The Sluggard
by
Conductor Crossberg was fond of lying in bed in the morning, firstly, because he had to conduct the orchestra in the evening, and secondly, because he drank more than one glass of beer before he went home and to bed. He had tried once or twice to get up early, but had found no sense in it. He had called on a friend, but had found him asleep; he had wanted to pay money into the bank, but had found it still closed; he had gone to the library to borrow music, but it was not yet open; he had wanted to use the electric trams, but they had not yet started running. It was impossible to get a cab at this hour of the morning; he could not even buy a pinch of his favourite snuff; there was nothing at all for him to do. And so he had eventually formed the habit of staying in bed until late; and after all, he had no one to please but himself.
He loved the sun and flowers and children; but he could not live on the sunny side of the street on account of his delicate instruments, which were out of tune almost as soon as they were put into a sunny room.
Therefore, on the 1st of April, he took rooms which faced north. He was quite sure that there was no mistake about this, for he carried a compass on his watch-chain, and he could find the Great Bear in the evening sky.
So far, so good; but then the spring came, and it was so warm that it was really pleasant to live in rooms with a northern aspect. His bedroom joined the sitting-room; he always kept his bedroom in pitch-black darkness by letting down the Venetian blinds; there were no Venetian blinds in the sitting-room, because they were not wanted there.
And the early summer came and everything grew green. The conductor had dined at the restaurant “Hazelmount,” and had drunk a bottle of Burgundy with his dinner, and therefore he slept long and soundly, especially as the theatre was closed on that day.
He slept well, but while he slept it grew so warm in the room that he woke up two or three times, or, at any rate, he thought he did. Once he fancied that his wall-paper was on fire, but that was probably the effect of the Burgundy; another time he felt as if something hot had touched his face, but that was certainly the Burgundy; and so he turned over and fell asleep again.
At half-past nine he got up, dressed, and went into the sitting-room to refresh himself with a glass of milk which always stood ready for him in the morning.
It was anything but cool in the sitting-room this morning; it was almost warm, too warm. And the cold milk was not cold; it was lukewarm, unpleasantly lukewarm.
The conductor was not a hot-tempered man, but he liked order and method in everything. Therefore he rang for old Louisa, and since he made his first fifty remonstrances always in a very mild tone, he spoke kindly but firmly to her, as she put her head through the door.
“Louisa,” he said, “you have given me lukewarm milk.”
“Oh! no, sir,” replied Louisa, “it was quite cold, it must have got warm in standing.”
“Then you must have had a fire in the room; it’s very warm here this morning.”
No, Louisa had not had a fire; and she retired into the kitchen, very much hurt.
He forgave her for the milk. But a look round the sitting-room made him feel very depressed. I must tell you that he had built a little private altar in a corner, near the piano, which consisted of a small table with two silver candlesticks, a large photograph of a young woman, and a tall, gold-edged champagne glass. This glass–it was the glass he had used on his wedding-day, and he was a widower now–always contained a red rose in memory of and as an offering to her who once had been the sunshine of his life. Whether it was summer or winter, there was always a rose; and in the winter time it lasted a whole week, that is to say if he trimmed the stem occasionally and put a little salt into the water. Now, he had put a fresh rose into the glass only last night, and to-day it was faded, shrivelled up, dead, with its head drooping. This was a bad omen. He knew what sensitive creatures flowers are, and had noticed that they thrive with some people and not with others. He remembered how sometimes, in his wife’s lifetime, her rose, which always stood on her little work-table, had faded and died quite unexpectedly. And he had also noticed that this always happened when his sun was hiding behind a cloud, which after a while would dissolve in large drops to the accompaniment of a low rumbling. Roses must have peace and kind words; they can’t bear harsh voices. They love music, and sometimes he would play to the roses and they opened their buds and smiled.