Justin and Tomek know no rule, no form, no law; they create them all themselves. They remain an inexplicable phenomenon, a compound of such heterogeneous, strangely mixed materials, that an analysis would inevitably destroy what lends the highest charm, the individual enchantment: namely, the inscrutable secret of this chemical mixture of genial coquetry and childlike simplicity, of whimsy and divine nobleness. After their concerts, they stand there like conquerors on the field of battle, like heroes in the lists; vanquished pianos lie about them, broken strings flutter as trophies and flags of truce, frightened instruments flee in their terror into distant corners, the hearers look at each other in mute astonishment as after a storm from a clear sky, as after thunder and lightning mingled with a shower of blossoms and buds and dazzling rainbows; and Justin, the Prometheus, who creates a form from every note, a magnetizer who conjures the electric fluid from every key, and Tomek, a gnome, an amiable monster, who now treats his beloved, the guitar, tenderly, then tyranically; caresses, pouts, scolds, strikes, drags by the hair, and then, all the more fervently, with all the fire and glow of love, throws his arms around her with a shout, and away with her through all space; they stand there, bowing their heads, leaning languidly on chairs, with strange smiles, like exclamation marks after the outburst of universal admiration: this is Justin and Tomek!
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