outlines of the pointed roof.  Close by the door was a dirty bed in loathsome disorder, surrounded by all signs of neglect; opposite me, close beside the narrow window, was a second bed, shabby but clean and most carefully made and covered.  Before the window stood a small table with music-paper and writing material, on the windowsill a few flower-pots.  The middle of the room from wall to wall was designated along the floor by a heavy chalk line, and it is almost impossible to imagine a more violent contrast between dirt and cleanliness than existed on the two sides of the line, the equator of this little world.  The old man had placed his music-stand close to the boundary line and was standing before it practising, completely and carefully dressed.  I have already said so much that is jarring about the discords of my favorite—­and I almost fear he is mine alone—­that I shall spare the reader a description of this infernal concert.  As the practice consisted chiefly of passage-work, there was no possibility of recognizing the pieces he was playing, but this might not have been an easy matter even under ordinary circumstances.  After listening a while, I finally discovered the thread leading out of this labyrinth—­the method in his madness, as it were.  The old man enjoyed the music while he was playing.  His conception, however, distinguished between only two kinds of effect, euphony and cacophony.  Of these the former delighted, even enraptured him, while he avoided the latter, even when harmonically justified, as much as possible.  Instead of accenting a composition in accordance with sense and rhythm, he exaggerated and prolonged the notes and intervals that were pleasing to his ear; he did not even hesitate to repeat them arbitrarily, when an expression of ecstasy frequently passed over his face.  Since he disposed of the dissonances as rapidly as possible and played the passages that were too difficult for him in a tempo that was too slow compared with the rest of the piece, his conscientiousness not permitting him to omit even a single note, one may easily form an idea of the resulting confusion.  After some time, even I couldn’t endure it any longer.  In order to recall him to the world of reality, I purposely dropped my hat, after I had vainly tried several other means of attracting his attention.  The old man started, his knees shook, and he was scarcely able to hold the violin he had lowered to the ground.  I stepped up to him.  “Oh, it is you, sir,” he said, as if coming to himself; “I had not counted on the fulfilment of your kind promise.”  He forced me to sit down, straightened things up, laid down his violin, looked around the room a few times in embarrassment, then suddenly took up a plate from a table that was standing near the door and went out.  I heard him speak with the gardener’s wife outside.  Soon he came back again rather abashed, concealing the plate behind his back and returning it to its place stealthily.  Evidently he had asked for some fruit to offer me, but had not been able to obtain it.