“I am twenty-five, and romance is over. Follow thou my counsel and my example.”
Outside it rained—hard, continuously, without room for a hope of sunshine, as it only rains in England, I think. Perhaps I may be unjust, but certainly never before have I been so wet through to the soul. I threw down my pen, I went to the piano, and I began to play “L'Air Bassinette” of Verdi. Gently at first I played, and then more loudly and yet more loudly. So carried away was I that I began to sing.
Now at last the rain is inaudible; my heart is growing light again, when above my melody I hear a most determined knocking on the door. Before I have time to rise, it opens, and there enters—my neighbor, the old General. Is it that he loves music so much? No, I scarcely think so. His face is not that of the ravished dolphin; on the contrary, his eyes are bright with an emotion that is not pleasure, his face is brilliant with a choleric flush. I turn and face him.
“Pray do not stop your pandemonium on my account,” he says, with sarcastic politeness. “I have endured it for half an hour, and I now purpose to leave this house and not return till you are exhausted, sir.”
“I am obliged to you for your permission,” I reply, with equal politeness, “and I shall now endeavor to win my bet.”
“Your bet, sir?” he inquires, with scarcely stifled indignation.
“I have made a bet that I shall play and sing for thirty-six consecutive hours,” I explain.
“Then, sir, I shall interdict you, as sure as there is law in England!”
“Have you now explained the object of this visit?” I inquire.
“No, sir, I have not. I came in here to request you to make yourself personally known to your disreputable confederates in order that they may not mistake me for a damned Bulgarian anarchist—or whatever your country and profession happen to be.”