Coda (2019) - full transcript

-=Sync&Corrected by Misiek666=-

Nietzsche famously said that

without music,
life would be a mistake.

German philosophers
tend to exaggerate.

But he did have a point.

I know that without music

my own life would've been

incomplete in
some fundamental way.

Like if I'd had no friends

or no memories.

I even tried to be
a pianist for a while



until I realized
just how fragile

piano playing really is.

Especially
in front of 2,000 people.

The most difficult thing

is to leave your fingers alone,

to just play and not think,

never open that door,

otherwise you won't
be making music for long.

You'll be running for dear life.

Fuck.

I'm fine.

Can I have...

Security to the front entrance.

Henry?



Henry.

Just having a smoke.

You don't smoke.

You got the heebie-jeebies?

Do you realize
how reckless it is

to play in front of an audience?

It's why they come, you know.

Like those cliff divers
I saw the other day on TV.

People enjoy the show but really

it's the looming
disaster that makes it special.

May I?

Do you hear that?

Some pianists are cerebral,

others sentimental.

Henry Cole is
an existential pianist.

He plays with his whole life.

Of course,
being existential about anything

can be complicated.

Henry. Henry, relax,
it's just a few reporters.

What
made you decide to play again?

Playing is my life.

Happy with your performance?

How'd it feel to
give a recital again

after all of these years?

Like a trip to the moon.

Why didn't you give an encore?

- Uh...
- -Sorry.

I like...

- Sorry.
- I like clean breaks...

the way...

the ocean...

abruptly ends between your feet,

the edge of a dying wave.

And I couldn't think
of anything else to play.

The need to share it, isn't
that what drives most musicians?

I think what
drives most musicians

is not dissimilar from
what drives most people.

And what's that?

People want to be appreciated.

- Indeed.
- Why the "Fantasie"?

Is it because it is
meant as a cry of despair

after the separation from Clara?

When Schumann was asked
what he meant by the piece,

do you know what
he said? Nothing.

He just sat down at
the piano and played it again.

However, some scientists claim

that we owe the "Fantasie"

as well as
numerous other masterpieces

to treponema pallidum.

Is she a composer?

She's the syphilis bacterium.

Is it true you didn't touch
a piano for three years...

Thank you very much.
That'll be all for today.

Thank you so much
for coming this evening.

Some say you
never even left your room.

- What happened, Mr. Cole?
- -Please just one more.

Why would anybody care

if I left my room or not?

Oh, they don't,
that was just a kid

trying to get some gossip.

What about you, Paul?

You know what matters to me?

Is that you are here,
right where you belong.

Tonight was important,
Henry, and you showed
an amazing amount of strength.

You were great.

Yes!

Hi.

Sorry about before.

I didn't mean to pry.

I'm Helen Morrison.

I write for The New Yorker.

Music is never about despair.

It's a celebration.

A victory.

And being
appreciated is not enough.

Most people want
to overcome something.

Were you celebrating
a victory tonight?

You're prying again.

Sorry.

I just play the notes.

You had me fooled.

Well, thank you.

I'm sorry, um...

you don't remember me, but...

you changed my
life 15 years ago.

I did?

You were giving
a masterclass at Julliard

and, um, I had just been cut,

first round of
a minor competition.

I lacked the basic talent of...

not shaking.

How unfair.

"What matters most
is experience," you said,

"Not performance.

The greatest gift, what
truly sets people apart is...

the ability to feel."

I said that?

Yeah, you did.

You know, there was also this...

Never mind.

Well, it's a long story.

Tell me.

Really?

I spent a month

in the Upper Engadine Valley

in the Swiss Alps,

just after my
competition disaster.

There's a lake
there called Silvaplana

where I would take long walks

every day along the shore,

thinking about what you said.

And by the side of the path

there was this boulder.

You know, nothing special,
just a... big old rock.

But every day
I would walk by it,

and there it was, the same,

just sitting there quietly

as it had been for 1,000 years.

And there was something
comforting about that rock,

like a,

reminder of
the world outside myself.

I would like to
do an article on you.

Ah...

Something comprehensive.

It sounds unpleasant.

I appreciate it,
but there is a lot to be said

for staying at
the surface of things.

Well, this would
be about music mostly.

Your career.

Could I ask for an interview?

When you have time.

Minimal prying, I promise!

It's not a good idea.

And if you'll excuse me,

I am expected
somewhere, thank you.

Good night.

Good night.

Apparently, this rock is where

Nietzsche
had his vision of the eternal

recurrence of all things.

The idea that
every event and every life

will repeat itself infinitely.

But if I can't recall
having been here before,

what difference does it make?

Unless he meant something else,

like fate.

Or simply that
life is a challenge.

If there is anything you need,

please don't hesitate.

My name is Felix.

Thank you.

In the folder there is a map of

all the hiking
trails in the region.

I highly
recommend the experience.

I'll make a note of it.

These just arrived for you, sir.

Ah.

Thank you.

Lovely.

How's the man this morning?

You look like
the cat that got the cream.

- Have you seen the papers?
- Nope.

"A trip to the moon."

"The bewitching return

of Britain's
grand master of the keyboard."

I've been on
the phone all morning.

Everyone is asking for
interviews, including the BBC.

And they're gonna run
an hour long special

before the London concert.

It is everywhere

on social media.

And the whole world

will be able to
watch your recital

live on the internet, Henry.

You're really reaching
out to the younger crowd.

Well, I like that.
That makes me happy.

- Mm-hmm.
- Um...

anything from The New Yorker?

No, nothing so far.

Oh, those are nice flowers.

Did you know that some
of the loveliest flowers

mimic the smell of fecal matter,

so as to attract dung insects?

Why not attract other insects?

I got to go. I got to meet
the guy at DDI Classics.

Now, I'll see you later
this afternoon, around two.

Oh, and, uh, don't forget
you have to try out
that new Steinway tonight.

- Oh, I know, I know.
- Yeah.

Paul?

Yes, Henry.

No reporters tonight,

right?

Right. No reporters.
Just a manager and a technician.

Here.

Read for yourself.

Yeah, hello.

Yeah, Paul.

Sorry to disturb you, Mr Cole.

Could I ask for your autograph?

I was at the concert last night.

Magnificent!

I drove all the way from Boston.

Oh, you didn't have
to drive all that way.

I'll be playing in
Boston a week from now.

- I know. I'm taking my son.
- Ah.

Well, that automatically
qualifies you for an autograph.

-What's your name?
-Maya. But it's not for me,
it's for my son.

- Daniel.
- Uh-uh.

- How old is he?
- 12.

Music is everything to him.

I mean, it's all he cares about.

Tell you what,

bring him backstage
after the recital next week.

- I'll sign it for him then.
- Really?

He has a poster of
you in his room, you know.

- A poster.
- Yeah.

- I hope it doesn't
give him nightmares.

You should put those in water.

Yes, I should.

- Maya...
- Yes.

Did you really
enjoy the recital?

Of course!

- Thank you.
- Thank you.

You play the piano?

Yes, a little bit.

You?

Yeah.

Mostly by ear.

I can pick up
pretty much any tune.

I've got a soft spot
for the oldies, though.

- So do I.
- Mm.

I like classical too,

but I find some
pieces are a little long.

Ain't that the truth.

Have a good evening.

You too.

Do you like
flowers, Mr. Cole?

I like all quiet forms of life.

Fish?

Them too.

I'm sorry,
I haven't eaten all day.

I'm a little
surprised to see you here.

I was in the neighborhood.

Actually, my friend
told me you would be here.

Ah.

Did you like my flowers?

I did, thank you.

You didn't write a review.

I'm working on something else.

What?

You have something here.

No the other side.

May I?

Gone.

We made all the adjustments.
I think you'll be pleased.

Thank you.

Ah, let's see.

The mind
is where it all happens.

It's best not to
wander in there too long.

You never know when
it's going to turn on you.

Move over a little, will you?

Do you still
want that interview?

London concert, sold out.

They're even putting
extra seats on the stage,

-including one for
the Prime Minister.
-Come on through.

Sit down, Paul.

It's not going away.

It's not going away!

What's not going away?

That thing the...

That happened to me
during the Beethoven.

Oh, you know what I remember

from that evening,

is like just what
everyone else remembers,

was that you played marvelously.

Despite the enormous pressure

of a long-awaited return.

- And not only that...
- No!

Yesterday I froze
in front a dozen people,

for God's sake!

I'm sorry.

Oh, no, no, no.

Helen saved me.

- Helen?
- Morrison, the journalist.

I couldn't play.

She saw something was wrong

and she bailed me out.

How?

She sat down beside me

and we played together.

What's wrong with me, Paul?

I know this is
difficult for you.

And it feels real.

And, and, and of course

it is, but...

We all have that
voice inside our head.

I mean, I hear it every day,

that little neurotic bugbear,

"What if?

What if I forget?

What if I miss the shot?

What if I suddenly
turn the steering wheel?"

That's not reality.

You were born
with a gift, Henry.

And you have dedicated
your entire life to it.

And it has been tested

and approved

and unanimously praised.

I mean,
you've played enough scales

and arpeggios and trills

to circle the earth 10 times.

I mean, your whole freaking
brain is wired to make music.

Believe me, it would take
a massive amount of work

to derail all that.

And that is the truth.

So, the next time,

you start imagining things,

I mean, if there is a next time,

you just take a deep breath,

you remember who you are

and you tell that
bugbear to fuck off!

Carol, it's me.

I need Helen
Morrison's phone number.

Hi.

- Sorry.
- Oh.

Hello there.

Am I interrupting?

I, I was,

just complimenting him
on his excellent posture.

Actually,

he reminds me of
my first piano teacher,

Mrs. Groffus.

What is it with gorillas?

I don't know.

They seem upset about something.

Maybe about being gorillas.

The curse of self-knowledge.

Or maybe they're afraid
of death, they're endangered.

Or perhaps they just
don't like being watched.

I can't tell you
how grateful I am,

Sir Henry.

No, please.

Just Henry.

Okay, Henry.

I can't even
remember my last interview.

I remember mine.

He had a heart
attack the next day.

Well, you do ask
difficult questions.

Music is a dangerous business.

People don't realize.

I knew this Spanish singer once,

great mezzo.

She was playing Carmen

in an open-air
production at the Alhambra.

And in the final scene,

as she gasped as
Don Jose stabbed her,

a wasp flew into
her mouth and stung her.

She collapsed,

went into anaphylactic shock.

No.

Nobody really
knew that she was dead

until the third curtain call.

Do you ever think
what your life would've

been had you
done something else?

It wouldn't have been my life.

It must be a great feeling

knowing that
there's nothing arbitrary

about what you do.

Now, I have a friend like that.

He's also a pianist.

He's unique.

Being unique,

is a desirable attribute
for stamps or landscapes.

In a pianist,

it usually spells trouble.

No one plays like you, Henry.

Well, thank you, Ms. Morrison.

It's kind of you to say.

The pianist's duty is to serve.

His personal contribution

belongs to
the realm of small differences.

That Beethoven
walked the face of the earth,

now that's something.

The, um,

the verse on your car,

where did you find it?

In your book.

It has been out
of print for years.

Do you still write?

Henry?

Mm?

You just seemed
far away for a second.

- I did?
- Yeah.

I'm sorry.

What did you say?

Success often conceals a flaw,

a wound,

some deep-seated doubt.

It might be
forgotten for a while,

but it's always there,

operating in the background,

lurking behind the mask.

Are you sure
you're allowed to do this?

What about your hands?
What if you fall?

Falling has to be
learned at an early age.

And if you're a pianist,

the left side
of the face is best.

Oh.

Thank you.

Usually I wear cycling tights.

I bet you look sexy in them.

I like to think so.

Thank you.

Henry.

All right, lead the way.

Okay.

I'm still a little shaky.

Do you ever get
lonely up there in your world?

German composers
are good company.

Right.

I couldn't have
survived my teenage years

without Schumann.

I depended on him.

I felt...

he understood me
more than anyone.

And now of course,
not a day goes by without

it's bless by Bach or Beethoven.

I did have somebody.

Prague in spring.

It's,

it's a delightful place.

The sounds,
fragrances, the light...

sparkles with energy.

And everywhere you go, music.

Elizabeth was radiant that day.

We must have walked

nearly five miles

through the Mala Strana
and the old town,

talking and talking and talking

about music
and our life together.

How we were grateful, both of us

for being there.

And, uh, we made plans.

We decided we
would spend more time

in our little farmhouse
in the south of France.

And the next morning
she was gone.

I've never felt
anything so cold.

That's how people die...

while someone else is
eating or opening a window.

Or,

while their companion
is dreaming at their side.

It's one thing you can
say about dead composers,

they don't
suddenly disappear on you.

Oh, God, I must get back.

Um, please...

do you mind?

I, um...

Symphony Hall, sir.

Keep driving.

Just drive.

Henry, you just had
a little memory slip.

You know,
it happens to everyone.

Paul, we both
know I didn't forget.

It's just music,
it's not the 10 Commandments.

How about you use
a score for the second half.

Richter did it.

Slightest nudge
that's all it takes.

Not now, please.

- 10 minutes, sir.
- -Thank you.

Paul, I'm not
going out there again.

Okay.

Okay, you don't have to.

Okay.

I want you to lie down here.

Close your eyes

and just try to relax.

Don't think about anything just

breathe.

Focus on that, okay?

And, uh, I'll go
find the promoter,

we'll see what we can do.

Helen, there you are, finally.

I'm sorry. They kept us waiting
for like 30 minutes at the gate.

- How's it going?
- Not good.

He doesn't want to continue.

- You have to talk to him.
- What happened?

Everything was fine.
Everything was good

and out of nowhere
he botched the coda.

He's in there.

Please go and see him.

He needs you.

- I'll try but...
- Thanks.

You have five minutes.

Helen!

What are you doing here?

I was in the neighborhood.

I'm happy to see you.

I heard you had a little hiccup.

I don't know
what's happening to me.

I...

I can't keep up.

It's, it's like I am

paddling at
the top of a waterfall.

I'm so sorry.

I feel...

exposed.

Scared.

You're scared.

Okay.

I don't think you
should run from it.

All these people, Henry,

you make them happy, you know?

That's why they
come to hear you play.

So, just play,

Henry.

Play for them.

On the flight
over I sat by the window

brooding, as usual, over
the wiring, the hydraulics

and all those sheets
of metal stitched together

thinking that flying
required a continuous miracle.

But flying is what
a plane does of course.

The real miracle is
that I can still
torment myself like this.

Sometimes you just
have to let it fly.

You deserve
these more than I do.

Helen...

thank you.

Yes?

Oh, hello there.

You must be Daniel.

I'm, I'm glad to see you.
Come on in.

Daniel, this is Helen.

And, uh, this is
Daniel's mother, Maya.

So, your mother tells me

that you are
quite a music lover.

Do you play?

I want to be like you.

Is that right?

Well, thank you.

You've just made my day.

Do you play these?

I find them awfully difficult.

I can play the second one.

A little bit.

Really?

I would love to hear you play.

Mrs. Walker
says I'm not allowed.

Is she your piano teacher?

I think that Mrs. Walker

would be happy to make
an exception for tonight.

Come with me.

One minute.

Some pianists think
that walking on stage

is the scariest
part of the evening

and they're right.

Okay.

Come.

Uh...

before sitting down
a pianist must smile

and bow,

but modestly because

he hasn't earned it yet.

Good.

Take a seat.

- What do you think?
- -Pretty.

For me?

You smell like chlorine.

It's common for
people of my age.

I'm sorry,
tell me your name again.

I'm Jessie.

Ah, I'm Henry.

How do you keep such
good concentration, Jessie?

A smile, Sir Henry, please.

Why don't we
just use a Kandinsky

or Frank Stella.

Perfect.

No, the other hand
was good, on top.

The other one
can be on it, though.

Other way round.

Thank you.

And if you could
look at us. Please.

No, I think I, I like him

being like that, it's nice.

All right.

Jessie...

come.

Come.

What's he doing?

There's a signed picture
of Eisenhower in the bathroom.

He was a musical president.

- Really?
- Mm-hmm.

What makes you write, Helen?

You said the ability
to feel is what matters.

I agree.

But unless I put
words to those feelings,

I don't exactly
know what they mean.

What they are.

So writing, I guess,

it helps me understand myself...

my life.

How's that working out?

I still have more writing to do.

This place used to
be called the 341 Club.

Every week, for one hour,
the stage belonged to

a young graduate
student of mathematics

with a gift for improvisation.

People used to say that

my father could
pluck music out of thin air,

so complete that
it was hard to believe

that nobody had
ever thought of it before.

His biggest night came

when he was asked to accompany
a young singer from Paris.

They fell in love,
he took her back to England,

I was born.

After a few years,
I became too much for her.

She wasn't cut out
to enter ordinary life.

So, I was sent
to boarding school.

My father got a job in New York.

She went with him.

I was left behind.

When I got into high school,

I came back here.

And that first summer

we went to Cape Cod.

There was long walks on
the beaches with my parents.

It's strange how...

a single good memory

can sometimes erase
years of bad ones.

Baseball.

You know the name of this team?

They're called the Orioles.

I love that name.

I know the Orioles

and the Cardinals and the Cubs.

And all the other critters.

You think you're the only
pianist who likes baseball?

Someone told me once,

that whenever Horowitz

was under pressure
from his wife, Wanda,

to perform his conjugal duties,

he used to take her to
Yankee Stadium.

Where did you hear that?

Oh, from Vladimir himself.

No way.

So, how is the article going?

Is it any good?

I don't know,
I haven't finished it yet.

Well, I'm really
looking forward to it.

And...

You will show
it to me, won't you?

I mean, I know
that's not customary but, uh...

as it's about me, uh.

Well, that would
ruin the surprise,

wouldn't it?

Precisely.

I leave for
Europe in a few days.

I know.

Come with me?

I mean, if you can.

If...

if you want to.

I'd like that.

The classical market is
a lot like the wine market.

It survives

by creating the illusion
of meaningful diversity.

There will always be the demand

for the opportunity
to distinguish oneself

by pretending to see a world

where others see nothing.

Sometimes there
really is a world.

Well, the fact that
you perceive a difference

doesn't necessarily make
that difference meaningful.

Are you calling me a snob?

No! No!

Oh, but seriously. Do we
actually need another recording

of "The Goldberg Variations"?

- Or another pianist maybe?

Yeah, exactly.

Sturgeon's law,

90% of everything is crap.

- That's a lot.
- Yes!

Did you know you were
managed by the enemy, Henry?

So long as he
keeps getting me gigs,

I'll let the philistine
speak his mind.

Can I give you a hand?

Oh, no, I got it.

Most pianists can't boil an egg.

- Did you know that?
- Well, I used to be a pianist,

just so you're warned.

Oh.

I can't tell
you how much it means

to Henry for you to be here.

It's everything, actually.

After his wife died he barely
spoke for two years.

Let alone give recitals

or even go near the piano.

What was she like?

She was beautiful,

graceful, smart.

There was
something moving about her.

You know, she didn't
go out much.

Pretty much depended on him.

That made things difficult.

He couldn't have
cared for her more.

He'd constantly look after her.

He played fewer recitals.

Canceled at the last minute,

when, uh,

she didn't feel well.

He did everything he could.

She took her life anyway.

You didn't know?

I shouldn't be surprised.

Nobody does.

He's still protecting her,
I guess.

She had tried it,

once before, actually,
when he was on tour.

That's why this time he decided

to take her to Europe with him.

She used his sleeping pills.

The concert in London,

there has never been
anything like it.

It will be an exclamation point
to his career.

I hope so.

Yeah.

- Merci.
- Okay.

This is somewhat experimental.

I got the recipe
from an Ian McEwan novel.

Why not? I once learned how to
milk a camel from Hemingway.

Now that could come in
handy with global warming.

You never know

- Paul?
- Yes, please.

You know one of the few
good things about getting old?

Uh-oh.

You become a pragmatist.

You're not
searching for meaning anymore.

You're just
searching for words or sleep

or the reason you're
staring into an open drawer.

And you're not worried
about the future just...

you want the present to last.

The heart and the mind

finally get along.

Anyway.

What I wanted to say was,

I'm so happy to
see all of you here.

- Cheers.
- Santé.

- Santé.

Bon Appétit.

Bon Appétit.

- Well. Hmm.
- Hmm.

- This is interesting.

Oh, yes, I see.

What did you say
that novel was about again?

Is there something wrong?

It's just
a simple bouillabaisse.

Richard?

Francine?

It... it's hard to describe.

Fish certainly comes to mind.

And a Wagner.

Wagner.

- Rienzi.

- It's that bad?
- No, no.

It, it, it's just a little
difficult to swallow,

the first time around, you know.

- No, actually, it's terrible.
- Oh, it's that bad!

- It's that bad!

I don't know what happened.

I must have missed
a chapter or something.

- What should we do, Henry?
- Do you have a camel?

Well, monsieur.

I have some tomatoes.
I can make a tomato salad.

I'd really like to
come with you to Turin.

A deadline is a deadline.

Plus,

you know, I think
it will be good for me

to do one on my own.

And I'm ready. I'm...

Nothing to worry about.

"Sir Henry, recognized
by piano aficionados

as a master of sound and nuance,

is widely considered

one of the greatest
virtuosi of the 20th century.

Proceeds from the tour
will be donated to the Nona
Center for Mental Health."

Virtuosi or virtuosos?

I think both are correct.

Oh.

The Nona Center, that your idea?

There's nothing
worse than losing your mind.

Do you remember
the story I told you about

the Swiss Alps?

Oh, yes.

Something else
happened when I was there.

I had a boyfriend at the time,

a pianist from Ukraine.

- The unique one.
- Right.

He's the reason I went
to Switzerland, actually.

Every summer
he plays there, just

one concert at
a hotel in the Upper Engadine.

People come from all over

just to hear him play
Beethoven's last piano sonatas.

He never plays
them anywhere else.

- Why not?
- -He feels that that place

and that music belong together.

That's odd.

I thought so too.

Until I went.

And?

I had worked so damn hard
for that competition

and I failed

in such a way that...

the dream was over.

I didn't know where to go,

who I was,

where to turn to.

I didn't even know where
to begin to look for answers.

But all that
was suddenly appeased

by a few wistful bars
of absolute tenderness

and understanding.

It was like waking up
from a bad dream.

Suddenly,
the fog had just lifted.

And that feeling
stayed with me for days.

It just opened me up.

Invigorated me.

It's like when
I heard you play, Henry.

Well, I could use
some invigoration myself.

He's playing there next month.

Let's go together.

You won't regret it.

It will be good for you.

How so?

I don't know, just a feeling.

All right then.
I'll see you tomorrow.

Do you have everything you need?

Yes, I've got my toothbrush,
my Advil, my lucky socks.

I'm all set.

I am an old man.

What's the matter,
you have something against

younger women?

No.

I'll be listening.

I'll be playing for you.

I love you, Henry.

Perhaps
what eternal recurrence means

is not that our life will
actually repeat itself forever,

but rather that
we should not rest content

until we have reached a point

where we love it enough

just as it is,

to wish it were indeed so.

Play it again, I say.

Excuse me, sir,
there is somebody who
wants to talk to you.

He says it's urgent.

Who is it?

Ah.

How did you find me?

I'm your agent.

It's good to see you, Henry.

It's really good
to hear your voice.

How are you?

Fate doesn't
approve of convertibles.

Did you know that?

Paul...

I won't be
needing an agent anymore.

Don't say that.
Give yourself some time.

You've always been good to me.

I couldn't have asked
for a better agent

or a better friend.

But my time is up.

Henry, Henry, people love you.

Do you have any idea
how many letters and emails
I answered for you...

You didn't cancel London.

I canceled everything else.

But this one, there's never been
anything like it.

I mean, so many people
are looking forward to it,

so many young people.

You could dedicate it to her.

Play through the pain,

like, lay it out there.

You'd not only be giving
them music,

you'd be giving them
courage and hope.

It's over.

Look, I understand. You can stay
there as long as you like,

- I'll take care of everything.
- Goodbye, Paul.

- Henry?

Most people
want to overcome something.

Until they don't anymore.

Hopefully, overcoming isn't
just a matter of will,

but what life does
naturally with time...

if you're lucky.

One of my favorite poems.

It began as
a graffiti, you know.

Goethe scribbled it on
the wall of a hunter's cabin.

Some people find it sad.

I think it's rather soothing.

What keeps you
awake at night, Felix?

I am the night porter.

Didn't you show me
to my room the other day?

Yes, I requested the privilege.

My wife and I used to
run a small pension

here in the valley.

Welcoming new guests
was what I enjoyed most.

Of course, we never had one
quite like yourself.

May I ask what
brings you to Sils?

A dear friend...

felt I could use the fresh air.

Well, you must have
rounds to finish, Felix.

Can I bring you anything, sir?

No, I'm fine, thank you.

It's always a treat

when an insomniac
checks in the hotel.

Hmm. Good night, Felix.

Good night, sir.

I love you, Henry.

My wife loved this piece.

Your move, I think.

Check.

Shit.

That's not possible.

My queen.

How did I not see this?

There's no shame
in conceding, Felix.

You see, at this point

it's like, the reasonable
thing to do

is what I would do.

What?

Check.

Huh.

Check.

Oh, no, no, no.

Can't be.

Felix. No.

Are you okay, maestro?

Yes.

Yes, I'm fine, Felix.

That was quite some move.

You dropped me
straight to the canvas.

We never know
what's coming, do we?

It's been
said that over the music

of Beethoven is spread
the twilight

of eternal loss
and eternal hope.

The same goes for life,
I suppose.

Except for the eternal part.

German composers
are good company.

It's hard to explain how I felt

as Henry Cole played that night.

What does great music feel like?

Like a form of knowledge,
maybe, or even wisdom?

But it isn't wisdom of course,

nor anything else
I can put into words.

The best I can do is to say

that it's somehow about

what it feels like to be alive.

That music was
filled with grief and longing

and dogged resolve.

And as I listened,
I felt suddenly richer,

more compassionate.

And I wanted to share
the moment with the whole world.

I guess the word
I'm looking for is gratitude.

Gratitude for
Schumann, Bach, Beethoven.

Gratitude for Henry Cole

and all those who
celebrate the music of life.