"So--really! That is charming. I am glad when a young artist displays a certain pride, it is always becoming. What eyes he has,"--staring at Gesa through her glass--"my husband told me about his eyes. A real true gipsy.--They say he quoted Shakespeare of late--I laughed so at that!"-- Then, as other guests entered, "pray, endeavor to make the 'eighth wonder' comfortable, de Sterny, you are entirely at home here." This was the princess's manner of dealing carefully with a sensitive "eighth wonder."
De Sterny placed the boy temporarily in a corner, out of which he soon drew him forth to be presented to several ladies and gentlemen. Gesa assumed a haughty bearing. The ladies especially were very friendly, and very patronizing, only it scarcely occurred to one of them to address a word to the boy himself. They all talked about him, in his presence, as if he were a picture, or as if he could not understand French. They wondered, and praised and then forgot him while he stood before them, and talked among themselves of other things. It grew more and more uncomfortable for him, and as his embarrassment increased he felt as if he were walking painfully upon smooth thin ice. He shivered a little. Everything around him was so bright and cold. The soft, fine, flute-like voices of good society hurt him. Light and stinging as snowflakes, their words flew against his burning cheeks. He would have liked to weep. He was an "eighth world-wonder"--they stared at him through a lorgnette, discussed him,--and cared for him no further. Listening he heard the words "comes from the Rue Ravestein."--"What is that, the Rue Ravestein?" "What is it? That is difficult to explain to a lady,"--"vraiment?" "But he gives a perfectly amazing impression of good breeding." "Il n'a pas du tout e' air peuple!" "But since he is a gipsy,"--Gesa felt his throat tighten.
"Shall we not hear you to-day?" asked the ladies who crowded around de Sterny.
"Me?" he replied, with a laugh, "me? I am only manager to-day--and besides I suffer horribly from stage fright."
The moment had come! Gesa must play: his heart beat to suffocation. It was not he, but a stolid clod stiffened with bashfulness who stood up and laid his fingers on the strings. In the middle of Mendelssohn's G minor Concerto he stuck fast, stumbled over himself, picked up, and scrambled painfully through to the end. The composition was never worse played. De Sterny was beside himself. Gesa would have liked to sink through the floor.
A few people applauded because they did not know any better, and a few others because they had not been listening at all. But the greater part shrugged their shoulders, and said "de Sterny is an enthusiast."
And when the virtuoso tried to say a word in excuse for his protégé and declared he had never heard him play so ill, they answered "Bah! we don't blame you for anything, de Sterny. We know you are an enthusiast."
The company chatted and laughed, and nibbled a little refreshment in their careless fashion. Then came a deputation of the handsomest women and begged de Sterny to play, whereupon he seated himself at the piano with his usual good-humored readiness, and smiling consciousness of success. After he had played he went to Gesa and said:
"My dear boy, collect yourself! Could you not forget that any one heard you but me, and improvise something? Try to remember the theme you last played to me. Your future depends upon it. And I would so like to be proud of you!"
These last words worked a miracle.