The Princess in, her easy-chair, for once not sleeping after dinner, listened to her and thought to herself, 'She is angry with me; but how much better it is to talk with a living being than to pass the evening over a philosophical treatise, or the accounts of her schools, or her stables!'
Sabran having conquered the momentary reluctance and embarrassment which had overcome him in the presence of the woman to whom he owed both an outrage and a rescue, endeavoured, with all the skill he possessed, to interest and beguile her attention. He knew that she was a great lady, a proud woman, a recluse, and a student, and a person averse to homage and flattery of every kind; he met her on the common ground of art and learning, and could prove himself her equal at all times, even occasionally her master. When he fancied she had enough of such serious themes he spoke of music. There was a new opera then out at Paris, of which the theme was as yet scarcely known. He looked round the library and said to her:
'Were there an organ here or a piano I could give you some idea of the motive; I can recall most of it.'
'There are both in my own room. It is near here,' she said to him. 'Will you come?'
Then she led the way across the gallery, which alone separated the library from that octagon room which was so essentially her own where all were hers. The Princess accompanied her: content as a child is who has put a light to a slow match that leads it knows not whither. 'She must approve of him, or she would not take him there,' thought the wise Princess.
'Go and play to us,' said Wanda von Szalras, as her guest entered the sacred room. 'I am sure you are a great musician; you speak of music as we only speak of what we love.'
'What do you love?' he wondered mutely, as he sat down before the grand piano and struck a few chords. He sat down and played without prelude one of the most tender and most grave of Schubert's sonatas. It was subtle, delicate, difficult to interpret, but he gave it with consummate truth of touch and feeling. He had always loved German music best. He played on and on, dreamily, with a perfection of skill that was matched by his tenderness of interpretation.
'You are a great artist,' said his hostess, as he paused.
He rose and approached her.
'Alas! no, I am only an amateur,' he answered her. 'To be an artist one must needs have immense faith in one's art and in oneself: I have no faith in anything. An artist steers straight to one goal; I drift.'