Beethoven looked at me. "Let us go in," he said.
"Go in!" I exclaimed. "What can we go in for?"
"I will play to her," he said, in an excited tone. "Here is feeling—genius—understanding! I will play to her, and she will understand it."
And before I could prevent him his hand was upon the door. It opened and we entered.
A pale young man was sitting by the table, making shoes, and near him, leaning sorrowfully upon an old-fashioned piano, sat a young girl, with a profusion of light hair falling over her face.
"Pardon me," said Beethoven, "but I heard music and was tempted to enter. I am a musician."
The girl blushed, and the young man looked grave and somewhat annoyed.
"I—I also overheard something of what you said," continued my friend. "You wish to hear—that is, you would like—that is—shall I play for you?"
There was something so odd in the whole affair, and something so comical and pleasant in the manner of the speaker, that the spell was broken in a moment.
"Thank you!" said the shoemaker; "but our piano is so wretched, and we have no music."