"I'm so sorry," said I more mildly, for somehow I could not help but see a picture of the distressed poet, pacing the floor, and beating his brow as he vainly sought for a brilliant thought, while from above came the unceasing, monotonous, nerve-destroying sound of a Czerny exercise repeated over and over.
"It's not the moving I mind," continued Polly, "I'm quite an adept at that, having lived in three pensions since my arrival last August." Here she smiled bitterly. "But at one thing I do rebel, and that is at having to pay thirty marks for a damper for my piano, which I ordered from Berlin in the hope of appeasing him when he complained a week ago!"
It was, indeed, an unhappy situation. We all knew, too, that those thirty marks meant a good deal to Polly.
"Perhaps, after all, it will come out all right," said Louise consolingly.
"I consider it an absolutely absurd proceeding!" said Edith emphatically, as she stamped out into the hall.
"You might come down and talk with the Poet's Wife at our pension," I suggested. We always said "the Poet's Wife," since we had long ago given up her five-syllable name as hopeless. "I'm sure she would be able to help you."
You see Polly lives alone. We three discussed the matter as we walked down the Ludwig-strasse, the girls leaving me at the Conservatory, where I had a piano lesson at five.
And now I must stop, for it is time to dress for the opera. To think of hearing the "Rheingold" at last!
Saturday.
I have heard the "Rheingold" and "The Valkyrie," and can hardly wait for "Siegfried" to-morrow night. Every seat in the Hof-Theatre was occupied, and an immense crowd stood downstairs. The price of seats, increased three marks, seemed to make no difference in the attendance. Polly and two of her friends were too late to obtain any desirable places, so they clubbed together and engaged a Dienstmann to get their seats for them. One finds a Dienstmann at every turning here. They are forlorn, sad-eyed creatures, in short, frayed jackets and red caps, who linger on street corners gazing abstractedly into space with their hands in their pockets. For a small sum they will run from one end of Munich to the other, or, if need be, will stand in line for tickets from four in the morning on. Polly has a favorite old Dienstmann called Friedrich. Accordingly, Friedrich was summoned to the rescue and stood the entire night with hundreds of others on the chilly stones of Max-Joseph-Platz in order to get seats. There is a rule that not more than three tickets can be sold to one of these men. The places in the gallery cost two marks (fifty cents) and the Dienstmann demands, for standing all night, generally four marks. It is divided among the trio, so they get their places for about eighty cents. This price is the exception, however; ordinarily one pays but thirty-five cents for a seat at this altitude.