"Chicago. I hate Chicago, I hate Americans! There's only one city in America—that is San Francisco. I was never there, but I like it because I never had a pupil from that city; that's why I like it, hein!" He laughed, Bella, and coughed himself into a strangling fit over his joke—he thought it was a joke—and then he sharply cried out:
"You may kiss me, and play for me." I was too frightened to reply, so I went up to him and didn't like him. He smelt of cigarettes and liquor, but I kissed him on the forehead, and he gave me a queer look and pushed me to the piano. Well, I was flabbergasted.
"Play," he said, as harsh as could be, and I dashed off the Military Polonaise of Chopin. He walked about the whole time humming out loud, and never paid any attention to me any more than if I hadn't been playing. When I got to the trio I stuck, and he burst out laughing, so I stopped short.
"Aha! you girls and your teachers, how you, all swindle yourselves. You have no talent, no touch, nothing, nothing!"—his voice was like a screaming whistle—"and yet you cheat yourselves and run to Europe to be artists in a year, aha!" "Shall I go on?" I asked. I was getting mad. "No, I've heard enough. Come to the class every Monday and Thursday morning at ten—mind you, ten sharp—and in the meantime study this piece of mine, 'The Five Blackbirds,' for the black keys, and take the first book of my 'Indispensable Studies for Stupid American Girls.'" He laughed again.
"You pay now for the music. I make no discount, for I print it myself. Your lessons you pay for one by one. Please put the money—twenty marks—on the mantelpiece when you are through playing, but don't tell me. I'm too nervous. And now good-day; practise ten hours every day. You may kiss me good-by. No? Well, next time. I hate American girls when they play; but I like to kiss them, for they are very pretty. Wait: I will introduce you to my wife." He rang a bell and barked something at a servant, and she returned followed by a nice-looking German lady, quite young. I was surprised. "My wife." We bowed and then I left.
Funny people, these foreigners. I take my lesson day after to-morrow and I must hurry home to my Blackbirds. Good-by, dear Bella, and tell the girls to write. You answer this soon and I'll write after lesson on Monday. Good-by, Bella. Don't show my ma this letter, and, Bella—say nothing to nobody about the kisses. I didn't like—now if it had been—you know—oh, dear. I hate the piano. Good-by at last, Bella, and oh, Bella, will you send me the address of Schaefer, Schloss & Cantwell's? I want to order some writing paper. Good-by.
Your devoted Irene.
P.S.—Any kind of Irish linen paper will do without any monogram. I.
To Mrs. William Murray
Balak, January 31.