I once secretly followed the organist as he left the church. He continued his way to the outskirts of the town and entered a little tavern. I could not resist the temptation to go in after him. For the first time I had a clear view of him. He sat at the table in the corner of the little room, a black felt hat on his head, a measure of wine before him, and his face was just as I had expected it to be. It was ugly and somewhat uncouth, with the look of a seeker and of an eccentric, obstinate and strong-willed, with a soft and childish mouth. The expression of what was strong and manly lay in the eyes and forehead; on the lower half of the face sat a look of gentleness and immaturity, rather effeminate and showing a lack of self-mastery. The chin indicated a boyish indecision, as if in contradiction with the eyes and forehead. I liked the dark brown eyes, full of pride and hostility.

Silently I took my place opposite him. There was no one else in the tavern. He glared at me, as if he wished to chase me away. Nevertheless I maintained my position, looking at him unflinchingly, until at last he growled testily: “What the deuce are you staring at me for? Do you want anything of me?”