Some day I shall try to get
from her just what Beethoven, say, and Chopin, mean to her. She has
not read Shaw's Perfect Wagnerite, nor had she ever heard of
Nietzsche's Case of Wagner. She likes Mozart, and old Boccherini,
and Leonardo Leo. Likewise she is partial to Schumann, especially
Forest Scenes. And she played his Papillons most brilliantly. When
I closed my eyes I could have sworn it was a man's fingers on the
keys.
And yet, I must say it, in the long run her playing makes me nervous.
I am continually led up to false expectations. Always, she seems
just on the verge of achieving the big thing, the super-big thing,
and always she just misses it by a shade. Just as I am prepared for
the culminating flash and illumination, I receive more perfection of
technique. She is cold. She must be cold . . . Or else, and the
theory is worth considering, she is too healthy.
I shall certainly read to her The Daughters of Herodias.
CHAPTER XVIII
Was there ever such a voyage! This morning, when I came on deck, I
found nobody at the wheel.
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