Salome to leave him alone. As she insisted, he grew angry, swore, and
choked himself with his oaths. Never had she known him to be angry and to
stand out against her. She was aghast and surrendered her prize. But she
did not mince her words with him. She told him he was an old fool and said
that hitherto she had thought she had to do with a gentleman, but that now
she saw her mistake; that he said things which would make a plowman blush,
that his eyes were starting from his head, and if they had been pistols
would have killed her.... She would have gone on for a long time in that
strain if he had not got up furiously on his pillow and shouted at her:
"Go!" in so peremptory a voice that she went, slamming the door and
declaring that he might call her as much as he liked, only she would not
put herself out and would leave him alone to kick the bucket.
Then silence descended upon the darkening room. Once more the bells pealed
placidly and grotesquely through the calm evening. A little ashamed of his
anger, old Schulz was lying on his back, motionless, waiting, breathless,
for the tumult in his heart to die down. He was clasping the precious
_Lieder_ to his breast and laughing like a child.
* * * * *
He spent the following days of solitude in a sort of ecstasy. He thought no
more of his illness, of the winter, of the gray light, or of his
loneliness. Everything was bright and filled with love about him. So near
to death, he felt himself living again in the young soul of an unknown
friend.
He tried to imagine Christophe. He did not see him as anything like what
he was. He saw him rather as an idealized version of himself, as he would
have liked to be: fair, slim, with blue eyes, and a gentle, quiet voice,
soft, timid and tender. He idealized everything about him: his pupils,
his neighbors, his friends, his old servant. His gentle, affectionate
disposition and his want of the critical faculty--in part voluntary, so as
to avoid any disturbing thought--surrounded him with serene, pure images
like himself. It was the kindly lying which he needed if he were to live.
He was not altogether deceived by it, and often in his bed at night he
would sigh as he thought of a thousand little things which had happened
during the day to contradict his idealism. He knew quite well that old
Salome used to laugh at him behind his back with her gossips, and that
she used to rob him regularly every week. He knew that his pupils were
obsequious with him while they had need of him, and that after they had
received all the services they could expect from him they deserted him.
He knew that his former colleagues at the university had forgotten him
altogether since he had retired, and that his successor attacked him in his
articles, not by name, but by some treacherous allusion, and by quoting
some worthless thing that he had said or by pointing out his mistakes--(a
procedure very common in the world of criticism). He knew that his told
friend Kunz had lied to him that very afternoon, and that he would never
see again the books which his other friend, Pottpetschmidt, had borrowed
for a few days,--which was hard for a man who, like himself, was as
attached to his books as to living people. Many other sad things, old or
new, would come to him. He tried not to think of them, but they were there
all the same. He was conscious of them. Sometimes the memory of them would
pierce him like some rending sorrow.
"Oh! My God! My God!..."
He would groan in the silence of the night.--And then fee would discard
such hurtful thoughts; he would deny them; he would try to be confident,
and optimistic, and to believe in human truth; and he would believe.
How often had his illusions been brutally destroyed!--But always others
springing into life, always, always.... He could not do without them.
The unknown Christophe became a fire of warmth to his life. The first cold,
ungracious letter which he received from him would have hurt him--(perhaps
it did so)--but he would not admit it, and it gave him a childish joy. He
was so modest and asked so little of men that the little he received from
them was enough to feed his need of loving and being grateful to them. To
see Christophe was a happiness which he had never dared to hope for, for
he was too old now to journey to the banks of the Rhine, and as for asking
Christophe to come to him, the idea had never even occurred to him.
Christophe's telegram reached him in the evening, just as he was sitting
down to dinner. He did not understand at first. He thought he did not know
the signature. He thought there was some mistake, that the telegram was not
for him. He read it three times. In his excitement his spectacles would not
stay on his nose. The lamp gave a very bad light, and the letters danced
before his eyes. When he did understand he was so overwhelmed that he
forgot to eat. In vain did Salome shout at him. He could not swallow a
morsel. He threw his napkin on the table, unfolded,--a thing he never did.
He got up, hobbled to get his hat and stick, and went out. Old Schulz's
first thought on receiving such good news was to go and share it with
others, and to tell his friends of Christophe's coming.
He had two friends who were music mad like himself, and he had succeeded in
making them share his enthusiasm for Christophe. Judge Samuel Kunz and the
dentist, Oscar Pottpetschmidt, who was an excellent singer. The three old
friends had often talked about Christophe, and they had played all his
music that they could find. Pottpetschmidt sang, Schulz accompanied, and
Kunz listened. They would go into ecstasies for hours together. How often
had they said while they were playing:
"Ah! If only Krafft were here!"
Schulz laughed to himself in the street for the joy he had and was going to
give. Night was falling, and Kunz lived in a little village half an hour
away from the town. But the sky was clear; it was a soft April evening.
The nightingales were singing. Old Schulz's heart was overflowing with
happiness. He breathed without difficulty, he walked like a boy. He strode
along gleefully, without heeding the stones against which he kicked in the
darkness. He turned blithely into the side of the road when carts came
along, and exchanged a merry greeting with the drivers, who looked at him
in astonishment when the lamps showed the old man climbing up the bank of
the road.
Night was fully come when he reached Kunz's house, a little way out of the
village in a little garden. He drummed on the door and shouted at the top
of his voice. A window was opened and Kunz appeared in alarm. He peered
through the door and asked:
"Who is there? What is it?"
Schulz was out of breath, but he called gladly:
"Krafft--Krafft is coming to-morrow...." Kunz did not understand; but he
recognized the voice:
"Schulz!... What! At this hour? What is it?" Schulz repeated:
"To-morrow, he is coming to-morrow morning!...'
"What?" asked Kunz, still mystified.
"Krafft!" cried Schulz.
Kunz pondered the word for a moment; then a loud exclamation showed that he
had understood.
"I am coming down!" he shouted.
The window was closed. He appeared on the steps with a lamp in his hand and
came down into the garden. He was a little stout old man, with a large gray
head, a red beard, red hair on his face and hands. He took little steps and
he was smoking a porcelain pipe. This good natured, rather sleepy little
man had never worried much about anything. For all that, the news brought
by Schulz excited him; he waved his short arms and his lamp and asked:
"What? Is it him? Is he really coming?"
"To-morrow morning!" said Schulz, triumphantly waving the telegram.
The two old friends went and sat on a seat in the arbor. Schulz took the
lamp. Kunz carefully unfolded the telegram and read it slowly in a whisper.
Schulz read it again aloud over his shoulder. Kunz went on looking at the
paper, the marks on the telegram, the time when it had been sent, the time
when it had arrived, the number of words. Then he gave the precious paper
back to Schulz, who was laughing happily, looked at him and wagged his head
and said:
"Ah! well ... Ah! well!..."
After a moment's thought and after drawing in and expelling a cloud of
tobacco smoke he put his hand on Schulz's knee and said:
"We must tell Pottpetschmidt."
"I was going to him," said Schulz.
"I will go with you," said Kunz.
He went in and put down his lamp and came back immediately. The two old men
went on arm in arm. Pottpetschmidt lived at the other end of the village.
Schulz and Kunz exchanged a few absent words, but they were both pondering
the news. Suddenly Kunz stopped and whacked on the ground with his stick:
"Oh! Lord!" he said.... "He is away!"
He had remembered that Pottpetschmidt had had to go away that afternoon for
an operation at a neighboring town where he had to spend the night and stay
a day or two. Schulz was distressed. Kunz was equally put out. They were
proud of Pottpetschmidt; they would have liked to show him off. They stood
in the middle of the road and could not make up their minds what to do.
"What shall we do? What shall we do?" asked Kunz.
"Krafft absolutely must hear Pottpetschmidt," said Schulz.
He thought for a moment and said:
"We must sent him a telegram."
They went to the post office and together they composed a long and excited
telegram of which it was very difficult to understand a word, Then they
went back. Schulz reckoned:
"He could be here to-morrow morning if he took the first train."
But Kunz pointed out that it was too late and that the telegram would not
be sent until the morning. Schulz nodded, and they said:
"How unfortunate!"
They parted at Kunz's door; for in spite of his friendship for Schulz it
did not go so far as to make him commit the imprudence of accompanying
Schulz outside the village, and even to the end of the road by which he
would have had to come back alone in the dark. It was arranged that Kunz
should dine on the morrow with Schulz. Schulz looked anxiously at the sky:
"If only it is fine to-morrow!"
And his heart was a little lighter when Kunz, who was supposed to have a
wonderful knowledge of meteorology, looked gravely at the sky--(for he was
no less anxious than Schulz that Christophe should see their little
countryside in all its beauty)--and said:
"It will be fine to-morrow."
* * * * *
Schulz went along the road to the town and came to it not without having
stumbled more than once in the ruts and the heaps of stones by the wayside.
Before he went home he called in at the confectioner's to order a certain
tart which was the envy of the town. Then he went home, but just as he was
going in he turned back to go to the station to find out the exact time
at which the train arrived. At last he did go home and called Salome and
discussed at length the dinner for the morrow. Then only he went to bed
worn out; but he was as excited as a child on Christmas Eve, and all night
he turned about and about and never slept a wink. About one o'clock in the
morning he thought of getting up to go and tell Salome to cook a stewed
carp for dinner; for she was marvelously successful with that dish. He did
not tell her; and it was as well, no doubt. But he did get up to arrange
all sorts of things in the room he meant to give Christophe; he took
a thousand precautions so that Salome should not hear him, for he was
afraid of being scolded. All night long he was afraid of missing the train
although Christophe could not arrive before eight o'clock. He was up very
early. He first looked at the sky; Kunz had not made a mistake; it was
glorious weather. On tiptoe Schulz went down to the cellar; he had not been
there for a long time, fearing the cold and the steep stairs; he selected
his best wines, knocked his head hard against the ceiling as he came up
again, and thought he was going to choke when he reached the top of the
stairs with his full basket. Then he went to the garden with his shears;
ruthlessly he cut his finest roses and the first branches of lilac in
flower. Then he went up to his room again, shaved feverishly, and cut
himself more than once. He dressed carefully and set out for the station.
It was seven o'clock. Salome had not succeeded in making him take so much
as a drop of milk, for he declared that Christophe would not have had
breakfast when he arrived and that they would have breakfast together when
they came from the station.
He was at the station three-quarters of an hour too soon. He waited and
waited for Christophe and finally missed him. Instead of waiting patiently
at the gate he went on to the platform and lost his head in the crowd of
people coming and going. In spite of the exact information of the telegram
he had imagined, God knows why, that Christophe would arrive by a different
train from that which brought him; and besides it had never occurred to
him that Christophe would get out of a fourth-class carriage. He stayed
on for more than half an hour waiting at the station, when Christophe,
who had long since arrived, had gone straight to his house. As a crowning
misfortune Salome had just gone out to do her shopping; Christophe found
the door shut. The woman next door whom Salome had told to say, in case
any one should ring, that she would soon be back, gave the message without
any addition to it. Christophe, who had not come to see Salome and did
not even know who she was, thought it a very bad joke; he asked if _Herr
Universitäts Musikdirektor_ Schulz was not at home. He was told "Yes," but
the woman could not tell him where he was. Christophe was furious and went
away.
When old Schulz came back with a face an ell long and learned from Salome,
who had just come in too, what had happened he was in despair; he almost
wept. He stormed at his servant for her stupidity in going out while he was
away and not having even given instructions that Christophe was to be kept
waiting. Salome replied in the same way that she could not imagine that he
would be so foolish as to miss a man whom he had gone to meet. But the old
man did not stay to argue with her; without losing a moment he hobbled out
of doors again and went off to look for Christophe armed with the very
vague clues given him by his neighbors.
Christophe had been offended at finding nobody and not even a word of
excuse. Not knowing what to do until the next train he went and walked
about the town and the fields, which, he thought very pretty. It was
a quiet reposeful little town sheltered between gently sloping hills;
there were gardens round the houses, cherry-trees and flowers, green
lawns, beautiful shady trees, pseudo-antique ruins, white busts of bygone
princesses on marble columns in the midst of the trees, with gentle
and pleasing faces. All about the town were meadows, and hills. In the
flowering trees blackbirds whistled joyously, for many little orchestras
of flutes gay and solemn. It was not long before Christophe's ill-humor
vanished; he forgot Peter Schulz.
The old man rushed vainly through the streets questioning people; he went
up to the old castle on the hill above the town, and was coming back in
despair when, with his keen, far-sighted eyes, he saw some distance away a
man lying in a meadow in the shade of a thorn. He did not know Christophe;
he had no means of being sure that it was he. Besides, the man's back
was turned towards him and his face was half hidden in the grass. Schulz
prowled along the road and about the meadow with his heart beating:
"It is he ... No, it is not he..."
He dared not call to him. An idea struck him; he began to sing the last
bars of Christophe's _Lied_:
"_Auf! Auf!_..." (Up! Up!...)
Christophe rose to it like a fish out of the water and shouted the
following bars at the top of his voice. He turned gladly. His face was red
and there was grass in his hair. They called to each other by name and ran
together. Schulz strode across the ditch by the road; Christophe leaped the
fence. They shook hands warmly and went back to the house laughing and
talking loudly. The old man told how he had missed him. Christophe, who a
moment before had decided to go away without making any further attempt to
see Schulz, was at once conscious of his kindness and simplicity and began
to love him. Before they arrived they had already confided many things to
each other.
When they reached the house they found Kunz, who, having learned that
Schulz had gone to look for Christophe, was waiting quietly. They were
given _café au lait_. But Christophe said that he had breakfasted at an
inn. The old man was upset; it was a real grief to him that Christophe's
first meal in the place should not have been in his house; such small
things were of vast importance to his fond heart. Christophe, who
understood him, was amused by it secretly, and loved him the more for it.
And to console him he assured him that he had appetite enough for two
breakfasts; and he proved his assertion.
All his troubles had gone from his mind; he felt that he was among true
friends and he began to recover. He told them about his journey and his
rebuffs in a humorous way; he looked like a schoolboy on holiday. Schulz
beamed and devoured him with his eyes and laughed heartily.
It was not long before conversation turned upon the secret bond that
united the three of them: Christophe's music. Schulz was longing to hear
Christophe play some of his compositions; but he dared not ask him to do
so. Christophe was striding about the room and talking. Schulz watched him
whenever he went near the open piano; and he prayed inwardly that he might
stop at it. The same thought was in Kunz. Their hearts beat when they saw
him sit down mechanically on the piano stool, without stopping talking, and
then without looking at the instrument run his fingers over the keys at
random. As Schulz expected hardly had Christophe struck a few arpeggios
than the sound took possession of him; he went on striking chords and still
talking; then there came whole phrases; and then he stopped talking and
began to play. The old men exchanged a meaning glance, sly and happy.
"Do you know that?" asked Christophe, playing one of his _Lieder_.
"Do I know it?" said Schulz delightedly. Christophe said without stopping,
half turning his head:
"Euh! It is not very good. Your piano!" The old man was very contrite. He
begged pardon:
"It is old," he said humbly. "It is like myself." Christophe turned round
and looked at the old man, who seemed to be asking pardon for his age, took
both his hands, and laughed. He looked into his honest eyes:
"Oh!" he said, "you are younger than I." Schulz laughed aloud and spoke of
his old body and his infirmities.
"Ta, ta, ta!" said Christophe, "I don't mean that; I know what I am saying.
It is true, isn't it, Kunz?"
(They had already suppressed the "_Herr_.")
Kunz agreed emphatically.
Schulz tried to find the same indulgence for his piano. "It has still some
beautiful notes," he said timidly.
And he touched them-four or five notes that were fairly true, half an
octave in the middle register of the instrument, Christophe understood that
it was an old friend and he said kindly,--thinking of Schulz's eyes:
"Yes. It still has beautiful eyes."
Schulz's face lit up. He launched out on an involved eulogy of his old
piano, but he dropped immediately, for Christophe had begun to play again.
_Lieder_ followed _Lieder_; Christophe sang them softly. With tears in
his eyes Schulz followed his every movement. With his hands folded on his
stomach Kunz closed his eyes the better to enjoy it. From time to time
Christophe turned beaming towards the two old men who were absolutely
delighted, and he said with a naïve enthusiasm at which they never thought
of laughing:
"Hein! It is beautiful I... And this! What do you say about this?... And
this again!... This is the most beautiful of all.... Now I will play you
something which will make your hair curl...."
As he was finishing a dreamy fragment the cuckoo clock began to call.
Christophe started and shouted angrily. Kunz was suddenly awakened and
rolled his eyes fearfully. Even Schulz did not understand at first. Then
when he saw Christophe shaking his fist at the calling bird and shouting
to someone in the name of Heaven to take the idiot and throw it away, the
ventriloquist specter, he too discovered for the first time in his life
that the noise was intolerable; and he took a chair and tried to mount it
to take down the spoil-sport. But he nearly fell and Kunz would not let him
try again; he called Salome. She came without hurrying herself, as usual,
and was staggered to find the clock thrust into her hands, which Christophe
in his impatience had taken down himself.
"What am I to do with it?" she asked.
"Whatever you like. Take it away! Don't let us see it again!" said Schulz,
no less impatient than Christophe.
(He wondered how he could have borne such a horror for so long.)
Salome thought that they were surely all cracked.
The music went on. Hours passed. Salome came and announced that dinner was
served. Schulz bade her be silent. She came again ten minutes later, then
once again, ten minutes after that; this time she was beside herself and
boiling with rage while she tried to look unperturbed; she stood firmly
in, the middle of the room and in spite of Schulz's desperate gestures she
asked in a brazen voice:
"Do the gentlemen prefer to eat their dinner cold or burned? It does not
matter to me. I only await your orders."
Schulz was confused by her scolding and tried to retort; but Christophe
burst out laughing. Kunz followed his example and at length Schulz laughed
too. Salome, satisfied with the effect she had produced, turned on her
heels with the air of a queen who is graciously pleased to pardon her
repentant subjects.
"That's a good creature!" said Christophe, getting up from the piano. "She
is right. There is nothing so intolerable as an audience arriving in the
middle of a concert."
They sat at table. There was an enormous and delicious repast. Schulz had
touched Salome's vanity and she only asked an excuse to display her art.
There was no lack of opportunity for her to exercise it. The old friends
were tremendous feeders. Kunz was a different man at table; he expanded
like a sun; he would have done well as a sign for a restaurant. Schulz
was no less susceptible to good cheer; but his ill health imposed more
restraint upon him. It is true that generally he did not pay much heed to
that; and he had to pay for it. In that event he did not complain, if he
were ill at least he knew why. Like Kunz he had recipes of his own handed
down from father to son for generations. Salome was accustomed therefore
to work for connoisseurs. But on this occasion, she had contrived to
include all her masterpieces in one menu; it was like an exhibition of the
unforgettable cooking of Germany, honest and unsophisticated, with all
the scents of all the herbs, and thick sauces, substantial soups, perfect
stews, wonderful carp, sauerkraut, geese, plain cakes, aniseed and caraway
seed bread. Christophe was in raptures with his mouth full, and he ate like
an ogre; he had the formidable capacity of his father and grandfather,
who would have devoured a whole goose. But he could live just as well for
a whole week on bread and cheese, and cram when occasion served. Schulz
was cordial and ceremonious and watched him with kind eyes, and plied
him with all the wines of the Rhine. Kunz was shining and recognized him
as a brother. Salome's large face was beaming happily. At first she had
been deceived when Christophe came. Schulz had spoken about him so much
beforehand that she had fancied him as an Excellency, laden with letters
and honors. When she saw him she cried out:
"What! Is that all?"
But at table Christophe won her good graces; she had never seen anybody so
splendidly do justice to her talent. Instead of going back to her kitchen
she stayed by the door to watch Christophe, who was saying all sorts of
absurd things without missing a bite, and with her hands on her hips she
roared with laughter. They were all glad and happy. There vas only one
shadow over their joy: the absence of Pottpetschmidt. They often returned
to it.
"Ah! If he were here! How he would eat! How he would drink! How he would
sing!"
Their praises of him were inexhaustible.
"If only Christophe could see him!... But perhaps he would be able to.
Perhaps Pottpetschmidt would return in the evening, on that night at
latest...."
"Oh! I shall be gone to-night," said Christophe.
A shadow passed over Schulz's beaming face.
"What! Gone!" he said in a trembling voice. "But you are not going."
"Oh, yes," said Christophe gaily. "I must catch the train to-night."
Schulz was in despair. He had counted on Christophe spending the night,
perhaps several nights, in his house. He murmured:
"No, no. You can't go!..."
Kunz repeated:
"And Pottpetschmidt!..."