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The road they entered was black and full of the buzzing shadows of hot night, but she was oblivious to everything but his hallucinating voice: "And if you withdraw?" Her mouth echoed phrases without the complicity of her brain. "If I do ah, these cobweb spinners! Good-by to Richard Van Kuyp and dreams of glory." This note of harsh triumph snapped his weaving words.
Wagner borrowed his harmonic fire from the torch of Chopin " She broke in: "Don't talk of Chopin! Tell me more of Van Kuyp. Why do you call him yours?" Her curiosity was become pain. It mastered her prudence. "In far-away Celtic legends there may be found a lovely belief that our thoughts are independent realities, that they go about in the void seeking creatures to control.
"I don't believe you or your boasts," remarked Alixe, in her most conventionally amused manner. "You are trying to scare me, and with this hypnotic joke about Richard you have only hypnotized yourself. I mean to tell Mr. Van Kuyp every bit of our conversation. I'm not frightened by your vampire tales. You critics are only shadows of composers."
Doesn't all this talk of music, themes, orchestration, of the public, critics, musicians, conductors, get on your nerves? Is it any consolation for you to know that Van Kuyp will be famous? What is his fame or his failure to you? Where do you, Alixe Van Kuyp, come in? Why must your charming woman's soul be sacrificed, warped to this stunted tree of another's talent? You are silent.
The silver-cold fire of an undecided moon was abroad in the sky and rumours of spring filled the air. They parted at a fiacre. He told her he would call the next afternoon, and she nodded an unforgiving head. It was her turn to be disagreeable. In his music room, Van Kuyp read a volume of verse. He did not hear his wife enter.
Alixe could not refuse, for the moment he finished speaking she heard a too familiar motive, the ponderous phrase in the brass choir which Van Kuyp intended as the thematic label for his hero, "Sordello." "Ah, there's your Browning in tone for you," whispered the critic. She wished him miles away.
Sordello's overweening spiritual pride "gate-vein of this heart's blood of Lombardy" appealed to Van Kuyp. The stress of souls, the welter of cross-purposes which begirt the youthful dreamer, his love for Palma, and his swift death when all the world thrust upon him its joys here were motives, indeed, for any musician of lofty aim and sympathetic imagination.
"Oh, why doesn't he compose an opera, and make a popular name?" "Richard Wagner Number II!" There were implications of sarcasm in this which greatly displeased Mrs. Van Kuyp. They strolled on slowly. It was a melodious summer night; mauve haze screened all but the exquisite large stars. Soothed despite rebellion, Alixe told herself sharply that in every duel with this man she was worsted.
I believe one of the greatest mistakes that we New England farmers have been making is to assume that farming is a mixture of three fourths muscle and one fourth brains I'm beginning to think it's the other way around. As you have already learned, I followed Jenkins's advice, bought a dozen head of fine cattle, and hired Peter Kuyp, the son of one of the farmers I visited, to take care of them.
Before she could shake a negative head, he quickly uttered the words that had been hovering in her mind for hours. "Or, shall we go to the Bois?" She started. "What an idea! Go to the Bois without Richard, without my husband?" "Why not?" he inquired, "it's not far away. Send him a wire asking him to join us; it will do him good after his labours. Come, Madame Van Kuyp, come Alixe, my child."
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