David had a small collection of what he called classical music, long
compositions which he played from the notes. They were not much to my
fancy, and always struck me as being of a piece with what was strange in
his manner when he posed as a logician. When he played them it was more
like severe, mental, school exercise than anything his heart was in; and
he played as correctly as he argued or wrote.

The times when classical music and critical conversations ruled in his
room, were certainly those in which he felt his mind most in balance. He
was less hearty in manner then, even towards me.

But then would come times when the music-stand would remain in the
corner. He would sit for a long time looking straight before him, as if
lost in thought, and then give expression to his feeling, on his violin,
in all kinds of fantasies, which pleased my uncultivated ear far more
than his so-called classical music.

He sometimes played a variety of small pieces, and then gradually sank
into his own peculiar minor strain, and sometimes into a wonderfully sad
melody. I very seldom heard him play anything right through, and then
always in a kind of self-forgetfulness. At such times, I had a feeling
that he was confiding to me something beautiful that he had lost, and
over which he could never cease to mourn.

At a later period of our friendship he became, as I have said, more
irregular in his habits, and was seldom to be found at home; he would
sometimes talk ironically about his comrades, the professors and things
in general, and his sarcasm was almost biting.

I was privileged to take my friend's key, and go into his room, even