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XII Apollo's Lyre
’Onehastogetusedtoeverythinginlife,eventoeternity.’ThesightupsetmesomuchthatIturnedawaymyhead.
"ThenIsawthekeyboardofanorganwhichfilledonewholesideofthewalls.Onthedeskwasamusic-bookcoveredwithrednotes.Iaskedleavetolookatitandread,’DonJuanTriumphant.’’Yes,’hesaid,’Icomposesometimes.’Ibeganthatworktwentyyearsago.WhenIhavefinished,Ishalltakeitawaywithmeinthatcoffinandneverwakeupagain.’’Youmustworkatitasseldomasyoucan,’Isaid.Hereplied,’Isometimesworkatitforfourteendaysandnightstogether,duringwhichIliveonmusiconly,andthenIrestforyearsatatime.’’WillyouplaymesomethingoutofyourDonJuanTriumphant?’Iasked,thinkingtopleasehim.’Youmustneveraskmethat,’hesaid,inagloomyvoice.’IwillplayyouMozart,ifyoulike,whichwillonlymakeyouweep;butmyDonJuan,Christine,burns;andyetheisnotstruckbyfirefromHeaven.’Thereuponwereturnedtothedrawing-room.Inoticedthattherewasnomirrorinthewholeapartment.Iwasgoingtoremarkuponthis,butErikhadalreadysatdowntothepiano.Hesaid,’Yousee,Christine,thereissomemusicthatissoterriblethatitconsumesallthosewhoapproachit.Fortunately,youhavenotcometothatmusicyet,foryouwouldloseallyourprettycoloringandnobodywouldknowyouwhenyoureturnedtoParis.LetussingsomethingfromtheOpera,ChristineDaae.’Hespoketheselastwordsasthoughhewereflinginganinsultatme.
