She was bending over the piano like a mother leaning over her child. Then she put her head on one side to hear what the instrument was saying more clearly. But it was not a piano any more, it was a human voice questioning, moved, looking up and captivated, filled with delight and forgiveness. All the forgiving and forgetting of this world was in the melody in A flat major.

Franziska thought of nothing now. She was no longer watching the pianist’s fingers and her technique, she never wanted to see anything, think anything, hear anything again but these simple notes, their very simplicity bringing relief to the heart, and lean on them as if on a warm, human breast. The first movement was over; the deep, melancholy notes of the second began.

What, wondered Franziska, has this woman experienced? Before a woman can play like that, surely she must have walked every path on this earth. The grey suburban streets of Prague this afternoon moved away before her eyes into endless twilight. Was this tall, queenly woman with her matt yet lustrous shoulders, the wealth of her pearl necklace around her bare throat, was La Constanza too nothing but a poor creature like Franziska, someone who had asked more of life and herself than she could attain—no, who had attained nothing but disappointments, sad, ambitious, dissatisfied days, sleepless, despairing and infinitely empty nights? Had she attained only this little piece of perfection in the end, a tiny moment drowning in the purest, deepest happiness on earth, a moment in which she was overwhelmed?

The second movement was over. The audience kept silent.

La Constanza looked at the hall, her eyes huge, and after a moment’s pause began on the last movement.

At that moment a voice in Franziska said: That is the person who can help you. She and only she will know if your hard work is all worth while.

She discarded all the day’s faintness of heart as if it were a denial of what, to her, was the most sacred thing in the world. But she was afraid of her decision, and in her fear she said to herself, firmly and coldly: you must go to her, you must seek her out at the end of the recital this evening and play to her.

Having come to this decision, difficult as it was, she was happy to wait as long as possible. She wanted the finale to go on for ever, a dancing, youthfully lilting movement in which all was boyish strength, amazed delight in the face of splendour. One last rising phrase and it was all over. The final chords rang out above stormy, almost angry applause. Flowers like flames were thrown to the platform; big, brightly coloured bouquets with long silk ribbons fluttering in the air. La Constanza picked up a little bunch of lily of the valley that had happened to fall among the huge bouquets paying tribute to her, placed it beside the silver candle holders with a small, child-like smile, sat down at the piano again and played something short, touching, simple. Then she rose, very grave-faced, bowed to the back of the hall where the most enthusiastic members of the audience sat in the cheapest seats, and left the stage. Recalled by the loud applause, she returned, leaned over the piano, picked up her little spray of lily of the valley, smelled it—a private person now, as it were—nodded a little condescendingly to the people in the hall and went backstage to the green-room.

Almost all the people gathered in the green-room were women, the exception being young Einar Johannsen, brother of the singer with the sunlit hair, who was going from one of the ladies to another with his small, gentle smile, collecting the albums, cards and wooden fans on which they wanted the pianist’s autograph. A little brunette, standing next to Franziska, held nothing in her nervous, sinewy hands. Herr Johannsen looked at her in some surprise, unsure what she was doing here, and was on the point of turning to Franzi, who was equally empty-handed and felt awkward—when Madame Constanza said, with the voice and bearing of a queen, “Well, Einar, do I get my cigarette now?”

Herr Einar put the flowers and fans he had collected so carefully down on a chair and waved both hands at the autograph-seekers. The cigarette, always demanded and never smoked, was the traditional sign that Madame Leonore Constanza was heartily sick of the evening’s piano-playing, applause, congratulations, flowers and above all of those present. She wanted to be alone, really alone. But the little brunette stood her ground. Franziska looked at the girl’s empty hands, still child-like but mobile and lively, indeed wild in their movement, and thought: yes, those are a pianist’s hands. The girl’s eyes were burning. Well, thought Franziska, I want to play to her too, and one of us must give way. La Constanza will be giving another recital next month, but I have to get home again tonight. Her heart was in her mouth, her pulse beating even in her fingertips, where she had no sensation left. I shall play badly, she thought, but no, for heaven’s sake, can I play badly today? And she was already standing before La Constanza, bowing, and saying, “Madame?”

La Constanza was just glancing at one of the albums. She looked up, and her glance fell first on a slender young girl in a white blouse with a blue collar, a small golden cross on her breast, a pale, thin face with deep, dark eyes, and heavy, very neatly plaited blond braids with a few plain wire hairpins in them.