"Franz Mannheim."
He begged pardon for his indiscretion in listening to the argument, and congratulated Christophe on the maestria with which he had pulverized his opponents. He was still laughing at the thought of it. Christophe was glad to hear it, and looked at him a little distrustfully:
"Seriously?" he asked. "You are not laughing at me?"
The other swore by the gods. Christophe's face lit up.
"Then you think I am right? You are of my opinion?"
"Well," said Mannheim, "I am not a musician. I know nothing of music. The only music I like—(if it is not too flattering to say so)—is yours…. That may show you that my taste is not so bad…."
"Oh!" said Christophe skeptically, though he was flattered all the same, "that proves nothing."
"You are difficult to please…. Good!… I think as you do: that proves nothing. And I don't venture to judge what you say of German musicians. But, anyhow, it is so true of the Germans in general, the old Germans, all the romantic idiots with their rancid thought, their sloppy emotion, their senile reiteration which we are asked to admire, 'the eternal Yesterday, which has always been, and always will be, and will be law to-morrow because it is law to-day.' …!"
He recited a few lines of the famous passage in Schiller:
"… Das ewig Gestrige, Das immer war imd immer wiederkehrt…."