“Then what am I to do?”
“You know zat you must be pianist, for teach ze ’armonee at Conservatoire, my tear fallow.”
“Ah, I never thought of that. That is a capital excuse. You want me to say that, not being a pianist, I withdraw?”
“Just so! just so, my tear fallow! But I am not ze excuse zat you vizdraw——”
“Certainly not, monsieur; it was stupid of me to forget that only pianists could teach Harmony.”
“Yes, my tear boy; embrace me, for I lof you much.”
A week after he gave the place to Bienaimé, who played the piano as well as I do!
Now I call that a thoroughly well-planned trick, and I was among the first to laugh at it.
Soon after, I seriously hurt the feelings of the friend who “lofed me much.”
It was at the first performance of his Ali Baba, about the emptiest, feeblest thing he ever wrote. Near the end of the first act, tired of hearing nothing striking, I called out: