stopping, a crowd forming. But
no one appeared to notice the little old woman except myself, and as she
drew near I discovered that she wore spectacles and a fringe of
iron-gray hair around her face. Her eyes were piercingly bright and on
her lips was etched a sardonic smile. Not quite knowing how to explain
my rude stare, I was preparing to turn in another direction, when the
stranger accosted me, and in the voice of a man: "Perhaps you don't know
that I am Richard Wagner, the composer of the _Ring_? I am also Liszt's
son-in-law, and from the way you turn your feet in, I take you to be a
pianist and a Leschetizky pupil!" Marvelous psychologist! A regular
Sherlock Holmes. And then, with a snort of rage, the Master walked away,
a massive Dachshund viciously snapping at a link of sausage that idly
swung from his pocket.

There, you have the Wagner anecdote orchestrated to suit those musical
persons who believe that the composer was fond of nothing but millinery
and dogs. Finally, if your publisher clamors for something about Liszt
or Chopin, you may quote this; not forgetting the allusion to George
Sand. To mention Chopin without Sand would be considered excessively
inaccurate. I call the story, "Liszt's Clever Retort."

It was midwinter. As was his wont in this season, Chopin was attired
from head to foot in white wool. His fragile form and spiritual face,
with its delicate smile, made him seem a member of some heavenly
brotherhood that spends its existence praying for the expiation of the
wickedness wrought by men. The composer was standing near the fireplace;
without it snowed, desperately snowed. He was not alone. Half sitting,
half reclining on a chair, his feet on the mantelpiece, was a man, spare
and sinewy as an Indian. Long, coarse, brown hair hung mane-like upon
his shoulders. His lithe, powerful fingers almost seemed to crush the
short white Irish clay pipe from which he occasionally took a whiff. It
was Liszt, Franz Liszt, Liszt Ferencz--don't forget the accompanying
_Eljen!_--the pet of the gods, the adored of women; Liszt who never had
a hair-cut; Liszt the inventor of the Liszt pupil. There had evidently
been a heated discussion, for Chopin's face was adorned with bright
hectic spots, his smile was sardonic, and a cough shook his ascetic
frame as if from suppressed chagrin. Liszt was surly and at intervals
said "basta!" beneath his long Milesian upper lip. Such silence could
not long endure; an explosion w