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Updated: May 11, 2025
These, with two or three minor characters, completed our cargo, and away we went on the finest road in the world towards Antwerp between a triple row of Abeles and poplars, and skirting the bank of a fine canal upon which floated a fleet of Kuyp's barks, and by which grazed Paul Potter's oxen the whole road was, in truth, a gallery of the Flemish school.
Not one of the professional critics could put their fingers on Van Kuyp's weak spots "his sore music," as he jestingly called it so surely as his wife. She had studied; she had even played the violin in public; but she gave up her virtuosa ambitions for the man she had married during their student years in Germany.
Alixe Van Kuyp sat in the first-tier box presented to her husband with the accustomed heavy courtesy of the Société Harmonique. She went early to the hall that she might hear the entire music-making of the evening Van Kuyp's tone-poem, Sordello, was on the programme between a Weber overture and a Beethoven symphony, an unusual honour for a young American composer.
Say what you said to me! I dare you!" The musician, aroused by this wordy assault, looked from one to the other with his heavy eyes, the eyes of an owl rudely disturbed. Alixe almost danced her excitement. She hummed shrilly and grasped Van Kuyp's arm in the gayest rebounding humour. "Why don't you speak, Maestro?" "I didn't join you because I was too busy at my score. Listen, children!
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