BUT one day, the fortnight having passed, he failed to put in an
appearance. I was heartily disappointed. I spent the rest of the
afternoon fathoms down in the blues—like an opium eater deprived of
his daily portion. It was Saturday, and as usual at nightfall the shop
filled up and the staff of waiters was kept busy. Toward ten o’clock,
long before which hour I had ceased altogether to expect him, the door
opened and my friend came in. He squeezed up between a couple of Germans
at one of the tables, and sat there smoking and reading an evening
paper. I had no opportunity to do more than acknowledge the smile of
greeting with which he favored me; and it chanced that the table at
which he was established fell under the jurisdiction of another waiter.
He consumed cigarette after cigarette and read his paper through to the
very advertisements on the last page; and still, while the other guests
came and went, he staid on. At the hour for shutting up he had not yet
shown any disposition to depart. His attendant carried off his empty
glass and hovered uneasily around his chair; but he failed to take the
hint. At length the proprietor began to turn out the lights. At this he
got up, buttoned his overcoat, waved a farewell at me, and passed beyond
the door.
I followed soon after. Turning up Second avenue, I felt a hand laid
gently upon my shoulder. “I have been waiting for you,” said my
friend. “Which way do you walk?” Without pausing for a reply, “You
won’t mind my walking with you?” and he linked his arm in mine.
“I was afraid I had seen the last of you for the day,” I answered.
“This is a pleasant surprise, I assure you.”
After a few yards in silence he resumed, “I say—oh, by the way, you
have never told me your name?”
“My name is Lexow.”
“What? Lexow?—Well, I say, Lexow, without being indiscreet, I should
like to ask how under the sun you ever came to be employed as you are
around in Herr Schwartz’s saloon.”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Oh come now; yes, you do understand, too,” he rejoined. “Don’t
take offense and be dignified—We’re both young men, and there’s no
use in trying to mystify each other. You needn’t tell me that you have
always been a waiter. You’re too intelligent, too much of a gentleman
in every way. I’m not blind; and it doesn’t require especially long
spectacles to perceive that you are something different from what you
would havens believe. I’ve seen a good deal of the world and I’m not
prone to romancing. So I don’t fancy that you’re a king in exile or
a Russian nobleman or any thing of that sort. But at the same time I’m
sure you’re capable of better things than waiting, and I want to know
what the trouble is, so that I can help to set you back on the right
track.”
“One confidence deserves another. I have told you my name, tell me
yours.”
“My name is Merivale, Daniel.—But don’t change the subject.”
“Well, Mr. Merivale, I will say then, that if any other man had spoken
to me as you have just done, I should certainly have been offended. I
say this not to reproach you, but to show by the fact that I’m not
offended how much I think of you. So you mustn’t take offense either
when I add that I should prefer to speak of other things.”
“After that I suppose I ought to consider myself snubbed. But, I
sha’n’., notwithstanding. I shall simply take the whole confession
for granted. Now, Mr. Mysterious, I will venture to make three
allegations of fact about you. Promise to set me right if I am wrong. I
assure you I am actuated by disinterested motives. All you will have to
do will be to say yes or no. Promise.”
“I can’t pledge myself blindfold. But if the ‘allegations of
fact’ are within certain limits, I will satisfy you—although I
repeat I would prefer a different subject.”
“Capital! Well, then, for a beginner: You are or were or have at some
time hoped to be, an artist of some sort—eh?”
“How did you find that out?”—The query escaped involuntarily.
For a moment a dread lest he might have discovered my true identity,
darkened my mind: but it was transitory.
“You indorse allegation number one! No matter how I found it out.
I don’t really know myself—unless it was by that instinct which
kindred spirits have for recognizing one another. But now for allegation
number two. Its form shall be negative. You are not a painter, a
sculptor, an actor, or a poet.”
“No, neither of them.”
“Brava! I could have sworn to it. Therefore you are a musician. And I
will have the hardihood to guess that your instrument is the violin.”
“I confess, Mr. Merivale, that you surprise me. You have divined the
truth, but for the life of me, I don’t see how.”
“Why, by the simplest of possible means. If one is only observing and
has a knack of putting two and two together, most riddles can easily
be undone. After our first interview I said, That fellow is above his
station; after our second, That fellow is an artist; after our third,
I’ll bet my head he is a musician. I have told you it was partly
instinct, that made me set you down for an artist. It was partly the
tone of your conversation—your tendency to warm up over matters
pertaining to the arts, and to cool down when our talk verged the other
way. Then a—a certain ignorance that you betrayed about pictures and
books and statuary helped on the process of elimination. I concluded
that you were a musician—which conclusion was strengthened by the fact
of your being a Jew. Music is the art in which the Jews excel. And one
day a chance attitude that you assumed, a twist of the neck, a hitch
of the shoulder, cried out Violin! as clearly as if by word of
mouth—though no doubt the wish fostered the thought, for I have always
had a predilection for violinists. Now I will go further and declare
that a chagrin of one kind or another is accountable for your present
mode of life. A few years ago I should have said: A woman in the
case—disappointment in love—and so forth. Now, having become more
worldly, I say: Fear of failure, lack of self-confidence. Answer.”
“Since you are such an adept at clairvoyance, I need not answer. But
don’t let this thing become one-sided. You too are an artist, as you
have hinted and as I had fancied. And your art is?”
“Guess. I’ll wager you’ll never guess.”
“No; I confess I am at a loss. You seem equally familiar with all the
arts. One moment I think you are a painter; the next, a sculptor. I’m
sure you’re not a musician. And on the whole it seems most probable
that you are in some way connected with literature. I don’t know
why.”
“Good! You have hit the nail on the head! In spite of my slangy speech
and my worldly wisdom, learn that I aspire to become a poet! the poet of
the practical, of the every day, of the passions of modern life. As yet,
however, I am, as the French put it, inédit. The magazines repudiate
me. I am too downright, too careless of euphemism, to suit their dainty
pages. But this is aside from the point. The point is that I want to
hear you play.”
“Impossible. For me music is a thing of the past. I haven’t touched
a violin these two years. I shall never touch one again.
“Bah, bah! Excuse my frankness, but don’t be a child. If you
haven’t touched your violin for two years, you have allowed two
precious years to leak away. All the more reason for stopping the leak
at once. Come in.”
“We had arrived in front of an English-basement house in Seventeenth
street.
“Come in,” he repeated. “This is where I live.”
“It is too late,” I said.
“Nonsense,” he retorted. “It is never too late. Advance!”