How vulgar, this hankering after immortality, how vain, how false. Composers are merely scribblers of cave paintings. One writes music because winter is eternal and because, if one didn’t, the wolves and blizzards would be at one’s throat all the sooner.
Sincerely,
R.F.
ZEDELGHEM
14TH—IX—1931
Sixsmith,
Sir Edward Elgar came to tea this afternoon. Even you’ve heard of him, you ignoramus. Now, usually, if one asks Ayrs what he thinks of English music he’ll say, “What English music? There is none! Not since Purcell!” and sulk all day, as if the Reformation were one’s own doing. This hostility was forgotten in a trice when Sir Edward telephoned from his hotel in Bruges this morning, wondering if Ayrs might be able to spare him an hour or two. Ayrs made a show of curmudgeonliness, but I c
