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Authors: Christina Stead
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intoretirement to be groomed for a coup dâétat. This man of his time had come to Salzburg to polish himself off by rubbing shoulders with the cultivated, and to meet the Gold Trust. In the meantime, he spread sedulously his reputation for caustic repartee and looked through the proofs of a slight volume of neo-symbolist poems dedicated to his Lady of the Snows.
There was, among many, a M USICIAN there, a tall, broad-shouldered man with florid thick neck and face, who suffered from his antipathy to innumerable conductors. He would sweat at the beginning of a concert, lose his handkerchief, fish for it in all his pockets, cough, sweat, drop his music, tug at his tie, roll his piano-stool too low, sigh and get red to the roots of his hair. Only when his fingers touched the keyboard did he get calm again, and then the delight he felt at being at rest pervaded all his music. This musician was a kindly man, modest and unpretentious. He did not like to shine, but to drink beer and sit with a friend or two: his clothes were not smart, he was always embarrassed when eating in society, and he could never think of a witty reply. Nevertheless, when he began to speak, at last, and he was at his ease, it was the same thing as with his music; his ideas rolled out freely without a hitch and an elevated, regretful and sometimes revolutionary sentiment was heard in his words.
There was, among the last who came in when the actors were assembled on the stage, an A MERICAN B ROKER who had been, when young, an orator for the Democratic Party, and a musical prodigy, but he had left the orchestra because musicians have to enter the theatre through a side-door while the front-door is reserved for the do-nothings, the spectators; and he had left off speaking for the Democratic Party at the age of fifteen, when he was employed to go about the country to raise funds for the starving Armenians. He then invented the famous slogan:â
âFor hungry Armenians, American bread;
For sick Armenians, an American bed;
An American winding sheet for the Armenian dead.â
After this, he became private secretary to a man who invented a new type of female screw and thus made millions, and when the millionaire retired to his estates, our friend entered the office of a large broking and banking firm on Wall Street and devoted himself there to the various branches of high finance, that is, literature, the fine arts, the entertainment of senators, and duplicate book-keeping by high-powered electrical Lunar machines. On fine days he cut up ticker tape and threw it out of the window so that Tammany Hall would be able to justify the salaries it gave its street cleaners which were from 5,000 to 10,000 dollars a year for casual labour; and on wet days he went about putting gilt edges on South American certificates. He was a tall, slender gentleman with chestnut hair; he was educated at Groton and at Harvard, and wore a real pearl stud and the sign of Phi Beta Kappa on his watch-chain. He had an air of extreme refinement, although he spoke German with a perfect accent, and it was rumoured that he would be admitted to the Tennis and Racket Club. But, in private life, as they said in the magazines which gave his biography, he loved only big game fishing and exotic literature. When he spoke, his bright, brown eyes rolled, his tongue wallowed through a heavy swell of epithets and he had a jolly, rollicking style among men. He was a man whose feet were on earth, and who liked the smell of earth.
And there was last of all, a T OWN C OUNCILLOR of Salzburg, a very pleasant, honest and cultivated man, to whom everything must be ascribed: for he accompanied the men they called the Gold Trust, and the American Broker, and others into the Capuchin Wood the next morning. When they reached the outlook over the city and sat down, he began, by accident, to relate the history of a humble man who had lived in Salzburg and been a friend of his; and that was the first story
There was, among many, a M USICIAN there, a tall, broad-shouldered man with florid thick neck and face, who suffered from his antipathy to innumerable conductors. He would sweat at the beginning of a concert, lose his handkerchief, fish for it in all his pockets, cough, sweat, drop his music, tug at his tie, roll his piano-stool too low, sigh and get red to the roots of his hair. Only when his fingers touched the keyboard did he get calm again, and then the delight he felt at being at rest pervaded all his music. This musician was a kindly man, modest and unpretentious. He did not like to shine, but to drink beer and sit with a friend or two: his clothes were not smart, he was always embarrassed when eating in society, and he could never think of a witty reply. Nevertheless, when he began to speak, at last, and he was at his ease, it was the same thing as with his music; his ideas rolled out freely without a hitch and an elevated, regretful and sometimes revolutionary sentiment was heard in his words.
There was, among the last who came in when the actors were assembled on the stage, an A MERICAN B ROKER who had been, when young, an orator for the Democratic Party, and a musical prodigy, but he had left the orchestra because musicians have to enter the theatre through a side-door while the front-door is reserved for the do-nothings, the spectators; and he had left off speaking for the Democratic Party at the age of fifteen, when he was employed to go about the country to raise funds for the starving Armenians. He then invented the famous slogan:â
âFor hungry Armenians, American bread;
For sick Armenians, an American bed;
An American winding sheet for the Armenian dead.â
After this, he became private secretary to a man who invented a new type of female screw and thus made millions, and when the millionaire retired to his estates, our friend entered the office of a large broking and banking firm on Wall Street and devoted himself there to the various branches of high finance, that is, literature, the fine arts, the entertainment of senators, and duplicate book-keeping by high-powered electrical Lunar machines. On fine days he cut up ticker tape and threw it out of the window so that Tammany Hall would be able to justify the salaries it gave its street cleaners which were from 5,000 to 10,000 dollars a year for casual labour; and on wet days he went about putting gilt edges on South American certificates. He was a tall, slender gentleman with chestnut hair; he was educated at Groton and at Harvard, and wore a real pearl stud and the sign of Phi Beta Kappa on his watch-chain. He had an air of extreme refinement, although he spoke German with a perfect accent, and it was rumoured that he would be admitted to the Tennis and Racket Club. But, in private life, as they said in the magazines which gave his biography, he loved only big game fishing and exotic literature. When he spoke, his bright, brown eyes rolled, his tongue wallowed through a heavy swell of epithets and he had a jolly, rollicking style among men. He was a man whose feet were on earth, and who liked the smell of earth.
And there was last of all, a T OWN C OUNCILLOR of Salzburg, a very pleasant, honest and cultivated man, to whom everything must be ascribed: for he accompanied the men they called the Gold Trust, and the American Broker, and others into the Capuchin Wood the next morning. When they reached the outlook over the city and sat down, he began, by accident, to relate the history of a humble man who had lived in Salzburg and been a friend of his; and that was the first story
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