“I am very sorry,” she began, “but the reputation of my
house—but the other lodgers—but—”
“You needn’t apologize,” I interposed, and left the house.
It occurred to me that it would be necessary to find work whereby to
earn my livelihood. I had quite forgotten that I was poor. What should I
do?
The notion of giving music lessons again I could not entertain. Music
had become hateful to me. I could not touch my violin. I could not
even unlock the case and look at the instrument. It was too closely
associated with the cause of my sorrow. The mere memory of a strain
of music, drifting through my mind, was enough to cut my heart like a
knife. Music was out of the question.
I had had a little money in the Savings Bank. With this sum I had
intended to furnish the rooms which she and I were to have occupied!
Now it was all spent; three-quarters swallowed up by the expenses of my
trial, the residue by the expenses of my illness and the landlady’s
score for rent. I opened my purse. I had less than a dollar left. So it
behooved me to lose no time. I must find a means of support at once.
But music apart, what remained?—My wits were sluggish. Revolving
the problem over and over as I walked along, they could arrive at no
solution.
We were in December. The day was bitter cold. I had not proceeded a
great distance before the cold began to tell upon me. “I must step in
somewhere and warm myself,” I said. I was still feeble. I could not
endure the stress of the weather as I might have done formerly. I made
for the first shop I saw.
It was a wine-shop, kept by a German, as the name above the door
denoted. I took a table near the stove and asked for a glass of wine.
As my senses thawed, I became aware that a quarrel was going on in the
room—angry voices penetrated my hearing.
The proprietor, a fat man in his shirt-sleeves, stood behind the bar.
His face was very red! In his native tongue loudly and volubly he was
berating one of his assistants—a waiter with a scared face.
“Go, go at once. You are a rascal, a good-for-naught,” he was
saying; “here is your money. Clear out, before I hurt you.”
The culprit was nervously untying his apron strings. “Yes, sir,
at once, at once,” he stammered. In the end he put on his hat and
accomplished a frightened exit. His confreres watched his decapitation
with repressed sympathy.
After he had gone, the proprietor’s wrath began perceptibly to
mitigate. He settled down in his chair. The tint of his skin gradually
cooled. He lighted a cigar. He picked up a newspaper.
I had taken in these various proceedings mechanically, without bestowing
upon them any special attention. But now an idea, prompted by them,
began to fructify. By and by I approached the counter and ventured a
timid, “I beg your pardon.”
The proprietor glanced up.
“I beg your pardon,” I continued in German, “but you have
discharged a waiter!”
“Well?” he responded.
“Well, you will probably need somebody to take his place?”
“Well? What of it?”
“I—I—that is, if you think I would do, I should like the
employment.”
The proprietor looked thoughtful. He scratched his chin, puffed
vigorously at his cigar, and asked my name. He shook his head when
I confessed that I had had no experience of the business; but seemed
impressed by my remark that on that account I would be willing to serve
for smaller wages. He mentioned a stipend. It was ridiculously slender;
but what cared I? It would keep body and soul together. I desired
nothing more.
“What references can you give?” he inquired.