The Infant Prodigy

The infant prodigy enters⁠—the entire hall grows silent.

It grows silent, and then the people begin to clap, because somewhere a born ruler of men and leader of the herd has started the applause. They have as yet heard nothing, but they clap their hands, for a mighty advertising campaign has paved the way for the infant prodigy, and the people are already under a spell, whether they are aware of it or not.

The infant prodigy emerges from behind a magnificent screen, which is embroidered all over with garlands in the Empire style and large, fabulous flowers. He hurriedly climbs the steps to the platform and walks into the applause, as into a bath, shivering a bit, touched by a slight shudder, and yet as into a friendly element. The boy goes to the edge of the platform, smiles as though he were about to be photographed, and thanks the audience with a small, shy, charming, and very girlish bow.

He is dressed entirely in white silk, which does not fail of its effect upon the audience. He wears a small white silk jacket of fantastic cut, with a sash beneath it, and even his shoes are of white silk. But the bare legs contrast sharply with the white silk knickers, for they are quite brown; the boy is a Greek.

His name is Bibi Saccellaphylaccas. This is really his name. No one knows of what Christian name “Bibi” may be an abbreviation or pet form, none save the impresario, and he regards it as a business secret. Bibi’s hair is smooth and black and hangs down to his shoulders. Yet it is parted sideways and held back from the small, brown, bulging forehead by means of a small silk bow. He has the most innocent, childlike face in the world, with an unformed little nose and an unsophisticated mouth; only that part of his face which lies below the coal-black, mouselike eyes is already a little weary and clearly expressive of two traits of character. He looks as though he were nine years old, but he is only eight as yet and is announced as only seven. People do not know themselves whether they really believe this. Perhaps they know better and nevertheless believe it, as they are so often wont to do. A bit of falsehood, they think, belongs to beauty. What, they think, would become of recreation and edification after the day’s work if they did not come with a bit of goodwill, and let two and two make five? And they are quite right, with that collective mind of theirs!

The infant prodigy bows until the rustle of greetings has laid itself; then he goes to the grand piano, and the people throw a final glance at the program. The first number is “Marche solennelle,” then “Rêverie,” and then “Le Hibou et les moineaux”⁠—all by Bibi Saccellaphylaccas. The entire program is by him⁠—these are his own compositions. He cannot, to be sure, write them down, but he has them all safe in his small, uncommon head, and they must be accorded artistic significance, as the posters prepared by the impresario attest in a sober, matter-of-fact style. It appears that the impresario has wrested this concession from his critical nature in severe struggles.

The infant prodigy sits down upon the revolving stool and angles for the pedals with his little legs. These pedals are raised much higher than usual by means of an ingenious contrivance, so that Bibi may reach them. The grand piano is his own and he takes it everywhere with him. It rests upon wooden blocks, and its polish is rather damaged by its being transported so frequently, but all that merely makes the thing more interesting.

Bibi puts his silky white feet upon the pedals; the expression of his little face grows pointed and arch; he looks straight before him and raises his right hand. It is a naive, brown, childish little hand, but the wrist is strong and not at all childish, for it reveals well-developed joints.

Bibi puts on this mien for his audience, for he knows that he must entertain it a little. But he himself, for his part, takes a quiet pleasure in the affair, a pleasure that he could not describe to anyone. It is this nervous joy, this secret thrill of bliss, which creeps through him whenever he sits down in front of the open piano⁠—and he will never lose this feeling. Again the keys offer themselves to his fingers, these seven black and white octaves, amongst which he has so often lost himself in adventures and profoundly exciting experiences and which nevertheless appear again as pure and untouched as a drawing-slate that has been wiped off. It is music, the world of music, that lies before him! It lies outspread before him like a tempting sea and he is able to plunge in and swim about blissfully, allow himself to be borne hither and thither, let himself go down in a storm and yet keep the mastery in his hands, govern and dispose of it all.⁠—He holds his right hand aloft.

There is a breathless stillness in the hall. It is this tension before the first chord⁠—how will it begin? It begins thus: Bibi fetches the first tone out of the piano with his forefinger, an unexpectedly powerful tone in the middle register, resembling a trumpet-blast. Others align themselves to this, and the introduction begins⁠—the muscles of the audience relax.

The hall is a very ornate one, situated in a first-class fashionable hotel, with paintings showing much rosy flesh upon the walls, with luxuriant pillars, mirrors with heavily decorated frames, and a vast number, a perfect solar system, of electric bulbs, which sprout forth everywhere in clusters and fill the room with a thin, golden, celestial radiance, far brighter than day.⁠—No chair is empty; yes, people are standing even in the side aisles and at the back of the hall. In front, where the price is twelve marks (for the impresario is devoted to the principle of awe-inspiring prices), we find the members of high society; for there is a lively interest in the infant prodigy in these lofty circles. Many uniforms are visible and a great deal of good taste in the matter of evening toilets.⁠—There are even a number of children there, who let their legs dangle in a well-bred manner from their chairs and who regard their small, gifted, and silky white colleague with shining eyes.

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 they aware of it? In faith, not in the least, they are aware of nothing! And so he casts his eyes up prettily towards the ceiling, so that they may at least have something to look at.

The people sit there in long rows and look at the infant prodigy. And they think all manner of thoughts with their collective brain. An old gentleman with a white beard, a seal-ring on his forefinger, and a knotty growth on his bald pate, an excrescence, if you will, thinks to himself: “One ought really to be ashamed of oneself. One has never been able to get beyond playing ‘Three Hunters from the Palatinate,’ and here one sits as an old greybeard and has miracles performed for one by this midget. But one must not forget that this gift is a divine one. God bestows his gifts as He will; there is no help for that, and it is no shame to be an ordinary human being. It is somewhat as with the child Jesus. One may bow before a child without being ashamed. How comforting to feel this!” He does not dare to think: “How sweet it is!” “Sweet” would be unworthy of a robust old gentleman. But he feels it! He feels it for all that!

“Art⁠—” thinks the business man with the parrot-like nose. “Of course! Art brings a bit of a gleam into life, a little tinkle, a touch of white silk. And the deal furthermore is not a bad one. There are at least fifty seats at twelve marks apiece sold; that alone makes six hundred marks⁠—and then all the incidentals. Deducting the rent of the hall, and the cost of lighting and the programs, there will be a balance of at least a thousand marks. Not at all to be despised.”

“Well, that was Chopin that he just played,” thinks the piano-teacher, a lady with a pointed nose, of about that age when hopes begin to go to sleep and the intelligence acquires an additional sharpness. “One might say that the boy is not very direct. I shall say afterwards that he is not very direct. That sounds well. The way he holds his hands is, moreover, very undisciplined. One should be able to lay a coin upon the back of the hand⁠—I should give him a bit of the ruler.”

A young girl, who looks very waxen-faced, and who is of an age in which there are certain tensions inducing delicious thoughts, thinks to herself: “What is it that he is playing there? Why, it is passion, passion, that he is playing! But he is a mere child! Were he to kiss me, it would seem as though my little brother kissed me⁠—it would not be a kiss at all. Can it be that there is a passion that is disconnected from all earthy things, pure passion, something that is only passionate child’s-play?⁠—Well, if I should say that aloud, they would dose me with cod-liver oil. That is the way of the world.”

An officer leans against a pillar. He surveys the successful Bibi and thinks: “You are somebody and I am somebody, each in his own way.” He draws his heels together and pays the infant prodigy that homage which he pays to all existent powers.

The critic, however, an ageing man in a seedy black coat and turned-up, mud-spattered trousers, occupies his free seat, and thinks: “Just look at this Bibi, this urchin! As an individual he has still some distance to go, but as a type he is quite finished⁠—it is the type of the artist. He carries in him the majesty of the artist as well as his lack of dignity, his charlatanism and his sacred spark, his contempt and his secret rapture. But I must not write that⁠—it is really too good. Ah, yes, believe me, I might have become an artist myself if I had not seen through it all so clearly.”

The infant prodigy has finished and a veritable tempest of applause breaks loose. He is forced to appear again and again from behind his screen. The man with the brass buttons comes with new garlands in tow, four laurel wreaths, a lyre made of violets, a bouquet of roses. His two arms do not suffice to hand all these tributes to the infant prodigy; the impresario himself ascends the platform to help him. He hangs a laurel wreath round Bibi’s neck; he strokes his black hair tenderly. And suddenly, as though he were overcome by emotion, he bends low and bestows a kiss upon the infant prodigy, a sounding kiss, full upon the mouth. This causes the tempest to increase to a hurricane. This kiss acts like a galvanic shock upon the audience; it shoots through the crowd and thrills every nerve. The people are borne away by a mad desire for noise. Loud bravos mingle with the wild tumult of hands. Several of Bibi’s small and matter-of-fact comrades down there wave their handkerchiefs.⁠—But the critic thinks: “Of course, that kiss from the impresario was bound to come. An old and effective trick. Yes, by heavens! if one only didn’t see through it all so plainly!”

And then the concert of the infant prodigy draws to a close. It began at half past seven and is over by half past eight. The platform is filled with garlands, and two small flowerpots are standing upon the lamp-brackets of the grand piano. Bibi plays his “Rhapsodie grecque” as his final number and this passes at the close into the Greek national hymn. Those of Bibi’s countrymen who happen to be present would like to join in and sing this, if this concert were not such a fashionable one. They compensate themselves at the close by making a tremendous noise, a hot-blooded row, a national demonstration. But the ageing critic thinks: “Of course, that national hymn was bound to come. One plays the whole affair into another sphere, no means of rousing enthusiasm is left untried. I’ll write that such things are inartistic. But perhaps it is artistic after all. What is the artist? A clown. Criticism is the highest of all functions. But I cannot write that.” And then he removes himself with his bespattered trousers.

After nine or ten calls the overheated infant prodigy no longer retires behind his screen, but goes down to his mamma and to the impresario in the hall. The people are standing among the disarranged chairs and applauding and pushing forwards in order to have a look at Bibi close at hand. A few also wish to have a look at the princess; two close-packed groups form in front of the platform, around the infant prodigy and the princess, and it is difficult to say which of the two is really receiving. But then the lady-in-waiting is commanded to go to Bibi; she tugs and smoothes his silken jacket a bit, to make him presentable for court, leads him by the arm in front of the princess, and earnestly indicates to him that he should kiss the hand of Her Royal Highness.

“How do you do it, my child?” asks the princess. “Does it come to you by itself, when you sit down?”

“Oui, madame,” Bibi replies. But inwardly he thinks: “Oh, you stupid old princess⁠—!”

Then he turns away with a shy rudeness and goes back to his own people.

Outside there is great confusion at the cloakrooms. One holds up one’s check; with open arms one receives furs, shawls, and galoshes across the table. The piano-teacher is standing there among her acquaintances and criticizing. “He is not very direct,” says she aloud, and looks about her.

A young, aristocratic lady is standing in front of one of the tall mirrors against the wall, and her two brothers, both lieutenants, are helping her with her cloak and her fur overshoes. She is wonderfully pretty, with her steel-blue eyes and her clear, thoroughbred face, a perfect little aristocrat. Done with her dressing, she stands waiting for her brothers.

“Adolf, don’t stand in front of the mirror so long!” she says to one of them in a low, angry voice, for he finds it difficult to tear himself away from the image of his handsome but fatuous face. Well, if that does not beat everything! Surely Lieutenant Adolf has the right to button his overcoat in front of a mirror without her leave! Then they go out, and outside in the street, where the arc-lamps shimmer turbidly through the whirling snow, Lieutenant Adolf begins to cut up a bit⁠—turns up his coat-collar, shoves his hands into the slanting pockets of his overcoat, and begins to execute a short cakewalk upon the snow, for it is very cold.

“A child!” thinks a girl with unkempt hair who walks with dangling arms behind them, in the company of a solemn-looking youth. “A most lovable child! In there everything was full of reverence⁠—” Then with a loud, monotonous voice she says: “We are all infant prodigies, we creators!”

“Well,” thinks the old gentleman who has never been able to get beyond “Three Huntsmen from the Palatinate,” and whose excrescence is now covered by a top hat, “what does she mean? A kind of Pythia, it seems to me.”

But the solemn-looking youth, who understands her every word, nods slowly.

Then they are silent and the girl with unkempt hair follows that aristocratic sister and her brothers with her eyes. She despises them, yet she follows them with her eyes, until they have vanished round the corner.