and let them be snapped up by littler men.  He seemed to waste himself, right and left, prodigally.  But it wasn’t that, it wasn’t waste.  It was all as much a part of him as his music.  He detested the stupidity of wealth and poverty, he rebelled against laws that aren’t laws, but only interests enforced by authority, he fought against the sheer deadness of prejudice.  How he hated all that!  And why not?  You see, Vera, he was sensitive to it not only as a thinker, but as a musician, too.  It was all a part of the discord, and what I used to think his wasting himself was really an effort to create a larger harmony.  He used to say that the beauty of music is only the image of beauty in life, and that life must come first.  He couldn’t endure discords anywhere.  Paul despised the musicians who scream at a flatted f but hunger for the flesh pots after the performance.  No, he was never that.  And people resented it.  The very people who ought to have understood.

VERA

But he didn’t neglect his music, that is...?

JEAN

No.  He made enormous efforts to get his violin before the public.  And several times he was “discovered” by men who could have made him famous overnight.  We all believe that genius will out, despite anything, but it doesn’t always.  Musicians respected him, but they were afraid of him, too.  He criticized them for their shortcomings in other things, just as he criticized others for their shortcomings in art.  He wouldn’t accept any talent, no matter how fine, if it went with anything small or destructive.  You can imagine the china shops he left in fragments!  Just think!  Once in Berlin it was all arranged for him to have a recital—­he was working furiously on his program and I was dancing on air—­when just at the last moment he heard the director make some light remark or other about women.  Paul was raging!  He threw the words back in the fellow’s teeth, and made him apologize, but there we were.  They called off the recital, naturally.  And I couldn’t blame Paul.  I was just beginning to understand.  Another time ... no, he never had luck.  Paul had bad luck.  I often think of the Greek tragedies.

VERA

Another time?

JEAN

Another time—­it was in Warsaw—­we had gone with a letter of introduction to Sbarovitch—­

VERA The Sbarovitch?

JEAN

Yes.  It was a chance in ten thousand.  We pawned stuff to get there.  Well, Paul played like a god.  Sbarovitch was quite overcome.  He swore he would compose something especially for Paul.  We had visions of playing before the Czar.

VERA

But what happened?