out the violin, and began to tune it. I remember how my wife sat down, feigning indifference, under which I saw her conceal her timidity,—timidity mainly as to her own ability,—how she sat down with a look of indifference at the piano, and there began the usual la on the piano, the pizzicato of the violin, and the placing of the music. I remember how, then, they looked at each other, casting a glance at the seated guests, how they said something one to the other, and how then it began. He took the first chords. His face grew serious, stern, and sympathetic, and, listening to his tones, he picked the strings with cautious fingers. The piano replied to him. And it began—"
Pózdnyshev stopped and several times in succession emitted his sounds. He wanted to speak, but he snuffled and again stopped.
"They were playing the Kreutzer Sonata by Beethoven," he continued. "Do you know the first presto? You do?" he exclaimed. "Ugh! Ugh! That sonata is a terrible thing, particularly that part of it. Music, in general, is a terrible thing. I cannot understand what it is. What is music? What does it do? And why does it do that which it does? They say that music acts upon the soul by elevating it,—nonsense, a lie! It acts, acts terribly,—I am speaking for myself,—but not at all by elevating. It neither elevates nor humbles the soul,—it irritates it. How shall I tell it to you? Music makes me forget myself and my real condition; it transfers me to another, not my own condition: it seems to me that under the influence of music I feel that which I really do not feel, that I understand that which I do not understand, that I can do that which I cannot do. I explain this by supposing that music acts like yawning, like laughter: I do not want to sleep, but I yawn seeing people yawn; I have no cause for laughing, but I laugh hearing others laugh.
