All this, so to speak, was holiday travel, and between his
journeys he applied himself with the same eager industry to the learning
of his art, so that he might reproduce for himself and others true
pictures of the scenes through which he scampered. Here Falbe was not so
easily moved to laughter; he was as severe with Michael as he was with
himself, when it was the question of learning some piece with a view
to really playing it. There was no light-hearted hurrying on through
blurred runs and false notes, slurred phrases and incomplete chords.
Among these pieces which had to be properly learned was the 17th Prelude
of Chopin, on hearing which at Baireuth on the tuneless and catarrhed
piano Falbe had agreed to take Michael as a pupil. But when it was
played again on Falbe's great Steinway, as a professed performance, a
very different standard was required.
Falbe stopped him at the end of the first two lines.
"This won't do, Michael," he said. "You played it before for me to see
whether you could play. You can. But it won't do to sketch it. Every
note has got to be there; Chopin didn't write them by accident. He knew
quite well what he was about. Begin again, please."
This time Michael got not quite so far, when he was stopped again.
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