Nine months previously Kreisler had arrived in Paris at the Gare de Lyon, from Italy. He had left Rome, according to his account, because the Italian creditor is such a bad-tempered fellow, and he could never get any sleep after 8—or latterly 7.30—even, in the morning.
“Dear Colleague,—Expect me Thursday. I am at last quitting this wretched city. I hope that the room you mentioned is still free. Will come at once to your address. With many hearty greetings,—Yours,
Otto Kreisler.”
He had dispatched this note before leaving to a Herr Ernst Volker.—For some time he stood on the Paris platform, ulster thrown back, smoking a lean cigar, with a straw stuck in it. He was glad to be in Paris. How busy the women, intent on travel, were! Groups of town-folk, not travellers, stood like people at a show. Each traveller was met by a phalanx of uninterested faces beyond the gangway.
His standing on the platform was a little ceremonious and military. He was taking his bearings.[73] Body and belongings with him were always moved about with certain strategy. At last, with racial menace, he had his things swept together, saying heavily:
“Un viagre!”
Ernst Volker was not in, but had left word he would be there after dinner. It was in a pension. He rented a studio as well in the garden behind. The house was rather like a French Public Baths, two-storied, of a dirty purple colour. Kreisler looked up at it and felt that a very public sort of people must live there, looking big and idle in their rooms and constantly catching the eye of the stranger on the pavement. He was led to the studio in rear of the house, and asked to wait.
He turned round several long canvases and was astonished to find dashing ladies in large hats before him.
“Ha ha! Well, I’m damned! Bravo, Ernst!” he exploded in his dull solitude, extremely amused.
Volker had not done this in Rome.—Even there he had given indications of latent virtuosity, but had been curbed by classic presences. Since arriving in Paris he had blossomed prodigiously. He dealt out a vulgar vitality by the peck to each sitter, and they forgave him for making them comparatively “ugly.” He flung a man or woman on to nine feet of canvas and pummelled them on it for a couple of hours, until they promised to remain there or were incapable of moving, so to speak. He had never been able to treat people like this in any other way of life, and was grateful to painting for the experience. He always appeared to feel he would be expected to apologize for his brutal behaviour as an artist, and was determined not to do so.
A half-hour later, on his return, the servant told him somebody was waiting in the studio. With face not exhibiting joyful surprise, but rather the collected look of a man of business arriving at his office, he walked out quickly across the garden.
[74]
When he saw Kreisler the business look disappeared. Nothing of his private self remained for the moment, all engulfed in his friend’s personality.
“But, Ernst! What beautiful pictures! What pleasant company you left me to wait amongst!—How are you? I am glad to see you again!”
“Had a good journey? Your letter amused me!—So Rome became too hot?”
“A little! My dear chap, it was eine ganz verdammte klemme! In this last scuffle I lost—but I lost!—half the clothes off my back! But chiefly Italian clothes; that is fortunate!”
“Why didn’t you write?”
“Oh, it wasn’t serious enough to call for help.” He dismissed the out-of-date notion at once!—“This is a nice place you’ve got.”—Kreisler looked round as though measuring it. He noticed Volker’s discomfort. He felt he was examining something more intimate than the public aspect of a dwelling. It was as though his friend were expecting a wife, whom Kreisler had not met, to turn up suddenly.
“Have you dined?—I waited until eight. Have you…?”
“I should like something to eat. Can we get anything here?”
“I’m afraid not.—It’s rather late for this neighbourhood. Let’s take these things to your room—on the way—and go to the Grands Boulevards.”
They stayed till the small hours of the morning, in the midst of “Paris by Night” of the German bourgeois imagination, drinking champagne and toasting the creditors Kreisler had left behind in Rome.
Kreisler, measured by chairs or doors, was of immoderate physical humanity. He was of that select section, corporally, that exceed the mean. His long round thighs stuck out like poles. This large body lounged and poised beside Volker in massive control and over-reaching of civilized matter. It was in Rome or in Paris. It had an air of possession everywhere. Volker was stranger in Paris than his[75] companion, who had only just arrived. He felt a little raw and uncomfortable, almost a tourist. He was being shown “Paris by Night”; almost literally, for his inclinations had not taken him much to that side of the town.
Objects—cocottes, newsvendors, waiters—flowed through Kreisler’s brain without trouble or surprise. His heavy eyes were big gates of a self-centred city. It was just a procession. There was no trade in the town.
He was a property of Nature, or a favourite slave, untidy and aloof. Kreisler so real and at home was like a ghost sitting there beside him, for Ernst Volker. He had not had the time to solidify yet in Paris by all rights, and yet was so solid and accustomed at once. This body was in Paris now!—with an heroic freedom.
Volker began looking for himself. He was only made of cheap thin stuff. He picked up the pieces quietly. This large rusty machine of a man smashed him up like an egg-shell at every meeting. His shell grew quickly again, but never got hard enough.
He was glad to see him again! Kreisler was a good fellow.—Despite himself Ernst Volker was fidgety at the lateness of the hour. The next day Fr?ulein Bodenaar, who was sitting for him, was due at 9.30. But the first night of seeing his friend again—He drank rather more than usual, and became silent, thinking of his Westphalian home and his sister who was not very well. She had had a bicycle accident, and had received a considerable shock. He might spend the summer with her and his mother at Berck-sur-Mer or Calais. He would have gone home for a week or so now, only an aunt he did not like was staying there.
“Well, let’s get back!” said Kreisler, rather thoughtful, too, at all the life he had seen.