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Updated: June 14, 2025
"Yes, but we make ordinary composers believe they are great," he replied acridly. "I'll tell this to Richard." "He won't believe you." "He shall he won't believe you! Oh, Rentgen, how can you invent such cruel things? Are you always so malicious? What do you mean? Come what do you expect?" She closed her eyes, anticipating an avowal.
A coachman driving an open carriage hailed confidentially. Alixe entered and with a dexterous play of draperies usurped the back seat. Rentgen made no sign. He had her in full view, the moon streaking her disturbed features with its unflattering pencil. They started bravely, the horses running for home; but the rapid gait soon subsided into a rhythmic trot. Rentgen spoke.
He knew that the angel wings of inspiration had been brushing his brow all the morning, and such visits were too rare to be flouted. He sat at his piano and in a composer's raucous varied voice, imitated the imaginary timbres of orchestral instruments. Sent forth, Mrs. Van Kuyp and Rentgen slowly walked into the little Parc of Auteuil, once the joy of the Goncourts.
They are as bodiless souls. When they descend into a human being they possess his moods, in very existence " "And Richard!" she muttered. His words swayed her like strange music; the country through which they were passing was a blank; she could see but two luminous points the nocturnal eyes of Elvard Rentgen, as he spun his cobwebs in the moonshine.
What colour, what rhythms. It is called The Shadowy Horses. 'I hear the shadowy horses, their long manes a-shake' " "Who gave you the poem?" "Oh, Rentgen, of course. Did you see him to-night?" "You dear boy! You must be tired to death. Better rest. The critics will get you up early enough."
If she had gone late, it would have seemed an affectation, she reasoned. Her husband kept within doors; she could tell him all. And then, was there not Elvard Rentgen? She regretted that she had invited the Parisian critic to her box. It happened at a soirée, where he showed his savage profile among admiring musical lambs. But he was never punctual at musical affairs. This consoled Alixe.
Rentgen had been too many years in the candy shop to care for sweets. She recalled her mean little blush as he twisted his pointed, piebald beard with long, fat fingers and leisurely traversed his were the measuring eyes of an architect her face, her hair, her neck, and finally, stared at her ears until they burned like a child's cheek in frost time.
Richard was writing his new tone-poem, which the Société Harmonique accepted provisionally for the season following. Sordello had set the town agog because of the exhaustive articles by Rentgen it brought in its wake.
Rentgen bowed and went away from this castle of cobwebs, deeply stirred by the wife's tender untruths.... She was the last dawn illuminating his empty, sordid life, now a burnt city of defaced dreams and blackened torches. Now the serpent was more subtle than any beast of the field which the Lord God had made. Genesis.
Then the music whirled her away to Italy; the love scene of Palma and Sordello. It should have been the apex of the work. "Sounds too much like Tschaïkowsky's Francesca da Rimini," interrupted Rentgen. She was annoyed. "Why didn't you tell Van Kuyp before he scored the work?" she demanded, her long gray eyes beginning to blacken. "I did, my dear lady, I did.
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