I might have been able to play fairly well, if I had ever had the chance to work at it constantly."
"Well, it is not too late yet; it seems to me you have your life before you."
"Perhaps, but there is always the same hindrance in the way. I cannot endure the strain—you have no idea how it affects me; I have now at least played away my night's rest. Why am I so feeble? Ah, if you could imagine the melancholy which in these years I have played myself into, each time I touched the piano! It was just like something closing over me, and the more beautiful the music the darker it was around me. Sometimes I could not leave off, but often it was so dreadful that I dared not go on any longer."
"But all this will disappear, dear one! I shall manage to get you sound and strong, and when your playing makes me happy you will also be pleased. I am a grateful listener, even if you never play any better than you do now, and in the future you will be able to devote yourself to music."
My words did not seem to make much impression on her. She placed the lamp on the table, seated herself in the chair I had left, and leant her head on her hand.
"I can feel it in my head; it strains and thumps in there." She laughed as if by a sudden inspiration. "Do you know, if ever I should wish to get rid of the little sense I have, I think I could play it away."
"What an idea!"
"Indeed, that was also a way to commit suicide. It was the mode of Frants Moor, 'to destroy the body through the mind,' applied to suicide."
"Minna, you must not speak like that—it's a bad joke."
"Anyhow, it is a truly "practical joke" when it is put into
