"Why impossible, Signora? Because I could play a difficult bravura piece with facility?"
"Because you could play it so, and because--" she looked at him fixedly for a moment, and then added, with great decision--"because your face bears the stamp one always imagines genius must carry on its brow."
"You see how deceptive appearances sometimes are."
Signora Biancona did not seem to agree with this; she sat down on the couch, her pale-coloured dress lay airily and lightly, as a cloud, on the dark velvet.
"I admire you," she began again, "that you are able, with such artistic qualities, to devote yourself to an every-day calling. It would be impossible for me; I have grown up in a world of sounds and tones, and cannot understand how there is room in it for any other duties."
This time there lay an undisguised bitterness in the young man's voice as he answered----"Also, your home is Italy; mine, a North-German business town! In our every-day life, poetry is a rare, fleeting guest, to whom a place is often refused. Work, striving after gain, stands ever in the foreground."
"With you, also, Signor?"
"It should, at least, stand there; that it is not always the case, my musical attempt will have shown you."
The singer shook her head doubtfully. "Your attempt! I should like to become acquainted with your finished work. But surely it cannot be your intention to withdraw this talent entirely from the public, and only exercise it in your home circle?"
"In my home circle!" repeated Almbach, with singular emphasis, "I do not touch a note there--least of all in my wife's presence."