Chapter XXIV

by William Somerset Maugham

　　Professor Erlin gave Philip a lesson every day. He made out a list ofbooks which Philip was to read till he was ready for the final achievementof Faust, and meanwhile, ingeniously enough, started him on a Germantranslation of one of the plays by Shakespeare which Philip had studied atschool. It was the period in Germany of Goethe's highest fame.Notwithstanding his rather condescending attitude towards patriotism hehad been adopted as the national poet, and seemed since the war of seventyto be one of the most significant glories of national unity. Theenthusiastic seemed in the wildness of the Walpurgisnacht to hear therattle of artillery at Gravelotte. But one mark of a writer's greatness isthat different minds can find in him different inspirations; and ProfessorErlin, who hated the Prussians, gave his enthusiastic admiration to Goethebecause his works, Olympian and sedate, offered the only refuge for a sanemind against the onslaughts of the present generation. There was adramatist whose name of late had been much heard at Heidelberg, and thewinter before one of his plays had been given at the theatre amid thecheers of adherents and the hisses of decent people. Philip hearddiscussions about it at the Frau Professor's long table, and at theseProfessor Erlin lost his wonted calm: he beat the table with his fist, anddrowned all opposition with the roar of his fine deep voice. It wasnonsense and obscene nonsense. He forced himself to sit the play out, buthe did not know whether he was more bored or nauseated. If that was whatthe theatre was coming to, then it was high time the police stepped in andclosed the playhouses. He was no prude and could laugh as well as anyoneat the witty immorality of a farce at the Palais Royal, but here wasnothing but filth. With an emphatic gesture he held his nose and whistledthrough his teeth. It was the ruin of the family, the uprooting of morals,the destruction of Germany."Aber, Adolf," said the Frau Professor from the other end of the table."Calm yourself."He shook his fist at her. He was the mildest of creatures and venturedupon no action of his life without consulting her."No, Helene, I tell you this," he shouted. "I would sooner my daughterswere lying dead at my feet than see them listening to the garbage of thatshameless fellow."The play was The Doll's House and the author was Henrik Ibsen.Professor Erlin classed him with Richard Wagner, but of him he spoke notwith anger but with good-humoured laughter. He was a charlatan but asuccessful charlatan, and in that was always something for the comicspirit to rejoice in."Verruckter Kerl! A madman!" he said.He had seen Lohengrin and that passed muster. It was dull but no worse.But Siegfried! When he mentioned it Professor Erlin leaned his head onhis hand and bellowed with laughter. Not a melody in it from beginning toend! He could imagine Richard Wagner sitting in his box and laughing tillhis sides ached at the sight of all the people who were taking itseriously. It was the greatest hoax of the nineteenth century. He liftedhis glass of beer to his lips, threw back his head, and drank till theglass was empty. Then wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said:"I tell you young people that before the nineteenth century is out Wagnerwill be as dead as mutton. Wagner! I would give all his works for oneopera by Donizetti."