A Copenhagen Rendezvous

Those two familiar violin strains! Those two familiar violin strains here this very moment out in the street. So it is to you that I owe this joy, you two unfortunate artists. -One of them was probably 17 years old, wearing a green kalmuk coat with large bone buttons. The coat was much too large for him. He held the violin tightly under his chin; his cap was pulled down over his eyes. His hand was concealed in a fingerless glove; his fingers were red and blue with cold. The other one was older and wore a chenille coat. Both were blind. A little girl, who presumably guided them, stood in front of them, thrust her hands under her scarf. We gathered one by one, a few admirers of those melodies – a postman with his mail bag, a little boy, a maidservant, a couple of dock workers. The elegant carriages rolled noisily by; the carts and wagons drowned out the melodies, which emerged fragmentarily for a moment. You two unfortunate artists, do you know that those strains hide in themselves the glories of the whole world? - Was it not like a rendezvous? Kierkegaard, Either/Or.