“You look very savage, Coriolan!” remarked the Countess Adele; “you do not say a word.”
“I say, stay at home and entertain yourself sensibly.”
The young composer was now sitting next the Russian widow.
“The piece was heavenly ... perfectly splendid ... it must be a delight to be able to compose such things.” Her eyes rested warmly on the young musician.
“Every artistic creation carries with it a good bit of agony, most gracious Countess.”
“What gives others so much delight ought not to cause its creator any pain.”
“And yet, do you not always hear the sighs that tremble through so many pieces of music? These the artist must have drawn out of his own soul. But not only that—he must have not only experienced anguish in order to reproduce it in tones—creation itself is accompanied by pain; yearning, trouble, despondency ... the crushing sense of the inexpressible....”
“You must explain all this to me more definitely. Please come to-morrow and have a cup of tea—at five o’clock ... Grand Hotel ... say yes ... will you promise?”
Helmer, informed by Franka of the presence of the Sielenburg party, entered the hall and sought out the little Austrian group. Bowing, he went up to them: “May I be permitted ... in memory of old times.... I do not know whether you will remember me.”
The countess nodded: “To be sure, Herr Helmer ... you have made a great career ... famous poet ... that is no small thing! Who would ever have predicted it? You will give us your book to read, won’t you? And tell me, is this Mr. Toker not a very extravagant man?”