"I was," I answered, "till my state of health stopped me from working."
Heliobas bent his eyes upon me in friendly sympathy.
"You were, and you will be again, an improvisatrice" he went on. "Do you not find it difficult to make your audiences understand your aims?"
I smiled as the remembrance of some of my experiences in public came to my mind.
"Yes," I said, half laughing. "In England, at least, people do not know what is meant by IMPROVISING. They think it is to take a little theme and compose variations on it--the mere ABC of the art. But to sit down to the piano and plan a whole sonata or symphony in your head, and play it while planning it, is a thing they do not and will not understand. They come to hear, and they wonder and go away, and the critics declare it to be CLAP-TRAP."
"Exactly!" replied Heliobas. "But you are to be congratulated on having attained this verdict. Everything that people cannot quite understand is called CLAP-TRAP in England; as for instance the matchless violin-playing of Sarasate; the tempestuous splendor of Rubinstein; the wailing throb of passion in Hollmann's violoncello-- this is, according to the London press, CLAP-TRAP; while the coldly correct performances of Joachim and the 'icily-null' renderings of Charles Halle are voted 'magnificent' and 'full of colour.' But to return to yourself. Will you play to me?"
"I have not touched the instrument for two months," I said; "I am afraid I am out of practice."
"Then you shall not exert yourself to-day," returned Heliobas kindly. "But I believe I can help you with your improvisations. You compose the music as you play, you tell me. Well, have you any idea how the melodies or the harmonies form themselves in your brain?"
"Not the least in the world," I replied.
"Is the act of thinking them out an effort to you?" he asked.
"Not at all. They come as though someone else were planning them for me."
"Well, well! I think I can certainly be of use to you in this matter as in others. I understand your temperament thoroughly. And now let me give you my first prescription."
He went to a corner of the room and lifted from the floor an ebony casket, curiously carved and ornamented with silver. This he unlocked. It contained twelve flasks of cut glass, stoppered with gold and numbered in order. He next pulled out a side drawer in this casket, and in it I saw several little thin empty glass tubes, about the size of a cigarette-holder. Taking two of these he filled them from two of the larger flasks, corked them tightly, and then turning to me, said: "To-night, on going to bed, have a warm bath, empty the contents of the tube marked No. 1 into it, and then immerse yourself thoroughly for about five minutes. After the bath, put the fluid in this other tube marked 2, into a tumbler of fresh spring water, and drink it off. Then go straight to bed."