From Handel to Richard Strauss, even from Palestrina to Debussy, the
achievements of genius lay at his mercy. He criticized them with a
freedom that was entirely unprejudiced by tradition. Beethoven was no
more to him than Arthur Sullivan--indeed, was rather less. The works
of his choice were the "Tannhäuser" overture, a potpourri of Verdi's
"Aida," Chopin's Study in Thirds (which ravished him), and a selection
from "The Merry Widow" (which also ravished him). So that on the whole
it may be said that he had a very good natural taste.

He at once liked Chopin's Funeral March. He entered profoundly
into the spirit of it. With the gun-metal levers he produced in a
marvellous fashion the long tragic roll of the drums, and by the
manipulation of a clutch he distilled into the chant at the graveside
a melancholy sweetness that rent the heart. The later crescendoes were
overwhelming. And as he played there, with the bright blaze of the
chandelier on his fair hair and beard, and the blue cigar smoke in his
nostrils, and the effluence of the gilded radiator behind him, and
the intimacy of the drawn window-curtains and the closed and curtained
door folding him in from the world, and the agony of the music
grieving his artistic soul to the core--as he played there he grew
gradually happier and happier, and the zest of existence seemed to
return. It was not only that he felt the elemental, unfathomable
satisfaction of a male who is sheltered in solitude from a pack of
women that have got on his nerves. There was also the more piquant
assurance that he was behaving in a very sprightly manner. How long
was it since he had accomplished anything worthy of his ancient
reputation as a "card," as "the" card of the Five Towns? He could not
say. But now he knew that he was being a card again. The whole town
would smile and forgive and admire if it learnt that--