"Oh dear," he said. "Very funny. But don't laugh so at me, Hermann."
Falbe dried his eyes.
"And what was it?" he said. "I declare it was the fourth fugue. An
entirely different conception of it! A thoroughly original view! Now,
what you've got to do, is to repeat that--not the same murder I mean,
but other murders--for a couple of hours a day. . . . By degrees--you
won't believe it--you will find you are not murdering any longer, but
only mortally wounding. After six months I dare say you won't even be
hurting your victims. All the same, you can begin with less muscular
ones."
In this way Michael's musical horizons were infinitely extended. Not
only did this system of Falbe's of flying at new music, and going
recklessly and regardlessly on, give quickness to his brain and finger,
make his wits alert to pick up the new language he was learning, but
it gloriously extended his vision and his range of country. He ran
joyfully, though with a thousand falls and tumbles, through these new
and wonderful vistas; he worshipped at the grave, Gothic sanctuaries of
Beethoven, he roamed through the enchanted garden of Chopin, he felt the
icy and eternal frosts of Russia, and saw in the northern sky the great
auroras spread themselves in spear and sword of fire; he listened to the
wisdom of Brahms, and passed through the noble and smiling country
of Bach.
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