peculiar green light, but it may be that was in the paper. Now came the
uniform, blue with a red collar, and then the gilt epaulets and the
bright buttons. Any one who has never tried his hand at that will find
it no easy job, I can tell him. That was the way I felt. I had French
blue and chrome yellow in my box, and I was in for it. Having read
somewhere or other, “The accessories of a portrait should be treated
with a certain sketchy cleverness,” I acted accordingly. Sketchy enough
it was, but as far as the cleverness was concerned I got stuck; for
when I was through with it they both said, the Inspector and the Major,
that it was no good. The French blue for the coat might possibly do,
but the epaulets and the buttons looked as if they hadn’t been polished
up for seven years; and as for the collar, they said it was no major’s
collar, but an ordinary Prussian postmaster’s collar. I was dreadfully
put out, of course, but it was true; it did look sort of yellowish. I
must have been cheated with the vermilion; it was unadulterated red
lead, and I had been at the shadows again with that confounded sienna.
But I had learned enough of the art not to let them snub me, and so I
said I would take the picture with me, and in a day or two we would
talk about it again. And then I tried one kind of light after another,
and polished up the Herr Major’s epaulets and buttons until G. was
moved to pity and told me they were bright enough. But that collar! To
this hour, when I see one of those collars of the Prussian infantry, I
remember my sins. It wasn’t right, and it wouldn’t come right! At last
an accident put me on the right track; G.’s canary spattered a drop
of his water down upon the collar, and on the spot where it fell it
immediately turned a bright scarlet. If I could get a kind of varnish
over it to make it look like that, I said to myself. But no, varnish
is too oily; it might make it look like a grease spot. How would gum
arabic do? But I didn’t happen to have any handy. I mused and mused,
and at last I hit upon sugar. That might do. I melted a couple of lumps
of sugar in a little water, and began cautiously testing it along the
edges. Beautiful! I struck out boldly, and it wasn’t long before the
collar would have passed muster for a first-rate Prussian soldier’s
collar.
G. said, to be sure, that the collar was too bright for the rest of
the picture, but what did G. know about painting? I stood my major on
the table, went to bed, and lay looking and looking at him until it
struck nine and the sentinel shouted, “Lights out!” I shouldn’t wonder
if Raphael looked at his Madonna for a long time when she was done, but
I don’t believe that he was as much in love with her as I was with the
Herr Major. I lay awake for ever so long. I couldn’t sleep for delight.
A Prussian officer in full uniform; that is something to be proud of,
gentlemen! At last I fell asleep, and slept far into the next day.
And when I woke up--ye gods, what did I see! G. had not acted as a
friend by me. He might have hindered it. Thousands of flies were eating
up the Herr Major’s collar, and there were little black specks in my
highest lights.
That’s what I call a misfortune. And what now? There was nothing for
it but to varnish it up again and keep off the flies so long as I had
it on my hands. I got rid of it as soon as I could. But what the Herr
Major’s gracious lady said about the likeness, and whether the Herr
Major hung it up in his room to remember me by, I have not heard to
this day. So much I know, I was in his and the Inspector’s good graces
after this, and that was a good thing not only for me but for all of us.
_Fritz Reuter._
_LISZT EXPECTED AT AN EVENING PARTY._
IT is enough to say that Liszt had come. The whole town spoke of him
and of nothing else.... Not only was it considered an inevitable
requisite for a person of culture to have heard at least one of his
concerts, but for those of musical proclivity it was a question of life
and death to have seen the _virtuoso_ at their own house. A _salon_ was
greatly in danger of losing its painfully acquired reputation if Liszt
had not honoured it with a visit. Much higher than the musical treat,
which was easily attainable for two thalers, stood the consciousness of
being able to say at the proper moment, with apparent nonchalance, but
with the blessed assurance of crushing a less fortunate rival: “Do you
know, my dear, Liszt was with us on Thursday? We had only a few friends
to meet him. He played the Erlkönig!” Thereupon your rival would go
home, lie down on the sofa, and have ice and cologne applied to her
throbbing forehead.
When the excitement in town had reached its height I found, one evening
after coming home exhausted by a round of lessons to untalented
beginners, an invitation from Frau Medicinalräthin Pfeffermünze. She
asked me to put in an appearance at her _salon_ that very evening
at eight o’clock; something very unusual must have occurred. Her
instrumental and vocal clients were in the habit of assembling on
a Saturday, once a fortnight; this was evidently an extra under
difficulties. We had never before been asked so late.
The note bore signs of haste; Frederick the Great and Napoleon had
granted themselves more time to sign the orders of cabinet than had the
Frau Medicinalräthin. I pitched into my dress-coat head over heels, for
there was not a moment to spare, and hastened to the Charlotten Strasse.
The first storey was illuminated with an unreasonable profusion
of oil and wax. A gentle shiver passed over my back; in the little
reception-room, the inviolable sanctuary of the Medicinalrath in
the eyes of young and giddy musicians, glittered the lights of a
chandelier. The hall door stood wide open with that philosophically
resigned hospitality which in general confines itself to funerals with
four horses. At such supreme moments the lesser laws of life become
void, and each sympathetic soul, who would never be asked to a place at
the family table, is made welcome.
“Heavens!” I exclaimed in a whispered monologue, “it cannot be that
the Medicinalrath has died an unexpected death!” The absurdity of the
supposition immediately became apparent, for, passing through the
reception-room, the head of the house appeared before me in person,
at the right of the gilded mirror, surrounded by satellites, and
saluted me graciously with a mild wave of his hand. As long as we could
remember he had not condescended to receive any ordinary musicians,
such as we were personally, for we were never invited to the higher
esoteric _fêtes_. To make his presence more emphatically imposing, he
had adorned himself with three or four little badges of honour instead
of wearing merely the ribbons belonging thereto.
What had occurred? What was about to occur?
The Medicinalrath was to me an unapproachable entity. I dared not ask
him. Etiquette demanded that I should confine myself to replying if he
should address me. His lady might be looked upon as more condescending,
but to-day I should have to forego any polite advances. Like the vestal
High Priestess in Spontini’s opera, she stood in the centre of a group
of maidens festively arrayed. Man, at any other time a much-sought-for
article, had evidently fallen in price. The young gentlemen, even the
boldest lions of society, stood close together, and did not venture
above a whisper.
What had occurred? What was about to occur?
My vague forebodings became certainty as I heard a pale and criminally
lean gentleman, one notorious for his festive odes, say to his
neighbour: “He is coming! You will see the godlike youth face to
face.” The person addressed like the contrite Brahmin stared at the
tip of his nose, and preserved a worshipful silence. “I breakfasted
with him yesterday. A most delightful companion! The very picture
of unpretentious simplicity,” continued the other. Ah, could he but
breakfast with him every day, life had looked brighter to him!
Among the bards near by a wild state of excitement made itself felt.
Their leader distributed printed leaflets among them, and the poet
stepped nearer to designate a certain passage in the third stanza which
required a decided crescendo. Just then the Frau Medicinalräthin came
rustling into the circle.
“Would it not be better,” she said, smiling benignly, but struggling
with a nervous tremor, “if the chorus were to retire into the adjoining
room, so as to have the music come from a greater distance?”
“Frau Medicinalräthin is right,” exclaimed the poet encouragingly,
urging the youths of Berlin into the next room. “The chant should
impress him as coming from another, purer world. Then in the third and
last stanzas the angels descend and greet the genius here below as a
brother. Carry out my suggestions, gentlemen, and go into the other
room.”
The chorus would greatly have preferred to be present from beginning
to end, after the fashion of its antique prototypes in Sophocles
and Euripides, but there was nothing for it but to yield. It took a
covered position, attentively re-read the melodious lyric made to fit a
well-known tune, and cleared its throat.
The clock on the mantel struck nine; the Medicinalrath still stood
sentinel at the right of the mirror, conversing with the aristocratic
element. In the background preparations for a sacrificial offering of
tea seemed to be going on, but no one ventured to begin the solemn
ceremony. My conjecture was that the hostess feared thereby to offend
the august spirit of the expected genius.
It struck a quarter, it struck half-past--still no Liszt!--
The Medicinalrath and his æsthetic wife moved nearer to the windows,
and convulsively started every time a carriage passed near enough
to give one reason to suspect it of an intention of stopping. The
assembled guests had said everything they had to say, and the need of
an impetus, physical or psychical, was making itself sadly felt.
“We certainly cannot have tea served now. He may come at any moment.
The effect would be quite lost!” whispered the Frau Medicinalräthin as
her husband approached her, reminding her of the bodily needs of her
guests.
A general restlessness took possession of those assembled. “Punctuality
is the politeness of kings, but not of geniuses!” a young lawyer, who
was at other times the Aristophanes of these receptions, ventured to
remark with some bitterness.
“Liszt did not name the hour, I should say by way of vindication;
he merely promised to come. You know that his time is tasked to
the utmost. A king may seclude himself from his worshippers, but a
_virtuoso_ has not an hour of the day to call his own,” said the
Medicinalrath, soothingly.
A carriage came rattling wildly up to the door and stopped. “It is he!”
cried an academic youth, whom the master of the house had stationed as
a sentry at the first window.
The moment was overwhelming. As fast as circumstances would permit the
guests grouped picturesquely. The Medicinalrath took the centre at the
right of the mirror; his lady, our gracious patroness, seized the
white silk ribbons on which the ode had been printed in gilt letters.
The chorus of priestesses arranged itself artistically about her; the
chorus of Berlin youths began to sing in the adjoining room; we mutes
sent greedy eyeshots to meet the expected.
A nimble young man put his small, coal-black head through the door, and
seemed undecided to whom to turn.
“Pfeffermünze,” whispered an old gentleman to the Medicinalrath, “that
is not Liszt!”
“That is not the blond head of our Samson. Avaunt, venal slave!”
muttered the manufacturer of festive odes. The black-headed little
fellow was actually one of the secretaries of the genius sent out to
calm the assembly on account of his late arrival; perhaps, also, if I
rightly judge the much-enduring _virtuoso_, to ward off the boisterous
ovations in store for him. The inhabitants of dangerously-situated
Alpine villages erect plough-shaped stone walls as a security against
avalanches; the mass of snow is disrupted, and falls powerless on
either side.
There was a universal disappointment; the chorus of youths was hushed
with difficulty, the gilt-illumined ode was laid aside, the secretary
was surrounded, and by way of reward for his good news that his master
was following, he was made much of. The commotion was so turbulent
that no one noticed the entrance of a slender young man, stooping
perceptibly, with lank arms and long yellow hair, who had been peeled
out of a magnificent sable greatcoat in the reception-room by a
servant. But he did not escape the eagle eye of our patroness.
“Mein Gott, Liszt!” she exclaimed in a broken voice, and then she
sank into the arms of two robust alto singers, who, always on the
alert for such unaccountable tricks of destiny, were ever at her side.
There was a sympathetic movement among the guests, only the one most
nearly concerned, the Medicinalrath, retaining a posture of stoic
composure. The master of tone also did not seem quite inexperienced in
the treatment of such misadventures. He rapidly approached the invalid,
seized the right hand of the lady overcome by the magnitude of her
feelings, ordered “things strengthening and refreshing,” like Mozart’s
Don Ottavia, and raised her spirits with marvellous speed.
So Liszt was come; but all the effects arranged for his reception had
failed. But his tortured soul was not spared the ode. He was compelled
to sit down between two ladies and listen to the song. Then the
artistic hostess presented the silk ribbon. It was entwined about a
fresh laurel wreath.
During this offering of gratitude I had been making some remarks of
condolence to the secretary. Since nightfall his liege lord had been
visiting five families of distinction. The Erlkönig had been wrung from
him at four places. The burden of pianoforte fame weighs heavy; at the
thought the trials of teaching dwindled. Was the genius to escape the
Erlkönig here? From out of the music-room the concert-grand loomed
forth majestically like the heavy cannons in forts that are used to
practise recruits.
The illustrious one bore all of the trials inflicted upon him with rare
firmness; he deported himself somewhat as a prince humouring a company
of persons of little estate, permitted aspiring instrumentalists and
singers, professionals and amateurs, to be presented, said something
apt and encouraging to each, jested with the ladies in a courtly
manner, and endured the aged with a philosophic resignation rare
in one of his years. He escaped from tea, it probably having been
urged upon him five times already. The whole company was intoxicated
by the charm of his manner. More than twenty album-leaves had been
clandestinely introduced by the ladies, and he wrote his name on each
without a groan. I feared in secret that one of the fair Delilas might
stealthily draw a pair of scissors out of her pocket and clutch the
lion’s mane as a signal for the lurking envy which began to show signs
of being abroad. But the god of the muses watched over his precious
head; he kept his locks and his titanic strength, and he permitted
himself to be persuaded to play. Counting by the programmes of previous
concerts, and the receipts consequent upon the high price of admission,
he magnanimous fellow played, at a modest estimate, for 375 thalers.
[Illustration: “HIS APPRECIATIVE HOST AND HOSTESS EXERTED THEMSELVES TO
GET HIM INTO HIS SABLE GREATCOAT.”]
The Frau Medicinalräthin would have given a great deal to induce him
to finish the fourth hundred, and she did her very best to force the
poor unfortunate to give her the Chromatic Gallop. It was not possible.
Inexorable fate still had a _souper_ in store with which the genius
was to finish the day’s task. It became necessary to dismiss him.
As he went all the guests escorted him to the ante-chamber, his
appreciative host and hostess personally exerted themselves to get him
into his sable greatcoat. Deep sorrow shone in the eyes of the Frau
Medicinalräthin, perhaps at her inability to be able to induce the
vocal youths of Berlin to prostrate themselves before him by way of a
musical carpet to the master’s carriage.
The reputation of her _salon_ had been established for one generation.
_E. Kossak_ (1814-1880).
_A PRINCE IN DISGUISE._
[Illustration: “IN SHORT, IT WAS A LIVELY INNINGS.”]
ON a dismal November day a poor devil of a tailor was walking along the
country-road to Goldach, a little wealthy town but a few miles from
Seldwyla. The tailor carried nothing in his pocket but his thimble,
which in lieu of coin he was incessantly twirling between his fingers;
it was so cold that he was obliged to keep his hands in the pockets
of his trousers, and his fingers began to ache smartly, what with
this eternal twirling and twisting. He had lost his pay and his work
at the same time, because some head-tailor at Seldwyla had failed,
and there was nothing for it but to take to the road. A couple of
snow-flakes that had blown into his mouth were the only breakfast he
had had, and there was as little prospect for any dinner. Begging was
made difficult, ay, seemed quite out of the question; because over his
black Sunday suit, which was the only one he had, he wore an ample dark
grey mantle faced with black velvet, which gave its wearer a noble
and romantic exterior, the more so as his long black hair and little
moustache were well cared for, and he was the happy possessor of pale,
regular features.
Attire of the sort described had become a necessity to him, and
he indulged in it with no evil or deceitful purpose; he was quite
contented when he was not interfered with and left in peace to do his
work, but he would sooner have starved than give up his mantle and
Polish fur-cap, which he managed to wear with an inimitable grace.
For this reason he could work only in good-sized towns, where he did
not become too conspicuous; when on the road and without savings he
was in a sorry enough plight. Did he approach a house, he was looked
at with surprise and curiosity, and there was nothing farther from the
thoughts of the inhabitants than that he would beg; so the words died
on his lips, the more so as he was not a possessor of many words, and
he became in truth a martyr of his mantle, and suffered hunger as dark
and dismal as the latter’s velvet lining.
As he was wearily ascending a rise of ground he came upon a new and
comfortable carriage, which a gentleman’s coachman had fetched from
Basle for his master, a foreign count who was awaiting it somewhere
in Switzerland on an old estate he had bought or leased. The carriage
was designed for travelling, and had all sorts of arrangements to hold
luggage, so that it seemed to be heavily loaded, although it was empty.
The coachman was walking by his horses on account of the steepness
of the road. When he reached the top of the hill he got up on the box
again, and asked the tailor if he would not have a ride; for it was
beginning to rain, and he saw at a glance that the poor fellow was
faintly and sorrowfully trudging along.
He gratefully and humbly accepted the offer, whereupon the carriage
took him at a rapid pace over the rest of the road, so that in one
short hour they passed, with a hollow, thundering sound, through
the town gate of Goldach. Before the best hotel, called Zur Wage,
the elegant turnout stopped, and at once the groom pulled the bell
violently, so that the wire nearly broke. Down came the host and his
people and pulled open the carriage door; the children and neighbours
came crowding about the splendid carriage, full of curiosity to see
what kernel could be contained in this marvellous shell, and when the
dumfounded tailor came forth in his mantle, pale and handsome, gazing
pensively upon the ground, he seemed to them to be a mysterious prince
or count at the very least. The space between the carriage and the
door of the hotel was narrow, and the rest of the pavement pretty well
blocked by the curious crowd. It may have been due to a certain lack of
presence of mind, or possibly of courage, that he did not break through
the rabble and simply go on his way; he did not, but weakly allowed
himself to be escorted into the house and upstairs, and did not become
fully conscious of his new and remarkable position until he found
himself in a comfortable dining-room, and his portentous mantle was
being officiously removed.
“The gentleman wishes to dine?” said a voice. “Dinner will be served at
once; it is nearly ready.”
Without waiting for a reply the host rushed for the kitchen, and cried:
“In the name of three devils! now we have nothing but beef and a mutton
joint! I dare not cut the partridge-pie, because that was ordered
for the gentlemen coming this evening. _Isn’t_ this a shame? The only
day when we don’t expect any such person, and when there is nothing
in the house, so fine a gentleman must turn up! And the coachman has
a coat-of-arms on his buttons, and the carriage is good enough for a
duke! And the young man is so grand that he doesn’t so much as open his
mouth!”
And the phlegmatic cook said: “Well, there is nothing to grumble about,
sir. Of course he shall have the partridge-pie; he won’t eat it up!
We’ll serve it on small plates for the gentlemen this evening. We can
get out six platefuls!”
“Six platefuls? You must forget that the gentlemen are accustomed
to eat their fill at _my_ hotel!” answered the host; but the cook
looked unmoved, and continued: “And so they shall! We must send for
half-a-dozen of cutlets; we need them for the stranger as it is; and
what he leaves I’ll cut up into little squares and mix it in the pie.
Just leave all that to me!”
But the honest host said, with a serious mien, “Cook, I have told you
before that such things cannot be in this town and in this house! I
wish to be respectable and honourable, and can afford to be so.”
“Ye saints!” cried the cook, at last getting somewhat excited, “if
there is no help for it, one must do the best one can! Here are two
snipes that I have bought from the hunter this minute; I’ll put them
in the pie. A partridge pie adulterated with snipe will be good enough
for your gluttons! And then there are some trout; the biggest I threw
into the water as that remarkable carriage came to the door; and there
is some soup in that little pan. So then we have fish, beef, cutlets
with vegetables, the joint, and the pie. Just give me the keys now, so
that I can get out the sweetmeats and the dessert! And, by the way,
you might do me the honour, sir, to entrust the key to me once for
all, so that I wouldn’t have to run after you for it and get into awful
straits.”
“Good woman, you must not bear me a grudge for that. I promised my wife
on her deathbed never to give the key out of my hands, so it’s a matter
of principle, not of mistrust. Here are the cucumbers, and here are
the cherries; here are the pears, and here the apricots; but this old,
stale pastry cannot be used. Quick! send Lise to the pastry-cook’s to
get fresh cakes, three dishes full, and if he has a good tart he may
send it also.”
“Dear me, sir! you can’t put all that on one gentleman’s bill. It will
cost you more than it is worth!”
“Never mind that. It’s all for the honour! It won’t kill me, and when
a grand swell like that passes through our town he shall be able to
say he dined well, though he was not expected, and it was in winter!
I won’t have it said of me as they say of the hosts of Seldwyla, that
they eat everything good themselves and leave the bones for their
customers. Go ahead, then, all of you, and do your best!”
* * * * *
Without further delay he was asked to table, a chair was placed for
him, and as the fragrant odour of the savoury soup, the like of which
he had not smelled for many a day, robbed him completely of his will,
he sat down in God’s name and at once dipped his heavy spoon into
the golden brown liquid. In deep silence did he refresh his wearied
spirits, and he was waited upon in respectfully hushed awe.
When he had emptied his plate, and the host saw how he had relished it,
he encouraged him politely to have another spoonful; it would do him
good, the weather being so inclement. Now the trout was served adorned
with greens, and the host helped him to a generous piece. But the
tailor, tormented by anxiety, did not venture in his shyness to boldly
use his knife, but coyly and shamefacedly dabbed at it with his fork.
The cook, who was watching behind the door to see the grand gentleman,
noticed it, and she said to her subordinates, “Praised be our Lord
Jesus Christ! There is one who knows how to eat a fine fish, as he
should; he does not saw the delicate thing with his knife as if he were
butchering a calf. That is a person of quality. I’d swear to that if it
were not wicked! And how handsome and sad he is! There isn’t a doubt of
it, he is in love with some grand lady whom they won’t let him have. Ah
yes, grand people have their troubles as well as others!”
Meanwhile, the host seeing that his guest left his glass untouched,
said deferentially, “My table wine is not to your honour’s taste.
Permit me to bring you a glass of good Bordeaux, which I can greatly
recommend.”