In due time Madame A. arrived and her recital, as such things go, was a brilliant success. So far as I could judge, she had an enthusiastic following in Frankfort, quite as significant, for instance, as a woman like Carreno would have in America. An institution known as the Saalbau, containing a large auditorium, was crowded, and there were flowers in plenty for Madame A. who opened and closed the program. The latter arrangement resulted in an ovation to her, men and women crowding about her feet below the platform and suggesting one composition and another that she might play—selections, obviously, that they had heard her render before.
She looked forceful, really brilliant, and tender in a lavender silk gown and wearing a spray of an enormous bouquet of lilacs that I had sent her.
This business of dancing attendance upon a national musical favorite was a bit strange for me, although once before in my life it fell to my lot, and tempestuous business it was, too. The artistic temperament! My hair rises! Madame A. I knew, after I saw her, was expecting me to do the unexpected—to give edge as it were to her presence in Frankfort. And so strolling out before dinner I sought a florist’s, and espying a whole jardinière full of lilacs, I said to the woman florist, “How much for all those lilacs?”
“You mean all?” she asked.
“All,” I said.
“Thirty marks,” she replied.
“Isn’t that rather high?” I said, assuming that it was wise to bargain a little anywhere.
“But this is very early spring,” she said. “These are the very first we’ve had.”
“Very good,” I said, “but if I should take them all would you put a nice ribbon on them?”
“O-o-oh!” she hesitated, almost pouting, “ribbon is very dear, my good sir. Still—if you wish—it will make a wonderful bouquet.”