We had both grown silent, he from confusion, because he had betrayed the innermost secret of his heart, I from astonishment at hearing a man speak of the highest spheres of art who was not capable of rendering even the simplest waltz in intelligible fashion.  Meanwhile he was preparing to depart.  “Where do you live?” I inquired.  “I should like to attend your solitary practising some day.”

“Oh,” he replied, almost imploringly, “you must know that prayers should be said in private!”

“Then I’ll visit you in the daytime,” I said.

“In the daytime,” he replied, “I earn my living among the people.”

“Well, then, some morning early.”

“It almost looks,” the old man said smiling, “as though you, my dear sir, were the recipient, and I, if I may be permitted to say so, the benefactor; you are so kind, and I reject your advances so ungraciously.  Your distinguished visit will always confer honor on my dwelling.  Only I should like to ask you to be so very kind as to notify me beforehand of the day of your coming, in order that you may not be unduly delayed nor I be compelled to interrupt unceremoniously some business in which I may be engaged at the time.  For my mornings are also devoted to a definite purpose.  At any rate, I consider it my duty to my patrons and benefactors to offer something not entirely unworthy in return for their gifts.  I have no desire to be a beggar, sir; I am very well aware of the fact that the other street musicians are satisfied to reel off a few street ditties, German waltzes, even melodies of indecent songs, all of which they have memorized.  These they repeat incessantly, so that the public pays them either in order to get rid of them, or because their playing revives the memory of former joys of dancing or of other disorderly amusements.  For this reason such musicians play from memory, and sometimes, in fact quite frequently, strike the wrong note.  But far be it from me to deceive.  Partly, therefore, because my memory is not of the best, partly because it might be difficult for any one to retain in his memory, note for note, complicated compositions of esteemed composers, I have made a clear copy for myself in these note-books.”  With these words he showed me the pages of his music-book.  To my amazement I saw in a careful, but awkward and stiff handwriting, extremely difficult compositions by famous old masters, quite black with passage-work and double-stopping.  And these selections the old man played with his clumsy fingers!  “In playing these pieces,” he continued, “I show my veneration for these esteemed, long since departed masters and composers, satisfy my own artistic instincts, and live in the pleasant hope that, in return for the alms so generously bestowed upon me, I may succeed in improving the taste and hearts of an audience distracted and misled on many sides.  But since music of this character—­to return to my subject”—­and at these words a self-satisfied smile lighted up his features—­“since music of this kind requires practice, my morning hours are devoted exclusively to this exercise.  The first three hours of the day for practice, the middle of the day for earning my living, the evening for myself and God; that is not an unfair division,” he said, and at the same time something moist glistened in his eyes; but he was smiling.