Then Levy could keep silent no longer: “I know a little story about that master,” he exclaimed eagerly. “Two Parisian Jewish dealers had a good lunch together and then went down to the Salon des Indépendants. And there one of the Jews made a bet with the other that inside a year he would take up and make famous any one of the exhibitors. And the other Jew walked about a long time searching till he found the most hopeless and impossible painter in the whole gigantic exhibition. He chose this painter. But the other was not frightened. He quickly created for the tiger painter a new school of art, which was dubbed ‘naïvism’ and in one year he became, as a matter of fact, world-famous. There you see the power of advertisement and of the Jewish genius.”
Of course Hedvig in her inmost heart understood Levy much better than the picture. But we are all most sensitive about our lies. And she also grew angry because she felt again that she was losing her supremacy and began to feel unsafe. That’s why she regarded his blasphemous story as an insult to Percy’s memory.
“An artist may be great even though he has been run by an unscrupulous Jew,” she mumbled. “This picture was, as a matter of fact, bought before the Jews made it expensive. And it was the general opinion amongst my husband’s friends that it was a real find.”
Hedvig began an eager defence of the striped tigers and the ragged dried grass. She used expressions that she had heard on Percy’s lips during the art discussions down in Montparnasse and from the time when he tried in vain to convince her of the new ideals. She stole his phrases, his catchwords, his characteristic abbreviations, his little jokes and even his trick of bending his head on one side and looking through half-closed eyes.
So the game of “Chinese shades” was followed by a plundering of the dead. All that she could lay hands on was now used as a weapon against the insistent Levy. Truly, human beings play strange games with each other.
Levy suddenly looked very tired. There was something pathetic about his raised shoulders. He had one of his fits of inevitable truth-telling. But his quick, harsh voice was unsteady:
“Why do you lie to me, Hedvig?” he mumbled. “You were an enemy to all art whilst your husband was alive. Yes, I know it. And you are still to this day indifferent to all this. And all the same you let loose these striped tigers on me. Why can you never be sincere, Hedvig? Why are you so afraid that you must always lie?”
Hedvig froze up and was silent. Every nerve in her was chilled. Never had anyone dared to come so near to her. It seemed as if this man had dared to see more of her than she herself had seen. She kept absolutely motionless like an animal shamming death to escape a danger. And still,—did she not feel far, far within a sort of wild relief, something of the same kind as she had felt once when hearing Peter’s cynicisms, though deeper, finer....
Levy stretched out his hand:
“Good-night! I am a little tired. I must go now. I will look after your mortgage. Good-bye—till next time!”