“What do you think of him?”

“Think of him!” echoed Alwyn—­“Why, what can one think,—­what can one say of such an artist!—­He is like a grand sunrise,—­baffling all description and all criticism!”

Heliobas smiled,—­there was a little touch of satire in his smile.

“Do you see that gentleman?” he said, in a low tone, pointing out by a gesture a pale, flabby-looking young man who was lounging languidly in a stall not very far from where they themselves sat, —­“He is the musical critic for one of the leading London daily papers.  He has not stirred an inch, or moved an eyelash, during Sarasate’s performance,—­and the violent applause of the audience was manifestly distasteful to him!  He has merely written one line down in his note-book,—­it is most probably to the effect that the ’Spanish fiddler met with his usual success at the hands of the undiscriminating public!’”

Alwyn laughed.  “Not possible!”—­and he eyed the impassive individual in question with a certain compassionate amusement,—­ “Why, if he cannot admire such a magnificent artist as Sarasate, what is there in the world that will rouse his admiration!”

“Nothing!” rejoined Heliobas, his eyes twinkling humorously as he spoke—­“Nothing,—­unless it is his own perspicuity!  Nil admirari is the critic’s motto.  The modern ‘Zabastes’ must always be careful to impress his readers in the first place with his personal superiority to all men and all things,—­and the musical Oracle yonder will no doubt be clever enough to make his report of Sarasate in such a manner as to suggest the idea that he could play the violin much better himself, if he only cared to try!”

“Ass!” said Alwyn under his breath—­“One would like to shake him out of his absurd self-complacency!”

Heliobas shrugged his shoulders expressively: 

“My dear fellow, he would only bray!—­and the braying of an ass is not euphonious!  No!—­you might as well shake a dry clothes-prop and expect it to blossom into fruit and flower, as argue with a musical critic, and expect him to be enthusiastic!  The worst of it is, these men are not really musical,—­they perhaps know a little of the grammar and technique of the thing, but they cannot understand its full eloquence.  In the presence of a genius like Pablo de Sarasate they are more or less perplexed,—­it is as though you ask them to describe in set, cold terms the counterpoint and thoroughbass of the wind’s symphony to the trees,—­the great ocean’s sonata to the shore, or the delicate madrigals sung almost inaudibly by little bell-blossoms to the tinkling fall of April rain.  The man is too great for them—­he is a blazing star that dazzles and confounds their sight—­and, after the manner of their craft, they abuse what they can’t understand.  Music is distinctly the language of the emotions,—­and they have no emotion.  They therefore generally prefer Joachim,—­the good, stolid Joachim,