begin Beethoven's Concerto; but Eugen,
lifting his voice, addressed them in his turn:

"I am sorry to say that I dare not venture upon the great Concerto; it
is so long since I attempted it. I shall have pleasure in trying to play
a _Chaconne_--one of the compositions of Herr von Francius."

Von Francius started up as if to forbid it. But Eugen had touched the
right key. There was a round of applause, and then an expectant settling
down to listen on the part of the audience, who were, perhaps, better
pleased to hear von Francius the living and much discussed than
Beethoven the dead and undisputed.

It was a minor measure, and one unknown to the public, for it had not
yet been published. Von Francius had lent Eugen the score a few days
ago, and he had once or twice said to me that it was full not merely of
talent; it was replete with the fire of genius.

And so, indeed, he proved to us that night. Never, before or since, from
professional or private _virtuoso_, have I heard such playing as that.
The work was in itself a fine one; original, strong, terse and racy,
like him who had composed it. It was sad, very sad, but there was a
magnificent elevation running all through it which raised it far above a
mere complaint, gave a depth to its tragedy while it pointed at hope.
And this, interpreted by Eugen, whose mood and whose inner life it
seemed exactly to suit, was a thing not to be forgotten in a life-time.
To me the scene and the sounds come freshly as if heard yesterday. I see
the great hall full of people, attentive--more than attentive--every
moment more inthralled. I see the pleased smile which had broken upon
every face of his fellow-musicians at this chance of distinction
gradually subside into admiration and profound appreciation; I feel
again the warm glow of joy which filled my own heart; I meet again May's
eyes and see the light in them, and see von Francius shade his face with
his hand to conceal the intensity of the artist's delight he felt at
hearing his own creation so grandly, so passionately interpreted.

Then I see how it was all over, and Eugen, pale with the depth of
emotion with which he had played the passionate music, retired, and
there came a burst of enthusiastic applause--applause renewed again and
again--it was a veritable _succes fou_.

But he would make no response to the plaudits. He remained obstinately
seated, and there was no elation, but rather gloom upon his face. In
vain von Franc