Though the Countess was disagreeably affected both in sight and smell, yet Schmucke’s eyes and smile transformed the sordid scene with heavenly rays, that gave a glory to the dingy tones and animation to the chaos. The soul of this man, who seemed to belong to another world and revealed so many of its mysteries, radiated light like a sun. His frank and hearty laugh at the sight of one of his Saint Cecilias diffused the brightness of youth, mirth, and innocence. He poured out treasures of that which mankind holds dearest, and made a cloak of them to veil his poverty. The most purse-proud upstart would perhaps have blushed to think twice of the surroundings within which moved this noble apostle of the religion of music.
“Eh, py vot tchance came you here, tear Montame la Gondesse?” he said. “Must I den zing de zong ov Zimeon at mein asche?”
This idea started him on another peal of ringing laughter.
“Is it dat I haf a conqvest made?” he went on, with a look of cunning.
Then, laughing like a child again:
“You com for de musike, not for a boor man, I know,” he said sadly; “but come for vat you vill, you know dat all is here for you, pody, zoul, ant coots!”
He took the hand of the Countess, kissed it, and dropped a tear, for with this good man every day was the morrow of a kindness received. His joy had for a moment deprived him of memory, only to bring it back in greater force. He seized on the chalk, leaped on the armchair in front of the piano, and then, with the alacrity of a young man, wrote on the wall in large letters, “February 17th, 1835.” This movement, so pretty and artless, came with such an outburst of gratitude that the Countess was quite moved.
“My sister is coming too,” she said.
“De oder alzo! Ven? Ven? May it pe bevor I tie!” he replied.
“She will come to thank you for a great favor which I am here now to ask from you on her behalf.”
“Qvick; qvick! qvick! qvick!” cried Schmucke, “vot is dis dat I mosd to? Mosd I to de teufel go?”
“I only want you to write, I promise to pay the sum of ten thousand francs
on each of these papers,” she said, drawing from her muff the four bills, which Nathan had prepared in accordance with the formula prescribed.
“Ach! dat vill pe soon tone,” replied the German with a lamblike docility. “Only, I know not vere are mein bens and baber.—Get you away, Meinherr Mirr,” he cried to the cat, who stared at him frigidly. “Dis is mein gat,” he said, pointing it out to the Countess. “Dis is de boor peast vich lifs mit de boor Schmucke. He is peautivul, not zo?”
The Countess agreed.
“You vould vish him?”
“What an idea! Take away your friend!”
The cat, who was hiding the ink-bottle, divined what Schmucke wanted and jumped on to the bed.
“He is naughty ass ein monkey!” he went on, pointing to it on the bed. “I name him Mirr, for do glorivy our creat Hoffmann at Berlin, dat I haf mosh known.”
The good man signed with the innocence of a child doing its mother’s bidding, utterly ignorant what it is about, but sure that all will be right. He was far more taken up with presenting the cat to the Countess than with the papers, which, by the laws relating to foreigners, might have deprived him forever of liberty.
“You make me zure dat dese leetl stambed babers.”
“Don’t have the least uneasiness,” said the Countess.
“I haf not oneasiness,” he replied hastily. “I ask if dese leetl stambed babers vill plees do Montame ti Dilet?”
“Oh yes,” she said; “you will be helping her as a father might.”
“I am fer habby do pe coot do her for zomting. Com, do mein music!” he said, leaving the papers on the table and springing to the piano.
In a moment the hands of this unworldly being were flying over the well-worn keys, in a moment his glance pierced the roof to heaven, in a moment the sweetest of songs blossomed in the air and penetrated the soul. But only while the ink was drying could this simple-minded interpreter of heavenly things be allowed to draw forth eloquence from wood and string, like Raphael’s St. Cecilia playing to the listening hosts of heaven. The Countess then slipped the bills into her muff again, and recalled the radiant master from the ethereal spheres in which he soared by a touch on the shoulder.
“My good Schmucke,” she cried.
“Zo zoon,” he exclaimed, with a submissiveness painful to see. “Vy den are you kom?”
He did not complain, he stood like a faithful dog, waiting for a word from the Countess.
“My good Schmucke,” she again began, “this is a question of life and death, minutes now may be the price of blood and tears.”
“Efer de zame!” he said. “Go den! try de tears ov oders! Know dat de poor Schmucke counts your fisit for more dan your pounty.”
“We shall meet again,” she said. “You must come and play to me and dine with me every Sunday, or
