He could have made what is commonly called a ‘brilliant career’ in the army, in government or in diplomacy, but he had deliberately discarded the idea out of scorn for the imbeciles, incompetents, rogues and vagabonds who ruled the state and to whom he referred as ‘fatheads’. Instead, he allowed himself the delicate pleasure of making under-secretaries feel his power—true power, the power derived from a non-official position. And he who was so friendly, so considerate, so tactful with waiters, coachmen, servants and postmen; who never failed to raise his hat when he asked a watchman or a hall-porter for some unimportant piece of information, assumed an almost unrecognisable countenance when he made one of his ‘influential’ démarches to the Chancellery, the Ministry of the Interior or to the Ministry of Education and Culture. An icy arrogance, like a transparent visor, froze his features. Even if he was moderately relaxed, good-natured even, as he passed the liveried porter at the gate, his detestation of officials grew visibly with every step he climbed, and by the time he had reached the top floor he gave the impression of a man who had come to sit in judgment at some terrible assizes. He was already known in several departments, and when he reached the official corridor and said in his dangerously quiet voice: ‘Inform the under-secretary that I am here!’ he was very seldom asked for his name. Should this happen he would repeat, if possible more quietly, ‘Inform him at once, please!’The word ‘please’, however, rang out rather more loudly.

He loved music, moreover, and for this reason, too, it seemed to be a shrewd move to seek his support for the Reisiger boy. He promised instantly to attend to everything the next day. His readiness to help was so immediate that I began to feel the prickings of conscience. I therefore asked him if he would not perhaps prefer to hold an audition of young Reisiger before moving on his behalf. At this he became very excited. ‘You may perhaps know your Slovenes,’ he said, ‘but I most certainly know my Galician Jews. The father’s name is Manes and he drives a fiaker, so you tell me. The son’s name is Ephraim, and this is quite enough for me. I am entirely convinced of the boy’s talent. I recognise it because of my sixth sense. My Galician Jews are capable of everything. Even ten years ago I did not care for them. Now I love them because these fatheads have begun to be anti-semitic. I shall just need to find out which gentlemen occupy the relevant seats and, particularly, which of them are anti-semites. Because I want to infuriate them with little Ephraim. I shall take the old man with me. I hope he looks properly Jewish.’

‘He wears a half-length kaftan,’ I said.

‘Good, good,’ cried Count Chojnicki, ‘that’s my man. You know, I’m no patriot but I love my fellow countrymen. A whole land, a Fatherland, is something abstract. But someone from the same part of the world is something concrete. I cannot love every single field of wheat or rye, or every Polish lady or gentleman. But a particular field, a particular copse or pond or person: à la bonheur! These I can see and grasp. They speak the language I love, and the whole basis for this love is in their individuality. Furthermore there are people who may have been born in China, Persia or Africa whom I would call fellow-countrymen.