Kreisler’s student days—a lifetime in itself—had unfitted him, at the age of thirty-six, for practically anything. He had only lost one picture so far. This senseless solitary purchase depressed him whenever he thought of it. How dreary that cheque for four pounds ten was! Who could have bought it? It sold joylessly and fatally one day in an exhibition.
CHAPTER II
Nine months previously Kreisler had arrived in Paris at the Gare de Lyon, from Italy. He had left Rome, according to his account, because the Italian creditor is such a bad-tempered fellow, and he could never get any sleep after 8—or latterly 7.30—even, in the morning.
“Dear Colleague,—Expect me Thursday. I am at last quitting this wretched city. I hope that the room you mentioned is still free. Will come at once to your address. With many hearty greetings,—Yours,
Otto Kreisler.”
He had dispatched this note before leaving to a Herr Ernst Volker.—For some time he stood on the Paris platform, ulster thrown back, smoking a lean cigar, with a straw stuck in it. He was glad to be in Paris. How busy the women, intent on travel, were! Groups of town-folk, not travellers, stood like people at a show. Each traveller was met by a phalanx of uninterested faces beyond the gangway.
His standing on the platform was a little ceremonious and military. He was taking his bearings. Body and belongings with him were always moved about with certain strategy. At last, with racial menace, he had his things swept together, saying heavily:
“Un viagre!”
Ernst Volker was not in, but had left word he would be there after dinner. It was in a pension. He rented a studio as well in the garden behind. The house was rather like a French Public Baths, two-storied, of a dirty purple colour. Kreisler looked up at it and felt that a very public sort of people must live there, looking big and idle in their rooms and constantly catching the eye of the stranger on the pavement. He was led to the studio in rear of the house, and asked to wait.