I shrugged my shoulders. Existence was not at that time very pleasant to me; my life’s hues were somewhat of the color of the autumn skies and of the dull river. I scarcely knew why I stood with the others now; it was more a mechanical pause before I took my spiritless way home, than because I felt any interest in what was going on.
“I should say he will be younger by a long way than old Kohler,” observed Karl Linders, one of the violoncellists, a young man with an unfailing flow of good nature, good spirits, and eagerness to enjoy every pleasure which came in his way, which qualities were the objects of my deep wonder and mild envy. “And they say,” he continued, “that he’s coming to-night; so Friedhelm, my boy, you may look out. Your master’s on the way.”
“So!” said I, lending but an indifferent attention; “what is his name?”
“That’s his way of gently intimating that he hasn’t got no master,” said Karl, jocosely, but the general answer to my question was, “I don’t know.”
“But they say,” said a tall man who wore spectacles and sat behind me in the first violins—“they say that von Francius doesn’t like the appointment. He wanted some one else, but Die Direktion managed to beat him. He dislikes the new fellow beforehand, whatever he may be.”
“So! Then he will have a roughish time of it!” agreed one or two others.
The “he” of whom they spoke was the coming man who should take the place of the leader of the first violins—it followed that he would be at least an excellent performer—possibly a clever man in many other ways, for the post was in many ways a good one. Our kapelle was no mean one—in our own estimation at any rate. Our late first violinist, who had recently died, had been on visiting terms with persons of the highest respectability, had given lessons to the very best families, and might have been seen bowing to young ladies and important dowagers almost any day. No wonder his successor was speculated about with some curiosity.
“Alle Wetter!” cried Karl Linders, impatiently—that young man was much given to impatience—“what does von Francius want? He can’t have everything. I suppose this new fellow plays a little too well for his taste. He will have to give him a solo now and then instead of keeping them all for himself.”
“Weiss ’s nit,” said another, shrugging his shoulders, “I’ve only heard that von Francius had a row with the Direction, and was outvoted.”