Knecht now remembered how at the time, filled with the idea of his poem, he had written down the word “Transcend!” as an invocation and imperative, a reminder to himself, a newly formulated but strong resolve to place his actions and his life under the aegis of transcendence, to make of it a serenely resolute moving on, filling and then leaving behind him every place, every stage along the way. Almost whispering, he read some lines to himself:
“I had forgotten these lines for many years,” he said, “and when they happened to come to my mind today, I no longer knew how I knew them and didn’t realize they were mine. How do they strike you today? Do they still mean anything to you?”
Tegularius considered.
“I have always had a rather odd feeling about this particular poem,” he said finally. “The poem itself is among the very few you’ve written that I didn’t really like. There was something about it that repelled or disturbed me. At the time I had no idea what it was. Today I think I see it. I never really liked this poem of yours, which you headed ‘Transcend!’ as if that were a marching order — thank God you later substituted a better title — I never really liked it because it has something didactic, moralizing, or schoolmasterly about it. If this element could be stripped away, or rather if this whitewash could be scrubbed off, it would be one of your finest poems — I’ve just realized that again. The real meaning is rather well suggested by the title ‘Stages,’ although you might just as well and perhaps better have called it ‘Music’ or ‘The Nature of Music.’ For if we discount the moralizing or preachy attitude, it is really about the nature of music, or if you will a song in praise of music, of its serenity and resolution, its quality of being constantly present, its mobility and unceasing urge to hasten on, to leave the space it has only just entered. If you contented yourself with this contemplation or praise of the spirit of music, if you had not turned it into an admonition and sermon — though obviously you had pedagogic ambitions even then — the poem might have been a perfect jewel. But as it stands it seems to me not only too hortatory but also afflicted by faulty logic. It equates music and life solely for the sake of the moral lesson. But that is highly questionable and disputable, for it transforms the natural and morally neutral impulse which is the mainspring of music into a ‘Life’ that summons, calls, commands us, and wants to impart good lessons to us. To put it briefly, in this poem a vision, something unique, beautiful, and splendid, has been falsified and exploited for didactic ends, and it is this aspect that always prejudiced me against it.”
The Magister had been listening with pleasure as his friend worked himself up into that angry ardor which he so liked in him.
“Let’s hope you’re right,” he said half jokingly. “You certainly are right in what you say about the poem’s relationship to music. The idea of serenely moving to distant places and the underlying concept of the lines actually does come from music, without my having been conscious of it. I really don’t know whether I corrupted the idea and falsified the vision; you may be right. When I wrote the poem, at any rate, it no longer dealt with music, but with an experience — the very experience that the lovely parable of music had revealed its moral aspect to me and become, within me, an awakening and an admonition to respond to the summons of life. The imperative form of the poem, which so particularly displeases you, is not the expression of any desire to command or teach, because the command is addressed to myself alone. That should have been clear from the last line, my friend, even if you weren’t already well aware of it. I experienced an insight, a perception, an inward vision, and was bent on telling the content and the moral of this insight to myself, and impressing it on my mind. That is why the poem remained in my memory, although I was not conscious of it. So whether these lines are good or bad, they’ve accomplished their purpose; the admonition remained alive inside me and was not forgotten. Today I hear it again as if it were brand new. That’s a fine little experience, and your mockery can’t spoil it for me. But it’s time for me to go. How lovely were those days, my friend, when we were both students and could so often allow ourselves to break the rules and stay together far into the nights, talking. A Magister can no longer allow himself such luxuries — more’s the pity.”
“Oh,” Tegularius said, “he could allow it — it’s a question of not having the courage.”
Laughing, Knecht placed a hand on his shoulder.
