Add a dash of pity [antikvár]

THE MAN WHO TOOK IT EASY Erhardt Von Csumlay was dressed in black, not because his wife had recently died but because black is a serious colour. He watched a smartly dressed crowd streaming into the auditórium of the University of California, and cursed Stravinsky. That fellow had got away with murder. Nothing admirable about him except that he had stuck to his guns. Full marks for tenacity, for belief in himself. But as for talent? What did those minked and sabled ladies know of music? Stravinsky was just a great name for a composer, exotic but not too difficult to pronounce. It looked good on a programme. Like Picasso, there's another one. Catchy. Easy to remember. Von Csumlay was exotic, all right, but too authentic to be popular, too true to itself. The concert was about to begin. Dr Von Csumlay did not deign to enter. Had Stravinsky appeared in person, his arms outstretched, and said, 'Erhardt Von Csumlay, at last we meet, your passacaglia for strings, two trombones, and percussion has always been the greatest inspiration to me,' Erhardt would have turnéd away sourly and said, T wish I could say the same for a single bar of your music, Herr Stravinsky.' But Stravinsky did not appear. At the time he was in Venice, conducting a new work of his at the festival. As the first notes of the Sacre du Printemps were heard faintly from the interior of the hall, Dr Von Csumlay turnéd away his head and winced. Then he walked off into the balmy night, searching the past for consolation. He remembered his youth in Hungary, how his grandfather had given him his first undersized violin and taught 7