“Certainly it would.”
Then he got up quickly.
“Oh, Martin, you child,” he said. “Did I speak to you roughly about the Schumann?”
“You did rather,” he said. “But I deserved to have my ears boxed.”
The two dined alone, and held heated arguments, not like master and pupil, but like two students who worked side by side, Karl as often as not deferring to the other, Martin as often as not blandly disagreeing with Karl.
“How can you pronounce, for instance,” he asked, “that that Novelette is to be played with those sweatings and groanings, the mere notes being of no use, whereas Bach is to be played with notes only?”
Karl gazed at him in silence.
“You impertinent infant,” he said. “What else do you propose? To play the Schumann as you played it? And the Bach as I played the Schumann?”
“That would sound extremely funny,” remarked Martin. “No, I don’t say you are not right; but how do you know you are right?”
“Because Bach wrote for the spinet,” said Karl. “Have you ever tried to play Schumann on a spinet? It sounds exactly as you made it sound just now. A deplorable performance, my poor boy.”