passion was concealed almost everywhere within the restraint and the
apparent calm of Bach's music, but the full force of it had not been
shown to me till this glorious night. Diaz' playing was tenfold more
impressive, more effective, more revealing in the hotel parlour than in
the great hall. The Chromatic Fantasia seemed as full of the magnificence
of life as that other Fantasia which he had given an hour or so earlier.
Instead of peace I had the whirlwind; instead of tranquillity a riot;
instead of the poppy an alarming potion. The rendering was masterly to
the extreme of masterliness.

When he had finished I rose and passed to the fireplace in silence; he
did not stir.

'Do you always play like that?' I asked at length.

'No,' he said; 'only when you are there. I have never played the Chopin
Fantasia as I played it to-night. The Chopin was all right; but do not
be under any illusion: what you have just heard is Bach played by a
Chopin player.'

Then he left the piano and went to the small table where the
glasses were.

'You must be in need of refreshment,' he whispered gaily. 'Nothing is
more exhausting than listening to the finest music.'

'It is you who ought to be tired,' I replied; 'after that long concert,
to be playing now.'

'I have the physique of a camel,' he said. 'I am never tired so long as I