Anne turned towards the piano. This was different from anything she had ever heard. Long-forgotten words recurred to her mind: “One has to create like God. Even the clay has to be created anew.”
Applause rose again, but the clapping seemed more restrained. It was addressed to the virtuoso, not to the creator.
“They don’t understand him,” said Anne disappointed.
“It is not yet safe to admire this music. It came too early ...” and again the words of Adam Walter came to her mind.
Then everything was forgotten. Her eyes searched for Thomas in the crowd thronging towards the exit. In the dust-laden heat of the cloak-room people pushed each other. Under the porch the doors of the carriages slammed. A hoarse voice shouted the names of the coachmen.
Anne saw Florian and made a sign to him. Ulrich Jörg was already in the carriage.
“I should like to walk,” said the girl hurriedly. The old gentleman was sleepy. The horses of the next carriage became restive in the cold. The door banged. Anne felt herself free.
“Let us go....”
Florian’s broad, good-natured face turned to her for an instant in wonder. Then he followed her obediently in the snow.
A motionless figure stood at the street corner under a lamp peering into the windows of the passing carriages. Suddenly he looked no longer towards the carriages. His dark sad eyes rested on Anne. He held his hat low in his hand and snow fell on his thin face.