"Only here," he said smiling, "do I have works of art, insomuch as I would neither deceive myself nor others—I have no taste for creative art. You, as the son of a Professor of Æsthetics, perhaps consider this very barbarous?"
"Not at all, only honest; and I think you are so far entitled to do as you think best."
"It is a duty for every one to be honest, and there is no choice in the matter."
"Pardon me if I have expressed myself badly. I mean, that even the realm of art is not free from rival claims; and he who has such a manifest gift for landscape-gardening, ought to be content with that, and can refrain from expressing himself in any other art."
Sonnenkamp smiled. This man, he thought, knows always how to come down on his feet.
He led his guest into the music-saloon. It had no gilding nor satin, only a centre-piece on the ceiling, and sea-green hangings on the walls. In the niches made by two small chimneys were brown, stuffed damask seats and sofas. This saloon seemed to be continually waiting for a social company, either moving about, or quietly seated.
Sonnenkamp smiled when Eric said that he was pleased to see the music-saloon so unadorned. The plain white had a sunshiny appearance, as if the sun lingered on the walls, and the eye was not attracted to any particular object, so that one could listen all the more attentively, only one sense being called into activity.
Sonnenkamp was yet more and more delighted; and when Eric inquired, "Which one of your family is musical?" he answered,—
"This saloon is intended for my daughter."
"Wonderful," said Eric; "yonder in the garden the upturned seat, and here the music-saloon, is expecting her."