"after lunch, he rose and gave me the tips of his fingers, saying he would like to me over his flat; but i snatched away my hand and gave a cry.what i had touched was cold and, at the same time, bony; and i remembered that his hands smelt of death.
`oh, forgive me!' he moaned.and he opened a door before me.
`this is my bedroom, if you care to see it.it is rather curious.'
his manners, his words, his attitude gave me confidence and i went in without hesitation.i felt as if i were entering the room of a dead person.the walls were all hung with black, but, instead of the white trimmings that usually set off that funereal upholstery, there was an enormous stave of music with the notes of the dies irae, many times repeated.in the middle of the room was a canopy, from which hung curtains of red brocaded stuff, and, under the canopy, an open coffin.`that is where i sleep,' said erik.`one has to get used to everything in life, even to eternity.' the sight upset me so much that i turned away my head.
"then i saw the keyboard of an organ which filled one whole side of the walls.on the desk was a music-book covered with red notes.
i asked leave to look at it and read, `don juan triumphant.'
`yes,' he said, `i compose sometimes.' i began that work twenty years ago.
when i have finished, i shall take it away with me in that coffin and never wake up again.' `you must work at it as seldom as you can,'
i said.he replied, `i sometimes work at it for fourteen days and nights together, during which i live on music only, and then i rest for years at a time.' `will you play me something out of your don juan triumphant?' i asked, thinking to please him.
`you must never ask me that,' he said, in a gloomy voice.
`i will play you mozart, if you like, which will only make you weep;but my don juan, christine, burns; and yet he is not struck by fire from heaven.' thereupon we returned to the drawing-room.i noticed that there was no mirror in the whole apartment.i was going to remark upon this, but erik had already sat down to the piano.