"Thank you. I'm not tired."
"Nor I. So to proceed: I'm unfortunately endowed with all sorts of mediocre talents. One would be enough to make a man who is no fool, but possesses a critical judgment, thoroughly unhappy. In the arts bungling even is worse than in medicine. What does it matter if a few men die more or less? But to corrupt or lower the standard of art, is a sin against the divinity of genius. Don't you think so too, Fraulein?"
She looked at him intently, without opening her lips.
"But," he continued, "there's a false modesty too. Many a great man would never have believed in his own talents, if kind friends had not discovered them. Other gifts are, as it were, trampled under foot in the crowd, through malice and envy—men are very envious, Fraulein, Germans especially. I allude of course to the common envy of trade, which is no more allied to the ideal, high-souled envy, than a toad-stool is to a truffle—in short it's not easy for every man to know what's in him. My eyes have gradually been opened to the fact that my talent for rhyming amounts to nothing. But music, music! I play the piano very poorly and my voice is like a raven's; but in regard to the gift of composition, it always seems to me that I can compare very favorably with the shallow composers of waltzes, or writers of street songs. As for yourself, Fräulein—pardon me for having listened to your playing; you confided your musical confessions to the quiet courtyard—I—I have the deepest reverence for your talent—for—how shall I express it?—for the strong nature expressed in your style of playing. Now you see—I have just finished—for a long time I have been engaged on a great composition, which I have sometimes called—it's only a fancy, or rather a bad joke—my sinfonia ironica. You understand: so far, none of it has been written out, but in my head everything is as good as ready for the press—except the instrumentation. Musicians to whom I've now and then played parts of it, have usually been bigoted adherents of some particular school. I must confess that I gave none of them credit for really entering into the spirit of the work. With you the case is wholly different. I would wager, that if you would only give me an hour—"
"Sir," she interrupted, "you over-estimate my knowledge and judgment. I sincerely regret—"
"Pray do me the favor, Fräulein, not to condemn me unheard. I ask nothing more than that you will listen to the first few bars, where the irony is still in the stage of oppression and grief—C. minor, which afterwards changes into F.—"
"I've never been able to understand the so-called language of music," she answered curtly. "So it would be better—"
"Do you dislike the title? Very well! I'll give it up. It shall merely be absolute music, like any other. I'll submit to hear Wagner all the days of my life, intensified one day in the week by Offenbach, if the first bars do not prove that the rest is at least worth hearing. You must allow me to play the introduction on your piano—"
He did not wait for her permission, but hastily entered the sitting room, so that there was nothing left her but to follow with the lamp.
Lorinser was still sitting in the sofa corner. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling and he seemed so lost in thought that he did not notice the new comers.
Christiane set the lamp heavily on the table, as if she wished to rouse him by the rattling of the shade.
"Allow me to introduce you to each other, gentlemen," she said coldly. "Herr—what is your name?"
"Heinrich Mohr, Fräulein. A name hitherto very obscure, but which you will perhaps help to some moderate distinction. But an introduction is scarcely necessary. I already have the honor of knowing that gentleman."
Lorinser fixed his piercing eyes on the other's face and then carelessly replied: "I didn't know I had the pleasure of your acquaintance before."
"That's a matter of course," replied Mohr, approaching the little table and raising the shade from the lamp. "The acquaintance has hitherto been entirely on my side. Besides, with the exception of a casual meeting in the entry, it's still very recent; it dates from last night."
Lorinser rose. He seemed to find the full glare of the lamp objectionable.
"Last night," said he. "You must be mistaken."
"My dear sir," replied Mohr with eager courtesy, "he who possesses so marked a face as yours, may be certain that no one will ever mistake his physiognomy, though to be sure, I only saw it for about five minutes through a window on the ground floor."
"Sir, allow me—"
"But I'll take my oath before a magistrate, that it was you whom I saw in very lively society—it was a house in König's stadt—you'll recollect. You must know, Fraulein, that I'm still poet enough to prefer night to day. I usually wander aimlessly about the streets till after midnight; to be sure one doesn't always see the brightest side of men, but if you wish to know them thoroughly—and they are so incautious! They fancy if the curtains are down, they can show their weaknesses great and small in secret. As if there were not chinks and cracks in blinds and curtains, and one tiny insignificant little hole was not enough to afford a view of a whole room, as a single word often gives a glimpse of the inmost depths of hypocritical souls."
"An extremely poetical fancy, to peep through curtains," Lorinser remarked, seizing his hat. "Unfortunately this time you've made a mistake in the person, as I could prove, if it were worth while to take the trouble, or the lady could by any possibility be interested in it. Meantime, as you are about to occupy yourselves with musical exercises my presence is superfluous—"
He bowed to Christiane and walked toward the door.
She turned to Mohr, who was watching Lorinser with a mischievous glance.
"I must request you to excuse me to-day," said she. "If your ironical symphony is anything more than a jest—you will always find me at home in the morning, between twelve and one o'clock."
Mohr did not make the slightest attempt to request a short respite for himself and his composition. The musical object of his visit seemed to have entirely escaped his attention, for his eyes were sparkling with delight at the thought of having driven Lorinser from his sofa corner. He took a cordial but respectful leave of Christiane, and followed the Herr Candidat, who silently walked out into the entry.
On the stairs they passed; Lorinser seemed to wish to give Mohr the precedence. "Pray go on," said Mohr in the most cordial tone, "I'm perfectly at home here. But perhaps you may prefer not to come up these steep stairs too often. You might get hurt. The house where I saw you yesterday is better lighted at any rate."
Lorinser half turned and said in a tone of suppressed fury: "You're very much mistaken, sir, if you expect to intimidate me by such paltry expedients. I deny having any knowledge of the place where you pretend to have seen me; but I suspect from the tone you assume, that the company was by no means the best. Well I confess, that for a man who, in a lady's presence, denounces another and tries to represent him as a person who visits bad houses—for such a spiteful and slanderous spy, I repeat I've no feeling but profound contempt."
"Thank you," replied Mohr dryly. "If you had assured me of your esteem, I should have taken it more to heart. Besides, my worthy friend in the dark, I shall throw a little light on your path, should you show any disposition to continue your visits to this lady, whom you already know quite too well; I should be forced to speak still more plainly. I don't see why I am to withhold my information against an individual of your stamp, who visits workmen's societies for the purpose of denouncing to the police any speaker that may not happen to suit him. I have the honor to wish you a good night."
He raised his hat with mock respect and pointed out the path across the courtyard, but did not follow, until the stealthy steps of Lorinser, who in helpless rage could only exclaim, "we shall meet again," had died away in the hall leading through the front of the house. Then