You know that in a decently built English house you can get out from any room direct to the hall or a landing. In Vienna it is otherwise. The finer the apartment and the greater the number of rooms, the less opportunity of getting out of them directly into the ante-room. The inconvenience is really ideal.
In addition to the entrance door there were but two doors in Mr. Doblana's hall, one leading to the front rooms, the other to the back rooms. In front there were four. The one entered when coming from the hall was the salon, to its right was situated what was destined to be my room, where until her mother's death Miss Doblana had lived. To the left of the salon there was first the musician's room and then his daughter's, the last of the four, which had belonged in times gone by to Mrs. Doblana. The widower evidently had not been able to bear the emptiness of her apartment. This was the reason why Miss Doblana now lived there. At present she was rather unwell and confined to her room.
I would certainly be all right and have my own privacy, said Mr. Doblana; I would have a latch-key, and through the salon could get in and out of the flat without disturbing anybody. Nor would I be disturbed if I wanted to work. Miss Doblana had singing lessons, she was taking them at her master's house. At home, in the drawing room, she practised only for half an hour a day. I might dispose of the piano all the rest of the time.
I declared that I was not much of a worker, (little did I suspect that I was to compose in the Karlsgasse at Vienna the only score of any importance and value which I ever have written and am likely to write). If Mr. Doblana, whom I knew to be a distinguished composer, wanted the piano I would certainly not drive him away.
My host, visibly flattered by the "distinguished composer," led me out into the ante-room and from there into the back rooms of his flat. There was a dining room and his studio, and further away the kitchen and the maid's room.
"It is here," said Mr. Doblana, when we entered his studio, "that I used to have my happiest hours. Here I compose, without any instrument. It is very rare that I go to the piano and try an effect, and when I do it at all, it is really only from laziness, or as a little relaxation."
What a difference between Doblana's snug little studio and Hammer's poverty-stricken abode! And yet, Hammer was a genius, who played the organ at St. Stephen's as nobody perhaps ever did, but played it gratis pro Deo (literally to understand!) He used to say: "Even old Hammer must have some pleasure from time to time, and he gets it when he plays at St. Stephen's; and even God, to Whom all people, including myself, come lamenting and complaining, even God must have a little pleasure from time to time, and He gets it too when Hammer plays at St. Stephen's. Now, why should I accept any money? Is it for my pleasure or for His?"
As for Doblana, the little I know I owe to him, and not to old Hammer; but this does not in the least prevent me from recognizing the insipidity of the pretty tunes he used to write for his ballets which were performed at the Opera, the slight ballets at the Grand Opera, out of which he succeeded in making quite a decent amount of money. Nor did he play the horn for the love of God. He was a resourceful man, Anton Doblana, he had his salaries at the Opera, at the Imperial Chapel, and at the Conservatoire, he had his royalties, and for some time he had me.
"You will be quite well here," he assured me when I took leave, "and mind you, I am not always such a peevish fellow as I am now. I am upset because of a very ugly occurrence that befell me some time ago. I hope I will forget soon."