"Well, I have been good too. Come and see how well I have worked."
A perfume of white-rose extract pervaded the little chapel. A restful light, subdued by the surrounding verdure, illumined it; two or three rays fell on the gilded backs of the books, and the royal friend in his golden frame seemed to follow one with the magic glance of his polar blue eyes.
There was no disorder on the piano-desk. Several large sheets of music-paper, nearly covered with writing, concealed here and there the dark woodwork. The part which the Master had just composed was written in pencil, in very fine, close writing.
"I copy with the pen," he said. "I like to have it very clear. When I cannot decipher it, I am furious."
I read at the top of a re-copied page,
"Siegfried. Third Act."
"As a matter of fact," exclaimed Wagner, "I ought to rewrite from nearly two pages back, because I have smudged it."
And he showed me where, on the right side of the leaf, three bars were scratched out. They had been erased angrily, by three slurs, very heavily marked and resembling a series of e's and l's.
"What will become of this precious paper, then?" I asked.
"Would you like it?" replied the Master, divining my covetousness.