"Of course it mustn't be false. . . . Have you a good piano here?"
"Yes, Uncle, Mathilde has hers upstairs and here's mine, in the conservatory," said Gerdy. "I'm the only one who plays."
Paul sat down at the piano, struck a few chords:
"The tone is fairly good. . . . Ah, music, music! . . ."
And he played. He played Wotan's Farewell, followed by the Fire Magic. . . . He played very well, by heart: his pale, narrow features became animated, his long fingers quivered, his eyes lit up. In the conservatory the old mother listened, heard merely a flow of soothing sound. At her feet, Klaasje listened, playing with her toys. Mathilde came from upstairs; after her came Guy, deserting his books. Paul played, went on playing . . . he had forgotten all about them. Suddenly he stopped:
"You mustn't think," he said abruptly, "that I am an unconditional Wagner-worshipper. His music is delightful; his poetry is crude, childish and thin; his philosophy is very faulty and horribly German and vague. . . . Proofs? You ask for proofs? . . . Take the Rheingold: did you ever see such gods? With no real strength, no real marrow in their coarse thieves' souls, their burglars' souls full of filth. . . . Is that the beginning of a world? No, a world begins in a purer fashion. . . . And so childishly and crudely: the world's treasure, the gold, the pure gold guarded by three dirty Lorelei, with their hair full of sea-weed, who, the moment they set eyes upon a dwarf, start giggling and making fun. . . . Are those the pure guardians of the pure gold? But the music in itself, the purity of tone: oh, in that purity of tone he is a master! . . ."
And he played the prelude to the Rheingold,
