"Now—" he said, "you are no longer a virtuoso, you are an artist, and that, as you know, is something infinitely greater and higher and more difficult of attainment. All the great violins of my time I have heard; most of them I have conducted."
Ritter's voice lowered suddenly to a whisper, and he leaned forward, touching the other's hand with his own: "I tell you, Velasco, and I know what I say—you played to-day at rehearsal as none of them played, not even Sarasati, king of virtuosi; or Joachim, prince of artists. You played as if the violin were yourself, and your bow were tearing your own heart strings.… Don't move! Don't get up! What is it, Velasco? You are white as death and your eyes are staring! Listen to my question and answer it, or not, as you please. This is not an age of miracles. The birch was not torn from the bank without reason, or the oak transplanted. Tell me—have you ever loved a woman?"
There was a sudden silence in the Rathskeller. It was almost deserted, and the waitresses were all in the garden, running forward and backward under the trees. From outside came the sound of voices and glasses clinking; and close by, from the ledge, the slow trickle of the beer through the throats of the gargoyles.
"Look at them!" said Velasco dreamily: "It is the Pilsener that runs through the dragons' mouths, and the Münchener through the devils'; a bizarre fancy that!"
He stooped and struck a match against the table edge, lighting his cigarette. "These are Russian, Kapellmeister, extra brand! Try one! I prefer them to Turkish myself." He leaned his head against the carvings of the partition, and drew the smoke in through his nostrils slowly, his eyes half closed.
"It is a quarter to eight now," said Ritter, "but there is plenty of time.—I shouldn't have asked that question perhaps, Velasco. Forgive me. My own affairs have turned my thoughts too much on that subject."
"Was it several years ago?" said Velasco, "I don't remember." He passed his hand over his forehead several times as if chafing his memory.
Ritter pushed away his plate, and leaned forward with his head on his hands, staring down at the table, and tracing out the pattern of the wood with his fingers.
"Fourteen years to-night, Velasco. I have never spoken of it to any one; but somehow to-night it would be a relief to talk. Brondi was staying at my house; he was the Tristan. One night he gave out he was ill, and some one else took the part. When I returned from the opera, he was gone and she was gone, and the house was dark and deserted."
Ritter was silent for a moment.