My aunt interrupted
the discussion, deeming it proper, as lady of the house, to say
something about Clara's last concert. She spoke much and very well;
I never supposed she had such knowledge of music; she paid her some
graceful compliments with the air of a _grande dame_, in that flowing,
winning style only people of the older generation are capable of. In
short, I observed that my downright, outspoken aunt was still able to
recall the times of powder and patches. Clara seemed quite charmed,
and did not remain behind-hand in graceful acknowledgment.
"I shall always be able to play well at Warsaw," she said, "because
I am in touch with my audience, but I play best in small circles of
friends where I feel in sympathy with everybody,--and if you will
permit, I will give you a proof of it after lunch."
My aunt, who was very anxious that Pani Celina should hear her, yet
had misgivings whether it would be right to ask her to play, was much
pleased by the proposal. I began to speak of Clara's performances at
Paris and her triumphs at Erard's concerts; Sniatynski gave an account
of what was said at Warsaw; and so the time passed until we rose from
lunch. Clara herself got hold of Paul Celina's invalid chair and would
not allow anybody to help, declaring laughingly that she was by
far the strongest among us, and was not afraid to tire her hands.
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