The chorus would greatly have preferred to be present from beginning to end, after the fashion of its antique prototypes in Sophocles and Euripides, but there was nothing for it but to yield. It took a covered position, attentively re-read the melodious lyric made to fit a well-known tune, and cleared its throat. The clock on the mantel struck nine; the Medicinalrath still stood sentinel at the right of the mirror, conversing with the aristocratic element. In the background preparations for a sacrificial offering of tea seemed to be going on, but no one ventured to begin the solemn ceremony. My conjecture was that the hostess feared thereby to offend the august spirit of the expected genius. It struck a quarter, it struck half-past--still no Liszt!-- The Medicinalrath and his æsthetic wife moved nearer to the windows, and convulsively started every time a carriage passed near enough to give one reason to suspect it of an intention of stopping. The assembled guests had said everything they had to say, and the need of an impetus, physical or psychical, was making itself sadly felt. “We certainly cannot have tea served now. He may come at any moment. The effect would be quite lost!” whispered the Frau Medicinalräthin as her husband approached her, reminding her of the bodily needs of her guests. A general restlessness took possession of those assembled. “Punctuality is the politeness of kings, but not of geniuses!” a young lawyer, who was at other times the Aristophanes of these receptions, ventured to remark with some bitterness. “Liszt did not name the hour, I should say by way of vindication; he merely promised to come. You know that his time is tasked to the utmost. A king may seclude himself from his worshippers, but a _virtuoso_ has not an hour of the day to call his own,” said the Medicinalrath, soothingly. A carriage came rattling wildly up to the door and stopped. “It is he!” cried an academic youth, whom the master of the house had stationed as a sentry at the first window. The moment was overwhelming. As fast as circumstances would permit the guests grouped picturesquely. The Medicinalrath took the centre at the right of the mirror; his lady, our gracious patroness, seized the white silk ribbons on which the ode had been printed in gilt letters. The chorus of priestesses arranged itself artistically about her; the chorus of Berlin youths began to sing in the adjoining room; we mutes sent greedy eyeshots to meet the expected. A nimble young man put his small, coal-black head through the door, and seemed undecided to whom to turn. “Pfeffermünze,” whispered an old gentleman to the Medicinalrath, “that is not Liszt!”