“It is impossible to get an idea of it,” murmured Daniel; “the piano is like an instrument of torture.”
They were struck by peculiar sounds coming from the living room. They went in, and found Gertrude pale as death, her hands folded across her bosom, sitting on the sofa. She was talking to herself, partly as if in a dream, partly as if she were praying. It was impossible to understand what she was saying. She seemed distant, estranged.
Eleanore hastened to her; Daniel looked at her with a scowl. Just then the bell rang, and M. Rivière went out. There was the sound of a man’s voice; it was disagreeable. The door was opened and—Herr Carovius entered.
VII
Herr Carovius bowed in all directions. He wore tan shoes with brass buckles, black trousers, a shiny green coat, and a white cravat that could no longer be called clean. He laid his slouch hat on a chair, and said he would like to beg their pardon if he had called at an inopportune hour. He had come, he said, to thank his dear young master for the aforementioned invitation.
“It seems—yes, it seems,” he added, with a droll blinking of his eyes, “that I have in all innocence interrupted the performance of a most interesting production. There is a crowd of people gathered out in front of the house, and I could not forego the pleasure of listening. I hope you will not stop playing the sacrificial festival on my account. What was it, maestro? It wasn’t the symphony, was it?”
“Yes, it was the symphony,” replied Daniel, who was so amazed at the appearance and conduct of the man that he was really courteous.
“It cost me money to be sure—believe it or not. I had to get an afternoon coat that would do for a Count—latest cut, velvet collar, tails that reached down to my calves. Aristocratic, very!” He stared over Gertrude’s head into the corner, and tittered for at least a half a minute.
Nobody said a word. Everybody was dumb, astounded.
“Good lord, social obligations,” continued Herr Carovius, “but after all you can’t afford to be a backwoodsman. Music is supposed to ennoble a man even externally. By the way, there is a rumour afloat that it is a symphony with chorus. How did you happen upon the idea? The laurels of the Ninth will not let you sleep? I would have thought that you didn’t give a damn about classical models. Everybody is so taken up now with musical lullabies, wage-la-wei-a, that kind of stuff, you know. But then I suppose that is only a transition stage, as the fox said when he was being skinned.”