I was able once to observe him for a whole evening. It was at a Symphony concert, where to my surprise I found him seated near me. He did not see me. First some Handel was played, noble and lovely music. But the Steppenwolf sat absorbed in his own thoughts, detached alike from the music and his surroundings. Unheeding and alone, he sat with downcast eyes, and a cold but sorrowful expression. After the Handel came a little Symphony of Friedman Bach and after a few notes I was astonished to see him begin to smile and give himself up to the music. He was abstracted⁠—but happily so⁠—and lost in such pleasant dreams, that for at least ten minutes I paid more attention to him than to the music. When the piece ended he woke up, and made a movement to go; but after all he kept his seat and heard the last piece too. It was Variations by Reger, a composition that many found rather long and tiresome. The Steppenwolf, too, who at first made up his mind to listen, wandered again, put his hands into his pockets and sank once more into his own thoughts, not happily and dreamily as before, but sadly and finally irritated. His face was once more vacant and grey. The light in it was quenched and he looked old, ill and discontented.