For then he felt like a stranger, a man of another period, who should suddenly find himself in an old ruined castle, full of marvellous dangers and adventures, and stand face to face with the last of those who had lived the castle’s rich, wonderful life.
Once he spoke her name aloud just as she was entering at the door. It was dark in the room and his voice and figure were so like Cordt’s that she grew pale and frightened. But he did not see this and she forced a laugh and soon forgot it.
And, gradually, the wonderful solemnity of the old room retreated into the background, when they were both there, for they spent more and more of their time there and at last simply did not think they were together except there. But Finn was always able to summon it up when he wished.
They used to read together.
And that happened in this way, that one of them found a book, a treasure of silence and singing, which was the only sort that they felt equal to, and read it and gave it to the other, who then read it while they were together.
They found most of the books in foreign languages and it seemed as if there were no end of them. Also, the fact that the language was foreign made the book dearer to them, because it carried them farther afield.
When they had read one of these books, they lived in it for a time ... not in its action, among its characters, for there was no action and no characters, but in its music. They tuned their thoughts and words in its key.
Then they felt as if they had passed through some experience or as if they were travelling.
“The artist lives,” said Finn. “He makes the sky blue and grey for himself ... for himself and for us all. He wipes everything out with his hand and builds it up again ... greater, ever greater. He is the master. He is God.”
One day, he asked Fru Adelheid to sing.