master nor in his cenacle of worshipping pupils. Racah was too
grim, too much in earnest for the worldly frivolous crew that flitted
over the black keys at Weimar. Occasionally aroused by the power and
intensity of the young man's playing, Liszt would smile satirically and
say: "Thou art well named 'Raca,'" and then all the Jews in the class
would laugh at the word-play. But it gave Racah little concern whether
they admired or loathed him. He was terribly set upon playing the piano
and little guessed the secret of his inner struggle--the secret of the
sad spirit that travailed against itself. Oddly enough his progress was
rapid. He soon outpointed in brilliancy and deftness the most talented
of the group of Liszt's young people, and once, after playing the
Mephisto Walzer with abounding devilry, Liszt cried, "Bravo, child," and
then muttered, "And how he hates it all!"

Hypnotized as if by another's will, Racah studied so earnestly that he
became a public pianist. He had success, but not with the great public.
The critics called him cold, objective, a pianist made, not born. But
musicians and those with cultured musical palates discerned a certain
acid quality in his playing. His gloomy visage, the reflex of a
disordered soul, caused Baudelaire to declare that he had added one more
shiver to his extensive psychical collection. In Paris the Countess
X.--charming, titled soubrette--said, "Have you heard Racah play the
piano? He is a damned soul out for a holiday."

In twenty-four hours this mot spread the length of the Boulevard, and
all Paris went to see the new pianist....

Success did not brighten the glance of Racah. He became gloomier as he
grew older, and a prominent alienist in Paris warned him to travel or
else--and he pointed to his forehead, shrugging his very Gallic
shoulders. Racah immediately went to the far East....

After a year's wandering up and down strange and curious countries, he
came to the chief city of a barbarous province ruled by a man famous for
his ferocities and charming culture. A careful education in Paris,
grafted upon a nature cruel to the core, produced the most delicately
depraved disposition imaginable. This Rajah was given to the
paradoxical. He adored Chopin and loved to roast alive tiny birds on
dainty golden grills. He would weep after reading de Musset, and a
moment later watch with infinite satisfaction the spectacle of two
wretched women dancing on heated copper plates. When