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Updated: July 19, 2025
Incidentally it may be remarked that two hundred years ago people actually took pleasure in trilling with the third instead of with the second; this, in the eighteenth century, was only adhered to by bagpipers, while to our ear it has become an absolute abomination and barbarity. A hundred years ago it was considered very daring to perform an adagio before the public in a concert hall.
"If you'll believe it, that thought popped into my head last night when Cyril was playing that concerto so superbly. It did, actually right in the middle of the adagio movement, too. And in spite of my joy and pride in the music I had all I could do to keep from nudging Marie right there and then and asking her whether or not the dear man was hard on his hose."
But one must forget this unwise programme, which borders on bad taste and at times on something even worse. When one has succeeded in forgetting it one discovers a well-proportioned symphony in four parts Allegro, Scherzo, Adagio, and Finale in fugue form and one of the finest works in contemporary music.
In his fourth symphony he expressed musically the destiny of Napoleon; in the ninth symphony he tries to give a proof of the existence of God. By the side of a dead friend, in a room draped in black, he improvises the adagio of the sonata in C sharp minor. The biographers of Mendelssohn relate analogous instances of transposition under musical form.
Its first movement was allegro agitato, adagio, and allegretto scherzando, picturing each vivid phase of early boyhood; next came the requisite andante, a dreaming melody, expressing all the yearning, the vague melancholy of pre-adolescence; then the third: a rippling scherzo of youthful pleasures, gayety, young loves and joyous dances; finally a tempestuous finale: allegretto sforzando é appassionato the rising of the burdens of manhood, of new ambitions; the descending of the sadness of man's responsibility, the reluctant passing of the careless, heart-free joys of youth.
"Promptly at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning," he writes, "I will play the Adagio from the Chopin variations and will think strongly in fact only of you. Now I beg of you that you will do the same, so that we may meet and see each other in spirit. . . . Should you not do this, and there break to-morrow at that hour a chord, you will know that it is I."
In the adagio depicting night, there is, though in very bad taste, much seriousness and reverie and stirring emotion. The fugue at the end is of astonishing sprightliness; and is a mixture of colossal jesting and heroic pastoral poetry worthy of Beethoven, whose style it recalls in the breadth of its development. The final apotheosis is filled with life; its joy makes the heart beat.
Yet is not a rosebud a thousand times more beautiful than a full-blown rose? One more consideration. The psychology of the sonata form is false. Men and women do not feel happy for ten minutes as in the opening allegro of a sonata, then melancholy for another ten minutes, as in the following adagio, then frisky, as in the scherzo, and finally, fiery and impetuous for ten minutes as in the finale.
It is 2008 and he, sometimes Adagio and sometimes Nathaniel or various nicknames, still doesn't even have a consistent label for himself. Not even a consistent name has stuck on him all these 18 years; and the half hour that he has sat in the library there is that same mental numbness of all other previous half hours. It is numbness as empty as a pit in the mouth from an extracted tooth.
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