In front to the left sits the mother of the infant prodigy, a very corpulent dame, with a powdered double chin, and a plume in her hair, and at her side is the impresario, a gentleman of oriental type, with large golden buttons in his far-protruding cuffs. The princess is seated in the middle of the first row. She is a small, wrinkled, dried-up old princess, but she patronizes the arts, in so far as they are refined. She is seated in a deep fauteuil of plush, and Persian rugs are spread before her. She holds her hands folded upon her striped grey dress of silk, close beneath her breast, inclines her head to one side, and affords a picture of aristocratic peace, as she contemplates the infant prodigy in action. Her lady-in-waiting sits beside her, dressed in a costume of striped green silk. But she is for all that only a lady-in-waiting and must not even lean back in her chair.
Bibi comes to a close with a great flourish. With what force this urchin handles the piano! One can scarcely believe one’s ears. The theme of the march, a swinging, enthusiastic melody, breaks forth once more in a passage of full harmony, broadly and boastfully, and at every chord Bibi throws back the upper part of his body, as though he were marching triumphantly in a festival procession. He then closes grandly, slips in a crouching attitude sidewise from his stool, and waits smiling for the applause.
And the applause bursts forth, unanimous, touched, enraptured. Just see the dainty hips of the child, as he makes his girlish bow! Clap! Clap! Wait, I’ll take off my gloves! Bravo, little Saccophylax, or whatever your name may be! Why, he is a perfect little devil of a fellow!
Bibi must come forth thrice from behind the screen before the people are satisfied. A few stragglers, tardy arrivals, come crowding in from behind and find place with great difficulty in this full hall. And then the concert proceeds.
Bibi lets his “Rêverie” flow liquidly—it is entirely composed of arpeggios, over which from time to time a bit of melody lifts itself with feeble wings; and then he plays “Le Hibou et les moineaux.” This piece is a great success, and exerts a stirring effect upon the audience. It is a real child’s piece and marvellously fanciful. The bass notes show us the owl sitting and dolefully opening and shutting his veiled eyes; then in the treble the sparrows flutter, pertly yet timorously, as they tease him. Four times Bibi is called out with jubilation after this piece. An employee of the hotel in a brass-buttoned livery carries three huge wreaths of laurel up to the platform, and holds them in front of him, from the side, while Bibi bows his thanks. Even the princess participates in the applause, by gently touching her flat hands against each other, even though no sound ensues.
How well this small, accomplished wight knows how to draw out the applause! He keeps them waiting from his place behind the screen, lingers a little upon the steps of the platform, regards the coloured satin bows of the wreaths with childish pleasure, even though they have long since begun to bore him, bows charmingly and hesitatingly, and leaves the people time to work off their enthusiasm, so that none of the precious noise of their palms is lost. “ ‘Le Hibou’ is my strong card,” he thinks, for he has learned this term from the impresario. “Then comes the ‘Fantaisie,’ which is really much better, especially the place in C sharp. But you have gone mad about this hibou, you public, although it is the first thing and the stupidest which I have ever made.” And he bows graciously.
He then plays a “Méditation” and then an “Étude”—it is a most comprehensive program. The “Méditation” goes much like the “Rêverie,” which is no reflection upon it, and in the “Étude” Bibi shows all his technical dexterity, which is slightly inferior to his power of invention. And then comes the “Fantaisie.” It is his favourite piece. He always plays it a bit differently, treats it in a free manner, and at times surprises himself by new turns and conceits, when he is in good form.
He sits and plays, very small and shining white in front of the great black piano, lone and elect upon the platform over that blurred mass of humanity, which has only one heavy soul, to be moved with difficulty, a soul upon which he must operate with his own, lone and lifted above the multitude.—His soft black hair, together with the white silk bow, has fallen across his forehead; his strong, bony, trained wrists are in action, and one sees the muscles of his brown, childish cheeks strain and quiver.
At times there come to him seconds of forgetfulness and solitude, during which his strange, mouselike eyes, with their dull circles, glide sideways from the audience towards the frescoed wall of the hall at his side, through which they peer, in order to lose themselves in adventurous distances filled with a vague life. And then a glance from the corners of his eyes darts back into the hall and he is again one with his hearers.
“Complaint and jubilation, a soaring aloft and a profound plunge—my ‘Fantaisie’!” thinks Bibi, quite tenderly. “Now listen, here comes the part which goes into C sharp!” And he lets the pedals play, as it goes into C sharp. Are
