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She saw through the rhetorical trickeries of the music, weighed its cheap splendours, realized the mediocrity of this second-rate poet turned symphonist. Image after image pressed upon her brain, each more pessimistic, more depressing than its predecessor. Alixe could have wept. Her companion placed his hand on her arm. His fingers burned; she moved, but she felt his will controlling her mood.
Motives are less controlling probably in Franck than in any other symphonist, less so, at any rate, than his one special mood and manner. Yet nowhere is the strict figural plot more faithful in detail than with César Franck. The theme has an entirely new ring and answer when it enters Allegro after the Lento prelude.
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