The pianist was bald and silver-haired, 66 years of age. And yet he was a master.

This was Beethoven’s Fourth Piano Concerto, and the orchestra itself played with great authority, well governed by a vigorous and youthful conductor. But the old pianist’s role was more diminutive: to play the music with immense fluidity and suppleness, weaving through the orchestra. His performance was not commanding. It was simply life itself.

At the end, when he took a deep and humble bow, to a standing audience in ovations, he seemed to me a servant.

A servant of what? It must be of life itself.