Then his feelings almost
strangled him; his master passion asserted itself.
"Your fingers, your fingers--let me see them," he hoarsely demanded.
With a malicious grin she extended her hands--he groaned enviously. Yes,
they were miracles of sculpture, miracles of colour and delicacy, the
slender tips well-nigh prehensile in their cunning power. And the
fingers of Constantia, of his love, of the woman who loved Chopin--that
Chopin whose first passion was for her grandmother, the opera singer
Constantia Gladowska!
The knowledge of her cruel deception crept into his consciousness. He
was chilled for several seconds. Grief at his lost love, implacable
anger at her trickery, crowded into his unhappy brain. But he only bowed
to Cilli, and summoning all his will he politely said:--
"It is quite true that when the Japanese choose to play the piano, we
Europeans must shut up shop." He hurried out to the road and walked
desperately....
The next morning, as he nervously paced the platform of the Ischl
railway station, he encountered his old friend Alfred Bruenfeld, the
jovial Viennese pianist.
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