Anna Karenina (Dole)/Part Seven/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
Two very interesting pieces were to be given at the matinee. One was a fantasia or symphonic poem called "The King Lear of the Steppes," the other was a quartette dedicated to the memory of Bach. Both pieces were new and of the new school, and Levin desired to form his own opinion in regard to them. So, after he had conducted his sister-in-law to her place, he took his stand near a column, and determined to listen as attentively and conscientiously as possible. He tried not to allow his attention to be distracted and his impressions spoiled by letting his eyes follow the white-cravatted kapellmeister's waving arms, which are always so disturbing to the musical attention, or by looking at the ladies in their hats, who for concerts take especial pains to tie ribbons round their ears, or at all those faces either occupied with nothing, or occupied with the most heterogeneous interests, music being the last. He tried to avoid meeting the connoisseurs and the chatterers, but he stood alone by himself, looking down and listening.
But the more he listened to the "King Lear" fantasia, the more he felt the impossibility of forming a clear and exact idea of it. The musical thought, at the moment of its development, was constantly interrupted by the introduction of new themes, or vanished, leaving only the impression of a complicated and laborious attempt at instrumentation. But these same new themes, beautiful as some of them were, gave an unpleasant impression, because they were not expected or prepared for. Gayety and sadness and despair and tenderness and triumph followed one another like the incoherent thoughts of a madman, to be themselves followed by others as wild.
During the whole performance, Levin experienced a feeling analogous to what a deaf man might have in looking at dancers. He was in a state of utter dubiety when the piece came to an end, and he felt a great weariness from the strain of intellectual intensity which was never rewarded.
On all sides were heard loud applause and clapping of hands. All got up and moved about, talking. Wishing to get some light on his doubts by the impressions of others. Levin began to walk about, seeking for the connoisseurs, and he was glad when at last he saw one of the best-known musical critics talking with his friend Pestsof.
"It's wonderful," said Pestsof, in his deep bass. "How are you, Konstantin Dmitritch? The passage that is the richest in color, the most statuesque, so to speak, is that where Cordelia appears, where woman, das ewig Weibliche, comes into conflict with fate. Don't you think so?"
"Why Cordelia?" asked Levin, with hesitation, for he had wholly forgotten that the symphonic poem had anything to do with King Lear.
"Cordelia appears here," said Pestsof, tapping with his finger on the satin program which he held in his hand. Then only did Levin notice the title of the symphonic poem, and he made haste to read the text of Shakespeare, translated into Russian and printed on the back of the program. "You can't follow it without that," said Pestsof, addressing Levin, now that his friend, the critic, had gone, and there was nothing more to talk with him about.
Levin and Pestsof spent the intermission in discussing the merits and defects of the Wagnerian tendencies in music. Levin maintained that the mistake of Wagner and all his followers consisted in transferring music to the domain of an alien art, that poetry made the mistake when it tried to depict the features of the human face, which it was the province of painting to do, and as a concrete example of this kind of a mistake he adduced the sculptor who should try to express in marble the shades of poetic imagery rising round the figure of the poet on the pedestal.
"These shades are so far from being shades in the case of the sculptor, that they even rest on the steps," said Levin. This phrase pleased him, but he had a lurking suspicion that he had once used this same phrase before, and to Pestsof himself, and he felt confused.
Pestsof argued that art is one, and that it can reach its loftiest manifestations only by combining all its forms.
Levin could not listen to the second number on the program. Pestsof, who was standing near him, kept talking to him most of the time, criticizing it for its excessive, mawkish, affected simplicity, and comparing it to the simplicity of the Pre-Raphaelites in painting.
On his way out, he met various acquaintances, with whom he exchanged remarks on politics, music, and other topics; among others he saw Count Bohl, and the call which he should have made on him came to mind.
"Well, go quickly," said Natalie, to whom he confided this. "Perhaps the countess is not receiving. If so, you will come and join me at the meeting. You will have plenty of time."