w that he always
regarded me as a child gracefully playing at a career. For him there was
only one sort of fame; all the other sorts were shadows. A supreme
violinist might, perhaps, approach the real thing, in his generous mind;
but he was incapable of honestly believing that any fame compared with
that of a pianist. The other fames were very well, but they were paste to
the precious stone, gewgaws to amuse simple persons. The sums paid to
sopranos struck him as merely ridiculous in their enormity. He could not
be called conceited; nevertheless, he was magnificently sure that he had
been, and still was, the most celebrated person in the civilized world.
Certainly he had no superiors in fame, but he would not admit the
possibility of equals. Of course, he never argued such a point; it was a
tacit assumption, secure from argument. And with that he profoundly
reverenced the great composers. The death of Brahms affected him for
years. He regarded it as an occasion for universal sorrow. Had Brahms
condescended to play the piano, Diaz would have turned the pages for him,
and deemed himself honoured--him whom queens had flattered!

'Did you imagine,' I began to tease him, after a pause, 'that while you
are working I spend my time in merely existing?'

'You exist--that is enough, my darling,' he said. 'Strange that a
beautiful woman can't understand that in existing she is doing her
life's work!'

And he leaned over and touched my right wrist below the glove.

'You dear thing!' I murmured, smiling. 'How foolish you can be!'

'What's the drama about?' he asked.

'About La Valliere,' I said.

'La Valliere! But that's the kind of subject I want for my opera!'

'Yes,' I said; 'I have thought so.'

'Could you turn it into a libretto, my child?'

'No, dearest.'

'Why not?'

'Because it already is a libretto. I have written it as such.'

'For me?'

'For whom else?'

And I looked at him fondly, and I think tears came to my eyes.

'You are a genius, Magda!' he exclaimed. 'You leave nothing undone for
me. The subject is the very thing to suit Villedo.'

'Who is Villedo?'

'My jewel, you don't know who Villedo is! Villedo is the director of the
Opera Comique in Paris, the most artistic opera-house in Europe. He used
to beg me every time we met to write him an opera.'

'And why didn't you?'

'Because I had neither the subject nor the time. One doesn't write
operas after lunch in hotel parlours; and as for a good