Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside to let some one pass.
“Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out so early?”
I explained.
“Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of coffee. I have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little aria. I will play it for you.”
He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest. There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them.
Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged it on the table, and applied a match to the lamp.
“While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you the result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down under the trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it for their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold the stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.”
Again he went away—to fetch his instrument.
He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot. Still he remained.
At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. At first he did not answer.