A few days later Crammon appeared again with the intention of testing
Christian.
“I don’t like your condition, my dear boy,” he began, “and I won’t
pretend to you that I do. It’s just a week to-day that we’ve been
perishing of boredom here. I grant you it’s a delightful place in
spring and summer with agreeable companions, when one can have picnics
in the open and think of the dull and seething cities. But now in the
midst of winter, without orgies or movement or women--what is the use
of it? Why do you hide yourself? Why do you act depressed? What are
you waiting for? What have you in mind?”
“You ask so many questions, Bernard,” Christian replied. “You should
not do that. It is as well here as elsewhere. Can you tell me any place
where it is better?”
The last question aroused Crammon’s hopes. In the expectation of common
pleasures his face grew cheerful. “A better place? My dearest boy, any
compartment in a train is better. The greasy reception room of Madame
Simchowitz in Mannheim is better. However, we shall be able to agree.
Here is an admirable plan. Palermo, Conca d’Oro, Monte Pellegrino, and
Sicilian girls with avid glances behind their virtuous veils. From
there we shall take a flying trip to Naples to see my sweet little
friend Yvonne. She has the blackest hair, the whitest teeth, and the
most exquisite little feet in Europe. The regions between are--sublime.
Then we can send a telegram to Prosper Madruzzi, who is nursing his
spleen in his Venetian villa, and let him introduce us into the
most inaccessible circles of Roman society. There one has dealings
exclusively with contessas, marchesas, and principessas. The striking
characters of all five continents swarm there as in a fascinating
mad-house; cold-blooded American women commit indiscretions with
passionate lazzaroni, who have magical names and impossible silk socks;
every kennel there can claim to be a curiosity, every heap of stones
adds to your culture, at every step you stumble over some masterpiece
of art.”
Christian shook his head. “It doesn’t tempt me,” he said.
“Then I’ll propose something else,” Crammon said. “Go with me to
Vienna. It is a city worthy of your interest. Have you ever heard of
the Messiah? The Messiah is a person at whose coming the Jews believe
time will come to an end, and whom they expect to welcome with the
sound of shawms and cymbals. It is thus that every distinguished
stranger is greeted in Vienna. If you cultivate an air of mystery,
and are not too stingy in the matter of tipping, and occasionally
snub some one who is unduly familiar--all Viennese society will be
at your feet. A pleasant moral slackness rules the city. Everything
that is forbidden is permitted. The women are simply _hors concours_;
the broiled meat at Sacher is incomparable; the waltzes which you
hear whenever a musician takes up a fiddle are thrilling; a trip to
the Little House of Delight--name to be taken literally, please--is
a dream. I yearn for it all myself--the ingratiating air, the roast
chicken, the apple-pudding with whipped cream, and my own little hut
full of furniture of the age of Maria Theresa, and my two dear, old
ladies. Pull yourself together, and come with me.”
Christian shook his head. “It is nothing for me,” he said.
A flush of indignation spread over Crammon’s face. “Nothing for you?
Very well. I cannot place the harem of the Sultan at your disposal, nor
the gardens promised by the Prophet. I shall leave you to your fate,
and wander out into the world.”
Christian laughed, for he did not believe him. On the next day,
however, Crammon said farewell with every sign of deep grief, and
departed.