s, not its own.

Pachmann gives you pure music, not states of soul or of temperament, not
interpretations, but echoes. He gives you the notes in their own
atmosphere, where they live for him an individual life, which has
nothing to do with emotions or ideas. Thus he does not need to translate
out of two languages: first, from sound to emotion, temperament, what
you will; then from that back again to sound. The notes exist; it is
enough that they exist. They mean for him just the sound and nothing
else. You see his fingers feeling after it, his face calling to it, his
whole body imploring it. Sometimes it comes upon him in such a burst of
light that he has to cry aloud, in order that he may endure the ecstasy.
You see him speaking to the music; he lifts his finger, that you may
listen for it not less attentively. But it is always the thing itself
that he evokes for you, as it rises flower-like out of silence, and
comes to exist in the world. Every note lives, with the whole vitality
of its existence. To Swinburne every word lives, just in the same way;
when he says "light," he sees the sunrise; when he says "fire," he is
warmed through all his blood. And so Pachmann calls up, with this
ghostly magic of his, the innermost life of music. I do not think he has
ever put an intention into Chopin. Chopin had no intentions. He was a
man, and he suffered; and he was a musician, and he wrote music; and
very likely George Sand, and Majorca, and his disease, and Scotland, and
the woman who sang to him when he died, are all in the music; but that
is not the question. The notes sob and shiver, stab you like a knife,
caress you like the fur of a cat; and are beautiful sound, the most
beautiful sound that has been called out of the piano. Pachmann calls it
out for you, disinterestedly, easily, with ecstasy, inevitably; you do
not realise that he has had difficulties to conquer, that music is a
thing for acrobats and athletes. He smiles to you, that you may realise
how beautiful the notes are, when they trickle out of his fingers like
singing water; he adores them and his own playing, as you do, and as if
he had nothing to do with them but to pour them out of his hands.
Pachmann is less showy with his fingers than any other pianist; his
hands are stealthy acrobats, going quietly about their difficult
business. They talk with the piano and the piano answers them. All that
violence cannot do with the notes of the instrument, he does. His a