“But an annoying thing happens to me,” I replied; “my voice produces an effect on those who hear it, almost the same as that which a certain Jean de Nivelle’s produced on.... You know what I mean?”
“I know,” said Kacatogan; “I have seen this odd effect in my own experience. The cause of it is unknown to me, but the effect is indisputable.”
“Well then, sir, you who seem to me to be the Nestor of poesy, can you suggest, I entreat you, a remedy for this painful drawback?”
“No,” said Kacatogan, “for my own part, I have never been able to find one. I was much exercised about it when I was young, because they always hissed me; but nowadays I have ceased to think about it I suspect that this repugnance arises from what the public reads by others than ourselves: that distracts its attention.”
“I am of your opinion; but you will agree, sir, that it is very hard for a well-intentioned creature to put people to flight the moment a good impulse seizes him. Would you be so kind as do me the service of listening to me, and giving me your frank opinion?”
“Most willingly,” said Kacatogan; “I am all ears.”
I at once began to sing, and I had the satisfaction of seeing that Kacatogan neither fled nor fell asleep. He stared at me fixedly, and from time to time nodded his head with an air of approval, and with a sort of murmur of commendation. But I soon saw that he was not listening to me, and was dreaming of his poem. Taking advantage of a moment when I was taking breath, he interrupted me all at once.
“I have found that rhyme after all!” he cried, smiling and wagging his head; “it is the sixty-thousand-seven-hundred-and-fourteenth that has come out of this brain of mine! And they have the audacity to say that I am ageing! I’ll go and read it to my kind friends, I’ll go and read it to them, and we’ll see what they have to say to it!”
So speaking, he took flight and disappeared, apparently having quite forgotten that he had met me.