If you know the St. Nicholas--and if you don't you should make its
acquaintance at once--you won't breakfast upstairs in that gorgeous room
overlooking the street where immaculate, smilelees waiters move
noiselessly about, limp palms droop in the corners, and the tables are
lighted with imitation wax candles burning electric wicks hooded by
ruby-colored shades, but you will stumble down a dark, crooked staircase
to the left of the office-desk, push open a swinging, green baize door
studded with brass tacks, pass a corner of the bar resplendent in cut
glass, and with lowered head slip into a little box of a place built
under the sidewalk.
Here of an afternoon thirsty gentlemen sip their cocktails or sit
talking by the hour, the smoke from their cigars drifting in long lines
out the open door leading to the bar, and into the caffè beyond. Here in
the morning hungry habitues take their first meal--those whose
life-tickets are punched with much knowledge of the world, and who,
therefore, know how much shorter is the distance from where they sit to
the chef's charcoal fire.
Marny has one of these same ragged life-tickets bearing punch-marks
made the world over, and so whenever I journey his way we always
breakfast together in this cool, restful retreat, especially of a
Sunday morning.
On one of these mornings, the first course had been brought and eaten,
the cucumbers and a' special mysterious dish served, and I was about to
light a cigarette--we were entirely alone--when a well-dressed man
pushed open the door, leaned for a moment against the jamb, peered into
the room, retreated, appeared again, caught sight of Marny, and settled
himself in a chair with his eyes on the painter.
I wondered if he were a friend of Marny's, or whether he had only been
attracted by that glow of geniality which seems to radiate from
Marny's pores.
The intruder differed but little in his manner of approach from other
strangers I had seen hovering about my friend, but to make sure of his
identity--the painter had not yet noticed the man--I sent Marny a
Marconi message of inquiry with my eyebrows, which he answered in the
negative with his shoulders.
The stranger must have read its meaning, for he rose quickly, and, with
an embarrassed look on his face, left the room.
"Wanted a quarter, perhaps," I suggested, laughing.
"No, guess not. He's just a Diffendorfer. Always some of them round
Sunday mornings. That's a new one, never saw him before. In town over
night, perhaps."
"What's a Diffendorfer?"
"Did you never meet one?"
"No, never heard of one."
"Oh, yes, you have; you've seen lots of them."
"Do they belong to any sect?"
"No."
"What are they, then?"
"Just Diffendorfers. Thought I'd told you about one whom I knew. No?
Wait till I light my cigar; it's a long story."
"Anything to do with the fellow who's just gone out?"
"Not a thing, though I'm sure he's one of them. You'll find
Diffendorfers everywhere. First one I struck was in Venice, some years
ago. I can pick them out now at sight." Marny struck a match and lighted
his cigar. I drew my cup of coffee toward me and settled myself in my
chair to listen.
"You remember that little smoking-room to the right as you enter the
Caffè Quadri," he began; "the one off the piazza? Well, a lot of us
fellows used to dine there--Whistler, Rico, Old Ziem, Roscoff, Fildes,
Blaas, and the rest of the gang.
"Jimmy was making his marvellous pastels that year" (it is in this
irreverent way that Marny often speaks of the gods), "and we used to
crowd into the little room every night to look them over. We were an
enthusiastic lot of Bohemians, each one with an opinion of his own about
any subject he happened to be interested in, and ready to back it up if
it took all night. Whistler's pastels, however, took the wind out of
some of us who thought we could paint, especially Roscoff, who prided
himself on his pastels, and who has never forgiven Jimmy to this day.
"Well, one night, Auguste, the headwaiter--you remember him, he used to
get smuggled cigarettes for us; that made him suspicious; always thought
everybody was a spy--pointed out a man sitting just outside the room on
one of the leather-covered seats. Auguste said he came every evening and
got as close as he could to our table without attracting attention;
close enough, however, to hear every word that was said. If I knew the
man it was all right; if I didn't know him, he suggested that I keep an
eye on him.
"I looked around, and saw a heavy-featured, dull-looking man about
twenty-five, dressed in a good suit of well-cut clothes, shiny
stove-pipe silk hat, high collar with a good deal of necktie, a big
pearl pin, and a long gold watch-chain which went all around his neck
like an eye-glass ribbon. He had a smooth-shaven face, two keen eyes, a
flat nose, square jaw, and a straight line of a mouth.
"I didn't know the man, didn't want to know him, fellows in silk hate
not being popular with us, and I didn't keep an eye on him except long
enough to satisfy myself that the man was only one of those hungry
travellers who was adding to his stock of information by picking up the
crumbs of conversation which fell from the tables, and not at all the
kind of a person who would hold me or anybody else up in a _sotto
portico_ or chuck me over a bridge. Then again, I was twenty pounds
heavier than he was, and could take care of myself.
"Some nights after this I was dining alone, none of the boys having
shown up owing to a heavy rain, when Auguste nudged me, and there sat
this stranger within ten feet of my table. He dropped his eyes when he
saw me looking at him, and began turning the sheets of a letter he had
in his hand. I was smoking one of Auguste's cigarettes, and checking the
mènu with a lead-pencil, when it slipped from my hand and rolled between
the man's feet. He rose, picked up the pencil, laid it beside my plate,
and without a word returned to his seat, that same curious, inquisitive,
hungry look on his face you saw a moment ago on that fellow's who has
just gone out. Auguste, of course, lost all interest in my dinner. If he
wasn't after me then he was after him; both meant trouble for Auguste.
"I shifted my chair, opened the 'Gazetta' to serve as a screen, and
looked the fellow over. If he were following me around to murder me, as
Auguste concluded--he always had some cock-and-bull story to tell--he
was certainly very polite about it. I could see that he was not an
Italian, neither was he a German nor a Frenchman. He looked more like a
well-to-do Dutchman--like one of those young fellows you and I used to
see at the Harmonie Club in Dordrecht, or on the veranda of the Amstel,
in Amsterdam. They look more like Americans than any other people
in Europe.
"The next night I was telling the fellows some stories, they crowding
about to listen, when Auguste whispered in my ear. I turned, and there
he was again, his eyes watching every mouthful I swallowed, his ears
taking in everything that was said. The other fellows had noticed him
now, and had christened him 'Marny's Shadow.' One of them wanted to ask
him his business, and fire him into the street if it wasn't
satisfactory, but I wouldn't have it. He had said nothing to me or
anybody else, nor had he, so far as I knew, followed me when I went out.
He had a perfect right to dine where he pleased if he paid for it--and
he did--so Auguste admitted, and liberally, too. He could look at whom
he pleased. The fact is, that but for Auguste, who was scared white half
the time, fearing the Government would get on to his cigarette game, no
one would have noticed him. Besides, the fellow might have his own
reasons for remaining incog., and if he did we all knew he wouldn't have
been the first one.
"A few days after this I was painting up the Zattere near San
Rosario--I was making the sketch for that big Giudeeca picture--the one
that went to Munich that year--you remember it?--lot of figures around a
fruit-stand, with the church on the right and the Giudeeca and Lagoon
beyond--and had my gondolier Marco posing some twenty feet away with his
back turned toward me, when my mysterious friend walked out from a
little _calle_ tins side of the church, looked at Marco for a moment
without turning his head--he didn't see me--and stopped at a door next
to old Pietro Varni's wine-shop. He hesitated a moment, looking up and
down the Zattere, opened the door with a key which he took from his
pocket, and disappeared inside. I beckoned to Marco, and sent him to the
wine-shop to find Pietro. When he came (Pietro was agent for the
lodging-rooms above, and let them out to swell painters--we couldn't
afford them--fifty lira a week, some of them more) I said:
"'Pietro, did you see the chap that went upstairs a few moments ago?'
"'Yes, signore.'
"'Do you know who he is?'
"'Yes, he is one of my gentlemen. He has the top floor--the one that
Signore Almadi used to live in. The Signore Almadi is gone away.'
"'How long has he been here?'
"'About a month.'
"'Is he a painter?
"'No, I don't think so.'
"'What is he, then?'
"'Ah, Signore, who can tell? At first his letters were sent to me--now
he gets them himself. The last were from Monte Carlo, from the
Hotel--Hotel--I forget the name. But why does the Signore want to know?
He pays the rent on the day--that is much better.'
"'Where does he come from?'
"Pietro shrugged his shoulders.
"'That will do, Pietro.'
"There was evidently nothing to be gotten out of him.
"The next day we had another rainstorm--regular deluge. This time it
came down in sheets; campos running rivers; gondolas half full of water,
everything soaked. I had a room in the top of the Palazzo da Mula on the
Grand Canal just above the Salute and within a step of the traghetto of
San Giglio. By going out of the rear door and keeping close to the wall
of the houses skirting the Fondamenta San Zorzi, I could reach the
traghetto without getting wet. The Quadri was the nearest caffè, anyhow,
and so I started.
"When I stepped out of the gondola on the other side of the canal and
walked up the wooden steps to the level of the Campo, my mysterious
friend moved out from under the shadow of the traghetto box and stood
where the light from the lantern hanging in front of the Madonna fell
upon his face. His eyes, as usual, were fixed on mine. He had evidently
been waiting for me.
"I thought I might just as well end the thing then as at any other time.
There was no question now in my mind that the fellow meant business.
"I turned on him squarely.
"'You waiting for me?'
"'Yes.'
"'What for?'
"'I want you to go to dinner with me.'
"'Where?'
"'Anywhere you say.'
"'I don't know you.'
"'Yes, that's what I thought you would say.'
"'Do you know me?'
"'No.'
"'Know my name?'
"'Yes, your name's Marny.'
"'What's yours?'
"'Mine's Diffendorfer.'
"'Where do you want to dine?'
"'Anywhere you say. How will the Quadri do?'
"'In a private room?' I said this to see how he would take it. He still
stood in the full glare of the lantern.
"'No, unless you prefer. I would rather dine downstairs--more people
there.'
"'All right--lead the way, I'll follow.'
"It was the worst night that you ever saw. Hardly a soul in the
streets. It had set in for a three days' storm, I knew; we always had
them in Venice during December. My friend kept right on without looking
behind him or speaking to me; over the bridge, through the Campo San
Moisè and so on to the _Piazza_ and the caffè. There were only half a
dozen fellows inside when we entered. These greeted me with the yell of
welcome we always gave each other on entering, and which this time I
didn't return, I knew they would open their eyes when they saw us sit
down together, and I didn't want any complications by which I would be
obliged to introduce him to anybody. I hated not to be decent, but you
see I didn't know but I'd have to hand him over to the police before I
was through with him, and I wanted the responsibility of his
acquaintance to devolve on me alone. Roscoff either wouldn't or didn't
take in the situation, for he came up when we were seated, leaned over
my chair, and put his arm around my neck. I saw a shade of
disappointment cross my companion's face when I didn't present Roscoff
to him, but he said nothing. But I couldn't help it--I didn't see
anything else to do. Then again, Roscoff was one of those fellows who
would never let you hear the end of it if anything went wrong.
"The man looked at the bill of fare steadily for some minutes, pushed it
over to me, and said: 'You order.'
"There was nothing gracious in the way he said it--more like a command
than anything else. It nettled me for a moment. I don't like your
buttoned-up kind of a man that gives you a word now and then as
grudgingly as if he were doling out pennies from a pocket-hook. But I
kept still. Then I was on a voyage of discovery. The tones of his voice
jarred on me, I must admit, and I answered him in the same peremptory
way. Not that I had any animosity toward him, but so as to meet him on
his own ground.
"'Then it will be the regular table d'hôte dinner with a pint of Chianti
for each,' I snapped out. 'Will that suit you?'
"'Yes, if you like Chianti.'
"'I do when it's good.'
"'Do you like anything better?' he asked, as if he were cross
questioning me on the stand.
"'Yes.'
"'What?'
"'Well, Valpocelli of '82.' That was the best wine in their cellar, and
cost ten lire a bottle.
"'Is there anything better than that?' he demanded.
"'Yes, Valpocelli of '71. _Thirty_ lire a bottle. They haven't a drop of
it here or anywhere else.'
"Auguste, who had been half-paralyzed when we sat down, and who, in his
bewilderment, had not heard the conversation, reached over and placed
the ordinary Chianti included in the price of the dinner at my elbow.
"The man raised his eyes, looked at August with a peculiar expression,
amounting almost to disgust, on his face, and said:
"'I didn't order that. Take that stuff away and bring me a bottle of
'82--a quart, mind you--if you haven't the '71.'
"All through the dinner he talked in monosyllables, answering my
questions but offering few topics of his own; and although I did my best
to draw him out, he made no statement of any kind that would give me the
slightest clew as to his antecedents or that would lead up either to his
occupation or his purpose in seeking me out. He didn't seem to wish to
conceal anything about himself, although of course I asked him no
personal questions, nor did he pump me about my affairs. He was just one
of those dull, lifeless conversationalists who must be probed all the
time to get anything out of. Before I was half through the dinner I
wondered why I had bothered about him at all.
"All this time the fellows were off in one corner watching the whole
affair. When Auguste brought the '82, looking like a huge tear bottle
dug up from where it had rusted for two thousand years, Roscoff gave a
gasp and crossed the room to tell Billy Wood that I had struck a
millionnaire who was going to buy everything I had painted, including
my big picture for the Salon, all of which was about as close as that
idiot Roscoff ever got to anything.
"When the bill was brought Diffendorfer turned his back to me, took out
a roll of bills from his hip-pocket, and passed a new bank-note to
Auguste with a contemptuous side wiggle of his forefinger and the remark
in English in a tone intended for Auguste's ear alone: 'No change.'
"Auguste laid the bill on his tray and walked up to the desk with a face
struggling between joy over the fee and terror for my safety. A fellow
who lived on ten-lire wine and who gave money away like water must
murder people for a living and have a cemetery of his own in which to
bury his dead. He evidently never expected to see me alive again.
"Dinner over and paid for, my host put on his coat, said 'Good-night'
with rather an embarrassed air, and without looking at anyone in the
room--not even Roscoff, who made a move as if to intercept him--Roscoff
had some pictures of his own to sell--walked dejectedly out of the caffe
and disappeared in the night.
"When I crossed the traghetto the following evening the storm had not
abated. It was worse than on the previous night; the wind was blowing a
gale and whirling the fog into the narrow streets and choking up the
archways and _sotti portici_.
"As my foot touched the nagging of the Campo, Diffendorfer stepped
forward and laid his hand on my arm.
"'You are late,' he said. He spoke in the same crisp way he had the
night before. Whether it was an assumed air of bravado, or whether it
was his natural ugly disposition, I couldn't tell. It jarred on me
again, however, and I walked on.
"He stepped quickly in front of me, as if to bar my way, and said, in a
gentler tone:
"'Don't go away. Come dine with me.'
"'But I dined with you yesterday.'
"'Yes, I know--and you hated me afterward. I'll be better this time.'
"'I didn't hate you, I only----'
"'Yes, you did, and you had reason to. I wasn't myself, somehow. Try me
again to-day.'
"There was something in his eyes--a troubled, disappointed expression
that appealed to me--and so I said:
"'All right, but on one condition: it's my dinner this time.'
"'And my wine,' he answered, and a satisfied look came into his face.
"'Yes, your wine. Come along.'
"The fellow's blunt, jerky way of speaking had somehow made me speak in
the same way. Our talk sounded just like two boys who had had a fight
and who were forced to shake hands and make up. My own curiosity as to
who he might be, what he was doing in Venice, and why he was pursuing
me, was now becoming aroused. That he should again throw himself in my
way after the stupid dinner of the night before only deepened
the mystery.
"When we got inside, just as we were taking our seats at one of the
small tables in that side room off the street, a shout of laughter came
from the next room--the one we fellows always dined in. I had determined
to get inside of the fellow at this sitting, and thought the more
retired table better for the purpose. Diffendorfer jumped to his feet on
hearing the laughter, peered into the room, and, picking up his wet
umbrella, said:
"'Let's go in there--more people.' I followed him, and drew out another
chair from a table opposite one at which Roscoff, Woods, and two or
three of the boys were dining. They all nudged each other when we came
in, and a wink went around, but they didn't speak. They behaved
precisely as if I had a girl in tow and wanted to be left alone.
"This dinner was exactly like the first one. Diffendorfer ordered the
same wine--Valpocelli, '82, and ate each course that Auguste brought
him, with only a word now and then about the weather, the number of
people in Venice, and the dishes. The only time when his face lighted up
was when a chap named Cruthers, from Munich, who arrived that morning
and who hadn't been in Venice for years, came up and slapped me on the
back and hollered out as he dragged up a chair and sat down beside me:
'Glad to see you, old man; what are you drinking?'
"I reached for the '82--there was only a glass left--and was moving the
bottle within reach of my friend's hand when Diffendorfer said
to Auguste:
"'Bring another quart of '82;' then he turned and said to the Munich
chap: 'Sorry, sir, it isn't the '71, but they haven't a bottle in
the house.'
"I was up a tree, and so I said:
"'Cruthers, let me present you to my friend, Mr. Diffendorfer.' My
companion at mention of his name sprang up, seized Cruthers's fingers as
if he had been a long-lost brother, and pretty nearly shook his hand
off. Cruthers said in reply:
"'I'm very glad to meet you. If you're a friend of Marny's you're all
right. You've got all you ought to have in this world.' You must have
known Cruthers--he was always saying that kind of frilly things to the
boys. Then they both sat down again.
"After this quite a different expression came into the man's face. His
embarrassment, or ugliness of temper, or whatever it was, was gone. He
jumped up again, insisted upon filling Cruthers's glass himself, and
when Cruthers tasted it and winked both of his eyes over it, and then
got up and shook Diffendorfer's hand a second time to let him know how
good he thought it was, and how proud he was of being his guest,
Diffendorfer's face even broke out into a smile, and for a moment the
fellow was as happy as anybody about him, and not the chump he had been
with me. He was evidently pleased with Cruthers, for when Cruthers
refused a third glass he said to him: 'To-morrow, perhaps'--and,
beckoning to Auguste, said, in a voice loud enough for us all to hear:
'Put a cork in it and mark it; we'll finish it to-morrow.'
"Cruthers made no reply, not considering himself, of course, as one of
the party, and, nodding pleasantly to my companion, joined Woods's
table again.
"When dinner was over, Diffendorfer put on his hat and coat, handed me
my umbrella, and said:
"'I'm going home now. Walk along with me?'
"It was still raining, the wind rattling the swinging doors of the
caffè. I did not answer for a moment. The dinner had left me as much in
the dark as ever, and I was trying to make up my mind what to do next.
"'Why not stay here and smoke?' I asked.
"'No, walk along with me as far as the traghetto, please,' and he laid
his hand in a half-pleading way on my arm.
"Again that same troubled look in his face that I had seen once before
made me alter my mind. I threw on my coat, picked up my umbrella, nodded
to the boys, who looked rather anxiously after me, and plunged through
the door and out into the storm.
"It was the kind of a night that I love,--a regular howler. Most people
think the sunshine makes Venice, but they wouldn't think so if they
could study it on one of these nights when a nor'easter whirls up out of
the Adriatic and comes roaring across the lagoons as if it would swallow
up the dear old girl and sweep her into the sea. She don't mind it. She
always comes up smiling the next day, looking twice as pretty for her
bath, and I'm always twice as happy, for I've seen a whole lot of things
I never would have seen in the daylight. The Campanile, for one thing,
upside down in the streaming piazza; slashes of colored light from the
shop-windows soaking into the rain-pools; and great, black, gloomy
shadows choking up alleys, with only a single taper peering out of the
darkness like a burglar's lantern.
"When we turned to breast the gale--the rain had almost ceased--and
struggled on through the Ascensione, a sudden gust of wind whirled my
umbrella inside out, and after that I walked on ahead of him, stopping
every now and then to enjoy the grandeur of it all, until we reached the
traghetto. When we arrived, only one gondola was on duty, the gondolier
muffled to his eyes in glistening oilskins, his sou'wester hat tied
under his chin.
"Once on the other side of the Canal it started in to rain again, and so
Diffendorfer held his own umbrella over me until we reached my gate on
the Fondamenta San Zorzi, in the rear of my quarters. He stood beside me
under the flare of the gas-jets while I fumbled in my pocket for my
night-key--I had about decided to invite him in and pump him dry--and
then said:
"'I live a little way from here; don't go in; come home with me.'
"A strange feeling now took possession of me, which I could not account
for. The whole plot rushed over me with a force which I must confess
sent a cold chill down my back. I began to think: This man had forced
himself upon me not once, but twice; had set up the best bottle of wine
he could buy, and was now about to steer me into a den. Then the thought
rose in my mind--I could handle any two of him, and if I give way now
and he finds I am over-cautious or suspicious, it will only make it
worse for me when I see him again. This was followed by a common-sense
view of the whole situation. The mystery in it, after all, if there was
any mystery, was one of my own making. To ask a man who had been dining
with you to come to your lodging was neither a suspicious nor an unusual
thing. Besides, while he had been often brusque, and at times curt, he
had shown me nothing but kindness, and had tried only to please me.
"My mind was made up instantly. I determined to follow the affair to the
end.
"'Yes, I'll go,' and I pulled my umbrella into shape, opened it with a
flop, and stepped from the shelter of the doorway into the pelt of the
driving rain.
"We kept on up the Fondamenta, crossed the bridge by the side of the
Canal of San Vio as far as the Caffè Calcina, and then out on the
Zattero, which was being soused with the waves of the Giudecca breaking
over the coping of its pavement. Hugging the low wall of Clara
Montalba's garden, he keeping out of the wind as best he could, we
passed the church of San Rosario and stopped at the same low door
opening into the building next to Pietro's wine-shop--the one I had seen
him enter when I was painting. The caffè was still open, for the glow of
its lights streamed out upon the night and was reflected in the
rain-drenched pavement. Then a thought struck me:
"'Come in here a moment,' I said to him, and I pushed in Pietro's door.
"'Pietro,' I called out, so that everybody in the caffè could hear, 'I'm
going up to Mr. Diffendorfer's room. Better get a fiasco of Chianti
ready--the old kind you have in the cellar. When I want it I'll send
for it.' If I was going into a trap it was just as well to let somebody
know whom I was last seen with. The boys had seen me go out with him,
but nobody knew where he lived or where he had taken me. I was ashamed
of it as soon as I had said it, but somehow I felt as if it were just
as well to keep my eyes open.
"Diffendorfer pushed past me and called out to Pietro, in a half-angry
tone:
"'No, don't you send it. I've got all the wine we'll want,' turned on
his heel, held his door open for me to pass in, and slammed it
behind us.
"It was pitch-dark inside as we mounted the stairs one step at a time
until we reached the second flight, where the light from a smouldering
wick of a fiorentina set in a niche in the wall shed a dim glow. At the
sound of our footsteps a door was opened in a passageway on our left, a
head thrust out, and as suddenly withdrawn. The same thing happened on
the third landing. Diffendorfer paid no attention to these intrusions,
and kept on down a long corridor ending in a door. I didn't like the
heads--it looked as if they were waiting for Diffendorfer to bring
somebody home, and so I slipped my umbrella along in my hand until I
could use it as a club, and waited in the dark until he had found the
key-hole, unlocked the door, and thrown it open. All I saw was the gray
light of the windows opposite this door, which made a dim silhouette of
Diffendorfer's figure. Then I heard the scraping of a match, and a
gas-jet flashed.
"'Come in,' called Diffendorfer, in a cheery tone. 'Wait till I punch up
the fire. Here, take this seat,' and he moved a great chair close to
the grate.
"I have seen a good many rooms in my time, but I must say this one took
the breath out of me for an instant. The walls were hung in old
tapestries, the furniture was of the rarest. There were three or four
old armchairs that looked as if they had been stolen out of the
Doge's Palace.
"Diffendorfer continued punching away at the fire until it burst into a
blaze.
"In another moment he was on his feet again, saying he had forgotten
something. Then he entered the next room--there were three in the
suite--unlocked a closet, brought back a mouldy-looking bottle and two
Venetian glasses, moved up a spider-legged, inlaid table, and said, as
he placed the bottle and glasses beside me:
"'That's the Valpocelli of '71. You needn't worry about helping
yourself; I've got a dozen bottles more.'
"I thought the game had gone far enough now, and I squared myself and
faced him.
"'See here, Mr. Diffendorfer,' I said, 'before I take your wine I've got
some questions to ask you. I'm going to ask them pretty straight, too,
and I want you to answer them exactly in the same way. You have followed
me round now for two weeks. You invite me to dinner--a man you have
never seen before--and when I come you sit like a bump on a log, and
half the time I can't get a word out of you. You spend your money on me
like water--none of which I can return, and you know it--and when I tell
you I don't like that sort of thing you double the expense. Now, what
does it all mean? Who are you, anyway, and where do you come from? If
you're all right there's my hand, and you'll find it wide open.'
"He dropped into his chair, put his head into his hands for a moment,
and said, in a greatly altered tone:
"'If I told you, you wouldn't understand.'
"'Yes, I would.'
"'No, you wouldn't--you couldn't. You've had everything you wanted all
your life--I haven't had anything.'
"'Me!--what rot! You've got a chair under you now that will sell for
more money than I see in a year.'
"'Yes--and nobody to sit in it; not a man who knows me or wants to know
me.'
"'But why did you pick me out?'
"'Because you seemed to be the kind of a man who would understand me
best. I watched you for weeks, though you didn't know it. You've got
people who love you for yourself. You go into Florian's or the Quadri
and you can't get a chance to swallow a mouthful for fellows who want to
shake hands with you and slap you on the back. When I saw that, I got up
courage enough to speak to you.
"'When that first night you wouldn't introduce me to your friend
Roscoff, I saw how it was and how you suspected me, and I came near
giving it up. Then I thought I'd try again, and if you hadn't introduced
Mr. Cruthers to me, and if he hadn't drank my wine, I would have given
it up. But I don't want them to like me because I'm with _you_. I want
them to like me for myself, so they'll be glad to see me when I come in,
just as they are glad to see you.
"'I come from Pennsylvania. My father owns the oil-wells at Stockville.
He came over from Holland when he was a boy. He sent me over here six
months ago to learn something about the world, and told me not to come
back till I did. I got to Paris, and I couldn't find a soul to talk to
but the hotel porter; then I kept on to Lucerne, and it was no better
there. When I got as far as Dresden I mustered up courage to speak to a
man in the station, but he moved off, and I saw him afterward speaking
to a policeman and pointing to me. Then I came on down here. I thought
maybe if I got some good rooms to live in where people could be
comfortable, I could get somebody to come in and sit down. So I bought
this lot of truck of an Italian named Almadi--a prince or something--and
moved in. I tried the fellows who lived here--you saw them sticking
their heads out as we came up--but they don't speak English, so I was as
bad off as I was before. Then I made up my mind I'd tackle you and keep
at it till I got to know you. You might think it queer now that I didn't
tell you before who I was or how I came here, or how lonesome I
was--just lonesome--but I just couldn't. I didn't want your pity, I
wanted your _friendship_. That's all.'
"He had straightened up now, and was leaning back in his chair.
"'And it was just dead lonesomeness, then, was it?' and I held out my
hand to him.
"'Yes--the deadliest kind of lonesome. Kind makes you want to fall off a
dock. Now, please drink my wine'--and he pushed the bottle toward me--'I
had a devil of a hunt for it, but I wanted to do something for you you
couldn't do for yourself.'
"We fellows, I tell you, took charge of Diffendorfer after that, and a
ripping good fellow he was. We got that high collar off of him, a slouch
hat on his head instead of his stove-pipe, and a pipe in his mouth, and
before the winter was over he had more friends than any fellow in
Venice. It was only awkwardness that made him talk so queer and ugly.
And maybe we didn't have some good times in those rooms of his on
the Zattere!"
Marny stopped, threw away the end of his cigar, laid a coin under his
plate for the waiter and another on top of it for Henri, the chef,
reached for his hat, and said, as he rose from his seat, and flecked
the ashes from his coat-sleeve:
"So now, whenever I see a poor devil haunting a place like this, looking
around out of the corner of his eye, hoping somebody will speak to him,
I say that's a Diffendorfer, and more than half the time I'm right."