kind friendly faces and said:
"How good you are!... If you like I will go to-morrow morning."
Schulz took him by the hand.
"Ah!" he said. "How glad I am! Thank you! Thank you!"
He was like a child to whom to-morrow seems so far, so far, that it will
not bear thinking on. Christophe was not going to-day; to-day was theirs;
they would spend the whole evening together; he would sleep under his roof;
that was all that Schulz saw; he would not look further.
They became merry again. Schulz rose suddenly, looked very solemn, and
excitedly and slowly proposed the toast of their guest, who had given
him the immense joy and honor of visiting the little town and his humble
house; he drank to his happy return, to his success, to his glory, to every
happiness in the world, which with all his heart he wished him. And then
he proposed another toast "to noble music,"--another to his old friend
Kunz,--another to spring,--and he did not forget Pottpetschmidt. Kunz in
his turn drank to Schulz and the others, and Christophe, to bring the
toasts to an end, proposed the health of dame Salome, who blushed crimson.
Upon that, without giving the orators time to reply, he began a familiar
song which the two old men took up; after that another, and then another
for three parts which was all about friendship and music and wine; the
whole was accompanied by loud laughter and the clink of glasses continually
touching.
It was half-past three when they got up from the table. They were rather
drowsy. Kunz sank into a chair; he was longing to have a sleep. Schulz's
legs were worn out by his exertions of the morning and by standing for his
toasts. They both hoped that Christophe would sit at the piano again and go
on playing for hours. But the terrible boy, who was in fine form, first
struck two or three chords on the piano, shut it abruptly, looked out of
the window, and asked if they could not go for a walk until supper. The
country attracted him. Kunz showed little enthusiasm, but Schulz at once
thought it an excellent idea and declared that he must show their guest the
walk round the _Schönbuchwälder_. Kunz made a face; but he did not protest
and got up with the others; he was as desirous as Schulz of showing
Christophe the beauties of the country.
They went out. Christophe took Schulz's arm and made him walk a little
faster than the old man liked. Kunz followed mopping his brow. They talked
gaily. The people standing at their doors watched them pass and thought
that _Herr Professor_ Schulz looked like a young man. When they left the
town they took to the fields. Kunz complained of the heat. Christophe was
merciless and declared that the air was exquisite. Fortunately for the two
old men, they stopped frequently to argue and they forgot the length of the
walk in their conversation. They went into the woods. Schulz recited verses
of Goethe and Mörike. Christophe loved poetry, but he could not remember
any, and while he listened he stepped into a vague dream in which music
replaced the words and made him forget them. He admired Schulz's memory.
What a difference there was between the vivacity of mind of this poor rich
old man, almost impotent, shut up in his room for a great part of the year,
shut up in his little provincial town almost all his life,--and Hassler,
young, famous, in the very thick of the artistic movement, and touring over
all Europe for his concerts and yet interested in nothing and unwilling to
know anything! Not only was Schulz in touch with every manifestation of the
art of the day that Christophe knew, but he knew an immense amount about
musicians of the past and of other countries of whom Christophe had never
heard. His memory was a great reservoir in which all the beautiful waters
of the heavens were collected. Christophe never wearied of dipping into it,
and Schulz was glad of Christophe's interest. He had sometime? found
willing listeners or docile pupils, but he had never yet found a young and
ardent heart with which he could share his enthusiasms, which sometimes so
swelled in him that he was like to choke.
They had become the best friends in the world when unhappily the old man
chanced to express his admiration for Brahms. Christophe was at once coldly
angry; he dropped Schulz's arm and said harshly that anyone who loved
Brahms could not be his friend. That threw cold water on their happiness.
Schulz was too timid to argue, too honest to lie, and murmured and tried to
explain. But Christophe stopped him:
"Enough?"
It was so cutting that it was impossible to reply. There was an icy
silence. They walked on. The two old men dared not look at each other. Kunz
coughed and tried to take up the conversation again and to talk of the
woods and the weather; but Christophe sulked and would not talk and only
answered with monosyllables. Kunz, finding no response from him, tried to
break the silence by talking to Schulz; but Schulz's throat was dry, he
could not speak. Christophe watched him out of the corner of his eyes
and he wanted to laugh; he had forgiven him already. He had never been
seriously angry with him; he even thought it brutal to make the poor old
man sad; but he abused his power and would not appear to go back on what he
had said. They remained so until they left the woods; nothing was to be
heard but the weary steps of the two downcast old men; Christophe whistled
through his teeth and pretended not to see them. Suddenly he could bear it
no longer. He burst out laughing, turned towards Schulz and gripped his
arm:
"My dear good old Schulz!" he said, looking at him affectionately. "Isn't
it beautiful? Isn't it beautiful?"
He was speaking of the country and the fine day, but his laughing eyes
seemed to say:
"You are good. I am a brute. Forgive me! I love you much."
The old man's heart melted. It was as though the sun had shone again
after an eclipse. But a short time passed before he could utter a word.
Christophe took his arm and went on talking to him more amiably than ever;
in his eagerness he went faster and faster without noticing the strain upon
his two companions. Schulz did not complain; he did not even notice his
fatigue; he was so happy. He knew that he would have to pay for that day's
rashness; but he thought:
"So much the worse for to-morrow! When _he_ is gone I shall have plenty of
time to rest."
But Kunz, who was not so excited, followed fifteen yards behind and looked
a pitiful object. Christophe noticed it at last. He begged his pardon
confusedly and proposed that they should lie down in a meadow in the shade
of the poplars. Of course Schulz acquiesced without a thought for the
effect it might have on his bronchitis. Fortunately Kunz thought of it for
him; or at least he made it an excuse for not running any risk from the
moisture of the grass when he was in such a perspiration. He suggested that
they should take the train back to the town from a station close by. They
did so. In spite of their fatigue they had to hurry, so as not to be late,
and they reached the station just as the train came in.
At the sight of them a big man threw himself out of the door of a carriage
and roared the names of Schulz and Kunz, together with all their titles and
qualities, and he waved his arms like a madman. Schulz and Kunz shouted in
reply and also waved their arms; they rushed to the big man's compartment
and he ran to meet them, jostling the people on the platform. Christophe
was amazed and ran after them asking:
"What is it?"
And the others shouted exultantly:
"It is Pottpetschmidt!"
The name did not convey much to him. He had forgotten the toasts at
dinner. Pottpetschmidt in the carriage and Schulz and Kunz on the step were
making a deafening noise, they were marveling at their encounter. They
climbed into the train as it was going. Schulz introduced Christophe.
Pottpetschmidt bowed as stiff as a poker and his features lost all
expression; then when the formalities were over he caught hold of
Christophe's hand and shook it five or six times, as though he were trying
to pull his arm out, and then began to shout again. Christophe was able to
make out that he thanked God and his stars for the extraordinary meeting.
That did not keep him from slapping his thigh a moment later and crying out
upon the misfortune of having had to go away--he who never went away--just
when the _Herr Kapellmeister_ was coming. Schulz's telegram had only
reached him that morning an hour after the train went; he was asleep when
it arrived and they had not thought it worth while to wake him. He had
stormed at the hotel people all morning. He was still storming. He had sent
his patients away, cut his business appointments and taken the first train
in his haste to return, but the infernal train had missed the connection on
the main line; Pottpetschmidt had had to wait three hours at a station; he
had exhausted all the expletives in his vocabulary and fully twenty times
had narrated his misadventures to other travelers who were also waiting,
and a porter at the station. At last he had started again. He was fearful
of arriving too late ... But, thank God! Thank God!...
He took Christophe's hands again and crushed them in his vast paws with
their hairy fingers. He was fabulously stout and tall in proportion; he had
a square head, close cut red hair, a clean-shaven pock-marked face, big
eyes, large nose, thin lips, a double chin, a short neck, a monstrously
wide back, a stomach like a barrel, arms thrust out by his body, enormous
feet and hands; a gigantic mass of flesh, deformed by excess in eating and
drinking; one of those human tobacco-jars that one sees sometimes rolling
along the streets in the towns of Bavaria, which keep the secret of that
race of men that is produced by a system of gorging similar to that of the
Strasburg geese. He listened with joy and warmth like a pot of butter, and
with his two hands on his outstretched knees, or on those of his neighbors,
he never stopped talking, hurling consonants into the air like a catapult
and making them roll along. Occasionally he would have a fit of laughing
which made him shake all over; he would throw back his head, open his
mouth, snorting, gurgling, choking. His laughter would infect Schulz and
Kunz and when it was over they would look at Christophe as they dried their
eyes. They seemed to be asking him:
"Hein!... And what do you say?"
Christophe said nothing; he thought fearfully:
"And this monster sings my music?"
They went home with Schulz. Christophe hoped to avoid Pottpetschmidt's
singing and made no advances in spite of Pottpetschmidt's hints. He was
itching to be heard. But Schulz and Kunz were too intent oh showing their
friend off; Christophe had to submit. He sat at the piano rather
ungraciously; he thought:
"My good man, my good man, you don't know what is in store for you; have a
care! I will spare you nothing."
He thought that he would hurt Schulz and he was angry at that; but he
was none the less determined to hurt him rather than have this Falstaff
murdering his music. He was spared the pain of hurting his old friend: the
fat man had an admirable voice. At the first bars Christophe gave a start
of surprise. Schulz, who never took his eyes off him, trembled; he thought
that Christophe was dissatisfied; and he was only reassured when he saw his
face grow brighter and brighter as he went on playing. He was lit up by
the reflection of Christophe's delight; and when the song was finished and
Christophe turned round and declared that he had never heard any of his
songs sung so well, Schulz found a joy in all sweeter and greater than
Christophe's in his satisfaction, sweeter and greater than Pottpetschmidt's
in his triumph; for they had only their own pleasure, and Schulz had that
of his two friends. They went on with the music. Christophe cried aloud; he
could not understand how so ponderous and common a creature could succeed
in reading the idea of his _Lieder_. No doubt there were not exactly all
the shades of meaning, but there was the impulse and the passion which he
had never quite succeeded in imparting to professional singers. He looked
at Pottpetschmidt and wondered:
"Does he really feel that?"
But he could not see in his eyes any other light than that of satisfied
vanity. Some unconscious force stirred in that solid flesh. The blind
passion was like an army fighting without knowing against whom or why. The
spirit of the _Lieder_ took possession of it and it obeyed gladly, for it
had need of action; and, left to itself, it never would have known how.
Christophe fancied that on the day of the Creation the Great Sculptor
did not take very much trouble to put in order the scattered members of
his rough-hewn creatures, and that He had adjusted them anyhow without
bothering to find out whether they were suited to each other, and so every
one was made up of all sorts of pieces; and one man was scattered among
five or six different men; his brain was with one, his heart with another,
and the body belonging to his soul with yet another; the instrument was
on one side, the performer on the other. Certain creatures remained like
wonderful violins, forever shut up in their cases, for want of anyone with
the art to play them. And those who were fit to play them were found all
their lives to put up with wretched scraping fiddles. He had all the more
reason for thinking so as he was furious with himself for never having been
able properly to sing a page of music. He had an untuned voice and could
never hear himself without disgust.
However, intoxicated by his success, Pottpetschmidt began to "put
expression" into Christophe's _Lieder_, that is to say he substituted his
own for Christophe's. Naturally he did not think that the music gained by
the change, and he grew gloomy. Schulz saw it. His lack of the critical
faculty and his admiration for his friends would not have allowed him of
his own accord to set it down to Pottpetschmidt's bad taste. But his
affection for Christophe made him perceptive of the young man's finest
shades of thought; he was no longer in himself, he was in Christophe;
and he too suffered from Pottpetschmidt's affectations. He tried hard
to stop his going down that perilous slope. It was not easy to silence
Pottpetschmidt. Schulz found it enormously difficult, when the singer had
exhausted Christophe's repertory, to keep him from breaking out into the
lucubrations of mediocre compositions at the mention of whose names
Christophe curled up and bristled like a porcupine.
Fortunately the announcement of supper muzzled Pottpetschmidt. Another
field for his valor was opened for him; he had no rival there; and
Christophe, who was a little weary with his exploits in the afternoon, made
no attempt to vie with him.
It was getting late. They sat round the table and the three friends watched
Christophe; they drank in his words. It seemed very strange to Christophe
to find himself in the remote little town among these old men whom he had
never seen until that day and to be more intimate with them than if they
had been his relations. He thought how fine it would be for an artist if he
could know of the unknown friends whom his ideas find in the world,--how
gladdened his heart would be and how fortified he would be in his strength.
But he is rarely that; every one lives and dies alone, fearing to say what
he feels the more he feels and the more he needs to express it. Vulgar
flatterers have no difficulty in speaking. Those who love most have to
force their lips open to say that they love. And so he must be grateful
indeed to those who dare to speak; they are unconsciously collaborators
with the artist.--Christophe was filled with gratitude for old Schulz. He
did not confound him with his two friends; he felt that he was the soul
of the little group; the others were only reflections of that living fire
of goodness and love. The friendship that Kunz and Pottpetschmidt had for
him was very different. Kunz was selfish; music gave him a comfortable
satisfaction like a fat cat when it is stroked. Pottpetschmidt found in
it the pleasure of tickled vanity and physical exercise. Neither of them
troubled to understand him. But Schulz absolutely forgot himself; he loved.
It was late. The two friends went away in the night. Christophe was left
alone with Schulz. He said:
"Now I will play for you alone."
He sat at the piano and played,--as he knew how to play when he had some
one dear to him by his side. He played his latest compositions. The old
man was in ecstasies. He sat near Christophe and never took his eyes from
him and held his breath. In the goodness of his heart he was incapable of
keeping the smallest happiness to himself, and in spite of himself he said:
"Ah! What a pity Kunz is not here!"
That irritated Christophe a little.
An hour passed; Christophe was still playing; they had not exchanged a
word. When Christophe had finished neither spoke a word. There was silence,
the house, the street, was asleep. Christophe turned and saw that the
old man was weeping; he got up and went and embraced him. They talked in
whispers in the stillness of the night. The clock ticked dully in the next
room. Schulz talked in a whisper, with his hands clasped, and leaning
forward; he was telling Christophe, in answer to his questions, about his
life and his sorrow; at every turn he was ashamed of complaining and had to
say:
"I am wrong ... I have no right to complain ... Everybody has been very
good to me...."
And indeed he was not complaining; it was only an involuntary melancholy
emanating from the dull story of his lonely life. At the most sorrowful
moments he wove into it professions of faith vaguely idealistic and very
sentimental which amazed Christophe, though it would have been too cruel to
contradict him. At bottom there was in Schulz not so much a firm belief as
a passionate desire to believe--an uncertain hope to which he clung as to
a buoy. He sought the confirmation of it in Christophe's eyes. Christophe
understood the appeal in the eyes of his friend, who clung to him with
touching confidence, imploring him,--and dictating his answer. Then he
spoke of the calm faith or strength, sure of itself, words which the old
man was expecting, and they comforted him. The old man and the young had
forgotten the years that lay between, them; they were near each other, like
brothers of the same age, loving and helping each other; the weaker sought
the support of the stronger; the old man took refuge in the young man's
soul.
They parted after midnight; Christophe had to get up early to catch the
train by which he had come. And so he did not loiter as he undressed. The
old man had prepared his guests room as though for a visit of several
months. He had put a bowl of roses on the table and a branch of laurel. He
had put fresh blotting paper on the bureau. During the morning he had had
an upright piano carried up. On the shelf by the bed he had placed books
chosen from among his most precious and beloved. There was no detail that
he had not lovingly thought out. But it was a waste of trouble: Christophe
saw nothing. He flung himself on his bed and went sound asleep at once.
Schulz could not sleep. He was pondering the joy that he had had and the
sorrow he must have at the departure of his friend. He was turning over
in his mind the words that had been spoken. He was thinking that his dear
Christophe was sleeping near him on the other side of the wall against
which his bed lay. He was worn out, stiff all over, depressed; he felt that
he had caught cold during the walk and that he was going to have a relapse;
but he had only one thought:
"If only I can hold out until he has gone!" And he was fearful of having a
fit of coughing and waking Christophe. He was full of gratitude to God, and
began to compose verses to the song of old Simeon: "_Nunc dimittis ..._"
He got up in a sweat to write the verses down and sat at his desk until
he had carefully copied them out with an affectionate dedication, and his
signature, and the date and hour. Then he lay down again with a shiver and
could not get warm all night.
Dawn came. Schulz thought regretfully of the dawn of the day before. But he
was angry with himself for spoiling with such thoughts the few minutes of
happiness left to him; he knew that on the morrow he would regret the time
fleeting then, and he tried not to waste any of it. He listened, eager
for the least sound in the next room. But Christophe did not stir. He lay
still just as he had gone to bed; he had not moved. Half-past six rang and
he still slept. Nothing would have been easier than to make him miss the
train, and doubtless he would have taken it with a laugh. But the old man
was too scrupulous to use a friend so without his consent. In vain did he
say to himself:
"It will not be my fault. I could not help it. It will be enough to say
nothing. And if he does not wake in time I shall have another whole day
with him."
He answered himself:
"No, I have no right."
And he thought it his duty to go and wake him. He knocked at his door.
Christophe did not hear at first; he had to knock again. That made the old
man's heart thump as he thought: "Ah! How well he sleeps! He would stay
like that till mid-day!..."
At last Christophe replied gaily through the partition. When he learned the
time he cried out; he was heard bustling about his room, noisily dressing
himself, singing scraps of melody, while he chattered with Schulz through
the wall and cracked Jokes while the old man laughed in spite of his
sorrow. The door opened; Christophe appeared, fresh, rested, and happy; he
had no thought of the pain he was causing. In reality there was no hurry
for him to go; it would have cost him nothing to stay a few days longer;
and it would have given Schulz so much pleasure! But Christophe could not
know that. Besides, although he was very fond of the old man, he was glad
to go; he was worn out by the day of perpetual conversation, by these
people who clung to him in desperate fondness. And then he was young, he
thought there would be plenty of time to meet again; he was not going to
the other ends of the earth!--The old man knew that he would soon be much
farther than the other ends of the earth, and he looked at Christophe for
all eternity.
In spite of hit extreme weariness he took him to the station. A fine cold
rain was falling noiselessly. At the station when he opened his purse
Christophe found that he had not enough money to buy his ticket home. He
knew that Schulz would gladly lead him the money, but he would not ask him
for it.... Why? Why deny those who love you the opportunity--the happiness
of doing you a service?... He would not out of discretion--perhaps out of
vanity. He took a ticket for a station on the way, saying that he would do
the rest of the journey on foot.
The time for leaving came. They embraced on the footboard of the carriage.
Schulz slipped the poem he had written during the night into Christophe's
hand. He stayed on the platform below the compartment. They had nothing
more to say to each other, as usual when good-byes are too long drawn out,
but Schulz's eyes went on speaking, they never left Christophe's face until
the train went.
The carriage disappeared round a curve. Schulz was left alone. He went back
by the muddy path; he dragged along; suddenly he felt all his weariness,
the cold, the melancholy of the rainy day. He was hardly able to reach home
and to go upstairs again. Hardly had he reached his room than he was seized
with an attack of asthma and coughing. Salome came to his aid. Through his
involuntary groans, he said:
"What luck!... What luck that I was prepared for it...." He felt very ill.
He went to bed. Salome fetched the doctor. In bed he became as limp as a
rag. He could not move; only his breast was heaving and panting like a
million billows. His head was heavy and feverish. He spent the whole day in
living through the day before, minute by minute; he tormented himself, and
then was angry with himself for complaining after so much happiness. With
his hands clasped and his heart big with love he thanked God.
* * * * *