"If that ain't a winner I ain't no judge!" he said to Boris Volkovisk, the pianist, on the evening of the conversation with Elkan set forth above. He referred to a violin sonata of Boris' own composition which the latter and Jacob Rekower, the violinist, had just concluded.
Boris smiled and wiped away the perspiration from his bulging forehead, for the third movement of the sonata, marked in the score Allegro con fuoco, had taxed even the technic of its composer.
"A winner of what?" Boris asked—"money? Because supposing a miracle happens that somebody would publish it nobody buys it."
Max nodded his head slowly in sympathetic acquiescence.
"But anyhow you ain't so bad off like some composers," he said. "You've anyhow got a good musician to play your stuff for you."
He smiled at Jacob Rekower, who plunged his hands into his trousers pockets and shrugged deprecatingly.
"Sure, I know," Rekower said; "and if we play too much good stuff Marculescu raises the devil with us we should play more popular music."
He spat out the words "popular music" with an emphasis that made a Tarrok player at the next table jump in his seat.
"Nu," said the latter as the deal passed, "what is the matter with popular music? If it wouldn't be for writing popular music, understand me, many a decent, respectable composer would got to starve!"
He turned his chair round and abandoned the card game the better to air his views on popular music.