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he opened the box, took off the serge embroidered by a lady's hand, and
began to tune the instrument. I can still see my wife sit down, with a
false air of indifference, under which it was plain that she hid a great
timidity, a timidity that was especially due to her comparative lack
of musical knowledge. She sat down with that false air in front of the
piano, and then began the usual preliminaries,--the pizzicati of the
violin and the arrangement of the scores. I remember then how they
looked at each other, and cast a glance at their auditors who were
taking their seats. They said a few words to each other, and the music
began. They played Beethoven's 'Kreutzer Sonata.' Do you know the first
presto? Do you know it? Ah!" . . .
Posdnicheff heaved a sigh, and was silent for a long time.
"A terrible thing is that sonata, especially the presto! And a terrible
thing is music in general. What is it? Why does it do what it does?
They say that music stirs the soul. Stupidity! A lie! It acts, it acts
frightfully (I speak for myself), but not in an ennobling way. It acts
neither in an ennobling nor a debasing way, but in an irritating
way. How shall I say it? Music makes me forget my real situation. It
transports me into a state which is not my own. Under the influence of
music I really seem to feel what I do not feel, to understand what I do
not understand, to have powers which I cannot have. Music seems to me to
act like yawning or laughter; I have no desire to sleep, but I yawn when
I see others yawn; with no reason to laugh, I laugh when I hear others
laugh. And music transports me immediately into the condition of soul
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