This article was signed Arnold Spatzig. And if, instead of the name, had stood three stars, it would have been the same for Lensky; he would still have known whom he had to thank for this essay. For more than twenty years Arnold Spatzig had made a practice of insulting and vexing him; what wonder that he had become a master in this art? But until now he had confined himself to insulting Lensky the composer; the virtuoso had been too popular for him to venture to attack him before; and now--Lensky looked at the article again. "Nonsense--moral principle in art--lecture on musical morals--caricature--old scoundrel--nonsense! He has only injured Perfection by his partiality. The article is indeed well written, that is the foolishness. Distorted Tartar romanticism--that will please many--very many--" He struck his fist on the table, his throat contracted.
That critics frequently please themselves with thrusts at an old great man in order to pay homage to new ones, he knew. That the time might have already come for him, already now--that had never occurred to him. "What Lensky was--" he repeated. "The donkey treats me like a corpse whom one has forgotten to bury. I will show him that I still live, and that an old eagle is always more than a young sparrow!"
Hereupon the impressario, Herr Braun, entered. "A brilliant success yesterday," said he. "Affairs are coming round; we have great victories before us." He spread out a number of musical criticisms before the virtuoso, and then continued: "We must now consider where we will turn. Perhaps to Paris, and from thence to London. Or shall we first take Brussels?"
"Cut short all preparations in Paris," cried Lensky.
"What do you prefer?"
"Rome."
A momentary confusion takes possession of the agent. "H-m! The moment is not exactly favorable; Perfection has just--in Rome----"
The old violinist started up, he clapped the impressario on the chest; he was beside himself, his face was distorted with rage. "And shall I fear this street-boy?" he gasped. "I tell you, it is to be Rome!"
XXXVI.
Rome! Rome! The word had always had a particular ring for him. The most beautiful happiness of his life he had found in Rome--he had buried it in Rome.