She had refused her aunt's companionship. It might
irritate Fiorsen and affect his playing to see her with "that stiff
English creature." She wanted, too, to feel again the sensations of
Wiesbaden. There would be a kind of sacred pleasure in knowing that she
had helped to perfect sounds which touched the hearts and senses of so
many listeners. She had looked forward to this concert so long. And she
sat scarcely breathing, abstracted from consciousness of those about
her, soft and still, radiating warmth and eagerness.
Fiorsen looked his worst, as ever, when first coming before an
audience--cold, furtive, defensive, defiant, half turned away, with
those long fingers tightening the screws, touching the strings. It
seemed queer to think that only six hours ago she had stolen out of bed
from beside him. Wiesbaden! No; this was not like Wiesbaden! And when he
played she had not the same emotions. She had heard him now too often,
knew too exactly how he produced those sounds; knew that their fire and
sweetness and nobility sprang from fingers, ear, brain--not from his
soul. Nor was it possible any longer to drift off on those currents of
sound into new worlds, to hear bells at dawn, and the dews of evening
as they fell, to feel the divinity of wind and sunlight. The romance and
ecstasy that at Wiesbaden had soaked her spirit came no more. She was
watching for the weak spots, the passages with which he had struggled
and she had struggled; she was distracted by memories of petulance,
black moods, and sudden caresses.
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