Chapter 7 4

The gramophone corrupted the ascetic intellectual atmosphere of my studio, and the intrusion of unfamiliar American dance music into my carefully guarded musical world had destructive, even ruinous consequences, while at the same time From all directions new, terrible, disintegrating things poured into my hitherto chiseled, self-contained life.Steppenwolf and Hermine were right about a thousand souls, and in addition to all the old ones in me, several new ones appeared every day, and they made all kinds of demands.There was a lot of noise, and the hallucinations of my former character were now as clear as a picture before my eyes.I allowed only a few intellects and skills at which I was very good by accident to develop. I only painted a picture of a Harry, and I lived a life of a Harry, and this Harry was only a man in philosophy, music, philosophy, and so on. The rest of my being, the well-trained specialist--I have always been disgusted by the whole chaos of abilities, desires, pursuits, and demeaned it with the moniker of Steppenwolf.

I have recently come out of the hallucinations that my personality has disintegrated into many different qualities, and this, far from being a pleasant and interesting adventure, is often, on the contrary, very painful.Almost unbearable.In my room the sound of the gramophone often sounded like the howling of the devil, because it was so out of proportion to my surroundings.Sometimes, when I do a one-step dance in some trendy restaurant, among greasy, well-dressed lechers, and swindlers, I feel like I've betrayed something in my life that I thought was honorable and sacred.If Hermine had only left me alone for eight days, I would have rid myself of these inexplicable and ridiculous lechers in no time.Yet Hermine was always by my side; although I did not see her every day, I was observed by her every moment, guided by her, watched by her, judged by her, my violent opposition and flight She can see it from my face with a smile.

As what used to be called my personality keeps getting destroyed.I began to understand why I was so desperate and so afraid of death.I began to notice that this hideous and disgraceful phobia was a small part of my former deceitful civilian life.The formerly dominant Mr. Harrell, writer of genius, expert on Mozart and Goethe, author of many worthwhile essays on metaphysics in art, genius and tragedy, and human nature, hides in his pile of The sentimental hermit in the closet of books—this Mr. Harrell had to dissect me step by step, and in no way could he stand up to it.Although this talented and interesting Mr. Harrell advocated reason and humanity, and protested against the brutality and cruelty of war, during the war, however, he was not dragged to the execution ground and shot as his thoughts inevitably led to during the war. Instead, he Some kind of adaptation was found—a very respectable, very noble compromise, which of course is a compromise after all.Moreover, he was against power and exploitation, but he had stocks in many factory enterprises in the bank, and he spent the interest on them without feeling guilty.There was this contradiction in everything about him.Harry Harrell is very cleverly disguised as an idealist, a world-scorner, a melancholy hermit, a resentful prophet, but he is still a rich man in his bones, and he thinks that life like Hermine is vulgar, angry at the wasted nights in restaurants, the money wasted there, he is deeply guilty, his desire for self-liberation and self-improvement is not urgent, on the contrary, he has a very strong desire to return to the old Those comfortable days; when such things as mental activity pleased him and brought him honor.Likewise, the newspaper readers whom he scorned and sneered at longed for a return to the pre-war ideals when life was much more comfortable than learning from suffering.Hell, he—this Mr. Harrell is disgusting!Yet I still clung to him, or rather to his loosened mask, for the way he played with his mind, and for the bourgeois fear of disorder and accident (and death too). of this contingency), I teasingly and enviously compared the new Harry in the making--the timid and ridiculous amateur of the ballroom--with the deceitful, idealistic figure of the previous Harry, who Now he found in himself unpleasant traits of character, exactly the same as all the traits which had annoyed him a few days before in the etching of Goethe at the professor's house.He himself—Old Harry—was such a bourgeois idealized Goethe, such a spiritual hero, with a noble look in his eyes, a noble, human, and radiant image, just like Shang He was almost carried away by the nobility of his soul, as if pomade made a man invigorated!Hell, this beautiful picture is now poked a few hideous holes, and the ideal Mr. Harrell is dismembered!He looked like a dignitary in tattered clothes robbed by the strong, when he would have been wiser to learn to play the ragged poor man, but he was not like that, dressed in rags He had to puff out his chest and belly, as if his clothes* were covered with medals, and he continued to demand the dignity he gained and lost with a mournful face.

Time and time again I saw Pablo the musician, whom Hermine liked so much and sought out his company so eagerly that I had to revise my opinion of him.In my memory, I see Pablo as a pretty douchebag, a small, slightly vain dandy, a jovial, carefree kid who happily plays his music. The Bazaar Horn is easy to tease him with, say a few nice words about him and give him a little chocolate.Pablo didn't ask me what I thought of him, and he didn't care if my opinion was the same as my musical theory.He always smiled and listened to me politely and kindly, but never gave a real answer.Nevertheless, I seemed to interest him, and he could tell that he was trying to please me and show me his kindness.Once, I talked with him to no avail. I became angry and almost became violent. He stared at me in amazement and sadness, and took my left hand to stroke me.Give me a little snuff or something out of a little gilt pot, and say I'll feel good about it.I cast a questioning look at Hermione, she nodded, and I took the thing and sucked it up.Sure enough, I quickly regained my energy and was alive again, and there was probably cocaine in the powder.Hermine told me that Pablo had many of these medicines, which he obtained from various secret sources, and sometimes gave a little to friends, and that he was a master at preparing them.He formulated analgesics, sleeping pills, some to make people dream, some to make people feel happy, and some to stimulate desire.

Once I met him on the street, by the pier, and he came to keep me company without saying a word.This time I finally got him to talk. He was fiddling with a thin black silver stick, and I said to him: "Sir Pablo, you are Hermine's friend, and that's why I'm interested in you. But I must say, It is not easy to talk to you. I have tried several times to talk to you about music, I would love to hear your opinion, your refutations and your judgments; but you never give me, even at the last Short answer." He smiled at me very sincerely, and this time he did not avoid answering, but said to me quietly: "You know, in my opinion, talking about music is not interesting at all. I never talk about music. Yes Your very meaningful and very correct words, what can I answer? Everything you say makes sense. But you see, I am a musician, not a scholar, and I don't believe in 'correct' opinions in music It's worth nothing. As far as music is concerned, it doesn't matter whether people are right, or have taste, or are educated, and so on."

"Let's just say that, so what's important?" "It's about people playing and singing, Mr. Harrell, it's about people playing as well as possible, as much as possible, with as much concentration as possible. That's the thing, sir. If I take all of Bach and Haydn The works are all in my head, and the same. I can talk about them incessantly, so I am of no use to anyone. If I take my saxophone and play a smooth sime, whether it is a good sime Whether it is bad or not, the music will bring joy to people, the music will enter their bone marrow, enter their blood. That's all that matters. When the music starts again after a long break in the dance hall, take a good look at that moment Open up their faces, how their eyes shone strangely, how his legs trembled, how their faces began to smile! That's what people play music for."

"Very well said, Monsieur Pablo. But besides music that stimulates the senses, there is also music that entertains the soul. Not only music that is played at a certain moment, but music that lasts forever, even if no one is currently It is also handed down music. Someone may be lying alone in bed, and he suddenly thinks of a melody from "The Magic Flute" or "The Passion of Matthew" in his memory, and then the music starts, although no one plays the flute , no one plays the violin." "Yes, Mr. Harrell. Even dance music like Irning and Valencia are silently reproduced every six nights by many lonely, dreamy beings; even the poorest typist in the office remembers To the latest step-dance music, tap the keys to the beat of the dance music. You are right, all these lonely people, I let them all enjoy their silent music, whether it is Irning or "The Magic Flute" Yes, or Valencia. But where do these people get their silent music? They hear it from us musicians, which are played only by light, so that they can be heard and become one with them , so they can sit in their rooms at home and think about it and dream about it."

"I agree with you," I said coldly. "But we still can't compare Mozart to the latest foxtrot. It's not the same thing if you play people sacred and timeless music or cheap ditties of the season." Pablo noticed the excitement in my voice, he quickly smiled, stroked my arm, and said in a very soft voice: "Ah, my dear sir, you may be quite right when it comes to 'equalities'. Whether it's Mozart, Haydn, or Valencia, you can put them into the ranks you see fit, it's up to you. It's all the same to me, I don't have to decide their grades, and no one asks me. Mozart may play for a hundred years, and Valencia may be gone for two years, I think, this is as good as the upper hand. Take the decision, God is just, he decides how long each of us lives, he also decides the life span of every waltz and every foxtrot, he will surely make the right judgment. And we musicians can only do our To do things, to fulfill our obligations, to fulfill our duties: we must play what the human heart desires at this moment, and we must play as well as possible, as beautifully as possible, as touchingly as possible.”

I sighed and didn't want to talk any more.This Pablo is really hard to deal with.