"I will come to the point at once," said he leaning against a chest of drawers which stood near the door. "What I have to propose, is no secret and requires no privacy. Unfortunately, it is tolerably well known to all who are aware of my existence--but will you not sit down, Fraulein? To stand so--" He made a movement toward the door of the sitting room. "Thank you. I'm not tired." "Nor I. So to proceed: I'm unfortunately endowed with all sorts of mediocre talents. One would be enough to make a man who is no fool, but possesses a critical judgment, thoroughly unhappy. In the arts bungling even is worse than in medicine. What does it matter if a few men die more or less? But to corrupt or lower the standard of art, is a sin against the divinity of genius. Don't you think so too, Fraulein?" She looked at him intently, without opening her lips. "But," he continued, "there's a false modesty too. Many a great man would never have believed in his own talents, if kind friends had not discovered them. Other gifts are, as it were, trampled under foot in the crowd, through malice and envy--men are very envious, Fraulein, Germans especially. I allude of course to the common envy of trade, which is no more allied to the ideal, high-souled envy, than a toad-stool is to a truffle--in short it's not easy for every man to know what's in him. My eyes have gradually been opened to the fact that my talent for rhyming amounts to nothing. But music, music! I play the piano very poorly and my voice is like a raven's; but in regard to the gift of composition, it always seems to me that I can compare very favorably with the shallow composers of waltzes, or writers of street songs. As for yourself, Fräulein--pardon me for having listened to your playing; you confided your musical confessions to the quiet courtyard--I--I have the deepest reverence for your talent--for--how shall I express it?--for the strong nature expressed in your style of playing. Now you see--I have just finished--for a long time I have been engaged on a great composition, which I have sometimes called--it's only a fancy, or rather a bad joke--my _sinfonia ironica_. You understand: so far, none of it has been written out, but in my head everything is as good as ready for the press--except the instrumentation. Musicians to whom I've now and then played parts of it, have usually been bigoted adherents of some particular school. I must confess that I gave none of them credit for really entering into the spirit of the work. With you the case is wholly different. I would wager, that if you would only give me an hour--" "Sir," she interrupted, "you over-estimate my knowledge and judgment. I sincerely regret--" "Pray do me the favor, Fräulein, not to condemn me unheard. I ask nothing more than that you will listen to the first few bars, where the irony is still in the stage of oppression and grief--C. minor, which afterwards changes into F.--"