Mrs Sonderbye, when he's late with the rent, asks Horatio if he "couldn't sell that book." He replies that no, it's his art, all he has. She scoffs at him. He pities her for not understanding. What's it like, he wonders, to be a person who hears no music and loves no plays? How is it possible not to appreciate the beauty of a colorful sunset or a sweetly sung song? How can one hear "in fair Verona, where we lay our scene" and feel nothing? He wouldn't- couldn't -switch souls with one like his landlady, not for any riches.