“I have written his address down here. For I know now where he is. At Saas-Fée. Do you know it? It’s in Switzerland. I looked for it on the map, but I couldn’t find it.” “Yes,” I said. “It’s a little village near the Matterhorn.” “Is it very far?” “Not so far but that I might perhaps go there.” “Really? Would you really?... Oh, how good you are!” said he. “As for me, I’m too old. And besides, I can’t because of his mother.... All the same, I think....” He hesitated for a word, then went on: “that I should depart more easily, if only I had been able to see him.” “My poor friend.... Everything that is humanly possible to do to bring him to you, I will do. You shall see little Boris, I promise you.” “Thank you!... Thank you!” He pressed me convulsively in his arms. “But promise me that you won’t think of...” “Oh, that’s another matter,” said he, interrupting me abruptly. Then immediately and as if he were trying to prevent me from going on by distracting my attention: “What do you think, the other day, the mother of one of my pupils insisted on taking me to the theatre! About a month ago. It was a matinée at the _Théâtre Français_. I hadn’t been inside a theatre for more than twenty years. They were giving _Hernani_ by Victor Hugo. You know it? It seems that it was very well acted. Everybody was in raptures. As for me, I suffered indescribably. If politeness hadn’t kept me there, I shouldn’t have been able to stay it out.... We were in a box. My friends did their best to calm me. I wanted to apostrophize the audience. Oh! how can people? How can people?...” Not understanding at first what it was he objected to, I asked: “You thought the actors very bad?” “Of course. But how can people represent such abominations on the stage?... And the audience applauded. And there were children in the theatre--children, brought there by their parents, who knew the play.... Monstrous! And that, in a theatre subsidized by the State!” The worthy man’s indignation amused me. By now I was almost laughing. I protested that there could be no dramatic art without a portrayal of the passions. In his turn, he declared that the portrayal of the passions must necessarily be an undesirable example. The discussion continued in this way for some time; and as I was comparing this portrayal of the passions to the effect of letting loose the brass instruments in an orchestra: “For instance, the entry of the trombones in such and such a symphony of Beethoven’s which you admire....” “But I don’t, I don’t admire the entry of the trombones,” cried he, with extraordinary violence. “Why do you want to make me admire what disturbs me?” His whole body was trembling. The indignant--the almost hostile tone of his voice surprised me and seemed to astonish even himself, for he went on more calmly: “Have you observed that the whole effect of modern music is to make bearable, and even agreeable, certain harmonies which we used to consider discords?”