“Yes. … That does not make us young again. …” and stretched his legs.
After a yawn he added:
“… I beg pardon. … Did not sleep. … Supper at the theater last night. …” and yawned again.
Christophe hoped that Hassler would make some reference to what he had just told him, but Hassler, whom the story had not interested at all, said nothing about it, and he did not ask Christophe anything about his life. When he had done yawning he asked:
“Have you been in Berlin long?”
“I arrived this morning,” said Christophe.
“Ah!” said Hassler, without any surprise. “What hotel?”
He did not seem to listen to the reply, but got up lazily and pressed an electric bell.
“Allow me,” he said.
The little maid appeared with her impertinent manner.
“Kitty,” said he, “are you trying to make me go without breakfast this morning?”
“You don’t think I am going to bring it here while you have someone with you?”
“Why not?” he said, with a wink and a nod in Christophe’s direction. “He feeds my mind: I must feed my body.”
“Aren’t you ashamed to have someone watching you eat—like an animal in a menagerie?”
Instead of being angry, Hassler began to laugh and corrected her:
“Like a domestic animal,” he went on. “But do bring it. I’ll eat my shame with it.”
Christophe saw that Hassler was making no attempt to find out what he was doing, and tried to lead the conversation back. He spoke of the difficulties of provincial life, of the mediocrity of the people, the narrow-mindedness, and of his own isolation. He tried to interest him in his moral distress. But Hassler was sunk deep in the divan, with his head lying back on a cushion and his eyes half closed, and let him go on talking without even seeming to listen; or he would raise his eyelids for a moment and pronounce a few coldly ironical words, some ponderous jest at the expense of provincial people, which cut short Christophe’s attempts to talk more intimately. Kitty returned with the breakfast tray: coffee, butter, ham, etc. She put it down crossly on the desk in the middle of the untidy papers. Christophe waited until she had gone before he went on with his sad story which he had such difficulty in continuing. Hassler drew the tray towards himself. He poured himself out some coffee and sipped at it. Then in a familiar and cordial though rather contemptuous way he stopped Christophe in the middle of a sentence to ask if he would take a cup.
Christophe refused. He tried to pick up the thread of his sentence, but he was more and more nonplussed, and did not know what he was saying. He was distracted by the sight of Hassler with his plate under his chin, like a child, gorging pieces of bread and butter and slices of ham which he held in his fingers. However, he did succeed in saying that he composed, that he had had an overture in the Judith of Hebbel performed. Hassler listened absently.
“Was?” (What?) he asked.
Christophe repeated the title.
“Ach! So, so!” (Ah! Good, good!) said Hassler, dipping his bread and his fingers into his cup. That was all.
Christophe was discouraged and was on the point of getting up and going, but he thought of his long journey in vain, and summoning up all his courage he murmured a proposal that he should play some of his works to Hassler. At the first mention of it Hassler stopped him.
“No, no. I don’t know anything about it,” he said, with his chaffing and rather insulting irony. “Besides, I haven’t the time.”
Tears came to Christophe’s eyes. But he had vowed not to leave until he had Hassler’s opinion about his work. He said, with a mixture of confusion and anger:
“I beg your pardon, but you promised once to hear me. I came to see you for that from the other end of Germany. You shall hear me.”
Hassler, who was not used to such ways, looked at the awkward young man, who was furious, blushing, and near tears. That amused him, and wearily shrugging his shoulders, he pointed to the piano, and said with an air of comic resignation:
“Well, then! … There you are!”
On that he lay back on his divan, like a man who is going to sleep, smoothed out his cushions, put them under his outstretched arms, half closed his eyes, opened them for a moment to take stock of the size of the roll of music which Christophe had brought from one of his pockets, gave a little sigh, and lay back to listen listlessly.
Christophe was intimidated and mortified, but he began to play. It was not long before Hassler opened his eyes and ears with the professional interest of the artist who is struck in spite of himself by a beautiful thing. At first he said nothing and lay still, but his eyes became less dim and his sulky lips moved. Then he suddenly woke up, growling his surprise and approbation. He only gave inarticulate interjections, but the form of them left no doubt as to his feelings, and they gave Christophe an inexpressible pleasure. Hassler forgot to count the number of pages that had been played and were left to be played. When Christophe had finished a piece, he said:
“Go on! … Go on! …”
He was beginning to use human language.
“That’s good! Good!” he exclaimed to himself. “Famous! … Awfully famous! (Schrecklich famos!) But, damme!” He growled in astonishment. “What is it?”
He had risen on his seat, was stretching for wind, making a trumpet with his hand, talking to himself, laughing with pleasure, or at certain odd harmonies, just putting out
