'For his theme, Mr Y picks the nocturnal sky as it looks when it emerges from the bath-house, clad in the kashmir down of clouds, in the vitriol-and-incense vapour of the wind-blown forest, with a strong rush of stars washed clean to their last chink and looking larger. The glitter of these drops, which can never be detached from space, however much they may try to break away, is already strung above the grand-piano thicket. Now, running his fingers along the keyboard, Mr Y abandons and then resumes the theme, surrenders it to oblivion and imposes it on the memory. The window-panes are flattened torrents of mercurial chill; with armfuls of enormous air, the birch trees move before the windows; and scatter it everywhere, showering it onto the shaggy waterfalls, while the music weighs out bows to left and right, and keeps promising us something from the road.