He went in. They had just finished dinner. His Highness was in one of the drawing-rooms. He was leaning against the mantelpiece, smoking, and talking to his guests, among whom Christophe saw his princess, who was also smoking. She was lying back in an armchair and talking in a loud voice to some officers who made a circle about her. The gathering was lively. They were all very merry, and when Christophe entered he heard the Grand Duke’s thick laugh. But he stopped dead when he saw Christophe. He growled and pounced on him.
“Ah! There you are!” he said. “You have condescended to come at last? Do you think you can go on making fun of me any longer? You’re a blackguard, sir!”
Christophe was so staggered by this brutal attack that it was some time before he could utter a word. He was thinking that he was only late, and that that could not have provoked such violence. He murmured:
“What have I done, Your Highness?”
His Highness did not listen and went on angrily:
“Be silent! I will not be insulted by a blackguard!” Christophe turned pale, and gulped so as to try to speak, for he was choking. He made an effort, and said:
“Your Highness, you have no right—you have no right to insult me without telling me what I have done.”
The Grand Duke turned to his secretary, who produced a paper from his pocket and held it out to him. He was in such a state of exasperation as could not be explained only by his anger: the fumes of good wine had their share in it, too. He came and stood in front of Christophe, and like a toreador with his cape, furiously waved the crumpled newspaper in his face and shouted:
“Your muck, sir! … You deserve to have your nose rubbed in it!”
Christophe recognized the socialist paper.
“I don’t see what harm there is in it,” he said.
“What! What!” screamed the Grand Duke. “You are impudent! … This rascally paper, which insults me from day to day, and spews out filthy insults upon me! …”
“Sire,” said Christophe, “I have not read it.”
“You lie!” shouted the Grand Duke.
“You shall not call me a liar,” said Christophe. “I have not read it. I am only concerned with reviews, and besides, I have the right to write in whatever paper I like.”
“You have no right but to hold your tongue. I have been too kind to you. I have heaped kindness upon you, you and yours, in spite of your misconduct and your father’s, which would have justified me in cutting you off. I forbid you to go on writing in a paper which is hostile to me. And further: I forbid you altogether to write anything in future without my authority. I have had enough of your musical polemics. I will not allow anyone who enjoys my patronage to spend his time in attacking everything which is dear to people of taste and feeling, to all true Germans. You would do better to write better music, or if that is impossible, to practise your scales and exercises. I don’t want to have anything to do with a musical Bebel who amuses himself by decrying all our national glories and upsetting the minds of the people. We know what is good, thank God. We do not need to wait for you to tell us. Go to your piano, sir, or leave us in peace!”
Standing face to face with Christophe the fat man glared at him insultingly. Christophe was livid, and tried to speak. His lips moved; he stammered:
“I am not your slave. I shall say what I like and write what I like …”
He choked. He was almost weeping with shame and rage. His legs were trembling. He jerked his elbow and upset an ornament on a table by his side. He felt that he was in a ridiculous position. He heard people laughing. He looked down the room, and as through a mist saw the princess watching the scene and exchanging ironically commiserating remarks with her neighbors. He lost count of what exactly happened. The Grand Duke shouted. Christophe shouted louder than he without knowing what he said. The Prince’s secretary and another official came towards him and tried to stop him. He pushed them away, and while he talked he waved an ashtray which he had mechanically picked up from the table against which he was leaning. He heard the secretary say:
“Put it down! Put it down!”
And he heard himself shouting inarticulately and knocking on the edge of the table with the ashtray.
“Go!” roared the Grand Duke, beside himself with rage. “Go! Go! I’ll have you thrown out!”
The officers had come up to the Prince and were trying to calm him. The Grand Duke looked apoplectic. His eyes were starting from his head, he shouted to them to throw the rascal out. Christophe saw red. He longed to thrust his fist in the Grand Duke’s face; but he was crushed under a weight of conflicting feelings: shame, fury, a remnant of shyness, of German loyalty, traditional respect, habits of humility in the Prince’s presence. He tried to speak; he could not. He tried to move; he could not. He could not see or hear. He suffered them to push him along and left the room.
He passed through the impassive servants who had come up to the door, and had missed nothing of the quarrel. He had to go thirty yards to cross the antechamber, and it seemed a lifetime. The corridor grew longer and longer as he walked up it. He would never get out! … The light of day which he saw shining downstairs through the glass door was his haven.
