This was the more probable as the professor himself had come from
Germany.
I descended the stairs softly, traversed the hallway, and, looking through
the open door, beheld the professor at the piano.
The curtains of a window were drawn aside, and the moonlight swept grandly
in. It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's head in soft
radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of the opposite wall.
Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined Schaaf, who had fallen
asleep listening while the professor played.
The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain--so often
mutual companions--were depicted upon it. I hesitated to break the spell
which he had woven for himself. After watching for some seconds, however, I
began quietly:
"Professor."
The tune broke off with a jangling discord, and the player turned to face
me, smiling pleasantly.
"Pardon me," I went on, advancing into the room and standing in the
moonshine that he might recognize me, "but I was attracted by the air you
were playing. They tell me that it isn't Millocker's, but was composed by
your new conductor at the ----"
The professor answered with a laugh:
"Ja! He got de honour of it.
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