Half-darkness prevailed there. Only the draped standing-lamp was lit and Möller sat close to it with crossed legs on a cushion of the antique chest; his thumb wandered among the strings. There was no order in the arrangement of his audience; it bore the impress of chance and help-yourself-as-best-you-may, for there were not enough chairs to go round. Some were standing, though many, among them some of the young ladies, were simply sitting on the floor, on the carpet, clasping their knees with their arms, or even stretching out their legs at full length. Hergesell, for example, was sitting on the floor in spite of his dinner-jacket, close to the legs of the grand piano, and beside him crouched Fräulein Plaichinger. The Little Ones were also there: Frau Cornelius was ensconced in her armchair facing the singer and was holding both of the children on her lap. Biter, the barbarian, began to talk aloud right in the middle of the song, so that it was necessary to intimidate him by “sss-sshes” and by shaking a finger at him. Lorie would never have been guilty of a thing like that; she sat daintily and quietly on her mother’s lap. The professor sought to catch her eye, in order to wave to her in secret; but she did not see him, even though she was not apparently paying any attention to the singer. Her eyes went deeper.
Möller sang the “Joli tambour”:
“Sire, mon roi, donnez-moi votre fille—”
They were all charmed. “How good!” Hergesell was heard to remark in the nasal, somewhat precious, and peculiar manner of all Hergesells. Then came a song in German, for which Herr Möller had composed the melody himself. It was a beggar lied and was hailed by the young with stormy applause:
“The beggar lass is a-goin’ to the fair—
Trala-la-la!
The beggar laddie, he means to be there,
Fol-di-rol, fol-di-rol la!”
Great hilarity prevailed after this merry beggar’s song. “How exceptionally good!” said Hergesell again, true to his manner. Something Hungarian followed, also a great hit—rendered in the outlandish original tongue; Möller was undeniably a great success. The professor participated ostentatiously in the applause. This mixture of culture and of historical-retrospective diversion in art, coming into the middle of this shimmy company, warmed his heart. He went up to Möller, congratulated him, and began to discuss the selections, as well as their sources. These were in a songbook with notes, which Möller promised to lend him for his own inspection. Cornelius was the friendlier because, like all fathers, he compared the gifts of strange young men with those of his own son, experiencing various degrees of disquiet, envy, and shame in the process. “There is this Möller,” he thought, “an able bank official.” (He was by no means certain that Möller displayed great efficiency in the bank.) “And in addition he can show this special talent, to the training of which a good deal of energy and study must have been devoted. Now, there is my poor Bert, who knows nothing and can do nothing, and thinks only of playing the clown, though he hasn’t talent even for that!” He strove to be just, and attempted to assure himself that Bert, after all, was a fine boy, perhaps with more good basic qualities than this successful Möller; that possibly there was the making of a great author in him, or something of the sort, and that his Terpsichorean-waiter ambitions were mere boyish will-o’-the-wispishness, a product of the unrestful hour. Still, his envious paternal pessimism was uppermost. When Möller started in to sing once more, Doctor Cornelius went back to his study.
While he continued to work with divided attention, it drew on toward seven o’clock. He thought of a short, matter-of-fact letter which he could write then as well as not. But writing takes time, and when he had finished, it was almost half past seven. The Italian salad was to be served at half past eight, and so it was in order for the professor to go out, get his quantum of fresh air and exercise in the winter darkness, and throw his letters into the postbox. The dance in the hall was once more in full swing. He would be forced to pass through it in order to get to his overcoat and galoshes, but there was no longer anything exciting about this; he had been a frequent auditor of this youthful jollity, and need no longer fear that he might disturb it. He left his study, having first put his papers in order and picked up his letters. He even lingered a little about the hall, for he found his wife seated in an armchair close to the door of his room.
She sat looking on, visited from time to time by the Big Ones and other young people. Cornelius stood beside her and likewise regarded the turmoil with a smiling eye, for the merriment had now obviously reached its climax. There were other spectators present. Blue Anna, with all her “rigorous limitations” upon her, stood near the stairs, because the Little Ones had not yet wearied of the festivities and because she was obliged to keep an eye on Biter, for fear of his rotating too violently and thus causing his too turgid blood to boil dangerously. The world below stairs was also bent upon seeing something of the dance and pleasures of the Big Ones. The two
