plan.  I said that I meant to go to Stein’s after dinner, so the young man offered to take me there himself.  I thanked him for his kindness, and promised to return at two o’clock.  I did so, and we went together in company with his brother-in-law, who looks a genuine student.  Although I had begged that my name should not be mentioned, Herr von Langenmantl was so incautious as to say, with a simper, to Herr Stein, “I have the honor to present to you a virtuoso on the piano.”  I instantly protested against this, saying that I was only an indifferent pupil of Herr Sigl in Munich, who had charged me with a thousand compliments to him.  Stein shook his head dubiously, and at length said, “Surely I have the honor of seeing M. Mozart?” “Oh, no,” said I; “my name is Trazom, and I have a letter for you.”  He took the letter and was about to break the seal instantly, but I gave him no time for that, saying, “What is the use of reading the letter just now?  Pray open the door of your saloon at once, for I am so very anxious to see your pianofortes.”  “With all my heart,” said he, “just as you please; but for all that I believe I am not mistaken.”  He opened the door, and I ran straight up to one of the three pianos that stood in the room.  I began to play, and he scarcely gave himself time to glance at the letter, so anxious was he to ascertain the truth; so he only read the signature.  “Oh!” cried he, embracing me, and crossing himself and making all sorts of grimaces from intense delight.  I will write to you another day about his pianos.  He then took me to a coffee-house, but when we went in I really thought I must bolt, there was such a stench of tobacco-smoke, but for all that I was obliged to bear it for a good hour.  I submitted to it all with a good grace, though I could have fancied that I was in Turkey.  He made a great fuss to me about a certain Graf, a composer (of flute concertos only); and said, “He is something quite extraordinary,” and every other possible exaggeration.  I became first hot and then cold from nervousness.  This Graf is a brother of the two who are in Harz and Zurich.  He would not give up his intention, but took me straight to him—­a dignified gentleman indeed; he wore a dressing-gown that I would not be ashamed to wear in the street.  All his words are on stilts, and he has a habit of opening his mouth before knowing what he is going to say; so he often shuts it again without having said anything.  After a great deal of ceremony he produced a concerto for two flutes; I was to play first violin.  The concerto is confused, not natural, too abrupt in its modulations, and devoid of all genius.  When it was over I praised it highly, for, indeed, he deserves this.  The poor man must have had labor and study enough to write it.  At last they brought a clavichord of Stein’s out of the next room, a very good one, but inch-thick with dust.  Herr Graf, who is director here, stood there looking like a man who had hitherto believed his own modulations to be something very clever, but all at once discovers that others may be still more so, and without grating on the ear.  In a word, they all seemed lost in astonishment.