s and was a capital host.

A sliced cantaloupe moon, full of yellow radiance, arose as we listened
to the melancholy fall of the water on the muddy flats, and I said to
Piloti, "Come, let us go within; there you will play for me some tiny
questioning Chopin prelude, and forget this dolorous night." ... He had
been staring hard at the moon when I aroused him. "As you will; let us
go indoors by all means, for this moon gives me the spleen." Then we
moved slowly toward the house.

Piloti was a bachelor; an old woman kept house and he always addressed
her in the Hungarian tongue. His wants were simple, but his pride was
Lucifer's. By no means a virtuoso, he had the grand air, the grand
style, and when he sat down to play one involuntarily stopped breathing.
He had a habit of smiting the keyboard, and massive chords, clangorous
harmonies inevitably preluded his performances. I knew some conservatory
girls who easily could outstrip Piloti technically, but there was
something which differentiated his playing from that of other pianists.
Liszt he did very well.

When we came into the shabby drawing-room I noticed a picture of the
Abbe Liszt over the grand piano, and as Piloti took a seat he threw back
his head; and my eyes which had rested a moment on the portrait
involuntarily returned to it, so before I was aware of it I cried out,
"I say, Piloti, do you know that you look like Liszt?" He blushed
deeply, and gave me a most curious glance.

"I have heard it said often," he replied, and he crashed into the
master's B minor Sonata, "The Invitation to Hissing and Stamping," as
Gumprecht has christened it.

Piloti played the interesting work most vigorously. He hissed, he
stamped and shook back his locks in true Lisztian style. He rolled off
the chorale with redundant meaning, and with huge, flamboyant strokes
went through the brilliant octave finale in B major. As he closed, and I
sat still, a sigh near at hand caused me to turn, and then I saw the old
housekeeper, her arms folded, standing in a doorway. The moonlight
biliously smudged her face, and I noticed her staring eyes. Piloti's
attention was attracted by my silence, and when he saw the woman he
uttered a harsh, crackling word. She instantly retired. Turning to me,
with a nervous laugh, he explained:

"The old fool always is affected by moonlight and music."

We strolled out-of-doors, cigarettes in hand, and the rhythmic
swish-swash of the river told that the tide