Divertimento

I linger, though my father frowns and motions for me to leave them, to go. I have offered the man refreshment, as is polite, but this has been rather vaguely declined. It is the instrument that interests him, not the nourishment of his body, and he sets to it at once, without chit-chat or prevarication. He sits at the keyboard, head bent and still for a moment, then strikes with some vigour a single note in the bass, a second, more lightly in the treble, then moves between the two chromatically. He then plays, some piece of his own composing perhaps, for it is not at all familiar. I have heard much about the genius of this Italian (a connection from my father's days at court)the brilliant articulation and expression of his playing, the intensity and ingenuity of his compositions. There have been reports of seizures, rumours of swooning crowds. But this was all some time ago. Now - though it may be that he plays ex tempore - neither invention nor execution are remarkable. It is a pretty work, to be sure - swift and easy, with something of the spirit of Scarlatti - but simple. There is nothing of the virtuoso about him either: he remains perfectly composed as he plays, his narrow back and slim shoulders still, his face expressionless. I had hoped for more and am, I must admit, a little disappointed.