“A comedy!” Walter thought. He looked about him and listened.
The house was crowded, and everyone was talking. Backstairs gossip and court scandals were passed around. People were wondering who would sit there, and who would sit there. Later arrivals were pushing at one another and quarreling about seats.
“The programs for the princes are printed on silk. What do you suppose it cost a yard?”
“Rotgans is one of the first poets!”
“Hm! Better say one of the second.”
“He’s a poet of the seventh class.”
“Why, then, one of his plays? We have poets whose song is as clear as a bell!”
“Of course, Bilderdyk! A Phœnix!”
“Oh, these foreigners don’t understand a word of it anyway, and it doesn’t make any difference what the play is.”