however, moving my head, and each time his burning blue eyes met mine.
(But why did I choose moments when the playing of the piece demanded less
than all his attention?) The Berceuse was a favourite. In sentiment it
was simpler than the great pieces that had preceded it. Its excessive
delicacy attracted; the finesse of its embroidery swayed and enraptured
the audience; and the applause at the close was mad, deafening, and
peremptory. But Diaz was notorious as a refuser of encores. It had been
said that he would see a hall wrecked by an angry mob before he would
enlarge his programme. Four times he came forward and acknowledged the
tribute, and four times he went back. At the fifth response he halted
directly in front of me, and in his bold, grave eyes I saw a question. I
saw it, and I would not answer. If he had spoken aloud to me I could not
have more clearly understood. But I would not answer. And then some power
within myself, hitherto unsuspected by me, some natural force, took
possession of me, and I nodded my head.... Diaz went to the piano.

He hesitated, brushing lightly the keys.

'The Prelude in F sharp,' my thought ran. 'If he would play that!'

And instantly he broke into that sweet air, with its fateful hushed
accompaniment--the trifle which Chopin threw off in a moment of his
highest inspiration.

'It is the thirteenth Prelude,' I reflected. I was disturbed,
profoundly troubled.

The next piece was the last, and it was the Fantasia, the masterpiece
of Chopin.