At ten, and at half-past, the other comedian* had not yet put in an appearance. At last Tarr set out to make a rapid tour of the other Cafés. But Otto might be turning over a new leaf: he might be going to bed, as on the previous evening. He must not be again sought, though, on his own territory: the moral disadvantage of this position, on a man’s few feet of most intimate floor space, Tarr had too clearly realized to repeat the experiment.
The Café des Sports Aquatiques,* the most frequented of the Quarter, entered merely in a spirit of german thoroughness, turned out to be the one. More alert, and brushed up a little, Tarr thought, there sat Kreisler sure enough with another man, possessing a bearded, naïf, and rather pleasant face. No pile of saucers this time attended him. A Mokka was in front of each of them.
The stranger was a complication: perhaps the night’s affair should be put off until the conditions were more favourable. But Tarr’s vanity was impatient: his protracted stay in the original Café had made him nervous. On the other hand, it might come at once—an opposite complication: Kreisler might open hostilities upon the spot. This would rob Tarr of the subtle benefits to be derived from his gradual strategy. That must be risked.
He was not very calm. He crudely went up to Kreisler’s table and sat down. The necessary good humour was absent from his face: he had carefully preserved this expression for some time, even walking lazily and quietly as if he were carrying a jug of milk; now it vanished in a moment. Despite himself, he sat down opposite Kreisler as solemn as a judge, pale, his eyes fixed upon the object of his care with something like a scowl.
But, his first absorption in his own sensations lifting a little, he recognized that something very unusual was in the air.
Kreisler and his friend were not speaking or attending to each other at all: they were just sitting still and watchful, two self-possessed malefactors. The arrival of Tarr to all appearance disturbed and even startled them, as if they had been completely wrapped up in some engrossing game or conspiracy.
Kreisler had his eyes trained across the room. The other man, too, was turned slightly in that direction, although his eyes followed the tapping of his shoe against the ironwork of the table, and he only looked up occasionally.
Kreisler turned round, stared at Tarr without at once taking in who it was. ‘It’s only Bertha’s Englishman’ he seemed then to say: he took up his former wilful and patient attitude, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Tarr had grinned a little as Kreisler turned his way, rescued from his solemnity: there was just a perceptible twist in the German’s neck and shade of expression that would have said ‘Ah there you are? Well, be quiet, we’re having some fun. Just you wait!’
But Tarr was so busy with his own feelings that he didn’t quite understand this message: he wondered if he had been seen by Kreisler in the distance, and if this reception had been concerted between Otto and this other fellow. If so, why?
Sitting, as he was, with his back to the room, he stared at his neighbour. His late boon companion distinctly was waiting, with absurd patience, for something. The poise of his head, the set of his yellow prussian jaw, were truculent, although otherwise he was peaceful and attentive. His collar looked new rather than clean, it was of a dazzling white: his necktie was not one familiar to Tarr. Boots shone impassibly beneath the table.
Screwing his chair sideways, Tarr faced the room. It was full of people—very athletically dressed american men, all the varieties of the provincial in american women, powdering their noses and ogling Turks, or sitting, the younger ones, with blameless curiosity never at peace, and fine Schoolgirl Complexions:* and there were many many Turks, Mexicans, Russians and other ‘types’ for the american ladies! In the wide passage-way into the further rooms sat the orchestra, playing the ‘Moonlight Sonata.’*
In the middle of the room, at Tarr’s back, he now saw a group of eight or ten young men whom he had seen occasionally in the Café Berne. They looked rather german, but smoother and more vivacious: Poles or Austrians, then? Two or three of them appeared to be amusing themselves at his expense. Had they noticed the little drama that he was conducting at his table? Were they friends of Kreisler’s, too?
Tarr flushed and felt far more like beginning on them than on his complicated idiot of a neighbour, who had grown cold as mutton on his hands.
He had moved his chair a little to the right, towards the group at his back, and more in front of Kreisler, so that he could look into his face. On turning back now, and comparing the directions of the various pairs of eyes engaged, he at length concluded that he was without the sphere of interest; just without it.
At this moment Kreisler sprang up. His head was thrust forward, his hands were in rear, partly clenched and partly facilitating his swift passage between the tables by hemming in his lean sweeping coattails. The smooth round cloth at the top of his back, his smooth head above that, with no back to it, struck Tarr in a sudden way like a whiff of sweat: Germans had no backs to them, or were like polished pebbles behind, was the deliverance of this impression.
Tarr had mechanically moved his hand upwards from his lap to the edge of the table on the way to ward off a blow when Kreisler first rose to his feet: he was dazed by all the details of this meeting, and the peculiar miscarriage of his plan. But Kreisler brushed past him with the swift deftness of a person absorbed by some overmastering impulse. The next moment Tarr saw the party of young men he had been observing in a blur of violent commotion: Kreisler was in among them, working on something in their midst. There were two blows—smack—smack; an interval between them. He could not see who had received them.
Tarr then heard Kreisler shout in german:
‘For the second time to-day! Is your courage so slow that I must do it a third time?’
Conversation had stopped in the Café and everybody was standing. The companions of the man smacked, too, had risen in their seats: they were expostulating, in three languages. Several were mixed up with the waiters, who had rushed up to engage in their usual police work on such occasions. Over Kreisler’s shoulder, his eyes carbonized to a black sweetness, his cheeks a sweet sallow-white, with a red mark where Kreisler’s hand had been, Tarr saw the man his german friend had singled out. He had sprung towards his aggressor, but by that time Kreisler had been seized from behind and was being hustled towards the door. The blow seemed to hurt his vanity so much that he was standing half-conscious till the pain abated. He seemed to wish to brush the blow off, but was too vain to raise his hands to his cheek: it was left there like a scorching compress. It was surprising how much he seemed to mind. His friends—Kreisler wrenched away from them—were left standing in a group, in attitudes of violent expostulation and excitement.
Otto Kreisler receded in the midst of a band of waiters towards the door. He was resisting and protesting, but not too much to retard his quick exit. The Café staff had the self-conscious unconcern of civilian braves.*
The young man attacked and his friends were explaining what had happened, next, to the manager of the Café who had hastened to the scene. A waiter brought in a card upon a plate.* There was a new outburst of protest and contempt from the others. The plate was presented to the individual chiefly concerned, who brushed it away, as though he had been refusing a dish that a waiter was, for some reason, pressing upon him. Then suddenly he took up the card, tore it in half, and again waved away the persistent platter. The waiter looked at the manager of the Café and then returned to the door.
So this was what Kreisler and the little bearded man had been so busy about! Kreisler as well had laid his plans for the evening. And Tarr’s scheme was destined not to be realized—unless he followed Kreisler at once and got up a second row, a more good-natured one, just outside the Café? Should he go out now and punch Kreisler’s head, fight about a little bit, and then depart, his business done, and leave Kreisler to go on with his other row? For he felt that Kreisler intended making an evening of it. His companion had not taken part in the fracas, but had followe
d on his heels at his ejection, protesting with a vehemence that was intended to hypnotize.
Tarr felt relieved. Just at the moment when he had felt that he was going to be one of the principal parties to a violent scene, he had witnessed, not himself at all, but another man snatched up into his rôle. As he watched the man Kreisler had struck, he seemed to be watching himself. And yet he felt rather on the side of Kreisler. With a mortified chuckle he prepared to pay for his drink and be off, leaving Kreisler for ever to his very complicated, mysterious and turbulent existence.
Just then he noticed that Kreisler’s friend had come back again, and was talking to the man who had been struck. He could hear that they were speaking in russian or polish. With great collectedness, Kreisler’s emissary, evidently, was meeting their noisy expostulations. He could not at least, like a card, be torn in half! On the other hand, in his person he embodied the respectability of a visiting card. He was dressed with perfect ‘correctness’ suitable to such occasions and such missions as his appeared to be: by his gestures (one of which was the taking an imaginary card between his thumb and forefinger and tearing it in half) Tarr could follow a little the gist of his remarks.
‘That, sir’ he seemed to assert ‘is not the way to treat a gentleman. That, too, is an insult no gentleman will support.’ He pointed towards the door. ‘Herr Kreisler, as you know, cannot enter the Café; he is waiting there for your reply. He has been turned out like a drunken workman.’
The Russian was as grave as he was collected, and stood in front of the other principal in this affair, who had sat down again now, with the evident determination to get a different reply. The talking went on for some time. Then he turned towards Tarr, and, seeing him watching the discussion, came towards him, raising his hat. He said in french:
‘You know Herr Kreisler, I believe. Will you consent to act for him with me, in an affair that unfortunately—? If you would step over here, I will put you “au courant.” ’
‘I’m afraid I cannot act for Herr Kreisler, as I am leaving Paris early to-morrow morning’ Tarr replied.
But the Russian displayed the same persistence with him as he had already observed him to be capable of with the other people.
At last Tarr said ‘I don’t mind acting temporarily—for a few minutes, now, until you can find somebody else. Will that do? But you must understand that I cannot delay my journey—you must find a substitute at once.’
The Russian explained with business-like gusto and precision, having drawn him towards the door (seemingly to cut off a possible retreat of the enemy), that it was a grave affair. Kreisler’s honour was compromised. His friend Otto Kreisler had been provoked in an extraordinary fashion. Stories had been circulated concerning him, affecting seriously the sentiments of a girl he knew regarding him; put about with that object by another gentleman, also acquainted with this particular girl. The Russian luxuriated in his emphasis upon this point. Tarr suggested that they should settle the matter at once, as he had not very much time. He was puzzled. Surely the girl mentioned must be Bertha? If so, had Bertha been telling more fibs? Was the Kreisler mystery after all to her discredit? Perhaps he was now in the presence of another rival, existing unknown to him.
In this heroic, very solemnly official atmosphere of ladies’ ‘honour’ and the ‘honour’ of gentlemen, that the little Russian was rapidly creating, Tarr unwillingly remained for some time. Noisy bursts of protest from other members of the opposing party met the Russian’s points. ‘It is all nonsense’ they shouted; ‘there could be no question of honour here!—Kreisler was a quarrelsome German. Kreisler was drunk!’
Tarr liked his own farces: but to be drawn into the service of one of Kreisler’s was a humiliation. Kreisler, without taking any notice of him, had turned the tables in that matter.
The discussion was interminable. They were now speaking French: the entire Café appeared to be participating. Several times the principal on the other side attempted to go, evidently very cross at the noisy scene. Then Anastasya’s name was mentioned.
‘You and Herr Kreisler’ the Russian was saying patiently and distinctly ‘exchanged blows, I understand, this afternoon, before this lady. This was as a result of my friend Herr Kreisler demanding certain explanations from you which you refused to afford him. These explanations had reference to certain stories you are supposed to have circulated as regards him.’
‘Circulated—as regards—that chimpanzee you are conducting about?—what does the ape mean! What does he mean!’
‘If you please! By being abusive you cannot escape. You are accused by my friend of having at his expense—.’
‘Expense? Does he want money?’
‘If you please! Allow me! I am sorry! You cannot buy off Herr Kreisler; but he might be willing for you to pay a substitute if you find it—inconvenient—?’
‘I find you, bearded idiot—!’
‘We can settle all that afterwards sir. You understand me? I shall be quite ready! But at present it is the affair between you and Herr Kreisler—.’
In brief, it was the hapless Soltyk that Kreisler had eventually run to earth, and had just now publicly smacked, having some hours before smacked him privately.
CHAPTER 2
KREISLER’S afternoon encounter with Anastasya and Soltyk had resembled Tarr’s meeting with him and Bertha. Kreisler had seen Anastasya and his new Café friend one day from his window: his reference to possible nose-pulling was accounted for by this. The next day he had felt rather like looking Anastasya up again, his interest revived somewhat. With this object, he had patrolled the neighbourhood. About four o’clock, having just bought some cigarettes at the ‘Berne,’ he was standing outside considering a walk in the Luxembourg, when Fräulein Vasek appeared. Soltyk was with her. He went over at once. With urbane timidity, as though they had been alone, he offered his hand. She looked at Soltyk, smiling: but she seemed quite pleased to see Kreisler. They began strolling along the Boulevard, Soltyk showing every sign of impatience. She then stopped.
‘Mr. Soltyk and I were just going to have the “five o’clock”* somewhere’ she said.
Soltyk looked pointedly down the Boulevard, as though that had been an improper piece of information to communicate to Kreisler.
‘If you consent to my accompanying you, Fräulein, it would give me the greatest pleasure to remain in your company a little longer.’
She laughed. ‘Where were we going, Louis? Didn’t you say there was a place near here?’
‘There’s one over there. But I’m afraid, Fräulein Vasek, I must leave you.—I have—.’
‘Oh must you? I’m sorry.’
Soltyk had appeared mortified. He did not go, looking at her doubtfully and then at Kreisler, with an incredulous smile, suggesting that her joke was in bad taste and that she had better bring it to a conclusion. At this point Kreisler had addressed him.
‘I said nothing, sir, when a moment ago you failed to return my salute. I understand you were going to have tea with Fräulein Vasek. Now you deprive her suddenly of the pleasure of your company. So there is no further doubt on a certain point.—Will you tell me at once and clearly what objection you have to me?’
‘I don’t wish to discuss things of that sort before this lady, sir.’
‘Will you then name a place where they may be discussed? I will then take my leave?’
‘I see no necessity to discuss anything with you.’
‘Ah, you see none—I do. And perhaps it is as well that Fräulein Vasek should hear. Will you explain to me, sir, how it is that you have been putting stories about having reference to me, and to my discredit, calculated to prejudice my interests—since this lady no doubt has heard some of your lies, it would be of advantage that you take them back at once, or else explain yourself.’
Before Kreisler had finished, Soltyk said to Anastasya ‘I had better go at once, to save you this—.’ Then he turned to Kreisler:
‘I should have thought you would have had sufficient de
cency left—.’
‘Decency, liar? Decency, lying swine? Decency—? What do you mean?’ said Kreisler, loudly, in crescendo.
Then he crossed quickly over in front of Anastasya and smacked Soltyk smartly first upon one cheek and then upon the other.
‘There is liar branded on both your cheeks! And if you should not wish to have coward added to your other epithets, you or your friends will find me at the following address before the day is out.’ Kreisler produced a card and handed it to Soltyk.
Soltyk stared at him, paralysed for the moment at this outrage, his eyes burning with the sweet intensity Tarr had noticed later that day, taking in the incredible fact. He got the fact at last. He lifted his cane and brought it down on Kreisler’s shoulders. Kreisler snatched it from him, broke it in three and flung it in his face, one of the splinters making a little gash in his under-lip.
Anastasya had turned round and begun walking away, leaving them alone. Kreisler also waited no longer, but marched rapidly off in the other direction. Soltyk caught Anastasya up, and apologized for what had occurred, dabbing his lip with a handkerchief.
After this Kreisler felt himself fairly launched upon a most satisfactory little affair. Many an old talent would come in useful. He acted for the rest of the day with a gusto of professional interest. For an hour or two he stayed at home. No one came, however, to call him to account. Leaving word that he would soon be back, he went in search of a man to act for him. He remembered a Russian he had had some talk with at the Atelier, and whom he had once visited. He was celebrated for having had a duel and blinded his opponent.* His instinct now led him to this individual, who has already been seen in action: his qualifications for a second* were quite unique.
Kreisler found him just finishing work. He had soon explained what he required of him. With great gravity the solemn Otto set forth his deep attachment for a ‘beautiful girl,’ the discreditable behaviour of the Russian, who had sought to prejudice her against him: he gave in fact, a false picture of the situation in which the heart was substituted for the purse, and Anastasya for Vokt. His honour must now be satisfied: he would accept nothing less than reparation by arms: such was Kreisler, but he was that offended and deeply injured self with a righteous cynicism. He had explained such curiosities of the Kreisler geist to Vokt after the following manner: ‘I am a hundred different things; I am as many people as the different types of people I have lived amongst: I am a “Boulevardier” (he believed that on occasion he answered fully to that description), I am a “Rapin”—I am also a “Korps student.” ’
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