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Schaaf, who entered the hallway in advance of the professor, responded to my greeting in his customary gruff, almost suspicious manner, and passed on, turning down the collar of his overcoat. His heavily bearded face was as gloomy-looking as ever in the light of the single flickering gaslight. The professor, although by birth a compatriot of the other, was in disposition his opposite.
I whistled it softly as I began to undress, until I heard the sound of the piano in the parlour down-stairs. Few of us ever touched that superannuated instrument. The only ones who ever did so intelligently were Schaaf and the professor. The latter was wont to visit the piano at any hour of the night.
The professor took him home, clothed him and cared for him until eventually another second violin was needed in the Theatre orchestra. Schaaf was now on his feet, for he was apt at the making of tunes, and he picked up a few dollars now and then as a composer of songs and waltzes. All of which has little to do, apparently, with my post-midnight walk in that freezing weather.
He had ignited the gas in his room, which was that of the professor's sinister friend Schaaf. My regard for the professor was born of his invariable goodness of heart. Never did I know him to speak an uncharitable word of any one, while his practical generosity was far greater than expected of a second violinist.
It passed over a part of the piano, bathed the professor's head in soft radiance, fell upon the carpet, and touched the base of the opposite wall. Upon a sofa, half in light, half in shadow, reclined Schaaf, who had fallen asleep listening while the professor played. The professor's face was uplifted and calm. Rapture and pain so often mutual companions were depicted upon it.
One proof of the professor's beneficence had been his rescue of his friend Schaaf on a bench in Madison Square one day, a recent arrival from Germany, muttering despondently to himself. The professor learned that he had been unable to secure employment, and that his last cent had departed the day before.
Leusden and Schaaf translate the Syriac thus: "Hoc autem, quod praecipio, non tanquam laudo vos, quia non progressi estis, sed ad id, quod minus est, descendistis." The only supper which he ever enjoined to Christians, was the latter. This spiritual supper was to be eternal and universal.
When the new opera was produced that evening the Theatre orchestra was unexpectedly minus two of its second violins, for Schaaf, half-distracted, was wandering the cold streets in search of his friend. When I tell you, my only friend, to whom I so rarely write and whom I more rarely see, that my lonely life has not been without love for woman, you will perhaps laugh or doubt.
Stay warm in de house and I play for you de music of de new opera." "Thanks for your solicitude," I said, "but I must have my walk. Play to your sombre friend, Schaaf, and see if you can soften him into geniality. Good night."
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