"And if you wish to see Beratinsky, I will take you to him. I find he
is at the Culturverein: I was going there myself." So Calabressa
suffered himself to be led away.
At this time the Culturverein used to meet in a large hall in a narrow
lane off Oxford Street. It was an association of persons, mostly
Germans, connected in some way or other with art, music, or letters--a
merry-hearted, free-and-easy little band of people, who met every
evening to laugh and talk and joke and generally forget the world and
all its cares. The evening usually began with Bavarian beer, sonatas,
and comic lectures; then Rhine wines began to appear, and of course
these brought with them songs of love, and friendship, and patriotism;
occasionally, when the older and wiser folk had gone, sweet champagne
and a wild frolic prevailed until daylight came to drive the revellers
out. Beratinsky belonged to the Verein by reason of his having at one
time betaken himself to water-color drawing, in order to keep himself
alive.
When Calabressa entered the large, long hall, the walls of which were
plentifully hung with sketches in color and cartoons in black and white,
the _fertig_!--_los_! period had not arrived.
Pages:
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280