“Did you drink a good, stiff glass of whiskey-and-soda for lunch, as I told you to?” demanded Karl.
“I tried to, but I should have been dead drunk if I had gone on. So what will you do if I break down?” he asked again. “You told me, but I have forgotten.”
Karl rose from his chair.
“I shall break my heart, Martin,” he said.
Then he spoke to him quickly, peremptorily, seeing he was really on the verge of hysterics.
“We’ve had quite enough of this nonsense, my dear boy,” he said. “If you give me any more of it, I shall lose my temper with you. You are not going to break down, I forbid you, and you are to do as I tell you. You are going to play your very best,—better than you have ever played before. Now I must get to my place. Give them five minutes law before you appear, and as soon as I see the top of your black head coming up the stairs I shall have all the doors closed till the end of the Études. We’ll have no interruptions; they are frightfully distracting. You know where I shall be sitting, don’t you? Bow twice, right and left, walk straight to the piano, and begin instantly, without playing any fluffy arpeggios. It is going to be a great day for you. And for me.”
Martin looked despairingly round.
“Don’t leave me, don’t leave me,” he said. “Can’t you sit by me?”
“And hold your hand? Ah, this is altogether childish!”
For the first time the shadow of a smile crossed Martin’s face.