So Diaz laid upon us the enchantment of Chopin and of himself.  Mazurkas, nocturnes, waltzes, scherzos, polonaises, preludes, he exhibited to us in groups those manifestations of that supreme spirit—­that spirit at once stern and tender, not more sad than joyous, and always sane, always perfectly balanced, always preoccupied with beauty.  The singular myth of a Chopin decadent, weary, erratic, mournful, hysterical, at odds with fate, was completely dissipated; and we perceived instead the grave artist nourished on Bach and studious in form, and the strong soul that had dared to look on life as it is, and had found beauty everywhere.  Ah! how the air trembled and glittered with visions!  How melody and harmony filled every corner of the hall with the silver and gold of sound!  How the world was changed out of recognition!  How that which had seemed unreal became real, and that which had seemed real receded to a horizon remote and fantastic!...

He was playing the fifteenth Prelude in D flat now, and the water was dropping, dropping ceaselessly on the dead body, and the beautiful calm song rose serenely in the dream, and then lost itself amid the presaging chords of some sinister fate, and came again, exquisite and fresh as ever, and then was interrupted by a high note like a clarion; and while Diaz held that imperious, compelling note, he turned his face slightly from the piano and gazed at me.  Several times since the first time our eyes had met, by accident as I thought.  But this was a deliberate seeking on his part.  Again I flushed hotly.  Again I had the terrible shudder of joy.  I feared for a moment lest all the Five Towns was staring at me, thus singled out by Diaz; but it was not so:  I had the wit to perceive that no one could remark me as the recipient of that hurried and burning glance.  He had half a dozen bars to play, yet his eyes did not leave mine, and I would not let mine leave his.  He remained moveless while the last chord expired, and then it seemed to me that his gaze had gone further, had passed through me into some unknown.  The applause startled him to his feet.

My thought was:  ’What can he be thinking of me?...  But hundreds of women must have loved him!’

In the interval an attendant came on to the platform and altered the position of the piano.  Everybody asked:  ‘What’s that for?’ For the new position was quite an unusual one; it brought the tail of the piano nearer to the audience, and gave a better view of the keyboard to the occupants of the seats in the orchestra behind the platform.  ’It’s a question of the acoustics, that’s what it is,’ observed a man near me, and a woman replied:  ‘Oh, I see!’