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Updated: June 24, 2025
But Waldhaus was still sore: his dignity had been outraged, and what made the affront more mortifying was that there had been witnesses. He would never forgive it. His colleagues joined chorus with him. Mannheim only of the staff of the Review was not angry with Christophe.
"Let him be...." said Mannheim. "After all ..." replied Waldhaus, suddenly reassured, "a little more or less makes no matter!..." Christophe went away. His colleagues rocked and roared with laughter. When they had had their fill of it Waldhaus said to Mannheim: "All the same, it was a narrow squeak.... Please be careful. We shall be caught yet." "Bah!" said Mannheim.
As for Mannheim he was royally amused by the farce: it seemed to him a good joke to have introduced this madman among these correct people, and he rocked with laughter both at the blows which Christophe dealt and at those which he received. And so he joined Waldhaus in supporting Christophe against the others.
In fine, there was only Waldhaus really who was in control of his fortune, and went into it wholeheartedly and reckless of cost, and bore that of the Review. He was a poet. He wrote "Polymetres" in the manner of Arno Holz and Walt Whitman, with lines alternately very long and very short, in which stops, double and triple stops, dashes, silences, commas, italics and italics, played a great part.
But for some weeks past the other papers had seemed to be beginning to disregard his inviolability: they had begun to attack his vanity as a writer with a rare malevolence in which, had Waldhaus been more subtle, he might have recognized the hand of a friend.
It is good of you!..." "I've a proposal for you.... Some friends and I: Adalbert von Waldhaus, Raphael Goldenring, Adolf Mai, and Lucien Ehrenfeld, have started a Review, the only intelligent Review in the town: the Dionysos. Will you take over our musical criticism?" Christophe was abashed by such an honor: he was longing to accept: he was only afraid of not being worthy: he could not write.
And do you know, and can you tell me where he is gone? Erard. No, papa. Only he said, when he set out for I was awake and heard him "Go by way of the heath." "He is then gone to Waldhaus," said Ethbert; "since the heath is on the direct road to the chateau." These are the fruits of Christian love! It is active, fervent, and does not put off until to-morrow the good that may be done to-day.
With the exception of Waldhaus, who belonged to one of the noble families of the neighborhood, they were all Jews and all very rich: Mannheim was the son of a banker: Mai the son of the manager of a metallurgical establishment: and Ehrenfeld's father was a great jeweler.
Waldhaus and Mannheim were there, talking to an actress whom they knew. They had no need to ask Christophe what brought him. Throwing a number of the Review on the table, Christophe let fly at them without stopping to take breath, with extraordinary violence, shouting, calling them rogues, rascals, forgers, thumping on the floor with a chair. Mannheim began to laugh. Christophe tried to kick him.
He looked him up at the theater once more after the performance to introduce him to Adalbert von Waldhaus and his friends. They welcomed him warmly.
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