Lotta Schmidt, and Other Stories. Anthony Trollope
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of nervousness he is done for the zither.”
“H—sh; let him have his chance at any rate,” said Marie.
Reader, did you ever hear the zither? When played, as it is sometimes played in Vienna, it combines all the softest notes of the human voice. It sings to you of love and then wails to you of disappointed love, till it fills you with a melancholy from which there is no escaping—from which you never wish to escape. It speaks to you as no other instrument ever speaks, and reveals to you with wonderful eloquence the sadness in which it delights. It produces a luxury of anguish, a fulness of the satisfaction of imaginary woe, a realisation of the mysterious delights of romance, which no words can ever thoroughly supply. While the notes are living, while the music is still in the air, the ear comes to covet greedily every atom of tone which the instrument will produce, so that the slightest extraneous sound becomes an offence. The notes sink and sink so low and low, with their soft sad wail of delicious woe, that the listener dreads that something will be lost in the struggle of listening. There seems to come some lethargy on his sense of hearing, which he fears will shut out from his brain the last, lowest, sweetest strain, the very pearl of the music, for which he has been watching with all the intensity of prolonged desire. And then the zither is silent, and there remains a fond memory together with a deep regret.
Herr Crippel seated himself on his stool and looked once or twice round about upon the room almost with dismay. Then he struck his zither, uncertainly, weakly, and commenced the prelude of his piece. But Lotta thought that she had never heard so sweet a sound. When he paused after a few strokes there was a noise of applause in the room, of applause intended to encourage by commemorating past triumphs. The musician looked again away from his music to his audience, and his eyes caught the eyes of the girl he loved; and his gaze fell also upon the face of the handsome, well-dressed, young Adonis who was by her side.
He, Herr Crippel the musician, could never make himself look like that; he could make no slightest approach to that outward triumph. But then, he could play the zither, and Fritz Planken could only play with his cane! He would do what he could! He would play his best! He had once almost resolved to get up and declare that he was too tired that evening to do justice to his instrument. But there was an insolence of success about his rival’s hat and trousers which spirited him on to the fight. He struck his zither again, and they who understood him and his zither knew that he was in earnest.
The old men who had listened to him for the last twenty years declared that he had never played as he played on that night. At first he was somewhat bolder, somewhat louder than was his wont; as though he were resolved to go out of his accustomed track; but, after awhile, he gave that up; that was simply the effect of nervousness, and was continued only while the timidity remained present with him. But he soon forgot everything but his zither and his desire to do it justice. The attention of all present soon became so close that you might have heard a pin fall. Even Fritz sat perfectly still, with his mouth open, and forgot to play with his cane. Lotta’s eyes were quickly full of tears, and before long they were rolling down her cheeks. Herr Crippel, though he did not know that he looked at her, was aware that it was so. Then came upon them all there an ecstasy of delicious sadness. As I have said before, every ear was struggling that no softest sound might escape unheard. And then at last the zither was silent, and no one could have marked the moment when it had ceased to sing.
For a few moments there was perfect silence in the room, and the musician still kept his seat with his face turned upon his instrument. He knew well that he had succeeded, that his triumph had been complete, and every moment that the applause was suspended was an added jewel to his crown. But it soon came, the loud shouts of praise, the ringing bravos, the striking of glasses, his own name repeated from all parts of the hall, the clapping of hands, the sweet sound of women’s voices, and the waving of white handkerchiefs. Herr Crippel stood up, bowed thrice, wiped his face with a handkerchief, and then sat down on a stool in the corner of the orchestra.
“I don’t know much about his being too old,” said Carl Stobel.
“Nor I either,” said Lotta.
“That is what I call music,” said Marie Weber.
“He can play the zither, certainly,” said Fritz; “but as to the violin, it is more doubtful.”
“He is excellent with both—with both,” said Lotta, angrily.
Soon after that the party got up to leave the hall, and as they went out they encountered Herr Crippel.
“You have gone beyond yourself to-night,” said Marie, “and we wish you joy.”
“Oh, no. It was pretty good, was it? With the zither it depends mostly on the atmosphere; whether it is hot, or cold, or wet, or dry, or on I knew not what. It is an accident if one plays well. Good-night to you. Good-night, Lotta. Good-night, Sir.” And he took off his hat, and bowed—bowed, as it were, expressly to Fritz Planken.
“Herr Crippel,” said Lotta, “one word with you.” And she dropped behind from Fritz, and returned to the musician. “Herr Crippel, will you meet me at Sperl’s to-morrow night?”
“At Sperl’s? No. I do not go to Sperl’s any longer, Lotta. You told me that Marie’s friend was coming to-night, but you did not tell me of your own.”
“Never mind what I told you, or did not tell you. Herr Crippel, will you come to Sperl’s to-morrow?”
“No; you would not dance with me, and I should not care to see you dance with anyone else.”
“But I will dance with you.”
“And Planken will be there?”
“Yes, Fritz will be there. He is always there; I cannot help that.”
“No, Lotta; I will not go to Sperl’s. I will tell you a little secret. At forty-five one is too old for Sperl’s.”
“There are men there every Sunday over fifty—over sixty, I am sure.”
“They are men different in their ways of life from me, my dear. No, I will not go to Sperl’s. When will you come and see my mother?”
Lotta promised that she would go and see the Frau Crippel before long, and then tripped off and joined her party.
Stobel and Marie had walked on, while Fritz remained a little behind for Lotta.
“Did you ask him to come to Sperl’s to-morrow?” he said.
“To be sure I did.”
“Was that nice of you, Lotta?”
“Why not nice? Nice or not, I did it. Why should not I ask him, if I please?”
“Because I thought I was to have the pleasure of entertaining you; that it was a little party of my own.”
“Very well, Herr Planken,” said Lotta, drawing herself a little away from him; “if a friend of mine is not welcome at your little party, I certainly shall not join it myself.”
“But, Lotta, does not everyone know what it is that Crippel wishes of you?”
“There is no harm in his wishing. My friends tell me that I am very foolish not to give him what he wishes. But I still have the chance.”
“Oh yes, no doubt you still have the chance.”
“Herr Crippel is a very good man. He is the best son in the world, and he makes two hundred florins a month.”
“Oh, if that is to count!”
“Of course it is to count. Why should it not count? Would the Princess Theresa have married the other day if the young prince had had no income to support her?”
“You can do as you please, Lotta.”
“Yes, I can do as I please, certainly. I suppose Adela Bruhl will be at Sperl’s to-morrow?”
“I should say so, certainly. I hardly ever knew her to miss her Sunday evening.”