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He evidently thought it was a matter of life and death, and he drove on, without further ado. He whipped up the horse sharply. "What's the man's name?" he inquired, turning round on the box. "Kierulf, a dealer in wool Kierulf." And the driver, too, thought this was a man one would not be likely to make any mistake about. "Didn't he generally wear a light morning, coat?" "What!"
I inquire for Kierulf Joachim Kierulf, if I might add further a wool-dealer; in short, not a man one could make a mistake about.... The girl shook her head. "No Kierulf lives here," said she. She stared at me, and held the door ready to close it. She made no effort to find the man for me.
Kierulf, this dealer in wool, who has spooked in my brain so long this creature in whose existence I believe, and whom it was of vital importance that I should meet had vanished from my memory; was wiped out with many other mad whims which came and went in turns. I recalled him no longer, except as a reminiscence a phantom.
I cried; "a light morning-coat? Are you mad? Do you think it is a tea-cup I am inquiring about?" This light morning-coat came most inopportunely; it spoilt the whole man for me such as I had fancied him. "What was it you said he was called? Kierulf?" "Of course," I replied. "Is there anything wonderful in that? The name doesn't disgrace any one." "Hasn't he red hair?"
Schumann and Kierulf were his favorites, so he performed "Du bist die Ruh," "My loved one, I am prison'd" "Ich grolle nicht," "Die alten bösen Lieder," "I lay my all, love, at thy feet," "Aus meiren grossen Schmerzen mach' ich die kleinen Lieder" all with the same calm superiority, and that light, half-sportive accompaniment.
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