But the prelude now played by Valentine was neither the great music that
is of all time and of all countries, nor the music that is of any one
country. It was not even distinctively northern or southern in character,
impregnated with the mystery of the tuneless, wonderful East, or with the
peculiar homeliness that stirs Western hearts. Both the doctor and Julian
felt, as they listened, that it was music without an earthly home,
without location, devoid of that sense of relation to humanity which
links the greatness of the arts to the smallness of those who follow
them. Eccentric the music was, but the eccentricity of it seemed almost
inhuman, so unmannerly as to be beyond the range of the most uncouth man,
in advance of the invention of any mind, however coarse and criminal.
That was the atmosphere of this prelude, excessive, unutterable, crude,
sombre vulgarity of a detached and remote kind. As Levillier listened to
it amazed, he found that he did not instinctively connect the vulgarity
with any human traits, or translate the notes into acts within his
experience. He was simply conscious of being brought to the verge of some
sphere in which the sordidness attained by our race would be sneered at
as delicacy, in which our lowest grovellings of the pigsty would be as
lofty flights through the skies.
Pages:
309
310
311
312
313
314
315
316
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333