The next time I saw him after the organ recital, he was not very communicative.
He conducted me through an old street to an old, stately house and upstairs into a large,
somewhat gloomy and untidy room where, besides a piano, there was nothing to indicate that its occupant was a musician.
Instead, a huge bookcase and writing table gave the room a somewhat scholarly air.
“What a lot of books you have!” I said appreciatively.
A part of them belongs to the library of my father, with whom I live.
Yes, young man, I live with my father and mother, but I cannot introduce you to them,
as I and my acquaintances meet with but scant respect at home.
I am a prodigal son, you see. My father is very much looked up to, he is a well-known clergyman and preacher in this town.
And I, to let you know at once, am his talented and promising son, who, however, is guilty of many back-slidings, and, to a certain extent, mad.
I was studying theology, and deserted this worthy faculty shortly before my final examination,
although really I am still in the same line, as far as concerns my private studies.
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