THE GREAT PIANIST

And the herring! Good G.o.d, what herring! These barbarous Americans----

THE VIRGIN

Really, I am quite indecent! I should blush, I suppose. But love is never ashamed--How people misunderstand me!

THE MARRIED WOMAN

I wonder if he's faithful. The chances are against it. I never heard of a man who was. (_An agreeable melancholy overcomes her and she gives herself up to the mood without thought._)

THE GREAT PIANIST

I wonder whatever became of that girl in Dresden. Every time I think of her, she suggests pleasant thoughts--good beer, a fine band, _Gemutlichkeit_. I must have been in love with her--not much, of course, but just enough to make things pleasant. And not a single letter from her! I suppose she thinks I'm starving to death over here--or tuning pianos. Well, when I get back with the money there'll be a shock for her. A shock--but not a _Pfennig_!

THE MARRIED WOMAN

(_Her emotional coma ended._) Still, you can hardly blame him. There must be a good deal of temptation for a great artist. All of these frumps here would----

THE VIRGIN

Ah, how dolorous, how exquisite is love! How small the world would seem if----

THE MARRIED WOMAN

Of course you could hardly call such old scarecrows temptations. But still----

(THE GREAT PIANIST _comes to the last measure of the_ coda--_a pa.s.sage of almost Haydnesque clarity and spirit. As he strikes the broad chord of the tonic there comes a roar of applause. He arises, moves a step or two down the stage, and makes a series of low bows, his hands to his heart._)

THE GREAT PIANIST

(_Bowing._) I wonder why the American women always wear raincoats to piano recitals. Even when the sun is shining brightly, one sees hundreds of them. What a disagreeable smell they give to the hall. (_More applause and more bows._) An American audience always smells of rubber and lilies-of-the-valley. How different in London! There an audience always smells of soap. In Paris it reminds you of sachet bags--and _lingerie_.

(_The applause ceases and he returns to the piano._)

And now comes that _verfluchte adagio_.

(_As he begins to play, a deathlike silence falls upon the hall._)

ONE OF THE CRITICS

What rotten pedaling!

ANOTHER CRITIC

A touch like a xylophone player, but he knows how to use his feet. That suggests a good line for the notice--"he plays better with his feet than with his hands," or something like that. I'll have to think it over and polish it up.

ONE OF THE OTHER MEN

Now comes some more of that awful cla.s.sical stuff.

THE VIRGIN

Suppose he can't speak English? But that wouldn't matter. Nothing matters. Love is beyond and above----

SIX HUNDRED WOMEN

Oh, how beautiful!

THE MARRIED WOMAN

Perfect!

THE DEAN OF THE CRITICS

(_Sinking quickly into the slumber which always overtakes him during the_ adagio.) C-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-c-h-h-h-h-h-h-h-h!

THE YOUNGEST CRITIC

There is that old fraud asleep again. And to-morrow he'll print half a column of vapid reminiscence and call it criticism. It's a wonder his paper stands for him. Because he once heard Liszt, he....

THE GREAT PIANIST

That plump girl over there on the left is not so bad. As for the rest, I beg to be excused. The American women have no more shape than so many matches. They are too tall and too thin. I like a nice rubbery armful--like that Dresden girl. Or that harpist in Moscow--the girl with the Pilsner hair. Let me see, what was her name? Oh, Fritzi, to be sure--but her last name? Schmidt? Kraus? Meyer? I'll have to try to think of it, and send her a postcard.

THE MARRIED WOMAN

What delicious flutelike tones!