“No, no! You have to know the names and principles and classifications. You want that in everything. I shall never learn technique; I’m no good.”
He closed his eyes for a moment; a look of sadness flitted across his restless face.
“You know a piano is so ... so big, a great piece of furniture, isn’t it? But a violin, oh, how delightful! You hold it to you like this, against your neck, almost against your heart; it is almost part of you; and you stroke it, like this, you could almost kiss it! You feel the soul of the violin quivering inside its body. And then you only have just a string or two, two or three strings which sing everything. Oh, a violin, a violin!”
“Jules....” Amélie began.
“And, oh, Auntie, a harp! A harp, like this, between your legs, a harp which you embrace with both your arms: a harp is exactly like an angel, with long golden hair.... Ah, I’ve never yet played on a harp!”
“Jules, leave off!” cried Amélie, sharply. “You drive me silly with that nonsense! I wonder you’re not ashamed, before Mr. Quaerts.”
Jules looked up in surprise:
“Before Taco? Do you think I’ve anything to be ashamed of, Taco?”
“Of course not, my boy.”
The sound of his voice was like a caress. Cecile looked at him, astonished; she would have expected him to make fun of Jules. She did not understand him, but she disliked him exceedingly, so healthy and strong, with his energetic face and his fine, expressive mouth, so different from Amélie and Jules and herself.