“Yes,” said Earthrid, “but that is not all. I will tell you what it is. In Threal, where I was born and brought up, we learn the mystery of the Three in nature. This world, which lies extended before us, has three directions. Length is the line which shuts off what is, from what is not. Breadth is the surface which shows us in what manner one thing of what-is, lives with another thing. Depth is the path which leads from what-is, to our own body. In music it is not otherwise. Tone is existence, without which nothing at all can be. Symmetry and Numbers are the manner in which tones exist, one with another. Emotion is the movement of our soul toward the wonderful world that is being created. Now, men when they make music are accustomed to build beautiful tones, because of the delight they cause. Therefore their music world is based on pleasure; its symmetry is regular and charming, its emotion is sweet and lovely.... But my music is founded on painful tones; and thus its symmetry is wild, and difficult to discover; its emotion is bitter and terrible.” “If I had not anticipated its being original, I would not have come here,” said Maskull. “Still, explain—why can’t harsh tones have simple symmetry of form? And why must they necessarily cause more profound emotions in us who listen?” “Pleasures may harmonise. Pains must clash; and in the order of their clashing lies the symmetry. The emotions follow the music, which is rough and earnest.” “You may call it music,” remarked Maskull thoughtfully, “but to me it bears a closer resemblance to actual life.” “If Shaping’s plans had gone straight, life would have been like that other sort of music. He who seeks can find traces of that intention in the world of nature. But as it has turned out, real life resembles my music and mine is the true music.” “Shall we see living shapes?” “I don’t know what my mood will be,” returned Earthrid. “But when I have finished, you shall adventure your tune, and produce whatever shapes you please—unless, indeed, the tune is out of your own big body.” “The shocks you are preparing may kill us,” said Gleameil, in a low, taut voice, “but we shall die, seeing beauty.” Earthrid looked at her with a dignified expression. “Neither you, nor any other person, can endure the thoughts which I put into my music. Still, you must have it your own way. It needed a woman to call it ‘beauty.’ But if this is beauty, what is ugliness?” “That I can tell you, Master,” replied Gleameil, smiling at him. “Ugliness is old, stale life, while yours every night issues fresh from the womb of nature.” Earthrid stared at her, without response. “Teargeld is rising,” he said at last. “And now you shall see—though not for long.”