Last Wednesday was his concert at the Philarmonie.  He played like an angel.  It was so strange, the fat, red, more than commonplace-looking little bald man, with his quite expressionless face, his wilfully stupid face—­for I believe he does it on purpose, that blankness, that bulgy look of one who never thinks and only eats—­and then the heavenly music.  It was as strange and arresting as that other mixture, that startling one of the men who sell flowers in the London streets and the flowers they sell.  What does it look like, those poor ragged men shuffling along the kerb, and in their arms, rubbing against their dirty shoulders, great baskets of beauty, baskets heaped up with charming aristocrats, gracious and delicate purities of shape and colour and scent.  The strangest effect of all is when they happen, round about Easter, to be selling only lilies, and the unearthly purity of the lilies shines on the passersby from close to the seller’s terrible face.  Christ must often have looked like that, when he sat close up to Pharisees.

But although Kloster’s music was certainly as beautiful as the lilies, he himself wasn’t like those tragic sellers.  It was only that he was so very ordinary,—­a little man compact, apparently, of grossness, and the music he was making was so divine.  It was that marvellous French and Russian stuff.  I must play it to you, and play it to you, till you love it.  It’s like nothing there has ever been.  It is of an exquisite youth,—­untouched, fearless, quite heedless of tradition, going its own way straight through and over difficulties and prohibitions that for centuries have been supposed final.  People like Wagner and Strauss and the rest seem so much sticky and insanitary mud next to these exquisite young ones, and so very old; and not old and wonderful like the great men, Beethoven and Bach and Mozart, but uglily old like a noisy old lady in a yellow wig.

The audience applauded, but wasn’t quite sure.  Such a master as Kloster, and one of their own flesh and blood, is always applauded, but I think the irregularity, the utter carelessness of the music, its apparently accidental beauty, was difficult for them.  Germans have to have beauty explained to them and accounted for,—­stamped first by an official, authorized, before they can be comfortable with it.  I sat in a corner and cried, it was so lovely.  I couldn’t help it.  I hid away and pulled my hat over my face and tried not to, for there was a German in eyeglasses near me, who, perceiving I wanted to hide, instantly spent his time staring at me to find out why.  The music held all things in it that I have known or guessed, all the beauty, the wonder, of life and death and love.  I recognised it.  I almost called out, “Yes—­of course—­I know that too.”