“I shall always be able to play well at Warsaw,” she said, “because I am in touch with my audience, but I play best in small circles of friends where I feel in sympathy with everybody,—­and if you will permit, I will give you a proof of it after lunch.”

My aunt, who was very anxious that Pani Celina should hear her, yet had misgivings whether it would be right to ask her to play, was much pleased by the proposal.  I began to speak of Clara’s performances at Paris and her triumphs at Erard’s concerts; Sniatynski gave an account of what was said at Warsaw; and so the time passed until we rose from lunch.  Clara herself got hold of Paul Celina’s invalid chair and would not allow anybody to help, declaring laughingly that she was by far the strongest among us, and was not afraid to tire her hands.  Presently she sat down to the piano, and as evidently Mozart suited her disposition, she gave us Don Juan.  The first notes sounded, she was a different Clara; not the merry, lively child any longer, but an incarnate Saint Cecilia.  There shone in her the close relationship of outward form with the spirit of harmony, which surrounded her with a dignity above common womanhood.  I made another observation, namely:  that a man in love can find food for his feelings even in what tells against the loved woman.  When I thought how far my Aniela was from being a Sybil, saw her sitting in a corner of the drawing-room so small and still, as if crushed down by some weight, I loved her all the more, and it made her if possible dearer to me than ever.  It also occurred to me that a woman is not in reality what she appears to people in general, but such as the man who loves sees her; therefore her absolute excellence is in proportion to the power of love she inspires.  I had no time to follow out this idea, but it pleased me because I saw dimly before me the conclusion that in the name of this excellence the woman ought to give her heart to him who loves her most.

Clara played superbly.  I watched the sensation on the others’ faces, when presently I noticed that Aniela was looking at me for the same reason.  Was it mere curiosity, or an involuntary uneasiness of heart which could not say what it feared and yet was afraid?  I said to myself:  “If the last supposition were true it would be a proof that she loves me.”  The thought filled me with joy, and I resolved to find an answer to it in the course of the day.  Thenceforth I bestowed all my attention upon Clara, and was more attentive to her than I had ever been before.  In the woods whither we had driven, I walked with her, glancing furtively now and then at Aniela, who remained with the Suiatynskis.  Clara was in rapture with the woods, which are indeed at their best now, the fresh green of the leafy trees forming a perfect canopy over the more sombre looking pines.

The sun filtering across the branches converted the earth, carpeted with ferns and tender mosses, into a delicate golden embroidery.  There were the cheerful voices of spring around us, the cuckoo’s call and the woodpecker’s knock-knock at the trees.  When we joined the others I asked Clara to translate into music the voices of spring.  She said there was already a Fruehlingslied singing within her, and she would try to give it expression.  Truly she looked as if the song was there,—­besides she is like a great harp that speaks only in sounds.