“I shall tap him tomorrow morning as soon as he is up before he knows anything.”
“I cannot accept,” said Christophe, “knowing that he would not like it.”
“It does not concern you: you know nothing about it.”
Christophe had unfolded the ticket:
“And what would I do with a box for four?”
“Whatever you like. You can sleep in it, dance if you like. Take some women. You must know some? If need be we can lend you some.”
Christophe held out the ticket to Mannheim:
“Certainly not. Take it back.”
“Not I,” said Mannheim, stepping back a pace. “I can’t force you to go if it bores you, but I shan’t take it back. You can throw it in the fire or even take it virtuously to the Grünebaums. I don’t care. Good night!”
He left Christophe in the middle of the street, ticket in hand, and went away.
Christophe was unhappy about it. He said to himself that he ought to take it to the Grünebaums: but he was not keen about the idea. He went home still pondering, and when later he looked at the clock he saw that he had only just time enough to dress for the theater. It would be too silly to waste the ticket. He asked his mother to go with him. But Louisa declared that she would rather go to bed. He went. At heart he was filled with childish glee at the thought of his evening. Only one thing worried him: the thought of having to be alone in such a pleasure. He had no remorse about Mannheim’s father or the Grünebaums, whose box he was taking: but he was remorseful about those whom he might have taken with him. He thought of the joy it could give to other young people like himself: and it hurt him not to be able to give it them. He cast about but could find nobody to whom he could offer his ticket. Besides, it was late and he must hurry.
As he entered the theater he passed by the closed window on which a poster announced that there was not a single seat left in the office. Among the people who were turning away from it disappointedly he noticed a girl who could not make up her mind to leave and was enviously watching the people going in. She was dressed very simply in black; she was not very tall; her face was thin and she looked delicate; and at the moment he did not notice whether she were pretty or plain. He passed her: then he stopped, turned, and without stopping to think:
“You can’t get a seat, Fräulein?” he asked point-blank.
She blushed and said with a foreign accent:
“No, sir.”
“I have a box which I don’t know what to do with. Will you make use of it with me?”
She blushed again and thanked him and said she could not accept. Christophe was embarrassed by her refusal, begged her pardon and tried to insist, but he could not persuade her, although it was obvious that she was dying to accept. He was very perplexed. He made up his mind suddenly.
“There is a way out of the difficulty,” he said. “You take the ticket. I don’t want it. I have seen the play.” (He was boasting). “It will give you more pleasure than me. Take it, please.”
The girl was so touched by his proposal and the cordial manner in which it was made that tears all but came to her eyes. She murmured gratefully that she could not think of depriving him of it.
“Then, come,” he said, smiling.
He looked so kind and honest that she was ashamed of having refused, and she said in some confusion:
“Thank you. I will come.”
They went in. The Mannheims’ box was wide, big, and faced the stage: it was impossible not to be seen in it if they had wished. It is useless to say that their entry passed unnoticed. Christophe made the girl sit at the front, while he stayed a little behind so as not to embarrass her. She sat stiffly upright, not daring to turn her head: she was horribly shy: she would have given much not to have accepted. To give her time to recover her composure and not knowing what to talk to her about, Christophe pretended to look the other way. Whichever way he looked it was easily seen that his presence with an unknown companion among the brilliant people of the boxes was exciting much curiosity and comment. He darted furious glances at those who were looking at him: he was angry that people should go on being interested in him when he took no interest in them. It did not occur to him that their indiscreet curiosity was more busied with his companion than with himself and that there was more offense in it. By way of showing his utter indifference to anything they might say or think he leaned towards the girl and began to talk to her. She looked so scared by his talking and so unhappy at having to reply, and it seemed to be so difficult for her to wrench out a “Yes” or a “No” without ever daring to look at him, that he took pity on her shyness, and drew back to a corner. Fortunately the play began.
Christophe had not seen the play bill and he hardly cared to know what part the great actress was playing: he was one of those simple people who go to the theater to see the play and not the actors. He had never wondered whether the famous player would be Ophelia or the Queen; if he had wondered about it he would have inclined towards the Queen, bearing in mind the ages of the two ladies. But it could never have occurred to him that she would play Hamlet. When he saw Hamlet, and heard his mechanical dolly squeak, it was some time before he could believe it; he wondered if he were not dreaming.
“But who? Who
