THIRTY-FOURAFTER twelve happy and sometimes glorious days with Liszt, the time of our parting neared. He had finished his composition and must give concerts in Prague; I had engagements to dance at Cologne and on down the Rhine into Holland. I thought that the adventure had enriched his life as much as mine; by the same token, I would have been as loath to enter a prolonged relationship as he. Our ways lay far apart.
The fact remained that he took a deep, fond interest in my career; and at our last dinner on the island, he gave me some advice that might have great bearing on its outcome.
“What does success mean, Lola?” he asked. “Isn’t it the most complete and happy expression of one’s energies and talents? I’m wondering where you could do the most and the best—through brief, shallow con
