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Updated: June 15, 2025
He was made like that; and if you were fond of anybody the only possible way of living up to your affection was to attach yourself to their qualities. They strolled a little way in silence. "And why did you tell Uncle Robert about Sylvia Falbe?" asked Francis. "I can't understand that. For the present, anyhow, she had refused you. There was nothing to tell him about.
But with Falbe it was different; quite a small cause, like the sight of the Rhine at Cologne, or a Bavarian village at sunset, or the fact of a friend having talked with the Emperor, was sufficient to make his innate patriotism find outlet in impassioned speech.
"Then it was impolite of you, but you haven't any manners. I was talking about my career. I want to do something, and these large hands are really rather nimble. But I must be taught. The question is whether you will teach me." Falbe hesitated. "I can't tell you," he said, "till I have heard you play.
"And there are materials enough already for a row between Austria and Servia without this." "Those tiresome Balkan States," said Mrs. Falbe, slowly immersing herself like a diving submarine in her book. "They are always quarrelling. Why doesn't Austria conquer them all and have done with it?"
The poet Paludan-Mueller and the Lange family visited at the house; so did the two young and marvellously beautiful girls, Alma Trepka and Clara Rothe, the former of whom was married later to Carl Bloch the painter, the other to her uncle, Mr. Falbe, the Danish Minister in London. It was hard to say which of the two was the more beautiful. Both were unusually lovely.
Aunt Barbara took her in with one second's survey her face, her neck, her beautiful dress, her whole air of ease and good-breeding, and gave a despairing glance at her own prickly tea-gown. For the moment, amiably accustomed as she was to laugh at herself, she did not find it humourous. "Miss Sylvia Falbe, Aunt Barbara," said Michael with a little tremor in his voice; "and Mr.
"I was er luckier," said Michael politely, "because on that occasion I heard it twice. It was encored." "And what did it sound like the second time?" asked Falbe. "Much as before," said Michael. The advent of the Emperor had put the whole town in a ferment.
He was playing without notes, and Falbe got up from his chair where he had the book open, and put it on the piano. "Do you find difficulty in memorising?" he asked. This was discouraging; Michael believed that he remembered easily; he also believed that he had long known this by heart. "No; I thought I knew it," he said. "Try again."
Among these pieces which had to be properly learned was the 17th Prelude of Chopin, on hearing which at Baireuth on the tuneless and catarrhed piano Falbe had agreed to take Michael as a pupil. But when it was played again on Falbe's great Steinway, as a professed performance, a very different standard was required. Falbe stopped him at the end of the first two lines.
"And Michael mustn't hear what we say about him, must he, or he'll be getting conceited." Lady Ashbridge laughed. "And that would never do, would it?" she said, still retaining Sylvia's hand. Then a little dim ripple of compunction broke in her mind. "Michael," she said, "we are only joking about your getting conceited. Miss Falbe and I are only joking.
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