‘The way we looked at each other.’
‘Yes,’ I breathed, ‘I remember.’
‘How can I thank you? How can I thank you?’
He seemed to be meditating. His simplicity, his humility, his kindliness were more than I could bear.
‘Please do not speak like that,’ I entreated him, pained. ‘You are the greatest artist in the world, and I am nobody—nobody at all. I do not know why I am here. I cannot imagine what you have seen in me. Everything is a mystery. All I feel is that I am in your presence, and that I am not worthy to be. No matter how long I live, I shall never experience again the joy that I have now. But if you talk about thanking me, I must run away, because I cannot stand it—and—and—you haven’t played for me, and you said you would.’
He approached me, and bent his head towards mine, and I glanced up through a mist and saw his eyes and the short, curly auburn locks on his forehead.
‘The most beautiful things, and the most vital things, and the most lasting things,’ he said softly, ‘are often mysterious and inexplicable and sudden. And let me tell you that you do not know how lovely you are. You do not know the magic of your voice, nor the grace of your gestures. But time and man will teach you. What shall I play?’
He was very close to me.
‘Bach,’ I ejaculated, pointing impatiently to the piano.
I fancied that Bach would spread peace abroad in my soul.