Grieg lived about six miles from Bergen a mile away from the railway line, and just outside the little village of Hop, his villa being very near the fjord. As I wished to be as close to him as possible, and to appear to be already settled and to have come to stay, I made inquiries about an abiding-place. By great good fortune, a charming room was found in an isolated little inn about a mile away from the fjord. To reach this one had to walk up a mile and a half over the steep hills from the little town of Fjösanger. The first building which I mistook for the inn proved to be the German Consulate: the Kaiser, whose yacht was lying at Bergen, had just left there a few minutes before. The Consul good enough to walk a little distance. with me, and set me on my way again through a lonely country.

was

Growing a little troubled after another half-mile, with dusty, purple mountains looming above me, I ventured to knock at the door of a solitary dwelling which resembled an inn. The charming pink face of a young Swedish girl was thrust out of the upper window-and spoke French. Upon which, words failed me that is, in French. I tried German and English; the young lady could not comprehend, but she would come

Better still, she

down-and she did. down-and she did. accompanied me the remaining halfmile to my destination, and when I had made arrangements, brought me back again. I mention this incident, because my guide proved to be a niece of the American Consul (a Norwegian) who was the largest landowner thereabouts and whose first wife is now the wife of the composer Sinding in Christiania.

Promptly at the appointed hour, I waited for Dr. Grieg at the music store. Soon he entered-a few minutes late, and with profuse apologies.

A little, kindly man, with rather long, prematurely grayish hair, and warmly tinted delicate complexion-though afterward I saw him paler, when he was tired; deep-set, alert, true, cordial, bluish eyes, that spoke at once of sincerity and interest, of observation and simplicity; a sensitive mouth veiled by a slight moustache; and a head that appeared almost massive in comparison with the delicate frame. A man of keen wit, at once a poet, a dreamer, a thinker and a musician-one to be regarded with deep affection and almost with veneration.

We were invited across the hall into the piano wareroom, and seating ourselves on two stools, face to face, to talk a minute, we stayed for over an hour.

"A countryman," he said, "a farmer like myself, who comes into town on Saturdays to do errands,' is a regular pack-mule, and so I was late, which I trust you will excuse.'

We spoke of London, and friends there Sir Hubert Parry, Sir Walter Parratt, Mackenzie and others, from all of whom I bore regards to him. I told him that Mr. Lindler wanted him there, at Bechstein Hall, for concerts

at his own price; but the thought of crossing salt water did not appeal to him.

Then we talked of music in this country. He had one or two friends here-Dr. William Mason, Henry T. Finck the critic, Van der Stücken, William H. Sherwood and Victor Herbert, I believe. He had heard of MacDowell, and thought he had heard of one or two others. Of me he knew, -perhaps because, .some ten years before, an evening of his works was given by the Composers' Club of this City, of which I happened to be the Director, at Mendelssohn Hall, and for this occasion he had sent his photograph and an autograph letter. The condition of music in this country interested him extremely--but what seemed to interest him above all else was the dangerous condition of the Brooklyn Bridge! He took it rather hardly that I evinced so little interest: he was himself so intensely patriotic.

The question of his coming to America was broached, but met with no approval, owing to his own and his wife's dread of the sea, his dislike of extreme weather variations, the incessant hurry-scurry of American life and the dangers to be apprehended from tall buildings.

He observed that on the faces of those who return from America, wrinkles and marks of nervous care have grown apace; and I had to admit that it was not precisely the place of dolce far niente of which the poet and the composer dream. He feared, moreover, that he would find no singers to interpret his songs, for he believes they should be sung in the original dialect.

"But, Herr Doctor," I said, "you

certainly speak English, do you not?"

(This after half an hour. My German, by this time, was getting a little worn.)

"Oh, yes, a little," he replied.

And this seemed to open up a new vista of thought for both of us. We spoke of Sinding, Ole Olesen, Swendsen and other Scandinavian writers, and ended by agreeing that music was the only universal language. We parted in the street-I with an apology for having detained him so long, he with the declaration that Norwegians never knew what time He asked me to come and see

was.

him. "At what time?" "Any time," he replied. time," he replied. And so, ere long, I ventured.

A lovely walk of a mile or more down from my height, toward the rocky shores of the fjord. No one at home-no one to speak English; and so I waited in the garden in front of the house. Soon he came out from the porch a little figure wrapped in a military cloak, and wearing a soft hat.

"Das ist aber sehr freundlich! Wollen sie mal herein kommen?" etc.

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But he had just promised an important hour of conversation with some one about the musical history of Norway. Could I would I-return in an hour and a half for supper, quite informally?" I could, I would, and I did. There was no place to go but home, so I spent the next hour walking. On my return, Mme. Grieg and a relative were waiting to welcome me the former a bright, piquant, rosy-faced, gray-haired child of Norway, with a wealth of friendliness and hospitality. Then came supper-a simple meal,-followed by an evening of quiet, friendly talk, and a long walk home through the darkness.

This was only a beginning. After that I went often-took some of my own music-played for an hour or so the next time, the dear old man standing by and telling me to keep on, with his encouragement of "zehr hübsch!"

One afternoon I got off the train at Hop, and stopped at a little farm to

get some roses for Mme. Grieg. At the turning of the road I found Dr. Grieg awaiting me; he had walked down a short half-mile to meet me at the train. He was not feeling well and did not look strong. We sauntered along, pausing every half-minute, I think (at least twenty times), in the path through the woods to his house. A true German style of conversation, impossible to be maintained while walking; no commas allowed, only periods or full stops: right about and face your interlocutor, until the important point has been decided.

We spoke of the geniality of the Norwegian, I maintaining that the American was somewhat similar, but that the Englishman was "unresponsive." This was an unfortunate word, as Grieg took it to mean unverantwortlich (irresponsible), and it required several protracted full stops to straighten matters out. The rain, which was always with us here, began to threaten. I complained of the last few weeks of wetness, but he said it was nothing, by comparison with the drenching rains of September, October and November. For these months he went to Christiania Copenhagen.

Or

Just inside the gate of his place are ravines-one leading to the small house where he worked. A middle path leads to the front of the house itself, which faces on the fjord. In many places this is thick and wild with trees and shrubs, through which, in the clearings, the reflected sunlight slants up bright and clear from the waters. All about are flowers-especially wild flowers, and the beautiful hyacinthine Norwegian heather, which purples all the hills wherever the gray rocks do not forbid.

After a while he said, "Would you like to see my workshop?" And so we walked down there. To me, it perfectly symbolized the name of the place "Troldhaugen" (the Glen of the Trolls). The little house is planted on a rock by the water and almost hidden by trees. The sun streams in all the morning, but it is damp there, as he said, and so he

put on over his boots his large comical shoes of plaited straw-to keep out the rheumatism. "It is nothing but a workshop," as he said. A piano, a writing table with manuscripts, a valuable mass of scores on shelves, a few pictures of the mountains, a Norwegian violin with a double set of strings, one under the other, vibrating and making a mysterious sound; and a picture of the best Norwegian player on this instrument, whom Ole Bull brought out in public.

We spoke of the use of the piano in composition. He feared he used it too much: thought the inspiration should come from the geist (tapping his head). He has a soft attachment to the piano, which pleases him chiefly, because, in the summer, the young men and maidens rowed over the fjord and paused just below his open window, to listen, and he could not compose well before listeners. People were very intrusive. Some Americans he spoke of, who came in uninvited. One man even found his way down to the sanctum, and asked if he were Mr. Grieg, to which he replied "No"; whereupon the intruder handed him a card and requested him to give it to Mr. Grieg. "Which I did, later," said the composer.

At the house were Mrs. Grieg's mother and sister. We discussed musical subjects for an hour, and Grieg looked over some of my work, about which he was complimentary and wished me to continue, but to write in larger form and to study all the great masters. We were speaking of the study of composition and how few were capable of giving instruction therein. He said that at Leipzig, where he spent three years, he was with Reinecke (from whom he learned nothing). At his first lesson he showed his master some songs he had written, and Reinecke remarked, "Ah, yes, I have written to those words myself." "Not particularly helpful," said Grieg. Then Reinecke told him to write a string quartette, just as he might have told him to design a cathedral. Grieg had never played a