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It was marvellous to be among the guests, when a skinny boy with thin tight-pressed lips, a narrow slightly hooked nose, in glasses with old-fashioned shiny metal frames walked across the room. Without a word and surly he had to get up on tip-toe to install himself in front of the huge piano. It was marvellous because, in accordance with some strange law of contradictions, this skinny boy at the piano was suddenly transformed into a bold musician with a man’s firm fingers and with an astonishing grasp of rhythm. He would play his own compositions imbued with the spirit of new music: they were startling and made you take in sound as if it was theatre, where everything is on display from laughter to tears. His music talked and bubbled away, sometimes very cheekily. Suddenly from among its uneven dissonances, there would emerge a tune, that took us all aback. Then the boy would stand up from the piano and quietly and shyly rejoin his mother, who was blushing and smiling as if the applause was for her and not for her timid son. When people came up to the musician from all sides and demanded he should go on playing, he would sit there, looking down angrily from behind his glasses, with his hands resting on his knobbly boy’s knees, while his mother used to say: ‘Go on, Mitya, do play some more’. Mitya would meekly get up at once and with angular childish steps go back to the piano. As he touched the keys, he turned into a man once more, filled with that vibrancy, without which great music is unthinkable. Those with the ability to see into the future, could already sense the Dmitrii Shostakovich to come in the tapestry of his whimsical quests.
K. Fedin, “Gorky among Us”