“That is not the blond head of our Samson. Avaunt, venal slave!” muttered the manufacturer of festive odes. The black-headed little fellow was actually one of the secretaries of the genius sent out to calm the assembly on account of his late arrival; perhaps, also, if I rightly judge the much-enduring _virtuoso_, to ward off the boisterous ovations in store for him. The inhabitants of dangerously-situated Alpine villages erect plough-shaped stone walls as a security against avalanches; the mass of snow is disrupted, and falls powerless on either side. There was a universal disappointment; the chorus of youths was hushed with difficulty, the gilt-illumined ode was laid aside, the secretary was surrounded, and by way of reward for his good news that his master was following, he was made much of. The commotion was so turbulent that no one noticed the entrance of a slender young man, stooping perceptibly, with lank arms and long yellow hair, who had been peeled out of a magnificent sable greatcoat in the reception-room by a servant. But he did not escape the eagle eye of our patroness. “Mein Gott, Liszt!” she exclaimed in a broken voice, and then she sank into the arms of two robust alto singers, who, always on the alert for such unaccountable tricks of destiny, were ever at her side. There was a sympathetic movement among the guests, only the one most nearly concerned, the Medicinalrath, retaining a posture of stoic composure. The master of tone also did not seem quite inexperienced in the treatment of such misadventures. He rapidly approached the invalid, seized the right hand of the lady overcome by the magnitude of her feelings, ordered “things strengthening and refreshing,” like Mozart’s Don Ottavia, and raised her spirits with marvellous speed. So Liszt was come; but all the effects arranged for his reception had failed. But his tortured soul was not spared the ode. He was compelled to sit down between two ladies and listen to the song. Then the artistic hostess presented the silk ribbon. It was entwined about a fresh laurel wreath. During this offering of gratitude I had been making some remarks of condolence to the secretary. Since nightfall his liege lord had been visiting five families of distinction. The Erlkönig had been wrung from him at four places. The burden of pianoforte fame weighs heavy; at the thought the trials of teaching dwindled. Was the genius to escape the Erlkönig here? From out of the music-room the concert-grand loomed forth majestically like the heavy cannons in forts that are used to practise recruits.