under an old-fashioned tailor in Magdeburg who required from each of his
apprentices a thesis: that is, before they left his shop, each
apprentice had to copy in cloth some well known German painting,
stitching bits of colored stuff together on a linen background; a kind
of mosaic. The pupil was allowed to select his subject, and Fritz Kohler
had chosen a popular painting of Napoleon’s retreat from Moscow. The
gloomy Emperor and his staff were represented as crossing a stone
bridge, and behind them was the blazing city, the walls and fortresses
done in gray cloth with orange tongues of flame darting about the domes
and minarets. Napoleon rode his white horse; Murat, in Oriental dress, a
bay charger. Thea was never tired of examining this work, of hearing how
long it had taken Fritz to make it, how much it had been admired, and
what narrow escapes it had had from moths and fire. Silk, Mrs. Kohler
explained, would have been much easier to manage than woolen cloth, in
which it was often hard to get the right shades. The reins of the
horses, the wheels of the spurs, the brooding eyebrows of the Emperor,
Murat’s fierce mustaches, the great shakos of the Guard, were all worked
out with the minutest fidelity. Thea’s admiration for this picture had
endeared her to Mrs. Kohler. It was now many years since she used to
point out its wonders to her own little boys. As Mrs. Kohler did not go
to church, she never heard any singing, except the songs that floated
over from Mexican Town, and Thea often sang for her after the lesson was
over. This morning Wunsch pointed to the piano.
“On Sunday, when I go by the church, I hear you sing something.”
Thea obediently sat down on the stool again and began, ”COME, YE
DISCONSOLATE.” Wunsch listened thoughtfully, his hands on his knees.
Such a beautiful child’s voice! Old Mrs. Kohler’s face relaxed in a
smile of happiness; she half closed her eyes. A big fly was darting in
and out of the window; the sunlight made a golden pool on the rag carpet
and bathed the faded cretonne pillows on the lounge, under the
piece-picture. ”EARTH HAS NO SORROW THAT HEAVEN CANNOT HEAL,” the song
died away.
“That is a good thing to remember,” Wunsch shook himself. “You believe
that?” looking quizzically at Thea.
She became confused and pecked nervously at a black key with her middle
finger. “I don’t know. I guess so,” she murmured.
Her teacher rose abruptly. “Remember, for next time, thirds. You ought
to get up earlier.”
That night the air was so warm that Fritz and Herr Wunsch had their
after-supper pipe in the grape arbor, smoking in silence while the sound
of fiddles and guitars came across the ravine from Mexican Town. Long
after Fritz and his old Paulina had gone to bed, Wunsch sat motionless
in the arbor, looking up through the woolly vine leaves at the
glittering machinery of heaven.
“LENTE CURRITE, NOCTIS EQUI.”
That line awoke many memories. He was thinking of youth; of his own, so
long gone by, and of his pupil’s, just beginning. He would even have
cherished hopes for her, except that he had become superstitious. He
believed that whatever he hoped for was destined not to be; that his
affection brought ill-fortune, especially to the young; that if he held
