Another city, another anonymous hotel suite adorned in every corner with too many flowers. And there sits maestro, bended over a bowl of his beloved semolina pudding. His entourage want him downstairs, or entertaining select patrons in his rooms, but his comfort and solace is here, alone, waiting.
It will come to him again tonight, that haunting story of wandering in a chill bleak landscape; but how, this time: some new nuance, some telling twist or accidental upon which the emotions will balance or fall? He seldom knows, even as it happens. Even the trembling excitement of his heart will affect the pace with which the story unfolds itself.
It is at once both his own story and anonymous, as are the best of songs which inhabit only the singer who can empathize. Maestro will stand in the salon and the weary traveller’s story of Winterreise will out; the audience will hear but not see the icy landscape or feel the chill on their weary limbs in the way he does. They will know nothing of the desolate heart.