Under the spell of his tones his features are immovable as if they were staring at a vision.

They do not speak of the changing emotions which his melodies awake.

We cannot hear those tones.
And yet we do hear them: a lovely spring landscape widens behind his head, we see the valleys of May and the bubbling brooks and the young wild beeches.

And slowly it changes into the sadness of the autumn, the sere leaves are falling around the player, heavy clouds hang low over his head.

Suddenly at a sharp accent of his bow the storm breaks, we are carried to the wildness of rugged rocks or to the raging sea; and again comes tranquillity over the world, the little country village of his youth fills the background, the harvest is brought from the fields, the sun sets upon a scene of happiness, and while the bow slowly sinks, the walls and ceiling of his attic close in again.