was rising. The dried-up
gullies and canals became silver-streaked with the incoming spray, and
it needed only a windmill to make the scene as Dutch as a Van Der Neer.
Piloti was moody. Something worried him, but as I was not in a very
receptive condition, I forbore questioning him. We walked over the
closely cut grass until the water was reached. He stopped, tossed his
cigarette away:

"I am the unhappiest man alive!" At once I became sympathetic.

He looked at me fiercely: "Do you know who I am? Do you know the stock I
spring from? Will you believe me if I tell you? Can I even trust you?" I
soothed the excited musician and begged him to confide in me. I was his
nearest friend and he must be aware of my feelings. He became quieter at
once; but never shall I forget the look on his face as he reverently
took off his hat.

"I am the son of Franz Liszt, and I thank God for it!"

"Amen!" I fervently responded.

Then he told me his story. His mother was a Hungarian lady, nobly born.
She had been an excellent pianist and studied with Liszt at Weimar and
Buda-Pesth. When Piloti became old enough he was taught the piano, for
which he had aptitude. With his mother he lived the years of his youth
and early manhood in London. She always wore black, and after Liszt's
death Piloti himself went into mourning. His mother sickened and died,
leaving him nothing but sad memories. It sounded very wretched, and I
hastened to console him as best I could. I reminded him of the nobility
of his birth, and that it was greater to be the son of a genius than of
a duke. "Look at Sir William Davenant," I said; "'O rare Sir William
Davenant,' as his contemporaries called him. What an honor to have been
Shakespeare's natural son!" But Piloti shook his head.

"I care little for the legitimacy of my birth; what worries me,
oppresses me, makes me the most miserable man alive, is that I am not a
second Liszt. Why can I not play like my father?"

I endeavored to explain that genius is seldom transmitted, and did not
forget to compliment him on his musical abilities. "You know that you
play Liszt well. That very sonata in B minor, it pleased me much." "But
do I play it like a Friedheim?" he persisted. And I held my peace....

Piloti was downcast and I proposed bed. He assented. It was late; the
foolish-looking young topaz moon had retired; the sky was cloudy, and
the water was rushing over Little Holland. We did not get indoors
without wetting our