“I don’t know. Am I?” was my retort.
She laughed. “Yes. I think you deserve to, after that.”
I lighted a cigarette, with gratitude; while she sat down at her piano and began to play.
“Do you care for Bach? No, you are too young to care for Bach. But you will come to him. At your age one loves Chopin. Chopin interprets the strenuous moments of life, the moments that seem all important when they are present, but matter so little in the long run. Bach interprets life as a whole, seen from a distance, seen in perspective, in its masses and proportions, in its serene symmetry, when nothing is strenuous, when everything seems right and in its place, when even sorrow seems right. At my age one prefers Bach.”
She said all this as she was playing, speaking slowly, dreamily, between the chords. “If that is Bach which you are playing now, I like it very much,” I made bold to affirm.
“It’s the third fugue,” said she. “But it’s precocious of you to like it.”
“Oh, I give you my word, I’m not half so juvenile as you’re always trying to make me out,” said I.
She looked at me with her indulgent, quizzical smile. “No, to be sure. You’re a cynical old man of the world—of twenty-two,” she teased.
Presently she abandoned the piano, and took her place of the other day, in the corner of her sofa.
“Tell me,” she said, “what do you do here in Rome? What are your occupations? How do you spend your time?”