“Everybody says she is very clever, mademoiselle,” the girl’s mother ventured to plead humbly, “and she plays really well.”
“Who is ‘everybody’? half a dozen brutes of Athenians who couldn’t tell you the difference between C major and F sharp. If you have come here to cite me the opinion of that distinguished and discriminating critic, Everybody, madame, instead of waiting to hear mine, you and your daughter may go about your business, and see what your Everybody will do for you.”
Rudolph made a movement towards the door, hoping to escape unnoticed, but the Natzelhuber, having had enough of her last visitors, detained him with an invitation to smoke a cigarette, and drink a glass of brandy.
“Wouldn’t you like me to play you something?”
“Not to-day, thanks. Another time. It’s just breakfast time,” he said hurriedly.
She turned her back on him without another word, and opening the piano, pointed to Andromache to sit down before it. The girl’s hands shook as she removed her gloves, and Rudolph, going downstairs, could hear how unsteady and timid were the first notes that she played.
“Weber’s ‘Invitation à la Danse.’ She will surely fly into another rage when she hears that,” he thought. “But I do wish she would be kind and encouraging to the poor girl. Such pretty eyes as she has! I have never seen prettier. Just like the March violets in Rapoldenkirchen that I used to gather for my mother.”
In the meantime the frightened owner of these eyes like the March violets of Rapoldenkirchen was passing through the worst moment of her existence. Two bars of the “Invitation” served to bring down the wrath of artistic majesty on her head, and very nearly on her hands.
“What do you call that?”