What had Peter read? He mentioned timidly “David Copperfield,” “Don Quixote,” and “Henry Lessingham.”
“Ah, that's the way—novels, novels, novels—always sugar . . . Greek, Latin?”
“No, just a little at school.”
“Ah, yes, your schools. I know them. Homer?”
“No, I'm afraid not.”
“Ah, well you shall read Homer. He is the greatest, he is the Master. There is Pope for a beginning. I will teach you Greek. . . . Goethe?”
“I—beg your pardon.”
“Goethe, Goethe, Goethe—he has never heard of him—never. Ah, these schools—I know them. Teach them nonsense—often enough—but any wisdom—never—”
“I'm very sorry—” said Peter humbly.
“And music?”
“I've had no opportunity—”
“But you would love it? Yes, I see that you would love it—it is in your eyes. Beethoven? No—later perhaps—then often enough—but Schubert! Ah, Schubert!” (here the meat-pies arrived but Herr Gottfried does not see them). “Ah, the Unfinished! He shall hear that and he will have a new soul—And the songs! Gott in Himmel, the songs! There is a man I know, he will sing them to you. Die Mullerlieder. It is always water, the Flowers, the Sun and all the roses in the world . . . ach! ‘Dir Spinnerin’ ‘Meersstille’ . . . ‘Meersstille’—yah. Homer, Schubert—meat and drink—Homer the meat-pie, Schubert the beer, but not this beer—no, Helles, beautiful Helles with the sun in it. . . .”
He had forgotten Peter and Peter did not understand anything that he said, but he sat there with his eyes wide open and felt assured that it was all very useful to him and very important. The inferno continued around them, the air grew thicker with smoke, a barrel-organ began to play at the door, draughts and dominoes rattled against the long wooden tables. . . .
Ah! this was, indeed, London,
Peter was so greatly moved that his hunger left him and it was with difficulty that the meat-pie was finished.
