And he went on with his compliments.
Christophe cut him short, and said angrily:
“I am not taken in. Now that I am old and have ‘arrived,’ you are using me to suppress the young men. When I was a young man you would have suppressed me in just the same way. You must play this boy’s piece, or I shall withdraw my own.”
The manager threw up his hands, and said:
“But don’t you see that if we did what you want, it would look as if we were giving in to these newspaper attacks?”
“What do I care?” said Christophe.
“As you please! You will be their first victim.”
They put the young musician’s piece into rehearsal without interrupting the preparation of Christophe’s. One was in three acts, the other in two: it was arranged to include them both in one program. Christophe went to see the young man, for he wanted to be the first to give him the news. The musician was loud in his promises of eternal gratitude.
Naturally Christophe could not make the manager not devote all his attention to his piece. The interpretation and the scenery of the other were rather scamped. Christophe knew nothing about it. He asked to be allowed to be present at a few rehearsals of the young man’s opera: he thought it very mediocre, as he had been told: he ventured to give a little advice which was ill-received: he gave it up then, and did not interfere again. On the other hand, the manager had made the young man admit the necessity for a little cutting to have his piece produced in time. Though the sacrifice was easily consented to at first, it was not long before the author regretted it.
On the evening of the performance the beginner’s piece had no success, and Christophe’s caused a sensation. Some of the papers attacked Christophe: they spoke of a trick, a plot to suppress a great young French artist: they said that his work had been mutilated to please the German master, whom they represented to be basely jealous of the coming fame of all the new men. Christophe shrugged his shoulders and thought:
“He will reply.”
“He” did not reply. Christophe sent him one of the paragraphs with these words:
“Have you read this?”
The other replied:
“How sorry I am! The writer of it has always been so well disposed towards me! Really, I am very sorry. The best thing is to pay no attention to it.”
Christophe laughed and thought: “He is right! The little sneak.”
And he decided to forget all about it.
But chance would have it that Georges, who seldom read the papers, and that hastily, except for the sporting articles, should light on the most violent attacks on Christophe. He knew the writer. He went to the café where he knew he would meet him, found him, struck him, fought a duel with him, and gave him a nasty scratch on the shoulder with his rapier. Next day, at breakfast, Christophe had a letter from a friend telling him of the affair. He was overcome. He left his breakfast and hurried to see Georges. Georges himself opened the door. Christophe rushed in like a whirlwind, seized him by the arms, and shook him angrily, and began to overwhelm him with a storm of furious reproaches.
“You little wretch!” he cried. “You have fought a duel for me! Who gave you leave! A boy, a fly-by-night, to meddle in my affairs! Do you think I can’t look after myself? What good have you done? You have done this rascal the honor of fighting him. He asked no more. You have made him a hero. Idiot! And if it had chanced … (I am sure you rushed at it like a madman as usual) … if you had been wounded, killed perhaps! … You wretch! I should never have forgiven you as long as you lived! …”
Georges laughed uproariously at this last threat, and was so overcome with merriment, that he cried:
“My dear old friend, how funny you are! Ah! You’re unique! Here are you insulting me for having defended you! Next time I shall attack you. Perhaps you’ll embrace me then.”
Christophe stopped and hugged Georges, and kissed him on both cheeks, and then once more he said:
“My boy! … Forgive me. I am an old idiot. … But my blood boiled when I heard the news. What made you think of fighting? You don’t fight with such people. Promise me at once that you will never do it again.”
“I’ll promise nothing of the kind,” said Georges. “I shall do as I like.”
“I forbid it. Do you hear? If you do it again, I’ll never see you again. I shall publicly disown you in the newspapers I shall. …”
“You will disinherit me, you mean.”
“Come, Georges. Please. What’s the good of it?”
“My dear old friend, you are a thousand times a better man than I am, and you know infinitely more: but I know these people better than you do. Make yourself easy. It will do some good. They will think a little now before they let loose their poisonous insults upon you.”
“But what can these idiots do to me? I laugh at anything they may say.”
“But I don’t. And you must mind your own business.”
Thereafter Christophe lived on tenterhooks lest some fresh article might rouse Georges’s susceptibilities. It was quite comic to see him during the next few days going to a café and devouring the newspapers, which he never read as a rule, ready to go to all lengths (even to trickery) if he found an insulting article, to prevent it reaching Georges. After a week he recovered his
