I remember the occasion well, it was too appropriate to be
forgotten--as though my old friend's lifeless fiddle, which had yet
survived so many _maestri_, was to be a direct instrument of the completion
of his story, the resurrection of those dormant and unsatisfied curiosities
which still now and again concerned me. I had played at an house where
I was a stranger; brought there by a friend, to whose insistence I had
yielded somewhat reluctantly; although he had assured me, and, I believe,
with reason, that it was a house where the indirect, or Attic invitation
greatly prevailed, in brief, a place where one met very queer people. The
hostess was American, a charming woman, of unimpeachable antecedents; but
her passion for society, which, while it should always be interesting, was
not always equally reputable, had exposed her evenings to the suspicion of
her compatriots. And when I had discharged my part in the programme and
had leisure to look around me, I saw at a glance that their suspicion was
justified; very queer people indeed were there. The large hot rooms were
cosmopolitan: infidels and Jews, everybody and nobody; a scandalously
promiscuous assemblage! And there, with a half start, which was not at
first recognition, my eyes stopped before a face which brought to me a
confused rush of memories.
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