Concerts Are Never Real Music, You Have

Yesterday's Concert Was A Success. I Hasten To Let You Know. I Inform Your Lordship That I Was Not A Bit Nervous And Played As I Play When I Am Alone. It Went Well... And I Had To Come Back And Bow Four Times.

I Am Not Fitted To Give Concerts. The Audience Intimidates Me, I Feel Choked By Its Breath, Paralyzed By Its Curious Glances, Struck Dumb By All Those Strange Faces.

When One Does A Thing, It Appears Good, Otherwise One Would Not Write It. Only Later Comes Reflection, And One Discards Or Accepts The Thing. Time Is The Best Censor, And Patience A Most Excellent Teacher.

Liszt Commenting On The Music Of Frédéric Chopin: He Confided . . . Those Inexpressible Sorrows To Which The Pious Give Vent In Their Communication With Their Maker. What They Never Say Except Upon Their Knees, He Said In His Palpitating Compositions.

We Fell Silent And All Joking Ceased. We Gazed Mutely Into Each Other's Eyes And An Intense Longing For The Fullest Avowal Of The Truth Forced Us To A Confession, Requiring No Words Whatever, Or The Incommensurable Misfortune That Weighed Upon Us. With Tears And Sobs We Sealed A Vow To Belong To Each Other Alone.