ON the morrow morning our régime was inaugurated: and thenceforward
we kept it up regularly. From nine till one I wrote at his dictation.
The task was by no means irksome.
I enjoyed my friend’s poetry: and besides, we varied the business with
frequent interruptions for conversation and cigarettes. Merivale taught
me to smoke—a vice, if it be a vice, from which I have since derived
no little solace. At one o’clock our luncheon was served up to us by
the lady of the house: and the remainder of the day we employed as best
suited our fancy. Sometimes we would take turns at reading aloud. In
this way we read much of Browning and Rossetti, two poets till then
total strangers to me. Sometimes we would saunter about the lower
quarters of the city. Merivale never tired of the glimpses these
excursions afforded into the life of the common people. He maintained
that New York was the most picturesque city in the world, “thanks,”
he said, “to the presence of your people, the Jews.” Sometimes we
would visit the picture galleries, where my friend initiated me into the
enjoyment of a new art. Musician-like, I had theretofore cared little
and understood nothing about painting. Merivale was fond of quoting the
German dictum, “Das Sehen mussgelernt sein!”—it was all the German
he knew—and now he taught me to see.
I was in precisely the mood to appreciate this altered mode of existence
to the utmost. At Merivale’s touch the pain that for two years had
been as a lump in my throat was dissolved and diffused, tinging my life
with melancholy instead of consuming it with sullen, unremitting fever.
“The scowl,” declared my friend, “the scowl is merging into a
smile of sadness. ‘Tis a hopeful sign. By and by your cure will be
established. You have had a cancer, as it were. We have succeeded in
scattering the virus through the system. Now we will proceed to its
total eradication. I don’t know whether that is the course medical men
in general pursue: but it sounds plausible, and I’m sure it’s the
proper one for the present instance. Of course I don’t expect you ever
to rejoice in that unalloyed buoyancy of spirits which distinguishes
your servant: but you will become cheerful and contented; and the
Italians say, ‘Whoso is contented is happy.’.rdquo;
It seemed as if his predictions were being verified. Though at no
time did I cease to think of Veronika, though at no time did I become
insensible of the loss I had sustained, still the fact was that I
commenced to take an interest in what went on around me, commenced in a
certain sense to extract pleasure from my circumstances.
“You have been a dreadful egotist,” said Merivale, “profoundly
self-absorbed. It was inevitable that you should be for a while. But
there is no excuse for you to be so any longer. A purely selfish sorrow
is as much a self-indulgence as a purely selfish joy, and has as little
dignity. It dwarfs, enervates, demoralizes the soul: a platitude which
you would do well to memorize.”
At first I had hesitated to try a second experiment with the violin:
yet the very motive of my hesitancy—namely, the recollection of how
my feelings had got the best of me the last time—acted also as a
temptation. One day while Merivale was absent I tuned his Stradivari,
and with much the sensation of a fledgling launched upon a perilous
and uncertain flight, let my right arm have its way. The result was
encouraging. I determined that henceforward I should practice regularly.
The music brought me near to Veronika, and now I could endure this
nearness without quailing. Though it was by no means destitute of pain,
somehow the very pain was a luxury. Henceforth not a day passed without
my dedicating several hours to the violin. Merivale, as he had put
it, “scraped a little.” He had put it too modestly. He had already
learned to read with remarkable facility; and instruction profited
him to such a degree that he was soon able to sustain a very accurate
second. So when we were at loss for another occupation we would while
the hours away with Schubert’s songs.
We spent most of our evenings in-doors, chatting at the fireside.
Sometimes Merivale would take himself off to pay a visit in the town.
Then I would invariably fall to marveling at the change he had wrought
in my life. “It is certain,” I said, “that Destiny holds some
happiness still in store for you.” I was mistaken. Destiny was simply
granting me a momentary respite—drawing off, preparatory to delivering
her final culminating blow.
One night Merivale came home late. I, indeed, had already gone to bed.
He roused me by lighting the gas and crying, “Wake up, wake up; I have
something of the utmost importance to communicate.”
“Is the house afire?” I demanded, startled. “No; the house is all
right. But rub your eyes and open your ears. Do you know Dr. Rodolph?”
“The musical director?”
“The same.”
“Of course I know him by reputation. Do you mean personally? Why do
you ask?”
“Because—but that’s the point. First you must hear my story.
It’s the greatest stroke of luck that mortal ever had.”
“Well, go ahead.”
“I’m going ahead as rapidly as I can; only I’m so excited I hardly
know where to begin. I’ve actually run on foot all the way home. I
couldn’t wait for the horse-car, I was in such a hurry to announce
your good fortune. I’m rather out of breath.”
“Take your time, then. I possess my soul in patience.”
“Well, here’s the amount of it.—You see, Dr. Rodolph is a friend
of mine, and this evening I thought I would call upon him. The thought
proved to be a happy one, a veritable inspiration. I arrived just in the
nick of time. We hadn’t more than seated ourselves in the drawing-room
when the door-bell rang. Martha, the doctor’s daughter, went to answer
it; and presently back she came bearing a note for her father. The
doctor took it and asked permission to read it and broke it open. You
know what a nervous little man he is. Well, the next moment he began to
grow red, and his nostrils dilated, and his eyes flashed fire, and then
he crumpled up the paper and stamped his foot and uttered a tremendous
imprecation.”
“Oh, pray, don’t stop,” I said, as he paused for breath. “Your
narrative becomes thrilling.”
“Well, sir,” resumed Merivale, “I got quite alarmed. I rushed
up to the doctor’s side and ‘For mercy’s sake, what’s the
matter—no bad news, I hope,’ said I. ‘Bad news?’ says he, ‘I
should think it was bad news,’ giving his mane a toss. ‘To-day is
Friday, isn’t it? To-day we had our public rehearsal. To-morrow night
we have our concert. Good. Well, now at the eleventh hour what happens?
Why, the soloist sends word that “a sudden indisposition will make
it impossible for him to keep his engagement.” Ugh! I hope it is an
apoplexy, but I’m afraid it s nothing more nor less than rum. The
advertisements are all in the papers; the programme is arranged on the
assumption that he is to play; and now, late as it is, I shall have to
start out in search of a substitute.’ ‘Hold on a minute, doctor,’
said I. ‘What instrument did your soloist intend to play?’ ‘The
violin,’ says the doctor. ‘Hurrah!’ I rejoined, ‘then you need
seek no further!’ ‘What do you mean?’ asked he. ‘This,’ said
I, ‘that I will supply a substitute who can take the wind all out
of your delinquent’s sails.’ The doctor raised his eyebrows.
‘Nonsense,’ he said. ‘It isn’t nonsense,’ I replied, and
thereupon I told him about you—that is about your wonderful skill as
a fiddler. Well, of course the doctor was disinclined to believe in
you; said that excellence was not enough; the public would tolerate
mere excellence in a singer or in a pianist, but when it came to violin
solos, the public demanded something superlative or nothing at all; it
wasn’t possible that you could be up to the mark, because he had never
heard of you. Of course, if I said so, he had no doubt that you were a
good musician, but he had twenty good musicians in his orchestra. A good
musician wasn’t enough.—But I didn’t mean to be turned aside by
this sort of obstacle. I insisted. I said I had heard Joachim and all
the best players on the other side, and that you were able to give them
lessons. The doctor pooh-poohed me. ‘Don’t,’ he said, ‘don’t
damage your friend’s chances by exaggeration. I should be only too
much pleased if he should turn out to be a competent man; but you add
to my incredulity when you measure him with a giant like Joachim. At
any rate, I am willing to give him a trial. Bring him here to-morrow
morning.’ So to-morrow morning, bright and early, we will call upon
the doctor, and—and your fortune’s made!”
It required no little strength of mind to answer Merivale as I now had
to.
“You’re awfully kind, old boy,” I said. “It’s extremely hard
to be obliged to say no. But really, you don’t understand the level
of violin playing which a soloist must come up to. And you don’t
understand either what a mediocre executant I am. My technique is such
that I could barely pass muster among the second violinists in Doctor
Rodolph’s orchestra. It would be the height of effrontery for me to
present myself before him as a would-be soloist.”
“That is a matter for the doctor, and not for you, to decide. No man
can correctly estimate his own powers: you not more than the rest. All
I say is, come with me to call upon him to-morrow morning and leave the
consequences to his judgment.”
“You would not submit me to the humiliation of such a trial. After the
extravagances you have uttered concerning me, to show myself in my
own humble colors—the drop would be too great. But I may as well be
entirely candid. There are other reasons, final ones. I may as well
say right out that it will never be possible for me to play my violin
anywhere except here, between you and me: you know why.”
The light faded from Merivale’s eyes.
“Oh, don’t say that,” he pleaded. “After the trouble I’ve
taken, and after the promise I’ve made, and after the pleasure I’ve
had in picturing your delight, don’t say you won’t even go to see
the Doctor and give him a specimen. Don’t disappoint a fellow like
that.”
I stuck out obdurately. Merivale shifted from the attitude of one who
begs a favor to that of one who imposes a duty.
“Come,” he cried, “it is simply the old egotism reasserting
itself. You won’t play, forsooth, because it doesn’t suit your
humor. That, I say, is egotism of the worst sort. You—positively, you
make me ashamed for you. It is the part of a man to perform his task
manfully. What right have you, I’d like to know, what right have you
to hide your light under a bushel, more than another? Simply because the
practice of your art entails pain upon you, are you justified in resting
idle? Why, all great work entails pain upon the worker. Raphael never
would have painted his pictures, Dante never would have written his
Inferno, women would never bring children into the world, if the dread
of pain were sufficient to subdue courage and the sense of obligation.
It is the pain which makes the endeavor heroic. I have all due respect
for your feelings, Lexow; but I respect them only in so far as I believe
that you are able to master them. When I see them get the upper hand and
sap your manhood, then I counsel you to a serious battle with them.
The excuse you offer for not wishing to play to-morrow night is a puny
excuse. I will have none of it. To-morrow morning you will go with me
to Doctor Rodolph’s: and if after this homily you persist in your
refusal—well, you’ll know my opinion of you.”
Merivale would not listen to my protests. He got into bed and said,
“Good-night. Go to sleep. No use for you to talk. I’m deaf.
I’m implacable also; and to-morrow morning I shall lead you to
the slaughter. Prepare to trot along becomingly at my side, lambkin.
Goodnight.”
My efforts to beg off next morning were ineffectual.
“If you desire to forfeit my respect entirely,” he warned me,
“persist in this sort of thing.”
I permitted myself to be dragged by the arm through the streets to
Doctor Rodolph’s house.
The Doctor accorded me a skeptical welcome. Producing a composition
quite unfamiliar to me, he bade me read it at sight. I made up my mind
to do my best. The doctor sat in an easy chair during the first dozen
bars. Then he began to move nervously about the loom. Then, before I had
half finished, he cried out, “Stop—enough, enough.”
Disconcerted, I brought my bow to a standstill and exchanged a forlorn
glance with Merivale.
The doctor approached and looked me quizzically over from head to foot.
“Where did you study?” he inquired.
“In New York,” I answered.
“Have you ever played in public?”
“Not at any large affairs.”
“Do you teach?”
“I used to.”
“What—what did you say your name was?”
“Lexow.”
“Hum, it is odd I haven’t heard of you. Have you been in New York
long?”
“All my life.”
“Oh, yes; you said you studied here. Who were your masters?”