Teleny or the Reverse of the Medal by Oscar Wilde, Anonymous Page B

me what had made me act in such a boorish way to the musician, whom everybody welcomed and made much of.
    'Two months ago, if I remember rightly,' said she, 'there was hardly another pianist like him; and now, because the press has turned against him, he is even below being bowed to.'
    'The press is against him? said I, with uplifted eyebrows.
    'What! have you not read how bitterly he has been criticized of late?'
    'No, I have had other matters to think about than pianists.'
    'Well, of late he seems to have been out of sorts. His name has appeared on the bills several times, and then he has not played; while at the last concerts he went through his pieces in a most humdrum, lifeless way, so very different from his former brilliant execution.'
    I felt as if a hand was gripping at my heart within my breast, still I tried to keep my features as indifferent as possible.
    'I am sorry for him,' I said, listlessly; 'but then, I daresay the ladies will console him for the taunts of the press, and thus blunt the points of their arrows.'
    My mother shrugged her shoulders and drew down the corners of her lips disdainfully. She little guessed either my thoughts, or how bitterly I regretted the way in which I had acted towards the young man whom — well, it was useless to mince matters any longer, or to give myself the lie—I still loved. Yes, loved more than ever — loved to distraction.
    On the morrow, I looked for all the papers in which his name was mentioned, and I found— it may perhaps be vanity on my part to think so—that from the very day I had ceased to attend his concerts, he had been playing wretchedly, until at last his critics, once so lenient, had all joined against him, endeavoring to bring him to a better sense of the duty he owed to his art, to the public, and to himself.
    About a week afterwards, I again went to hear him play.
    As he came in, I was surprised to see the change wrought in him in that short space of time; he was not only careworn and dejected, but pale, thin, and sickly-looking. He seemed, in fact, to have grown ten years older in those few days. There was in him that alteration which my mother had noticed in me on her return from Italy; but she, of course, had attributed it to the shock my nerves had just received.
    As he came on, some few persons tried to cheer him by clapping their hands, but a low murmur of disapproval, followed by a slight hissing sound, stopped these feeble attempts at once. He seemed scornfully indifferent to both sounds. He sat listlessly down, like a person worn out by fever, but, as one of the musical reporters stated, the fire of art began all at once to glow within his eyes. He cast a sidelong glance on the audience, a searching look full of love and of thankfulness.
    Then he began to play, not as if his task were a weary one, but as if he were pouring out his heavily-laden soul; and the music sounded like the warbling of a bird which, in its attempt to captivate its mate, pants forth its flood of rapture, resolved either to conquer or to die in profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
    It is needless to say that I was thoroughly overcome, while the whole crowd was thrilled by the sweet sadness of his song.
    The piece finished, I hurried out—frankly, in the hope of meeting him. While he had been playing, a mighty struggle had been going on within myself—between my heart and my brain; and the glowing senses asked cold reason, what was the use of fighting against an ungovernable passion? I was, indeed, ready to forgive him for all I had suffered, for after all, had I any right to be angry with him?
    As I entered the room he was the first— nay, the only person I saw. A feeling of indescribable delight filled my whole being, and my heart seemed to bound forth towards him. All at once, however, all my rapture passed away, my blood froze in my veins, and love gave way to anger and hatred. He was arm-in-arm with Briancourt, who, openly congratulating him on his success, was