yes, he said, ‘that is very interesting.’

      ‘What does the Fantasia mean to you?’ I asked him.

      ‘Nothing,’ he said.

      ‘Nothing!’

      ‘Nothing, in the sense you wish to convey. Everything, in another sense. You can attach any ideas you please to music, but music, if you will forgive me saying so, rejects them all equally. Art has to do with emotions, not with ideas, and the great defect of literature is that it can only express emotions by means of ideas. What makes music the greatest of all the arts is that it can express emotions without ideas. Literature can appeal to the soul only through the mind. Music goes direct. Its language is a language which the soul alone understands, but which the soul can never translate. Therefore all I can say of the Fantasia is that it moves me profoundly. I know how it moves me, but I cannot tell you; I cannot even tell myself.’

      Vistas of comprehension opened out before me.

      ‘Oh, do go on,’ I entreated him. ‘Tell me more about music. Do you not think Chopin the greatest composer that ever lived? You must do, since you always play him.’

      He smiled.

      ‘No,’ he said, ‘I do not. For me there is no supremacy in art. When fifty artists have contrived to be supreme, supremacy becomes impossible. Take a little song by Grieg. It is perfect, it is supreme. No one could be greater than Grieg was great when he wrote that song. The whole last act of The Twilight of the Gods is not greater than a little song of Grieg’s.’

      ‘I see,’ I murmured humbly. ‘The Twilight of the Gods—that is Wagner, isn’t it?’

      ‘Yes. Don’t you know your Wagner?’

      ‘No. I—’

      ‘You don’t know Tristan?’

      He jumped up, excited.

      ‘How could I know it?’ I expostulated. ‘I have never seen any opera. I know the marches from Tannhäuser and Lohengrin, and “O Star of Eve!” ’

      ‘But it is impossible that you don’t know Tristan!’ he exclaimed. ‘The second act of Tristan is the greatest piece of love-music—No, it isn’t.’ He laughed. ‘I must not contradict myself. But it is marvellous—marvellous! You know the story?’

      ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Play me some of it.’

      ‘I will play the Prelude,’ he answered.

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