Paul sat down at the piano, struck a few chords:
"The tone is fairly good.... Ah, music, music!..."
And he played. He played Wotan's Farewell, followed by the Fire Magic.... He played very well, by heart: his pale, narrow features became animated, his long fingers quivered, his eyes lit up. In the conservatory the old mother listened, heard merely a flow of soothing sound. At her feet, Klaasje listened, playing with her toys. Mathilde came from upstairs; after her came Guy, deserting his books. Paul played, went on playing ... he had forgotten all about them. Suddenly he stopped:
"You mustn't think," he said abruptly, "that I am an unconditional Wagner-worshipper. His music is delightful; his poetry is crude, childish and thin; his philosophy is very faulty and horribly German and vague.... Proofs? You ask for proofs?... Take the Rheingold: did you ever see such gods? With no real strength, no real marrow in their coarse thieves' souls, their burglars' souls full of filth.... Is that the beginning of a world? No, a world begins in a purer fashion.... And so childishly and crudely: the world's treasure, the gold, the pure gold guarded by three dirty Lorelei, with their hair full of sea-weed, who, the moment they set eyes upon a dwarf, start giggling and making fun.... Are those the pure guardians of the pure gold? But the music in itself, the purity of tone: oh, in that purity of tone he is a master!..."
And he played the prelude to the Rheingold, played it twice consecutively. Suddenly he stopped once more:
"Oh, Gerdy, how dusty your piano is!... Does no one ever wipe the keys?... Where can I wash my hands?"
"Uncle dear, do go on playing!"
"And my fingers black with dust? No, look here, Keetje's pans may shine like silver and gold, but your piano is a sounding-board of dirt. Where can I wash my hands?"
"Here, at the tap."
She led him to the hall.