“I have something to say to you, friend,” answered the composer in a voice of emotion. “In the first place, let me thank you for your music last night.”
The bewildered artist passed his hand across his forehead.
“I say, let me thank you. It is long since I have heard such music.”
“You were pleased with it?” asked Mara, looking up, while a beam of joy shot into the darkness of his soul.
“Pleased? it was noble—heart-stirring! I must own I did not expect such from you. I expected to be shocked, but I was charmed. And when you played the air from Idomeneo—sacré! but it went to my soul. I have never had my music so thoroughly appreciated—so admirably executed. Mara, you are a master of your art! I reverence you!”
“You?” repeated the artist, drawing his breath quickly.
“Yes; I own you for my brother, and so I told them all last night.”
The poor man gave a leap and seized the master by both hands; rapture had penetrated his inmost heart. “Oh, you make me very happy!” faltered he.
“I am glad of it; for now I am going to say something painful.” Mara hung his head. “Nay, I reproach myself as much as you. We both behaved ill last night; we both forgot the dignity of the artist and the man.”
Again the poor violoncellist looked bewildered.