The Marcia Funebre of the Eroica symphony is the lament of a nation of Titans; in Ernst’s Elegie one poor human heart is breaking—breaking all alone. I have heard the piece since in crowded halls and beneath the blaze of chandeliers, and performed by artists more finished, no doubt, than was the Don; but the effect he wrought I have never seen approached. All eyes were riveted upon him while he played, and when he ceased—when the last despairing sigh died upon the air—no one moved, not a note of applause was given, and the only sound heard was that of long-drawn breaths of relief.
It was an intense moment. My grandfather was the first to break the spell. Approaching the Don with a tender look in his eyes, he tried, I think, to speak a few words, but could only press his hand. Then there arose a subdued murmur of whispered enthusiasm, each one to his neighbor. At last—
“Billy,” said the middle-aged-fat-gentleman, “I give it up,—he can beat you.” And a ripple of laughter relieved the tension.
And Mary?
She and the Don happened to be among the last to leave the hall, and he offered her his arm. Neither spoke for a few moments.
“How silly you must have thought me!”
“I assure you—”
“Oh, but you must. But I had never heard anything but fiddling before. Do you know,” she added gravely, “I doubt if any of the company understood all that you meant, save myself?”
“And are you quite sure that you understood all that I felt?”
Mary looked up and their eyes met. Releasing his arm as she passed into the house, she colored deeply.