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Updated: June 22, 2025
Kurz Pacha showed them to all the ladies at table, and then handed them to Mrs. Potiphar, saying to her, as he half looked at Mrs. Gnu: "There is nothing autumnal here." "Mrs. Potiphar thanked him with real delight, and he turned toward Mrs.
Kurz tries to describe the waves running mountains high, the pitching and tossing, the roll of thunder, and the howling of the wind; and Haydn produces all sorts of ugly, jerky, and noisy music, but none of it is in the remotest degree like a storm at sea, or anywhere else.
Not she! I have not summered it at Newport for well, for several years, for nothing, and although I am rather beyond the strict white muslin age, I thought I could yet venture a bold stroke. So I arrayed a la Daisy Clover not too much, pas trop jeune. And awaited the onset. Kurz Pacha saw me across the room, and came up, with his peculiar smile.
It would tell of the martyrdom of almost all those who truly enlightened humanity, of almost all the great masters of every kind of art: it would show us how, with few exceptions, they were tormented to death, without recognition, without sympathy, without followers; how they lived in poverty and misery, whilst fame, honor, and riches, were the lot of the unworthy; how their fate was that of Esau, who while he was hunting and getting venison for his father, was robbed of the blessing by Jacob, disguised in his brother's clothes, how, in spite of all, they were kept up by the love of their work, until at last the bitter fight of the teacher of humanity is over, until the immortal laurel is held out to him, and the hour strikes when it can be said: Der sehwere Panzer wird zum Flügelkleide Kurz ist der Schmerz, unendlich ist die Freude.
At night Haydn, accompanied by his friends, was wont to wander about Vienna by moonlight, and serenade his patrons with trios and quartets of his own composition. He happened one night to stop under the window of Bernardone Kurz, a director of a theatre and the leading clown of Vienna. Down rushed Kurz very excitedly. "Who are you?" he shrieked. "Joseph Haydn." "Whose music is it?" "Mine."
He replied with his French esprit, as Kurz Pacha calls it, that he thought the size of her hand was about right for him; upon which she smiled in the most bewitching manner, and bringing out a large box of gloves, selected a pair of an exquisite nuance, as the French say, you know, and asking him to put out his hand, she proceeded to fit the glove to it, herself. Mr.
Cream Cheese, that there are serious evils in a republican form of government. What a hideous head-dress that is of Mrs. Settum Downe's! What a lovely polka-redowa!" "So it is, by Jove! Come on," replied the gentlemanly Boosey, and they swept down the hall. "Ah! ciel!" exclaimed a voice close by us Kurz Pacha and I turned at the same moment.
The tempest made Haydn despair, and he sat at the piano, banging away in a reckless fashion, while the director stood behind him, raving in a disconnected way as to his meaning. At last the distracted pianist brought his fists simultaneously down upon the key-board, and made a rapid sweep of all the notes. "Bravo! bravo! that is the tempest!" cried Kurz.
"The poor fellow was miserable, but he didn't say a word. However his mother said enough for two, and she spoke so harshly to her sister Mrs. Kurz about what had happened, that they're no longer on speaking terms. There was a frightful quarrel.
"Perhaps," said Firkin at last, "Kurz Pacha means to say that to offer flowers to a lady who has already so beautiful a bouquet, would be to carry coals to Newcastle." "That is it," cried the Pacha; "to Newcastle," and he bowed to Mrs. Gnu. "Come, Mrs. Gnu, it's only a mistake," said Mrs. Potiphar. But Mrs.
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