Waldhaus was beginning to be uneasy. As long as he was out of reach he had looked on at the affray with the calmness of an Olympian god. But for some weeks past the other papers had seemed to be beginning to disregard his inviolability: they had begun to attack his vanity as a writer with a rare malevolence in which, had Waldhaus been more subtle, he might have recognized the hand of a friend. As a matter of fact, the attacks were cunningly instigated by Ehrenfeld and Goldenring: they could see no other way of inducing him to stop Christophe’s polemics. Their perception was justified. Waldhaus at once declared that Christophe was beginning to weary him: and he withdrew his support. All the staff of the Review then tried hard to silence Christophe! But it were as easy to muzzle a dog who is about to devour his prey! Everything they said to him only excited him more. He called them poltroons and declared that he would say everything—everything that he ought to say. If they wished to get rid of him, they were free to do so! The whole town would know that they were as cowardly as the rest: but he would not go of his own accord.
They looked at each other in consternation, bitterly blaming Mannheim for the trick he had played them in bringing such a madman among them. Mannheim laughed and tried hard to curb Christophe himself: and he vowed that with the next article Christophe would water his wine. They were incredulous: but the event proved that Mannheim had not boasted vainly. Christophe’s next article, though not a model of courtesy, did not contain a single offensive remark about anybody. Mannheim’s method was very simple: they were all amazed at not having thought of it before: Christophe never read what he wrote in the Review, and he hardly read the proofs of his articles, only very quickly and carelessly. Adolf Mai had more than once passed caustic remarks on the subject: he said that a printer’s error was a disgrace to a Review: and Christophe, who did not regard criticism altogether as an art, replied that those who were upbraided in it would understand well enough. Mannheim turned this to account: he said that Christophe was right and that correcting proofs was printers’ work: and he offered to take it over. Christophe was overwhelmed with gratitude: but they told him that such an arrangement would be of service to them and a saving of time for the Review. So Christophe left his proofs to Mannheim and asked him to correct them carefully. Mannheim did: it was sport for him. At first he only ventured to tone down certain phrases and to delete here and there certain ungracious epithets. Emboldened by success, he went further with his experiments: he began to alter sentences and their meaning: and he was really skilful in it. The whole art of it consisted in preserving the general appearance of the sentence and its characteristic form while making it say exactly the opposite of what Christophe had meant. Mannheim took far more trouble to disfigure Christophe’s articles than he would have done to write them himself: never had he worked so hard. But he enjoyed the result: certain musicians whom Christophe had hitherto pursued with his sarcasms were astounded to see him grow gradually gentle and at last sing their praises. The staff of the Review were delighted. Mannheim used to read aloud his lucubrations to them. They roared with laughter. Ehrenfeld and Goldenring would say to Mannheim occasionally:
“Be careful! You are going too far.”
“There’s no danger,” Mannheim would say. And he would go on with it.
Christophe never noticed anything. He used to go to the office of the Review, leave his copy, and not bother about it anymore. Sometimes he would take Mannheim aside and say:
“This time I really have done for the swine. Just read. …”
Mannheim would read.
“Well, what do you think of it?”
“Terrible, my dear fellow, there’s nothing left of them!”
“What do you think they will say?”
“Oh! there will be a fine row.”
But there never was a row. On the contrary, everybody beamed at Christophe: people whom he detested would bow to him in the street. One day he came to the office uneasy and scowling: and, throwing a visiting card on the table, he asked:
“What does this mean?”
It was the card of a musician whom he slaughtered.
“A thousand thanks.”
Mannheim replied with a laugh:
“It is ironical.”
Christophe was set at rest.
“Oh!” he said. “I was afraid my article had pleased him.”
“He is furious,” said Ehrenfeld: “but he does not wish to seem so: he is posing as the strong man, and is just laughing.”
“Laughing? … Swine!” said Christophe, furious once more. “I shall write another article about him. He laughs best who laughs last.”
“No, no,” said Waldhaus anxiously. “I don’t think he is laughing at you. It is humility: he is a good Christian. He is holding out the other cheek to the smiter.”
“So much the better!” said Christophe. “Ah! Coward! He has asked for it: he shall have his flogging.”
Waldhaus tried to intervene. But the others laughed.
“Let him be. …” said Mannheim.
“After all …” replied Waldhaus, suddenly reassured, “a little more or less makes no matter! …”
Christophe went away. His colleagues rocked and roared with laughter. When they had had their fill of it Waldhaus said to Mannheim:
“All the same, it was a narrow squeak. … Please be careful. We shall be caught yet.”
“Bah!” said Mannheim. “We have plenty of time. … And besides, I am making friends for him.”
II
Engulfed
Christophe had got so far with his clumsy efforts towards the reform of German art when there happened to pass through the town a troupe of French actors. It would be more exact to say, a band; for, as usual, they were a collection of poor devils, picked up goodness knows where, and young unknown players too happy to learn their art, provided they were allowed to
