“What a feast, Lisbeth!”
They opened the beer, uncorked the wine, smelled the fried sausages, and ate them smeared with mustard. Hurriedly, by huge mouthfuls, gulping down great swallows of the beer. They ended dancing around the room with enormous steps while singing at the top of their voices. Ulrich did side-splitting imitations of their professors and recited parts of Schiller’s Joan of Arc, a work every German child knows by heart, and in his baritone voice sang arias from Tristan while Franz accompanied him with Isolde’s notes and, in the solos, an imitation of the orchestra. Their fun abruptly ended when they heard a fist pounding on the door very energetically. Franz opened. He looked out and saw nothing. An imperious, deep-toned voice spoke and he looked down and there was the deformed figure of a dwarf, not so tall as his navel, glaring up at him with an infuriated face. He had tight lips surrounded by a mustache, a light but carefully trimmed beard. He was wrapped in a red silk bathrobe that clearly had been custom-tailored for him, for though it was a child’s in size, it had all the details of an adult garment: blue borders embroidered with pagodas and dragons, quilted black lapels, a wide tasseled belt. The dwarf picked up the end of his belt and shook its tassels in front of his nose and in his rich deep voice, really a beautiful voice, informed Franz that they had shattered his repose. One had a right to rest. The landlady had assured him that she kept a quiet and tranquil establishment, not a madhouse. Such a lack of respect for the rights of others was unworthy of beings calling themselves civilized. It was clear that as children they had not been taught even the most elementary courtesy. Franz offered apologies and tried to hide his drunken grin. They would not do it again. He promised. They had not known that the adjoining room was occupied now. “I moved in yesterday,” said the little man. “And tomorrow I am going to move out again if this outrageous uproar doesn’t stop.” Ulrich stepped forward and hoped that their offense would be forgiven and pledged that in the future their deportment would be a model of exemplitude and ended by inviting their new neighbor to have beer with them next Saturday in the afternoon. Without a word the dwarf looked at them, his face still furious, haughtily lifted his large head and turned and went back to his room.
But the following Saturday at five in the afternoon knuckles tapped lightly on their door. He was there again, tiny in the shadows of the hall. He did not smile but his expression was amiable. He entered holding a visiting card between his gloved fingers. With solemnity he extended it to Ulrich. Franz looked over Ulrich’s shoulder and read: Urs von Schnepelbrücke. Works of Art. Dolls repaired. Their guest slowly removed his gloves. He glanced inquisitively but briefly around the room. Then he seated himself on the divan. He had to put his hands down on the cushion and raise himself with great effort but finally succeeded and his short legs danced in the air, high-button shoes and gray spats. Now that his gloves were off, they could see his paint-stained hands, as disproportionately large as his enormous head. He waited silently, looking at them, until they remembered their manners and almost in unison gave him their names. Ulrich begged pardon for not having a visiting card to offer. The dwarf nodded and said that he could see their situation at a glance. But poverty is the customary lot of students. It is almost to be expected.
They were intensely curious about their visitor’s occupation, and while Ulrich took the promised beer from the refrigerator and opened and served it, Franz asked Herr von Schnepelbrücke if he found his new quarters a good place for his work. The dwarf savored the beer a moment and then drank, foaming his mustache. He spoke firmly and precisely: “One does not seek places for one’s work. They come to one naturally. The new apartment buildings on the outskirts of the city are very ugly. Here, on the contrary, I have only to glance out my window to receive inspiration.”
“Do you paint, sir?”
He touched his beard. “No, I am merely an illustrator, not a true artist. I have no pretensions to originality. I merely reproduce on canvas. The old buildings, the old streets, so that something will remain after they have been demolished and forgotten.” He lowered his voice and hesitated, as if he were uncertain whether to honor them with his confidences.
Franz asked whether he did not believe, therefore, that it would be wise to photograph everything.
“No. A camera has neither patience nor passion,” he replied gravely. “I do each of my paintings twice. Once when I see the scene with the eyes of repose, and again when my vision is exalted. And you may be certain that a great abyss lies between the two views.”
The conversation was difficult. Herr von Schnepelbrücke seemed to have a fondness for very polished phrases and moreover he voiced them with a lofty certainty. They were able to learn nothing. There remained, however, the second statement on his visiting card. Ulrich asked him if he earned his living by his illustrations.
“No. My paintings are for myself, although it is true that I have succeeded in placing several. I leave it to time to determine the destiny of my works. I have no dreams. Neither do I have patrons.”
His pedantry was beginning to irritate them.
He went on: “I live, I may say, by playthings. I repair dolls.” He extended his strong hands and moved the fingers. “My fingers have an astonishing flexibility. I can replace an eyelash, paint the tiniest lips, tie a wig together hair by hair. I have a certain clientele who bring me their little dolls bruised or broken by, usually, an excess of maternal love, and I put them right again with the same love. For to draw an eyebrow with the finest of brushes, to give back the blush to a faded cheek, these are labors of love and patience.”
They looked at him and did not know what to say. His rather jumpy eyes observed them with good humor. “Are not we Germans a kind and good people?” he asked unexpectedly. “To the point sometimes that we find ourselves quite boring. It is because we are innocents. And for the same reason our behavior is sometimes disproportionate. We have not had the experience that could dictate to us the proper limits of our actions. That is why, after we have gone too far, we can claim the forgiveness and pity innocence merits. One cannot be very severe with a child who tears off the arm of his doll. Have you ever watched a child do that? His little face twitches with a momentary pleasure. Then he sees what he has done and he bursts into tears. And so we must pat his head and fondle him, and repair the damage.” Herr von Schnepelbrücke finished his beer. He slipped down to the floor with the same awkwardness and difficulty he had had seating himself. He bowed to them.
“He was marvelous, Lizbeth. Marvelous. At any moment you expected the weight of his head to topple him over.”
You both laughed.
“He promised to return our hospitality at the earliest moment possible, and left us. To go back to his works of art and his dolls.”
“Wait,” you said, stretching your arm out. “When I was little, they used to tell me the story of General Tom Thumb.” You stretched your arm with an effort and finally reached the shoe you had dropped beside the bed. “General Tom Thumb was with Barnum’s circus. Queen Victoria made him a general.” Picking up the shoe, you turned and rose to your knees on the bed. The fly on the wall was motionless and unsuspecting. “He was famous in New England, for he was from Bridgeport. And in our apartment Javier has a reproduction of that painting by Velásquez.” Calculating, aiming, you swatted the fly with the shoe. The fly fell to the pillow. “Antonio, el inglés. With a rose on his shoulder and a plumed hat in his hand.” Franz picked up the fly and flipped it to the floor. “He’s carrying a little sword and he’s in a little suit embroidered with gold.”