"Indeed? You have written one, then? It must be brief, as there isn't much
of the music."

"I refer to a tragedy which actually occurred. Tragedies in real life are
not, as a rule, accompanied by music, and, to be accurate, in this case
music preceded the tragedy. Ten years ago, when I was living in Paris,
apartments adjoining mine were taken by a musician and his wife. His name,
as I learned afterward, was Heinrich Spellerberg, and he came from Breslau.
The wife, a very young and pretty creature, showed herself, by her attire
and manners, to be frivolous and vain, and without having more than the
slightest acquaintance with the pair, I soon learned that she had no
knowledge of or taste for music. He had married her, I suppose, for
her beauty, and had too late discovered the incompatibility of their
temperaments. But he loved her passionately and jealously. One day I
heard loud words between them, from which I gathered unintentionally that
something had aroused his jealousy. She replied with laughter and taunts to
his threats. The quarrel ended with her abrupt departure from the room and
from the house.

"He did not follow her, but sat down at the piano and began to play in the
manner of one who improvises. Correcting the melody that first responded to
his touch, modifying it at several repetitions, he eventually gave out the
form that I have just whistled.

"Evening came and the wife did not return. He continued to play that strain
over and over, into the night. I dropped my book, turned down my lamp
light, and stood at the window, looking at the church across the way.
Suddenly the music ceased. The wife had returned. 'Where did you dine?' I
heard him ask. I could not hear her reply, but the next speech was plainly