“At the sound of such music it would not be difficult to become a real Christian,” he said.
“There is spring in them,” said Daniel, “they are art that is as innocent as new seed in the soil. But your piano needs tuning.”
“Symbolic, symbolic, my dear friend,” cried Herr Carovius, and puffed out his cheeks. “But you come back another time, and you will find it in the pink of condition. Come frequently, please. You will reap the reward of Heaven if you do.”
Herr Carovius begging for company; it was touching. Daniel promised to bring some of the manuscripts he had been collecting along with him. When he returned a few days later, Dorothea was there; and from then on she was always there. His visits became longer and longer. When Herr Carovius noticed that Dorothea was coming to see him more frequently now, he moved heaven and earth to persuade Daniel to come more frequently. He rained reproach and abuse on him if he failed to come; if he was late, he greeted him with a sour face and put indiscreet questions to him. When he was alone of an afternoon, time stood still. He was like a drinker tantalised by seeing his accustomed portion of brandy on the table but just beyond his reach. The company of these two people, Daniel and Dorothea, had become as indispensable to his happiness as in former years the reading of the newspapers, the brethren of the Vale of Tears, the troubles of Eberhard and the funerals were indispensable if he were to feel at ease. It is the way of the small citizen: each of his customs becomes a passion.
When Daniel played the old chorals, Dorothea listened quietly, though it could not be said that she was perfect at concealing her tedium.
One time they began talking about Dorothea’s violin playing. Herr Carovius asked her to play something. She declined without the slightest display of affectation. Daniel said nothing to encourage her; he found that this modesty was becoming to her; he believed that he detected wisdom and resignation in her behaviour; he smiled at her graciously.
“Tell us a story, Daniel,” she said, “that would be better.” It eventually came out that that was what she had wanted all along.
“I am a poor raconteur,” said Daniel. “I have a thick tongue.”
She begged him, however, with stammering words and beseeching gestures. Herr Carovius tittered. Daniel took off his glasses, polished them, and looked at the young girl with squinting eyes. It seemed as if the glasses had made it difficult for him to see Dorothea distinctly, or as if he preferred to see her indistinctly. “I really don’t know what I could tell in the way of a story,” he replied, shaking his head.