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."
He took off his nose glasses, polished them very hastily, fumbled for a
while with his cord, and then put them on again. Having gained time in
this way, he began to expatiate on the decadence of the arts, asked
Daniel whether he had ever heard anything about a certain Hugo Wolf who
was being much talked about and who was sitting in darkest Austria
turning out songs like a Hottentot, made a number of derogatory remarks
about a fountain that was being erected in the city, said that a company
of dancers had just appeared at the Cultural Club in a repertory of
grotesque pantomimes, remarked that as he was coming over he learned
that there was an institution in the city that loaned potato sacks, and
that there had just been a fearful fire in Constantinople.
Thereupon he looked first at Daniel, then at M. Riviere, took the snarls
of the one and the embarrassment of the other to be encouraging signs
for the continuation of his gossip, readjusted his glasses, and sneezed.
Then he smoothed out the already remarkably smooth hairs he had left on
his head, rubbed his hands as if he were beginning to feel quite at
home, and tittered when there was any sign of a stoppage in his asinine
eloquence.
At times he would cast a stealthy glance at Gertrude, who would draw
back somewhat as the arm of a thief who feels he is being watched.
Eleanore did not seem to be present so far as he was concerned: he did
not see her. Finally she got up. She was tortured by the interruption of
what she had just experienced from the music and by his flat, stale, and
unprofitable remarks. Then he got up too, looked at his watch as if he
were frightened, asked if he might repeat his visit at another time,
took leave of Gertrude with a silly old-fashioned bow, from Daniel with
a confidential handshake, and from the Frenchman with uncertain
courtesy. Eleanore he again entirely overlooked.
Out in the hall he stopped, nodded several times, and said with an
almost insane grin, speaking into the empty air before him: "_Auf
Wiedersehen_, fair one! _Auf Wiedersehen_, fairest of all! Good-bye, my
angel! Forget me not!"
In the room Eleanore whispered in a heavy, anxious tone: "What was
that? What was that?"