The form is
different, more light, more graceful, apparently more superficial, but
just as deep; for when we go to the bottom of things all things are
deep, one as deep as another, just as all things are shallow, one as
shallow as another; for have not mystics of every age held that things
exist not in themselves, but in the eye that sees and the ear that
hears?
A crowd had collected to hear her, for she was playing out of the
great silence that is in every soul, in that of the light-o'-love as
well as of the saint, and she went on playing, apparently unaware of
the number of people she had collected about her. She stopped playing
and returned to me.
"You play beautifully; why did you say you didn't like Beethoven?"
"I didn't say I didn't like Beethoven; you know very well mamma can't
play the 'Impassionata.'"
"Why aren't you always like this?"
"I don't know. One can't always be the same. I feel differently when I
play; the mood only comes over me sometimes. I used to play a great
deal; I only play occasionally now, just when I feel like it."
We walked through the alleys by the statues, seeing them hardly at
all, thinking of the music.
"I must be getting back," she said. "You see, I've got to pack up.
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