So Ninette was jealous of the fiddle, and being proud in her way, she
became more and more quiet and reticent, and drew herself aloof from me,
although, wrapped up as I was in the double egoism of art and boyhood,
I failed to notice this. I have been sorry since that any shadow of
misunderstanding should have clouded the closing days of our partnership.
It is late to regret now, however. When my fiddle was added to our
belongings, we took to going out separately. It was more profitable, and,
besides, Ninette, I think, saw that I was growing a little ashamed of
her organ. On one of these occasions, as I played before a house in the
Faubourg St. Germain, the turning point of my life befell me. The house,
outside which I had taken my station was a large, white one, with a balcony
on the first floor. This balcony was unoccupied, but the window looking to
it was open, and through the lace curtains I could distinguish the sound
of voices. I began to play; at first, one of the airs that Maddalena had
taught me; but before it was finished, I had glided off, as usual, into an
improvisation.
When I was playing like that, I threw all my soul into my fingers, and I
had neither ears nor eyes for anything round me.
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