PROFESSOR ERLIN gave Philip a lesson every day. He made out a list of books which Philip was to
read till he was ready for the final achievement of
Faust, and meanwhile, ingeniously enough, started
him on a German translation of one of the plays by Shakespeare which Philip had studied at school. It
was the period in Germany of Goethe's highest fame. Notwithstanding his rather condescending attitude
towards patriotism he had been adopted as the national poet, and seemed since the war of seventy to
be one of the most significant glories of national unity. The enthusiastic seemed in the wildness of the
Walpurgisnacht to hear the rattle of artillery at Gravelotte. But one mark of a writer's greatness is that
different minds can find in him different inspirations; and Professor Erlin, who hated the Prussians, gave
his enthusiastic admiration to Goethe because his works, Olympian and sedate, offered the only refuge
for a sane mind against the onslaughts of the present generation. There was a dramatist whose name
of late had been much heard at Heidelberg, and the winter before one of his plays had been given at
the theatre amid the cheers of adherents and the hisses of decent people. Philip heard discussions
about it at the Frau Professor's long table, and at these Professor Erlin lost his wonted calm: he beat
the table with his fist, and drowned all opposition with the roar of his fine deep voice. It was nonsense
and obscene nonsense. He forced himself to sit the play out, but he did not know whether he was more
bored or nauseated. If that was what the theatre was coming to, then it was high time the police stepped
in and closed the playhouses. He was no prude and could laugh as well as anyone at the witty immorality
of a farce at the Palais Royal, but here was nothing but filth. With an emphatic gesture he held his nose
and whistled through 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 ventured upon no action of his life without
consulting her.
"No, Helene, I tell you this," he shouted. "I would sooner my daughters were lying dead at my feet than
see them listening to the garbage of that shameless 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 not with anger but with good-
humoured laughter. He was a charlatan but a successful charlatan, and in that was always something
for the comic spirit 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 on his hand and bellowed with laughter. Not a melody
in it from beginning to end! He could imagine Richard Wagner sitting in his box and laughing till his
sides ached at the sight of all the people who were taking it seriously. It was the greatest hoax of the
nineteenth century. He lifted his glass of beer to his lips, threw back his head, and drank till the glass
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 Wagner will be as dead as mutton.
Wagner! I would give all his works for one opera by Donizetti."