“Else, you have met Herr Heilig, haven’t you? Franz, you remember Frau von Kohler?”
Else turned and surveyed Heilig coldly and sternly. Heilig answered her look with a stare that was equally unrelenting and hostile. There was a formidable quality in the mutual suspicion they displayed as their eyes met. George had observed the same phenomenon many times before in the encounters of Germans who were either total strangers or who did not know each other well. At once their defences would be up, as if each distrusted the other on sight and demanded full credentials and assurances before relenting into any betrayal of friendliness and confidence. George was used to this sort of thing by now. It was what was to be expected. Just the same, it never failed to be alarming to him when it happened. He could not accustom himself to it and accept it as an inevitable part of life, as so many of these Germans seemed to have done, because he had never seen anything like it at home, or anywhere else in the world before.
Moreover, between these two, the usual manifestations of suspicion were heightened by an added quality of deep, instinctive dislike. As they stood regarding each other, something flashed between them that was as cold and hard as steel, as swift and naked as a rapier thrust. These feelings of distrust and antagonism were communicated in a single moment’s silence; then Else inclined her head slightly and sternly and said in her excellent English, which had hardly a trace of accent and revealed its foreignness only by an occasional phrase and the undue precision of her enunciation:
“I believe we have met, at Grauschmidt’s party for George.”
“I belief so,” Heilig said. And then, after surveying her a moment longer with a look of truculent hostility, he said coldly: “And Grauschmidt’s drawing in ze Tageblatt—you did not like it—no?”
“Of George!” she spoke derisively, incredulously. Her stern face was suddenly illuminated with a radiant smile. She laughed scornfully and said: “This drawing by your friend, Grauschmidt—you mean the one that made George look like a wonderful and charming sugar-tenor?”
“You did not like it, zen?” said Heilig coldly.
“But ja!” she cried. “As a drawing of a Zuckertenor—as a drawing of Herr Grauschmidt, the way he is himself, the way he sees and feels—it is quite perfect! But George! It looks no more like George than you do!”
“Zen I may tell you somesing,” said Heilig coldly and venomously. “I sink zat you are very stupid. Ze drawing vas egg-zellent—everybody sought so. Grauschmidt himself said zat it vas vun of ze very best zat he has effer done. He likes it very much.”
“But natürlich!” Else said ironically, and laughed scornfully again. “Herr Grauschmidt likes so many things. First of all, he likes himself. He likes everything he does. And he likes music of Puccini,” she went on rapidly. “He sings Ave Maria. He likes sob-songs of Hilbach. He likes dark rooms with a red light and silken pillows. He is romantic and likes to talk about his feelings. He thinks: ‘We artists!’”
Heilig was furious. “If I may tell you somesing----” he began.
But Else now could not be checked. She took a short and angry step away, then turned again, with two spots of passionate colour in her cheeks:
“Your friend, Herr Grauschmidt,” she continued, “likes to talk of art. He says: ‘This orchestra is wonderful!’—he never hears the music. He goes to see Shakespeare, saying; ‘Mayer is a wonderful actor.’ He----”
“If I may tell you somesing----” Heilig choked.
“He likes little girls with high heels,” she panted. “He is in the Ess Ah. When he shaves, he wears a hair-dress cap. Of course his nails are polished. He has a lot of photographs—of himself and other great people!” And, panting but triumphant, she turned and walked away a few paces to compose herself.
“Zese bloody people!” Heilig grated. “0 Gott, but zey are dretful!” Turning to George, he said venomously: “If I may tell you somesing—zis person—zis voman—zis von Kohler zat you like so much—she iss a fool!”
“Wait a minute, Franz. I don’t think she is. You know what I think of her.”
“Vell, zen,” said Heilig, “you are wrong. You are mistaken. If I may say so, you are again also one big fool. Vell, zen, it does not matter,” he cried harshly. “I vill go and buy some cigarettes, and you can try to talk to zis damn stupid voman.” And, still choking with rage, he turned abruptly and walked away down the platform.