On a beautiful fall afternoon, the first-person narrator, a passionate lover of music, sits in one of Berlin’s well-known cafés, desperately trying to escape from the loud racket of its obligatory music into the world of pleasant reveries. Brought back from his dreams by the offensive tune of a particularly vile waltz, he suddenly notices that an older man of strikingly mysterious countenance and demeanor has joined him at his table. In an ensuing conversation, the stranger disagrees with the narrator’s harsh criticism of the musicians and, to prove his point, asks them to play the overture to Christoph Gluck’s opera Iphigenia in Aulis (1774). The narrator is quickly caught up in his companion’s intense delight and is finally able to hear the heavenly beauty of the composition in spite of the pitiful performance it receives at the hands of the little orchestra.
At the end of the music, the stranger admits that he himself is a composer and proceeds to recount with ever-growing exaltation his way from his boyhood music lessons to the frightening but enchanting realms of music to his final, mystical encounter with the truth of all art. This truth revealed itself to him under the symbol of the sun as an ineffable harmony, a musical triad “from which the chords, like stars, shoot out and entwine you with threads of fire.” Overcome by the wild enthusiasm of his own story, the stranger abruptly gets up and vanishes.
(The entire section is 575 words.)