I found my hands trembling so much that I could scarcely follow the music. Truly this man, with his changes from silence to talkativeness, from ironical hardness to cordiality, was a puzzle and a trial to me.
“Das Kreuz am Wege” turned out rather lame. I said so when it was over.
“Suppose we try it again,” he suggested, and we did so. I found my fingers lingering and forgetting their part as I listened to the piercing beauty of his notes.
“That is dismal,” said he.
“It is a dismal subject, is it not?”
“Suggestive, at least. ‘The Cross by the Wayside.’ Well, I have a mind for something more cheerful. Did you leave the ball early last night?”
“No; not very early.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
“It was all new to me—very interesting—but I don’t think I quite enjoyed it.”
“Ah, you should see the balls at Florence, or Venice, or Vienna!”