be; for he was full to the brim of ambitious intentions, which he had
never yet had a chance of putting into practice. He felt so ready for
work, so fresh and unworn; the fervour of a deep enthusiasm was
rampant in him. What a single-minded devotion to art, he promised
himself his should be! No other fancy or interest should share his
heart with it, he vowed that to himself this day, when he stood for
the first time on historic ground, where the famous musicians of the
past had found inspiration for their immortal works. And his thoughts
spread their wings and circled above his head; he saw himself already
of these masters' craft, their art his, he wrenching ever new secrets
from them, penetrating the recesses of their genius, becoming one of
themselves. In a vision as vivid as those that cross the brain in a
sleepless night, he saw a dark, compact multitude wait, with breath
suspended, to catch the notes that fell like raindrops from his
fingers; saw himself the all-conspicuous figure, as, with masterful
gestures, he compelled the soul that lay dormant in brass and strings,
to give voice to, to interpret to the many, his subtlest
emotions. And he was overcome by a tremulous compassion with himself
at the idea of wielding such power over an unknown multitude, at the
latent nobility of mind and aim this power implied.

Even when swinging back to the town, he had not shaken himself free of
dreams. The quiet of a foreign midday lay upon the streets, and there
were few discordant sounds, few passers-by, to break the chain of his
thought. He had movememt, silence, space. And as is usual with
active-brained dreamers, he had little or no eye for the real life
about him; he was not struck by the air of comfortable prosperity, of
thriving content, which marked the great commercial centre, and he let
pass, unnoticed, the unfamiliar details of a foreign street, the
trifling yet significant incidents of foreign life. Such impressions