He went into the room. Stewart was lying very
still and breathing easily. On her knees beside
the bed knelt Marie. At Peter’s step she
rose and faced him.
“I am leaving him, Peter, for always.”
“Good!” said Peter heartily. “Better
for you and better for him.”
Marie drew a long breath. “The night train,”
she said listlessly, “is an express. I
had forgotten. It is double fare.”
“What of that, little sister?” said Peter.
“What is a double fare when it means life, liberty
and the pursuit of happiness? And there will
be happiness, little sister.”
He put his hand in his pocket.
The Portier was almost happy that morning. For
one thing, he had won honorable mention at the Schubert
Society the night before; for another, that night
the Engel was to sing Mignon, and the Portier had
spent his Christmas tips for a ticket. All day
long he had been poring over the score.
“‘Kennst du das Land wo die Citronen bluhen?’”
he sang with feeling while he polished the floors.
He polished them with his feet, wearing felt boots
for the purpose, and executing in the doing a sort
of ungainly dance—a sprinkle of wax, right
foot forward and back, left foot forward and back,
both feet forward and back in a sort of double shuffle;
more wax, more vigorous polishing, more singing, with
longer pauses for breath. “‘Knowest
thou the land where the lemon trees bloom?’”
he bellowed—sprinkle of wax, right foot,
left foot, any foot at all. Now and then he took
the score from his pocket and pored over it, humming
the air, raising his eyebrows over the high notes,
dropping his chin to the low ones. It was a wonderful
morning. Between greetings to neighbors he sang—a
bit of talk, a bit of song.
“’Kennst du das Land’—Good-morning,
sir—the old Rax wears a crown. It
will snow soon. ’Kennst du das Land wo die
Citronen’—Ah, madam the milk Frau,
and are the cows frozen up to-day like the pump?
No? Marvelous! Dost thou know that to-night
is Mignon at the Opera, and that the Engel sings?
’Kennst du das Land’—”
At eleven came Rosa with her husband, the soldier
from Salzburg with one lung. He was having a
holiday from his sentry duty at the hospital, and
the one lung seemed to be a libel, for while the women
had coffee together and a bit of mackerel he sang a
very fair bass to the Portier’s tenor. Together
they pored over the score, and even on their way to
the beer hall hummed together such bits as they recalled.
On one point they differed. The score was old
and soiled with much thumbing. At one point,
destroyed long since, the sentry sang A sharp:
the Portier insisted on A natural. They argued
together over three Steins of beer; the waiter, referred
to, decided for A flat. It was a serious matter
to have one’s teeth set, as one may say, for
a natural and then to be shocked with an unexpected
half-tone up or down! It destroyed the illusion;
it disappointed; it hurt.
