My millionaire was not so long in growing tired of London as of Paris.  After a stay of six or eight weeks we went across into Holland.  Amsterdam was a great surprise to me.  I had always thought of Venice as the city of canals; it had never entered my mind that I should find similar conditions in a Dutch town.  I don’t suppose the comparison goes far beyond the fact that there are canals in both cities—­I have never seen Venice—­but Amsterdam struck me as being extremely picturesque.  From Holland we went to Germany, where we spent five or six months, most of the time in Berlin.  I found Berlin more to my taste than London, and occasionally I had to admit that in some things it was superior to Paris.

In Berlin I especially enjoyed the orchestral concerts, and I attended a large number of them.  I formed the acquaintance of a good many musicians, several of whom spoke of my playing in high terms.  It was in Berlin that my inspiration was renewed.

One night my millionaire entertained a party of men composed of artists, musicians, writers, and, for aught I know, a count or two.  They drank and smoked a great deal, talked art and music, and discussed, it seemed to me, everything that ever entered man’s mind.  I could only follow the general drift of what they were saying.  When they discussed music, it was more interesting to me; for then some fellow would run excitedly to the piano and give a demonstration of his opinions, and another would follow quickly, doing the same.  In this way, I learned that, regardless of what his specialty might be, every man in the party was a musician.  I was at the same time impressed with the falsity of the general idea that Frenchmen are excitable and emotional, and that Germans are calm and phlegmatic.  Frenchmen are merely gay and never overwhelmed by their emotions.  When they talk loud and fast, it is merely talk, while Germans get worked up and red in the face when sustaining an opinion, and in heated discussions are likely to allow their emotions to sweep them off their feet.

My millionaire planned, in the midst of the discussion on music, to have me play the “new American music” and astonish everybody present.  The result was that I was more astonished than anyone else.  I went to the piano and played the most intricate ragtime piece I knew.  Before there was time for anybody to express an opinion on what I had done, a big bespectacled, bushy-headed man rushed over, and, shoving me out of the chair, exclaimed:  “Get up!  Get up!” He seated himself at the piano, and, taking the theme of my ragtime, played it through first in straight chords; then varied and developed it through every known musical form.  I sat amazed.  I had been turning classic music into ragtime, a comparatively easy task; and this man had taken ragtime and made it classic.  The thought came across me like a flash—­It can be done, why can’t I do it?  From that moment my mind was made up.  I clearly saw the way of carrying out the ambition I had formed when a boy.