a home pigeon welcoming back a wandering bird. Then the pair set out for the theatre.
Schmucke could not leave his friend in the condition to which he had been brought by the Camusots—mistresses and servants. He knew Pons so well; he feared lest some cruel, sad thought should seize on him at his conductor’s desk, and undo all the good done by his welcome home to the nest.
And Schmucke brought his friend back on his arm through the streets at midnight. A lover could not be more careful of his lady. He pointed out the edges of the curbstones, he was on the lookout whenever they stepped on or off the pavement, ready with a warning if there was a gutter to cross. Schmucke could have wished that the streets were paved with cotton-down; he would have had a blue sky overhead, and Pons should hear the music which all the angels in heaven were making for him. He had won the lost province in his friend’s heart!
For nearly three months Pons and Schmucke dined together every day. Pons was obliged to retrench at once; for dinner at forty-five francs a month and wine at thirty-five meant precisely eighty francs less to spend on bric-a-brac. And very soon, in spite of all that Schmucke could do, in spite of his little German jokes, Pons fell to regretting the delicate dishes, the liqueurs, the good coffee, the table talk, the insincere politeness, the guests, and the gossip, and the houses where he used to dine. On the wrong side of sixty a man cannot break himself of a habit of thirty-six years’ growth. Wine at a hundred and thirty francs per hogshead is scarcely a generous liquid in a gourmet’s glass; every time that Pons raised it to his lips he thought, with infinite regret, of the exquisite wines in his entertainers’ cellars.
In short, at the end of three months, the cruel pangs which had gone near to break Pons’ sensitive heart had died away; he forgot everything but the charms of society; and languished for them like some elderly slave of a petticoat compelled to leave the mistress who too repeatedly deceives him. In vain he tried to hide his profound and consuming melancholy; it was too plain that he was suffering from one of the mysterious complaints which the mind brings upon the body.
A single symptom will throw light upon this case of nostalgia (as it were) produced by breaking away from an old habit; in itself it is trifling, one of the myriad nothings which are as rings in a coat of chain-mail enveloping the soul in a network of iron. One of the keenest pleasures of Pons’ old life, one of the joys of the dinner-table parasite at all times, was the “surprise,” the thrill produced by the extra dainty dish added triumphantly to the bill of fare by the mistress of a bourgeois house, to give a festal air to the dinner. Pons’ stomach hankered after that gastronomical satisfaction. Mme. Cibot, in the pride of her heart, enumerated every dish beforehand; a salt and savor once periodically recurrent, had vanished utterly from daily life. Dinner proceeded without le plat couvert, as our grandsires called it. This lay beyond the bounds of Schmucke’s powers of comprehension.
Pons had too much delicacy to grumble; but if the case of unappreciated genius is hard, it goes harder still with the stomach whose claims are ignored. Slighted affection, a subject of which too much has been made, is founded upon an illusory longing; for if the creature fails, love can turn to the Creator who has treasures to bestow. But the stomach! … Nothing can be compared to its sufferings; for, in the first place, one must live.
Pons thought wistfully of certain creams—surely the poetry of cookery!—of certain white sauces, masterpieces of the art; of truffled chickens, fit to melt your heart; and above these, and more than all these, of the famous Rhine carp, only known at Paris, served with what condiments! There were days when Pons, thinking upon Count Popinot’s cook, would sigh aloud, “Ah, Sophie!” Any passer-by hearing the exclamation might have thought that the old man referred to a lost mistress; but his fancy dwelt upon something rarer, on a fat Rhine carp with a sauce, thin in the sauce-boat, creamy upon the palate, a sauce that deserved the Montyon prize! The conductor of the orchestra, living on memories of past dinners, grew visibly leaner; he was pining away, a victim to gastric nostalgia.
By the beginning of the fourth month (towards the end of January, 1845), Pons’ condition attracted attention at the theatre. The flute, a young man named Wilhelm, like almost all Germans; and Schwab, to distinguish him from all other Wilhelms, if not from all other Schwabs, judged it expedient to open Schmucke’s eyes to his friend’s state of health. It was a first performance of a piece in which Schmucke’s instruments were all required.
“The old gentleman is failing,” said the flute; “there is something wrong somewhere; his eyes are heavy, and he doesn’t beat time as he used to do,” added Wilhelm Schwab, indicating Pons as he gloomily took his place.
“Dat is alvays de vay, gif a man is sixty years old,” answered Schmucke.
The Highland widow, in The Chronicles of the Canongate, sent her son to his death to have him beside her for twenty-four hours; and Schmucke could have sacrificed Pons for the sake of seeing his face every day across the dinner-table.
“Everybody in the theatre is anxious about him,” continued the flute; “and, as the premiere danseuse, Mlle. Brisetout, says, ‘he makes hardly any noise now when he blows his nose.’ ”
And, indeed, a peal like a blast of a horn used to resound through the old musician’s bandana handkerchief whenever he raised it to that lengthy and cavernous feature. The President’s wife had more frequently found fault with him on that score than on any other.
“I vould gif a goot teal to amuse him,” said Schmucke, “he gets so dull.”
“M. Pons always seems so much above the like of us poor devils, that, upon my word, I didn’t dare to ask him to my wedding,” said Wilhelm Schwab. “I am going to be married—”
“How?” demanded Schmucke.
“Oh! quite properly,” returned Wilhelm Schwab, taking Schmucke’s quaint inquiry for a gibe, of which that perfect Christian was quite incapable.
“Come, gentlemen, take your places!” called Pons, looking round at his little army, as the stage manager’s bell rang for the overture.
The piece was a dramatized fairy tale, a pantomime called The Devil’s Betrothed, which ran for two hundred nights. In the interval, after the first act, Wilhelm Schwab and Schmucke were left alone in the orchestra, with a house at a temperature of thirty-two degrees Reaumur.
“Tell me your hishdory,” said Schmucke.
“Look there! Do you see that young man in the box yonder? … Do you recognize him?”
“Nefer a pit—”
“Ah! That is because he is wearing yellow gloves and shines with all the radiance of riches, but that is my friend Fritz Brunner out of Frankfort-on-the-Main.”
“Dat used to komm to see du blav und sit peside you in der orghestra?”
“The same. You would not believe he could look so different, would you?”
The hero of the promised story was a German of that particular type in which the sombre irony of Goethe’s Mephistopheles is blended with a homely cheerfulness found in the romances of August Lafontaine of pacific memory; but the predominating element in the compound of artlessness and guile, of shopkeeper’s shrewdness, and the studied carelessness of a member of the Jockey Club, was that form of disgust which set a pistol in the hands of a young Werther, bored to death less by Charlotte than by German princes. It was a thoroughly German face, full of cunning, full of simplicity, stupidity, and courage; the knowledge which brings weariness, the worldly wisdom which the veriest child’s trick leaves at fault, the abuse of beer and tobacco—all these were there to be seen in it, and
