It is of an exquisite
youth,--untouched, fearless, quite heedless of tradition, going its own
way straight through and over difficulties and prohibitions that for
centuries have been supposed final. People like Wagner and Strauss and
the rest seem so much sticky and insanitary mud next to these exquisite
young ones, and so very old; and not old and wonderful like the great
men, Beethoven and Bach and Mozart, but uglily old like a noisy old
lady in a yellow wig.

The audience applauded, but wasn't quite sure. Such a master as
Kloster, and one of their own flesh and blood, is always applauded, but
I think the irregularity, the utter carelessness of the music, its
apparently accidental beauty, was difficult for them. Germans have to
have beauty explained to them and accounted for,--stamped first by an
official, authorized, before they can be comfortable with it. I sat in
a corner and cried, it was so lovely. I couldn't help it. I hid away
and pulled my hat over my face and tried not to, for there was a German
in eyeglasses near me, who, perceiving I wanted to hide, instantly
spent his time staring at me to find out why. The music held all
things in it that I have known or guessed, all the beauty, the wonder,
of life and death and love. I _recognised_ it. I almost called out,
"Yes--of course--_I_ know that too."

Afterwards I would have liked best to go home and to sleep with the
sound of it still in my heart, but Kloster sent round a note saying I
was to come to supper and meet some people who would be useful for me
to know. One of his pupils, who brought the note, had been ordered to
pilot me safely to the house, it being late, and as we walked and
Kloster drove in somebody's car he was there already when we arrived,
busy opening beer bottles and looking much more appropriate than he had
done an hour earlier. I can't tell you how kindly he greeted me, and
with what charming little elucidatory comments he presented me to his
wife and the other guests. He actually seemed proud of me. Think how
I must have glowed.

"This is Mees Chrees," he said, taking my hand and leading me into the
middle of the room. "I will not and cannot embark on her family name,
for it is one of those English names that a prudent man avoids. Nor
does it matter. For in ten years--nay, in five--all Europe will have
learned it by heart."

There were about a dozen people, and we had beer and sandwiches and
were very happy. Kloster