Jean Christophe: In Paris | Page 9

years. He asked them to be so kind as to give him a hearing. His spelling was wild, and his style was complicated by those long inversions and ceremonious formul? which are the custom in Germany. He addressed his letters: "To the Palace of the Academy of France." The only man to read his gave it to his friends as a joke.
After a week Christophe went once more to the publisher's office. This time he was in luck. He met Sylvain Kohn going out, on the doorstep. Kohn made a face as he saw that he was caught: but Christophe was so happy that he did not see that. He took his hands in his usual uncouth way, and asked gaily:
"You've been away? Did you have a good time?"
Kohn said that he had had a very good time, but he did not unbend. Christophe went on:
"I came, you know.... They told you, I suppose?... Well, any news? You mentioned my name? What did they say?"
Kohn looked blank. Christophe was amazed at his frigid manner: he was not the same man.
"I mentioned you," said Kohn: "but I haven't heard yet. I haven't had time. I have been very busy since I saw you--up to my ears in business. I don't know how I can get through. It is appalling. I shall be ill with it all."
"Aren't you well?" asked Christophe anxiously and solicitously.
Kohn looked at him slyly, and replied:
"Not at all well. I don't know what is the matter, the last few days. I'm very unwell."
"I'm so sorry," said Christophe, taking his arm. "Do be careful. You must rest. I'm so sorry to have been a bother to you. You should have told me. What is the matter with you, really?"
He took Kohn's sham excuses so seriously that the little Jew was hard put to it to hide his amusement, and disarmed by his funny simplicity. Irony is so dear a pleasure to the Jews--(and a number of Christians in Paris are Jewish in this respect)--that they are indulgent with bores, and even with their enemies, if they give them the opportunity of tasting it at their expense. Besides, Kohn was touched by Christophe's interest in himself. He felt inclined to help him.
"I've got an idea," he said. "While you are waiting for lessons, would you care to do some work for a music publisher?"
Christophe accepted eagerly.
"I've got the very thing," said Kohn. "I know one of the partners in a big firm of music publishers--Daniel Hecht. I'll introduce you. You'll see what there is to do. I don't know anything about it, you know. But Hecht is a real musician. You'll get on with him all right."
They parted until the following day. Kohn was not sorry to be rid of Christophe by doing him this service.
* * * * *
Next day Christophe fetched Kohn at his office. On his advice, he had brought several of his compositions to show to Hecht. They found him in his music-shop near the Opéra. Hecht did not put himself out when they went in: he coldly held out two fingers to take Kohn's hand, did not reply to Christophe's ceremonious bow, and at Kohn's request he took them into the next room. He did not ask them to sit down. He stood with his back to the empty chimney-place, and stared at the wall.
Daniel Hecht was a man of forty, tall, cold, correctly dressed, a marked Phenician type; he looked clever and disagreeable: there was a scowl on his face: he had black hair and a beard like that of an Assyrian King, long and square-cut. He hardly ever looked straight forward, and he had an icy brutal way of talking which sounded insulting even when he only said "Good-day." His insolence was more apparent than real. No doubt it emanated from a contemptuous strain in his character: but really it was more a part of the automatic and formal element in him. Jews of that sort are quite common: opinion is not kind towards them: that hard stiffness of theirs is looked upon as arrogance, while it is often in reality the outcome of an incurable boorishness in body and soul.
Sylvain Kohn introduced his protégé, in a bantering, pretentious voice, with exaggerated praises. Christophe was abashed by his reception, and stood shifting from one foot to the other, holding his manuscripts and his hat in his hand. When Kohn had finished, Hecht, who up to then had seemed to be unaware of Christophe's existence, turned towards him disdainfully, and, without looking at him, said:
"Krafft ... Christophe Krafft.... Never heard the name."
To Christophe it was as though he had been struck, full in the chest. The blood rushed to his cheeks. He replied angrily:
"You'll hear it later on."
Hecht took no notice, and went on