Maurice wished himself alone. He was not at ease
under this new companionship that had thrust itself upon him; indeed,
a strong mental antagonism was still uppermost in him, towards the
moody creature at whose heels he followed; and if, at this moment, he
had been asked to give voice to his feelings, the term "crazy idiot"
would have been the first to rise to his lips.
Suddenly, without turning, or slackening his pace, Krafft commenced to
speak: at first in a low voice, as if he were thinking aloud. But one
word gave another, his thoughts came rapidly, he began to gesticulate,
and finally, wrought on by the beauty of the night, by this choice
moment for speech, still excited by his own playing, and in an
infinite need of expression, he swept the silence before him with the
force of a flood set free. If he thought Maurice were about to
interrupt him, he made an imploring gesture, and left what he was
saying unfinished, to spring over to the next theme ready in his
brain. Names jostled one another on his tongue: he passed from
Beethoven and Chopin to Berlioz and Wagner, to Liszt and Richard
Strauss--and his words were to Maurice like the unrolling of a great
scroll. In the same breath, he was with Nietzsche, and Apollonic and
Dionysian; and from here he went on to Richard Dehmel, to ANATOL, and
the gentle "Loris" of the early verses; to Max Klinger, and the
propriety of coloured sculpture; to PAPA HAMLET and the future of the
LIED.
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