Tales from Bohemia | Page 8

lodging-house for a breath of winter air before going to bed, I met the two musicians coming in, carrying under their arms their violins in cases. They belonged to the orchestra at the ---- Theatre, and were returning from a dress rehearsal of the new comic opera that was to be produced there on the following night.
Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and passed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering gaslight.
The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in disposition his opposite. In his courteous, almost affectionate way, he stopped to have a word with me about the coldness of the weather and the danger of the icy pavements. "I'm t'ankful to be at last home," he said, showing his teeth with a cordial smile, as he removed the muffler from his neck, which I thought nature had sufficiently protected with an ample red beard. "Take my advice, my frient, tempt not de wedder. Stay warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera."
"Thanks for your solicitude," I said, "but I must have my walk. Play to your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into geniality. Good night."
The professor, with his usual kindliness, deprecated my thrust at the taciturnity of his countryman and confr��re, with a gesture and a look of reproach in his soft gray eyes, and we parted. I watched him until he disappeared at the first turn of the dingy stairs.
As I passed up the street, where I was in constant peril of losing my footing, I saw his windows grow feebly alight. He had ignited the gas in his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf.
My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of heart. Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, while his practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second violinist. When I commended his magnanimity he would say, with a smile:
"My frient, you mistake altogedder. I am de most selfish man. Charity cofers a multitude of sins. I haf so many sins to cofer."
We called him the professor because besides fulfilling his nightly and matin��e duties at the theatre, he gave piano lessons to a few pupils, and because those of us who could remember his long German surname could not pronounce it.
One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his friend Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival from Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned that he had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had departed the day before. The professor took him home, clothed him and cared for him until eventually another second violin was needed in the ---- Theatre orchestra.
Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, and he picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and waltzes.
All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk in that freezing weather. As I turned into Broadway, I was surprised to collide with my friend the doctor.
"I came out for a stroll and a bit to eat," I said. "Won't you join me? I know a snug little place that keeps open till two o'clock, where devilled crabs are as good as the broiled oyster."
"With pleasure," he replied, cordially, still holding my hand; "not for your food, but for your society. But do you know what you did when you ran against me at the corner? For a long time I've been trying to recall a certain tune that I heard once. Three minutes ago, as I was walking along, it came back to me, and I was whistling it when you came up. You knocked it quite out of mind. I'm sorry, for interesting circumstances connected with my first hearing of it make it desirable that I should remember it."
"I can never express my regret," I said. "But you may be able to catch it again. Where were you when it came back to you three minutes ago?"
"Two blocks away, passing a church. I think it was the shining of the electric light upon the stained glass window that brought it back to me, for on the night of the day when I first heard it in Paris a strong light was falling upon the stained glass windows of the church opposite the house in which I had apartments."
"Perhaps, then," I suggested, "the law of association may operate again if you