Chapter III

The night after, he met the Schulzes at the concert in the City Hall. Herr Schulz always sat in the first row and championed foreign artists and blamed his own. That night the Russian Cossacks, visiting the city for two days, were giving a concert, and he presented them with an autograph copy of his book, _The God Triumphant_, and made a speech to them, sprinkling it with words that came most readily and, as he thought, appropriately to his lips: “Gorki ... Tolstoy ... Dostoevski ... the great Russian soul....” During the first interval they all sat down to refreshments. Herr Schulz held out his glass without a word. His daughter filled it.

After the concert they walked together down the slippery street, drifting along with a crowd of Herr Schulz’s admirers, in particular two middle-aged ladies, to whom Herr Schulz took the opportunity of presenting the new arrival from America. They seemed to hang upon every word that issued from the master--the master expatiating on the concert with his customary little gestures and taking off his hat and waving it to right and left, in acknowledgment of innumerable greetings.

“You have a lot of acquaintances,” Mr. Beck remarked.

“Yes, a lot of acquaintances, but not a single friend!--I come out with such aphorisms quite spontaneously, you know. _Ach_, if, like Goethe, I had an Eckermann to take them down! As it is, they are not taken down and are forgotten. Ah, wait a bit: the other day a splendid aphorism occurred to me: ‘The only decent people nowadays are to be found among the Jews.’”

“Come, try another!” the American commented to himself.

“Or this morning--‘What we call morality is merely envy.’”

“H’m.” There was a pause. “He was a great man--Goethe,” uttered Mr. Beck.

“Goethe was--I once put it so well--Goethe was the illegitimate child of the gods.”

“And Schiller?”

“Schiller was a fallen angel who, through a faultless life on earth, has redeemed his fall and secured his amnesty.”

“And Shakespeare?”

“Shakespeare--Shakespeare----” the Director fumbled. “Shakespeare----” It was clear that he was forced this time to make it up on the spot. “Shakespeare is a huge black angel.”

“Try another!” the American reflected.

“Shakespeare----!” Herr Schulz suddenly became excited. “It’s incredible.” He walked up and down. He waved his hat high in the air as if acknowledging the greetings of acquaintances (who were not there), then stopped dead. “It’s--it’s--it’s beyond words. _King Lear._ _Antony and Cleopatra._ _Hamlet._ It’s--it’s--it’s----”

“And Goethe too,” the American took up gratefully.

“Yes, Goethe! What a life the fellow had, long, rich, and complete. And he was understood. Goethe had Schiller. But I am alone: I have nobody.”

In bed, Mr. Beck pictured the wedding. Her dad showing off to advantage. What a splendid old fellow! Then the honeymoon, the bridal night, the return to her parents, the departure for the United States. Their married life when she would get used to him and find in him a vessel for her tenderest outpourings: when she would take him by the hand and, looking frankly in his eyes, would say:

“Mackintosh, I love you.”

Through his mind flashed pictures of travel, hotels in the hills, of evenings together, and kisses, caresses and love. And life seemed wonderful and miraculous and full of exquisite anticipations.