"The Beethoven symphony," I replied.
"Oh, yes. Beethoven has indeed caught the spiritual note, don't you think so? It seems to me he is at his best in that wonderful adagio vivace movement."
I must not forget to tell you that we have two new arrivals at the pension, namely, the Poet and his wife. I haven't the slightest idea what their name is except that it is very long and very unpronounceable. She is a dear little placid-faced woman of middle age, and he looks like one of Raphael's cherubs in twentieth century clothes. In spite of his infantile expression, however, I hear he has quite a reputation among men of letters.
A Fräulein Hartmann is expected to-morrow, and that will complete our household for the winter. She is the niece of Frau von Waldfel, who declares they greatly resemble each other. I can just imagine her: younger but with the same stout figure, rasping voice, and beady eyes! I do hope she won't be put next me at table.
To-day, while we were waiting in the salon for dinner to be announced, I chanced to play a few bars from a piece by MacDowell.
"Is that by your national composer, Sousa?" inquired Herr Doktor.
I hastily informed him that it was not.
"Why! I didn't know you had any other composers of importance," he remarked, with interest.
It is a sad but true fact that American music has, as yet, won no footing in Germany.