“Seriously?” he asked. “You are not laughing at me?”
The other swore by the gods. Christophe’s face lit up.
“Then you think I am right? You are of my opinion?”
“Well,” said Mannheim, “I am not a musician. I know nothing of music. The only music I like—(if it is not too flattering to say so)—is yours. … That may show you that my taste is not so bad. …”
“Oh!” said Christophe skeptically, though he was flattered all the same, “that proves nothing.”
“You are difficult to please. … Good! … I think as you do: that proves nothing. And I don’t venture to judge what you say of German musicians. But, anyhow, it is so true of the Germans in general, the old Germans, all the romantic idiots with their rancid thought, their sloppy emotion, their senile reiteration which we are asked to admire, ‘the eternal Yesterday, which has always been, and always will be, and will be law tomorrow because it is law today.’ … !”
He recited a few lines of the famous passage in Schiller:
“… Das ewig Gestrige,
Das immer war und immer wiederkehrt. …”
“Himself, first of all!” He stopped in the middle of his recitation.
“Who?” asked Christophe.
“The pump-maker who wrote that!”
Christophe did not understand. But Mannheim went on:
“I should like to have a general cleaning up of art and thought every fifty years—nothing to be left standing.”
“A little drastic,” said Christophe, smiling.
“No, I assure you. Fifty years is too much: I should say thirty. … And even less! … It is a hygienic measure. One does not keep one’s ancestors in one’s house. One gets rid of them, when they are dead, and sends them elsewhere, there politely to rot, and one places stones on them to be quite sure that they will not come back. Nice people put flowers on them, too. I don’t mind if they like it. All I ask is to be left in peace. I leave them alone! Each for his own side, say I: the dead and the living.”
“There are some dead who are more alive than the living.”
“No, no! It would be more true to say that there are some living who are more dead than the dead.”
“Maybe. In any case, there are old things which are still young.”
“Then if they are still young we can find them for ourselves. … But I don’t believe it. What has been good once never is good again. Nothing is good but change. Before all we have to rid ourselves of the old men and things. There are too many of them in Germany. Death to them, say I!”
Christophe listened to these squibs attentively and labored to discuss them: he was in part in sympathy with them, he recognized certain of his own thoughts in them: and at the same time he felt a little embarrassed at having them so blown out to the point of caricature. But as he assumed that everybody else was as serious as himself, he thought that perhaps Mannheim, who seemed to be more learned than himself and spoke more easily, was right, and was drawing the logical conclusions from his principles. Vain Christophe, whom so many people could not forgive for his faith in himself, was really most naively modest, often tricked by his modesty when he was with those who were better educated than himself—especially, when they consented not to plume themselves on it to avoid an awkward discussion. Mannheim, who was amusing himself with his own paradoxes, and from one sally to another had reached extravagant quips and cranks, at which he was laughing immensely, was not accustomed to being taken seriously: he was delighted with the trouble that Christophe was taking to discuss his nonsense, and even to understand it: and while he laughed, he was grateful for the importance which Christophe gave him: he thought him absurd and charming.
They parted very good friends: and Christophe was not a little surprised three hours later at rehearsal to see Mannheim’s head poked through the little door leading to the orchestra, smiling and grimacing, and making mysterious signs at him. When the rehearsal was over Christophe went to him. Mannheim took his arm familiarly.
“You can spare a moment? … Listen. I have an idea. Perhaps you will think it absurd. … Would not you like for once in a way to write what you think of music and the musicos? Instead of wasting your breath in haranguing four dirty knaves of your band who are good for nothing but scraping and blowing into bits of wood, would it not be better to address the general public?”
“Not better? Would I like? … My word! And when do you want me to write? It is good of you! …”
“I’ve a proposal for you. … Some friends and I: Adalbert von Waldhaus, Raphael Goldenring, Adolf Mai, and Lucien Ehrenfeld—have started a Review, the only intelligent Review in the town: the Dionysos.—(You must know it. …)—We all admire each other and should be glad if you would join us. Will you take over our musical criticism?”
Christophe was abashed by such an honor: he was longing to accept: he was only afraid of not being worthy: he could not write.
“Oh! come,” said Mannheim, “I am sure you can. And besides, as soon as you are a critic you can do anything you like. You’ve no need to be afraid of the public. The public is incredibly stupid. It is nothing to be an artist: an artist is only a sort of comedian: an artist can be hissed. But a critic has the right to say: ‘Hiss me that man!’ The whole audience lets him do its thinking. Think whatever you like. Only look as if you were thinking something. Provided you give the fools their food, it does not much matter what, they will gulp down anything.”
In the end Christophe consented, with effusive thanks. He only made it a condition that he should be allowed
