The pupil who was to follow me was late, so I had time as I drew on my gloves to express the wish that we might hear his new opera produced at the Hof-Theatre.
"I don't know about that," said he laughing. "I am fortunate if I have my Lobetanz given. I expect that will appear about the twenty-second of the month."
Turning, he opened one of the drawers of his desk. "Here are the complete scores of them all," he said, as he touched the backs of the great books with a tender, almost paternal pride; "and here is that place for the wood-wind in Gugeline which you remarked on."
He pointed out the passage in the score, and to my delight took his seat at the piano and played for some moments.
"The most laborious thing I ever did in my life was writing out the orchestral parts from here on," he said, playing the theme of the duet. "I thought I should never get it done."
His words made me think of something Mr. Chadwick had said in class one day, shortly after the completion of his lyric drama "Judith." He declared that reducing the orchestral parts so as to make a complete piano accompaniment was one of the most tedious things he ever experienced. After all, my dear, the gods are just, and to be great does not mean that one is free from drudgery.
Chadwick, by the bye, always had evidences of his energy on every hand in the form of proofs or manuscript lying carelessly about in his studio; perhaps a song, or a string quartette, or merely the key to his harmony book which he was getting out last spring. Thuille, on the contrary, has nothing to indicate what he is doing—except cigarettes.
After my lesson I stopped in at Polly's. I found her playing away at a fearful rate on Saint-Saëns' G minor concerto, and she looked so pale and tired that I made her call everything else off and go for a walk. We found, however, that by hurrying we could spend a half-hour in the old Pinakothek, and so we made our way to Barerstrasse. You must come over if only to see these splendid Holbeins! The master's portrait of himself is alone worth a trip, and then Dürer's four apostles! The St. Paul is my favorite, he is so majestic, but Polly prefers St. Mark. She says he looks happier than the others.
I must not forget to tell you about taking tea at the Sterners'. They live over by the river, and we wandered through a maze of streets before reaching the right house. Then we climbed numberless flights of stairs in true German fashion, and found ourselves in the most charming apartment under the very roof itself. Mrs. Sterner received us in a picturesque, low-studded room, which had at one end a large bay-window, where the tea table was spread. She is very slight and girlish in appearance. As we sat sipping our tea I continually caught tantalizing glimpses of a big studio at the farther side. It was not long before the artist himself entered and invited us, when we had quite finished, to see his "work shop."
Such a fascinating place as it is, not at all of the conventional order, with bizarre nick-nacks and curios, oriental hangings, and stale, tobacco-scented air; but a big, light-flooded, healthy room adorned merely with sketches, pictures and easels, for the Sterners have only pitched their tent in Munich for a brief season and are off in the spring for Italy.