perchance been stopped on the way by the sounds of music in some
attractive shape. It was quite enough for him to hear such sounds
proceeding from an open window, to make for the door, ring the bell, and
ask for the "Maestro" or the "Herr Kapellmeister." He would introduce
himself, and presently be making friends on a sound musical basis with
his colleague. It would sometimes lead to a continental hug of the
warmest description, when the surprised native would discover that his
visitor was _the_ pianist.

Sometimes my father did not wait for that finishing touch, as when on
one occasion he invaded the room of an ill-fated lover of music. It was
at Tetschen, on a journey through Saxony and Bohemia; we arrived one
evening at the little hotel of that place, tired and hungry, and
thinking only of supper and a good night's rest. Scarcely had we settled
down to the former, when, separated from us only by a wooden partition,
a neighbour commenced operations on the piano, slowly and carefully
unwinding one bar after the other of that most brilliant of pieces,
Weber's "Invitation a la Valse." "Dass dich das Maeuserle beisse!"
exclaims my father, in terrible earnest. "May the little mouse bite
you!" That was a favourite expression of his, when he found himself
suddenly impelled to denounce somebody or something, and, as he
accentuated it, it always seemed amply to replace those naughty words
which are not admissible in daily life, and may only be used--and that,
to be sure, for our benefit--on Sundays by the exponents of the
Christian dogma.

The servant-girl was summoned, and she explained that the neighbour
usually began at that time, and was in the habit of playing several
hours. "Dass dich das Maeuserle" muttered my father with suppressed rage;
"Dass dich" ... and with that he rushed out of the room. What would
happen? We were about to tremble, when a meek, respectful knock at the
neighbour's door happily reassured us. "Herein"--Come in. Enter my
father suavely apologising for the interruption--we hear it all through
the thin partition. He, too, is a lover of music; may he as such be
allowed to listen for a while. Much pleased, the other offers him a
chair and resumes his performance; my father listens patiently, and
waits till the last bars are reached. "Delightful!" we hear him say, "a
beautiful piece, is it not? I once learnt it too; may I try your piano?"
And with that he pounces on the shaky old instrument, galvanising