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Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..cd101ab --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52704 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52704) diff --git a/old/52704-0.txt b/old/52704-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 5075651..0000000 --- a/old/52704-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5294 +0,0 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52704 *** - -AS IT WAS WRITTEN - -A Jewish Musician’s Story - -By Henry Harland (AKA Sidney Luska) - -Cassell & Company, Limited 739 & 741 Broadway, New York. - -1885 - - - - -CONTENTS - -AS IT WAS WRITTEN. - -I. - -II. - -III. - -IV. - -V. - -VI. - -VII. - -VIII. - -IX. - -X. - -XI. - -XII. - -XIII. - -XIV. - - - - -AS IT WAS WRITTEN. - - - - -I. - -VERONIKA PATHZUOL was my betrothed. I must give some account of the -circumstances under which she and I first met each other, so that my -tale may be clear and complete from the beginning. - -For a long while, without knowing why, I had been restless—hungry, -without knowing for what I hungered. Teaching music to support myself, -I employed all of the day that was not thus occupied in practicing on my -own behalf. My life consequently was a solitary one, numbering but few -acquaintances and not any friends. In my short intervals of leisure -I was generally too tired to seek out society; I was too obscure and -unimportant to be sought out in turn. Yet, young and of an ardent -temperament, doubtless it was natural that I should have been dimly -conscious of something wanting; and, not prone to selfanalysis, -doubtless it was also natural that I should have had no distinct -conception of what the wanting something was. Besides, it would soon be -summer. The soft air and bright sunshine of spring awoke a myriad vague -desires in my heart. I strove in vain to understand them. They were all -the more poignant because they had no definite object. Twenty times a -day I would catch myself heaving a mighty sigh; but asking, “What are -you sighing for?” I had to answer, “Who can tell?” My thoughts got -into the habit of wandering away would fly off to cloud-land at the -most inopportune moments. While my pupils were blundering through -their exercises their master would fall to thinking of other -things—afterward impossible to remember what. From morning to night -I went about with a feeling of expectancy—an event was -impending—presently a change would come over the tenor of my life. I -waited anxiously, on the alert for its first premonitory symptom. - -I had taken to strolling through the streets at evening. One delicious -night in May, I found myself leaning over the terrace at the eastern -extremity of Fifty-first street. The moon had just risen, a huge red -disk, out of the mist and smoke across the river, and was turning the -waves to burnished copper. Through the open windows of the neighborhood -escaped the sounds of quiet talk, of laughter, of piano playing. Now and -then a low dark shape, with a single bright light gleaming like a jewel -at its side, and spars and masts sharply outlined against the sky, -slipped silently past upon the water. The atmosphere was quick with the -warmth and the scent of spring. I stood there motionless, penetrated by -the unspeakable beauty of the scene. The moon climbed higher and higher, -and gradually exchanged its ruddy tint for its ordinary metallic blue. -By and by somebody with a sweet soprano voice, in one of the nearest -houses, began to sing the Ave Maria of Gounod. The impassioned music -seemed made for the time and place. It caught the soul of the moment and -gave it voice. I could feel my heart swelling with the crescendo: and -then how it leaped and thrilled when the singer reached that glorious -climax of the song, “Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae!” At that -instant, as if released from a spell, I drew a long breath and looked -around. Then for the first time I saw Veronika Pathzuol. Her eyes and -mine met for the first time. - -“A lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange, and sad”—and pale. Her -face was pale, like an angel’s. The wealth of black hair above it -and the dark eyes that gazed sadly out of it rendered the pallor more -intense. But it was not the pallor of ill-health; it was the pallor of -a luminous white soul. As I beheld her standing there in the moonlight -scarcely a yard away from me, I knew all at once what it was my heart -had craved for so long a while. I knew at once, by the sudden pain that -pierced it, that my heart had been waiting for this lady all its life. I -did not stop to reflect and determine. Had I done so, most likely—nay, -most certain-ly—I should never have had to tell this story. The words -flew to my tongue and were spoken as soon as thought.—“Oh, how -beautiful, how beautiful!” I exclaimed, meaning her. - -“Very beautiful,” I heard her voice, clear and soft, respond. “It -is almost a pain, the feeling such intense beauty gives,”—meaning -the scene before us. - -“And yet this is every-day, hum-drum, commercial New York,” added -another voice, one that jarred upon my hearing like the scraping of a -contre-bass after a cadenza by the flute. She was leaning on the arm of -a man. I was at the verge of being straightway jealous, when I observed -that his hair and beard were snowy and that his face was wrinkled. - -We got into conversation without ceremony. Nature had introduced us. -Our common appreciation of the loveliness round about broke the ice -and provided a topic for speech. After her first impulsive utterance, -Veronika said little. But the old man was voluble, evidently glad of the -opportunity to express his ideas to a new person. And I was more than -glad to listen, because while doing so I could gaze upon her face to my -heart’s content. - -Something that I had said, in reply to a remark of his upon the singing -of the Ave, caused him to ask, “Ah, you understand music? You are a -musician—yes?” - -“I play the violin,” I answered. - -“Do you hear, Veronika?” he cried. “Our friend plays the violin! -My dear sir, you must do us the favor of playing for us before we part. -Do not be surprised—pay no heed to the formalities. Is not music a -free-masonry? Come, you shall try your skill upon an Amati. Such an -evening as this must have an appropriate ending. Come.” - -Without allowing me time to protest, had I been disposed to do so, he -grasped my arm and started off. He kept on talking as we marched along. -I had no attention for what he said. My mind was divided between delight -at my good-fortune, and query as to what its upshot would be. We had not -far to go. A few doors to the west of First avenue he turned up a stoop. -It was a modest apartment-house. We climbed to the topmost story and -stood still in the dark while he fumbled for a match. Then he lighted -the gas and said, “Sit down.” The room was bare and cheerless. A -chromo or two sufficed to decorate the walls. The furniture—a few -chairs and a center-table—was stiff and shabby. The carpet was -threadbare. - -But a piano occupied a corner; and the floor, the table, and the chairs -were littered thick with music. So I felt at home. As I look back at -that meager little parlor now, it is transformed into a sanctuary. There -the deepest moments of two lives were spent. Yet to-day strangers -dwell in it; come and go, laugh and chatter, eat, drink, and make merry -between its walls, all unconcernedly, never pausing to bestow a thought -upon the sad, sweet lady whose presence once hallowed the place, whose -tears more than once watered the floor over which they tread with -indifferent footsteps. - -The old man lighted the gas and said, “Sit down,” making obedience -possible by clearing a chair of the music it held. Then scrutinizing -my face: “You are a Jew, are you not?” he inquired, in his quick, -nervous way. - -“Yes,” I said, “by birth.” - -“And by faith?” - -“Well, I am not orthodox, not a zealot.” - -“Your name?” - -“Neuman—Ernest Neuman.” - -“And mine, Tikulski—Baruch. You see we are of one race—the -race—the chosen race! Neither am I orthodox. I keep Yom Kippur, to -be sure, but I have no conscientious scruples against shell-fish, and -indeed the ‘succulent oyster’ is especially congenial to my palate. -This,” with a wave of the hand toward Veronika, “this is my niece, -Miss Pathzuol—P-a-t-h-z-u-o-1—pronounced Patchuol—Hungarian name. -Her mother was my sister.” - -Veronika dropped a courtesy. Her eyes seemed to plead, “Do not laugh -at my uncle. He is eccentric; but be charitable.” - -“Now, Veronika, show Mr. Neuman your music and find something that you -can play together. I will go fetch the violin.” - -The old man left the room. - -“What will you play?” asked Veronika. Her voice quavered. She was -timid, as indeed it was natural she should be. - -“I don’t know,” I said, my own voice not as firm as I could have -wished. “What have you got?” - -We commenced at the top of a big pile of music and had settled upon the -prize song from the Meistersinger—not then as hackneyed as it is -at present, not then the victim of every passable amateur—when Mr. -Tikulski came back. It was in truth an Amati that he brought. The -discolored, half obliterated label within said so—but the label might -have lied. The strong, tense, ringing tone that it emitted in response -to the A which Veronika gave me said so also—and that did not lie. I -played as best I could. Rather, the music played itself. With a violin -under my chin, I lapse into semi-consciousness, lose my identity. -Another spirit impels my arm, pouring itself out through the voice of my -instrument. Not until silence is restored do I realize that I have -been the performer. While the music is going on my personality is -annihilated. With the final note I seem to “come, to,” as one does -from a trance. - -When I came to this time it was to be embraced by my host with an -effusiveness that overwhelmed me. “Ah, you are a true musician,” -he cried, releasing me from his arms. “You have the inspiration. -Veronika, speak, tell him how nobly he has played.” - -“I can’t speak, I can’t tell him,” answered Veronika, “it has -taken away all power of speech.” But she gave me a glance, allowed her -eyes to stay with mine for a long moment. A fire had been smoldering in -my breast from the first; at these words, at this glance, it burst into -flame. A great light inundated my soul. I felt the arteries tingling to -my very finger tips. I started tuning up, to hide my emotion. Then we -played the march from Raff’s Lenore. - -I am afraid my agitation marred the effect of Raffs diamatic -composition. At any rate, the plaudits were faint when I had done. After -a breathing spell Mr. Tikulski told Veronika to sing. She played her own -accompaniment while I stood by to turn. - -It would be useless for me to try to qualify her singing. Whatever -critical faculty I had was stricken dumb. I can only say that she sang a -song in French (an old, old romance, till then unfamiliar to me; so old -that the composer’s name has been forgotten) in a splendid contralto -voice, and that it seemed as if she was playing upon the inmost tissue -of my life, so keenly I felt each note. I quite forgot to turn the page -at the proper place, and Veronika had to prompt me. It was a little -thing, and yet I remember as vividly as if from yesterday the nod of the -head and the inflection with which she said, “Turn, please.” - -“‘Le temps fait passer l’amour,’.rdquo; repeated Mr. Tikulski: -it was the last line of the song. “Veronika, bring some wine. Le vin -fait passer le temps,” and he chuckled at his joke. Another small -thing that I remember vividly is how Tikulski, as she left the room, -posed his forefinger upon his Adam’s-apple and said, “She carries a -‘cello here.” - -He went on to this effect:—Veronika, as I already knew, was his niece. -He also was a violinist: more than that, he was a composer, though as -yet unpublished. With the self-conceit too characteristic of musical -people, he told me how he was engaged upon “an epoch-making -symphony”—had been engaged upon it for the last dozen years, would -be engaged upon it for the dozen years to come. Then the world should -have it, and he, not having lived in vain, would die content. Veronika -was now one-and-twenty. During her childhood he had played in an -orchestra and arranged dance-music and done other hackwork to earn money -for her maintenance and education. She had received the best musical -training, instrumental and vocal, that could be had in New York. Now he -had turned the tables. Now he did nothing but compose—reserved all -his time and strength for his masterpiece. Veronika had become the -breadwinner. She taught on an average seven hours a day. She sang -regularly in church and synagogue, and at concerts and musicals whenever -she got a chance.—Veronika reentered the room bearing cakes and wine. -She sat down near to us, and I forgot every thing in the contemplation -of her beautiful, sad, strange face. Her eyes were bottomless. Far, far -in their liquid depths the spirit shone like a star. All the history of -Israel was in her glance. - -Every touch of constraint had vanished from her bearing. She spoke with -me as with one whom she knew well. I could scarcely believe that only an -hour ago we had been ignorant of each other’s existence. We discussed -music and found that our tastes were in accord. We compared notes on -teaching and exchanged anecdotes about our respective pupils. She said -among other things that more than half the money she earned her uncle -sent to Germany for the relief of his widowed sister and her offspring, -who were extremely poor! Her every syllable clove my heart like an -arrow. I grew hot with indignation to think of this frail, delicate -maiden slaving her life away in order that her relations might fatten in -idleness and her fanatic of an uncle work at his impossible symphony. -My fists clenched convulsively as I fancied her exposed to the ups and -downs, the hardships, the humiliations, of a music-teacher’s career. I -took no pains to regulate my manner: and, if she had possessed the least -trace of sophistication, she would have guessed that I loved her from -every modulation of my voice. Love her I did. I had already loved her -for an eternity—from the moment my eyes had first encountered hers in -the moonlight by the terrace.—But it was getting late. It would not do -for me to wear my welcome out. - -“Nay, stay,” interposed Mr. Tikulski, “you have not heard me play -yet.” - -“Oh, yes, you must hear my uncle play,” said Veronika. “The Adagio -of Handel? she asked of him. - -“No, child,” he answered, with a tinge of impatience, “the -minuet—from my own symphony,” aiming the last words at me. - -Veronika returned to the piano. They began. - -Indeed, the old man played superbly. His selection was a marvelous -finger-exercise—but of true music it contained none save that which -he informed it with by the fervor of his performance. He was a perfect -executant. His tone was equal to Wilhelm’s. It was a pity, a great -pity, that he should fritter himself away in the endeavor to compose. -Veronika and I said as much as this to each other with our eyes when -finally his bow had reached a standstill. - -“Well, if you will insist on going,” he said, “you must at least -agree to come as soon as possible again. This is Wednesday. We are -always at home on Wednesday evening. The other nights of the week -Veronika is engaged: Monday and Tuesday, lessons; Thursday, Friday, -Saturday, and Sunday, rehearsals and services at church and synagogue. -The church is in Hoboken: she doesn’t get home till eleven o’clock. -So on Wednesday we will see you without fail—yes?” - -As I looked forward, Wednesday seemed a million years away. “What an -old brute you are to make that child track over to Hoboken two nights -a week!” I thought; and said, “Thank you. You are very kind. -Good-by.” - -Veronika gave me her hand. The long slim fingers clasped mine cordially -and sent an electric thrill into my heart. - - - - -II. - -I SUPPOSE it is needless to say that I passed a sleepless night, haunted -till morning by Veronika’s face and voice; that I tossed endlessly -from pillow to pillow, going over in memory every circumstance from our -meeting to our parting; that I built a hundred wondrous castles in the -air and that Veronika presided as chatelaine in each. I thought I should -boil over with rage when I dwelt upon the enforced drudgery of her life. -I could hardly contain myself for sheer joy when I made bold to say, -“Why, it is not impossible that some day she may love you—not -impossible that some day she may consent to become your wife.” One -doubt, the inevitable one, harassed me: Had I a clear field? Was there -perchance another suitor there before me? Perhaps her affections were -already spoken. Still, on the whole, probably not. For, where had he -kept himself during the evening? Surely, if he had existed at all, he -would have been at her side. Yet on the other hand she was so beautiful, -it could scarcely be believed that she had attained the age of -one-and-twenty without taking some heart captive. And that sad, -mysterious expression in her eyes—how had it come about except through -love?—Thus between despair and hope I swung, pendulum-like, all night. - -Dawn filtered through the window. “Thursday!” I muttered. “Seven -days still to be dragged through—but then!”—Imagination -faltered at the prospect. I went about my usual business in a sort of -intoxication. My footstep had acquired an unwonted briskness. Every five -minutes my heart jumped into my throat and lost a beat. But my pupils -suffered. - -I was more inclined to absent-mindedness than ever. At dusk I revisited -the terrace despite the rain that fell in torrents, and walked by her -house and lived through the whole happy episode again. - -Be assured I was punctual when at last Wednesday came. I remember, as I -mounted the staircase that led to their abode, an absurd fear beset me. -What if they had moved away? - -What if I should not find her after this interminable week of waiting? -My hand shook as I pulled the bell-knob. I was nerving myself for the -worst in the interval that elapsed before the door was opened.—The -door was opened by Veronika herself! - -“Ah, good-evening. We were expecting you,” she said. - -I stammered a response. My temples were throbbing madly. - -Veronika led me into the dining-room. They were still at table. I began -to apologize. Tikulski stopped me. - -“You have come just at the proper moment,” he cried. “You shall -now have occasion to confess that my niece is as good a cook as she is a -player.” - -“But I have dined,” I protested. - -“But you can make room for one morsel more—for a mere taste of -pudding.” - -Veronika, with infinite grace, was moving about the room, getting a -plate and napkin. Then with her own hands she helped me to the pudding. - -“Doesn’t that flavor do her credit?” cried Tikulski. “It is a -melody materialized, is it not?” - -We all laughed; and I ate my pudding at perfect ease. - -“I hope Mr. Neuman has brought his violin,” said Veronika, “for -then we can have a first and second.” - -“Yes, I took that liberty,” I answered. - -And afterward, adjourning to the parlor, I played second to the old -man’s first for an hour or more—reading at sight from his own -manuscript music, which was not the lightest of tasks. Then Veronika -sang to us. And then, as it was extremely hot, Mr. Tikulski proposed -that we betake ourselves to a concert garden in the neighborhood and -spend the rest of the evening in the open air. We sat at a round -table under an ailanthus tree, and watched the people come and go, and -listened to light tunes discoursed by a tolerable band, and by and by -had a delicious little supper; and while Mr. Tikulski puffed a huge -cigar, Veronika and I enjoyed a long, delightful confidential talk in -which our minds got wonderfully close together, and during which one -scrap of information dropped from her lips that afforded me infinite -relief. Speaking of her nocturnal pilgrimages to Hoboken, she said, “I -go over by myself in the summer because it is still light; but coming -home, the organist takes me to the ferry, where uncle meets me.” - -“So,” I concluded, “there is no one ahead of me; for if there -were, of course he would be her escort.” And I lost no time about -putting in a word for myself. “I am very anxious to hear you sing in -church,” I said. “Your voice can not attain its full effect between -the narrow walls of a parlor.” - -And it was agreed that I should call upon them Sunday afternoon and -that we should all three take a walk in Central Park, Veronika and -I afterward going to Hoboken together. Music had, indeed, proved a -freemasonry, so far as we were concerned. This was only our second -interview; and already we treated each other like old and intimate -friends. - -A thunder shower broke above our heads on the way back to Fifty-first -street, and in default of an umbrella, I lent Veronika my handkerchief -to protect her hat. She returned it to me at the door of her house, and -lo! it was freighted with a faint, sweet perfume that it had caught from -contact with her. I stowed the handkerchief religiously in my pocket, -and for a week afterward it still retained a trace of the same dainty -odor. It was a touchstone, by means of which I could call her up bodily -before me whenever I desired. - -As I sat alone in my bed-chamber that night, I acknowledged that I was -more deeply in love than ever. The reader would not wonder at this if -he could form a true conception of Veronika’s presence. I wish I could -describe her—that is, render in words the impression wrought upon me -by her face, and her voice, and her manner, and the things she said. -I am not accustomed to expressing such matters in words, but with -my violin I should have no sort of difficulty. If I wanted to give -utterance to my idea of Veronika, all I should have to do would be to -take my violin and play this heavenly melody from Chopin’s Impromptu -in C-sharp minor:—Sotto voce. - - - -0030 - -It seems almost as though Chopin must have had Veronika in mind when -he composed it. Its color, its passion, its vague dreamy sadness, and -withal its transparent simplicity, make it for me a perfect musical -portrait. Those were the traits which most constantly and conspicuously -abode in my thought of her. Her simplicity, her child-like simplicity, -and her naturalness, and the serene purity of her soul, made her as -different from other women that I had seen—though, to be sure, I had -seen but few women except as I passed them in the street or rode with -them in the horse-car—made her as different from those I had seen, at -any rate, as a lily plucked on the hillside is different from a hothouse -flower, as daylight is different from gaslight, as Schubert’s music is -different from Liszt’s. In every thing and from every point of view, -she was simple and natural and serene. Her great pale face, and the dark -eyes, and the smile that came and went like a melody across her lips, -and the way she wore her hair, and the way she dressed, and the way -she played, sang, spoke, and her gestures, and the low, sad, musical -laughter that I heard only once or twice from the beginning to the -end—all were simple, and natural, and serene. And yet there was a -mystery attaching to each of them, a something beyond my comprehension, -a something that tinged my love for her with awe. A mystery that would -neither be defined nor penetrated nor ignored, brooded over her, as the -perfume broods over a rose. I doubt whether an American woman can be -like this unless she is older and has had certain experiences of her -own. Veronika had not had sufficient experience of her own to account -for what I have described: but she was a Jewess, and all the experience -of the Jewish race, all the martyrdom of the scattered hosts, were hers -by inheritance. - -No matter how I was occupied, whether teaching, or practicing, or -reading, or writing, or walking, or talking to other people, I was -always conscious of the love of Veronika astir in my heart. Just as -through all the vicissitudes of a fugue the subject melody will survive -in one form or another and be at no minute altogether silenced, so -through all the changes of my busy day the thought of Veronika lingered -in my mind. I can not tell how completely the whole aspect of the -world had been altered since the night I first saw her standing in -the moonlight. It was as if my life up to that moment had been passed -beneath gray skies, and suddenly the clouds had dispersed and the -sunshine flooded the earth. A myriad things became plain and clear -that had been invisible until now, and old things acquired a -new significance. My heart welled with tenderness for all living -creatures—the overflow of the tenderness it had for her. All my -senses, all my capacities for pain and pleasure, were more acute than -before. Suddenly music, which had been my art, became my religion: she -had glorified it by her devotion. I looked forward to my next visit with -her as a benighted traveler looks forward to the glowing window that -promises rest and shelter: only in my case the light illuminated my -whole pathway and made the progress toward its source a constant delight -instead of a perfunctory labor. But this is the common story of a man -in love, and stands without telling. Suffice it that before our -acquaintance was a month old I had got upon the most intimate terms with -Mr. Tikulski and Veronika, spending not only every Wednesday evening -at their house but also each Sunday afternoon, and accompanying her to -Hoboken as regularly as she had to go. Never was there a prouder man -than I at those junctures when, with her hand pressed tightly under my -arm, I felt that she was trusting herself entirely to my charge and that -I was answerable for her safety and well-being. The Hoboken ferry-boats -became to my thinking vastly more interesting than the most romantic of -Venetian gondolas; and to this day I can not sniff the peculiar stuffy -odor that always pervades a ferry-boat cabin without being transported -back across the years to that happy, happy time. I actually blessed the -necessity that forced her to journey so far for her livelihood; and it -was with an emphatic pang that I listened to the plans which she -and Tikulski were prone to discuss whereby she was shortly to get -an engagement nearer home: though the sight of her pale, tired cheek -reproached me the moment after. On her side she made no concealment of -a most cordial regard for me. Her face always lighted up at my arrival; -she was always eager to share her ideas with me and to call forth my -opinion of her work, appearing pleased by my praise and impressed by my -criticism. She set me an admirable example of frankness. She would say -precisely what she thought of my renditions, sparing not their blemishes -and indicating how an effective point might be improved. - -But as yet I had not dared to hope that she loved, or was even in train -to love me. So as yet I had not intended to speak of love at all. - -But one day—one Sunday late in June—she proposed to sing me a song -she had just been learning. - -“What is it?” I asked. - -“From Le Désert of Felicien David,” she said, handing me the -music. - -It was the “O, belle nuit, O, sois plus lente,” originally written -for tenor. - -“I should hardly think it would suit your voice,” I said, running -over the music. - -“Neither did I, at first; but listen, anyway.” And she began. - -Her voice had never been in better order, had never been more resonant, -never more electric. Contrary to my misgivings, the song suited it -perfectly, afforded its ‘cello quality full scope. She sang with an -enthusiasm, a precision, a delicacy of shading, that carried me away. -As the last tender note melted on her lips, she swung around on the -piano-stool and looked a question with her great, dark, serious eyes. -I know not what possessed me. A blindness fell upon my sight. My heart -gave a mighty bound. In another instant I was at her side and had caught -her—my darling—in my arms. In another instant she was sobbing her -life out upon my shoulder. - -By and by, after the first stress of our emotion had subsided, I -mustered voice to say, “Then, Veronika, you love me?” - -Her hand nestled in mine by way of answer. - -I told her as well I could how I had loved her from the first. - -“It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the -terrace and spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has -been the same ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have -wanted you so much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you -waited so long?” - -No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When -Mr. Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single -question, imposed but a single condition. - -I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her -comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and -her brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to -earn more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony -and Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a -reputation I might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It -was arranged that we should be married the first week in August. - -Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car -or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity before. As we left the church -she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo? - -“It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?” - -“Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.” - -Ah, but I had a full heart as I walked home that night. The future was -all radiant radiant beyond my wildest dream. It frightened me. Such -perfect bliss seemed scarcely possible, seemed too great and glorious to -last. And yet had not Veronika’s own lips promised it? and sealed the -promise with a kiss that burned still where she had placed it? It was -useless for me to go to bed; it was useless for me to stay in the house. -I put on my hat and went out and spent the night pacing up and down -before her door. And as soon as the morning was far enough advanced -I rang the bell and invited myself to breakfast with her; and after -breakfast I helped her to wash the dishes, to Mr. Tikulski’s -unutterable disapproval—it was “unteeknified,” he said—and after -that I accompanied her as far as the first house where she had to give a -lesson. - -While writing the above I had almost forgotten. Now I remember. I must -stop for a space to get used to remembering again that she is dead. - - - - -III. - -YES, she is dead. That is the truth. If truth is good, as men proclaim -it to be, then goodness is intrinsically cruel. That Veronika is dead is -the truth which lies like a hot coal upon my consciousness, and goads -me along as I tell this tale. And the manner of her death and the -speediness of it—I must tell all. - -And yet, although I know her to be dead, although I repeat to myself a -hundred times a day, “She is dead, dead, dead,” and although, God -help me, I think I realize too well that she is dead, yet to this day I -can scarcely bring myself to believe it. Truth as it is, it seems to -be in utter contradiction to the rest of truth. Even those who have -abandoned faith in Religion, still profess faith in Nature, saying, -“Nature is provident, beneficent, and wise; Nature is alive with -beauty.” And at most times, it seems as if these assertions were not -to be contested. Yet, how can they be true when Nature contained the -possibility of Veronika’s death? How can Nature be wise, and yet have -permitted that maiden life to be destroyed?—provident, and yet have -flung away her finest product?—beneficent, and yet have torn bleeding -from my life all that made my life worth living?—beautiful, and yet -have quenched the beautifying light of Veronika’s presence, and hushed -the voice that made the world musical? The mere fact that Veronika could -die gives the lie to the Nature-worshipers. In the light of that fact, -or rather in the darkness of it, it is mockery to sing songs of praise -to Nature.—That is why it is so hard for me to believe—to believe a -thing which annihilates the harmony of the universe, and proclaims the -optimism of the philosophers to be a delusion, a superstition. How could -I believe my senses if I should hear Christine Nilsson utter a hideous -false note? So is it hard for me to believe that Nature has allowed -Veronika to die. And yet it is the truth, the unmistakable, irrevocable, -relentless truth. - -I suppose all lovers are happy: but it does not seem possible that -other lovers can ever have had such unmitigated happiness as ours -was—happiness so keen as almost to be a pain. The light of love -that burst suddenly into our lives, and filled each cranny full to -overflowing, was so pure and bright as almost to blind us. The happiness -was all the keener, the light all the brighter, because of the hardship -and the monotony of our daily tasks. If we had been rich, if we had had -leisure and friends and many resources for diversion, then most likely -our delight in each other would not have been so great. But as we -were—poor, hard worked, and alone in the world—we found all the -happiness we had, in ourselves, in communing together; and happiness -concentrated, was proportionately more intense. The few hours in the -week which we were permitted to spend side by side glittered like -diamonds against the dull background of the rest. And we improved them -to the full. We called upon each fleeting moment to stay and perpetuate -itself; and we could not understand how Faust had had to wait so many -years before he could do the same. The season was divine, clear skies -and balmy weather day after day, and the Park being easily accessible, -we could imagine ourselves among the green fields of the country -whenever the fancy seized us. I believe that as a matter of fact the -turf of the common was sadly parched and brown; but we were not critical -so long as we could wander over it hand in hand. Then, our characters -were perfectly accorded; their unison was faultless. Each called for the -other, needed the other, as the dominant chord calls for and needs its -tonic. We had not a hope, a fear, an ambition, an aspiration, but it was -shared equally between us. Our art was a mutual passion which we pursued -together. When Veronika was seated at the piano and I stood at her side -with my violin at my shoulder, our cup of contentment was full to the -brim. Nothing more was wanting. I remember, one evening, in the middle -of a phrase, her fingers faltered and she wheeled around and lifted her -eyes upon my face.—“What is the matter, darling?” I asked.—“I -only want to look at you to realize that it isn’t a dream,” she -answered.—And yet she is dead. - -June and half July had wound away; in little more than a fortnight our -wedding would be celebrated. The night was sultry, and she and I sat -together by an open window. Her uncle was absent: an idea had come to -him just before dinner, she explained, and according to his custom he -had gone out to walk the streets until he had mastered it. We were by no -means sorry to be alone. We had plenty to talk about; but even without -talking it was marvelously pleasant to sit together and think the happy -thoughts that filled our minds and listen to the subdued sounds of human -life that came in by the window. - -Veronika had shown me some of her bridal outfit, telling how she had -worked at it in her short snatches of leisure. We took as much pleasure -in the contemplation of this modest little trousseau as though it had -boasted all the rubies and silken fabrics of the Indies. This set us to -talking of the future and making plans. And afterward we talked of the -past. We spoke of how strange it was that we should have come together -in the way we had—by the merest accident, as it seemed; and we doubted -if it was indeed an accident, if destiny had not purposely guided our -footsteps that memorable night.—“Why,” she exclaimed, “if uncle -and I had been but a few moments earlier or later, we never should have -seen each other at all. Think of the terrible risk we ran! Think if we -had never known each other!” and her fingers tightened around mine. - -“And then,” I went on, “that I should have spoken to you, a -strange lady, and that you should have answered!” - -“It seemed perfectly natural for me to answer; I had done so before -I stopped to think. But afterward I was ashamed; I was afraid you might -think it indelicate. But, somehow, the words spoke themselves. I am glad -of it now.” - -“I do believe God’s hand was in it! I do believe it was all -pre-ordained in heaven. I believe that our Guardian Angel prompted me to -speak and you to answer. It can’t be that we, who were made for each -other, were left to find it out by a mere perilous chance—it isn’t -credible.” - -“But nobody except myself—not even you, can understand how like a -miracle it all is to me, because nobody else can know how much I needed -you. Nobody else can know how dreary and empty my life was before you -came, or how completely you have filled it and gladdened it.” - -Here we stopped talking for a while. - -By and by she resumed, “I think that music differs from the other -arts. I think the musician instinctively needs a companion worker. I -know that in the old days when I would play or sing, my heart seemed to -cry out continually for some one to come and share its feeling. Perhaps -this was because music is the most emotional of the arts, the most -sympathetic. Really, sometimes I could not bear to touch the piano, -the pain of being alone was so acute. Of course I had my uncle, a most -thorough musician; but I wanted somebody who would feel precisely as I -did, and he did not. He always analyzed and criticised, never allowed -himself to be carried away, never forgot the intellectual side of the -things I would play. But now—now that you are with me, my music is a -constant source of joy. And then, the thought that we are going to work -together all our lives, the thought of the music we are going to make -together—oh, it is too great, it takes my breath away! I don’t dare -to believe it. I am afraid all the time that something will happen to -prevent it coming true.” - -Again for a while we did not speak. - -Again by and by she resumed, “And then you can not know how lonely -I was in other ways, how I longed for a little affection, a little -tenderness. Of course uncle is very good, has always been very good -to me; but do you think it was ungrateful for me to want a little more -affection than he gave me? I mean a little more manifest affection; -because I know that in the bottom of his heart he loves me very warmly. -But I longed for somebody to show a little care for me, and uncle is -very undemonstrative—he is so absorbed in his symphony, and then -sometimes he is exceedingly severe. When I would get home at night it -was so dreary not to have any one to speak to about the trials of the -day—not to have any one who would sympathize and understand. You -see, other girls have their mothers or their brothers and sisters and -friends: but I had nobody except my uncle; and he was so much older, and -regarded things so differently, that I do not think it was unnatural for -me to wish for some one else. Besides, I had so much responsibility; I -felt so weak and helpless. I thought, what if something should happen to -my uncle! or what if I should get sick and be unable to teach! Oh, the -rest and security that you brought to me!” - -What I replied—a mass of broken sentences—was too incoherent to bear -recording. - -“And then, the mere physical fatigue—day after day, work, work, -work, and never any respite. Of course, every body has to work, but -almost every body has a holiday now and then; and I never had a single -day that I could call all my own. In winter it was hardest. No matter -how tired I was, I had to be up and off giving lessons even if the snow -was ankle deep. And the ice in the river made it such hard work getting -to Hoboken, made the journey so very long. I had to do the housework -too, you know. We couldn’t afford to keep a servant, on account of the -money we had to send abroad. When I would come home all fagged out I -had to clean the rooms and cook the dinner; though I am afraid that -sometimes I did not more than half do my duty. Sometimes I would let the -dust lie for a week on the mantle-piece. And every day was just the same -as the day that had gone before. It was like traveling in a circle. When -I would go to bed at night my weariness would be all the harder because -of the thought, ‘To-morrow will be just the same, the same round -of lessons, the same dead fatigue, the same monotonous drudgery from -beginning to end.’ And as I saw no promise of change, as I thought it -would be the same all my life, I could not help asking what the use was -of having been born. Wasn’t I a dreadful grumbler? Yet, what could -I do? I think it is natural when one is young to long for something -to look forward to, for just a little pleasure and just a little -companionship. But then you came, and every thing was altered. Do you -remember in the Creation the wonderful awakening one feels when they -sing, ‘And the Lord said, Let there be light,’ very low, and then -with a mighty burst of sound, ‘And there was LIGHT?’ Do you remember -how one’s heart leaps and seems to grow big in one’s breast? It -was like that when you came to me. I used to wonder why I had ever felt -unhappy or discontented. The mere prospect of seeing you at the week’s -end made my heart sing from morning to night. It gave a motive, an -object, to my life—made me feel that I was working to a purpose, that -I should have my reward. I had been growing hard and indifferent, even -indifferent to music. But now I began to love my music more than ever: -and no matter how tired I might be, when I had a moment of leisure I -would sit down and practice so as to be able to play well for you. Music -seemed to express all the unutterable feeling that you inspired me with. -One day I had sung the Ave Maria of Cherubini to you, and you said, -‘It is so religious—it expresses precisely the emotions one -experiences in a church.’ But for me it expressed rather the emotions -a woman has when she is in the presence of the man she loves. All the -time I had no idea that you would ever feel in the same way toward -me.” - -My kisses silenced her. Afterward she sang from Pergolese’s Stabat -Mater, and played a medley of bits from Chopin: until, looking at my -watch, I saw it was nearing midnight. Time for me to go away. But her -uncle had not yet come home. I did not like to leave her alone. I said -so. - -“Oh, that is nothing,” she explained. “It always happens when he -has one of his ideas. Very likely he won’t come in till morning. I am -quite accustomed to it, and not a bit afraid.” - -“In that event,” I thought, “I certainly ought to go. It may -embarrass her, my staying so late; and besides, she needs the sleep.” - -I started to say good-by. Our parting was hard. Again and again, as -I reached the door, I turned back and began anew. But at last I found -myself in the street. I looked up at the parlor window, and remained on -the curbstone until I saw her close the sash and pull the shade, and the -light being extinguished, knew that she had gone to her bedroom. Then I -set my face toward home. - -I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand -that what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire. -My tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should -be dedicated to soothing her and protecting her and making her glad. The -tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she -had been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce -work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to -return and pour out the yearning of my spirit at your feet. Why had I -left her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the -knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that -I was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when -that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should -overwhelm me. I could not contemplate it any more than I could have -gazed straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I -was seated at her side, caressing her brow and emptying my life into her -eyes. - -I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety -and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified. I had a presentiment -that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I -reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself -that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for -her lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not -begin till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on -my hat and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street. - -Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided as -abruptly and with as little provocation as it had sprung up. Indeed, I -laughed as I remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the -matter. Still I am not sorry to have come.” - -“Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me -in. - -“I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so -without my noticing.” - -I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I rang -again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning hope of success: -and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.” - -Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside -to let some one pass. - -“Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out -so early?” - -I explained. - -“Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of -coffee. I have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little -aria. I will play it for you.” - -He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been -drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every -thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and -empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest. -There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them. - -Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged -it on the table, and applied a match to the lamp. - -“While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you -the result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down -under the trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it -for their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold -the stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.” - -Again he went away—to fetch his instrument. - -He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and -more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot. -Still he remained. - -At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. -At first he did not answer. - -“Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated. - -I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low, -inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me. -Had he met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s -vigil? paralysis? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room -whence his voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of -the floor, immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a -man who has seen a ghost. - -“For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried. - -He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question. - -He roused himself. A tremor swept over him. A painful rattling -was audible in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed. -“L-look,” he gasped. - -I looked. How can I tell what I saw? - - - - -IV. - -AND yet I must tell it, though the telling consume me like a flame. I -saw a bed and Veronika lying on it, face downward. She was dressed in -her customary black gown. I supposed she was asleep. I supposed she was -asleep, for one short moment. That was the last moment of my life. For -then the truth burst upon me, fell upon me like a shaft from out the -skies and hurled me into hell. I saw—not that she was dead only. If -she had only died it would be different. I saw—merciful God!—I saw -that she was murdered. - -Oh, of course I would not, could not, believe it. Of course it was a -dream, a nightmare, an hallucination, from which I should presently -awake. Of course the thing was impossible, could not be. Of course I -flung myself upon the bed at her side and crushed her between my arms -and covered her with kisses and called and cried to her to move, to -speak, to come back to life. And although her hands were icy cold and -her body rigid and her face as white as marble, and although—ah, no! -I may leave out the horrible detail—still I could not believe. I could -not believe—yet how could I deny? There she lay, my sweetheart, my -promised bride, deaf to my voice, blind to my presence, unmoved by my -despair, beyond the reach of my strongest love, never to care for me -again—Veronika, my tender, sad Veronika—oh, she lay there, dead, -murdered! And still, with the knife-hilt staring at me like the face of -Satan, still I could not believe. It was the fact, the unalterable fact, -the fact that extinguished the light of the sun and stars and flooded -the universe with blackness: and still, in spite of it, I called to her -and crushed her in my embrace and kissed her and caressed her and was -sure it could not be true. And meantime people came and filled the room. - -I did not see the people. Only in a vague way I knew that they were -there, heard the murmur of their voices, as if they were a long distance -off. I had no senses left. I could neither see nor hear distinctly. My -eyes were burned by a fierce red fire. My ears were full of the uproar -of a thousand devils. But I knew that people had intruded upon us. I -knew that I hated them because they would not leave us two alone. I -remember I rose and faced them and cursed them and told them to be gone. -And then I took her in my arms again and pressed her hard to me and -forgot every thing but that she would not answer. - -Gradually, however, nature was coming to my rescue. Gradually I seemed -to be sinking into a stupor—had no sensation left except a numb, -bruised feeling from head to foot—forgot what the matter was, forgot -even Veronika, simply existed in a state of half conscious wretchedness. -The first frenzy of grief had spent itself. The very immensity of -the pain I had suffered acted as an opiate, exhausted and rendered me -insensible. I heard the voices of the people as a soldier who is wounded -may still hear something of the din of battle. - -I don’t know how long I had lain thus when I became aware that a hand -was placed upon my shoulder. Some one shook me roughly and said, “Get -up and come away.” Passively, I obeyed. “Sit down,” said the same -person, pushing me into a chair. I sat down and relapsed into my stupor. - -Again I don’t know how long it was before they disturbed me for a -second time. Two or three men were standing in front of me. One of them -was in uniform. Slowly I recognized that he was an officer, a captain of -police. He spoke. I heard what he said without understanding, as one -who is half asleep hears what is said at his bedside. This much only -I gathered, that he wanted me to go with him somewhere. I was too much -dazed to care what I did or what was done with me. He took my arm and -led me away. He led me into the street. There was a a great crowd. -I shut my eyes and tottered along at his side. We entered a house. -Somebody asked me a lot of questions—my name and where I lived and -so forth—to which my lips framed mechanical answers. I can remember -nothing more. - -When consciousness revived I was made to understand that I had fainted. - -“But where am I? What has happened?” I asked, trying to remember. - -The police-captain explained. “Mr. Neuman,” he said, “I have made -all the inquiry that is as yet possible, and the result is that I deem -it my duty to take you in custody. I prefer no charge, but I believe I -am bound to hold you for the inquest. The hour of your leaving her last -night, the time that Miss Pathzuol has apparently been dead, and the -fact that you were the last person known to have been in her company, -make it incumbent upon me to place you under arrest.” - -I pondered his words. Every thing came back. I was accused, or at least -suspected, of having murdered Veronika—I! - -I felt no emotion. I was stunned as yet, like a man who has received a -blow between the eyes. My brain had turned to stone. I repeated over to -myself all that the captain had said. The words wrought no effect. I did -not even experience pain as I thought of her. She is dead? I queried. -They were three vapid syllables. My senses I had recovered—I could -see and hear plainly now—could remember the events of the morning in -detail and in their correct order. But somehow I had lost all capacity -for feeling. - - - - -V. - -AND so it continued throughout the inquest and throughout the -trial—for, yes, they tried me for my sweetheart’s murder. I ate, -drank, slept, and answered the questions that were put to me, all in a -dazed, dull way, but suffered no pain, no surprise, no indignation, had -no more sensation than a dead man. That Veronika had been killed, and -that I was accused of having killed her, were the facts which I heard -told and told again from morning till night each day; yet I had not the -least conception of what they signified. I was too stunned and benumbed -to realize. - -The first day passed by, and the second and the third, every one of them -busy with events that meant life or death for me: yet I took no notice. -When left to myself, invariably I closed my eyes, and the stupor settled -over my senses like a cloud of smoke. When aroused, I did whatever was -required as passively as an automaton. I remember those first few days -as one remembers a hateful dream. I remember being driven in a dark, -noisy vehicle from the station-house to the city prison, and having in -the latter place a cell assigned to me which was destined to serve as my -home for many weeks. I remember making several trips, handcuffed to my -custodian, from the jail to the office where the inquest was held and -back: but my only recollection of the inquest itself is a confused -one—a crowded, foul-smelling room, a chaos of faces and voices, -endless talking, endless questioning of myself by men who were strangers -to me. I remember that by and by these journeys came to an end: but -what the verdict of the inquest was I do not remember—I do not think I -troubled myself to ask at the time. Then I remember that after some days -spent alone in my cell one of the keepers said, “You are indicted,” -and inquired whether I wished to communicate with my attorney. Indicted? -My attorney? I did not comprehend. I do not remember what I answered. - -Once the door of my cell opened, and they brought in a trunk and a -violin-case and placed them on the floor at the foot of my cot. - -I recognized these for my own property. Mechanically I took out my -violin and drew forth one long, clear note. That note was like a sudden -flash of light. For a single instant the desolation to which my world -had been reduced became visible in all its ghastliness. For a single -instant I realized my position, realized that Veronika was dead, and the -rest. The truth pierced my consciousness like an arrow and made my body -quake with pain. But immediately the darkness settled over me again, the -stupor returned. - -Slowly, however, this stupor was changing its character. By degrees, -so far as my mere thinking faculties were involved, it began to be -dissipated. By degrees my mind struggled out of it. I began to notice -and to understand things, and was able to converse and to appreciate -what was said. But over my feelings it retained its sway. Although I -was quite competent now to follow the explanations of my lawyer—how -Veronika had been murdered and how and why I was suspected as the -murderer—still I had no feeling of any sort about the matter. I might -have been a log of wood. - -My lawyer had presented himself one day and volunteered his services. I -had accepted them without even inquiring his name. - -“Don’t you remember me?” he asked. - -I looked at his face but could not recall having seen it before. - -“My name is Epstein,” he said. “We went to school together.” - -“Oh, yes; I remember,” I replied. - -Regularly each day he came and reported the progress of affairs. - -“They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our -only hope lies in an alibi.” - -“What is that?” I inquired dully. - -He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell -me what tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that -have leaked out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at -what hour did you leave Miss Pathzuol that night?” - -“At about midnight.” - -“And went directly home?” - -“Directly home.” - -“After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants? -any of your fellow-lodgers?” - -“I don’t remember.” - -“But you must make an effort to remember. Try.” - -“I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence -irritated me. - -“You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were -the life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said, -and that was the truth. - -Next day his face wore a somber expression. - -“This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and -your fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know -you are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.” - -At last the trial began. - -I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room. -I heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers -simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was -the least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the -result. Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of -the trial is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story -of it. - -The first day was used in securing a jury. - -The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called -it—by the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika -was, how she had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of -the 13th July they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable -train of circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. -Then he raised his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s -soul. Then he faced around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his -finger at me, “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the -man.” - -The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the -murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all -night that night; and explained the nature of the relations that -subsisted between Veronika and myself. - -“When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was -the door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney. - -“In its usual condition.” - -“That is to say, locked?” - -“Precisely.” - -“It had not been broken open or tampered with?” - -“Not so far as I could see.” - -“That’s all.” - -On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass -between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every -reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover. - -“And when made aware of the death of his betrothed,” pursued my -lawyer, “how did Mr. Neuman conduct himself?” - -“He acted like a crazy man—like one paralyzed by a tremendous -blow.” - -“You can go, Mr. Tikulski,” said my lawyer. “But I wish to say,” -began Tikulski, “that I do not believe——” - -“Stop,” cried the prosecutor. “Your honor, I object to any -expression of opinion by the witness.” - -“No matter about what you don’t believe,” said the Judge to -Tikulski. - -“But——-” - -“But you must hold your tongue,” imperiously. “You can go.” - -The old man left the stand and elbowed his way to my side. - -“What I wished to say was,” he whispered into my ear, “that I -believe you are as innocent as I myself. It is outrageous, this trial. -They compelled me to testify. But you must understand that I am sure of -your innocence. I don’t know why they hushed me up.” - -Meanwhile the captain of police had succeeded him, and sworn to having -visited the scene of the crime and to having placed the prisoner under -arrest. - -“Captain,” said the district-attorney, “here is a key. Have you -seen it before?” handing a key to the witness. - -“I have,” was the reply. - -“Tell us when and where.” - -“I took it from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest.” - -“What further can you say about it?” - -“Subsequently it was identified as a key to the apartments occupied by -the deceased.” - -“Did you try it yourself?” - -“I did. It fitted the lock.” - -“How is this?” Epstein asked me. “How did you come by that key?” - -“I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever -having had it in my possession.” - -“But it is an ugly circumstance, and must be accounted for.” - -“Oh, what difference does it make?” I retorted petulantly. “Leave -me alone.” - -“A few little trifles like this may make the difference of your -neck,” muttered Epstein, and he looked disturbed. - -“Captain,” continued the district-attorney, “just one thing more. -Do you recognize this handkerchief?” - -“Yes; it was found in the pocket of the prisoner when he was searched -at the station-house.” - -My lawyer got hold of the handkerchief and exhibited it to me. It -was stained dull brown. “This is blood,” he said. “How did it -happen?” - -“I don’t know, I haven’t an idea,” was the utmost I could -respond. Epstein looked more uneasy than before. - -“That’s enough, Captain,” said the prosecutor. - -“But before you leave the stand,” put in Epstein, “kindly tell us -what the prisoner’s conduct was from the time you took charge of the -premises down to the time you locked him up.” - -“At first he acted as though he was crazy; raved and carried on like a -madman. Afterward he became quiet and sort of dull. At the station-house -he fainted away.” - -“Didn’t act as though he liked it—as though the death of Miss -Pathzuol was a thing that pleased him?” - -“No, sir; on the contrary. He acted as though it had been a great -shock to him.” - -“You can go.” - -Next came a physician. - -He said he was a police-surgeon. At about nine o’clock on the morning -of July 13th he had been summoned to the house of the decedent; had -examined the body and satisfied himself as to the mode of death. There -were three separate knife-wounds. These he proceeded to describe in -technical language. Not one of them could have been self-inflicted; any -one of them was sufficient to have caused immediate death. - -“Dr. Merrill,” inquired the prosecutor, “how long—how many -hours—prior to your arrival must the crime have been perpetrated?” - -“From seven to ten hours.” - -“So that—?” - -“So that the crime must have been perpetrated between eleven and two -o’clock.” - -“Good.—Now, Doctor, here is a handkerchief which the captain says -he took from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest. Do you recognize -it?” - -“I do.” - -“Go on—what about it?” - -“It was submitted to me for chemical analysis—to analyze the -substance, with which it is discolored.” - -“And you found?” - -“I found that it was stained with blood,” - -“Human blood?” - -“Precisely.” - -“About how long had it been shed? Did its condition indicate?” - -“From its condition when submitted to me—that is, at about noon on -the 13th—I inferred that it had been shed not much less nor much more -than twelve hours.” - -“Thank you, Doctor,” said the lawyer. To Epstein, “Your -witness.” - -“One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give -no explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I -answered.—To the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways, -may it not? This blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have -come from—say, a nose-bleed, eh?” - -The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not -probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of -blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.” - -“You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a -nose-bleed on the night in question?” - -“I know nothing at all about it.” - -The next witness was a woman. - -She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East -Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the -street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she -had opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight -o’clock. - -“Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?” - -“Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were -seated out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman -went out a little before twelve o’clock.” - -“He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now, -meanwhile, whom else did you admit?” - -“No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in -except Mr. Neuman.” - -“Was not that a somewhat unusual circumstance?” - -“Most extraordinary. Me and my husband spoke about it at the time.” - -“You can swear positively on this score?” - -“Yes, because we staid on the stoop the whole evening and not a soul -could have passed us without our seeing.” - -“Are there any other means of ingress to the house of which you have -charge than the street door?” - -“Yes, sir; the basement-door and the scuttle-door in the roof.” - -“What was their condition on the night of the 12th of July?” - -“They were locked and bolted.” - -“What was their condition on the morning of the 13th?” - -“At six o’clock when I opened the house they were still locked and -bolted.” - -“Meantime could they have been unlocked?” - -“No, because I carried the keys in my pocket.” - -“Now, what are the means of ingress to the flat occupied by Mr. -Tikulski?” - -“The door that opens from his private hall into the outer hall of the -house.” - -“Any other?” - -“No, your honor.” - -“Do you recognize this key?” handing to the witness the key that the -officer had identified. - -“I do, sir.” - -“Well?” - -“It’s a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door?” - -Here befell a pause, during which the jurymen shifted in their seats and -the prosecutor consulted with his colleague. In a moment he resumed. - -“Now, Mrs. Marshall, you have testified that the prisoner at the bar, -Ernest Neuman, left the house, No.—East Fifty-first street, shortly -before midnight on the 12th of July. Your memory on this point is -entirely trustworthy?” - -“It is, sir.” - -“Very well. Did you notice his movements after that?” - -“I did, sir.” - -“Tell us what they were.” - -“Well, sir, he crossed over the street and stood on the sidewalk under -a lamp-post looking up at the front of the house toward Mr. Tikulski’s -windows, and then—” - -“For how long?” - -“I couldn’t tell exactly, but maybe for the time it would take you -to walk around the block.” - -“For five minutes?” - -“Yes, or more likely for ten.” - -“And then—?” - -“Well, and then, as I was saying, he marched straight away toward the -avenue.” - -“Toward what avenue?” - -“Toward Second avenue.” - -“And disappeared?” - -“And disappeared.” - -“Did you see any thing more of him that night?” - -“I did, sir.” - -“When and under what circumstances?” - -“In about a quarter of an hour, your honor, Mr. Neuman he comes back -and stands leaning up against the railing across the way; and pretty -soon crosses over and goes past us without speaking a word and enters -the house, the door being open, and goes up the stairs.” My lawyer -turned sharply to me. “Is this true?” he whispered. “No, it is -entirely false,” I answered. But I did not care. - -“This,” resumed the district-attorney, “was at about what hour?” - -“Sure, you can reckon it for yourself, sir. It was a little after -twelve.” - -“Very good. Now, at what hour did you shut up the house?” - -“It was after one o’clock.” - -“Had the prisoner meantime gone out?” - -“He had not.” - -“So that consecutively from the moment of his reëntrance to the -hour of your closing up, he was in the house?” - -“He was, sir.” - -“Meanwhile, who else had entered?” - -“Two of the tenants, Mr. and Mrs.————, the tenants of the -first flat.” - -“Any one else?” - -“No one else.” - -“That will do, Mrs. Marshall.” - -My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless -to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had -already sworn to. - -“John Marshall!” called the prosecutor. - -It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like -her, was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults. - -“That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the -judge. - -“Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter. - -I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein -joined me in my cell. - -“How about that key?” he demanded. - -“I know nothing about it.” - -“How about the blood on your handkerchief?” - -“I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.” - -“You are sure you did not reenter the house?” - -“Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.” - -“Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?” - -“They have.” - -“Will you take the stand?” - -“What for?” - -“Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.” - -“No.” - -“I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.” - -“What do I care for my life?” - -“But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’ - -“No,” I replied, stubbornly. - -He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted. -He went his way. - -“Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury -be directed to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the -prosecution has failed to show any motive on the part of my client -for the crime of which he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly -circumstantial, as in the present case, a failure to show motive is -fatal.” - -“I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide -the case on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My -landlady took the witness-chair and testified to my excellent character. -He called a handful more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I -am ready to sum up, your honor.” - -“Do so,” replied the Court. - -Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for -word; yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time. - -He said, “We are not prepared to contest the matters of fact alleged -by the prosecution, nor to deny that their bearing is against my client. -That Mr. Neuman was in Miss Pathzuol’s company on the night of July -12th, and that the next morning a blood-stained handkerchief and a key -to Mr. Tikulski’s door were taken from his pocket, we admit. We will -even admit that these circumstances are of a sort to cast suspicion upon -him: all that we claim is that they are not sufficient to confirm that -suspicion and make it certainty. It is the liberty, perhaps the life, -of a human being which you have at your disposal. No matter how dark the -shadow over him may be, if you can entertain a reasonable doubt of his -guilt, you must acquit. And, putting it to you in all simplicity and -sincerity, I ask: Does not the evidence offered by the prosecution leave -room for a reasonable doubt? Is it not possible that some other hand -than Neuman’s dealt the blows by which Veronika Pathzuol met her -death? If such a possibility exists, you must give Neuman the benefit of -it; you must acquit. Consider his good character; consider that he was -the betrothed of the lady whose murderer they would make him out to be; -consider that absolutely no trace of motive has been brought home to -him; consider that on the contrary he was the one man who above all -others most desired that she might live; consider these matters, -and then decide whether in reasonableness his guilt is not in doubt. -Remember that it is not sufficient that there should be a presumption -against him. Remember that there must be proof. Remember also what a -grave duty yours is, and how grave the consequences, should you send an -innocent man to the gallows. - -“Only one word more. I had naturally intended to place my client upon -the stand, and let him justify himself by his own word of mouth. But, -unfortunately, I am not able to do so, because morally and physically he -is prostrated and unfitted for sustaining the strain of an examination. -But after all, if you will for a moment imagine yourselves in Mr. -Neuman’s position, you can conceive that his defense must necessarily -be of a passive, not of an active, kind. In his position what could -you say? Why, only that you were ignorant of the whole transaction, and -innocent despite appearances, and as much at loss for a solution of the -mystery involving it as his honor himself. This is what Neuman would say -were he able to go upon the stand. But one thing more he would say. He -would impugn the veracity of the Marshalls. He would maintain that they -lied in toto when they swore to his second entrance. He would tell you -that when he left the house in Fifty-first street at midnight, he went -directly home and to his bed, and that he returned no more until the -next morning. And he would leave you to choose between his story and -that of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. My opponent will ask, ‘Why not prove an -alibi, then?’ Because, when Mr. Neuman returned to his lodging-house -late that night, every body, as might have been expected, was asleep. He -encountered no one in the hall or on the stairs. He mounted straight to -his own bed-chamber and went to bed. - -“I trust the matter to your discretion. I am sure that you will weigh -it carefully and conscientiously. You will realize that the life of a -fellow man hangs upon your verdict, and you will deliberate well, if -there be not, on the whole, a reasonable doubt in his favor. You will, I -am confident, in no uncertain mind consign Ernest Neuman to the grave of -a felon.” The district-attorney’s address was florid and rhetorical. -It lasted about two hours. He resumed the evidence. He said that an -ordinary process of elimination would suffice to fasten the guilt upon -the prisoner at the bar. The gist of his argument was that as Neuman -had been the only person in the victim’s company at the time of the -commission of the crime, he was consequently the only person who by -a physical possibility could be guilty. He warned the jury against -allowing their sympathies to interfere with their judgment, and read at -length from a law book respecting the value of circumstantial proof. He -ridiculed Epstein’s impeachment of the Marshalls, and added that even -without their testimony the doctor’s story and the police-captain’s -story, coupled with my own “eloquent silence,” were conclusive. It -was the obvious duty of the jury to convict. - -The judge delivered his charge, dealing with the legal aspect of the -case. - -Epstein rose again. “I request your honor,” he said, “to charge -that in the event of the jurymen finding that there is a reasonable -doubt in Neuman’s favor, they must acquit.” - -“I so charge,” assented the judge. - -“I request your honor,” Epstein continued, “to charge that if the -jurymen consider the fact of no motive having been shown, sufficient -to establish a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, they must -acquit.” - -“I so charge you, gentlemen,” said the judge. - -The jurymen filed out of the room. The judge left the bench. It was now -about four in the afternoon. Half an hour passed. The court-room began -to empty. Another half hour passed. Only the court attendants, Epstein, -the district-attorney’s colleague, and the prisoner remained. One of -the attendants held a whispered conference with Epstein: then said to -me, “There is no prospect of a speedy agreement. Come.” I rose, -followed him to the rear of the room, and was locked up in the -prisoner’s pen. - -It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my -faculties like a frost. - -It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The -same attendant again said, “Come.” - -The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on -the bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him. -Epstein said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have -agreed.” - -The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled -themselves in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their -pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead -silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk. - -I stood up. - -“Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the -prisoner,” the clerk cried, machine-like. - -In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the -faces of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so. - -“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the -metallic voice of the clerk rang out. - -The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered. - -“How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty -of the offense for which he stands indicted?” - -“Not guilty,” said the foreman. - -Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did -not speak. - -“Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar -not guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands -recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word. - -I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom -as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my -breast. - -Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said. -“Come with me.” - -He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant. - -“This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at -cheerfulness, “and much frequented by journalists. What will you -have?” - -“I am not hungry,” I answered. - -“Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of -ruefulness, “just a bite to celebrate our victory.” - -I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried, -“Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh -wind blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to -gray. “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where -will you go?” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll stroll about for a while. -Good-by.” - -“Good-by.” - - - - -VI. - -I WALKED along aimlessly, recounting all the happenings of the last few -weeks. I was astonished at my own blank insensibility. “Why, Veronika, -the Veronika you loved, is dead, murdered,” I said to myself, “and -you, you who loved her, have been in prison and on trial for the crime. -They have outraged you. They have sworn falsely against you. And the -very core of your life has been torn out. Yet you—what has come over -you? Are you heartless, have you no capacity for grief or indignation? -Oris it that you are still half stunned? And that presently you will -come to and begin to feel?” I strode on and on. It was broad day now. -By and by I looked around. - -I was in Second avenue, near its southern extremity. I was standing in -front of a large red brick house. A white placard nailed to the door -caught my eye. “Room to let,” it said in big black letters. - -“Room to let?” I repeated. “Why, I am in need of a room.” And -I entered the house and engaged the room. The landlady asked my name. -I told her it was Lexow, that having been the maiden-name of my mother. -Neuman had acquired too unpleasant a notoriety through the published -accounts of the trial. As Lexow I have been known ever since. - -I employed an express agent to go to the Tombs and bring back my -luggage. - -Then I sat at my window and watched the people pass in the street. I -sat there stockstill all day. I was aware of a vague feeling of -wretchedness, of a vague craving for a relief which I could not name. -As dusk gathered, a lump grew bigger and bigger in my throat. “I -am beginning to be unhappy,” I thought. “It is high time.” My -insensibility had frightened as well as puzzled me. Instinctively, I -knew it could not last forever, knew it for the calm that precedes -the storm. I was anxious that the storm should break while I was still -strong enough to cope with its fury. Waiting weakened me. Besides, I -was ashamed of myself, hated myself as one shallow and disloyal. That I -could be indifferent to Veronika’s death! I, who had called myself her -lover! - -But now, as the lump grew in my throat, now, I thought, perhaps the hour -has come. I sat still in my chair, fanning this forlorn spark of hope. - -In the end, by imperceptible degrees, sleep stole upon me. It was -natural. I had been up for more than six-and-thirty hours. - -When I awoke a singular thing happened. Memory played me a singular -trick. - -I awoke, conscious of a great luminous joy in my heart. It was full -morning. “Ah,” I thought, “how bright the sunshine is! how sweet -the air! To-day I will go to Veronika to-day, after my lessons—and -spend the lest of the afternoon and the evening at her side!” My heart -leaped at this prospect of happiness in store: and I commenced to plan -the afternoon and evening in detail. At last I jumped up, eager to begin -the delicious day. - -The trick that memory played me was a simple one, after all. The recent -past had simply for the moment been obliterated, and I transported back -for a moment into the old time. As I stood now in the middle of the -floor, my eye was struck by the strangeness of my surroundings. - -“Why, how is this?” I questioned. “Where am I?” - -For a trice I was bewildered, but only for a trice. The truth reasserted -itself all at once—rose up and faced me with its grim, deathly visage, -as if cleared by a stroke of lightning. All at once I remembered; and -what is more, all at once the stupor that had hung like a cloud between -me and the facts, rolled away. I looked at my world. It was dust and -ashes, a waste space, peopled by ghosts. My heart recoiled, sickened, -horrified; then began to throb with the pain that had been ripening in -its womb ever since the morning when Tikulski pointed to her, stretched -murdered upon the bed. - -Well, at last the storm had broken; at last I realized. At last I could -no longer reproach myself for a want of sensibility. At last I had my -desire. I yielded myself to the enjoyment of it for the remainder of the -day. - -For weeks afterward I lay at the point of death. The slow convalescence -that ensued afforded me plenty of time to examine my position from every -point of view, and to get accustomed to understanding that the light -had gone out of my sky. Of course I hated the fate that condemned me to -regain my health. The thought that I should have to drag out years and -years of blank, aimless, joyless life, appalled me. The future was -a night through which I should be compelled to toil with no hope of -morning. Strangely enough, the idea of suicide never once suggested -itself. - -When I was able to go out, I repaired to Epstein’s office. Several -little matters remained to be settled with him. As I was about to leave, -he said, “Neuman, do you propose to take any steps toward finding the -murderer?” - -“Toward finding the murderer? Why, no; I had not thought of doing -so.” - -“But of course you will. You won’t allow the affair to rest in statu -quo?” - -“Why not?” - -“Why, considering your relations to Miss Pathzuol, I should think your -motive would be plain. Don’t you want to see her murderer punished, -her death atoned for?” - -“Her death atoned for! Her death can never be atoned for. And the -punishment of her murderer—would that restore her to me? Would that -undo the fact that she is dead? Else, why should I bestir myself about -it?” - -“Common human nature ought to be enough; the natural wish to square -accounts with him.” - -“Do you fancy, Epstein, that such an account as this can be squared? -Suppose we had him here now at our mercy, what could we do by way of -squaring accounts? Put him to death? Would that square the account? To -say so would be to compare his miserable life to hers.—But besides, he -is not at our mercy. We have no clew to him.” - -“Yes, on the contrary, we have.” - -“Indeed? What is it?” - -“Why, the most apparent one. You are sure the Marshalls lied?” - -“Oh yes; I am sure of that.” - -“Well, what earthly inducement could they have had for lying—for -perjuring themselves, mind you, and running the risk of being caught and -sent to prison—what earthly inducement, unless thereby they hoped to -cover up their own guilt by throwing suspicion upon another man?” - -“Yes; that is so. I had not thought of that.” - -“Well, now, if you and I are sure that the Marshalls participated in -that crime, there is a solid starting-point. Now, will you not join me -and help to fasten the guilt upon them?” - -“What good would it do? I say again, would that give her back to -me?” - -“But, my dear fellow, even if you have no desire to see the murderer -punished, you must at least wish to retaliate upon the wretches who -jeopardized your life by their false swearing, who sought to thrust upon -your innocent shoulders the brunt of their own offending.” - -“No; I confess, I have no such wish.” - -“But—but you amaze me. Have you not the ordinary instincts of a man? - -“It is the business of the police, any how. Let them move in the -matter. You ought to understand that I am sick and tired, that all I -wish for is to be left alone. No, no; if the Marshalls should ever be -brought to justice it will not be by my efforts. The police can manage -it for themselves.” - -“But there is just the point.” Epstein hesitated; at length went on, -“There is just the point I wanted to bring to your notice. It will -be hard for you to hear, but you ought to understand—it is only right -that I should tell you—that—that—why, hang it, the police -will remain idle because they suppose they have already finished the -business, already put their finger on the—the man.” - -“Well, why should they remain idle on that account? Why don’t they -arrest him and try him, as they did me, before a jury?” - -“You don’t comprehend, Neuman. The fact of the matter is—you must -pardon me for saying so—the fact is, they still suspect you.” - -“Suspect me? What, after the very jury has acquitted me? I thought the -verdict of the jury was conclusive.” - -“So it is, in one sense. They can’t put you in jeopardy again. But -this is the way they stand. They say, ‘We haven’t sufficient legal -evidence to warrant a conviction, but we feel morally certain, all the -same, and so there’s no use prying further.’ That is my reason for -broaching the subject and for urging you so strongly. You ought to clear -your character, vindicate your innocence, by proving to the police -that they are wrong, that the guilt rests with their own witnesses, the -Marshalls. - -“I thank you, Epstein, for telling me this. I am glad to realize just -what my status is. But let me cherish no misconception. Is this theory -of the police—is it held by others?” - -“To be frank, I am afraid it is. The newspapers took it up and—and -I’m afraid it s the opinion of the public generally.” - -“Then the verdict did not signify?” - -“Well, at least not so far as public opinion is concerned.” - -“So that I am to rest under this stigma all my life?” - -“Why, no—not if you choose to exonerate yourself, as I have -indicated.” - -“Oh, I don’t care about that. I don’t care to exonerate myself. -What difference would it make? Would it make the fact that she is lost -to me forever one shade less true? Only, it is well that I should have -a clear understanding of my position, and I thank you for giving it to -me.” - -“You don’t mean to say that you are going to drop the case there?” -Epstein demanded. “I assure you, I never should have opened my mouth -about it, had I foreseen this.” - -“Don’t reproach yourself. You have simply done your duty. It was -my right to hear this from you.—Yes, of course I shall drop the case. -Good-by.” - -“You will think better of it; you will reconsider it; you will come -back to-morrow in a wiser frame of mind. Good-by.” - -As I reentered my lodging-house the landlady met me; thrust an envelope -into my hand; and vanished. - -I was surprised to see that the envelope was addressed to “E. Neuman, -Esquire.” It will be remembered that I had introduced myself as Mr. -Lexow. I tore it open. It inclosed a memorandum of my arrears of rent -and a notice to quit, the latter couched thus: “Mr. Neuman’s real -name having been learned during his sickness, please move out as soon as -you have paid up.” - -I caught sight of myself in the glass. “So,” I said, “you are the -person whom people suspect as a murderer! and it is thus that you are to -be regarded all the rest of your life as one touched with the plague.” - -I counted my ready money and paid the landlady her due. - -“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. - -I mentioned Epstein. - -“All right,” he said. “You can go to work at once. To-morrow I -will look up your reference. If it be satisfactory, I will keep you.” - -The Oberkellner provided me with an apron and a short alpaca jacket; -and in this garb Ernest Neuman, musician, merged his identity, as he -supposed for good and all, into that of Ernest Lexow, waiter. - - - - -VII. - -TWO years elapsed. Their history is easily told. I lived and moved and -had my being in a profound apathy to all that passed around me. The -material conditions of my existence caused me no distress. I dwelt in a -dingy room in a dirty house; ate poor food, wore poor clothing, worked -long hours; was treated as a menial and had to put up with a hundred -indignities every day; but I was wholly indifferent, had other things -to think of. My thoughts and my feelings were concentrated upon my one -great grief. My heart had no room left in it for pettier troubles. I do -not believe that there was a waking moment in those two years’ when I -was unconscious of my love and my loss. Veronika abode with me morning, -noon, and night. My memory of her and my unutterable sorrow for her -engrossed me to the exclusion of all else. - -My violin I did not unlock from year’s end to year’s end. I could -not get over my hatred for the bare idea of music. Music recalled the -past too vividly. I had not the fortitude to endure it. The sound of a -hand-organ in the street was enough to cause me a twinge like that of a -nerve touched by steel. - -As the winter leaped into spring, and days came which were the -duplicates of those I had spent with her, of course my pain grew more -acute. The murmur of out-door life and the warmth and perfume of the -spring air, penetrated to the very quick of memory and made it quiver. -But at about this time I began to taste an unexpected pleasure. It was -an odd one. Of old, during our betrothal, I had been tormented almost -nightly by bad dreams. As surely as I laid my head upon its pillow, so -surely would I be wafted off into an ugly nightmare—she and I were -separated—we had quarreled—she had ceased to love me. But now that -my worst dream had been excelled by the reality, I began to have dreams -of quite another sort. As soon as sleep closed upon me, the truth was -annihilated, Veronika came back. All night long we were supremely happy; -we played and sang and talked together, just as we had been used to do. -These dreams were astonishingly life-like. Indeed, in the morning after -one, I would wonder which was the very fact, the dream or the waking. My -nightly dream got to be a goal to look forward to during the day. But as -the summer deepened, I dreamed less and less frequently, and at length -ceased altogether. - -Autumn returned, and winter; and my life did not vary. Time was slow -about healing my wounds, if time meant to heal them at all. But time did -not mean to heal them at all, as ere long became apparent. - -One afternoon in November, a month or so before the two years would -have terminated, a young man entered the shop and ensconced himself at a -table in the corner. Having delivered his order and lighted a cigarette, -he pulled out a yellow covered French book from the pocket of his coat, -and speedily became immersed in its perusal. I don’t know what it was -in the appearance of this young man that attracted my attention. Almost -from the moment of his advent my eyes kept going back to him. His own -eyes being fastened upon his book, I could stare at him without giving -offense. And stare at him I did to my heart’s content. - -He was a tall young fellow and wore his hair a trifle longer than the -fashion is. He was dressed rather carelessly; he knocked his cigarette -ashes about so that they soiled his clothes. He had a dark skin, and, in -singular contrast to it, a pair of large blue eyes. His forehead, nose, -and chin were strongly modeled and expressed force of character -without pretending to conventional beauty. He was not a handsome, but -a distinguished looking man. The absence of beard and mustache lent him -somewhat of the aspect of a Catholic priest. His big blue eyes were full -of good-nature and intelligence. He had a quick, energetic way of moving -which announced plenty of dash within. He had entered the shop like a -gust of wind, had shot across the floor and taken his seat at the table -as if impelled by the force of gunpowder, and now he turned the pages -of his book with the air of a man whose life depended upon what he was -doing. No sooner had he consumed one of his cigarettes than he applied a -match to its successor. - -I stared at him mercilessly and wondered what manner of individual he -was. - -“He is not a business-man,” I said, “nor a lawyer nor a doctor: -that is evident from his whole bearing; and besides, what would he be -doing in a wine-shop at this hour of the afternoon? I don’t think -he is a musician, either—he hasn’t the musician’s eyes or mouth. -Possibly he is a school-teacher, or it may be—yes, I should say most -certainly, he is an artist of some sort, a painter or sculptor, or -perhaps a writer.” - -My speculations had proceeded thus far when in the quick, energetic way -above alluded to the young man looked at his watch, slammed to his book, -shoved back his chair, and commenced hammering upon the table with the -bottom of his empty beer-mug. - -“Yes, sir,” I said, responding to his summons. - -“Check,” he demanded laconically. - -I handed him his check. He thrust his fingers into his waistcoat-pocket -for the money. They roamed about, apparently unrewarded. - -A puzzled expression came upon his face. The fingers paused in their -occupation; presently emerged and dived into another pocket and then -into another. The puzzled expression deepened: at last changed its -character, became an expression of intense annoyance. He knitted his -brows and bit his lip. Glancing up, he said, “This is really very -awkward. I—I find I haven’t a sou about me. It’s—bother it -all, I suppose you’ll take me for a beat. But—here, I can leave my -watch.” - -“Oh, that’s entirely unnecessary,” I hastened to put in. -“Don’t let it distress you. Tomorrow, or any other day you happen to -be passing, will do as well.” - -He looked at the same time surprised and relieved. “That’s not a -conservative way of doing business,” he said. “How do you know I may -not take advantage of you?” - -“Oh, I’m quite at rest about that. You need not be disturbed.” - -“Well, such faith in human nature is stimulating,” he answered. “I -should hate to imperil it. So you may be sure I’ll turn up to-morrow. -Meanwhile I’m awfully obliged.” - -Thereat he went away. - -I paid his reckoning from my own purse, and immediately fell again to -wondering about him. - -By and by it occurred to me, “Why, that is the first human being who -has taken you out of yourself for the last two years!” And thereupon I -transferred my wonder to the interest he had managed to arouse in my -own preoccupied mind. Then gradually my thoughts flowed back into their -customary channels. - -But early the next day I caught myself asking, “Will he return?” -and devoutly hoping that he would. Not on account of the money; I had no -anxiety about the money. But somehow, self-centered as I was, I had felt -drawn toward this blue-eyed young man, and anticipated seeing him again -with an approach to genuine pleasure. - -Surely enough, in the course of the afternoon the door opened and he -entered. - -“Ah,” he said, “you see, I am faithful to my trust. Here is the -lucre: count it and be satisfied that the sum is just. Really,” he -added, dropping the mock theatrical manner he had assumed, “really, -it was frightfully embarrassing yesterday. But I’m a victim of -absentmindedness, and in changing my clothes I had omitted to transfer -my pocket-book from the one suit to the other. I can’t tell you how -much indebted I am for your considerateness. I suppose you are overrun -with dead-beats who play that dodge regularly—eh?” - -I gave him the answer his question called for, served him with the -drinkables he ordered, and stationed, myself at a respectful distance. - -He lighted his inevitable cigarette and produced his book. He read and -smoked for a few moments in silence. Suddenly he flung the book -angrily upon the table, pushed back his glass, and uttered an audible -“Confound it!” - -I hastened forward to learn the subject of his discomposure and to -supply what remedy I might. - -“I beg your pardon,” I ventured, “is there any thing wrong with -the wine?” - -“Eh—what?” he queried. “With the wine? Any thing wrong? Oh—I -perceive. Oh, no—the wine s all right. It’s this beastly pedantic -author. He is describing the Jewish ritual, and now just observe -his idiocy. He goes on at a great rate about the beauty of a certain -prayer—gets the reader’s curiosity all screwed up—and then—fancy -his airs!—and then quotes the stuff in the original Hebrew! It’s -ridiculous. He doesn’t even condescend to affix a translation in a -foot-note. Look.” - -He opened the book and pointed, with a finger dyed brown by -tobacco-smoke, to the troublesome passage. - -Now I, having been brought up as an orthodox Jew, had a smattering of -Hebrew, and at a glance I saw that I could easily translate the few -sentences in question. So, impulsively and without stopping to reflect -that my conduct might seem officious, I said, “If you would like, I -think perhaps I may be able to aid you.” - -“What!” he exclaimed, fixing a pair of wide open eyes upon my face. - -“Yes, I think I can translate it.” - -“The deuce!” he cried. “I didn’t suspect you were a scholar. How -in the name of goodness did you learn Hebrew?” - -“A scholar I am not, surely enough: but I am a Jew, and like the rest -of my faith I studied Hebrew as a boy.” - -“Ah, I understand. Well, fire away.” - -I took the book and read the Hebrew aloud. It was a prayer, which, when -a child, I had known by heart. Afterward I explained its sense while my -friend jotted it down with a pencil upon the margin. - -“Thanks,” he was good enough to say. “I don’t know what I should -have done without your help.—And so you are a Jew? You don’t look -it. You look like a full-blown Teuton. But I congratulate you all the -same.” - -“Congratulate me for looking like a Teuton?” The shop being empty, -there was no harm in my joining in conversation with a client. Besides, -I did not stop to think whether there was harm in it or not. I yielded -to the attraction which this young man exerted over me. - -“No—for belonging to the ancient and honorable race of Jews,” he -answered. “Your ancestors were civilized and dwelt in cities and wrote -poems, thousands of years ago: whereas mine at that epoch inhabited -caves and dressed in bearskins and occasionally dined on a roasted -neighbor. I should be proud of my lineage, were I a Jew.” - -“But it is the fashion for the Gentiles to despise us.” - -“Oh, bosh! It is the fashion for a certain ignorant, stupid set of -Philistines to do so—but those who pretend to the least enlightenment, -on the contrary, regard the Jews as a most enviable people. They envy -your history, they envy the success that waits upon your enterprises. -For my part, I believe the whole future of America depends upon the -Jews.” - -“Indeed, how is that?” - -“Why, look here. What is the American people to-day? There is no -American people—or rather there are twenty American peoples—the -Irish, the German, the Jewish, the English, and the Negro elements—all -existing independently at the same time, and each as truly American as -any of the others. Good! But in the future, after emigration has ceased, -these elements will begin to amalgamate. A single people of homogeneous -blood will be the consequence. Do you follow?” - -“I think I follow. But the Jews?” - -“But the Jews—precisely, the Jews. It is the Jewish element that is -to leaven the whole lump—color the whole mixture. The English element -alone is, so to speak, one portion of pure water; the German element, -one portion of eau sucrée; now add the Jewish—it is a dose of rich -strong wine. It will give fire and flavor to the decoction. The future -Americans, thanks to the Jew in them, will have passions, enthusiasms. -They will paint great pictures, compose great music, write great poems, -be capable of great heroism. Have I said enough?” - -The result was that we chatted together for half an hour with the -freedom of old acquaintances. He quite made me forget that I was his -servant for the time, and led me to speak out my mind with the unreserve -of equal to equal. I enjoyed a peculiar sense of exhilaration that -lasted even after he had gone away. In spite of myself I could not help -relishing this contact with a superior man. Again I fell to wondering -about his occupation. I was more and more persuaded that he must be an -artist of some sort, or a writer. - -The next day he came again, and the next, and the next, and regularly -every day at about the same hour for a fortnight. As surely as he seated -himself at the corner table, so surely would he beckon to me and begin -to talk. In these dialogues he afforded me no end of entertainment, -touching in a racy way upon a score of topics. He had resided abroad for -some years—seemed equally at home in Paris, Rome, and Munich—and his -anecdotes of foreign life were like glimpses into dream-land for me. He -had the faculty of making me forget myself, and for that reason, if for -no other, I should have valued his friendliness. Our interviews occurred -as bright spots in the sad gray monotone of my daily life. - - - - -VIII. - -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!” - -I followed him into the house. - -The room to which he conducted me was precisely the sort of room one -would have expected. It was chock-full of odds and ends, piled about -in hopeless confusion. The walls were hung with a reddish paper, and -freckled with framed and unframed pictures—etchings, engravings, -water-colors, charcoals, some suspended correctly by wires from the -cornice, others pinned up loosely by their corners. The ceiling was -tinted to harmonize with the walls. The floor was carpetless, of hard -wood, waxed to a high degree of slipperiness, and relieved by a sporadic -rug or two. Bits of porcelain and metal ware, specimens of old Italian -carving, Chinese sculptures in ivory, rich tapestries, bronze and -plaster reproductions of antique statuary, and books of all sizes and -descriptions and in all stages of decay, were scattered hither and -thither without a pretense to order. On the whole the effect of the -room was pleasant, though it resembled somewhat closely that of a -curiosity-shop gone mad. My host informed me that it was Liberty Hall -and bade me make myself at home. Producing a flagon of Benedictine, he -said laconically, “Drink.” - -We drank together in silence. Turning his emptied glass upside down, -“Now,” he cried, “now for the music. Now you are going to play.” - -“Oh, I thought you had forgotten about that,” I answered. - -“‘Tis not among my talents to forget,” he declaimed, theatrically. -“You must prepare to limber up your fingers.” - -“Really, Mr. Merivale,” I insisted, “you don’t know what you -are asking. I should no more think of touching a violin to-night than, -than—no need of a comparison. The long and short of the matter is that -I have the best of reasons for not wanting to play, and that the most -you can urge to the contrary won’t alter my resolution. I hate to -seem boorish or disobliging, but really I can’t help it. Besides, my -instrument is a mile away and unstrung, and it is so late that the -other occupants of this house would be annoyed. And as the subject is -extremely painful to me, I wish you would let it drop.” - -“Oh, if you are going to treat the matter au grand sérieux,” -said Merivale, “I suppose I must give in. But you have no idea of how -disappointed I shall be. As for an instrument, I’ve a fiddle of my own -in the next room—one that I scrape on now and then myself. As for the -other occupants of this house, I pay double rent on the condition that -my quarters are to be my castle, and that I can create as much rumpus in -them, day and night, as I desire. If I were disposed to do so, I could -make this a broad proposition of ethics, and maintain that as an artist -you have no right to decline to exercise your skill. Your talent is -given you in trust—a trust which you violate when you bury the talent -in the ground. But I won’t go so far as that. I’ll simply ask you -as a favor to play for me, and, if after that you are still obstinate, -I’ll hold my peace.” - -“Well, I am forced to be obstinate. Now let’s change the subject.” - -“I bow my head. Only, perhaps you will make a single concession. As -I have said, I am the possessor of a fiddle. It is one I picked up in -Rome. I bought it of a seedy Italian nobleman; and he claimed it for -a rare one—a Stradivari, in fact. I’m no judge of such things, -and most likely was taken in. Will you look at it and give me your -opinion?” - -“Oh, yes, I have no objection to doing that,” - -I said, glad to prove myself not altogether churlish. - -“Here it is,” he continued, putting the violin into my hands. - -It was a beautiful instrument from an optical standpoint. What remained -of the varnish was ruddy and crystalline, and as smooth as amber. - -The curves were exquisite. It was also either genuinely old or a -marvelous imitation. Its interior was dark and dirty—an excellent -condition. I could descry no label there—another favorable sign. Was -it indeed a Stradivari? Formerly it had been an ambition of mine to -play upon a Stradivari; an ambition which I had never had a chance to -gratify, because among the dozen so-called Stradivaris that I had come -upon here and there, I had found not one but betrayed its fraudulent -origin from the instant the bow was drawn across the strings. Something -of the old feeling revived in me as I held this instrument in my hands, -and before I had thought, my finger mechanically picked the A string. -The clear, bell-like tone that responded, caused me to start. I had -never heard such a tone as this produced before by the mere picking of a -string. - -“I believe you have a treasure here,” I exclaimed. “I’m not -connoisseur enough to say whether it is a Stradivari; but whoever its -maker was, it’s a superb instrument.” - -“Do you really think so?” cried Merivale. “Try it with the bow.” - -He thrust the bow upon me. Without allowing myself time to hesitate, I -touched the bow to the strings: the result was a voice from heaven, so -clear, so broad, so sweet, of such magnetic quality, that it actually -frightened me, made my heart palpitate, summoned a myriad dead emotions -back to life. And yet I felt an irresistible temptation to continue, to -push the experiment at least a trifle further. - -“Tune it up,” said Merivale. - -I complied. That was the final stroke. After I had drawn the bow for -a second time across the cat-gut, there was no resisting. I lost -possession of myself: ere I knew it, I was pouring my life out through -the wonderful voice of the Stradivari. - -I don’t remember what I played. Most probably it was a medley of -reminiscences. I only remember that for the first few minutes I suffered -the tortures of the damned—an army of devils were tugging at my -heart-strings—and withal I had no power to restrain the motion of -my arm and lay the violin aside. Then, I remember, the pain gradually -turned to pleasure, to an immense sense of relief, as though all the woe -pent up in the recesses of my soul had suddenly found an outlet and was -gushing forth in a tremendous flood of sound. As I felt it ebbing away, -like a poison let loose from my veins, somehow time and space were -annihilated, facts were undone, truth changed to falsehood. Veronika and -I were alone together in the pure realm of spirit while I told her in -the million tempestuous variations of my music the whole story of my -sorrow and my adoration. I listened to the music precisely as though it -had been played by another person; I heard it grow soft and softer and -melt into a scarcely audible whisper; I heard it soar away into mighty, -passionate crescendi; I heard it modulate swiftly from prayerful minor -to triumphant, defiant major; I heard it laugh like a child, plead like -a lover, sob like Mary at the tomb of Christ; I heard it wax wrathful -like a God in anger. And I—I was caught up and borne away and tossed -from high to low by it like a leaf on the bosom of the ocean. And at -last I heard the sharp retort of a breaking string; and I sank into a -chair, exhausted. - -I think I must have come very near to fainting. When I gathered together -my senses and opened my eyes I was weak, nerveless, bewildered. Merivale -stood in front of me, his gaze fixed upon my face. - -“In God’s name,” I heard him say, “tell me what you are. Such -music as you have played upsets all my established notions, undermines -my philosophy, forces me back in spite of myself to a belief in -witchcraft and magic. Are you a Merlin? Have you indeed the secret of -enchantment? It is hardly credible that simple human genius wove that -wonderful web of melody—which has at last come to an end, thank -heaven! If I had had to listen a moment longer, I should have broken -down. The strain was too intense. You have taken me with you through -hell and heaven.” - -Still weak and nerveless, I could not command my voice. - -“You are faint,” he exclaimed. “The effort has tired you out. No -wonder: here—drink this.” He held a glass to my lips. I drank its -contents. Presently I felt a glow of warmth radiating through my limbs. -Then I was able to stir and to speak. - -“Through hell and heaven,” I repeated, echoing his words. “Yes, we -have been through hell and heaven.” - -“It was a frightful experience,” he added, “more than I bargained -for when I asked you to play.” - -“You must forgive me; I was carried away; I had no intention of -harrowing you, but I had not played for so long a time that my emotions -got the best of me.” - -“Oh, don’t talk like that,” he protested. “It was a frightful -experience, but it was one I would not have missed. I had never dreamed -that music could work such an effect upon me; but now I can understand -the ardor with which musicians love their art; I can understand the -claims they make in its behalf. It is indeed the most powerful influence -that can be brought to bear upon the feelings. For my part I never was -so deeply moved before—not even by Dante. But tell me, how did you -acquire your wonderful skill? What must your life have been in order -that you should play like that?” - -“Of ‘wonderful skill’ I have little enough. Tonight perhaps -I played with a certain enthusiasm because I was excited. But you -attribute too much to me. A musician would have descried a score of -faults. My technique has deserted me; but even when I used to practice -regularly, I occupied a very low grade in my profession.” - -“I care not how you used to play, nor how you were rated, nor how -faulty your technique may be. You play now with a force that is more -than human. I am not given either to flattery or to exaggeration, and I -am not easily stirred up. But you have stirred me up, clear down to -the marrow of my bones. Perhaps these two years of abstinence have but -ripened the genius that was already in you—allowed it time to ferment. -Tell me, what depths of joy and sorrow have you sounded to gather the -secrets you have just revealed with your violin? What has your life -been?” - -“My life has been a very simple one, and for the most part very -prosaic.” - -“You might as well call the sun cold, the sea motionless, as pretend -that your life has been prosaic. Friend, the only element that gives -life and magnetism to art is profound, human truth That which touches us -in a picture, a poem, or a symphony, is its likeness to the truth, its -nature, especially its human nature. That is what makes Wilhelm Meister -a powerful book, because each page is written, so to speak, in human -blood. That is what makes Titian’s Assumption a great picture, because -the agony in the Madonna’s face is true human agony. And that is what -gave your music of a moment since the power to pierce the very innermost -of my heart-because it was true music the expression of true human -passion. Tell me, what manner of life have you lived, to learn so much -of the deep things of human experience?” - -I looked into his clear, earnest eyes. They shone with a sympathy that -fell as balm upon my wounds. An impulse that I could not battle with -unsealed my lips. I told him my whole story from first to last. - -Some of the time, as I was speaking, he sat motionless with his brow -buried in his hands. Some of the time he paced up and down the floor. He -smoked constantly. Twice or thrice he extended his palm to bid me pause, -indicating by nodding his head when he wished me to go on. Not once -did he verbally interrupt, nor for a long while after I had done did he -speak. - -By and by he grasped my hand and wrenched it hard and said, -“Will—will you understand by my silence what I feel? It would be -sacrilege for me to talk about this thing. I—I—oh, what a fool I am -to open my mouth!” - -But presently he cried, “The injustice, the humiliation, that you have -been put to! It is shameful. To think that they dared to try you, as -though the mere sight of your face was not sufficient to prove you -incapable of the first thought of crime! But I can understand your -motive for not wishing to hunt the Marshalls down. Only of this I am -sure, that if there is any such thing as equity in this world, some day -their guilt will be made manifest and they will receive the chastisement -which they deserve. Oh, how you have suffered! I tell you, it sobers a -man, it reminds him of the seriousness of things, the spectacle of such -a colossal sorrow as yours has been.” - -Again silence. Eventually he crossed over to the window and sent the -curtains rattling across their pole. It was getting light outside. I -pulled myself together. Rising, “Well,” I said, “good-by. My visit -to you has been like a sojourn in another world. Now, I must return to -my own dreary sphere. Forgive me if I have wearied you with all this -talk about myself. I seemed to speak without meaning to—involuntarily. -Once started, I could not have stopped myself, had I tried.” - -“Don’t speak like that,” he rejoined hastily and with a look of -reproach. “Don’t make me feel that you repent your confidence. It -was only right, only natural, that you should unbosom yourself to me. -It was the consecration of our friendship. Friendship is never complete -until it has been tested in the fire of sorrow. Mere companionship in -pleasure is not friendship. No matter how intimately we might have seen -each other, we should never have been friends until you had told me -this.—Moreover, don’t get up. You must not think of going away as -yet.” - -“As yet? Why, I have outstaid the night itself. I must make haste or I -shall be behindhand at the shop.” - -“You must not think of returning to the shop to-day. You must go to -bed and have some sleep. When you awake again I shall have a proposition -to lay before you. For the present follow me—” - -“But Mr. Merivale—” - -“But I anticipate your objections. But they are worthless. But -the shop may, and I devoutly hope it will, be struck by lightning. -Furthermore, if you are anxious about it, I’ll send word around to the -effect that you’re unwell and not able to report for duty. That’s -the truth. But any how I have a particular reason for wanting to -keep possession of you for a while longer. Now, be tractable—as an -indulgence, do what I ask.” - -There was no resisting the appeal in Merivale’s big blue eyes. I -followed him as he desired. He led me into the adjoining room, where -there were two narrow brass bedsteads side by side. - -“You see,” he said, “I was prepared for you. Here is your couch, -ready for your reception. It’s rather odd about this. I’m a great -hand for presentiments: and experience has taught me to believe in their -coming true. When I took these quarters I said to myself, ‘Pythias, -the Damon you have been waiting for all these years will arrive while -you are bivouacked here. Be therefore in a condition to welcome him -properly.’ I don’t know why, but I was thoroughly persuaded, I felt -in my bones, that Damon’s advent would occur during my occupancy of -these rooms. So I bought two bedsteads and two dressing-stands instead -of one. I have got the heroes of the old legend somewhat mixed up; -can’t remember which was which: but I trust I’m not egotistic in -assigning the part of Damon to you and keeping that of Pythias for -myself. At any rate, it’s a mere figure of speech, and as such must -be taken. Now, Damon or Pythias, whichever you may be, in begging you to -make yourself comfortable here, I am simply inviting you to partake of -your own.” - -As he rattled on thus, he had produced sheets and blankets from a chest -of drawers near at hand, and now was making the bed with the deftness of -an expert. - -“There,” he exclaimed, bestowing a farewell poke upon the pillow, -“now go to bed with a clear conscience and a mind at peace. I shall -speedily follow. In the morning—I mean in the afternoon—we will -resume our session.” - -He had the delicacy to leave me alone. I was too fatigued to reason -about what I was doing. I undressed quickly, got into bed, and fell -sound asleep. - -The sunlight was streaming through the window when I awoke. Merivale was -seated upon the foot of the bed. - -“Ah,” he cried, as I opened my eyes, “welcome back!” - -“Eh, how?” I queried, perplexed for the moment. “Oh yes; I -remember. Have I been asleep long?” - -“So long that I thought you were never going to wake up. It’s past -four in the afternoon, and you have been sleeping steadily since six -this morning. I had the utmost hardship in subduing my impatience. Ten -solid hours of sleep! You must have been thoroughly exhausted.” - -“You ought to have roused me. One can gorge one’s system with sleep -as easily as with food. I have slept too much. But—but how shall I -ever make amends at the shop?” - -“Bother the shop! The shop no longer exists. I have caused its -annihilation during the day.” - -“Have you Aladdin’s lamp? - -“I have a substitute for it, at least. The shop has been transported -to Alaska.” - -“That was unkind of you. Now I shall have to undergo the expense of -a journey thither. Besides, I prefer a more temperate climate.—But -seriously, did you send word as you agreed to?” - -“I saw Herr Schwartz personally.” - -“Ah, that was very thoughtful. Did you succeed in appeasing him?” - -“I told him that you wished to resign your position; and when he began -to splutter, I added that in consideration of the trouble he would be -put to, you were willing to forgive him whatever back pay he owed you; -and when he declared that he owed you no back pay at all, I said you -would be willing to forgive him any way on general principles, and think -no more about it. Then I ordered beer and cigars and pronounced -the magic syllable ‘selbst’ and in the end he appeared quite -reconciled.” - -“Nonsense. Be serious. What did you say?” - -“I am serious. That is what I said precisely.” - -“What, you—oh come, you can’t be in earnest.” - -“But I assure you I am in earnest, never was more in earnest in my -life. You don’t really imagine that I am going to let you ‘stand and -wait’ any longer, do you?” - -“I don’t very clearly see how you are going to prevent it. I have -my livelihood to earn. I can’t afford to throw up my employment in the -cavalier manner you propose. It’s ridiculous.” - -“I can prevent it and I will prevent it. How? By the power of -friendship, by appealing to your heart and to your reason. As for your -livelihood, I have found you a new occupation, one more befitting your -character. Henceforward you are to be a private secretary.” - -“Whose private secretary?” - -“Never mind whose—or rather, you will learn whose, presently. First, -accustom your mind to the abstract idea.” - -“Really, Merivale, you are outrageous. I don’t know why I’m not -indignant. You meddle with my affairs as if they were your own. You have -no right to do so. And yet I am not angry. I must be totally devoid of -spunk. But nevertheless I shan’t abide by your proceedings. As soon as -I am dressed I shall return to the shop and beg Herr Schwartz to take me -back.” - -“I forbid it.” - -“I am sorry, but I must defy your prohibition. By the way, may I -inquire your authority?” - -“Certainly. It is every man’s authority to restrain a lunatic. Your -notion of returning to that wine-shop is downright lunacy. Besides, have -I not provided you with new employment?” - -“But it is a sort of employment which I don’t wish to undertake. I -prefer work that will leave my mind disengaged. You ought to understand -that in my position one has no heart for any but manual labor.” - -“I think I understand perfectly, better indeed than you yourself. -I understand that while the first shock of your grief lasted it was -natural for you to take up the first employment that you chanced upon, -no matter what it was. But I understand now that it is high time for you -to come back to your proper level. An occupation which leaves your -mind disengaged is precisely the very worst you could have. With -all appreciation of the magnitude of your bereavement, and with all -reverence for your fidelity to your betrothed, I say that it is wrong of -you to brood over your troubles. I am not brute enough to advise you -to court oblivion; but a grief loses its dignity, becomes a species of -egotism, by constantly brooding over it. It is our duty in this world -to accept the inevitable with the best grace possible, and to make -ourselves as comfortable as under the circumstances we can. But over and -above that consideration there is this, that no man has a right to do -work that is unworthy of him. It degrades himself and it robs society. -Every man is bound to do his best work, to accomplish his highest -usefulness. What would you say of a Newton who had abandoned mathematics -to drive a plow? You are as much subject to the general moral law as the -rest of us. You were sent into this world to contribute your quota to -the sum of human happiness; and your art was permitted you only on the -condition that you should cultivate it for the benefit of your fellow -creatures. And yet, you propose to do the business of a common waiter in -a wretched little brasserie. Now, I won’t urge you to return to music -forthwith, because I know you suffer too keenly while you are playing. -But I will say: Remember that you are a gentleman and that you are -actually stealing from society by doing that which your inferiors could -do as well. For the present, accept the situation of private secretary -that I have procured for you. It will be a stepping-stone toward your -proper place. You see, I can be a preacher on occasions. - -“And your sermon, I confess, is a wholesome one.” - -“Then you will consider the secretaryship? - -“I will consider whatever you wish me to. I will be guided by your -common sense.” - -“Good! Now get up and dress.” - -He left the room. As I dressed I thought over the sermon he had -preached. I could not gainsay its truth. Yet on the other hand I could -not contemplate a changed mode of life without flinching. Two years of -moral illness had undermined my moral courage. I wondered who my new -employer was to be. I dreaded meeting him not a little. Thinking over -the confidences of the night, I experienced no regret. Indeed I was glad -to realize that I was no longer altogether alone in the world. Merivale -had inspired me with an enthusiasm. - -“What a splendid fellow he is!” I exclaimed. - -“If he and I could only remain together I believe I should find my -life worth living. It is marvelous, the faculty he has for making me -forget myself. I suppose it is due to his animal spirits, his healthy -temperament. He is as vigorous and bracing as a whiff of the west wind -full in one’s face.” - -I had never had a friend before. I relished my first taste of -friendship. - -Meantime I was preparing my toilet. In the midst of it Merivale came -into the room. - -“I suppose you know who your future master is to be?” he asked. - -“No—how should I know?” - -“Oh, you obtuse blockhead! You————” - -“It isn’t—you don’t mean to say—” I began, a suspicion of -the truth dawning upon me. - -“Exactly! That is the precise sum and substance of what I mean to say. -I mean to say that I’m in need of somebody to help me in certain work -that I’m doing. The need is a real one, not an artificial one trumped -up for the occasion. I have plenty of cash and am ready to pay what is -just for my assistant’s time. You on the other hand are looking about -fora means of subsistence. At the same time, luckily, you are just the -person to suit my purpose. Hence, as a pure matter of business, I say, -Shall we strike a bargain? You are going to be sensible and answer, Yes. -Wherefore it only remains for me to explain the nature of the work and -thus to convince you that you are not going to draw the salary of a -sinecure.” - -“If this is really true,” I said, “I can’t help telling you that -nothing could make me happier. If I can really be of service to you, and -if we can really arrange to keep as closely together as such work would -bring us, why, my contentment will be greater than I can say.” - -“Then come into the next room and judge for yourself.” - -We passed into the sitting-room. Merivale drew up to a table near the -window and taking a pen in his hand said, “Look.” - -He tried the pen’s nib upon the nail of his thumb, dipped it into an -inkstand, and applied it to a blank sheet of paper. Then his fingers -began to work laboriously to and fro, with the result of tracing a -scarcely legible scrawl. One could, however, by dint of taxing the -imagination, make out these words: “Good friend, to end all doubt -about the present matter, learn by this that a penman’s palsy shakes -my fist, and furthermore, that I inherit a lamentable tendency to gout -in the wrist.” - -“Scrivener’s palsy and gout combined,” he added verbally, “and -yet I am going to publish a volume of poems in the spring. They’re -all down on paper, but no one can decipher them except myself; and if I -should be carried off some day unexpectedly, think what the world would -lose! My idea is to dictate them to you. We will work from nine till one -every day, and devote the rest of our time to relaxation.” - -“But you take my handwriting for granted,” I interposed. - -“I think I am safe in doing so,” he replied. “But give me a -sample.” - -I wrote off a few words. - -“Capital!” was his comment. “Now about the compensation.” - -I had to haggle with my generous friend and to beat him down half of his -original offer. My stipend settled, “I admit,” said he, “that I am -ravenously hungry. Suppose we dine?” - -We adjourned to Moretti’s. During the dinner we discussed our future. -He said he was constantly writing new matter and therefore our contract -would not terminate with the completion of the particular MS. in -question. “Ah, what good times we are going to enjoy!” he cried. -“We are perfectly companionable! There is nothing so satisfactory, -nothing so productive of bien être, as friendship, after all.” - -Dinner over, we strolled arm in arm through the streets. For the first -time in two years I began to feel that the world was not quite a ruin. -At home we talked till late into the night. And when I went to bed it -was to lie awake for hours and hours, congratulating myself upon my -newly discovered friend. - - - - -IX. - -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?” - -I named them. - -The doctor’s face had been inscrutable. Merivale and I had sat on pins -during the inquisition. Now the doctor’s face lighted up with a genial -smile. - -“You will do, Mr. Lexow,” he said. “I don’t know whom to thank -the more, you or Mr. Merivale. You have relieved me in a very -trying emergency. Your playing is fine, though perhaps a trifle too -independent, a trifle too individual, and the least tone too florid. It -is odd, most odd that I should never have heard of you; but we shall all -hear of you in the future.” - -We agreed upon the selections for the evening. I ran them through in the -doctor’s presence and listened to his suggestions. Then we bade him -good-by. - -That day was a trying one. It would be bootless to catalogue the -conflicting thoughts and emotions that preyed upon me. I practiced my -pieces thoroughly. Merivale busied himself procuring what he styled a -“rig.” The rig consisted of an evening suit and its accessories. -He rented one at a costumer’s on Union square. As the day drew to -a close, I worried more and more. “Brace up,” cried Merivale. -“Where’s your stamina? And here, swallow a glass of brandy.” - -We waited in the ante-room till it was my turn to go upon the platform. - -I was conscious of a glow of light and a sea of faces and a mortal -stage-fright, and of little else, when finally I had taken my position. -The orchestra played the preliminary bars. I had to begin. I got through -the first phrase and the second. The voice of my instrument reassured -me. “After all you will not make a dead failure,” I thought, and -ventured to lift my eyes. Not two yards distant from me, to my right, -among the first violins, sat Mr. Tikulski. His gaze was riveted upon my -face. - -I had anticipated about every catastrophe that could possibly befall, -but strangely enough I had not anticipated this. And it was so sudden, -and the emotions it occasioned were so powerful, and I was so nervous -and unstrung—well, the floor gave a lurch, like the deck of a vessel -in a storm; the lights dashed backward and forward before my sight; -a deathly sickness overspread my senses; the accompaniment of the -orchestra became harsh and incoherent; my violin dropped with a crash -upon the boards; and the next thing I was aware of, I lay at full -length on a sofa in the retiring-room, and Merivale was holding a -smelling-bottle to my nostrils. I could hear the orchestra beyond the -partition industriously winding off the Tannhauser march. - -“How do you feel?” asked Merivale, as I opened my eyes. - -“I feel as though I should like to annihilate myself,” I answered, -as memory cleared up. “I have permanently disgraced us both.” - -“But what was the trouble? You were doing nobly, splendidly, when -all of a sudden you collapsed like that,” clapping his hands. “The -doctor is furious, says it was all my fault.” “No, it wasn’t your -fault,” I hastened to put in. “I should have pulled through after -a fashion, only unluckily I caught sight of Tikulski—her uncle, you -know—in the orchestra; and, well, I—I suppose—well, you see it was -so unexpected that it rather undid me.” - -“Oh, yes; I understand,” said he. - -We kept silence all the way home in the carriage. - -Next morning, as I entered the sitting-room, Merivale tried to hide a -newspaper under his coat. - -“Oh, don’t bother to do that,” I said. “Of course it is all in -print?” - -Possessing myself of the newspaper, I had the satisfaction of reading a -sensational account of my fiasco. But what I had most dreaded from the -quarter of the newspapers had not come to pass. None of them identified -me as the Ernest Neuman who, rather more than two years since, had been -tried for murder. - - - - -X. - -MY encounter with Tikulski was bound to have consequences, practical as -well as moral. All day Sunday a legion of blue devils were my comrades. -Late Monday afternoon I received by the post a letter and a package, -each addressed to “E. Lexow, in care of D. Merivale, Esq.” The -penmanship was the same on both—a stiff European hand which I could -not recognize. I began with the letter. It read thus:— - -“Mr. E. Lexow, - -“Dear Sir: - -“I should have forwarded this to you before, but not apprised of -the alteration of your name, I was unable to discover your address. I -dispatch this to the address indicated by Dr. Rodolph, who informs me -that you are to be reached through D. Merivale, Esquire, as he is -not advised of your private residence. I found it in a pawnbroking -establishment (No.—————-street, kept by one M. Arkush) now -more than a year, and purchased it with the intention of restoring it to -you, because I suppose that it must be of some value to you as a family -memento, and that you would not have disposed of it except needing -money. Hoping that this letter may find you in the enjoyment of good -health, I am - -“Respectfully yours, - -“B. Tikulski.” - -What could Tikulski’s letter mean? What could “it” be? I puzzled -over these questions for a long while before it occurred to me to unseal -the package. - -There was an outer wrapper of stout brown paper. Beneath this, an inner -wrapper of tissue paper. Both removed, I beheld an oval case of red -leather, considerably the worse for wear. What did it contain? I pressed -the clasp and raised the lid. It contained a miniature painted on ivory, -the likeness of a man. The faded colors and the old-fashioned collar and -cravat showed that it dated from some years back. But of whom was it a -picture? - -Why had Tikulski posted it to me? And what did he mean by supposing that -I should value it as a family memento and that I would not have parted -with it—I, who had never owned it,—“except needing money?” I was -thoroughly mystified. - -“Merivale,” I said, “can you make any thing out of this?” - -I tossed him the letter and the portrait. - -Presently he muttered, “Pretty good, by Jove.” - -“Well?” I questioned. - -“Well, what?” he returned. - -“Well, what do you make of it? What does it mean?” - -“Why, that the likeness is striking, what else? Your father, eh?” - -“My father? I confess I am in the dark.” - -“And you have the faculty of dragging me in after you. What are you -trying to get at?” - -“I am trying to get at Mr. Tikulski’s idea. Why should he send me -that miniature? Whom does it represent?” - -“You don’t mean to say that you haven’t recognized it?” - -“Most certainly I do.” - -“Man alive, look in the glass.—Here.” Merivale held up the -miniature in one hand and a pocket-mirror in the other. As closely as it -is possible for one human countenance to resemble another, the face of -the picture resembled my reflection in the glass. - -“Are you satisfied?” demanded Merivale.—“Why, what ails you?” -he continued presently, as I did not answer. “You look as if you had -seen a ghost. Are you ill?” - -“It has caused me quite a turn,” I replied. “It must indeed be -a portrait of my father. But do you know—wait—let me tell you -something.” - -What I told Merivale I shall have also to tell the reader. - -I could remember neither of my parents. As a child, I had lived in a -dark old house with a good old rabbi and his wife—Dr. and Mrs. Hirsch. -I had never stopped to ask whether or not they were my father and mother -until I was eleven or twelve years of age. Then, the question having -been suggested by a schoolmate, I had said, “Dr. Lesser”—Lesser -being the rabbi’s given name—“are you my father?” To which the -doctor, beaming at me over the rim of his spectacles, had responded, -“No, my child: you are an orphan.”—“An orphan? That means?” -I pursued. “That your papa and mamma are dead,” said he.—“Have -they been dead long?” I asked indifferently. “Ever since you were -the tiniest little tot,” he replied. And thereupon, as the subject did -not prove especially interesting, I had let it drop. - -Time went on. I was perfectly contented. The doctor and his wife were -kindness personified. The present occupied me so pleasantly that I -forgot to be curious about the past. But at length, when I was fifteen, -the question of my parentage was again brought to my mind—this time -by a lad with whom I had had a quarrel and who as a parting thrust had -inquired significantly whether I knew the definition of the Hebrew noun -Mamzer. Highly incensed, I ran home and burst into the doctor’s -study. “Doctor,” I demanded, without ceremony, “am I a -Mamzer?”—“What a notion! Of course you are not,” replied the -rabbi.—“Then,” I continued, “what am I? Tell me all about my -father and mother.” - -The doctor said there was nothing to tell except that my mother had -died when I was less than two years old, and my father not a great while -after her. They had been members of his (the doctor’s) congregation; -and rather than see me sent to an orphan asylum, he and his wife had -taken me to live with them.—“But what sort of people were they, -my parents?” I insisted. “Give me some particulars about -them.”—“They were very respectable, and by their neighbors -generally esteemed well off. Your father had been a merchant; but for -the last year his health was such as to confine him to his bedroom. It -was quite a surprise to every body to find on his death that very little -property was left. That little was gobbled up by his creditors. So that -you have no legacy to expect except——” - -“Except?” I queried as the doctor hesitated. “There is no -exception. You have no legacy to expect at all.”—“But,” I -resumed, “had my parents no relations? Have I no uncles or aunts? Am I -altogether without kindred?”—“So far as I know, you are.” - -Your father came originally from Breslau. It is possible that he had -relatives there; but he had none in this country—at least I never -heard him speak of any. He was a good man, a pious man. It was sad -that he should die so young, but it was the will of Adonai—“And my -mother, had she no brother or sister?”—“About your mother I -can tell you very little. She came from Savannah. Whether she has -connections there still, I can not say.”—“Doctor,” I asked, -after a moment’s silence, “what did you mean by that ‘except’ -you used a while ago, speaking of legacies?” - -“I meant nothing. I was thinking of a few family relics, papers and -what-not, which you are to receive when you become of age.”—“Why -not till then?”—“No reason, save that such was your father’s -wish, expressed on his death-bed. He said, ‘Don’t let my son have -these until he is grown to be a man.’.—“Can you tell me definitely -what they are?”—“I can not. I have never seen them. They -are locked up in a box; and the box I am not at liberty to -open.”—“Doctor, what was my mother’s maiden-name?” - -“Bertha, Bertha Lexow.”—“Did you marry her and my father?” - -“Oh, no; they were married in the South at Savannah. I think they -had been married about five years when your father died.”—I went on -quizzing the doctor until he declined to answer another question. “Go -away, gad-fly,” he cried. “You are worse than the inquisition.” - -In my eighteenth year the doctor died suddenly, having survived his wife -by a six-month only. He was stricken down by paralysis while intoning -the Kadesh song in the synagogue. In him I lost my only friend. I had -loved him precisely as though he had been my father. His death was an -immense affliction. It took me a long while to gather my wits together -and realize my position. - -A week or two after the funeral a man came to me and said, “I -represent the Public Administrator, charged with settling up Dr. -Hirsch’s concerns. He leaves nothing except household furniture and a -few dollars in bank—all of which goes to his next-of-kin in Germany. -You will have to find other quarters. These are to be vacated and the -goods sold at auction in a few days.”—“Ah,” I said, “if you -are his administrator, that reminds me. I beg that you will deliver over -the things the doctor had belonging to me—a box containing papers.” - -“Identify your property and prove your title,” he replied. - -Strangers came and went in and out of the house for several days. But -in the inventory which they prepared no such box as the doctor had -described was mentioned. Furthermore, a thorough search failed to bring -it to light. The auction was held. The last fork was knocked down to the -highest bidder. And I had to go about my business with the unpleasant -conviction that owing to some slip-up somewhere my inheritance had -either been lost or stolen. Gradually I reconciled myself to this idea, -concluding that what I already knew about my parents was the most I ever -should know; and thus matters had remained ever since. - -“But now,” I added, my recital wound up, “now perhaps in this -miniature I have a clew. It must be a portrait of my father: and very -likely it was part of the contents of that box. I suppose, if I were -clever, I should see a way of following it up.” - -“I am consoled,” said Merivale, drawing a deep breath. - -“Consoled?” I queried. - -“Yes, consoled for my obstinacy in making you play at the concert. -You see, it was an inspiration after all. If you had not chanced upon -Tikulski—what a blood-curdling name! fit for a tragedy villain—if -you hadn’t chanced upon him as you did, why you never would have -received the picture, and so the mystery which envelops my hero s -antecedents would never have been dispelled. Now we must go to work in a -systematic way. - -“Exactly; but how begin?” - -“Let me see Tikulski’s letter again.”—After he had read the -letter, “Begin, he said, by paying a visit to the pawn-shop where -he got it. Luckily he had the presence of mind to mention its -whereabouts.” - -“Good,” I assented. “But will you go with me?” - -“Do you imagine I would allow you to go alone, you unfledged gosling? -I shall not only go with you, but by your permission I shall manage the -whole transaction. I fancy I surpass you in respect of savoir faire.” - -“It is now past four. Shall we start at once?” - -“Yes, of course.” - -“Don’t be too hopeful,” he warned me, as we approached the -pawnbroker’s door. “Most likely we shall run against a dead wall.” - -The shop was empty. A bell tinkled as we opened the door. In response, a -young fellow in his shirt-sleeves emerged from a dark back room. - -“Is Mr. Arkush in?” demanded Merivale, with an air of friendliness. - -“Do you want to see him personally?” returned the young man, not -over politely. - -“You have fathomed my purpose,” said Merivale with mock gravity. - -“What about?” - -Merivale drew near to the young man and shielding his mouth with his -hand whispered, “Business,” accompanying his utterance with a -knowing glance. - -“Well, you can see me about business,” rejoined his interlocutor, -surlily. - -“Impossible. Here, take my card to Mr. Arkush and say I am pressed.” - -“Mr. Arkush can’t see nobody. He’s sick. - -“Sick? Ah, indeed?” cried Merivale. “Has he been sick long? I hope -it is nothing serious. Pray tell me what the trouble is?” - -The young man looked surprised. “Oh, it’s only rheumatism,” he -said. “You ain’t a friend of his, are you?” - -“Why, my dear fellow, of course I am. By the very nature of his -profession Mr. Arkush is the friend of every body; and I am the friend -of every friend of mine. Consequently but the deduction is too obvious. -Here, take him my card and say that if he is not too ill I shall hope to -be admitted.’ - -“Well, perhaps I’d better,” said the young man, -reflectively.—“Becky,” he called, raising his voice. - -Becky appeared. - -“Good-afternoon, Miss Rebecca,” said Merivale, lifting his hat. - -“Mind the shop,” said the young man to Becky, and thereat vanished. - -“Come this way,” he said to us, presently returning. - -He conducted us into the cavernous back room. The atmosphere was heavy -with the scent of stale cookery. The walls were lined with shelves, -bearing mysterious parcels done up in paper winding-sheets. Under a -grimy window at the further end an old man sat in an easy chair, a -patch-work quilt infolding his legs. Bald, beardless, with sharply -accentuated features and a yellow skin, he looked like a Midas whose -magic was beginning to operate upon himself. - -“Dear me!” cried Merivale, advancing toward him. “I’m shocked -to find you suffering like this, Mr. Arkush. Do the legs give you much -pain? You must try petroleum liniment. I’ll send you a bottle. They -say it’s the best remedy in the world.—But tell me, how are you -getting on? Do you notice any improvement?” - -The old man’s face wore a puzzled expression. “What was the business -you wanted to see me about?” he inquired. - -“Oh, never mind about business till you have quieted my anxiety -regarding your health. Besides, are you sure you will be able to -attend?” - -The mask of Midas betrayed a tendency to smile. “Come, time is money; -hurry up,” said its owner. He had a strong Jewish accent, thus: -“Dime iss money.” - -“Oh, well,” said Merivale, “if you don’t think it will disturb -you, I’ll come to the point. But let me disarm beforehand any -suspicion which the nature of my errand may be calculated to inspire. I -am not a detective. I am not on the track of stolen goods. I am simply -a private individual desirous of gaining certain information for certain -strictly legitimate ends. So you need have no fear of compromising -yourself by speaking with entire unreserve. Shall I proceed?” - -“My Gott, what are you talking about? Don’t make foolishness any -longer,” exclaimed Mr. Arkush with some degree of vivacity. - -“Mr. Arkush,” said Merivale in his most solemn tones, “do you -remember this?” extracting the miniature from his pocket and handing -it to the pawnbroker. - -The latter donned a pair of spectacles and holding the picture off at -arm’s length, scrutinized it in silence. - -“Yes, I remember it,” he replied finally, “I sold it to a -gentleman some time ago. What of it?” - -“You did. You sold it about a year ago to a gentleman with a white -beard. Recollect?” - -“Ah, yes, yes: you are right. He had a white beard. He was also a Jew. -We spoke in Judisch. I remember.” - -“By Jove, hasn’t Mr. Arkusha wonderful memory?” cried Merivale, -turning to me. - -“I happen to remember,” volunteered Mr. Arkush, unperturbed by the -compliment, “because when I put that article into the window I said -to myself, ‘You won’t get no customer for that. What good is it to -anyone? You made a mistake to lend your money on it. That was a loss.’ -But the very same day the old gentleman came in and bought it, which was -a surprise.” - -“Ah, I see. Could you tell me, Mr. Arkush, of whom you got it -originally—who pledged it with you?” - -“Du lieber Gott! how should I remember that? It was two years ago -already.” - -“True, but—but your books would show.” - -“Yes, my books would show the name the person gave.” - -“Well, will you kindly refer to your books?” - -“Ach, you make me much trouble!—Yakub,” he called. - -The young man came. - -Arkush told Yakub to get him the ledger for 18—. It was a ponderous -and dingy volume. Yakub held it open while his employer turned the -pages, running his finger from the top to the bottom of each. At length -the finger reached a stand-still. Mr. Arkush said, “Yes, I have found -it. It was pawned with me by a man calling himself Joseph White.” - -“The date?” - -“The 16th January.” - -“Have you any means of recalling what sort of looking individual -Joseph White was? And, by the way, is his residence given?” - -“‘Residence, Harlem,’ it says. That’s all. How should I remember -his looks?” - -“Of course—you see so many people in the course of a year, it is not -wonderful that you should forget.—But tell me, did White put any thing -else in pawn that day?” - -“No, sir; nothing else.” - -“He simply pawned this one article and went away; that’s all?” - -“That’s all.” - -“Hum!” - -Merivale reflected. At length he resumed. “But at any other -time—that is, does White’s name appear on your ledger under any -other date?” - -“Do you expect me to read through the book?” inquired Arkush, with -the tone of protestation. “That is too much.” - -“I’m awfully sorry to annoy you, but this information I am -seeking is of such great importance—you understand—it’s worth a -consideration.” - -“Oh, well, that’s different,” said Arkush. “What will you -give?” - -“I’ll give twenty-five cents for each month that you go over—is it -enough?” - -“Here, Yakub,” cried Arkush. “Run back from January 16th, and see -if you find the name of Joseph White again.” - -Yakub carried the ledger to a desk hard by, and began his task. - -“Do you smoke?” Merivale asked the old man, offering him a cigar. -Presently the air became blue with aromatic vapor. - -“Here you are!” called Yakub from his stool. He proceeded to read -aloud, “‘December 7th—one onyx seal ring—amount, one dollar and -a quarter—to Joseph White—residence, Leonard street—ticket-number, -15,672. Same date—one ornamented wooden box—amount, fifteen -cents—to Joseph White—residence, as above—ticket-number, -15,67.’.rdquo; - -“Keep still,” said Merivale in an aside, as he saw my lips open. -“I’ll do the talking.—I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Arkush. -Now, if I may trespass just a little further upon your indulgence, can -you tell me whether you still have either of those articles in stock? -If so, I should be glad to see them—with a view to purchasing, of -course.” - -“Look, Yakub,” said Arkush. “Was those goods redeemed?” - -Yakub returned the ledger to the shelf whence he had taken it, and -produced another book of similar proportions in its stead. Presently -he said, “Number 15,672, sold August 20, 18—; Number 15,673—see -profit and loss.” - -“Number 15,672 was the ring, was it not?” asked Merivale. “Number -15,673 is referred to the account of profit and loss—will you kindly -turn to it under that head, Mr. Yakub?” - -Yakub possessed himself of a third volume, and in due time read, -“‘Number 15,673—July, 18—, given to R.—Amount of loss, fifteen -cents.’.rdquo; - -“Let me see that entry,” said Arkush. - -After he had scrutinized it, “Oh yes,” he continued, “I recollect. -White was a colored man. I recollect all about it. That ring and that -box were the first things he brought here; that picture was the last. -I happen to recollect because I gave that box to my daughter, Rebecca, -instead of offering it for sale.” - -“Ah,” said Merivale, “then I suppose Miss Rebecca has it still. -Could she be persuaded to show it to us?” - -“I don’t know. I will ask her.” - -He sent Yakub into the front room with instructions for Rebecca to -present herself. - -On her arrival, they held a brief conference together in Judisch. Then -Rebecca went away, and Arkush said to us, “Yes, she has got it yet. -She has gone to fetch it.” - -During her absence Merivale resumed, “You are quite sure that it -is useless to go further back in your books—that the name of White -doesn’t occur in any other place?” - -“Oh, yes; I am sure. I recollect perfectly. He was a colored man. He -only came twice.” - -“I notice that on one occasion his address is given as Harlem, on -another as Leonard street. How is that?” - -“How do I know? Maybe he moved. Maybe neither address was his true -one. These people very often give false names and addresses.” - -“I suppose they do,” Merivale assented, and thereafter held his -peace, chewing his nether lip as his habit was when engrossed in -thought. - -For my part I could not see that we had made much progress. I was -beginning to get impatient. - -Becky reappeared, bearing the box. - -The box was about ten inches square by four or five in depth. It was -empty. Merivale did not allow me to examine it. “Wait,” he said, as -I reached out my hand to take it. - -“Would you mind very much parting with this box, Miss Arkush?” he -asked, fixing a pair of languishing eyes upon Rebecca’s face. - -“What will you give me for it?” the business-like young lady -inquired. - -“What will you accept?” - -“What’s it worth, father?” - -“That box is worth two dollars any how,” replied the shameless old -usurer, regardless of the fact that we knew to a mill what he had paid -for it. - -“Then certainly this will be enough,” said Merivale, and he slipped -a five-dollar gold piece into Rebecca’s palm. Then he settled with -Arkush, bestowed a gratuity upon Yakub, and bidding an affable good-by -to every body, led me out through the shop into the street. - -“Well,” I said, “we have run against the dead wall that you -foresaw.” - -“So it appears,” said he. - -“The picture was pawned by a colored man only two years ago—that is, -four-and-twenty years after my father’s death. We don’t know of any -means by which to reach that colored man; but even if we did—” - -“It would be a forlorn hope.” - -“Exactly. So that we stand just as we did before we left home, do -we not? Except that you are by five dollars a poorer man. It was sheer -extravagance, your purchasing that box. I suppose your imagination -connected it with the box—the box that Dr. Hirsch told me of. But the -probabilities are overwhelmingly against that contingency. Then, why -did you waste your money, buying it? Intrinsically, it isn’t worth -carrying away.” - -“Hush, hush,” interposed my friend. “Don’t talk to me. I have an -idea—an idea for a story—Ã propos of Arkush and his daughter. -Bless me with silence until I have meditated it to my soul’s -satisfaction.” - -At home he began, “Yes, as you have said, our interview with Arkush -was not fruitful. We have simply learned the name—or the assumed -name—of the last owner of your father’s picture—for, that it is -your father’s picture I have no sort of doubt. The next step would -logically be to find Mr. White and question him. It is possible that a -tempting advertisement in the newspaper might fetch him; but it is -not probable. Very likely, he would never see it. Very likely, he is a -thief, and even if he did see it, would be restrained by caution from -replying to it. So that the outlook is not hopeful. As for this box -being the box—why, the hypothesis is absurd. It was not on that -supposition that I bought it. And even if it were the box, it would -be of little consequence, empty as it is. I trust you are not too much -disappointed.” - -“By no means. I have managed to live for a considerable number of -years in my present state of ignorance about my vanished legacy, and -doubtless I shall pull through a few years more. Only, of course I was -bound to follow the clew that this picture seemed to furnish, as far as -it would lead; and having done so I am contented. I was not very hopeful -when we started out, wherefore I am not very disappointed at the result. -Let’s think no more about it.” - -“Good! Your mind is imbued with a sound philosophy. But now—” - -“But now, tell me why in the name of common sense you invested five -dollars in that box?” - -“Precisely what I was driving at. Now you are going to have a -practical illustration of the value of experience.” - -He took the box up from the table where he had laid it. - -“You think that ‘intrinsically, this wasn’t worth carrying -away,’ and that my expenditure of half an eagle was a reckless waste -of good material. To an inexperienced observer your view would certainly -seem the correct one. The box is scarcely beautiful. The wood is oak. -The metal with which its surface is so profusely ornamented looks -like copper. The thing as a whole appears to have been designed for a -cheapish jewel-case, now in the last stage of decrepitude. Do I express -your sentiments?” - -“Eloquently and with precision.” - -“But you, my dear Lexow, are not a connoisseur. I, as chance would -have it, have seen a box of this description before; saw one in France, -the property of a lady of high degree; and, strange as it may seem, -I don’t believe a hundred bright gold pieces such as the one I gave -Rebecca, could have induced my French lady friend to part with it. Guess -why.” - -“Why? Oh, I suppose it had certain associations that made her want to -keep it. We often prize things quite irrespective of their market value. -But go on: don’t be so roundabout.” - -“Well, the reason—at least one reason—for her setting such -store by the box in question—which, I must remind you, was the very -duplicate of the one we have here—the reason, I say, was that she -knew enough about such matters to recognize that box for a specimen of -cinque-cento—a specimen of cinque-cento! Now do you begin to realize -that the paltry five dollars were not exorbitant?” - -“Oh, from the standpoint of an antiquary, an amateur of bric-a-brac, I -suppose it was not.” - -“Excellent! No, sir; on the contrary, it was an immense bargain, a -thorough-going stroke of luck. But now please take the box into your own -hands, treat it gingerly, inspect it carefully, and tell me whether you -remark any thing extraordinary about it.” - -“Nothing, except that it is extraordinarily ugly and doesn’t speak -well for cinque-cento,” I replied, after the requisite examination. - -“Another proof that das Sehen muss gelernt sein! Here, I will -enlighten you.—You behold this metal work which a moment since we -disposed of as copper; learn that it is bronze; and not cast bronze, -either, but wrought bronze, bronze shaped with hammer and chisel. Look -closely at it; note the forms into which it has been modeled. See these -roses, these lilies, these lotus leaves; see how exquisitely they are -fashioned; see how they are massed together into a harmonious ensemble. -Now hold it close to your eyes: see—do you see?—this serpent twined -among the flowers! The artist must have worked from life—the very -texture of the skin is reproduced—it makes one shudder.” - -“Yes,” I said, “I admit it is a fine piece of work.” - -“But we have not yet exhausted the list of its virtues by any means. -Now open it and look at the interior.” - -“I see nothing remarkable about the interior,” I replied, “nothing -but bare wood.” - -“That is all you see; but watch.” - -He applied the point of a pencil to one of the series of nail-heads -with which the top of the lid was studded. It appeared to sink a -hair’s-breadth into the wood. Thereat the lower surface of the lid -dropped down, disclosing a hollow space between it and the upper.—“A -double cover,” he said, “a place for hiding things and—hello! it -isn’t empty!” - -No, it wasn’t empty. It contained a large, square envelope. Merivale -hastily made a grab for it, and crossed over to the gas-fixture. “Have -we stumbled upon a romance?” he cried. Holding it up to the light, -presently he said: “Come hither, Lexow. The writing is German script. -I can’t read it. Come and help.” - -He put the envelope into my hands. I ran my eyes over the writing. Next -moment the envelope fluttered to the floor. I grasped Merivale’s -arm to support myself. My breath became short and quick. “I was not -prepared for this,” I gasped. - -“For what? What is the trouble?” he asked. - -I sank into a chair. Merivale picked up the envelope and studied it -intently. “I can make nothing out of it,” he said. - -“Give it to me—I will read it to you,” I rejoined. - -This is what I read:— - -“To be delivered to my son, Ernest Neuman, upon his attaining the age -of one-and-twenty years. Let there be no failure, as the will of a -dying man is honored.—To my son: Open and read on your twenty-first -birthday. Be alone when you read.—Your father, Ernest Neuman.” - -Neither of us broke silence for some minutes afterward. - -At last, “I guess I’d better clear out,” said Merivale. “This is -considerably more than we had bargained for. I suppose you’d like to -be alone. I’ll remain in the next room. Call, if you want me.” - -“Yes,” I returned, “I may as well read it at once. But do you -know—it’s quite natural, doubtless—I really dread opening it? Who -can tell what its contents may be? Who can tell what information it may -convey, to the detriment of that ignorance which is bliss? Who can tell -what duty it may impose—what change it may make necessary in my -mode of life? I—I am really afraid of it. The superscription is not -reassuring—and then, this strange accident by which it has reached its -destination after so many years! It is like a fatality.” - -“It is inevitable that you should feel this way. The suddenness of the -business was enough to shatter your self-possession. At the same time -you would best not delay about reading it. You won’t be able to -rest until you’ve done so, you know.—Yes, indeed, it is like a -fatality—like an incident in a novel—one of those happenings that -we never expect to see occur in real life. I’ll wait in the next room -till you call.” - -My heart stood still as I broke the seal. Four double sheets of thin -glazed paper, covered with minute German script. The ink was faded, and -there were a good many blots and interlineations; so that it was only -by dint of straining my eyesight to the utmost that I could decipher my -father’s message. But screwing up my courage, I attacked it, nor did I -pause till I had read the last word. - - - - -XI. - -H ERE is a translation:— - -“In the name of God, Amen! - -“To my son: - -“You are a little less than two years old; I, your father, am dying. I -shall be dead before your birthday. That will be the 6th Cheshvan. It -is now the 2nd Ellul The physician gives me till some time in Tishri -to keep possession of my faculties. I am dying before my time. I -have something yet to accomplish in this world. has willed that it be -accomplished. He has willed that you accomplish it in my stead. I am in -my bed as I write this, in the bed from which I shall not rise again. -Through the open door of my room I can hear you crowing in your -nurse’s arms. Ah, would that you could understand by word of mouth -from me now, what I am compelled to write. There is so much that a man -can not but forget to put down, when he is writing. Yet will illumine my -mind and strengthen my trembling fingers. It will not allow me to forget -any thing that is essential. When this is completed, I shall put it into -safe hands, that it may be delivered to you at the proper time. I have -no fear. I am sure it will reach you. It will reach you sooner or later, -though all men conspire to the contrary. has promised it. He will render -this writing indelible, this paper indestructible. He will guide this -to you, even as He guides the river to the sea, the star to the zenith. -Blessed be the name of forever. - -“My son, before you read further, cover your head and pray. Pray to -for strength. Pray that the will of your father may be done. Pray that -you may be directed aright for the fulfillment of this errand of justice -with which I charge you. - -“You have prayed. I also have laid aside my pen for a moment, and, -summoning your nurse to bring you to my bedside, have prayed with my -hand upon your head. will be with you as you read. Read on. - -“My son, you do not, you will never know your mother. You do not love -her; you hear not the sound of her voice; it is forbidden you to gaze -into the lustrous depths of her eyes. Ah, my son, you little guess how -much you lost when you lost your mother. But you must learn the truth. - -“Your mother was younger than I by seven years. I am thirty. Your -mother would be three-and-twenty had she lived. She was nineteen when I -married her. It was in Savannah, Georgia, going on five years ago. Ah, -my Ernest, I can not tell you how beautiful your mother appeared to me -when I saw her first. I can not tell you with what great love I loved -her. Suppose that you had never seen a stone more precious than a pebble -such as may be picked up in our back garden, and that all at once a -diamond were shown to you, a diamond of the purest water: would you -not distrust your eyes, crying, ‘Ah, so fine, so wonderful! Can it -be?—So was it when I saw your mother. I had seen pebbles innumerable, -ay, and mock diamonds too. She was the first true diamond I had ever -seen. I loved her at the first glance.—How long, after the sun -has risen, does it take the waters of the earth to sparkle with the -sunlight? So long it took my heart to love, after my eyes for the first -time had met your mother’s. But how much I loved her, how every drop -of my life was sucked up and absorbed into my love of her, it would be -useless for me to try to make you understand. - -“And yet, loving her as I did, I hesitated to bespeak her for my wife. -Why? - -“In my eighteenth year my own father—your grandfather, of holy -memory—had died. On his death-bed he called me to him. He said: -‘When you have become a man you will meet many women. To one of them -your heart will go out in love. You will desire her for your wife. But I -say to you here on my death-bed, beware! Do not marry, though your love -be greater than your life. - -“‘In the fourth generation back of me our ancestor was betrayed by -the wife of his choice. So great was his hatred of her on this account, -that he wished his seed, contaminated as it was by having taken root in -her womb, to become extinct. Therefore he forbade his son to marry. And -to this prohibition he attached a penalty. - -“If, in defiance of his wish, his son should take unto himself a -woman, then should he too taste the bitterness of infidelity within the -household, then should he too be betrayed and dishonored by his -wife. And this penalty he made to extend to the seventh and eighth -generations. Whosoever of his progeny should enter into the wedded state -should enter by the same step into the antechamber of hell. - -“‘But his son laughed as he listened; and within two years he was -married. But within two years also the laughter froze upon his lips. For -behold, the curse of his father had come to pass! - -“‘Thus ever since. Each of our ancestors, despite his father’s -caution, has taken a wife. He has been betrayed and dishonored by her -even as I have been betrayed and dishonored by your mother. He has -repeated to his own son the family malediction even as I am now -repeating it to you.—Let that malediction then go down into the grave -with me. Do not marry, as you wish for peace now and hereafter.’ - -“It was in this wise that on his death-bed my father had spoken to me. -I remembered his words when I found that I had begun to love a woman. -It was for this reason that I hesitated to ask your mother to become my -wife. - -“Ah, but, my son, of what avail is hesitation at such a moment?—when -you are gazing into the eyes of the woman you love? With sails set and -a strong wind behind it, can the ship hesitate to speed across the sea? -Thrust into a bed of live coals, can the wood hesitate to kindle and -burn? With the sun beating hot upon the earth above it, can the seed -hesitate to sprout and send forth rootlets? How long then could I, with -the light of your mother’s face shining upon my pathway, how long -could I hesitate to say, ‘I love you. Be my wife’.—We were -married. - -“You, my son, will never know how happy it is possible for a man to -be. A woman such as your mother is born only once in all time. You will -never meet with her like. You will never know the supreme joy of having -her for your wife. Her breath was sweeter than the fragrance of the -sweetest flower. The song of the nightingale was less musical than her -simplest word. All the light of heaven was eclipsed by the light that -glowed far down in her eyes. Her presence at my side was a foretaste of -paradise. Only to take her hand into my own and stroke its warm, satiny -skin, was an ecstasy which I can not describe, which I can not remember -even at this extreme moment without a quickening of the pulse. For -three, yes, for four years after our marriage we were so happy that we -cried each morning and each evening at our prayers, ‘Lord, what have -we done to merit such happiness?’—I, my son, laughed as I recalled -the dying words of my father. ‘The family curse in my case,’ I -said, ‘has gone astray. I have no fear.’—Alas! I took too much for -granted. I congratulated myself too soon. Our happiness was doomed to be -burst like a bubble at a touch. The family curse had perhaps gone astray -for a little while: it was bound to find its way back before the end. -The will of our ancestor could not be thwarted. - -“The first three years of our married life we passed at Savannah, -dwelling with the parents of your mother. There you were born—as it -seemed, in order to consummate and seal with the seal of our perfect -joy. Then, when you were still but three months old, it became necessary -that I should return and take up my residence again in New York. We were -not sorry to come to New York. - -“Nicholas had been my closest friend for many years. Boys together at -Breslau, we had crossed the sea together, and had started our new life -together here in America. Before our wedding I had described Nicholas to -your mother, saying, ‘Him also must you love;’ and to Nicholas I had -written, bidding him include my wife in his love of me.—This was -why we were not sorry to leave Savannah and come to New York: -because Nicholas was here, because we wanted to be near to our best -friend.—Nicholas met us as we disembarked from the sailing vessel that -had brought us hither. It made my heart warm to greet my old comrade and -to present to him my wife and my son. - -“I was a true friend to Nicholas. After your mother and you, he was -first in my heart. I would have shared with him my last drop of water, -my last crumb of bread; and he, I believed, would have done the same by -me. My purse was always open for Nicholas to put in his hand and take -out what he would, even to the last penny. I thought Nicholas was pure -gold. I trusted him as I trusted myself. I said to your mother, ‘No -evil can betide you so long as Nicholas is alive. If any thing should -happen to me, in him you will have a brother, in him our Ernest will -have a second father.’ It gave me a sense of perfect security, made -me feel that the strength of my own right arm was doubled, the fact that -Nicholas was my friend. - -“Good. After my return to New York the intimacy between Nicholas and -myself increased. He was constantly at our house. We were always glad -to see him. A place was always laid for him at our table; it made our -hearts light to have him with us, so bright, so gay, withal so good, -so sterling, such a trusty friend was he. I delighted to witness the -friendship that rapidly sprang up between your mother and Nicholas. He -entertained her, told her stories, made her laugh.—She would often -exclaim, ‘Dear, good Nicholas! What should we do without him?’ I -replied, ‘That is right. Let him be next to your son and your husband -in your affection.’ I do not think it is common for one man to love -another as I loved Nicholas. - -“But after we had been in New York a little more than two months, -your mother’s manner toward Nicholas began to change. She was cold -and formal to him; when he would arrive, instead of running up with -outstretched hands and crying, ‘Ah, it is you!’ she would courtesy -to him and say without smiling, ‘How do you do?’—She laughed no -more at his stories, she appeared to avoid him when she could; when she -could not, she was silent and morose. I could see no reason for this. -I was pained. I said, ‘Bertha, why do you behave so toward our best -friend?’ Your mother pretended not to understand. ‘Don’t deny -it,’ I insisted. ‘You are as distant, as polite to him, as if he -were a mere acquaintance.’ Your mother answered, ‘I am sorry to -distress you. I don’t know what you mean. I was not aware that I -had been discourteous to your friend.’—’Has Nicholas done any -thing?’ I asked.—’No, he has done nothing.’—I blamed your -mother severely. I besought her to subdue what I took for her caprice. -Yet every day her conduct toward Nicholas grew colder and more formal. -Every day I reproved her more and more earnestly. This was the nearest -approach to a quarrel that your mother and I had ever had. It grieved me -deeply that she should adopt such a manner toward my friend. I was all -the more cordial to him in consequence. I hoped that he would not notice -the turn affairs had taken. - -“Thus till almost a year ago. You lacked but a fortnight of being one -year old. - -“Business had kept me down town till late. At last I made up my -mind that I should not be able to go home at all that night. So I told -Nicholas to visit Bertha and let her know. ‘Spend the evening with -her,’ I said. ‘Explain how it is that I am compelled to remain here. -Tell her that I will come home to breakfast. Be sure to entertain her. I -don’t want to think of her as lonesome.’ - -“Next morning I hurried home. I stole softly into the house, to -surprise your mother. Ah, my son, my son, I need not give you the -details.—The house was empty. There was a brief letter from your -mother. As I read it, my head swam, a mortal weakness overpowered me, I -sank in a swoon upon the floor. - -“When I recovered from my swoon, I was lying undressed in bed. There -were people round about. I remembered every thing. What! I was lying -idle in bed, and Nicholas still alive? I started up to be upon his -track. I fell back, impotent. ‘What has befallen me?’ I asked. I was -informed that I had had a hemorrhage of the lungs. - -“I need not tell you what I suffered. My suffering was great in -proportion to my love. The shame, the disgrace, were nothing. But at one -blow to be deprived of wife, child, friend; to have my love and my faith -and my happiness shattered at one stroke: it was too much. Yet, let this -be impressed upon you, that not for one instant did I blame your mother. -I realized that she, like myself, was but the helpless victim of the -family curse. It was my fault. I had defied the inevitable. The keenest -agony of all was to lie there, unable to rise, and think of Nicholas. -Ah, a thousand times in imagination I tore his heart bleeding from his -breast! I hated him now, as much as I had formerly cherished him. And -yet, I believe I could in the end have forgiven him, if—ah, but of -what use to say, ‘If’. Listen to the truth. - -“It was a short four months afterward—four months that had seemed, -however, a thousand years to me—and I still lay here dead in life, -when the good Dr. Hirsch, (to whom now in my dying hours I commend you, -my son), came to my bedside and said that he had seen your mother. He -believed that if I would take her back, she would be glad. If I would -take her back! ‘Bring her to me,’ I cried. And I thanked for this -manifestation of his mercy. ‘You must prepare for a sad change -in her,’ said Dr. Hirsch.—’Bring her, bring her,’ I cried -impatiently. - -“Not even to you, my son, can I reveal the secret of that first hour, -of that deep hour, when your mother sat again at my side and received -my pardon—nay, not my pardon, for it was her place to pardon me. If -before that it had been possible for me to forgive Nicholas, it was so -no longer. For your mother’s face was deathly pale, her cheek hollow, -her eye bright with fever. Nicholas had—what? Petted her for a month; -for a month, ignored her; for another month, ill treated her; in the -end, abandoned her, it might be to starve. Nicholas had done this -Nicholas whom I had loved and trusted. As I saw your mother pine away, -grow paler and more feeble beneath my sight, my hatred of that man -intensified. On the day your mother died, I promised her that I would -get well and live and force him to atone for his offense in blood. My -great hatred seemed to endow me with strength. I believed that would not -let me die until I had once again met Nicholas face to face. - -“But this delusion was short-lived. A second hemorrhage threw me -back, weaker than ever, upon my bed. The physician told me that I had -absolutely no ground for hope. It was evident that had willed that the -chastisement of my enemy should not be wrought out by my hand. ‘But’ -is just,’ I said. ‘He will not allow a crime like this to go -unavenged.’ - -“It was then that my thought turned to you. And all this time, what of -you? You too were lying at the point of death. Of you too the physician -said, ‘He can not survive the winter.’ You, my single hope, -threatened at any moment to breathe your last. ‘But no,’ I cried, -‘it shall not be so. My Ernest must live. As is both just and -merciful, Ernest will live.’ - -“I watched the fluctuations of your illness, divided between hope and -fear, between faith in the goodness of and doubt lest the worst might -come to pass. Ah, that was a breathless period. Day after day passed -by, and there was no certainty. Constantly the doctor said, ‘Death is -merely a question of a few days, more or less.’ Constantly my heart -replied, ‘No, no, he will not die.” has decreed that he shall -live.’ I prayed that your life might be spared, morning, noon, and -night. My own strength was ebbing away. But that was of little matter. I -wanted to hold out only until I should know for good and all whether my -son was to survive. - -“Blessed be the name of forever! At the moment when the physician -said, ‘He will die within an hour,’ lo! the God of our fathers -touched your body with his healing wand. There was a change for the -better. The physician himself could not deny it. He maintained that it -was but transitory. ‘Nothing short of a miracle,’ said he, ‘can -save this baby’s life.’ - -“‘We will see,’ said I aloud. To myself I said, ‘The miracle has -been performed.’ - -“I was right. Two days later the physician confessed that your chances -of recovery were good. Two days later still you were out of danger. -had heard my prayers. The God of Israel is a righteous God! Oh, for the -tongue of the prophets to sing a sufficient song of thanksgiving to . He -has snatched you from the clutch of death for a purpose. He will see to -it that you fulfill that purpose, though your heart be burned to ashes -in the task. He will make you to be great like Ephraim and Manasseh. (Y -si me ha Elohim k’.phraim v’chi Manasseh!) - -“Again I have summoned your nurse, to bring you to my bedside. Again I -have laid down my pen, to place my hand upon your head and bless you in -the name of Again, before reading further, pause for a space and pray -that the breath of God may make strong your heart.” - - - - - -“My son, I allow you one-and-twenty years to become a man, -one-and-twenty years to gain strength of arm and firmness of will. I -allow you one-and-twenty years of youth, one-and-twenty years in which -to enjoy life, free of care. On your twenty-first birthday, if the good -and reverend Dr. Hirsch live, he will put this writing into your -hands. Should he be dead, others will see that you receive it. On your -twenty-first birthday you will be a boy no longer. You will recognize -yourself for a man. You will ask, ‘What is to be the aim, the -occupation of my life?’ You will read this writing, and your question -will be answered. Your father on the brink of the grave pauses to speak -to you as follows:— - -“In the name of , who in response to my prayers has saved your life, -who created you out of the dust and the ashes, who tore you from the -embrace of death and restored health to your shattered body for one -sole purpose, in Ins name I charge you: Find my enemy out and put him to -death. He is still a young man. He will scarcely be an old man when you -have become of age. It is a long time to wait, a long time to defer my -vengeance, one-and-twenty years, but so I believe has willed it. After -you have reached the age of one-and-twenty years, let that be the single -motive and object of your days: to find him out and put him to death by -the most painful mode of death you can devise. Do not strike him down -with one blow. Torture him to death. Pluck his flesh from his bones -shred by shred. Prolong his agony to the utmost. Thus shall you -compensate in some measure for the one-and-twenty years of delay. And -again and again as he is writhing under your heel, cry out to him, -‘Remember, remember the friend who loved you and whom you betrayed, -whose honey you turned to gall and wormwood.’ But, if meanwhile from -other causes death should have overtaken him, then shall you transfer -your anger to his next-of-kin; then, I charge you, visit the penalty -of his sin upon his children and his children’s children. For has not -decreed that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children -even unto the third and fourth generations? The blood of Nicholas must -be spilled, whether it courses in his veins or in the veins of his -posterity. The race of Nicholas must be exterminated, obliterated from -the face of the earth. As you honor the wish of a dying father, as you -dread the wrath of , falter not in this that I command. Search the four -corners of the world until you have unearthed my enemy or his kindred. -Empty his blood upon the sand as you would the blood of swine. And -think, as he is calling out to you for mercy, think, ‘At last my -father’s revenge is wreaked! At last my father’s spirit can rest -content. Even now my father is in transports of delight as he witnesses -this fruition of his hope. At each thrust of my knife into our enemy’s -flesh, the heart of my father leaps with satisfaction. At each scream -of pain that escapes from our enemy’s throat, the voice of my father -waxes great with joy.’ - -“Ah, my son, at that mighty hour, whether I be confined in the bottom -fastnesses of hell or exalted to the mountain tops of paradise, I shall -know what is happening, I shall fling myself upon my face and sing a -song of praise to for the unspeakable rapture which he has permitted me -to enjoy. - -“My son, I trust you. You will not falter. You will remember that has -saved you from death for this solitary purpose, that you have no right -to your own life except as you employ it for the chastisement of my foe. -I have no fear. You will hate him with a hatred equal to my own. You -will wreak that hatred as I should have wreaked it, had my life been -spared. - -“I have no fear, no distrust, and yet—all things are possible. My -son, I warn you. In case you be faint-hearted, in case you recoil from -this mission you are charged with, or in case by any accident—though -will allow no such accident to happen—in case by any accident this -writing should fail to reach you, I shall be prepared. From my grave I -shall watch over you. From my grave I shall guide you. From my grave I -shall see to it that you do not neglect the duty of your life. Though -seas roll between you and him, I shall see to it that you two meet. - -“Though your heart be bound to him as to your own flesh and blood, I -shall see to it that you swerve not. And if he be dead, I shall see to -it that you are brought face to face with his kindred. Man, woman, or -child, spare neither. Young or old, able or feeble-bodied, let it matter -not. In case your strength desert you, in case your courage weaken, I -shall be at your side, I shall nerve your arm. If you hesitate, remember -that my spirit will possess your body and do what must be done in spite -of your hesitation. There will be no escape for you. As certainly as -the moon must follow the earth, so certainly will and must you, my son, -accomplish the purpose for which your life is given.—But falter not, -as you cherish the fair name of your mother, as you honor the desire, -as you fear the curse, of a dying father, as you hope for peace for your -own soul. - -“I have done. I think I have made every thing clear. Farewell. - -“Your father, Ernest Neuman. - -“I have written the above during my moments of strength for the last -four days. Now I have just read it over. I find that it but feebly -expresses all that I mean and feel. But will enlighten you as you read. -It is enough. I find also that I have omitted to mention his full name. -His name is Nicholas Pathzuol.” - - - - -XII. - -THE emotions that grew upon me, as I read my father’s message, need -not be detailed. How, as I painfully deciphered it, word following upon -word added steadily to the weight of those emotions, until at length it -seemed as though the burden was greater than I could bear, I need not -tell. Indeed, so engrossed had I become by what had gone before, that -the sense of the last line did not penetrate my mind. I leaned back in -my chair and drew a long breath like one exhausted by an effort beyond -his strength. I waited for the commotion of thought and feeling to quiet -a little. I was completely horror-stricken and tired out and bewildered. - -But by and by it occurred to me, “What did he say the man’s name -was?” And languidly I picked up the paper and read the postscript for -a second time. The next instant I was on my feet, rigid, aghast, for -consternation. What! - -Pathzuol! The name of Veronika! My head swam. It was as if I had -sustained a terrific blow between the eyes. Could it be that this -Pathzuol, the man who had dishonored my mother, the man whom my father -had commissioned me to murder, was her father? the father of her who had -indeed been murdered, and of whose murder I had been accused? The mere -possibility stunned and sickened me. It was the straw that broke the -camel’s back. I had been under a pretty tense nervous strain ever -since the reception of Tikulski’s letter in the afternoon. This last -utterly undid me. My muscles relaxed, my knees knocked together, the -perspiration trickled down my forehead. I went off into a regular fit of -weeping, like a woman. - -It was not long before Merivale entered. I looked up and saw him -standing over me, with a physiognomy divided between astonishment and -contempt. - -“Ah, Lexow,” he said, shaking his head, “I am surprised at you.” -Then his eyes grew stern, and he continued sharply, “Stop! Stop your -crying. You ought to be ashamed. Whatever new misfortune has befallen -you, you have no right to act like this. It is a man’s part to bear -misfortune silently. It is a school-girl’s or a baby’s to take on -in this fashion. Stop your crying, dry your eyes, and show what you are -made of. Grit your teeth and clench your fists and don’t open your -mouth till you are ready to behave like a reasonable being.” - -His words sobered me to some extent. - -“Well,” I said, “I am calm now. What do you want?” - -“If I should do what I want,” he answered, “you would not speedily -forget it. I should—but never mind that. What I want you to do is -to speak up like a man and explain the occasion of this rumpus, if you -can.” - -“Here, read this,” I said, offering him the paper. - -He took it, glanced at it, turned it this way and that, handed it -back. “How can I read it?” he said. “It’s German. Read it to -me.—Come, read it to me,” he repeated, as I hesitated. - -I gulped down my reluctance and read the whole thing through as rapidly -as I could in English. He sat across the table, smoking and drawing -figures in the ash-pan with the ashes of his cigarette. Once in a while -I heard him whistle softly to himself. He had thrown his last cigarette -aside and was biting his fingernails when the reading drew to a close. - -“No more?” he asked. - -“Isn’t that enough?” I rejoined. - -“Oh, I didn’t mean that. Oh, yes; that’s enough; and it’s pretty -bad too. But I expected something worse from the rough way you cut -up.” - -“Worse? In heaven’s name what could be worse? My mother dishonored, -my father broken hearted, and I marked out for a murderer, even from my -cradle? And then—” - -“I say it’s hard, deucedly hard. But inasmuch as you’re not a -murderer, you know, I wouldn’t let that side of the matter bother -me, if I were you. The bad part of the business is to think of how your -father’s happiness, your mother’s innocence, were destroyed. Think -how he must have suffered!” - -“But you haven’t listened, you haven’t understood the worst, yet. -Here, see his name—Pathzuol.” - -“Well, what of it?” - -“Why, don’t you remember? It is the same name as -hers—Veronika’s—my sweetheart’s.” - -“Decidedly!” exclaimed Merivale. “That is a startling coincidence, -I admit.” - -“Couple that with—with the rest of my father’s story and -with—with the—well, with all the facts—and I think you’ll -confess that it was sufficient to shake me up a bit. To come upon that -name at the end of such a letter, it was like being knocked down. I lost -my self-possession. Think! if he was her father! But, oh no; it isn’t -credible. It’s sheer accident, of course.” - -“Of course it is. The letter doesn’t say that he was even married. -I suppose there’s more than one Pathzuol in the world as well as more -than one Merivale. But all the same, it’s a coincidence of a sort to -stir a fellow up. I don’t wonder you lost your balance. Only, the -idea of boohooing like a woman! That’s inexcusable. Mercy! what a good -hater your father was! And what an unspeakable wretch, Nicholas!” - -“Yes,” I went on, “it gave me a pretty severe jolt, the sight of -that name; and I can’t seem to get over it. I don’t know why, but I -can’t help feeling as though there were more in this than either you -or I perceive, as though there were some deduction or other to be drawn -from it which is right within arm’s reach and yet which I can’t -grasp—some horrible corollary, you know. My brain is in a whirl, -I—I—” - -“You are quite unstrung, as it is natural you should be. But you -must exert your reason and put the stopper upon your imagination. Let -deductions and corollaries take care of themselves. Confine yourself to -the facts, and you’ll see that they’re not as bad as they might be, -after all. For example—” - -“But it is just the facts that perplex and horrify me. My father -destines me to be the murderer of Nicholas Pathzuol or of his next of -kin. All ignorant of this destiny, I meet and love a lady whose name is -Pathzuol—a name so rare that I had never heard it before, and have not -since, except in this writing to-day. My lady is murdered; and I, -though innocent, am suspected and accused of the crime. Add to this -my father’s threat to come back from the grave and use me as his -instrument, in case I hesitate or in case I never receive his letter; -and—well, it is like a problem in mathematics—given this and that, -to determine so and so. No, no, there’s no use denying it, this -strange combination of facts must have some awful meaning. It seems as -though each minute I was just on the point of catching it, and then as I -tighten my fingers around it, it escapes again and eludes me.” - -“Nonsense, man. You are yielding to your fancy, like a child who, -because he feels oppressed in the dark, conjures up ghosts and goblins, -and can not be persuaded that there are none about, till you light the -gas and show him that the room is empty. Come, light the gas of your -common sense! Recognize that your problem has no solution, none because -it is not a true problem, but merely a fortuitous arrangement of -circumstances which chances to bear a superficial resemblance to one. -Reduce your quasi problem to its simplest terms: thus, given x and y -and z, to find the value of b. Don’t you see that there’s no -connection?” - -“Oh, of course, I acknowledge that I can’t see any connection. -That’s just the trouble. I feel that there must be a connection—one -that I can’t see. If I could only see it, it wouldn’t be so bad. But -this perplexity, this——” - -“This fiddle-stick! You are resolved to distress yourself, and I -suppose it’s useless for me to labor with you. Only this much I will -say, that if you should bestow a little of the energy you are expending -in the effort to catch hold of a non-existent inference, upon sympathy -with your father’s unhappiness, I should have more respect for you. -They talk about suffering ennobling and chastening men, forsooth! So -far as you are concerned, suffering has done nothing but intensify -your natural egotism. For instance, after reading that letter of your -father’s, the first idea that strikes you is, ‘How does it affect -me, how am I concerned by it?’ whereas the spectacle of your father s -immense grief ought to have absorbed you to the exclusion of every thing -else, ought to have left no room in your mind for any other thought.” - -But for all Merivale could say by way either of appeal or of reprimand, -I was powerless to subdue that feeling which had begun to stir in my -breast. I recognized that I was unreasonable and selfish, but I was -also helpless. I could not get over the shock I had sustained when -Pathzuol’s name first took shape before my eyes. Every time I -remembered that moment—and it kept recurring to me in spite of -myself—my heart sank and my breath became spasmodic, as if I had been -confronted by a ghost. And then ensued that sensation of groping in -the dark after something invisible, unknown, yet surely there, hovering -within arm’s reach, but as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp. I -struggled with this sensation, tried my utmost to shake it off, but it -sat like a monster on my heart. Its weight was deadly, its touch was -icy; it would not be dislodged. - -“It is true, all that you say, Merivale,” I returned at length. -“But the question is not one of what I ought to do; it is one of what -I can do. I know I ought to regard this matter in the same collected -spirit that you display; but it concerns me so intimately, you see, that -I can’t resist being somewhat perturbed. My wits, so to speak, have -been scattered by an unexpected blow. I shan’t be able to emulate your -sang-froid until they have got back to their proper places. I’m so -heated and upset that I don’t really know what I think or what I feel. -I guess perhaps I’d better go for a walk and cool off, and arrive at -an understanding with myself.” - -“The very worst thing you could possibly do—go away by yourself and -brood and get more and more morbid every minute. What you want is to -think of something else for a while, and then when you come back to this -subject you’ll be in a condition to regard it in its correct light. -Let’s—let’s play a game of cribbage, or read some Rossetti; or -suppose you fiddle a little?” - -“No, I feel the need of air and exercise. I’ll go out and take -a walk. I sha’n’. brood, I’ll reflect on the sensible things -you’ve said. Good-by.” - -I walked briskly through the streets, striving to collect my faculties, -striving to regain sufficient mental tranquillity to comprehend exactly -what the long and short of the whole business was. But the feeling that -there was something more in it than I could make out, intensified. It -would not be dispelled. The oftener I went over the circumstances, -the more significant they seemed.—Significant of what? Precisely the -question that I could not answer. The longer I allowed my mind to dwell -upon them, the more acute became that sensation of wrestling with a -problem, of groping for a something suspended near to me in the dark. My -father had destined me to be a murderer; the name of my intended victim -was Pathzuol; I had been engaged to a young lady of the same name, -very possibly the daughter of my father’s foe; she had indeed been -murdered, though not by my hand; and yet I, despite my innocence, had -been deemed guilty of the crime: this chain of facts kept passing over -and over before me. I felt that it must mean something; it could not be -purely fortuitous; there was a break, a missing link, which, if I could -but supply it, would make the hidden meaning clear. I walked the streets -all night, unable to fix my thoughts on any thing else. I said, “You -are merely wearing yourself out and getting your brains into a tangle: -try to divert your attention. Count up to a thousand. See how much you -can remember of the Moonlight Sonata. Conjugate a Hebrew verb. Do what -you will, only stop puzzling over this matter. As Merivale says, -when you have thought of something else for a while, you will be in a -condition to return to it with refreshed intelligence, and view it in -the right light.” But the next moment I was at it again, in greater -perplexity than ever. Of course, I succeeded in working myself up to -a high degree of nervousness: was as exhausted and as exasperated as -though I had spent an hour in futile attempts to thread a needle. - -But now it began to get light. The stillness of the night was broken, my -solitude was disturbed. - -Hosts of sparrows began to congregate upon the window sills, and their -busy twittering filled the air. First one steam-whistle blew in the -distance, then another nearer by, then another, and finally a chorus of -them: bells began to ring, wagons rattled over the pavement, the shrill -whoo-hoop of the milk-man resounded through the streets. The clatter of -footsteps became audible upon the sidewalk. - -People began to walk abroad. The sky turned from black to gray, from -gray to blue. Shutters were banged, doors slammed, windows thrown open: -housemaids with brooms and buckets appeared upon the stoops. Dawn had -arrived from across the Ocean with the smell of the sea-breeze still -clinging to her skirts. The city was waking to its feverish multifarious -life.—And the result was that I forgot myself—was penetrated and -exalted by that vague tremulous exhilaration which always accompanies -the first breath of morning. I expanded my lungs and inhaled the fresh -air and felt a glow of warmth and animation shoot through my limbs. - -“Ah,” I cried, “a truce to the blue devils! I will go home and -take up my regular life again, just as though this interruption had not -occurred.” - -I hurried back to our lodgings. Merivale was already up and dressed, -smoking a cigarette over the newspaper. - -“Hail!” I exclaimed. “I am glad to see you out of bed so early!” - -“I have not been abed since you left,” he answered. - -“Why not? What have you been doing?” - -“Thinking about you—about what can be done to make a man of you.” - -“Oh, you needn’t worry about that. I’m all right now. I -sha’n’. play the fool again, I promise you. I propose that we -sink the last four-and-twenty hours into eternal oblivion. What do you -say?” - -“Nothing would more delight me.” - -“Good! Let’s begin at the first cause. Where’s the manuscript? -We’ll set fire to it, and agree to believe that it never really -existed.” - -“No,” said Merivale, “I wouldn’t set fire to it—at least not -till it is manifest whether your present mood is merely a reaction from -your late one, or whether it is going to last. I will dispose of the -manuscript—see.” - -He found it on the table, opened the double cover of the box, restored -the papers to the place they had occupied formerly, and locked the box -up in the closet of his writing-desk. - -“There,” he said, “that’s the best thing to do. I’ll take care -of it. Some day you may have a little sympathy to waste on your father, -and then you’ll be glad this writing was not destroyed.” - -We had breakfast, and after the cups and saucers were cleared away, -applied ourselves to our ordinary forenoon occupation. It turned out -indeed that my good spirits were, as Merivale had suspected, to some -extent reactionary: but they left me sober rather than sad. I was -absent-minded and committed numberless blunders while my friend dictated -his poems: but I did not let my thoughts settle down again upon the -matters that had engaged them during the night. They simply wandered -about in a random way from one indifferent topic to another, as it is -the habit of thoughts to do when the thinker has not had his customary -allotment of sleep. Presently Merivale suspended his dictation, and -I waited passively for him to resume, supposing that he had reached a -point where reflection was necessary to further progress. His silence -continued. Pretty soon my eyelids dropped like leaden curtains over my -eyes, and my chin sank upon my breast. I was actually nodding. I started -up and pinched myself, ashamed of appearing drowsy. - -Lo! I perceived that my friend had met with the same mishap. He too was -nodding in his chair. For a moment we eyed each other sheepishly, each -endeavoring to feign wide wakefulness. Then Merivale rose and stretched -himself and laughed. - -“For my part I cast off the mask,” he cried. “I am sleepy and I am -going to bed. You’d better follow suit.” - -I needed no urging. We retired to our dormitory, and as speedily as was -practicable one of us at least fell into an unfathomable slumber. - - - - -XIII. - -I DON’. know how many hours afterward I awoke. Gradually, as -consciousness asserted itself, I realized that somebody was playing a -violin in the adjacent room: and at length it struck me that it must be -Merivale practicing. I pricked up my ears and hearkened. Oh, yes; he was -running over his part of the last new composition we had studied. The -clock-like tick-tack of his metronome marked the rhythm. I lay still and -listened till he had repeated the same phrase some twenty times. Finally -I got up and crossed the threshold that divided us. - -Merivale kept on playing for a minute or two, unaware of my intrusion. -Not till it behooved him to turn the page did he lift his eyes. Then, -encountering my night-robed figure,they lighted up with merriment. Their -owner lowered his instrument, remained silent for a moment, in the end -gave vent to an uproarious peal of laughter. - -“What are you laughing at?” I stammered. - -When he had got his hilarity somewhat under control he replied: “At -you. Come and gaze upon yourself.” And conducting me to a mirror he -said, pointing, “There, isn’t that a funny sight?” - -I looked sleepy, that was all. My hair was awry, and my eyes were heavy, -and my costume was a trifle wrinkled. Still, I suppose, my general -appearance was sufficiently ludicrous. Be that as it may, I could not -help joining in Merivale’s laughter: and, thus put into good humor at -the outset, I cheerfully complied with his request to hasten through my -toilet and “come and fiddle with him.” - -“Let’s start here,” he said, opening the book. - -We read for a while in concert. As usual my arm seemed to swing of its -separate will, I myself becoming all but comatose. By and by I perceived -that Merivale had discontinued and was seated at one side with his -instrument upon his knees. Then I perceived that I was no longer -following the book. I closed my eyes and listened. As usual I heard the -voice of my violin very much as though some other person had been the -performer. - -I found that I was playing a lot of bits from memory. I heard the light, -quick tread of a gavotte which I had learned as a boy and meantime -almost forgotten; I heard snatches from the chants the Chazzan sings in -the synagogue; I heard the Flower Song from Faust mixing itself up with -a recitative from Lohengrin. Then I heard the passionate wail of Chopin -become predominant: the exquisite melody of the Berceuse, motives from -Les Polonaises, and at length the impromptu in C-sharp minor—that to -which I have alluded in the early part of this narrative, as descriptive -of Veronika. Following it, came the songs that Veronika herself had been -most prone to sing, Bizet, Pergolese, Schumann, morsels of German folk -liede, old French romances. And ever and anon that phrase from the -impromptu kept recurring. Every thing else seemed to lead up to it. It -terminated a brilliant passage by Liszt. It cropped out in the middle of -a theme from the Meistersinger. And with its every new recurrence, the -picture of Veronika which it pre sented to my imagination grew more -life-like and palpable, until ere long it was almost as though I saw -her standing near me in substantial objective form. As I have said, I -scarcely realized that it was I who played. Except for the sensation -along my wrist as the bow bit the catgut, I believe I should have quite -forgotten it. But now abruptly, without the least volition upon my -part, my arm acquired a fresh vigor. The voice of my violin increased in -volume. The character of the music underwent a change. From a medley of -fragments it turned to a coherent, continuous whole. Note succeeded -note in natural and inevitable sequence. I tried to recognize the -composition. I could not. It was quite unfamiliar to me. Odd, because of -course at some time I must have practiced it again and again. Otherwise -how had I been able to play it now? It flowed from the strings without -hitch or hesitancy. Yet my best efforts to place it were ineffectual. -Doubly odd, because it was no ordinary composition. It had a striking -individuality of its own. - -It began with laughter-provoking scherzo, as dainty as the pattering -of April rain-drops, as riotous as the frolicking of children let loose -from school; which, by degrees tempering to a quieter allegro, presently -modulated into the minor, and necessarily, therefore, became plaintive -and sentimental. For a while bar succeeded bar, fitful and undetermined, -as if groping blindly for a climax. Next, a quick, fluttering crescendo, -and an exultant major chord. This completed the first movement. The -second began pianissimo upon the A and E strings, an allegretto full of -placid contentment; again, a minor modulation; again, blind groping for -a climax, this time more strenuous than before, tinged by a passion, -impelled by an insatiable desire; adagio on G and D, still minor; then -a swift return to major, a leap of the bow and fingers back to A and E, -and on these latter strings a rhapsody expressive of the utmost possible -human joy. Third movement andante, sober but still joyous; the music, -which hitherto had been restless and destitute of an apparent aim, -seemed to have caught a purpose, to have gained substance and confidence -in itself. - -It proceeded in this wise for several periods, when sharply, without -the faintest warning, it broke into a discordant shriek of laughter, the -laughter of a demon whose evil designs had triumphed. - -Though I had not recognized the composition, up to this point I had -understood it perfectly. Its intrinsic lucidity carried the intelligence -along. But henceforward I was mystified. The reason for the violent -change of theme, time, and quality, I could not divine; nor could I -appreciate, either, how the subsequent effects were produced or what -they were meant to signify. My impression was, as I have said, that the -laughter which my violin seemed to be echoing was demoniac laughter, the -outburst of a Satan over his success, of a Succubus fastening upon his -prey. Yet the next instant I was doubtful whether it was indeed laughter -at all? Was it not perhaps the hysterical sobbing of a human being -frenzied by grief? And again the next instant neither of these -conceptions appeared to be the correct one. Was it not rather -a chorus?—a chorus of witches?—plotting some fiendish -atrocity?—chuckling over a vicious pleasantry?—now, whispering -amicably together, now wrangling ferociously, now uniting in -blood-curdling screams of delight? Whatever it might be, I could not -penetrate its sense. I listened with deepening perplexity. I wished it -would come to an end. But it did not occur to me to stop my arm and lay -aside my bow. The music went on and on—until Merivale caught me by the -shoulder and snatched my violin from my grasp. He was speaking. - -The descent back to earth was too abrupt. It took me some time to gather -myself together. “Eh—what were you saying?” I asked at last. - -“I was saying, stop! Consider a fellow’s nervous system. Where in -the name of Lucifer did you learn that infernal music? Whom is it by?” - -“Oh,” I answered, “oh, I don’t know whom it is by.” - -“It out-Berliozes Berlioz,” he added. “Is it his?” - -“Perhaps. I don’t remember. I am tired. Let me rest a moment without -talking.” - -“Well,” he continued, “it was a terrible strain to listen to it. I -am quite played out—feel as if—forgive the comparison—as if I -had spent the last hour in a dentist’s chair. However, for relief’s -sake, let’s go to dinner. Are you aware that we haven’t eaten any -thing since early morning?” - -After dinner Merivale insisted that we should take a long walk “to -shake out the kinks,” and after the long walk we were tired enough to -return to our pillows. - -I went straight to sleep; but my sleep was troubled. As soon as Merivale -had said goodnight and extinguished the gas, memory began to repeat the -music I had played. I heard it throughout my sleep. Every little while -I would wake up and try to banish it by fixing my attention on other -matters. But it kept thrumming away in my brain despite myself. I could -not silence it. Merivale’s reference to a dentist’s chair was, if -inelegant, at least a graphic one. I got as hopelessly irritated as I -could have done with a score of dentists simultaneously grinding at my -teeth. My very arteries seemed to be beating to its rhythm. - -In one fit of wakefulness, that lasted longer than its predecessors -had done, I found myself unconsciously tattooing it upon the wall at my -bed’s head. - -“Is that you?” Merivale’s voice demanded from out of the darkness. - -“Yes,” I replied. “Aren’t you asleep?” - -“Mercy, no. That music you played—or rather, stray fragments of it, -keep running through my brain. I haven’t been able to sleep for a long -while.” - -“That’s singular. It affects me the same way. I was just drumming it -on the wall. I’ve been trying to get rid of it all night.” - -“It has wonderful staying powers, for a fact. I’m glad you’re -awake, though. Companionship in misery is sweet.” - -“Yes, I also feel rather more comfortable now that you have spoken. Do -you know, it’s an immense puzzle to me, that music? I can’t imagine -where or when I ever learned it. And yet it is not the sort of thing one -would be apt to forget. I can’t recognize the style even, can’t get -a clew to the composer.” - -“The style is emphatically that of Berlioz.” - -“Perhaps so. But it can’t be by Berlioz, because I never learned any -thing by Berlioz at all.” - -“Hum!” A pause. Then, “Say, Lexow—” - -“Well?” - -“It isn’t possible that it’s original, is it?” - -“Original? How do you mean?” - -“Why, an improvisation—a little thing of your own.” - -“Oh, no; oh, no, I never improvise—at least an entire composition, -like that. Nobody does. It bears all the marks of careful workmanship. -It must be something well-known that has temporarily slipped from my -memory. It’s too striking not to be well-known. Tomorrow I’ll go -through my music and find it; and I’ll wager it will turn out to be -quite familiar. Only, it’s extremely odd that I can’t place it.” - -“Why wait till to-morrow?” - -“Why, we can’t begin to-night, can we?” - -“Why not? I say, let’s begin right off. The cursed thing is keeping -us awake, and there doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. We may as -well utilize our wakefulness, as lie here doing nothing but toss about. -I say, let’s light the gas and go to work.” - -“Oh, well, I’m agreeable. The sooner the better as far as I’m -concerned.” - -“Good,” cried Merivale. - -He sprang out of bed and lighted the gas. - -“Shall Mahomet go to the mountain or shall the mountain come to -Mahomet?” he inquired, blinking his eyes. - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean shall we dress and adjourn to the other room? Or shall I bring -your musical library in here, so that we can conduct our investigation -without getting up?” - -“Just as you please,” I answered. - -“Well, we’ll move the mountain, then,” he said, and left the room. - -He made two or three trips, back and forth, bearing an armful of music -as the fruit of each. The last folios deposited on the floor, “Now, as -to method,” he inquired, “how shall we start? It will occupy us till -doom’s-day if we undertake to go through the whole of this. I suppose -there are some composers we can eliminate à priori, eh?” - -“Oh, yes; Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Liszt, in particular, we -needn’t trouble with. I’d keep an especially sharp eye out for -Ruben-stein and Dvorak and Winiauski. It’s fortunate that I’ve -preserved all the music I’ve ever owned. We can’t miss it if we’re -only patient enough.” - -“Well, here goes,” he cried, thrusting a thick pile of music into my -hands, and apportioning an equal amount to himself. - -We were industrious. It is needless that I should tarry with the -incidents of our search. At daybreak we had not yet quite finished, and -we had not yet struck any thing that bore the slightest resemblance to -the composition in question. - -“But little remains,” said Merivale. “In another five minutes we -will have found it; or my first hypothesis was true.” - -“Your first hypothesis?” I inquired. - -“Yes—that it was original—a lucubration of your own.” - -“Oh, that, I tell you, isn’t possible. I’m not vain enough to -imagine that I could improvise in such style, thank you.” - -“Well, we won’t enter into a dispute, at any rate not till our -present line of investigation is exhausted. Back to the saddle!” - -For a space we were silent. - -“Eh bien, mon brave!” cried Merivale at length. “There goes the -last of my half,” and he sent a sheet of music fluttering through the -air. - -“And here is the last of mine,” I responded, laying down -Schumann’s Warum. - -“And we are still in the dark.” - -“Still in the dark.” - -“It isn’t possible that we have overlooked it?” - -“I’m sure I haven’t. I took pains with each separate page.” - -“Likewise, I! Therefore. I congratulate you. I’ll order a laurel -wreath at the florist’s, the first thing after breakfast.” - -“Nonsense! How many times need I tell you that I could not by hook or -crook have made it up as I went along? The mere notion is ridiculous. It -must have got lost, that’s all.” - -“On the contrary, the notion that you once learned it, then forgot -it, then played it off without a fault from beginning to end, is trebly -ridiculous. It was ridiculous of us to waste our time hunting for it, -also. I am entirely convinced that it is yours. Why not? Ideas have come -to other people—why not to you? Yesterday while you played, you were -excited and wrought up, and the result was that you had an inspiration. -By Jove, you’re lucky! It’s enough to make you famous.” - -“But, Merivale, fancy the absurdities you are uttering. Do you -seriously suppose anybody—even a regular composer—could take up his -fiddle and reel off a complicated thing like that without once halting? -Why, man, there are four or five distinct movements. You might as well -pretend that a mere elocutionist could write an intricate epic poem -without once pausing to make an erasure or find a rhyme, as that I, a -simple instrumentalist, could have done this.” - -“Well, there’s only oneway of settling the matter. We’ll refer it -to an authority. You jot down a few specimen bars on paper, and I’ll -submit it to your friend, Dr. Rodolph. Of course he will identify it at -once, if it isn’t yours.” - -“If that will satisfy you, well and good,” I assented. - -In the course of the forenoon, Merivale, having procured a stock of -music-paper at a shop in the neighborhood, said, “I don’t know how -rapidly a man can write music, but if it isn’t too slow work, I’d -seriously counsel you to put down the whole thing, while you’re about -it. In fact I’d counsel you to do so any how. If by hazard it is -original, you know, you’d better make a memorandum of it while it’s -still fresh in your mind. Otherwise you might forget it. That often -happens to me. A bright idea, a felicitous turn of phraseology, occurs -to me when I’m away somewhere—in the horse-cars, at the theater, -paying a call, or what-not—and if I don’t make an instant minute -of it in my note-book, it’s sure to fly off and never be heard from -again.” - -“We’ll see,” I returned. “I haven’t written a bar of music for -such a long while that I don’t know how hard I shall find it. But -I used to make a daily practice of writing from memory, because it -increases one’s facility for sight-reading.” - -I hummed the first two or three phrases softly to myself, beating time -with my fingers; then drew up to the writing-table and commenced to set -them down. At the outset I had considerable difficulty, was obliged, -so to speak, to spell my way along note by note, and committed several -blunders which I had to go back to and correct. But gradually my path -grew smoother and smoother, until I was no longer conscious of effort; -and at last I became so much absorbed and so much interested by what I -was doing, that my hand sped across the paper like a machine performing -the regular function for which it was contrived. I suppose mental -activity always begets mental exhilaration; and that mental exhilaration -in turn, when allowed to attain too high a pitch, always approaches the -borderland of its antipode, on the principle that extremes meet. At any -rate such was my experience in the present instance. At first, both -mind and fingers were sluggish and moved laboriously. Then mind got into -running order, and fingers lagged behind; then fingers caught up with -mind, and for a while the two kept pace; then, finally, fingers spurted -ahead and it was mind’s turn to acknowledge itself left in the rear. -Mental exhilaration gave place to bewilderment, as I saw that my hand -was forging along faster than my thought could dictate, in apparent -obedience to an independent will of its own—which bewilderment ripened -into thoroughgoing mystification, as the hand dashed forward and -back like a shuttle in a loom, with a velocity that seemed ever to be -increasing. I had precisely the sensation of a man who has started to -run down a hill, and whose legs have acquired such a momentum that -he can not stop them: on and on he must submit to be borne until some -outside obstacle interferes, even though a yawning chasm await him -at the bottom. Toward the end I scarcely saw the paper on which I was -writing; I am sure I saw nothing of the matter that I wrote. I said to -myself, “Of course you will find that all this stuff is incoherent and -meaningless when you get through.” But I waited passively till my hand -should get through of its own accord, I made no endeavor to draw the -rein upon it. Eventually it came to a standstill with a round turn. I -was quite winded. I needed leisure in which to recover my equilibrium. - -Merivale—of whose presence I had become oblivious—crossed over and -began gathering the scattered sheets of paper from the table. The sight -of him helped to bring me to myself. - -“Well,” I said, “there it is. I don’t suppose you can read it. I -got so excited I hardly knew what I was about.” - -“That’s all right,” he answered reassuringly. “I’m much -obliged to you for the trouble you’ve taken. But what,” he added -abruptly, “but what is all this that you have written?” - -“Why, what do you fancy? The music, of course, that you asked me -to.” - -“No, no; I mean this writing, this text, with which you have wound -up?” - -“Writing? Text? What are you driving at?” - -“Why, here—this,” he said handing me the paper. - -“Mercy upon me!” I exclaimed, thoroughly amazed. “I was not aware -that I had written any thing.” - -The last half dozen pages were covered with written words—blotted, -scrawling, scarcely decipherable, but unmistakably written words. - -“Well, certainly, this is most astonishing. Whatever it is, I have -written it unawares.” - -I dropped the manuscript and leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded by -this latest development. - -“Here,” said Merivale, “is the point where the music ends and the -words begin.” - -The music ended, the words began, just at that point where last night -the shriek of malevolent laughter had interfered with the current of -melody. From that point to the bottom of the last page not another bar -of music was discernible—not a note of the incomprehensible witches’ -chorus—simply words, words that I dared not read. - -“This is magic, this is ghost-work,” I said. “It appalls me. -Look at it, Merivale. Does it make sense? Or is it simply a mass of -scribbling without rhyme or reason?” - -“Ye-es,” rejoined Merivale slowly, “it seems to make sense. The -penmanship is pretty blind, but the words appear to hang together. It -begins, ‘I walked re—re—reluctantly’—next word very -bad—’I walked reluctantly—reluctantly—away’—oh yes, that’s -it—’away—from the house. By Jove, this is singular! Shall I go -on?” - -“Yes, go on,” I said faintly. There was panic in my heart. - -Merivale continued, picking his way laboriously. The following is what -he read. - - - - -XIV. - -I WALKED reluctantly away from the house after I saw her light put out. -I hated so to leave her that it was as if a chain and ball had been -attached to my ankle. I had reached a point on Second avenue about half -the distance home when I halted. I had begun to feel sick. Suddenly my -ears had begun to ring, my head to swim. I clutched at a lamppost to -keep from falling. The ringing in my ears became louder and louder—a -roar like that of a strong wind. A deathly nausea overcame me. I thought -I was going to faint, perhaps to die. I held on to the lamp-post and -tried to call out for help. I could not utter the slightest sound; my -tongue clove to the roof of my mouth as it does in nightmare. I seemed -to be growing weaker with every breath. The noise in my ears was like an -unbroken peal of thunder. My brain went spinning around and around as if -it had been caught in a whirlpool. Then all at once my breath began to -come in quick short gasps like the breath of a panting dog or like the -breath of a person who has taken laughing-gas. I closed my eyes and for -how long I know not clung to the lamp-post, waiting for this internal -upheaval to reach its climax. By degrees my breath returned to its -normal state; the uproar in my ears subsided; my brain got quiet again. -I felt as well as ever, only a bit startled, a bit shaky in the legs. I -thought, ‘You have had an attack of vertigo, a half fainting-fit. Now -you would best hurry home.’ But—but to my unmingled consternation -my body refused to act in response to my will. I was puzzled. I tried -again. Useless. - -I had absolutely no control over my muscles. Experiment proved that I -could not move a finger; experiment proved that I could not put forth my -foot and take a step. I was horrified. Ah, I thought, this is a stroke -of paralysis. For a second time I attempted to summon help. For a second -time my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. - -But if all this horrified me, how much more horrified was I the moment -after, when, in entire independence of my will, that body of mine which -I had fancied paralyzed began to act of its own accord! began to march -briskly off in a direction exactly opposite to that which I wished to -follow! If I had been puzzled before, how much more hopelessly puzzled -was I now! Experiment proved that I was as powerless to stop myself at -present, as an instant since I had been to set myself in motion. I was -appalled. I knew not what this phenomenon was due to or what it might -lead to. It seemed precisely as though the chords connecting my mind and -body had been severed, as though the will of another person had become -the reigning occupant of my frame. A thousand frightful possibilities -flashed upon my imagination. With this utter incompetency to govern my -own movements, God knew what might happen. I might walk into the river; -or I might—I might commit some irretrievable wrong. Helpless and -irresponsible as I was, I might accomplish that which all the rest of my -days I should repent. - -Meanwhile I had moved on, until now I halted again. I looked around. I -was in front of Veronika’s house. I crossed the street, picked my -way through the people who were seated upon the stoop, mounted the -staircase, and rang Veronika’s bell, wondering constantly what the -cause and what the upshot of this adventure might be, and powerless to -assert the least influence over my physical acts. - -“Veronika’s voice sounded from behind the door, ‘Is that you, -uncle?’ - -“‘No, it is I, my tongue replied of its own volition. - -“The door opened. I saw Veronika with the knob in her hand. She looked -surprised. My impulse was to take her in my arms and explain to her -the strange accident that had befallen me. I could not. I had no more -control over my body than I had over hers. - -“Veronika closed the door. She glanced up at my face. Her eyes filled -with fear. - -“‘Why, Ernest,’ she cried, ‘what is it? What is the matter? Why -do you look like this?’ - -“I paused to collect my utmost strength, then tried to speak. Total -failure. Tried to reassure her with my eyes. Total failure: eyes as -uncontrollable as the rest of my person. But impelled by that other will -which had usurped the place of mine, I approached her and asked, ‘What -is your name?’ It was my voice, but it was not I, that asked the -question. - -“‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Veronika besought, ‘don’t act like -this. Oh, my Ernest, what terrible joke are you playing? Don t make me -think that you have gone mad.’ - -“‘What is your name?’ my voice repeated, stonily. - -“‘My name? What can you mean? Oh God, what has come over my -beloved?’ - -“Her face was pale, her eyes were full of anguish. And I—I was -impotent to comfort her. My heart went out to her with a great bound of -love; but I was in irons, chained down, compelled to witness, forbidden -to interfere with the action of this awful drama. For a third time my -tongue repeated, ‘Your name—tell me your name.’ - -“‘My name?’ she gasped. ‘You know my name—Veronika. See, -don’t you recognize me, Ernest? I am Veronika, whom you are going to -marry. Oh, my loved one, you are ill. What can I do to make you well?’ - -“‘Tell me your surname,’ I said. - -“‘My surname—why, Pathzuol. Oh, Ernest, say you know me.’ - -“‘And your father’s name?’ - -“‘My father—his name was Nicholas—but he is dead—died when I -was a little girl. Oh, God, what does this mean?’ - -“‘Enough; come with me,’ said the devil whose victim I had become. - -“I grasped her wrist and led her down the hallway. If Veronika was -terrified, her terror could not have equaled mine. What deed was I now -bent upon committing? She followed me passively. The expression of -her eyes made my soul ache within me. How I longed to speak to her and -soothe her. How I longed to step between her and myself, to protect her -from this maniac in whose power she was. To be obliged to stand by and -see this thing enacted—imagine the agony I suffered. - -“I led her down the hallway and into the dining-room. Then I released -her wrist, and crossed over to the sideboard. I opened the sideboard -drawer and took out a long, keen knife. I tried the point and the edge -of the knife upon my thumb. - -“‘Are you—are you going to kill me, Ernest?’ I heard Veronika -ask, very low. - -“‘Yes, I am going to kill you. Lead the way to your bed-chamber.’ - -“Veronika’s hand clutched convulsively at her breast. She said -nothing. She moved slowly back into the hall and thence into her -bedroom, I following. - -“‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop and think what you are doing,’ she -cried out suddenly, turning and facing me at the threshold of her room. -‘Think, Ernest, that it is I, Veronika, whom you are going to kill. -Think, oh my loved one, think how you will suffer if ever you come to -and realize what you have done. Oh, is there no way for me to bring him -to himself!’ - -“Presently she continued, ‘But tell me first what I have done.—Oh, -I can not bear to die until I know that you don’t suspect me of having -wronged you in any way. Oh, Ernest, oh, if you would only speak one -word. Oh, my darling, do not kill me without speaking to me. Oh God, oh -God! Oh, there, there, he is going to kill me; he will not speak to me. -Oh, what have I done? Ernest, Ernest! Wake up—stop your arm—don’t -strike me. Oh God, God, God!’ - -“After it was over I dried my hands upon my handkerchief, turned out -the gas in the hall, locked the door on the outside, put the key into my -pocket, and went away.” - -What remains for me to tell? The above is what Merivale read to me. The -above is what I had written. Could I doubt its truth? I did not, I do -not, at any rate. - -I am informed that a man once tried for murder and acquitted can not, as -the lawyers put it, can not be placed in jeopardy again. But I am enough -of a Jew to believe in eye for eye and tooth for tooth. I shall see to -it that I do not escape that penalty which the law would have imposed -upon me, had the facts I am now aware of come out at my trial. I -shall see to it that the murderer of Veronika Pathzuol meets with the -punishment which his crime demands. - -It has taken me a week to write out this account. I want the public to -have it. No need to analyze the motives that prompt this wish. I -shall confide the MS. to my friend Merivale with directions that it be -printed. - -I do not think of any thing more that needs to be said. - - -THE END. - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52704 *** diff --git a/old/52704-h/52704-h.htm b/old/52704-h/52704-h.htm deleted file mode 100644 index 2d41303..0000000 --- a/old/52704-h/52704-h.htm +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6421 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> - -<!DOCTYPE html - PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" - "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > - -<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> - <head> - <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=UTF-8" /> - <title> - As It Was Written, by Henry Harland (aka Sidney Luska) - </title> - <link rel="coverpage" href="images/cover.jpg" /> - <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> - - body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} - P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } - H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; 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margin-right: 1%;} - .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} - .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; - font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; - text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; - border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} - .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; - border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; - text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; - font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} - p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} - span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } - pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} - -</style> - </head> - <body> -<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52704 ***</div> - -<div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - AS IT WAS WRITTEN - </h1> - <h2> - A Jewish Musician’s Story - </h2> - <h2> - By Henry Harland (AKA Sidney Luska) - </h2> - <h4> - Cassell & Company, Limited 739 & 741 Broadway, New York. - </h4> - <h3> - 1885 - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0007.jpg" alt="0007 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0007.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> AS IT WAS WRITTEN. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001a"> I. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV. </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - AS IT WAS WRITTEN. - </h2> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001a" id="link2H_4_0001a"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - I. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">V</span>ERONIKA PATHZUOL - was my betrothed. I must give some account of the circumstances under - which she and I first met each other, so that my tale may be clear and - complete from the beginning. - </p> - <p> - For a long while, without knowing why, I had been restless—hungry, - without knowing for what I hungered. Teaching music to support myself, I - employed all of the day that was not thus occupied in practicing on my own - behalf. My life consequently was a solitary one, numbering but few - acquaintances and not any friends. In my short intervals of leisure I was - generally too tired to seek out society; I was too obscure and unimportant - to be sought out in turn. Yet, young and of an ardent temperament, - doubtless it was natural that I should have been dimly conscious of - something wanting; and, not prone to selfanalysis, doubtless it was also - natural that I should have had no distinct conception of what the wanting - something was. Besides, it would soon be summer. The soft air and bright - sunshine of spring awoke a myriad vague desires in my heart. I strove in - vain to understand them. They were all the more poignant because they had - no definite object. Twenty times a day I would catch myself heaving a - mighty sigh; but asking, “What are you sighing for?” I had to answer, “Who - can tell?” My thoughts got into the habit of wandering away would fly off - to cloud-land at the most inopportune moments. While my pupils were - blundering through their exercises their master would fall to thinking of - other things—afterward impossible to remember what. From morning to - night I went about with a feeling of expectancy—an event was - impending—presently a change would come over the tenor of my life. I - waited anxiously, on the alert for its first premonitory symptom. - </p> - <p> - I had taken to strolling through the streets at evening. One delicious - night in May, I found myself leaning over the terrace at the eastern - extremity of Fifty-first street. The moon had just risen, a huge red disk, - out of the mist and smoke across the river, and was turning the waves to - burnished copper. Through the open windows of the neighborhood escaped the - sounds of quiet talk, of laughter, of piano playing. Now and then a low - dark shape, with a single bright light gleaming like a jewel at its side, - and spars and masts sharply outlined against the sky, slipped silently - past upon the water. The atmosphere was quick with the warmth and the - scent of spring. I stood there motionless, penetrated by the unspeakable - beauty of the scene. The moon climbed higher and higher, and gradually - exchanged its ruddy tint for its ordinary metallic blue. By and by - somebody with a sweet soprano voice, in one of the nearest houses, began - to sing the <i>Ave Maria</i> of Gounod. The impassioned music seemed made - for the time and place. It caught the soul of the moment and gave it - voice. I could feel my heart swelling with the crescendo: and then how it - leaped and thrilled when the singer reached that glorious climax of the - song, “<i>Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae!</i>” At that instant, as if - released from a spell, I drew a long breath and looked around. Then for - the first time I saw Veronika Pathzuol. Her eyes and mine met for the - first time. - </p> - <p> - “A lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange, and sad”—and pale. Her - face was pale, like an angel’s. The wealth of black hair above it and the - dark eyes that gazed sadly out of it rendered the pallor more intense. But - it was not the pallor of ill-health; it was the pallor of a luminous white - soul. As I beheld her standing there in the moonlight scarcely a yard away - from me, I knew all at once what it was my heart had craved for so long a - while. I knew at once, by the sudden pain that pierced it, that my heart - had been waiting for this lady all its life. I did not stop to reflect and - determine. Had I done so, most likely—nay, most certain-ly—I - should never have had to tell this story. The words flew to my tongue and - were spoken as soon as thought.—“Oh, how beautiful, how beautiful!” - I exclaimed, meaning her. - </p> - <p> - “Very beautiful,” I heard her voice, clear and soft, respond. “It is - almost a pain, the feeling such intense beauty gives,”—meaning the - scene before us. - </p> - <p> - “And yet this is every-day, hum-drum, commercial New York,” added another - voice, one that jarred upon my hearing like the scraping of a contre-bass - after a cadenza by the flute. She was leaning on the arm of a man. I was - at the verge of being straightway jealous, when I observed that his hair - and beard were snowy and that his face was wrinkled. - </p> - <p> - We got into conversation without ceremony. Nature had introduced us. Our - common appreciation of the loveliness round about broke the ice and - provided a topic for speech. After her first impulsive utterance, Veronika - said little. But the old man was voluble, evidently glad of the - opportunity to express his ideas to a new person. And I was more than glad - to listen, because while doing so I could gaze upon her face to my heart’s - content. - </p> - <p> - Something that I had said, in reply to a remark of his upon the singing of - the <i>Ave</i>, caused him to ask, “Ah, you understand music? You are a - musician—yes?” - </p> - <p> - “I play the violin,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “Do you hear, Veronika?” he cried. “Our friend plays the violin! My dear - sir, you must do us the favor of playing for us before we part. Do not be - surprised—pay no heed to the formalities. Is not music a - free-masonry? Come, you shall try your skill upon an Amati. Such an - evening as this must have an appropriate ending. Come.” - </p> - <p> - Without allowing me time to protest, had I been disposed to do so, he - grasped my arm and started off. He kept on talking as we marched along. I - had no attention for what he said. My mind was divided between delight at - my good-fortune, and query as to what its upshot would be. We had not far - to go. A few doors to the west of First avenue he turned up a stoop. It - was a modest apartment-house. We climbed to the topmost story and stood - still in the dark while he fumbled for a match. Then he lighted the gas - and said, “Sit down.” The room was bare and cheerless. A chromo or two - sufficed to decorate the walls. The furniture—a few chairs and a - center-table—was stiff and shabby. The carpet was threadbare. - </p> - <p> - But a piano occupied a corner; and the floor, the table, and the chairs - were littered thick with music. So I felt at home. As I look back at that - meager little parlor now, it is transformed into a sanctuary. There the - deepest moments of two lives were spent. Yet to-day strangers dwell in it; - come and go, laugh and chatter, eat, drink, and make merry between its - walls, all unconcernedly, never pausing to bestow a thought upon the sad, - sweet lady whose presence once hallowed the place, whose tears more than - once watered the floor over which they tread with indifferent footsteps. - </p> - <p> - The old man lighted the gas and said, “Sit down,” making obedience - possible by clearing a chair of the music it held. Then scrutinizing my - face: “You are a Jew, are you not?” he inquired, in his quick, nervous - way. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I said, “by birth.” - </p> - <p> - “And by faith?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I am not orthodox, not a zealot.” - </p> - <p> - “Your name?” - </p> - <p> - “Neuman—Ernest Neuman.” - </p> - <p> - “And mine, Tikulski—Baruch. You see we are of one race—<i>the</i> - race—the chosen race! Neither am I orthodox. I keep <i>Yom Kippur</i>, - to be sure, but I have no conscientious scruples against shell-fish, and - indeed the ‘succulent oyster’ is especially congenial to my palate. This,” - with a wave of the hand toward Veronika, “this is my niece, Miss Pathzuol—P-a-t-h-z-u-o-1—pronounced - Patchuol—Hungarian name. Her mother was my sister.” - </p> - <p> - Veronika dropped a courtesy. Her eyes seemed to plead, “Do not laugh at my - uncle. He is eccentric; but be charitable.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, Veronika, show Mr. Neuman your music and find something that you can - play together. I will go fetch the violin.” - </p> - <p> - The old man left the room. - </p> - <p> - “What will you play?” asked Veronika. Her voice quavered. She was timid, - as indeed it was natural she should be. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” I said, my own voice not as firm as I could have wished. - “What have you got?” - </p> - <p> - We commenced at the top of a big pile of music and had settled upon the - prize song from the Meistersinger—not then as hackneyed as it is at - present, not then the victim of every passable amateur—when Mr. - Tikulski came back. It was in truth an Amati that he brought. The - discolored, half obliterated label within said so—but the label - might have lied. The strong, tense, ringing tone that it emitted in - response to the <i>A</i> which Veronika gave me said so also—and - that did not lie. I played as best I could. Rather, the music played - itself. With a violin under my chin, I lapse into semi-consciousness, lose - my identity. Another spirit impels my arm, pouring itself out through the - voice of my instrument. Not until silence is restored do I realize that I - have been the performer. While the music is going on my personality is - annihilated. With the final note I seem to “come, to,” as one does from a - trance. - </p> - <p> - When I came to this time it was to be embraced by my host with an - effusiveness that overwhelmed me. “Ah, you are a true musician,” he cried, - releasing me from his arms. “You have the inspiration. Veronika, speak, - tell him how nobly he has played.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t speak, I can’t tell him,” answered Veronika, “it has taken away - all power of speech.” But she gave me a glance, allowed her eyes to stay - with mine for a long moment. A fire had been smoldering in my breast from - the first; at these words, at this glance, it burst into flame. A great - light inundated my soul. I felt the arteries tingling to my very finger - tips. I started tuning up, to hide my emotion. Then we played the march - from Raff’s Lenore. - </p> - <p> - I am afraid my agitation marred the effect of Raffs diamatic composition. - At any rate, the plaudits were faint when I had done. After a breathing - spell Mr. Tikulski told Veronika to sing. She played her own accompaniment - while I stood by to turn. - </p> - <p> - It would be useless for me to try to qualify her singing. Whatever - critical faculty I had was stricken dumb. I can only say that she sang a - song in French (an old, old romance, till then unfamiliar to me; so old - that the composer’s name has been forgotten) in a splendid contralto - voice, and that it seemed as if she was playing upon the inmost tissue of - my life, so keenly I felt each note. I quite forgot to turn the page at - the proper place, and Veronika had to prompt me. It was a little thing, - and yet I remember as vividly as if from yesterday the nod of the head and - the inflection with which she said, “Turn, please.” - </p> - <p> - “‘<i>Le temps fait passer l’amour</i>,’.rdquo; repeated Mr. Tikulski: it was the - last line of the song. “Veronika, bring some wine. <i>Le vin fait passer - le temps</i>,” and he chuckled at his joke. Another small thing that I - remember vividly is how Tikulski, as she left the room, posed his - forefinger upon his Adam’s-apple and said, “She carries a ‘cello here.” - </p> - <p> - He went on to this effect:—Veronika, as I already knew, was his - niece. He also was a violinist: more than that, he was a composer, though - as yet unpublished. With the self-conceit too characteristic of musical - people, he told me how he was engaged upon “an epoch-making symphony”—had - been engaged upon it for the last dozen years, would be engaged upon it - for the dozen years to come. Then the world should have it, and he, not - having lived in vain, would die content. Veronika was now one-and-twenty. - During her childhood he had played in an orchestra and arranged - dance-music and done other hackwork to earn money for her maintenance and - education. She had received the best musical training, instrumental and - vocal, that could be had in New York. Now he had turned the tables. Now he - did nothing but compose—reserved all his time and strength for his - masterpiece. Veronika had become the breadwinner. She taught on an average - seven hours a day. She sang regularly in church and synagogue, and at - concerts and musicals whenever she got a chance.—Veronika reentered - the room bearing cakes and wine. She sat down near to us, and I forgot - every thing in the contemplation of her beautiful, sad, strange face. Her - eyes were bottomless. Far, far in their liquid depths the spirit shone - like a star. All the history of Israel was in her glance. - </p> - <p> - Every touch of constraint had vanished from her bearing. She spoke with me - as with one whom she knew well. I could scarcely believe that only an hour - ago we had been ignorant of each other’s existence. We discussed music and - found that our tastes were in accord. We compared notes on teaching and - exchanged anecdotes about our respective pupils. She said among other - things that more than half the money she earned her uncle sent to Germany - for the relief of his widowed sister and her offspring, who were extremely - poor! Her every syllable clove my heart like an arrow. I grew hot with - indignation to think of this frail, delicate maiden slaving her life away - in order that her relations might fatten in idleness and her fanatic of an - uncle work at his impossible symphony. My fists clenched convulsively as I - fancied her exposed to the ups and downs, the hardships, the humiliations, - of a music-teacher’s career. I took no pains to regulate my manner: and, - if she had possessed the least trace of sophistication, she would have - guessed that I loved her from every modulation of my voice. Love her I - did. I had already loved her for an eternity—from the moment my eyes - had first encountered hers in the moonlight by the terrace.—But it - was getting late. It would not do for me to wear my welcome out. - </p> - <p> - “Nay, stay,” interposed Mr. Tikulski, “you have not heard <i>me</i> play - yet.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, you must hear my uncle play,” said Veronika. “The <i>Adagio</i> - of Handel? she asked of him. - </p> - <p> - “No, child,” he answered, with a tinge of impatience, “the minuet—from - my own symphony,” aiming the last words at me. - </p> - <p> - Veronika returned to the piano. They began. - </p> - <p> - Indeed, the old man played superbly. His selection was a marvelous - finger-exercise—but of true music it contained none save that which - he informed it with by the fervor of his performance. He was a perfect - executant. His tone was equal to Wilhelm’s. It was a pity, a great pity, - that he should fritter himself away in the endeavor to compose. Veronika - and I said as much as this to each other with our eyes when finally his - bow had reached a standstill. - </p> - <p> - “Well, if you will insist on going,” he said, “you must at least agree to - come as soon as possible again. This is Wednesday. We are always at home - on Wednesday evening. The other nights of the week Veronika is engaged: - Monday and Tuesday, lessons; Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, - rehearsals and services at church and synagogue. The church is in Hoboken: - she doesn’t get home till eleven o’clock. So on Wednesday we will see you - without fail—yes?” - </p> - <p> - As I looked forward, Wednesday seemed a million years away. “What an old - brute you are to make that child track over to Hoboken two nights a week!” - I thought; and said, “Thank you. You are very kind. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - Veronika gave me her hand. The long slim fingers clasped mine cordially - and sent an electric thrill into my heart. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - II. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> SUPPOSE it is - needless to say that I passed a sleepless night, haunted till morning by - Veronika’s face and voice; that I tossed endlessly from pillow to pillow, - going over in memory every circumstance from our meeting to our parting; - that I built a hundred wondrous castles in the air and that Veronika - presided as chatelaine in each. I thought I should boil over with rage - when I dwelt upon the enforced drudgery of her life. I could hardly - contain myself for sheer joy when I made bold to say, “Why, it is not - impossible that some day she may love you—not impossible that some - day she may consent to become your wife.” One doubt, the inevitable one, - harassed me: Had I a clear field? Was there perchance another suitor there - before me? Perhaps her affections were already spoken. Still, on the - whole, probably not. For, where had he kept himself during the evening? - Surely, if he had existed at all, he would have been at her side. Yet on - the other hand she was so beautiful, it could scarcely be believed that - she had attained the age of one-and-twenty without taking some heart - captive. And that sad, mysterious expression in her eyes—how had it - come about except through love?—Thus between despair and hope I - swung, pendulum-like, all night. - </p> - <p> - Dawn filtered through the window. “Thursday!” I muttered. “Seven days - still to be dragged through—but then!”—Imagination faltered at - the prospect. I went about my usual business in a sort of intoxication. My - footstep had acquired an unwonted briskness. Every five minutes my heart - jumped into my throat and lost a beat. But my pupils suffered. - </p> - <p> - I was more inclined to absent-mindedness than ever. At dusk I revisited - the terrace despite the rain that fell in torrents, and walked by her - house and lived through the whole happy episode again. - </p> - <p> - Be assured I was punctual when at last Wednesday came. I remember, as I - mounted the staircase that led to their abode, an absurd fear beset me. - What if they had moved away? - </p> - <p> - What if I should not find her after this interminable week of waiting? My - hand shook as I pulled the bell-knob. I was nerving myself for the worst - in the interval that elapsed before the door was opened.—The door - was opened by Veronika herself! - </p> - <p> - “Ah, good-evening. We were expecting you,” she said. - </p> - <p> - I stammered a response. My temples were throbbing madly. - </p> - <p> - Veronika led me into the dining-room. They were still at table. I began to - apologize. Tikulski stopped me. - </p> - <p> - “You have come just at the proper moment,” he cried. “You shall now have - occasion to confess that my niece is as good a cook as she is a player.” - </p> - <p> - “But I have dined,” I protested. - </p> - <p> - “But you can make room for one morsel more—for a mere taste of - pudding.” - </p> - <p> - Veronika, with infinite grace, was moving about the room, getting a plate - and napkin. Then with her own hands she helped me to the pudding. - </p> - <p> - “Doesn’t that flavor do her credit?” cried Tikulski. “It is a melody - materialized, is it not?” - </p> - <p> - We all laughed; and I ate my pudding at perfect ease. - </p> - <p> - “I hope Mr. Neuman has brought his violin,” said Veronika, “for then we - can have a first and second.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I took that liberty,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - And afterward, adjourning to the parlor, I played second to the old man’s - first for an hour or more—reading at sight from his own manuscript - music, which was not the lightest of tasks. Then Veronika sang to us. And - then, as it was extremely hot, Mr. Tikulski proposed that we betake - ourselves to a concert garden in the neighborhood and spend the rest of - the evening in the open air. We sat at a round table under an ailanthus - tree, and watched the people come and go, and listened to light tunes - discoursed by a tolerable band, and by and by had a delicious little - supper; and while Mr. Tikulski puffed a huge cigar, Veronika and I enjoyed - a long, delightful confidential talk in which our minds got wonderfully - close together, and during which one scrap of information dropped from her - lips that afforded me infinite relief. Speaking of her nocturnal - pilgrimages to Hoboken, she said, “I go over by myself in the summer - because it is still light; but coming home, the organist takes me to the - ferry, where uncle meets me.” - </p> - <p> - “So,” I concluded, “there is no one ahead of me; for if there were, of - course he would be her escort.” And I lost no time about putting in a word - for myself. “I am very anxious to hear you sing in church,” I said. “Your - voice can not attain its full effect between the narrow walls of a - parlor.” - </p> - <p> - And it was agreed that I should call upon them Sunday afternoon and that - we should all three take a walk in Central Park, Veronika and I afterward - going to Hoboken together. Music had, indeed, proved a freemasonry, so far - as we were concerned. This was only our second interview; and already we - treated each other like old and intimate friends. - </p> - <p> - A thunder shower broke above our heads on the way back to Fifty-first - street, and in default of an umbrella, I lent Veronika my handkerchief to - protect her hat. She returned it to me at the door of her house, and lo! - it was freighted with a faint, sweet perfume that it had caught from - contact with her. I stowed the handkerchief religiously in my pocket, and - for a week afterward it still retained a trace of the same dainty odor. It - was a touchstone, by means of which I could call her up bodily before me - whenever I desired. - </p> - <p> - As I sat alone in my bed-chamber that night, I acknowledged that I was - more deeply in love than ever. The reader would not wonder at this if he - could form a true conception of Veronika’s presence. I wish I could - describe her—that is, render in words the impression wrought upon me - by her face, and her voice, and her manner, and the things she said. I am - not accustomed to expressing such matters in words, but with my violin I - should have no sort of difficulty. If I wanted to give utterance to my - idea of Veronika, all I should have to do would be to take my violin and - play this heavenly melody from Chopin’s Impromptu in C-sharp minor:—Sotto - voce. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0030.jpg" alt="0030 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0030.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - It seems almost as though Chopin must have had Veronika in mind when he - composed it. Its color, its passion, its vague dreamy sadness, and withal - its transparent simplicity, make it for me a perfect musical portrait. - Those were the traits which most constantly and conspicuously abode in my - thought of her. Her simplicity, her child-like simplicity, and her - naturalness, and the serene purity of her soul, made her as different from - other women that I had seen—though, to be sure, I had seen but few - women except as I passed them in the street or rode with them in the - horse-car—made her as different from those I had seen, at any rate, - as a lily plucked on the hillside is different from a hothouse flower, as - daylight is different from gaslight, as Schubert’s music is different from - Liszt’s. In every thing and from every point of view, she was simple and - natural and serene. Her great pale face, and the dark eyes, and the smile - that came and went like a melody across her lips, and the way she wore her - hair, and the way she dressed, and the way she played, sang, spoke, and - her gestures, and the low, sad, musical laughter that I heard only once or - twice from the beginning to the end—all were simple, and natural, - and serene. And yet there was a mystery attaching to each of them, a - something beyond my comprehension, a something that tinged my love for her - with awe. A mystery that would neither be defined nor penetrated nor - ignored, brooded over her, as the perfume broods over a rose. I doubt - whether an American woman can be like this unless she is older and has had - certain experiences of her own. Veronika had not had sufficient experience - of her own to account for what I have described: but she was a Jewess, and - all the experience of the Jewish race, all the martyrdom of the scattered - hosts, were hers by inheritance. - </p> - <p> - No matter how I was occupied, whether teaching, or practicing, or reading, - or writing, or walking, or talking to other people, I was always conscious - of the love of Veronika astir in my heart. Just as through all the - vicissitudes of a fugue the subject melody will survive in one form or - another and be at no minute altogether silenced, so through all the - changes of my busy day the thought of Veronika lingered in my mind. I can - not tell how completely the whole aspect of the world had been altered - since the night I first saw her standing in the moonlight. It was as if my - life up to that moment had been passed beneath gray skies, and suddenly - the clouds had dispersed and the sunshine flooded the earth. A myriad - things became plain and clear that had been invisible until now, and old - things acquired a new significance. My heart welled with tenderness for - all living creatures—the overflow of the tenderness it had for her. - All my senses, all my capacities for pain and pleasure, were more acute - than before. Suddenly music, which had been my art, became my religion: - she had glorified it by her devotion. I looked forward to my next visit - with her as a benighted traveler looks forward to the glowing window that - promises rest and shelter: only in my case the light illuminated my whole - pathway and made the progress toward its source a constant delight instead - of a perfunctory labor. But this is the common story of a man in love, and - stands without telling. Suffice it that before our acquaintance was a - month old I had got upon the most intimate terms with Mr. Tikulski and - Veronika, spending not only every Wednesday evening at their house but - also each Sunday afternoon, and accompanying her to Hoboken as regularly - as she had to go. Never was there a prouder man than I at those junctures - when, with her hand pressed tightly under my arm, I felt that she was - trusting herself entirely to my charge and that I was answerable for her - safety and well-being. The Hoboken ferry-boats became to my thinking - vastly more interesting than the most romantic of Venetian gondolas; and - to this day I can not sniff the peculiar stuffy odor that always pervades - a ferry-boat cabin without being transported back across the years to that - happy, happy time. I actually blessed the necessity that forced her to - journey so far for her livelihood; and it was with an emphatic pang that I - listened to the plans which she and Tikulski were prone to discuss whereby - she was shortly to get an engagement nearer home: though the sight of her - pale, tired cheek reproached me the moment after. On her side she made no - concealment of a most cordial regard for me. Her face always lighted up at - my arrival; she was always eager to share her ideas with me and to call - forth my opinion of her work, appearing pleased by my praise and impressed - by my criticism. She set me an admirable example of frankness. She would - say precisely what she thought of my renditions, sparing not their - blemishes and indicating how an effective point might be improved. - </p> - <p> - But as yet I had not dared to hope that she loved, or was even in train to - love me. So as yet I had not intended to speak of love at all. - </p> - <p> - But one day—one Sunday late in June—she proposed to sing me a - song she had just been learning. - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “From <i>Le Désert</i> of Felicien David,” she said, handing me the music. - </p> - <p> - It was the “<i>O, belle nuit, O, sois plus lente</i>,” originally written - for tenor. - </p> - <p> - “I should hardly think it would suit your voice,” I said, running over the - music. - </p> - <p> - “Neither did I, at first; but listen, anyway.” And she began. - </p> - <p> - Her voice had never been in better order, had never been more resonant, - never more electric. Contrary to my misgivings, the song suited it - perfectly, afforded its ‘cello quality full scope. She sang with an - enthusiasm, a precision, a delicacy of shading, that carried me away. As - the last tender note melted on her lips, she swung around on the - piano-stool and looked a question with her great, dark, serious eyes. I - know not what possessed me. A blindness fell upon my sight. My heart gave - a mighty bound. In another instant I was at her side and had caught her—my - darling—in my arms. In another instant she was sobbing her life out - upon my shoulder. - </p> - <p> - By and by, after the first stress of our emotion had subsided, I mustered - voice to say, “Then, Veronika, you love me?” - </p> - <p> - Her hand nestled in mine by way of answer. - </p> - <p> - I told her as well I could how I had loved her from the first. - </p> - <p> - “It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the terrace and - spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has been the same - ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have wanted you so - much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you waited so long?” - </p> - <p> - No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When Mr. - Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single - question, imposed but a single condition. - </p> - <p> - I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her - comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and her - brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to earn - more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony and - Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a reputation I - might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It was arranged - that we should be married the first week in August. - </p> - <p> - Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car - or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity before. As we left the church - she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo? - </p> - <p> - “It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.” - </p> - <p> - Ah, but I had a full heart as I walked home that night. The future was all - radiant radiant beyond my wildest dream. It frightened me. Such perfect - bliss seemed scarcely possible, seemed too great and glorious to last. And - yet had not Veronika’s own lips promised it? and sealed the promise with a - kiss that burned still where she had placed it? It was useless for me to - go to bed; it was useless for me to stay in the house. I put on my hat and - went out and spent the night pacing up and down before her door. And as - soon as the morning was far enough advanced I rang the bell and invited - myself to breakfast with her; and after breakfast I helped her to wash the - dishes, to Mr. Tikulski’s unutterable disapproval—it was - “unteeknified,” he said—and after that I accompanied her as far as - the first house where she had to give a lesson. - </p> - <p> - While writing the above I had almost forgotten. Now I remember. I must - stop for a space to get used to remembering again that she is dead. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - III. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ES, she is dead. - That is the truth. If truth is good, as men proclaim it to be, then - goodness is intrinsically cruel. That Veronika is dead is the truth which - lies like a hot coal upon my consciousness, and goads me along as I tell - this tale. And the manner of her death and the speediness of it—I - must tell all. - </p> - <p> - And yet, although I know her to be dead, although I repeat to myself a - hundred times a day, “She is dead, dead, dead,” and although, God help me, - I think I realize too well that she is dead, yet to this day I can - scarcely bring myself to believe it. Truth as it is, it seems to be in - utter contradiction to the rest of truth. Even those who have abandoned - faith in Religion, still profess faith in Nature, saying, “Nature is - provident, beneficent, and wise; Nature is alive with beauty.” And at most - times, it seems as if these assertions were not to be contested. Yet, how - can they be true when Nature contained the possibility of Veronika’s - death? How can Nature be wise, and yet have permitted that maiden life to - be destroyed?—provident, and yet have flung away her finest product?—beneficent, - and yet have torn bleeding from my life all that made my life worth - living?—beautiful, and yet have quenched the beautifying light of - Veronika’s presence, and hushed the voice that made the world musical? The - mere fact that Veronika could die gives the lie to the Nature-worshipers. - In the light of that fact, or rather in the darkness of it, it is mockery - to sing songs of praise to Nature.—That is why it is so hard for me - to believe—to believe a thing which annihilates the harmony of the - universe, and proclaims the optimism of the philosophers to be a delusion, - a superstition. How could I believe my senses if I should hear Christine - Nilsson utter a hideous false note? So is it hard for me to believe that - Nature has allowed Veronika to die. And yet it is the truth, the - unmistakable, irrevocable, relentless truth. - </p> - <p> - I suppose all lovers are happy: but it does not seem possible that other - lovers can ever have had such unmitigated happiness as ours was—happiness - so keen as almost to be a pain. The light of love that burst suddenly into - our lives, and filled each cranny full to overflowing, was so pure and - bright as almost to blind us. The happiness was all the keener, the light - all the brighter, because of the hardship and the monotony of our daily - tasks. If we had been rich, if we had had leisure and friends and many - resources for diversion, then most likely our delight in each other would - not have been so great. But as we were—poor, hard worked, and alone - in the world—we found all the happiness we had, in ourselves, in - communing together; and happiness concentrated, was proportionately more - intense. The few hours in the week which we were permitted to spend side - by side glittered like diamonds against the dull background of the rest. - And we improved them to the full. We called upon each fleeting moment to - stay and perpetuate itself; and we could not understand how Faust had had - to wait so many years before he could do the same. The season was divine, - clear skies and balmy weather day after day, and the Park being easily - accessible, we could imagine ourselves among the green fields of the - country whenever the fancy seized us. I believe that as a matter of fact - the turf of the common was sadly parched and brown; but we were not - critical so long as we could wander over it hand in hand. Then, our - characters were perfectly accorded; their unison was faultless. Each - called for the other, needed the other, as the dominant chord calls for - and needs its tonic. We had not a hope, a fear, an ambition, an - aspiration, but it was shared equally between us. Our art was a mutual - passion which we pursued together. When Veronika was seated at the piano - and I stood at her side with my violin at my shoulder, our cup of - contentment was full to the brim. Nothing more was wanting. I remember, - one evening, in the middle of a phrase, her fingers faltered and she - wheeled around and lifted her eyes upon my face.—“What is the - matter, darling?” I asked.—“I only want to look at you to realize - that it isn’t a dream,” she answered.—And yet she is dead. - </p> - <p> - June and half July had wound away; in little more than a fortnight our - wedding would be celebrated. The night was sultry, and she and I sat - together by an open window. Her uncle was absent: an idea had come to him - just before dinner, she explained, and according to his custom he had gone - out to walk the streets until he had mastered it. We were by no means - sorry to be alone. We had plenty to talk about; but even without talking - it was marvelously pleasant to sit together and think the happy thoughts - that filled our minds and listen to the subdued sounds of human life that - came in by the window. - </p> - <p> - Veronika had shown me some of her bridal outfit, telling how she had - worked at it in her short snatches of leisure. We took as much pleasure in - the contemplation of this modest little trousseau as though it had boasted - all the rubies and silken fabrics of the Indies. This set us to talking of - the future and making plans. And afterward we talked of the past. We spoke - of how strange it was that we should have come together in the way we had—by - the merest accident, as it seemed; and we doubted if it was indeed an - accident, if destiny had not purposely guided our footsteps that memorable - night.—“Why,” she exclaimed, “if uncle and I had been but a few - moments earlier or later, we never should have seen each other at all. - Think of the terrible risk we ran! Think if we had never known each - other!” and her fingers tightened around mine. - </p> - <p> - “And then,” I went on, “that I should have spoken to you, a strange lady, - and that you should have answered!” - </p> - <p> - “It seemed perfectly natural for me to answer; I had done so before I - stopped to think. But afterward I was ashamed; I was afraid you might - think it indelicate. But, somehow, the words spoke themselves. I am glad - of it now.” - </p> - <p> - “I do believe God’s hand was in it! I do believe it was all pre-ordained - in heaven. I believe that our Guardian Angel prompted me to speak and you - to answer. It can’t be that we, who were made for each other, were left to - find it out by a mere perilous chance—it isn’t credible.” - </p> - <p> - “But nobody except myself—not even you, can understand how like a - miracle it all is to me, because nobody else can know how much I needed - you. Nobody else can know how dreary and empty my life was before you - came, or how completely you have filled it and gladdened it.” - </p> - <p> - Here we stopped talking for a while. - </p> - <p> - By and by she resumed, “I think that music differs from the other arts. I - think the musician instinctively needs a companion worker. I know that in - the old days when I would play or sing, my heart seemed to cry out - continually for some one to come and share its feeling. Perhaps this was - because music is the most emotional of the arts, the most sympathetic. - Really, sometimes I could not bear to touch the piano, the pain of being - alone was so acute. Of course I had my uncle, a most thorough musician; - but I wanted somebody who would feel precisely as I did, and he did not. - He always analyzed and criticised, never allowed himself to be carried - away, never forgot the intellectual side of the things I would play. But - now—now that you are with me, my music is a constant source of joy. - And then, the thought that we are going to work together all our lives, - the thought of the music we are going to make together—oh, it is too - great, it takes my breath away! I don’t dare to believe it. I am afraid - all the time that something will happen to prevent it coming true.” - </p> - <p> - Again for a while we did not speak. - </p> - <p> - Again by and by she resumed, “And then you can not know how lonely I was - in other ways, how I longed for a little affection, a little tenderness. - Of course uncle is very good, has always been very good to me; but do you - think it was ungrateful for me to want a little more affection than he - gave me? I mean a little more <i>manifest</i> affection; because I know - that in the bottom of his heart he loves me very warmly. But I longed for - somebody to <i>show</i> a little care for me, and uncle is very - undemonstrative—he is so absorbed in his symphony, and then - sometimes he is exceedingly severe. When I would get home at night it was - so dreary not to have any one to speak to about the trials of the day—not - to have any one who would sympathize and understand. You see, other girls - have their mothers or their brothers and sisters and friends: but I had - nobody except my uncle; and he was so much older, and regarded things so - differently, that I do not think it was unnatural for me to wish for some - one else. Besides, I had so much responsibility; I felt so weak and - helpless. I thought, what if something should happen to my uncle! or what - if I should get sick and be unable to teach! Oh, the rest and security - that you brought to me!” - </p> - <p> - What I replied—a mass of broken sentences—was too incoherent - to bear recording. - </p> - <p> - “And then, the mere physical fatigue—day after day, work, work, - work, and never any respite. Of course, every body has to work, but almost - every body has a holiday now and then; and I never had a single day that I - could call all my own. In winter it was hardest. No matter how tired I - was, I had to be up and off giving lessons even if the snow was ankle - deep. And the ice in the river made it such hard work getting to Hoboken, - made the journey so very long. I had to do the housework too, you know. We - couldn’t afford to keep a servant, on account of the money we had to send - abroad. When I would come home all fagged out I had to clean the rooms and - cook the dinner; though I am afraid that sometimes I did not more than - half do my duty. Sometimes I would let the dust lie for a week on the - mantle-piece. And every day was just the same as the day that had gone - before. It was like traveling in a circle. When I would go to bed at night - my weariness would be all the harder because of the thought, ‘To-morrow - will be just the same, the same round of lessons, the same dead fatigue, - the same monotonous drudgery from beginning to end.’ And as I saw no - promise of change, as I thought it would be the same all my life, I could - not help asking what the use was of having been born. Wasn’t I a dreadful - grumbler? Yet, what could I do? I think it is natural when one is young to - long for something to look forward to, for just a little pleasure and just - a little companionship. But then you came, and every thing was altered. Do - you remember in the Creation the wonderful awakening one feels when they - sing, ‘And the Lord said, Let there be light,’ very low, and then with a - mighty burst of sound, ‘And there was <i>LIGHT?</i>’ Do you remember how - one’s heart leaps and seems to grow big in one’s breast? It was like that - when you came to me. I used to wonder why I had ever felt unhappy or - discontented. The mere prospect of seeing you at the week’s end made my - heart sing from morning to night. It gave a motive, an object, to my life—made - me feel that I was working to a purpose, that I should have my reward. I - had been growing hard and indifferent, even indifferent to music. But now - I began to love my music more than ever: and no matter how tired I might - be, when I had a moment of leisure I would sit down and practice so as to - be able to play well for you. Music seemed to express all the unutterable - feeling that you inspired me with. One day I had sung the <i>Ave Maria</i> - of Cherubini to you, and you said, ‘It is so religious—it expresses - precisely the emotions one experiences in a church.’ But for me it - expressed rather the emotions a woman has when she is in the presence of - the man she loves. All the time I had no idea that you would ever feel in - the same way toward me.” - </p> - <p> - My kisses silenced her. Afterward she sang from Pergolese’s <i>Stabat - Mater</i>, and played a medley of bits from Chopin: until, looking at my - watch, I saw it was nearing midnight. Time for me to go away. But her - uncle had not yet come home. I did not like to leave her alone. I said so. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that is nothing,” she explained. “It always happens when he has one - of his ideas. Very likely he won’t come in till morning. I am quite - accustomed to it, and not a bit afraid.” - </p> - <p> - “In that event,” I thought, “I certainly ought to go. It may embarrass - her, my staying so late; and besides, she needs the sleep.” - </p> - <p> - I started to say good-by. Our parting was hard. Again and again, as I - reached the door, I turned back and began anew. But at last I found myself - in the street. I looked up at the parlor window, and remained on the - curbstone until I saw her close the sash and pull the shade, and the light - being extinguished, knew that she had gone to her bedroom. Then I set my - face toward home. - </p> - <p> - I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand that - what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire. My - tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should be - dedicated to soothing her and protecting her and making her glad. The - tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she had - been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce - work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to - return and pour out the yearning of my spirit at your feet. Why had I left - her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the - knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that I - was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when - that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should - overwhelm me. I could not contemplate it any more than I could have gazed - straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I was - seated at her side, caressing her brow and emptying my life into her eyes. - </p> - <p> - I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety - and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified. I had a presentiment - that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I - reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself - that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for her - lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not begin - till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on my hat - and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street. - </p> - <p> - Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided as abruptly - and with as little provocation as it had sprung up. Indeed, I laughed as I - remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the matter. Still I am not - sorry to have come.” - </p> - <p> - “Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me in. - </p> - <p> - “I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so without my - noticing.” - </p> - <p> - I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I - rang again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning hope - of success: and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.” - </p> - <p> - Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside - to let some one pass. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out so - early?” - </p> - <p> - I explained. - </p> - <p> - “Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of coffee. I - have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little aria. I will - play it for you.” - </p> - <p> - He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been - drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every - thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and - empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest. - There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them. - </p> - <p> - Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged it - on the table, and applied a match to the lamp. - </p> - <p> - “While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you the - result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down under the - trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it for - their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold the - stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.” - </p> - <p> - Again he went away—to fetch his instrument. - </p> - <p> - He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and - more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot. - Still he remained. - </p> - <p> - At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. At - first he did not answer. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated. - </p> - <p> - I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low, - inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me. Had he - met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s vigil? - paralysis? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room whence his - voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of the floor, - immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a man who has - seen a ghost. - </p> - <p> - “For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried. - </p> - <p> - He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question. - </p> - <p> - He roused himself. A tremor swept over him. A painful rattling was audible - in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed. “L-look,” he gasped. - </p> - <p> - I looked. How can I tell what I saw? - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ND yet I must tell - it, though the telling consume me like a flame. I saw a bed and Veronika - lying on it, face downward. She was dressed in her customary black gown. I - supposed she was asleep. I supposed she was asleep, for one short moment. - That was the last moment of my life. For then the truth burst upon me, - fell upon me like a shaft from out the skies and hurled me into hell. I - saw—not that she was dead only. If she had only died it would be - different. I saw—merciful God!—I saw that she was murdered. - </p> - <p> - Oh, of course I would not, could not, believe it. Of course it was a - dream, a nightmare, an hallucination, from which I should presently awake. - Of course the thing was impossible, could not be. Of course I flung myself - upon the bed at her side and crushed her between my arms and covered her - with kisses and called and cried to her to move, to speak, to come back to - life. And although her hands were icy cold and her body rigid and her face - as white as marble, and although—ah, no! I may leave out the - horrible detail—still I could not believe. I could not believe—yet - how could I deny? There she lay, my sweetheart, my promised bride, deaf to - my voice, blind to my presence, unmoved by my despair, beyond the reach of - my strongest love, never to care for me again—Veronika, my tender, - sad Veronika—oh, she lay there, dead, murdered! And still, with the - knife-hilt staring at me like the face of Satan, still I could not - believe. It was the fact, the unalterable fact, the fact that extinguished - the light of the sun and stars and flooded the universe with blackness: - and still, in spite of it, I called to her and crushed her in my embrace - and kissed her and caressed her and was sure it could not be true. And - meantime people came and filled the room. - </p> - <p> - I did not see the people. Only in a vague way I knew that they were there, - heard the murmur of their voices, as if they were a long distance off. I - had no senses left. I could neither see nor hear distinctly. My eyes were - burned by a fierce red fire. My ears were full of the uproar of a thousand - devils. But I knew that people had intruded upon us. I knew that I hated - them because they would not leave us two alone. I remember I rose and - faced them and cursed them and told them to be gone. And then I took her - in my arms again and pressed her hard to me and forgot every thing but - that she would not answer. - </p> - <p> - Gradually, however, nature was coming to my rescue. Gradually I seemed to - be sinking into a stupor—had no sensation left except a numb, - bruised feeling from head to foot—forgot what the matter was, forgot - even Veronika, simply existed in a state of half conscious wretchedness. - The first frenzy of grief had spent itself. The very immensity of the pain - I had suffered acted as an opiate, exhausted and rendered me insensible. I - heard the voices of the people as a soldier who is wounded may still hear - something of the din of battle. - </p> - <p> - I don’t know how long I had lain thus when I became aware that a hand was - placed upon my shoulder. Some one shook me roughly and said, “Get up and - come away.” Passively, I obeyed. “Sit down,” said the same person, pushing - me into a chair. I sat down and relapsed into my stupor. - </p> - <p> - Again I don’t know how long it was before they disturbed me for a second - time. Two or three men were standing in front of me. One of them was in - uniform. Slowly I recognized that he was an officer, a captain of police. - He spoke. I heard what he said without understanding, as one who is half - asleep hears what is said at his bedside. This much only I gathered, that - he wanted me to go with him somewhere. I was too much dazed to care what I - did or what was done with me. He took my arm and led me away. He led me - into the street. There was a a great crowd. I shut my eyes and tottered - along at his side. We entered a house. Somebody asked me a lot of - questions—my name and where I lived and so forth—to which my - lips framed mechanical answers. I can remember nothing more. - </p> - <p> - When consciousness revived I was made to understand that I had fainted. - </p> - <p> - “But where am I? What has happened?” I asked, trying to remember. - </p> - <p> - The police-captain explained. “Mr. Neuman,” he said, “I have made all the - inquiry that is as yet possible, and the result is that I deem it my duty - to take you in custody. I prefer no charge, but I believe I am bound to - hold you for the inquest. The hour of your leaving her last night, the - time that Miss Pathzuol has apparently been dead, and the fact that you - were the last person known to have been in her company, make it incumbent - upon me to place you under arrest.” - </p> - <p> - I pondered his words. Every thing came back. I was accused, or at least - suspected, of having murdered Veronika—<i>I!</i> - </p> - <p> - I felt no emotion. I was stunned as yet, like a man who has received a - blow between the eyes. My brain had turned to stone. I repeated over to - myself all that the captain had said. The words wrought no effect. I did - not even experience pain as I thought of her. She is dead? I queried. They - were three vapid syllables. My senses I had recovered—I could see - and hear plainly now—could remember the events of the morning in - detail and in their correct order. But somehow I had lost all capacity for - feeling. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - V. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ND so it continued - throughout the inquest and throughout the trial—for, yes, they tried - me for my sweetheart’s murder. I ate, drank, slept, and answered the - questions that were put to me, all in a dazed, dull way, but suffered no - pain, no surprise, no indignation, had no more sensation than a dead man. - That Veronika had been killed, and that I was accused of having killed - her, were the facts which I heard told and told again from morning till - night each day; yet I had not the least conception of what they signified. - I was too stunned and benumbed to realize. - </p> - <p> - The first day passed by, and the second and the third, every one of them - busy with events that meant life or death for me: yet I took no notice. - When left to myself, invariably I closed my eyes, and the stupor settled - over my senses like a cloud of smoke. When aroused, I did whatever was - required as passively as an automaton. I remember those first few days as - one remembers a hateful dream. I remember being driven in a dark, noisy - vehicle from the station-house to the city prison, and having in the - latter place a cell assigned to me which was destined to serve as my home - for many weeks. I remember making several trips, handcuffed to my - custodian, from the jail to the office where the inquest was held and - back: but my only recollection of the inquest itself is a confused one—a - crowded, foul-smelling room, a chaos of faces and voices, endless talking, - endless questioning of myself by men who were strangers to me. I remember - that by and by these journeys came to an end: but what the verdict of the - inquest was I do not remember—I do not think I troubled myself to - ask at the time. Then I remember that after some days spent alone in my - cell one of the keepers said, “You are indicted,” and inquired whether I - wished to communicate with my attorney. Indicted? My attorney? I did not - comprehend. I do not remember what I answered. - </p> - <p> - Once the door of my cell opened, and they brought in a trunk and a - violin-case and placed them on the floor at the foot of my cot. - </p> - <p> - I recognized these for my own property. Mechanically I took out my violin - and drew forth one long, clear note. That note was like a sudden flash of - light. For a single instant the desolation to which my world had been - reduced became visible in all its ghastliness. For a single instant I - realized my position, realized that Veronika was dead, and the rest. The - truth pierced my consciousness like an arrow and made my body quake with - pain. But immediately the darkness settled over me again, the stupor - returned. - </p> - <p> - Slowly, however, this stupor was changing its character. By degrees, so - far as my mere thinking faculties were involved, it began to be - dissipated. By degrees my mind struggled out of it. I began to notice and - to understand things, and was able to converse and to appreciate what was - said. But over my feelings it retained its sway. Although I was quite - competent now to follow the explanations of my lawyer—how Veronika - had been murdered and how and why I was suspected as the murderer—still - I had no feeling of any sort about the matter. I might have been a log of - wood. - </p> - <p> - My lawyer had presented himself one day and volunteered his services. I - had accepted them without even inquiring his name. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you remember me?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - I looked at his face but could not recall having seen it before. - </p> - <p> - “My name is Epstein,” he said. “We went to school together.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I remember,” I replied. - </p> - <p> - Regularly each day he came and reported the progress of affairs. - </p> - <p> - “They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our only hope - lies in an alibi.” - </p> - <p> - “What is that?” I inquired dully. - </p> - <p> - He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell me what - tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that have leaked - out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at what hour did you - leave Miss Pathzuol that night?” - </p> - <p> - “At about midnight.” - </p> - <p> - “And went directly home?” - </p> - <p> - “Directly home.” - </p> - <p> - “After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants? any of - your fellow-lodgers?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t remember.” - </p> - <p> - “But you must make an effort to remember. Try.” - </p> - <p> - “I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence irritated me. - </p> - <p> - “You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were the - life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said, and - that was the truth. - </p> - <p> - Next day his face wore a somber expression. - </p> - <p> - “This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and your - fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know you - are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.” - </p> - <p> - At last the trial began. - </p> - <p> - I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room. I - heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers - simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was the - least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the result. - Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of the trial - is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story of it. - </p> - <p> - The first day was used in securing a jury. - </p> - <p> - The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called it—by - the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika was, how she - had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of the 13th July - they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable train of - circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. Then he raised - his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s soul. Then he faced - around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his finger at me, - “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the man.” - </p> - <p> - The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the - murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all night - that night; and explained the nature of the relations that subsisted - between Veronika and myself. - </p> - <p> - “When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was the - door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney. - </p> - <p> - “In its usual condition.” - </p> - <p> - “That is to say, locked?” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely.” - </p> - <p> - “It had not been broken open or tampered with?” - </p> - <p> - “Not so far as I could see.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s all.” - </p> - <p> - On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass - between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every - reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover. - </p> - <p> - “And when made aware of the death of his betrothed,” pursued my lawyer, - “how did Mr. Neuman conduct himself?” - </p> - <p> - “He acted like a crazy man—like one paralyzed by a tremendous blow.” - </p> - <p> - “You can go, Mr. Tikulski,” said my lawyer. “But I wish to say,” began - Tikulski, “that I do not believe——” - </p> - <p> - “Stop,” cried the prosecutor. “Your honor, I object to any expression of - opinion by the witness.” - </p> - <p> - “No matter about what you don’t believe,” said the Judge to Tikulski. - </p> - <p> - “But——-” - </p> - <p> - “But you must hold your tongue,” imperiously. “You can go.” - </p> - <p> - The old man left the stand and elbowed his way to my side. - </p> - <p> - “What I wished to say was,” he whispered into my ear, “that I believe you - are as innocent as I myself. It is outrageous, this trial. They compelled - me to testify. But you must understand that I am sure of your innocence. I - don’t know why they hushed me up.” - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile the captain of police had succeeded him, and sworn to having - visited the scene of the crime and to having placed the prisoner under - arrest. - </p> - <p> - “Captain,” said the district-attorney, “here is a key. Have you seen it - before?” handing a key to the witness. - </p> - <p> - “I have,” was the reply. - </p> - <p> - “Tell us when and where.” - </p> - <p> - “I took it from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest.” - </p> - <p> - “What further can you say about it?” - </p> - <p> - “Subsequently it was identified as a key to the apartments occupied by the - deceased.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you try it yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “I did. It fitted the lock.” - </p> - <p> - “How is this?” Epstein asked me. “How did you come by that key?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever having had it - in my possession.” - </p> - <p> - “But it is an ugly circumstance, and must be accounted for.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, what difference does it make?” I retorted petulantly. “Leave me - alone.” - </p> - <p> - “A few little trifles like this may make the difference of your neck,” - muttered Epstein, and he looked disturbed. - </p> - <p> - “Captain,” continued the district-attorney, “just one thing more. Do you - recognize this handkerchief?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; it was found in the pocket of the prisoner when he was searched at - the station-house.” - </p> - <p> - My lawyer got hold of the handkerchief and exhibited it to me. It was - stained dull brown. “This is blood,” he said. “How did it happen?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know, I haven’t an idea,” was the utmost I could respond. Epstein - looked more uneasy than before. - </p> - <p> - “That’s enough, Captain,” said the prosecutor. - </p> - <p> - “But before you leave the stand,” put in Epstein, “kindly tell us what the - prisoner’s conduct was from the time you took charge of the premises down - to the time you locked him up.” - </p> - <p> - “At first he acted as though he was crazy; raved and carried on like a - madman. Afterward he became quiet and sort of dull. At the station-house - he fainted away.” - </p> - <p> - “Didn’t act as though he liked it—as though the death of Miss - Pathzuol was a thing that pleased him?” - </p> - <p> - “No, sir; on the contrary. He acted as though it had been a great shock to - him.” - </p> - <p> - “You can go.” - </p> - <p> - Next came a physician. - </p> - <p> - He said he was a police-surgeon. At about nine o’clock on the morning of - July 13th he had been summoned to the house of the decedent; had examined - the body and satisfied himself as to the mode of death. There were three - separate knife-wounds. These he proceeded to describe in technical - language. Not one of them could have been self-inflicted; any one of them - was sufficient to have caused immediate death. - </p> - <p> - “Dr. Merrill,” inquired the prosecutor, “how long—how many hours—prior - to your arrival must the crime have been perpetrated?” - </p> - <p> - “From seven to ten hours.” - </p> - <p> - “So that—?” - </p> - <p> - “So that the crime must have been perpetrated between eleven and two - o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - “Good.—Now, Doctor, here is a handkerchief which the captain says he - took from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest. Do you recognize it?” - </p> - <p> - “I do.” - </p> - <p> - “Go on—what about it?” - </p> - <p> - “It was submitted to me for chemical analysis—to analyze the - substance, with which it is discolored.” - </p> - <p> - “And you found?” - </p> - <p> - “I found that it was stained with blood,” - </p> - <p> - “Human blood?” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely.” - </p> - <p> - “About how long had it been shed? Did its condition indicate?” - </p> - <p> - “From its condition when submitted to me—that is, at about noon on - the 13th—I inferred that it had been shed not much less nor much - more than twelve hours.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Doctor,” said the lawyer. To Epstein, “Your witness.” - </p> - <p> - “One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give no - explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I answered.—To - the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways, may it not? This - blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have come from—say, - a nose-bleed, eh?” - </p> - <p> - The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not - probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of - blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.” - </p> - <p> - “You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a - nose-bleed on the night in question?” - </p> - <p> - “I know nothing at all about it.” - </p> - <p> - The next witness was a woman. - </p> - <p> - She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East - Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the - street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she had - opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight o’clock. - </p> - <p> - “Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were seated - out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman went out - a little before twelve o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - “He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now, - meanwhile, whom else did you admit?” - </p> - <p> - “No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in except - Mr. Neuman.” - </p> - <p> - “Was not that a somewhat unusual circumstance?” - </p> - <p> - “Most extraordinary. Me and my husband spoke about it at the time.” - </p> - <p> - “You can swear positively on this score?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, because we staid on the stoop the whole evening and not a soul could - have passed us without our seeing.” - </p> - <p> - “Are there any other means of ingress to the house of which you have - charge than the street door?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir; the basement-door and the scuttle-door in the roof.” - </p> - <p> - “What was their condition on the night of the 12th of July?” - </p> - <p> - “They were locked and bolted.” - </p> - <p> - “What was their condition on the morning of the 13th?” - </p> - <p> - “At six o’clock when I opened the house they were still locked and - bolted.” - </p> - <p> - “Meantime could they have been unlocked?” - </p> - <p> - “No, because I carried the keys in my pocket.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, what are the means of ingress to the flat occupied by Mr. Tikulski?” - </p> - <p> - “The door that opens from his private hall into the outer hall of the - house.” - </p> - <p> - “Any other?” - </p> - <p> - “No, your honor.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you recognize this key?” handing to the witness the key that the - officer had identified. - </p> - <p> - “I do, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door?” - </p> - <p> - Here befell a pause, during which the jurymen shifted in their seats and - the prosecutor consulted with his colleague. In a moment he resumed. - </p> - <p> - “Now, Mrs. Marshall, you have testified that the prisoner at the bar, - Ernest Neuman, left the house, No.—East Fifty-first street, shortly - before midnight on the 12th of July. Your memory on this point is entirely - trustworthy?” - </p> - <p> - “It is, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well. Did you notice his movements after that?” - </p> - <p> - “I did, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell us what they were.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, sir, he crossed over the street and stood on the sidewalk under a - lamp-post looking up at the front of the house toward Mr. Tikulski’s - windows, and then—” - </p> - <p> - “For how long?” - </p> - <p> - “I couldn’t tell exactly, but maybe for the time it would take you to walk - around the block.” - </p> - <p> - “For five minutes?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, or more likely for ten.” - </p> - <p> - “And then—?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, and then, as I was saying, he marched straight away toward the - avenue.” - </p> - <p> - “Toward what avenue?” - </p> - <p> - “Toward Second avenue.” - </p> - <p> - “And disappeared?” - </p> - <p> - “And disappeared.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you see any thing more of him that night?” - </p> - <p> - “I did, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “When and under what circumstances?” - </p> - <p> - “In about a quarter of an hour, your honor, Mr. Neuman he comes back and - stands leaning up against the railing across the way; and pretty soon - crosses over and goes past us without speaking a word and enters the - house, the door being open, and goes up the stairs.” My lawyer turned - sharply to me. “Is this true?” he whispered. “No, it is entirely false,” I - answered. But I did not care. - </p> - <p> - “This,” resumed the district-attorney, “was at about what hour?” - </p> - <p> - “Sure, you can reckon it for yourself, sir. It was a little after twelve.” - </p> - <p> - “Very good. Now, at what hour did you shut up the house?” - </p> - <p> - “It was after one o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - “Had the prisoner meantime gone out?” - </p> - <p> - “He had not.” - </p> - <p> - “So that consecutively from the moment of his reëntrance to the hour of - your closing up, he was in the house?” - </p> - <p> - “He was, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Meanwhile, who else had entered?” - </p> - <p> - “Two of the tenants, Mr. and Mrs.————, the tenants - of the first flat.” - </p> - <p> - “Any one else?” - </p> - <p> - “No one else.” - </p> - <p> - “That will do, Mrs. Marshall.” - </p> - <p> - My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless - to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had - already sworn to. - </p> - <p> - “John Marshall!” called the prosecutor. - </p> - <p> - It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like her, - was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults. - </p> - <p> - “That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the judge. - </p> - <p> - “Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter. - </p> - <p> - I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein - joined me in my cell. - </p> - <p> - “How about that key?” he demanded. - </p> - <p> - “I know nothing about it.” - </p> - <p> - “How about the blood on your handkerchief?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.” - </p> - <p> - “You are sure you did not reenter the house?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.” - </p> - <p> - “Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?” - </p> - <p> - “They have.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you take the stand?” - </p> - <p> - “What for?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.” - </p> - <p> - “What do I care for my life?” - </p> - <p> - “But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’ - </p> - <p> - “No,” I replied, stubbornly. - </p> - <p> - He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted. He - went his way. - </p> - <p> - “Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury be directed - to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the prosecution has - failed to show any motive on the part of my client for the crime of which - he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly circumstantial, as in the - present case, a failure to show motive is fatal.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide the case - on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My landlady took the - witness-chair and testified to my excellent character. He called a handful - more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I am ready to sum up, your - honor.” - </p> - <p> - “Do so,” replied the Court. - </p> - <p> - Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for word; - yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time. - </p> - <p> - He said, “We are not prepared to contest the matters of fact alleged by - the prosecution, nor to deny that their bearing is against my client. That - Mr. Neuman was in Miss Pathzuol’s company on the night of July 12th, and - that the next morning a blood-stained handkerchief and a key to Mr. - Tikulski’s door were taken from his pocket, we admit. We will even admit - that these circumstances are of a sort to cast suspicion upon him: all - that we claim is that they are not sufficient to confirm that suspicion - and make it certainty. It is the liberty, perhaps the life, of a human - being which you have at your disposal. No matter how dark the shadow over - him may be, if you can entertain a reasonable doubt of his guilt, you must - acquit. And, putting it to you in all simplicity and sincerity, I ask: - Does not the evidence offered by the prosecution leave room for a - reasonable doubt? Is it not possible that some other hand than Neuman’s - dealt the blows by which Veronika Pathzuol met her death? If such a - possibility exists, you must give Neuman the benefit of it; you must - acquit. Consider his good character; consider that he was the betrothed of - the lady whose murderer they would make him out to be; consider that - absolutely no trace of motive has been brought home to him; consider that - on the contrary he was the one man who above all others most desired that - she might live; consider these matters, and then decide whether in - reasonableness his guilt is not in doubt. Remember that it is not - sufficient that there should be a presumption against him. Remember that - there must be proof. Remember also what a grave duty yours is, and how - grave the consequences, should you send an innocent man to the gallows. - </p> - <p> - “Only one word more. I had naturally intended to place my client upon the - stand, and let him justify himself by his own word of mouth. But, - unfortunately, I am not able to do so, because morally and physically he - is prostrated and unfitted for sustaining the strain of an examination. - But after all, if you will for a moment imagine yourselves in Mr. Neuman’s - position, you can conceive that his defense must necessarily be of a - passive, not of an active, kind. In his position what could you say? Why, - only that you were ignorant of the whole transaction, and innocent despite - appearances, and as much at loss for a solution of the mystery involving - it as his honor himself. This is what Neuman would say were he able to go - upon the stand. But one thing more he would say. He would impugn the - veracity of the Marshalls. He would maintain that they lied <i>in toto</i> - when they swore to his second entrance. He would tell you that when he - left the house in Fifty-first street at midnight, he went directly home - and to his bed, and that he returned no more until the next morning. And - he would leave you to choose between his story and that of Mr. and Mrs. - Marshall. My opponent will ask, ‘Why not prove an alibi, then?’ Because, - when Mr. Neuman returned to his lodging-house late that night, every body, - as might have been expected, was asleep. He encountered no one in the hall - or on the stairs. He mounted straight to his own bed-chamber and went to - bed. - </p> - <p> - “I trust the matter to your discretion. I am sure that you will weigh it - carefully and conscientiously. You will realize that the life of a fellow - man hangs upon your verdict, and you will deliberate well, if there be - not, on the whole, a reasonable doubt in his favor. You will, I am - confident, in no uncertain mind consign Ernest Neuman to the grave of a - felon.” The district-attorney’s address was florid and rhetorical. It - lasted about two hours. He resumed the evidence. He said that an ordinary - process of elimination would suffice to fasten the guilt upon the prisoner - at the bar. The gist of his argument was that as Neuman had been the only - person in the victim’s company at the time of the commission of the crime, - he was consequently the only person who by a physical possibility could be - guilty. He warned the jury against allowing their sympathies to interfere - with their judgment, and read at length from a law book respecting the - value of circumstantial proof. He ridiculed Epstein’s impeachment of the - Marshalls, and added that even without their testimony the doctor’s story - and the police-captain’s story, coupled with my own “eloquent silence,” - were conclusive. It was the obvious duty of the jury to convict. - </p> - <p> - The judge delivered his charge, dealing with the legal aspect of the case. - </p> - <p> - Epstein rose again. “I request your honor,” he said, “to charge that in - the event of the jurymen finding that there is a reasonable doubt in - Neuman’s favor, they must acquit.” - </p> - <p> - “I so charge,” assented the judge. - </p> - <p> - “I request your honor,” Epstein continued, “to charge that if the jurymen - consider the fact of no motive having been shown, sufficient to establish - a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, they must acquit.” - </p> - <p> - “I so charge you, gentlemen,” said the judge. - </p> - <p> - The jurymen filed out of the room. The judge left the bench. It was now - about four in the afternoon. Half an hour passed. The court-room began to - empty. Another half hour passed. Only the court attendants, Epstein, the - district-attorney’s colleague, and the prisoner remained. One of the - attendants held a whispered conference with Epstein: then said to me, - “There is no prospect of a speedy agreement. Come.” I rose, followed him - to the rear of the room, and was locked up in the prisoner’s pen. - </p> - <p> - It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my - faculties like a frost. - </p> - <p> - It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The same - attendant again said, “Come.” - </p> - <p> - The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on the - bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him. Epstein - said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have agreed.” - </p> - <p> - The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled themselves - in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their - pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead - silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk. - </p> - <p> - I stood up. - </p> - <p> - “Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the prisoner,” the - clerk cried, machine-like. - </p> - <p> - In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the faces - of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so. - </p> - <p> - “Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the metallic - voice of the clerk rang out. - </p> - <p> - The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - “How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of - the offense for which he stands indicted?” - </p> - <p> - “Not guilty,” said the foreman. - </p> - <p> - Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did - not speak. - </p> - <p> - “Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar not - guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands - recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word. - </p> - <p> - I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom - as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my - breast. - </p> - <p> - Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said. “Come - with me.” - </p> - <p> - He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant. - </p> - <p> - “This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, - “and much frequented by journalists. What will you have?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not hungry,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of ruefulness, - “just a bite to celebrate our victory.” - </p> - <p> - I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried, - “Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh wind - blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to gray. - “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where will you go?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll stroll about for a while. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> WALKED along - aimlessly, recounting all the happenings of the last few weeks. I was - astonished at my own blank insensibility. “Why, Veronika, the Veronika you - loved, is dead, murdered,” I said to myself, “and you, you who loved her, - have been in prison and on trial for the crime. They have outraged you. - They have sworn falsely against you. And the very core of your life has - been torn out. Yet you—what has come over you? Are you heartless, - have you no capacity for grief or indignation? Oris it that you are still - half stunned? And that presently you will come to and begin to feel?” I - strode on and on. It was broad day now. By and by I looked around. - </p> - <p> - I was in Second avenue, near its southern extremity. I was standing in - front of a large red brick house. A white placard nailed to the door - caught my eye. “Room to let,” it said in big black letters. - </p> - <p> - “Room to let?” I repeated. “Why, I am in need of a room.” And I entered - the house and engaged the room. The landlady asked my name. I told her it - was Lexow, that having been the maiden-name of my mother. Neuman had - acquired too unpleasant a notoriety through the published accounts of the - trial. As Lexow I have been known ever since. - </p> - <p> - I employed an express agent to go to the Tombs and bring back my luggage. - </p> - <p> - Then I sat at my window and watched the people pass in the street. I sat - there stockstill all day. I was aware of a vague feeling of wretchedness, - of a vague craving for a relief which I could not name. As dusk gathered, - a lump grew bigger and bigger in my throat. “I am beginning to be - unhappy,” I thought. “It is high time.” My insensibility had frightened as - well as puzzled me. Instinctively, I knew it could not last forever, knew - it for the calm that precedes the storm. I was anxious that the storm - should break while I was still strong enough to cope with its fury. - Waiting weakened me. Besides, I was ashamed of myself, hated myself as one - shallow and disloyal. That I could be indifferent to Veronika’s death! I, - who had called myself her lover! - </p> - <p> - But now, as the lump grew in my throat, now, I thought, perhaps the hour - has come. I sat still in my chair, fanning this forlorn spark of hope. - </p> - <p> - In the end, by imperceptible degrees, sleep stole upon me. It was natural. - I had been up for more than six-and-thirty hours. - </p> - <p> - When I awoke a singular thing happened. Memory played me a singular trick. - </p> - <p> - I awoke, conscious of a great luminous joy in my heart. It was full - morning. “Ah,” I thought, “how bright the sunshine is! how sweet the air! - To-day I will go to Veronika to-day, after my lessons—and spend the - lest of the afternoon and the evening at her side!” My heart leaped at - this prospect of happiness in store: and I commenced to plan the afternoon - and evening in detail. At last I jumped up, eager to begin the delicious - day. - </p> - <p> - The trick that memory played me was a simple one, after all. The recent - past had simply for the moment been obliterated, and I transported back - for a moment into the old time. As I stood now in the middle of the floor, - my eye was struck by the strangeness of my surroundings. - </p> - <p> - “Why, how is this?” I questioned. “Where am I?” - </p> - <p> - For a trice I was bewildered, but only for a trice. The truth reasserted - itself all at once—rose up and faced me with its grim, deathly - visage, as if cleared by a stroke of lightning. All at once I remembered; - and what is more, all at once the stupor that had hung like a cloud - between me and the facts, rolled away. I looked at my world. It was dust - and ashes, a waste space, peopled by ghosts. My heart recoiled, sickened, - horrified; then began to throb with the pain that had been ripening in its - womb ever since the morning when Tikulski pointed to her, stretched - murdered upon the bed. - </p> - <p> - Well, at last the storm had broken; at last I realized. At last I could no - longer reproach myself for a want of sensibility. At last I had my desire. - I yielded myself to the enjoyment of it for the remainder of the day. - </p> - <p> - For weeks afterward I lay at the point of death. The slow convalescence - that ensued afforded me plenty of time to examine my position from every - point of view, and to get accustomed to understanding that the light had - gone out of my sky. Of course I hated the fate that condemned me to regain - my health. The thought that I should have to drag out years and years of - blank, aimless, joyless life, appalled me. The future was a night through - which I should be compelled to toil with no hope of morning. Strangely - enough, the idea of suicide never once suggested itself. - </p> - <p> - When I was able to go out, I repaired to Epstein’s office. Several little - matters remained to be settled with him. As I was about to leave, he said, - “Neuman, do you propose to take any steps toward finding the murderer?” - </p> - <p> - “Toward finding the murderer? Why, no; I had not thought of doing so.” - </p> - <p> - “But of course you will. You won’t allow the affair to rest in <i>statu - quo?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, considering your relations to Miss Pathzuol, I should think your - motive would be plain. Don’t you want to see her murderer punished, her - death atoned for?” - </p> - <p> - “Her death atoned for! Her death can never be atoned for. And the - punishment of her murderer—would that restore her to me? Would that - undo the fact that she is dead? Else, why should I bestir myself about - it?” - </p> - <p> - “Common human nature ought to be enough; the natural wish to square - accounts with him.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you fancy, Epstein, that such an account as this can be squared? - Suppose we had him here now at our mercy, what could we do by way of - squaring accounts? Put him to death? Would that square the account? To say - so would be to compare his miserable life to hers.—But besides, he - is not at our mercy. We have no clew to him.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, on the contrary, we have.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed? What is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, the most apparent one. You are sure the Marshalls lied?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes; I am sure of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what earthly inducement could they have had for lying—for - perjuring themselves, mind you, and running the risk of being caught and - sent to prison—what earthly inducement, unless thereby they hoped to - cover up their own guilt by throwing suspicion upon another man?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; that is so. I had not thought of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, now, if you and I are sure that the Marshalls participated in that - crime, there is a solid starting-point. Now, will you not join me and help - to fasten the guilt upon them?” - </p> - <p> - “What good would it do? I say again, would that give her back to me?” - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear fellow, even if you have no desire to see the murderer - punished, you must at least wish to retaliate upon the wretches who - jeopardized your life by their false swearing, who sought to thrust upon - your innocent shoulders the brunt of their own offending.” - </p> - <p> - “No; I confess, I have no such wish.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but you amaze me. Have you not the ordinary instincts of a man? - </p> - <p> - “It is the business of the police, any how. Let them move in the matter. - You ought to understand that I am sick and tired, that all I wish for is - to be left alone. No, no; if the Marshalls should ever be brought to - justice it will not be by my efforts. The police can manage it for - themselves.” - </p> - <p> - “But there is just the point.” Epstein hesitated; at length went on, - “There is just the point I wanted to bring to your notice. It will be hard - for you to hear, but you ought to understand—it is only right that I - should tell you—that—that—why, hang it, the police will - remain idle because they suppose they have already finished the business, - already put their finger on the—the man.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, why should they remain idle on that account? Why don’t they arrest - him and try him, as they did me, before a jury?” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t comprehend, Neuman. The fact of the matter is—you must - pardon me for saying so—the fact is, they still suspect you.” - </p> - <p> - “Suspect me? What, after the very jury has acquitted me? I thought the - verdict of the jury was conclusive.” - </p> - <p> - “So it is, in one sense. They can’t put you in jeopardy again. But this is - the way they stand. They say, ‘We haven’t sufficient legal evidence to - warrant a conviction, but we feel morally certain, all the same, and so - there’s no use prying further.’ That is my reason for broaching the - subject and for urging you so strongly. You ought to clear your character, - vindicate your innocence, by proving to the police that they are wrong, - that the guilt rests with their own witnesses, the Marshalls. - </p> - <p> - “I thank you, Epstein, for telling me this. I am glad to realize just what - my status is. But let me cherish no misconception. Is this theory of the - police—is it held by others?” - </p> - <p> - “To be frank, I am afraid it is. The newspapers took it up and—and - I’m afraid it s the opinion of the public generally.” - </p> - <p> - “Then the verdict did not signify?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, at least not so far as public opinion is concerned.” - </p> - <p> - “So that I am to rest under this stigma all my life?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, no—not if you choose to exonerate yourself, as I have - indicated.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t care about that. I don’t care to exonerate myself. What - difference would it make? Would it make the fact that she is lost to me - forever one shade less true? Only, it is well that I should have a clear - understanding of my position, and I thank you for giving it to me.” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t mean to say that you are going to drop the case there?” Epstein - demanded. “I assure you, I never should have opened my mouth about it, had - I foreseen this.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t reproach yourself. You have simply done your duty. It was my right - to hear this from you.—Yes, of course I shall drop the case. - Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - “You will think better of it; you will reconsider it; you will come back - to-morrow in a wiser frame of mind. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - As I reentered my lodging-house the landlady met me; thrust an envelope - into my hand; and vanished. - </p> - <p> - I was surprised to see that the envelope was addressed to “E. Neuman, - Esquire.” It will be remembered that I had introduced myself as Mr. Lexow. - I tore it open. It inclosed a memorandum of my arrears of rent and a - notice to quit, the latter couched thus: “Mr. Neuman’s real name having - been learned during his sickness, please move out as soon as you have paid - up.” - </p> - <p> - I caught sight of myself in the glass. “So,” I said, “you are the person - whom people suspect as a murderer! and it is thus that you are to be - regarded all the rest of your life as one touched with the plague.” - </p> - <p> - I counted my ready money and paid the landlady her due. - </p> - <p> - “I am very sorry,” she began, “but the reputation of my house—but - the other lodgers—but—” - </p> - <p> - “You needn’t apologize,” I interposed, and left the house. - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>confreres</i> watched his decapitation with - repressed sympathy. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - The proprietor glanced up. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon,” I continued in German, “but you have discharged a - waiter!” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” he responded. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you will probably need somebody to take his place?” - </p> - <p> - “Well? What of it?” - </p> - <p> - “I—I—that is, if you think I would do, I should like the - employment.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “What references can you give?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - I mentioned Epstein. - </p> - <p> - “All right,” he said. “You can go to work at once. To-morrow I will look - up your reference. If it be satisfactory, I will keep you.” - </p> - <p> - The <i>Oberkellner</i> provided me with an apron and a short alpaca - jacket; and in this garb Ernest Neuman, musician, merged his identity, as - he supposed for good and all, into that of Ernest Lexow, waiter. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>WO years elapsed. - Their history is easily told. I lived and moved and had my being in a - profound apathy to all that passed around me. The material conditions of - my existence caused me no distress. I dwelt in a dingy room in a dirty - house; ate poor food, wore poor clothing, worked long hours; was treated - as a menial and had to put up with a hundred indignities every day; but I - was wholly indifferent, had other things to think of. My thoughts and my - feelings were concentrated upon my one great grief. My heart had no room - left in it for pettier troubles. I do not believe that there was a waking - moment in those two years’ when I was unconscious of my love and my loss. - Veronika abode with me morning, noon, and night. My memory of her and my - unutterable sorrow for her engrossed me to the exclusion of all else. - </p> - <p> - My violin I did not unlock from year’s end to year’s end. I could not get - over my hatred for the bare idea of music. Music recalled the past too - vividly. I had not the fortitude to endure it. The sound of a hand-organ - in the street was enough to cause me a twinge like that of a nerve touched - by steel. - </p> - <p> - As the winter leaped into spring, and days came which were the duplicates - of those I had spent with her, of course my pain grew more acute. The - murmur of out-door life and the warmth and perfume of the spring air, - penetrated to the very quick of memory and made it quiver. But at about - this time I began to taste an unexpected pleasure. It was an odd one. Of - old, during our betrothal, I had been tormented almost nightly by bad - dreams. As surely as I laid my head upon its pillow, so surely would I be - wafted off into an ugly nightmare—she and I were separated—we - had quarreled—she had ceased to love me. But now that my worst dream - had been excelled by the reality, I began to have dreams of quite another - sort. As soon as sleep closed upon me, the truth was annihilated, Veronika - came back. All night long we were supremely happy; we played and sang and - talked together, just as we had been used to do. These dreams were - astonishingly life-like. Indeed, in the morning after one, I would wonder - which was the very fact, the dream or the waking. My nightly dream got to - be a goal to look forward to during the day. But as the summer deepened, I - dreamed less and less frequently, and at length ceased altogether. - </p> - <p> - Autumn returned, and winter; and my life did not vary. Time was slow about - healing my wounds, if time meant to heal them at all. But time did not - mean to heal them at all, as ere long became apparent. - </p> - <p> - One afternoon in November, a month or so before the two years would have - terminated, a young man entered the shop and ensconced himself at a table - in the corner. Having delivered his order and lighted a cigarette, he - pulled out a yellow covered French book from the pocket of his coat, and - speedily became immersed in its perusal. I don’t know what it was in the - appearance of this young man that attracted my attention. Almost from the - moment of his advent my eyes kept going back to him. His own eyes being - fastened upon his book, I could stare at him without giving offense. And - stare at him I did to my heart’s content. - </p> - <p> - He was a tall young fellow and wore his hair a trifle longer than the - fashion is. He was dressed rather carelessly; he knocked his cigarette - ashes about so that they soiled his clothes. He had a dark skin, and, in - singular contrast to it, a pair of large blue eyes. His forehead, nose, - and chin were strongly modeled and expressed force of character without - pretending to conventional beauty. He was not a handsome, but a - distinguished looking man. The absence of beard and mustache lent him - somewhat of the aspect of a Catholic priest. His big blue eyes were full - of good-nature and intelligence. He had a quick, energetic way of moving - which announced plenty of dash within. He had entered the shop like a gust - of wind, had shot across the floor and taken his seat at the table as if - impelled by the force of gunpowder, and now he turned the pages of his - book with the air of a man whose life depended upon what he was doing. No - sooner had he consumed one of his cigarettes than he applied a match to - its successor. - </p> - <p> - I stared at him mercilessly and wondered what manner of individual he was. - </p> - <p> - “He is not a business-man,” I said, “nor a lawyer nor a doctor: that is - evident from his whole bearing; and besides, what would he be doing in a - wine-shop at this hour of the afternoon? I don’t think he is a musician, - either—he hasn’t the musician’s eyes or mouth. Possibly he is a - school-teacher, or it may be—yes, I should say most certainly, he is - an artist of some sort, a painter or sculptor, or perhaps a writer.” - </p> - <p> - My speculations had proceeded thus far when in the quick, energetic way - above alluded to the young man looked at his watch, slammed to his book, - shoved back his chair, and commenced hammering upon the table with the - bottom of his empty beer-mug. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir,” I said, responding to his summons. - </p> - <p> - “Check,” he demanded laconically. - </p> - <p> - I handed him his check. He thrust his fingers into his waistcoat-pocket - for the money. They roamed about, apparently unrewarded. - </p> - <p> - A puzzled expression came upon his face. The fingers paused in their - occupation; presently emerged and dived into another pocket and then into - another. The puzzled expression deepened: at last changed its character, - became an expression of intense annoyance. He knitted his brows and bit - his lip. Glancing up, he said, “This is really very awkward. I—I - find I haven’t a <i>sou</i> about me. It’s—bother it all, I suppose - you’ll take me for a beat. But—here, I can leave my watch.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that’s entirely unnecessary,” I hastened to put in. “Don’t let it - distress you. Tomorrow, or any other day you happen to be passing, will do - as well.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at the same time surprised and relieved. “That’s not a - conservative way of doing business,” he said. “How do you know I may not - take advantage of you?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I’m quite at rest about that. You need not be disturbed.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, such faith in human nature is stimulating,” he answered. “I should - hate to imperil it. So you may be sure I’ll turn up to-morrow. Meanwhile - I’m awfully obliged.” - </p> - <p> - Thereat he went away. - </p> - <p> - I paid his reckoning from my own purse, and immediately fell again to - wondering about him. - </p> - <p> - By and by it occurred to me, “Why, that is the first human being who has - taken you out of yourself for the last two years!” And thereupon I - transferred my wonder to the interest he had managed to arouse in my own - preoccupied mind. Then gradually my thoughts flowed back into their - customary channels. - </p> - <p> - But early the next day I caught myself asking, “Will he return?” and - devoutly hoping that he would. Not on account of the money; I had no - anxiety about the money. But somehow, self-centered as I was, I had felt - drawn toward this blue-eyed young man, and anticipated seeing him again - with an approach to genuine pleasure. - </p> - <p> - Surely enough, in the course of the afternoon the door opened and he - entered. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” he said, “you see, I am faithful to my trust. Here is the lucre: - count it and be satisfied that the sum is just. Really,” he added, - dropping the mock theatrical manner he had assumed, “really, it was - frightfully embarrassing yesterday. But I’m a victim of absentmindedness, - and in changing my clothes I had omitted to transfer my pocket-book from - the one suit to the other. I can’t tell you how much indebted I am for - your considerateness. I suppose you are overrun with dead-beats who play - that dodge regularly—eh?” - </p> - <p> - I gave him the answer his question called for, served him with the - drinkables he ordered, and stationed, myself at a respectful distance. - </p> - <p> - He lighted his inevitable cigarette and produced his book. He read and - smoked for a few moments in silence. Suddenly he flung the book angrily - upon the table, pushed back his glass, and uttered an audible “Confound - it!” - </p> - <p> - I hastened forward to learn the subject of his discomposure and to supply - what remedy I might. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon,” I ventured, “is there any thing wrong with the wine?” - </p> - <p> - “Eh—what?” he queried. “With the wine? Any thing wrong? Oh—I - perceive. Oh, no—the wine s all right. It’s this beastly pedantic - author. He is describing the Jewish ritual, and now just observe his - idiocy. He goes on at a great rate about the beauty of a certain prayer—gets - the reader’s curiosity all screwed up—and then—fancy his airs!—and - then quotes the stuff in the original Hebrew! It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t - even condescend to affix a translation in a foot-note. Look.” - </p> - <p> - He opened the book and pointed, with a finger dyed brown by tobacco-smoke, - to the troublesome passage. - </p> - <p> - Now I, having been brought up as an orthodox Jew, had a smattering of - Hebrew, and at a glance I saw that I could easily translate the few - sentences in question. So, impulsively and without stopping to reflect - that my conduct might seem officious, I said, “If you would like, I think - perhaps I may be able to aid you.” - </p> - <p> - “What!” he exclaimed, fixing a pair of wide open eyes upon my face. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I think I can translate it.” - </p> - <p> - “The deuce!” he cried. “I didn’t suspect you were a scholar. How in the - name of goodness did you learn Hebrew?” - </p> - <p> - “A scholar I am not, surely enough: but I am a Jew, and like the rest of - my faith I studied Hebrew as a boy.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I understand. Well, fire away.” - </p> - <p> - I took the book and read the Hebrew aloud. It was a prayer, which, when a - child, I had known by heart. Afterward I explained its sense while my - friend jotted it down with a pencil upon the margin. - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” he was good enough to say. “I don’t know what I should have done - without your help.—And so you are a Jew? You don’t look it. You look - like a full-blown Teuton. But I congratulate you all the same.” - </p> - <p> - “Congratulate me for looking like a Teuton?” The shop being empty, there - was no harm in my joining in conversation with a client. Besides, I did - not stop to think whether there was harm in it or not. I yielded to the - attraction which this young man exerted over me. - </p> - <p> - “No—for belonging to the ancient and honorable race of Jews,” he - answered. “Your ancestors were civilized and dwelt in cities and wrote - poems, thousands of years ago: whereas mine at that epoch inhabited caves - and dressed in bearskins and occasionally dined on a roasted neighbor. I - should be proud of my lineage, were I a Jew.” - </p> - <p> - “But it is the fashion for the Gentiles to despise us.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, bosh! It is the fashion for a certain ignorant, stupid set of - Philistines to do so—but those who pretend to the least - enlightenment, on the contrary, regard the Jews as a most enviable people. - They envy your history, they envy the success that waits upon your - enterprises. For my part, I believe the whole future of America depends - upon the Jews.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed, how is that?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, look here. What is the American people to-day? There is no American - people—or rather there are twenty American peoples—the Irish, - the German, the Jewish, the English, and the Negro elements—all - existing independently at the same time, and each as truly American as any - of the others. Good! But in the future, after emigration has ceased, these - elements will begin to amalgamate. A single people of homogeneous blood - will be the consequence. Do you follow?” - </p> - <p> - “I think I follow. But the Jews?” - </p> - <p> - “But the Jews—precisely, the Jews. It is the Jewish element that is - to leaven the whole lump—color the whole mixture. The English - element alone is, so to speak, one portion of pure water; the German - element, one portion of <i>eau sucrée</i>; now add the Jewish—it is - a dose of rich strong wine. It will give fire and flavor to the decoction. - The future Americans, thanks to the Jew in them, will have passions, - enthusiasms. They will paint great pictures, compose great music, write - great poems, be capable of great heroism. Have I said enough?” - </p> - <p> - The result was that we chatted together for half an hour with the freedom - of old acquaintances. He quite made me forget that I was his servant for - the time, and led me to speak out my mind with the unreserve of equal to - equal. I enjoyed a peculiar sense of exhilaration that lasted even after - he had gone away. In spite of myself I could not help relishing this - contact with a superior man. Again I fell to wondering about his - occupation. I was more and more persuaded that he must be an artist of - some sort, or a writer. - </p> - <p> - The next day he came again, and the next, and the next, and regularly - every day at about the same hour for a fortnight. As surely as he seated - himself at the corner table, so surely would he beckon to me and begin to - talk. In these dialogues he afforded me no end of entertainment, touching - in a racy way upon a score of topics. He had resided abroad for some years—seemed - equally at home in Paris, Rome, and Munich—and his anecdotes of - foreign life were like glimpses into dream-land for me. He had the faculty - of making me forget myself, and for that reason, if for no other, I should - have valued his friendliness. Our interviews occurred as bright spots in - the sad gray monotone of my daily life. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>UT 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I was afraid I had seen the last of you for the day,” I answered. “This - is a pleasant surprise, I assure you.” - </p> - <p> - After a few yards in silence he resumed, “I say—oh, by the way, you - have never told me your name?” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Lexow.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t understand,” I said. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “One confidence deserves another. I have told you my name, tell me yours.” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Merivale, Daniel.—But don’t change the subject.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Capital! Well, then, for a beginner: You are or were or have at some time - hoped to be, an artist of some sort—eh?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “No, neither of them.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Brava!</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I confess, Mr. Merivale, that you surprise me. You have divined the - truth, but for the life of me, I don’t see how.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>Violin!</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Guess. I’ll wager you’ll never guess.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>inédit</i>. 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “We had arrived in front of an English-basement house in Seventeenth - street. - </p> - <p> - “Come in,” he repeated. “This is where I live.” - </p> - <p> - “It is too late,” I said. - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense,” he retorted. “It is never too late. Advance!” - </p> - <p> - I followed him into the house. - </p> - <p> - The room to which he conducted me was precisely the sort of room one would - have expected. It was chock-full of odds and ends, piled about in hopeless - confusion. The walls were hung with a reddish paper, and freckled with - framed and unframed pictures—etchings, engravings, water-colors, - charcoals, some suspended correctly by wires from the cornice, others - pinned up loosely by their corners. The ceiling was tinted to harmonize - with the walls. The floor was carpetless, of hard wood, waxed to a high - degree of slipperiness, and relieved by a sporadic rug or two. Bits of - porcelain and metal ware, specimens of old Italian carving, Chinese - sculptures in ivory, rich tapestries, bronze and plaster reproductions of - antique statuary, and books of all sizes and descriptions and in all - stages of decay, were scattered hither and thither without a pretense to - order. On the whole the effect of the room was pleasant, though it - resembled somewhat closely that of a curiosity-shop gone mad. My host - informed me that it was Liberty Hall and bade me make myself at home. - Producing a flagon of Benedictine, he said laconically, “Drink.” - </p> - <p> - We drank together in silence. Turning his emptied glass upside down, - “Now,” he cried, “now for the music. Now you are going to play.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I thought you had forgotten about that,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “‘Tis not among my talents to forget,” he declaimed, theatrically. “You - must prepare to limber up your fingers.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, Mr. Merivale,” I insisted, “you don’t know what you are asking. I - should no more think of touching a violin to-night than, than—no - need of a comparison. The long and short of the matter is that I have the - best of reasons for not wanting to play, and that the most you can urge to - the contrary won’t alter my resolution. I hate to seem boorish or - disobliging, but really I can’t help it. Besides, my instrument is a mile - away and unstrung, and it is so late that the other occupants of this - house would be annoyed. And as the subject is extremely painful to me, I - wish you would let it drop.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, if you are going to treat the matter <i>au grand sérieux</i>,” said - Merivale, “I suppose I must give in. But you have no idea of how - disappointed I shall be. As for an instrument, I’ve a fiddle of my own in - the next room—one that I scrape on now and then myself. As for the - other occupants of this house, I pay double rent on the condition that my - quarters are to be my castle, and that I can create as much rumpus in - them, day and night, as I desire. If I were disposed to do so, I could - make this a broad proposition of ethics, and maintain that as an artist - you have no right to decline to exercise your skill. Your talent is given - you in trust—a trust which you violate when you bury the talent in - the ground. But I won’t go so far as that. I’ll simply ask you as a favor - to play for me, and, if after that you are still obstinate, I’ll hold my - peace.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I am forced to be obstinate. Now let’s change the subject.” - </p> - <p> - “I bow my head. Only, perhaps you will make a single concession. As I have - said, I am the possessor of a fiddle. It is one I picked up in Rome. I - bought it of a seedy Italian nobleman; and he claimed it for a rare one—a - Stradivari, in fact. I’m no judge of such things, and most likely was - taken in. Will you look at it and give me your opinion?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, I have no objection to doing that,” - </p> - <p> - I said, glad to prove myself not altogether churlish. - </p> - <p> - “Here it is,” he continued, putting the violin into my hands. - </p> - <p> - It was a beautiful instrument from an optical standpoint. What remained of - the varnish was ruddy and crystalline, and as smooth as amber. - </p> - <p> - The curves were exquisite. It was also either genuinely old or a marvelous - imitation. Its interior was dark and dirty—an excellent condition. I - could descry no label there—another favorable sign. Was it indeed a - Stradivari? Formerly it had been an ambition of mine to play upon a - Stradivari; an ambition which I had never had a chance to gratify, because - among the dozen so-called Stradivaris that I had come upon here and there, - I had found not one but betrayed its fraudulent origin from the instant - the bow was drawn across the strings. Something of the old feeling revived - in me as I held this instrument in my hands, and before I had thought, my - finger mechanically picked the <i>A</i> string. The clear, bell-like tone - that responded, caused me to start. I had never heard such a tone as this - produced before by the mere picking of a string. - </p> - <p> - “I believe you have a treasure here,” I exclaimed. “I’m not connoisseur - enough to say whether it is a Stradivari; but whoever its maker was, it’s - a superb instrument.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you really think so?” cried Merivale. “Try it with the bow.” - </p> - <p> - He thrust the bow upon me. Without allowing myself time to hesitate, I - touched the bow to the strings: the result was a voice from heaven, so - clear, so broad, so sweet, of such magnetic quality, that it actually - frightened me, made my heart palpitate, summoned a myriad dead emotions - back to life. And yet I felt an irresistible temptation to continue, to - push the experiment at least a trifle further. - </p> - <p> - “Tune it up,” said Merivale. - </p> - <p> - I complied. That was the final stroke. After I had drawn the bow for a - second time across the cat-gut, there was no resisting. I lost possession - of myself: ere I knew it, I was pouring my life out through the wonderful - voice of the Stradivari. - </p> - <p> - I don’t remember what I played. Most probably it was a medley of - reminiscences. I only remember that for the first few minutes I suffered - the tortures of the damned—an army of devils were tugging at my - heart-strings—and withal I had no power to restrain the motion of my - arm and lay the violin aside. Then, I remember, the pain gradually turned - to pleasure, to an immense sense of relief, as though all the woe pent up - in the recesses of my soul had suddenly found an outlet and was gushing - forth in a tremendous flood of sound. As I felt it ebbing away, like a - poison let loose from my veins, somehow time and space were annihilated, - facts were undone, truth changed to falsehood. Veronika and I were alone - together in the pure realm of spirit while I told her in the million - tempestuous variations of my music the whole story of my sorrow and my - adoration. I listened to the music precisely as though it had been played - by another person; I heard it grow soft and softer and melt into a - scarcely audible whisper; I heard it soar away into mighty, passionate <i>crescendi</i>; - I heard it modulate swiftly from prayerful minor to triumphant, defiant - major; I heard it laugh like a child, plead like a lover, sob like Mary at - the tomb of Christ; I heard it wax wrathful like a God in anger. And I—I - was caught up and borne away and tossed from high to low by it like a leaf - on the bosom of the ocean. And at last I heard the sharp retort of a - breaking string; and I sank into a chair, exhausted. - </p> - <p> - I think I must have come very near to fainting. When I gathered together - my senses and opened my eyes I was weak, nerveless, bewildered. Merivale - stood in front of me, his gaze fixed upon my face. - </p> - <p> - “In God’s name,” I heard him say, “tell me what you are. Such music as you - have played upsets all my established notions, undermines my philosophy, - forces me back in spite of myself to a belief in witchcraft and magic. Are - you a Merlin? Have you indeed the secret of enchantment? It is hardly - credible that simple human genius wove that wonderful web of melody—which - has at last come to an end, thank heaven! If I had had to listen a moment - longer, I should have broken down. The strain was too intense. You have - taken me with you through hell and heaven.” - </p> - <p> - Still weak and nerveless, I could not command my voice. - </p> - <p> - “You are faint,” he exclaimed. “The effort has tired you out. No wonder: - here—drink this.” He held a glass to my lips. I drank its contents. - Presently I felt a glow of warmth radiating through my limbs. Then I was - able to stir and to speak. - </p> - <p> - “Through hell and heaven,” I repeated, echoing his words. “Yes, we have - been through hell and heaven.” - </p> - <p> - “It was a frightful experience,” he added, “more than I bargained for when - I asked you to play.” - </p> - <p> - “You must forgive me; I was carried away; I had no intention of harrowing - you, but I had not played for so long a time that my emotions got the best - of me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t talk like that,” he protested. “It was a frightful experience, - but it was one I would not have missed. I had never dreamed that music - could work such an effect upon me; but now I can understand the ardor with - which musicians love their art; I can understand the claims they make in - its behalf. It is indeed the most powerful influence that can be brought - to bear upon the feelings. For my part I never was so deeply moved before—not - even by Dante. But tell me, how did you acquire your wonderful skill? What - must your life have been in order that you should play like that?” - </p> - <p> - “Of ‘wonderful skill’ I have little enough. Tonight perhaps I played with - a certain enthusiasm because I was excited. But you attribute too much to - me. A musician would have descried a score of faults. My technique has - deserted me; but even when I used to practice regularly, I occupied a very - low grade in my profession.” - </p> - <p> - “I care not how you used to play, nor how you were rated, nor how faulty - your technique may be. You play now with a force that is more than human. - I am not given either to flattery or to exaggeration, and I am not easily - stirred up. But you <i>have</i> stirred me up, clear down to the marrow of - my bones. Perhaps these two years of abstinence have but ripened the - genius that was already in you—allowed it time to ferment. Tell me, - what depths of joy and sorrow have you sounded to gather the secrets you - have just revealed with your violin? What has your life been?” - </p> - <p> - “My life has been a very simple one, and for the most part very prosaic.” - </p> - <p> - “You might as well call the sun cold, the sea motionless, as pretend that - your life has been prosaic. Friend, the only element that gives life and - magnetism to art is profound, human truth That which touches us in a - picture, a poem, or a symphony, is its likeness to the truth, its nature, - especially its human nature. That is what makes Wilhelm Meister a powerful - book, because each page is written, so to speak, in human blood. That is - what makes Titian’s Assumption a great picture, because the agony in the - Madonna’s face is true human agony. And that is what gave your music of a - moment since the power to pierce the very innermost of my heart-because it - was true music the expression of true human passion. Tell me, what manner - of life have you lived, to learn so much of the deep things of human - experience?” - </p> - <p> - I looked into his clear, earnest eyes. They shone with a sympathy that - fell as balm upon my wounds. An impulse that I could not battle with - unsealed my lips. I told him my whole story from first to last. - </p> - <p> - Some of the time, as I was speaking, he sat motionless with his brow - buried in his hands. Some of the time he paced up and down the floor. He - smoked constantly. Twice or thrice he extended his palm to bid me pause, - indicating by nodding his head when he wished me to go on. Not once did he - verbally interrupt, nor for a long while after I had done did he speak. - </p> - <p> - By and by he grasped my hand and wrenched it hard and said, “Will—will - you understand by my silence what I feel? It would be sacrilege for me to - talk about this thing. I—I—oh, what a fool I am to open my - mouth!” - </p> - <p> - But presently he cried, “The injustice, the humiliation, that you have - been put to! It is shameful. To think that they dared to try you, as - though the mere sight of your face was not sufficient to prove you - incapable of the first thought of crime! But I can understand your motive - for not wishing to hunt the Marshalls down. Only of this I am sure, that - if there is any such thing as equity in this world, some day their guilt - will be made manifest and they will receive the chastisement which they - deserve. Oh, how you have suffered! I tell you, it sobers a man, it - reminds him of the seriousness of things, the spectacle of such a colossal - sorrow as yours has been.” - </p> - <p> - Again silence. Eventually he crossed over to the window and sent the - curtains rattling across their pole. It was getting light outside. I - pulled myself together. Rising, “Well,” I said, “good-by. My visit to you - has been like a sojourn in another world. Now, I must return to my own - dreary sphere. Forgive me if I have wearied you with all this talk about - myself. I seemed to speak without meaning to—involuntarily. Once - started, I could not have stopped myself, had I tried.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t speak like that,” he rejoined hastily and with a look of reproach. - “Don’t make me feel that you repent your confidence. It was only right, - only natural, that you should unbosom yourself to me. It was the - consecration of our friendship. Friendship is never complete until it has - been tested in the fire of sorrow. Mere companionship in pleasure is not - friendship. No matter how intimately we might have seen each other, we - should never have been friends until you had told me this.—Moreover, - don’t get up. You must not think of going away as yet.” - </p> - <p> - “As yet? Why, I have outstaid the night itself. I must make haste or I - shall be behindhand at the shop.” - </p> - <p> - “You must not think of returning to the shop to-day. You must go to bed - and have some sleep. When you awake again I shall have a proposition to - lay before you. For the present follow me—” - </p> - <p> - “But Mr. Merivale—” - </p> - <p> - “But I anticipate your objections. But they are worthless. But the shop - may, and I devoutly hope it will, be struck by lightning. Furthermore, if - you are anxious about it, I’ll send word around to the effect that you’re - unwell and not able to report for duty. That’s the truth. But any how I - have a particular reason for wanting to keep possession of you for a while - longer. Now, be tractable—as an indulgence, do what I ask.” - </p> - <p> - There was no resisting the appeal in Merivale’s big blue eyes. I followed - him as he desired. He led me into the adjoining room, where there were two - narrow brass bedsteads side by side. - </p> - <p> - “You see,” he said, “I was prepared for you. Here is your couch, ready for - your reception. It’s rather odd about this. I’m a great hand for - presentiments: and experience has taught me to believe in their coming - true. When I took these quarters I said to myself, ‘Pythias, the Damon you - have been waiting for all these years will arrive while you are bivouacked - here. Be therefore in a condition to welcome him properly.’ I don’t know - why, but I was thoroughly persuaded, I felt in my bones, that Damon’s - advent would occur during my occupancy of these rooms. So I bought two - bedsteads and two dressing-stands instead of one. I have got the heroes of - the old legend somewhat mixed up; can’t remember which was which: but I - trust I’m not egotistic in assigning the part of Damon to you and keeping - that of Pythias for myself. At any rate, it’s a mere figure of speech, and - as such must be taken. Now, Damon or Pythias, whichever you may be, in - begging you to make yourself comfortable here, I am simply inviting you to - partake of your own.” - </p> - <p> - As he rattled on thus, he had produced sheets and blankets from a chest of - drawers near at hand, and now was making the bed with the deftness of an - expert. - </p> - <p> - “There,” he exclaimed, bestowing a farewell poke upon the pillow, “now go - to bed with a clear conscience and a mind at peace. I shall speedily - follow. In the morning—I mean in the afternoon—we will resume - our session.” - </p> - <p> - He had the delicacy to leave me alone. I was too fatigued to reason about - what I was doing. I undressed quickly, got into bed, and fell sound - asleep. - </p> - <p> - The sunlight was streaming through the window when I awoke. Merivale was - seated upon the foot of the bed. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” he cried, as I opened my eyes, “welcome back!” - </p> - <p> - “Eh, how?” I queried, perplexed for the moment. “Oh yes; I remember. Have - I been asleep long?” - </p> - <p> - “So long that I thought you were never going to wake up. It’s past four in - the afternoon, and you have been sleeping steadily since six this morning. - I had the utmost hardship in subduing my impatience. Ten solid hours of - sleep! You must have been thoroughly exhausted.” - </p> - <p> - “You ought to have roused me. One can gorge one’s system with sleep as - easily as with food. I have slept too much. But—but how shall I ever - make amends at the shop?” - </p> - <p> - “Bother the shop! The shop no longer exists. I have caused its - annihilation during the day.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you Aladdin’s lamp? - </p> - <p> - “I have a substitute for it, at least. The shop has been transported to - Alaska.” - </p> - <p> - “That was unkind of you. Now I shall have to undergo the expense of a - journey thither. Besides, I prefer a more temperate climate.—But - seriously, did you send word as you agreed to?” - </p> - <p> - “I saw Herr Schwartz personally.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, that was very thoughtful. Did you succeed in appeasing him?” - </p> - <p> - “I told him that you wished to resign your position; and when he began to - splutter, I added that in consideration of the trouble he would be put to, - you were willing to forgive him whatever back pay he owed you; and when he - declared that he owed you no back pay at all, I said you would be willing - to forgive him any way on general principles, and think no more about it. - Then I ordered beer and cigars and pronounced the magic syllable ‘<i>selbst</i>’ - and in the end he appeared quite reconciled.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense. Be serious. What did you say?” - </p> - <p> - “I <i>am</i> serious. That is what I said precisely.” - </p> - <p> - “What, you—oh come, you can’t be in earnest.” - </p> - <p> - “But I assure you I am in earnest, never was more in earnest in my life. - You don’t really imagine that I am going to let you ‘stand and wait’ any - longer, do you?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t very clearly see how you are going to prevent it. I have my - livelihood to earn. I can’t afford to throw up my employment in the - cavalier manner you propose. It’s ridiculous.” - </p> - <p> - “I can prevent it and I will prevent it. How? By the power of friendship, - by appealing to your heart and to your reason. As for your livelihood, I - have found you a new occupation, one more befitting your character. - Henceforward you are to be a private secretary.” - </p> - <p> - “Whose private secretary?” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind whose—or rather, you will learn whose, presently. First, - accustom your mind to the abstract idea.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, Merivale, you are outrageous. I don’t know why I’m not indignant. - You meddle with my affairs as if they were your own. You have no right to - do so. And yet I am not angry. I must be totally devoid of spunk. But - nevertheless I shan’t abide by your proceedings. As soon as I am dressed I - shall return to the shop and beg Herr Schwartz to take me back.” - </p> - <p> - “I forbid it.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry, but I must defy your prohibition. By the way, may I inquire - your authority?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly. It is every man’s authority to restrain a lunatic. Your notion - of returning to that wine-shop is downright lunacy. Besides, have I not - provided you with new employment?” - </p> - <p> - “But it is a sort of employment which I don’t wish to undertake. I prefer - work that will leave my mind disengaged. You ought to understand that in - my position one has no heart for any but manual labor.” - </p> - <p> - “I think I understand perfectly, better indeed than you yourself. I - understand that while the first shock of your grief lasted it was natural - for you to take up the first employment that you chanced upon, no matter - what it was. But I understand now that it is high time for you to come - back to your proper level. An occupation which leaves your mind disengaged - is precisely the very worst you could have. With all appreciation of the - magnitude of your bereavement, and with all reverence for your fidelity to - your betrothed, I say that it is wrong of you to brood over your troubles. - I am not brute enough to advise you to court oblivion; but a grief loses - its dignity, becomes a species of egotism, by constantly brooding over it. - It is our duty in this world to accept the inevitable with the best grace - possible, and to make ourselves as comfortable as under the circumstances - we can. But over and above that consideration there is this, that no man - has a right to do work that is unworthy of him. It degrades himself and it - robs society. Every man is bound to do his best work, to accomplish his - highest usefulness. What would you say of a Newton who had abandoned - mathematics to drive a plow? You are as much subject to the general moral - law as the rest of us. You were sent into this world to contribute your - quota to the sum of human happiness; and your art was permitted you only - on the condition that you should cultivate it for the benefit of your - fellow creatures. And yet, you propose to do the business of a common - waiter in a wretched little <i>brasserie</i>. Now, I won’t urge you to - return to music forthwith, because I know you suffer too keenly while you - are playing. But I will say: Remember that you are a gentleman and that - you are actually stealing from society by doing that which your inferiors - could do as well. For the present, accept the situation of private - secretary that I have procured for you. It will be a stepping-stone toward - your proper place. You see, I can be a preacher on occasions. - </p> - <p> - “And your sermon, I confess, is a wholesome one.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you will consider the secretaryship? - </p> - <p> - “I will consider whatever you wish me to. I will be guided by your common - sense.” - </p> - <p> - “Good! Now get up and dress.” - </p> - <p> - He left the room. As I dressed I thought over the sermon he had preached. - I could not gainsay its truth. Yet on the other hand I could not - contemplate a changed mode of life without flinching. Two years of moral - illness had undermined my moral courage. I wondered who my new employer - was to be. I dreaded meeting him not a little. Thinking over the - confidences of the night, I experienced no regret. Indeed I was glad to - realize that I was no longer altogether alone in the world. Merivale had - inspired me with an enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - “What a splendid fellow he is!” I exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “If he and I could only remain together I believe I should find my life - worth living. It is marvelous, the faculty he has for making me forget - myself. I suppose it is due to his animal spirits, his healthy - temperament. He is as vigorous and bracing as a whiff of the west wind - full in one’s face.” - </p> - <p> - I had never had a friend before. I relished my first taste of friendship. - </p> - <p> - Meantime I was preparing my toilet. In the midst of it Merivale came into - the room. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you know who your future master is to be?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “No—how should I know?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you obtuse blockhead! You————” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t—you don’t mean to say—” I began, a suspicion of the - truth dawning upon me. - </p> - <p> - “Exactly! That is the precise sum and substance of what I mean to say. I - mean to say that I’m in need of somebody to help me in certain work that - I’m doing. The need is a real one, not an artificial one trumped up for - the occasion. I have plenty of cash and am ready to pay what is just for - my assistant’s time. You on the other hand are looking about fora means of - subsistence. At the same time, luckily, you are just the person to suit my - purpose. Hence, as a pure matter of business, I say, Shall we strike a - bargain? You are going to be sensible and answer, Yes. Wherefore it only - remains for me to explain the nature of the work and thus to convince you - that you are not going to draw the salary of a sinecure.” - </p> - <p> - “If this is really true,” I said, “I can’t help telling you that nothing - could make me happier. If I can really be of service to you, and if we can - really arrange to keep as closely together as such work would bring us, - why, my contentment will be greater than I can say.” - </p> - <p> - “Then come into the next room and judge for yourself.” - </p> - <p> - We passed into the sitting-room. Merivale drew up to a table near the - window and taking a pen in his hand said, “Look.” - </p> - <p> - He tried the pen’s nib upon the nail of his thumb, dipped it into an - inkstand, and applied it to a blank sheet of paper. Then his fingers began - to work laboriously to and fro, with the result of tracing a scarcely - legible scrawl. One could, however, by dint of taxing the imagination, - make out these words: “Good friend, to end all doubt about the present - matter, learn by this that a penman’s palsy shakes my fist, and - furthermore, that I inherit a lamentable tendency to gout in the wrist.” - </p> - <p> - “Scrivener’s palsy and gout combined,” he added verbally, “and yet I am - going to publish a volume of poems in the spring. They’re all down on - paper, but no one can decipher them except myself; and if I should be - carried off some day unexpectedly, think what the world would lose! My - idea is to dictate them to you. We will work from nine till one every day, - and devote the rest of our time to relaxation.” - </p> - <p> - “But you take my handwriting for granted,” I interposed. - </p> - <p> - “I think I am safe in doing so,” he replied. “But give me a sample.” - </p> - <p> - I wrote off a few words. - </p> - <p> - “Capital!” was his comment. “Now about the compensation.” - </p> - <p> - I had to haggle with my generous friend and to beat him down half of his - original offer. My stipend settled, “I admit,” said he, “that I am - ravenously hungry. Suppose we dine?” - </p> - <p> - We adjourned to Moretti’s. During the dinner we discussed our future. He - said he was constantly writing new matter and therefore our contract would - not terminate with the completion of the particular MS. in question. “Ah, - what good times we are going to enjoy!” he cried. “We are perfectly - companionable! There is nothing so satisfactory, nothing so productive of - <i>bien être</i>, as friendship, after all.” - </p> - <p> - Dinner over, we strolled arm in arm through the streets. For the first - time in two years I began to feel that the world was not quite a ruin. At - home we talked till late into the night. And when I went to bed it was to - lie awake for hours and hours, congratulating myself upon my newly - discovered friend. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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. - </p> - <p> - 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, “<i>Das Sehen mussgelernt sein!</i>”—it - was all the German he knew—and now he taught me to see. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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; - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “The musical director?” - </p> - <p> - “The same.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I know him by reputation. Do you mean personally? Why do you - ask?” - </p> - <p> - “Because—but that’s the point. First you must hear my story. It’s - the greatest stroke of luck that mortal ever had.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, go ahead.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Take your time, then. I possess my soul in patience.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, pray, don’t stop,” I said, as he paused for breath. “Your narrative - becomes thrilling.” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - It required no little strength of mind to answer Merivale as I now had to. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The light faded from Merivale’s eyes. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I stuck out obdurately. Merivale shifted from the attitude of one who begs - a favor to that of one who imposes a duty. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - My efforts to beg off next morning were ineffectual. - </p> - <p> - “If you desire to forfeit my respect entirely,” he warned me, “persist in - this sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - I permitted myself to be dragged by the arm through the streets to Doctor - Rodolph’s house. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Disconcerted, I brought my bow to a standstill and exchanged a forlorn - glance with Merivale. - </p> - <p> - The doctor approached and looked me quizzically over from head to foot. - “Where did you study?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - “In New York,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “Have you ever played in public?” - </p> - <p> - “Not at any large affairs.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you teach?” - </p> - <p> - “I used to.” - </p> - <p> - “What—what did you say your name was?” - </p> - <p> - “Lexow.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum, it is odd I haven’t heard of you. Have you been in New York long?” - </p> - <p> - “All my life.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; you said you studied here. Who were your masters?” - </p> - <p> - I named them. - </p> - <p> - The doctor’s face had been inscrutable. Merivale and I had sat on pins - during the inquisition. Now the doctor’s face lighted up with a genial - smile. - </p> - <p> - “You will do, Mr. Lexow,” he said. “I don’t know whom to thank the more, - you or Mr. Merivale. You have relieved me in a very trying emergency. Your - playing is fine, though perhaps a trifle too independent, a trifle too - individual, and the least tone too florid. It is odd, most odd that I - should never have heard of you; but we shall all hear of you in the - future.” - </p> - <p> - We agreed upon the selections for the evening. I ran them through in the - doctor’s presence and listened to his suggestions. Then we bade him - good-by. - </p> - <p> - That day was a trying one. It would be bootless to catalogue the - conflicting thoughts and emotions that preyed upon me. I practiced my - pieces thoroughly. Merivale busied himself procuring what he styled a - “rig.” The rig consisted of an evening suit and its accessories. He rented - one at a costumer’s on Union square. As the day drew to a close, I worried - more and more. “Brace up,” cried Merivale. “Where’s your stamina? And - here, swallow a glass of brandy.” - </p> - <p> - We waited in the ante-room till it was my turn to go upon the platform. - </p> - <p> - I was conscious of a glow of light and a sea of faces and a mortal - stage-fright, and of little else, when finally I had taken my position. - The orchestra played the preliminary bars. I had to begin. I got through - the first phrase and the second. The voice of my instrument reassured me. - “After all you will not make a dead failure,” I thought, and ventured to - lift my eyes. Not two yards distant from me, to my right, among the first - violins, sat Mr. Tikulski. His gaze was riveted upon my face. - </p> - <p> - I had anticipated about every catastrophe that could possibly befall, but - strangely enough I had not anticipated this. And it was so sudden, and the - emotions it occasioned were so powerful, and I was so nervous and unstrung—well, - the floor gave a lurch, like the deck of a vessel in a storm; the lights - dashed backward and forward before my sight; a deathly sickness overspread - my senses; the accompaniment of the orchestra became harsh and incoherent; - my violin dropped with a crash upon the boards; and the next thing I was - aware of, I lay at full length on a sofa in the retiring-room, and - Merivale was holding a smelling-bottle to my nostrils. I could hear the - orchestra beyond the partition industriously winding off the <i>Tannhauser</i> - march. - </p> - <p> - “How do you feel?” asked Merivale, as I opened my eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I feel as though I should like to annihilate myself,” I answered, as - memory cleared up. “I have permanently disgraced us both.” - </p> - <p> - “But what was the trouble? You were doing nobly, splendidly, when all of a - sudden you collapsed like that,” clapping his hands. “The doctor is - furious, says it was all my fault.” “No, it wasn’t your fault,” I hastened - to put in. “I should have pulled through after a fashion, only unluckily I - caught sight of Tikulski—her uncle, you know—in the orchestra; - and, well, I—I suppose—well, you see it was so unexpected that - it rather undid me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I understand,” said he. - </p> - <p> - We kept silence all the way home in the carriage. - </p> - <p> - Next morning, as I entered the sitting-room, Merivale tried to hide a - newspaper under his coat. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t bother to do that,” I said. “Of course it is all in print?” - </p> - <p> - Possessing myself of the newspaper, I had the satisfaction of reading a - sensational account of my fiasco. But what I had most dreaded from the - quarter of the newspapers had not come to pass. None of them identified me - as the Ernest Neuman who, rather more than two years since, had been tried - for murder. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - X. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>Y encounter with - Tikulski was bound to have consequences, practical as well as moral. All - day Sunday a legion of blue devils were my comrades. Late Monday afternoon - I received by the post a letter and a package, each addressed to “E. - Lexow, in care of D. Merivale, Esq.” The penmanship was the same on both—a - stiff European hand which I could not recognize. I began with the letter. - It read thus:— - </p> - <p> - “Mr. E. Lexow, - </p> - <p> - “Dear Sir: - </p> - <p> - “I should have forwarded this to you before, but not apprised of the - alteration of your name, I was unable to discover your address. I dispatch - this to the address indicated by Dr. Rodolph, who informs me that you are - to be reached through D. Merivale, Esquire, as he is not advised of your - private residence. I found it in a pawnbroking establishment (No.—————-street, - kept by one M. Arkush) now more than a year, and purchased it with the - intention of restoring it to you, because I suppose that it must be of - some value to you as a family memento, and that you would not have - disposed of it except needing money. Hoping that this letter may find you - in the enjoyment of good health, I am - </p> - <p> - “Respectfully yours, - </p> - <p> - “B. Tikulski.” - </p> - <p> - What could Tikulski’s letter mean? What could “it” be? I puzzled over - these questions for a long while before it occurred to me to unseal the - package. - </p> - <p> - There was an outer wrapper of stout brown paper. Beneath this, an inner - wrapper of tissue paper. Both removed, I beheld an oval case of red - leather, considerably the worse for wear. What did it contain? I pressed - the clasp and raised the lid. It contained a miniature painted on ivory, - the likeness of a man. The faded colors and the old-fashioned collar and - cravat showed that it dated from some years back. But of whom was it a - picture? - </p> - <p> - Why had Tikulski posted it to me? And what did he mean by supposing that I - should value it as a family memento and that I would not have parted with - it—I, who had never owned it,—“except needing money?” I was - thoroughly mystified. - </p> - <p> - “Merivale,” I said, “can you make any thing out of this?” - </p> - <p> - I tossed him the letter and the portrait. - </p> - <p> - Presently he muttered, “Pretty good, by Jove.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” I questioned. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what?” he returned. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what do you make of it? What does it mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, that the likeness is striking, what else? Your father, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “My father? I confess I am in the dark.” - </p> - <p> - “And you have the faculty of dragging me in after you. What are you trying - to get at?” - </p> - <p> - “I am trying to get at Mr. Tikulski’s idea. Why should he send me that - miniature? Whom does it represent?” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t mean to say that you haven’t recognized it?” - </p> - <p> - “Most certainly I do.” - </p> - <p> - “Man alive, look in the glass.—Here.” Merivale held up the miniature - in one hand and a pocket-mirror in the other. As closely as it is possible - for one human countenance to resemble another, the face of the picture - resembled my reflection in the glass. - </p> - <p> - “Are you satisfied?” demanded Merivale.—“Why, what ails you?” he - continued presently, as I did not answer. “You look as if you had seen a - ghost. Are you ill?” - </p> - <p> - “It has caused me quite a turn,” I replied. “It must indeed be a portrait - of my father. But do you know—wait—let me tell you something.” - </p> - <p> - What I told Merivale I shall have also to tell the reader. - </p> - <p> - I could remember neither of my parents. As a child, I had lived in a dark - old house with a good old rabbi and his wife—Dr. and Mrs. Hirsch. I - had never stopped to ask whether or not they were my father and mother - until I was eleven or twelve years of age. Then, the question having been - suggested by a schoolmate, I had said, “Dr. Lesser”—Lesser being the - rabbi’s given name—“are you my father?” To which the doctor, beaming - at me over the rim of his spectacles, had responded, “No, my child: you - are an orphan.”—“An orphan? That means?” I pursued. “That your papa - and mamma are dead,” said he.—“Have they been dead long?” I asked - indifferently. “Ever since you were the tiniest little tot,” he replied. - And thereupon, as the subject did not prove especially interesting, I had - let it drop. - </p> - <p> - Time went on. I was perfectly contented. The doctor and his wife were - kindness personified. The present occupied me so pleasantly that I forgot - to be curious about the past. But at length, when I was fifteen, the - question of my parentage was again brought to my mind—this time by a - lad with whom I had had a quarrel and who as a parting thrust had inquired - significantly whether I knew the definition of the Hebrew noun <i>Mamzer</i>. - Highly incensed, I ran home and burst into the doctor’s study. “Doctor,” I - demanded, without ceremony, “am I a <i>Mamzer?</i>”—“What a notion! - Of course you are not,” replied the rabbi.—“Then,” I continued, - “what am I? Tell me all about my father and mother.” - </p> - <p> - The doctor said there was nothing to tell except that my mother had died - when I was less than two years old, and my father not a great while after - her. They had been members of his (the doctor’s) congregation; and rather - than see me sent to an orphan asylum, he and his wife had taken me to live - with them.—“But what sort of people were they, my parents?” I - insisted. “Give me some particulars about them.”—“They were very - respectable, and by their neighbors generally esteemed well off. Your - father had been a merchant; but for the last year his health was such as - to confine him to his bedroom. It was quite a surprise to every body to - find on his death that very little property was left. That little was - gobbled up by his creditors. So that you have no legacy to expect except——” - </p> - <p> - “Except?” I queried as the doctor hesitated. “There is no exception. You - have no legacy to expect at all.”—“But,” I resumed, “had my parents - no relations? Have I no uncles or aunts? Am I altogether without kindred?”—“So - far as I know, you are.” - </p> - <p> - Your father came originally from Breslau. It is possible that he had - relatives there; but he had none in this country—at least I never - heard him speak of any. He was a good man, a pious man. It was sad that he - should die so young, but it was the will of <i>Adonai</i>—“And my - mother, had she no brother or sister?”—“About your mother I can tell - you very little. She came from Savannah. Whether she has connections there - still, I can not say.”—“Doctor,” I asked, after a moment’s silence, - “what did you mean by that ‘except’ you used a while ago, speaking of - legacies?” - </p> - <p> - “I meant nothing. I was thinking of a few family relics, papers and - what-not, which you are to receive when you become of age.”—“Why not - till then?”—“No reason, save that such was your father’s wish, - expressed on his death-bed. He said, ‘Don’t let my son have these until he - is grown to be a man.’.—“Can you tell me definitely what they are?”—“I - can not. I have never seen them. They are locked up in a box; and the box - I am not at liberty to open.”—“Doctor, what was my mother’s - maiden-name?” - </p> - <p> - “Bertha, Bertha Lexow.”—“Did you marry her and my father?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no; they were married in the South at Savannah. I think they had been - married about five years when your father died.”—I went on quizzing - the doctor until he declined to answer another question. “Go away, - gad-fly,” he cried. “You are worse than the inquisition.” - </p> - <p> - In my eighteenth year the doctor died suddenly, having survived his wife - by a six-month only. He was stricken down by paralysis while intoning the - <i>Kadesh</i> song in the synagogue. In him I lost my only friend. I had - loved him precisely as though he had been my father. His death was an - immense affliction. It took me a long while to gather my wits together and - realize my position. - </p> - <p> - A week or two after the funeral a man came to me and said, “I represent - the Public Administrator, charged with settling up Dr. Hirsch’s concerns. - He leaves nothing except household furniture and a few dollars in bank—all - of which goes to his next-of-kin in Germany. You will have to find other - quarters. These are to be vacated and the goods sold at auction in a few - days.”—“Ah,” I said, “if you are his administrator, that reminds me. - I beg that you will deliver over the things the doctor had belonging to me—a - box containing papers.” - </p> - <p> - “Identify your property and prove your title,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - Strangers came and went in and out of the house for several days. But in - the inventory which they prepared no such box as the doctor had described - was mentioned. Furthermore, a thorough search failed to bring it to light. - The auction was held. The last fork was knocked down to the highest - bidder. And I had to go about my business with the unpleasant conviction - that owing to some slip-up somewhere my inheritance had either been lost - or stolen. Gradually I reconciled myself to this idea, concluding that - what I already knew about my parents was the most I ever should know; and - thus matters had remained ever since. - </p> - <p> - “But now,” I added, my recital wound up, “now perhaps in this miniature I - have a clew. It must be a portrait of my father: and very likely it was - part of the contents of that box. I suppose, if I were clever, I should - see a way of following it up.” - </p> - <p> - “I am consoled,” said Merivale, drawing a deep breath. - </p> - <p> - “Consoled?” I queried. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, consoled for my obstinacy in making you play at the concert. You - see, it was an inspiration after all. If you had not chanced upon Tikulski—what - a blood-curdling name! fit for a tragedy villain—if you hadn’t - chanced upon him as you did, why you never would have received the - picture, and so the mystery which envelops my hero s antecedents would - never have been dispelled. Now we must go to work in a systematic way. - </p> - <p> - “Exactly; but how begin?” - </p> - <p> - “Let me see Tikulski’s letter again.”—After he had read the letter, - “Begin, he said, by paying a visit to the pawn-shop where he got it. - Luckily he had the presence of mind to mention its whereabouts.” - </p> - <p> - “Good,” I assented. “But will you go with me?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you imagine I would allow you to go alone, you unfledged gosling? I - shall not only go with you, but by your permission I shall manage the - whole transaction. I fancy I surpass you in respect of <i>savoir faire</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “It is now past four. Shall we start at once?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be too hopeful,” he warned me, as we approached the pawnbroker’s - door. “Most likely we shall run against a dead wall.” - </p> - <p> - The shop was empty. A bell tinkled as we opened the door. In response, a - young fellow in his shirt-sleeves emerged from a dark back room. - </p> - <p> - “Is Mr. Arkush in?” demanded Merivale, with an air of friendliness. - </p> - <p> - “Do you want to see him personally?” returned the young man, not over - politely. - </p> - <p> - “You have fathomed my purpose,” said Merivale with mock gravity. - </p> - <p> - “What about?” - </p> - <p> - Merivale drew near to the young man and shielding his mouth with his hand - whispered, “Business,” accompanying his utterance with a knowing glance. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you can see me about business,” rejoined his interlocutor, surlily. - </p> - <p> - “Impossible. Here, take my card to Mr. Arkush and say I am pressed.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Arkush can’t see nobody. He’s sick. - </p> - <p> - “Sick? Ah, indeed?” cried Merivale. “Has he been sick long? I hope it is - nothing serious. Pray tell me what the trouble is?” - </p> - <p> - The young man looked surprised. “Oh, it’s only rheumatism,” he said. “You - ain’t a friend of his, are you?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, my dear fellow, of course I am. By the very nature of his profession - Mr. Arkush is the friend of every body; and I am the friend of every - friend of mine. Consequently but the deduction is too obvious. Here, take - him my card and say that if he is not too ill I shall hope to be - admitted.’ - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps I’d better,” said the young man, reflectively.—“Becky,” - he called, raising his voice. - </p> - <p> - Becky appeared. - </p> - <p> - “Good-afternoon, Miss Rebecca,” said Merivale, lifting his hat. - </p> - <p> - “Mind the shop,” said the young man to Becky, and thereat vanished. - </p> - <p> - “Come this way,” he said to us, presently returning. - </p> - <p> - He conducted us into the cavernous back room. The atmosphere was heavy - with the scent of stale cookery. The walls were lined with shelves, - bearing mysterious parcels done up in paper winding-sheets. Under a grimy - window at the further end an old man sat in an easy chair, a patch-work - quilt infolding his legs. Bald, beardless, with sharply accentuated - features and a yellow skin, he looked like a Midas whose magic was - beginning to operate upon himself. - </p> - <p> - “Dear me!” cried Merivale, advancing toward him. “I’m shocked to find you - suffering like this, Mr. Arkush. Do the legs give you much pain? You must - try petroleum liniment. I’ll send you a bottle. They say it’s the best - remedy in the world.—But tell me, how are you getting on? Do you - notice any improvement?” - </p> - <p> - The old man’s face wore a puzzled expression. “What was the business you - wanted to see me about?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, never mind about business till you have quieted my anxiety regarding - your health. Besides, are you sure you will be able to attend?” - </p> - <p> - The mask of Midas betrayed a tendency to smile. “Come, time is money; - hurry up,” said its owner. He had a strong Jewish accent, thus: “Dime iss - money.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well,” said Merivale, “if you don’t think it will disturb you, I’ll - come to the point. But let me disarm beforehand any suspicion which the - nature of my errand may be calculated to inspire. I am <i>not</i> a - detective. I am <i>not</i> on the track of stolen goods. I am simply a - private individual desirous of gaining certain information for certain - strictly legitimate ends. So you need have no fear of compromising - yourself by speaking with entire unreserve. Shall I proceed?” - </p> - <p> - “My Gott, what are you talking about? Don’t make foolishness any longer,” - exclaimed Mr. Arkush with some degree of vivacity. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Arkush,” said Merivale in his most solemn tones, “do you remember - this?” extracting the miniature from his pocket and handing it to the - pawnbroker. - </p> - <p> - The latter donned a pair of spectacles and holding the picture off at - arm’s length, scrutinized it in silence. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I remember it,” he replied finally, “I sold it to a gentleman some - time ago. What of it?” - </p> - <p> - “You did. You sold it about a year ago to a gentleman with a white beard. - Recollect?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes, yes: you are right. He had a white beard. He was also a Jew. We - spoke in <i>Judisch</i>. I remember.” - </p> - <p> - “By Jove, hasn’t Mr. Arkusha wonderful memory?” cried Merivale, turning to - me. - </p> - <p> - “I happen to remember,” volunteered Mr. Arkush, unperturbed by the - compliment, “because when I put that article into the window I said to - myself, ‘You won’t get no customer for that. What good is it to anyone? - You made a mistake to lend your money on it. That was a loss.’ But the - very same day the old gentleman came in and bought it, which was a - surprise.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I see. Could you tell me, Mr. Arkush, of whom you got it originally—who - pledged it with you?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Du lieber Gott!</i> how should I remember that? It was two years ago - already.” - </p> - <p> - “True, but—but your books would show.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my books would show the name the person gave.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, will you kindly refer to your books?” - </p> - <p> - “Ach, you make me much trouble!—Yakub,” he called. - </p> - <p> - The young man came. - </p> - <p> - Arkush told Yakub to get him the ledger for 18—. It was a ponderous - and dingy volume. Yakub held it open while his employer turned the pages, - running his finger from the top to the bottom of each. At length the - finger reached a stand-still. Mr. Arkush said, “Yes, I have found it. It - was pawned with me by a man calling himself Joseph White.” - </p> - <p> - “The date?” - </p> - <p> - “The 16th January.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you any means of recalling what sort of looking individual Joseph - White was? And, by the way, is his residence given?” - </p> - <p> - “‘Residence, Harlem,’ it says. That’s all. How should I remember his - looks?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course—you see so many people in the course of a year, it is not - wonderful that you should forget.—But tell me, did White put any - thing else in pawn that day?” - </p> - <p> - “No, sir; nothing else.” - </p> - <p> - “He simply pawned this one article and went away; that’s all?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s all.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum!” - </p> - <p> - Merivale reflected. At length he resumed. “But at any other time—that - is, does White’s name appear on your ledger under any other date?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you expect me to read through the book?” inquired Arkush, with the - tone of protestation. “That is too much.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m awfully sorry to annoy you, but this information I am seeking is of - such great importance—you understand—it’s worth a - consideration.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well, that’s different,” said Arkush. “What will you give?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll give twenty-five cents for each month that you go over—is it - enough?” - </p> - <p> - “Here, Yakub,” cried Arkush. “Run back from January 16th, and see if you - find the name of Joseph White again.” - </p> - <p> - Yakub carried the ledger to a desk hard by, and began his task. - </p> - <p> - “Do you smoke?” Merivale asked the old man, offering him a cigar. - Presently the air became blue with aromatic vapor. - </p> - <p> - “Here you are!” called Yakub from his stool. He proceeded to read aloud, - “‘December 7th—one onyx seal ring—amount, one dollar and a - quarter—to Joseph White—residence, Leonard street—ticket-number, - 15,672. Same date—one ornamented wooden box—amount, fifteen - cents—to Joseph White—residence, as above—ticket-number, - 15,67.’.rdquo; - </p> - <p> - “Keep still,” said Merivale in an aside, as he saw my lips open. “I’ll do - the talking.—I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Arkush. Now, if I - may trespass just a little further upon your indulgence, can you tell me - whether you still have either of those articles in stock? If so, I should - be glad to see them—with a view to purchasing, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Look, Yakub,” said Arkush. “Was those goods redeemed?” - </p> - <p> - Yakub returned the ledger to the shelf whence he had taken it, and - produced another book of similar proportions in its stead. Presently he - said, “Number 15,672, sold August 20, 18—; Number 15,673—see - profit and loss.” - </p> - <p> - “Number 15,672 was the ring, was it not?” asked Merivale. “Number 15,673 - is referred to the account of profit and loss—will you kindly turn - to it under that head, Mr. Yakub?” - </p> - <p> - Yakub possessed himself of a third volume, and in due time read, “‘Number - 15,673—July, 18—, given to R.—Amount of loss, fifteen - cents.’.rdquo; - </p> - <p> - “Let me see that entry,” said Arkush. - </p> - <p> - After he had scrutinized it, “Oh yes,” he continued, “I recollect. White - was a colored man. I recollect all about it. That ring and that box were - the first things he brought here; that picture was the last. I happen to - recollect because I gave that box to my daughter, Rebecca, instead of - offering it for sale.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said Merivale, “then I suppose Miss Rebecca has it still. Could she - be persuaded to show it to us?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know. I will ask her.” - </p> - <p> - He sent Yakub into the front room with instructions for Rebecca to present - herself. - </p> - <p> - On her arrival, they held a brief conference together in <i>Judisch</i>. - Then Rebecca went away, and Arkush said to us, “Yes, she has got it yet. - She has gone to fetch it.” - </p> - <p> - During her absence Merivale resumed, “You are quite sure that it is - useless to go further back in your books—that the name of White - doesn’t occur in any other place?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I am sure. I recollect perfectly. He was a colored man. He only - came twice.” - </p> - <p> - “I notice that on one occasion his address is given as Harlem, on another - as Leonard street. How is that?” - </p> - <p> - “How do I know? Maybe he moved. Maybe neither address was his true one. - These people very often give false names and addresses.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose they do,” Merivale assented, and thereafter held his peace, - chewing his nether lip as his habit was when engrossed in thought. - </p> - <p> - For my part I could not see that we had made much progress. I was - beginning to get impatient. - </p> - <p> - Becky reappeared, bearing the box. - </p> - <p> - The box was about ten inches square by four or five in depth. It was - empty. Merivale did not allow me to examine it. “Wait,” he said, as I - reached out my hand to take it. - </p> - <p> - “Would you mind very much parting with this box, Miss Arkush?” he asked, - fixing a pair of languishing eyes upon Rebecca’s face. - </p> - <p> - “What will you give me for it?” the business-like young lady inquired. - </p> - <p> - “What will you accept?” - </p> - <p> - “What’s it worth, father?” - </p> - <p> - “That box is worth two dollars any how,” replied the shameless old usurer, - regardless of the fact that we knew to a mill what he had paid for it. - </p> - <p> - “Then certainly this will be enough,” said Merivale, and he slipped a - five-dollar gold piece into Rebecca’s palm. Then he settled with Arkush, - bestowed a gratuity upon Yakub, and bidding an affable good-by to every - body, led me out through the shop into the street. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” I said, “we have run against the dead wall that you foresaw.” - </p> - <p> - “So it appears,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “The picture was pawned by a colored man only two years ago—that is, - four-and-twenty years after my father’s death. We don’t know of any means - by which to reach that colored man; but even if we did—” - </p> - <p> - “It would be a forlorn hope.” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly. So that we stand just as we did before we left home, do we not? - Except that you are by five dollars a poorer man. It was sheer - extravagance, your purchasing that box. I suppose your imagination - connected it with <i>the</i> box—the box that Dr. Hirsch told me of. - But the probabilities are overwhelmingly against that contingency. Then, - why did you waste your money, buying it? Intrinsically, it isn’t worth - carrying away.” - </p> - <p> - “Hush, hush,” interposed my friend. “Don’t talk to me. I have an idea—an - idea for a story—àpropos of Arkush and his daughter. Bless me with - silence until I have meditated it to my soul’s satisfaction.” - </p> - <p> - At home he began, “Yes, as you have said, our interview with Arkush was - not fruitful. We have simply learned the name—or the assumed name—of - the last owner of your father’s picture—for, that it is your - father’s picture I have no sort of doubt. The next step would logically be - to find Mr. White and question him. It is possible that a tempting - advertisement in the newspaper might fetch him; but it is not probable. - Very likely, he would never see it. Very likely, he is a thief, and even - if he did see it, would be restrained by caution from replying to it. So - that the outlook is not hopeful. As for this box being <i>the</i> box—why, - the hypothesis is absurd. It was not on that supposition that I bought it. - And even if it were <i>the</i> box, it would be of little consequence, - empty as it is. I trust you are not too much disappointed.” - </p> - <p> - “By no means. I have managed to live for a considerable number of years in - my present state of ignorance about my vanished legacy, and doubtless I - shall pull through a few years more. Only, of course I was bound to follow - the clew that this picture seemed to furnish, as far as it would lead; and - having done so I am contented. I was not very hopeful when we started out, - wherefore I am not very disappointed at the result. Let’s think no more - about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Good! Your mind is imbued with a sound philosophy. But now—” - </p> - <p> - “But now, tell me why in the name of common sense you invested five - dollars in that box?” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely what I was driving at. Now you are going to have a practical - illustration of the value of experience.” - </p> - <p> - He took the box up from the table where he had laid it. - </p> - <p> - “You think that ‘intrinsically, this wasn’t worth carrying away,’ and that - my expenditure of half an eagle was a reckless waste of good material. To - an inexperienced observer your view would certainly seem the correct one. - The box is scarcely beautiful. The wood is oak. The metal with which its - surface is so profusely ornamented looks like copper. The thing as a whole - appears to have been designed for a cheapish jewel-case, now in the last - stage of decrepitude. Do I express your sentiments?” - </p> - <p> - “Eloquently and with precision.” - </p> - <p> - “But you, my dear Lexow, are not a connoisseur. I, as chance would have - it, have seen a box of this description before; saw one in France, the - property of a lady of high degree; and, strange as it may seem, I don’t - believe a hundred bright gold pieces such as the one I gave Rebecca, could - have induced my French lady friend to part with it. Guess why.” - </p> - <p> - “Why? Oh, I suppose it had certain associations that made her want to keep - it. We often prize things quite irrespective of their market value. But go - on: don’t be so roundabout.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, the reason—at least one reason—for her setting such - store by the box in question—which, I must remind you, was the very - duplicate of the one we have here—the reason, I say, was that she - knew enough about such matters to recognize that box for a specimen of - cinque-cento—<i>a specimen of cinque-cento!</i> Now do you begin to - realize that the paltry five dollars were not exorbitant?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, from the standpoint of an antiquary, an amateur of bric-a-brac, I - suppose it was not.” - </p> - <p> - “Excellent! No, sir; on the contrary, it was an immense bargain, a - thorough-going stroke of luck. But now please take the box into your own - hands, treat it gingerly, inspect it carefully, and tell me whether you - remark any thing extraordinary about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing, except that it is extraordinarily ugly and doesn’t speak well - for cinque-cento,” I replied, after the requisite examination. - </p> - <p> - “Another proof that <i>das Sehen muss gelernt sein!</i> Here, I will - enlighten you.—You behold this metal work which a moment since we - disposed of as copper; learn that it is bronze; and not cast bronze, - either, but wrought bronze, bronze shaped with hammer and chisel. Look - closely at it; note the forms into which it has been modeled. See these - roses, these lilies, these lotus leaves; see how exquisitely they are - fashioned; see how they are massed together into a harmonious <i>ensemble</i>. - Now hold it close to your eyes: see—do you see?—this serpent - twined among the flowers! The artist must have worked from life—the - very texture of the skin is reproduced—it makes one shudder.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I said, “I admit it is a fine piece of work.” - </p> - <p> - “But we have not yet exhausted the list of its virtues by any means. Now - open it and look at the interior.” - </p> - <p> - “I see nothing remarkable about the interior,” I replied, “nothing but - bare wood.” - </p> - <p> - “That is all <i>you</i> see; but watch.” - </p> - <p> - He applied the point of a pencil to one of the series of nail-heads with - which the top of the lid was studded. It appeared to sink a hair’s-breadth - into the wood. Thereat the lower surface of the lid dropped down, - disclosing a hollow space between it and the upper.—“A double - cover,” he said, “a place for hiding things and—hello! it isn’t - empty!” - </p> - <p> - No, it wasn’t empty. It contained a large, square envelope. Merivale - hastily made a grab for it, and crossed over to the gas-fixture. “Have we - stumbled upon a romance?” he cried. Holding it up to the light, presently - he said: “Come hither, Lexow. The writing is German script. I can’t read - it. Come and help.” - </p> - <p> - He put the envelope into my hands. I ran my eyes over the writing. Next - moment the envelope fluttered to the floor. I grasped Merivale’s arm to - support myself. My breath became short and quick. “I was not prepared for - this,” I gasped. - </p> - <p> - “For what? What is the trouble?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - I sank into a chair. Merivale picked up the envelope and studied it - intently. “I can make nothing out of it,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Give it to me—I will read it to you,” I rejoined. - </p> - <p> - This is what I read:— - </p> - <p> - “To be delivered to my son, Ernest Neuman, upon his attaining the age of - one-and-twenty years. Let there be no failure, as the will of a dying man - is honored.—To my son: Open and read on your twenty-first birthday. - Be alone when you read.—Your father, Ernest Neuman.” - </p> - <p> - Neither of us broke silence for some minutes afterward. - </p> - <p> - At last, “I guess I’d better clear out,” said Merivale. “This is - considerably more than we had bargained for. I suppose you’d like to be - alone. I’ll remain in the next room. Call, if you want me.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I returned, “I may as well read it at once. But do you know—it’s - quite natural, doubtless—I really dread opening it? Who can tell - what its contents may be? Who can tell what information it may convey, to - the detriment of that ignorance which is bliss? Who can tell what duty it - may impose—what change it may make necessary in my mode of life? I—I - am really afraid of it. The superscription is not reassuring—and - then, this strange accident by which it has reached its destination after - so many years! It is like a fatality.” - </p> - <p> - “It is inevitable that you should feel this way. The suddenness of the - business was enough to shatter your self-possession. At the same time you - would best not delay about reading it. You won’t be able to rest until - you’ve done so, you know.—Yes, indeed, it is like a fatality—like - an incident in a novel—one of those happenings that we never expect - to see occur in real life. I’ll wait in the next room till you call.” - </p> - <p> - My heart stood still as I broke the seal. Four double sheets of thin - glazed paper, covered with minute German script. The ink was faded, and - there were a good many blots and interlineations; so that it was only by - dint of straining my eyesight to the utmost that I could decipher my - father’s message. But screwing up my courage, I attacked it, nor did I - pause till I had read the last word. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span> ERE is a - translation:— - </p> - <p> - “In the name of God, Amen! - </p> - <p> - “To my son: - </p> - <p> - “You are a little less than two years old; I, your father, am dying. I - shall be dead before your birthday. That will be the 6th <i>Cheshvan</i>. - It is now the 2nd <i>Ellul</i> The physician gives me till some time in <i>Tishri</i> - to keep possession of my faculties. I am dying before my time. I have - something yet to accomplish in this world. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - has willed that it be accomplished. He has willed that you accomplish it - in my stead. I am in my bed as I write this, in the bed from which I shall - not rise again. Through the open door of my room I can hear you crowing in - your nurse’s arms. Ah, would that you could understand by word of mouth - from me now, what I am compelled to write. There is so much that a man can - not but forget to put down, when he is writing. Yet <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will illumine my mind and strengthen my - trembling fingers. It will not allow me to forget any thing that is - essential. When this is completed, I shall put it into safe hands, that it - may be delivered to you at the proper time. I have no fear. I am sure it - will reach you. It will reach you sooner or later, though all men conspire - to the contrary. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has promised it. He - will render this writing indelible, this paper indestructible. He will - guide this to you, even as He guides the river to the sea, the star to the - zenith. Blessed be the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> forever. - </p> - <p> - “My son, before you read further, cover your head and pray. Pray to <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> for strength. Pray that the will of your - father may be done. Pray that you may be directed aright for the - fulfillment of this errand of justice with which I charge you. - </p> - <p> - “You have prayed. I also have laid aside my pen for a moment, and, - summoning your nurse to bring you to my bedside, have prayed with my hand - upon your head. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will be with you as you - read. Read on. - </p> - <p> - “My son, you do not, you will never know your mother. You do not love her; - you hear not the sound of her voice; it is forbidden you to gaze into the - lustrous depths of her eyes. Ah, my son, you little guess how much you - lost when you lost your mother. But you must learn the truth. - </p> - <p> - “Your mother was younger than I by seven years. I am thirty. Your mother - would be three-and-twenty had she lived. She was nineteen when I married - her. It was in Savannah, Georgia, going on five years ago. Ah, my Ernest, - I can not tell you how beautiful your mother appeared to me when I saw her - first. I can not tell you with what great love I loved her. Suppose that - you had never seen a stone more precious than a pebble such as may be - picked up in our back garden, and that all at once a diamond were shown to - you, a diamond of the purest water: would you not distrust your eyes, - crying, ‘Ah, so fine, so wonderful! Can it be?—So was it when I saw - your mother. I had seen pebbles innumerable, ay, and mock diamonds too. - She was the first true diamond I had ever seen. I loved her at the first - glance.—How long, after the sun has risen, does it take the waters - of the earth to sparkle with the sunlight? So long it took my heart to - love, after my eyes for the first time had met your mother’s. But how much - I loved her, how every drop of my life was sucked up and absorbed into my - love of her, it would be useless for me to try to make you understand. - </p> - <p> - “And yet, loving her as I did, I hesitated to bespeak her for my wife. - Why? - </p> - <p> - “In my eighteenth year my own father—your grandfather, of holy - memory—had died. On his death-bed he called me to him. He said: - ‘When you have become a man you will meet many women. To one of them your - heart will go out in love. You will desire her for your wife. But I say to - you here on my death-bed, beware! Do not marry, though your love be - greater than your life. - </p> - <p> - “‘In the fourth generation back of me our ancestor was betrayed by the - wife of his choice. So great was his hatred of her on this account, that - he wished his seed, contaminated as it was by having taken root in her - womb, to become extinct. Therefore he forbade his son to marry. And to - this prohibition he attached a penalty. - </p> - <p> - “If, in defiance of his wish, his son should take unto himself a woman, - then should he too taste the bitterness of infidelity within the - household, then should he too be betrayed and dishonored by his wife. And - this penalty he made to extend to the seventh and eighth generations. - Whosoever of his progeny should enter into the wedded state should enter - by the same step into the antechamber of hell. - </p> - <p> - “‘But his son laughed as he listened; and within two years he was married. - But within two years also the laughter froze upon his lips. For behold, - the curse of his father had come to pass! - </p> - <p> - “‘Thus ever since. Each of our ancestors, despite his father’s caution, - has taken a wife. He has been betrayed and dishonored by her even as I - have been betrayed and dishonored by your mother. He has repeated to his - own son the family malediction even as I am now repeating it to you.—Let - that malediction then go down into the grave with me. Do not marry, as you - wish for peace now and hereafter.’ - </p> - <p> - “It was in this wise that on his death-bed my father had spoken to me. I - remembered his words when I found that I had begun to love a woman. It was - for this reason that I hesitated to ask your mother to become my wife. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but, my son, of what avail is hesitation at such a moment?—when - you are gazing into the eyes of the woman you love? With sails set and a - strong wind behind it, can the ship hesitate to speed across the sea? - Thrust into a bed of live coals, can the wood hesitate to kindle and burn? - With the sun beating hot upon the earth above it, can the seed hesitate to - sprout and send forth rootlets? How long then could I, with the light of - your mother’s face shining upon my pathway, how long could I hesitate to - say, ‘I love you. Be my wife’.—We were married. - </p> - <p> - “You, my son, will never know how happy it is possible for a man to be. A - woman such as your mother is born only once in all time. You will never - meet with her like. You will never know the supreme joy of having her for - your wife. Her breath was sweeter than the fragrance of the sweetest - flower. The song of the nightingale was less musical than her simplest - word. All the light of heaven was eclipsed by the light that glowed far - down in her eyes. Her presence at my side was a foretaste of paradise. - Only to take her hand into my own and stroke its warm, satiny skin, was an - ecstasy which I can not describe, which I can not remember even at this - extreme moment without a quickening of the pulse. For three, yes, for four - years after our marriage we were so happy that we cried each morning and - each evening at our prayers, ‘Lord, what have we done to merit such - happiness?’—I, my son, laughed as I recalled the dying words of my - father. ‘The family curse in my case,’ I said, ‘has gone astray. I have no - fear.’—Alas! I took too much for granted. I congratulated myself too - soon. Our happiness was doomed to be burst like a bubble at a touch. The - family curse had perhaps gone astray for a little while: it was bound to - find its way back before the end. The will of our ancestor could not be - thwarted. - </p> - <p> - “The first three years of our married life we passed at Savannah, dwelling - with the parents of your mother. There you were born—as it seemed, - in order to consummate and seal with the seal of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> our - perfect joy. Then, when you were still but three months old, it became - necessary that I should return and take up my residence again in New York. - We were not sorry to come to New York. - </p> - <p> - “Nicholas had been my closest friend for many years. Boys together at - Breslau, we had crossed the sea together, and had started our new life - together here in America. Before our wedding I had described Nicholas to - your mother, saying, ‘Him also must you love;’ and to Nicholas I had - written, bidding him include my wife in his love of me.—This was why - we were not sorry to leave Savannah and come to New York: because Nicholas - was here, because we wanted to be near to our best friend.—Nicholas - met us as we disembarked from the sailing vessel that had brought us - hither. It made my heart warm to greet my old comrade and to present to - him my wife and my son. - </p> - <p> - “I was a true friend to Nicholas. After your mother and you, he was first - in my heart. I would have shared with him my last drop of water, my last - crumb of bread; and he, I believed, would have done the same by me. My - purse was always open for Nicholas to put in his hand and take out what he - would, even to the last penny. I thought Nicholas was pure gold. I trusted - him as I trusted myself. I said to your mother, ‘No evil can betide you so - long as Nicholas is alive. If any thing should happen to me, in him you - will have a brother, in him our Ernest will have a second father.’ It gave - me a sense of perfect security, made me feel that the strength of my own - right arm was doubled, the fact that Nicholas was my friend. - </p> - <p> - “Good. After my return to New York the intimacy between Nicholas and - myself increased. He was constantly at our house. We were always glad to - see him. A place was always laid for him at our table; it made our hearts - light to have him with us, so bright, so gay, withal so good, so sterling, - such a trusty friend was he. I delighted to witness the friendship that - rapidly sprang up between your mother and Nicholas. He entertained her, - told her stories, made her laugh.—She would often exclaim, ‘Dear, - good Nicholas! What should we do without him?’ I replied, ‘That is right. - Let him be next to your son and your husband in your affection.’ I do not - think it is common for one man to love another as I loved Nicholas. - </p> - <p> - “But after we had been in New York a little more than two months, your - mother’s manner toward Nicholas began to change. She was cold and formal - to him; when he would arrive, instead of running up with outstretched - hands and crying, ‘Ah, it is you!’ she would courtesy to him and say - without smiling, ‘How do you do?’—She laughed no more at his - stories, she appeared to avoid him when she could; when she could not, she - was silent and morose. I could see no reason for this. I was pained. I - said, ‘Bertha, why do you behave so toward our best friend?’ Your mother - pretended not to understand. ‘Don’t deny it,’ I insisted. ‘You are as - distant, as polite to him, as if he were a mere acquaintance.’ Your mother - answered, ‘I am sorry to distress you. I don’t know what you mean. I was - not aware that I had been discourteous to your friend.’—’Has - Nicholas done any thing?’ I asked.—’No, he has done nothing.’—I - blamed your mother severely. I besought her to subdue what I took for her - caprice. Yet every day her conduct toward Nicholas grew colder and more - formal. Every day I reproved her more and more earnestly. This was the - nearest approach to a quarrel that your mother and I had ever had. It - grieved me deeply that she should adopt such a manner toward my friend. I - was all the more cordial to him in consequence. I hoped that he would not - notice the turn affairs had taken. - </p> - <p> - “Thus till almost a year ago. You lacked but a fortnight of being one year - old. - </p> - <p> - “Business had kept me down town till late. At last I made up my mind that - I should not be able to go home at all that night. So I told Nicholas to - visit Bertha and let her know. ‘Spend the evening with her,’ I said. - ‘Explain how it is that I am compelled to remain here. Tell her that I - will come home to breakfast. Be sure to entertain her. I don’t want to - think of her as lonesome.’ - </p> - <p> - “Next morning I hurried home. I stole softly into the house, to surprise - your mother. Ah, my son, my son, I need not give you the details.—The - house was empty. There was a brief letter from your mother. As I read it, - my head swam, a mortal weakness overpowered me, I sank in a swoon upon the - floor. - </p> - <p> - “When I recovered from my swoon, I was lying undressed in bed. There were - people round about. I remembered every thing. What! I was lying idle in - bed, and Nicholas still alive? I started up to be upon his track. I fell - back, impotent. ‘What has befallen me?’ I asked. I was informed that I had - had a hemorrhage of the lungs. - </p> - <p> - “I need not tell you what I suffered. My suffering was great in proportion - to my love. The shame, the disgrace, were nothing. But at one blow to be - deprived of wife, child, friend; to have my love and my faith and my - happiness shattered at one stroke: it was too much. Yet, let this be - impressed upon you, that not for one instant did I blame your mother. I - realized that she, like myself, was but the helpless victim of the family - curse. It was my fault. I had defied the inevitable. The keenest agony of - all was to lie there, unable to rise, and think of Nicholas. Ah, a - thousand times in imagination I tore his heart bleeding from his breast! I - hated him now, as much as I had formerly cherished him. And yet, I believe - I could in the end have forgiven him, if—ah, but of what use to say, - ‘If’. Listen to the truth. - </p> - <p> - “It was a short four months afterward—four months that had seemed, - however, a thousand years to me—and I still lay here dead in life, - when the good Dr. Hirsch, (to whom now in my dying hours I commend you, my - son), came to my bedside and said that he had seen your mother. He - believed that if I would take her back, she would be glad. If I would take - her back! ‘Bring her to me,’ I cried. And I thanked <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - for this manifestation of his mercy. ‘You must prepare for a sad change in - her,’ said Dr. Hirsch.—’Bring her, bring her,’ I cried impatiently. - </p> - <p> - “Not even to you, my son, can I reveal the secret of that first hour, of - that deep hour, when your mother sat again at my side and received my - pardon—nay, not my pardon, for it was her place to pardon me. If - before that it had been possible for me to forgive Nicholas, it was so no - longer. For your mother’s face was deathly pale, her cheek hollow, her eye - bright with fever. Nicholas had—what? Petted her for a month; for a - month, ignored her; for another month, ill treated her; in the end, - abandoned her, it might be to starve. Nicholas had done this Nicholas whom - I had loved and trusted. As I saw your mother pine away, grow paler and - more feeble beneath my sight, my hatred of that man intensified. On the - day your mother died, I promised her that I would get well and live and - force him to atone for his offense in blood. My great hatred seemed to - endow me with strength. I believed that <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - would not let me die until I had once again met Nicholas face to face. - </p> - <p> - “But this delusion was short-lived. A second hemorrhage threw me back, - weaker than ever, upon my bed. The physician told me that I had absolutely - no ground for hope. It was evident that <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - had willed that the chastisement of my enemy should not be wrought out by - my hand. ‘But’ is just,’ I said. ‘He will not allow a crime like this to - go unavenged.’ - </p> - <p> - “It was then that my thought turned to you. And all this time, what of - you? You too were lying at the point of death. Of you too the physician - said, ‘He can not survive the winter.’ You, my single hope, threatened at - any moment to breathe your last. ‘But no,’ I cried, ‘it shall not be so. - My Ernest must live. As <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> is both just - and merciful, Ernest will live.’ - </p> - <p> - “I watched the fluctuations of your illness, divided between hope and - fear, between faith in the goodness of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - and doubt lest the worst might come to pass. Ah, that was a breathless - period. Day after day passed by, and there was no certainty. Constantly - the doctor said, ‘Death is merely a question of a few days, more or less.’ - Constantly my heart replied, ‘No, no, he will not die.” has decreed that - he shall live.’ I prayed that your life might be spared, morning, noon, - and night. My own strength was ebbing away. But that was of little matter. - I wanted to hold out only until I should know for good and all whether my - son was to survive. - </p> - <p> - “Blessed be the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> forever! At the - moment when the physician said, ‘He will die within an hour,’ lo! the God - of our fathers touched your body with his healing wand. There was a change - for the better. The physician himself could not deny it. He maintained - that it was but transitory. ‘Nothing short of a miracle,’ said he, ‘can - save this baby’s life.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘We will see,’ said I aloud. To myself I said, ‘The miracle has been - performed.’ - </p> - <p> - “I was right. Two days later the physician confessed that your chances of - recovery were good. Two days later still you were out of danger. <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> had heard my prayers. The God of Israel is a - righteous God! Oh, for the tongue of the prophets to sing a sufficient - song of thanksgiving to <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />. He has - snatched you from the clutch of death for a purpose. He will see to it - that you fulfill that purpose, though your heart be burned to ashes in the - task. He will make you to be great like Ephraim and Manasseh. (<i>Y si me - ha Elohim k’.phraim v’chi Manasseh!</i>) - </p> - <p> - “Again I have summoned your nurse, to bring you to my bedside. Again I - have laid down my pen, to place my hand upon your head and bless you in - the name of Again, before reading further, pause for a space and pray that - the breath of God may make strong your heart.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - “My son, I allow you one-and-twenty years to become a man, one-and-twenty - years to gain strength of arm and firmness of will. I allow you - one-and-twenty years of youth, one-and-twenty years in which to enjoy - life, free of care. On your twenty-first birthday, if the good and - reverend Dr. Hirsch live, he will put this writing into your hands. Should - he be dead, others will see that you receive it. On your twenty-first - birthday you will be a boy no longer. You will recognize yourself for a - man. You will ask, ‘What is to be the aim, the occupation of my life?’ You - will read this writing, and your question will be answered. Your father on - the brink of the grave pauses to speak to you as follows:— - </p> - <p> - “In the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />, who in response to my - prayers has saved your life, who created you out of the dust and the - ashes, who tore you from the embrace of death and restored health to your - shattered body for one sole purpose, in Ins name I charge you: Find my - enemy out and put him to death. He is still a young man. He will scarcely - be an old man when you have become of age. It is a long time to wait, a - long time to defer my vengeance, one-and-twenty years, but so I believe - <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has willed it. After you have reached - the age of one-and-twenty years, let that be the single motive and object - of your days: to find him out and put him to death by the most painful - mode of death you can devise. Do not strike him down with one blow. - Torture him to death. Pluck his flesh from his bones shred by shred. - Prolong his agony to the utmost. Thus shall you compensate in some measure - for the one-and-twenty years of delay. And again and again as he is - writhing under your heel, cry out to him, ‘Remember, remember the friend - who loved you and whom you betrayed, whose honey you turned to gall and - wormwood.’ But, if meanwhile from other causes death should have overtaken - him, then shall you transfer your anger to his next-of-kin; then, I charge - you, visit the penalty of his sin upon his children and his children’s - children. For has not <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> decreed that the - sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children even unto the third - and fourth generations? The blood of Nicholas must be spilled, whether it - courses in his veins or in the veins of his posterity. The race of - Nicholas must be exterminated, obliterated from the face of the earth. As - you honor the wish of a dying father, as you dread the wrath of <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />, falter not in this that I command. Search - the four corners of the world until you have unearthed my enemy or his - kindred. Empty his blood upon the sand as you would the blood of swine. - And think, as he is calling out to you for mercy, think, ‘At last my - father’s revenge is wreaked! At last my father’s spirit can rest content. - Even now my father is in transports of delight as he witnesses this - fruition of his hope. At each thrust of my knife into our enemy’s flesh, - the heart of my father leaps with satisfaction. At each scream of pain - that escapes from our enemy’s throat, the voice of my father waxes great - with joy.’ - </p> - <p> - “Ah, my son, at that mighty hour, whether I be confined in the bottom - fastnesses of hell or exalted to the mountain tops of paradise, I shall - know what is happening, I shall fling myself upon my face and sing a song - of praise to <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> for the unspeakable rapture which he has - permitted me to enjoy. - </p> - <p> - “My son, I trust you. You will not falter. You will remember that <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has saved you from death for this solitary - purpose, that you have no right to your own life except as you employ it - for the chastisement of my foe. I have no fear. You will hate him with a - hatred equal to my own. You will wreak that hatred as I should have - wreaked it, had my life been spared. - </p> - <p> - “I have no fear, no distrust, and yet—all things are possible. My - son, I warn you. In case you be faint-hearted, in case you recoil from - this mission you are charged with, or in case by any accident—though - <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will allow no such accident to happen—in - case by any accident this writing should fail to reach you, I shall be - prepared. From my grave I shall watch over you. From my grave I shall - guide you. From my grave I shall see to it that you do not neglect the - duty of your life. Though seas roll between you and him, I shall see to it - that you two meet. - </p> - <p> - “Though your heart be bound to him as to your own flesh and blood, I shall - see to it that you swerve not. And if he be dead, I shall see to it that - you are brought face to face with his kindred. Man, woman, or child, spare - neither. Young or old, able or feeble-bodied, let it matter not. In case - your strength desert you, in case your courage weaken, I shall be at your - side, I shall nerve your arm. If you hesitate, remember that my spirit - will possess your body and do what must be done in spite of your - hesitation. There will be no escape for you. As certainly as the moon must - follow the earth, so certainly will and must you, my son, accomplish the - purpose for which your life is given.—But falter not, as you cherish - the fair name of your mother, as you honor the desire, as you fear the - curse, of a dying father, as you hope for peace for your own soul. - </p> - <p> - “I have done. I think I have made every thing clear. Farewell. - </p> - <p> - “Your father, Ernest Neuman. - </p> - <p> - “I have written the above during my moments of strength for the last four - days. Now I have just read it over. I find that it but feebly expresses - all that I mean and feel. But <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will - enlighten you as you read. It is enough. I find also that I have omitted - to mention his full name. His name is Nicholas Pathzuol.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE emotions that - grew upon me, as I read my father’s message, need not be detailed. How, as - I painfully deciphered it, word following upon word added steadily to the - weight of those emotions, until at length it seemed as though the burden - was greater than I could bear, I need not tell. Indeed, so engrossed had I - become by what had gone before, that the sense of the last line did not - penetrate my mind. I leaned back in my chair and drew a long breath like - one exhausted by an effort beyond his strength. I waited for the commotion - of thought and feeling to quiet a little. I was completely horror-stricken - and tired out and bewildered. - </p> - <p> - But by and by it occurred to me, “What did he say the man’s name was?” And - languidly I picked up the paper and read the postscript for a second time. - The next instant I was on my feet, rigid, aghast, for consternation. What! - </p> - <p> - Pathzuol! The name of Veronika! My head swam. It was as if I had sustained - a terrific blow between the eyes. Could it be that this Pathzuol, the man - who had dishonored my mother, the man whom my father had commissioned me - to murder, was <i>her father?</i> the father of her who had indeed been - murdered, and of whose murder I had been accused? The mere possibility - stunned and sickened me. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I - had been under a pretty tense nervous strain ever since the reception of - Tikulski’s letter in the afternoon. This last utterly undid me. My muscles - relaxed, my knees knocked together, the perspiration trickled down my - forehead. I went off into a regular fit of weeping, like a woman. - </p> - <p> - It was not long before Merivale entered. I looked up and saw him standing - over me, with a physiognomy divided between astonishment and contempt. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Lexow,” he said, shaking his head, “I am surprised at you.” Then his - eyes grew stern, and he continued sharply, “Stop! Stop your crying. You - ought to be ashamed. Whatever new misfortune has befallen you, you have no - right to act like this. It is a man’s part to bear misfortune silently. It - is a school-girl’s or a baby’s to take on in this fashion. Stop your - crying, dry your eyes, and show what you are made of. Grit your teeth and - clench your fists and don’t open your mouth till you are ready to behave - like a reasonable being.” - </p> - <p> - His words sobered me to some extent. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” I said, “I am calm now. What do you want?” - </p> - <p> - “If I should do what <i>I</i> want,” he answered, “you would not speedily - forget it. I should—but never mind that. What I want <i>you</i> to - do is to speak up like a man and explain the occasion of this rumpus, if - you can.” - </p> - <p> - “Here, read this,” I said, offering him the paper. - </p> - <p> - He took it, glanced at it, turned it this way and that, handed it back. - “How can I read it?” he said. “It’s German. Read it to me.—Come, - read it to me,” he repeated, as I hesitated. - </p> - <p> - I gulped down my reluctance and read the whole thing through as rapidly as - I could in English. He sat across the table, smoking and drawing figures - in the ash-pan with the ashes of his cigarette. Once in a while I heard - him whistle softly to himself. He had thrown his last cigarette aside and - was biting his fingernails when the reading drew to a close. - </p> - <p> - “No more?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Isn’t that enough?” I rejoined. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I didn’t mean that. Oh, yes; that’s enough; and it’s pretty bad too. - But I expected something worse from the rough way you cut up.” - </p> - <p> - “Worse? In heaven’s name what could be worse? My mother dishonored, my - father broken hearted, and I marked out for a murderer, even from my - cradle? And then—” - </p> - <p> - “I say it’s hard, deucedly hard. But inasmuch as you’re not a murderer, - you know, I wouldn’t let that side of the matter bother me, if I were you. - The bad part of the business is to think of how your father’s happiness, - your mother’s innocence, were destroyed. Think how he must have suffered!” - </p> - <p> - “But you haven’t listened, you haven’t understood the worst, yet. Here, - see his name—Pathzuol.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what of it?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, don’t you remember? It is the same name as hers—Veronika’s—my - sweetheart’s.” - </p> - <p> - “Decidedly!” exclaimed Merivale. “That is a startling coincidence, I - admit.” - </p> - <p> - “Couple that with—with the rest of my father’s story and with—with - the—well, with all the facts—and I think you’ll confess that - it was sufficient to shake me up a bit. To come upon that name at the end - of such a letter, it was like being knocked down. I lost my - self-possession. Think! if he <i>was</i> her father! But, oh no; it isn’t - credible. It’s sheer accident, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course it is. The letter doesn’t say that he was even married. I - suppose there’s more than one Pathzuol in the world as well as more than - one Merivale. But all the same, it’s a coincidence of a sort to stir a - fellow up. I don’t wonder you lost your balance. Only, the idea of - boohooing like a woman! That’s inexcusable. Mercy! what a good hater your - father was! And what an unspeakable wretch, Nicholas!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I went on, “it gave me a pretty severe jolt, the sight of that - name; and I can’t seem to get over it. I don’t know why, but I can’t help - feeling as though there were more in this than either you or I perceive, - as though there were some deduction or other to be drawn from it which is - right within arm’s reach and yet which I can’t grasp—some horrible - corollary, you know. My brain is in a whirl, I—I—” - </p> - <p> - “You are quite unstrung, as it is natural you should be. But you must - exert your reason and put the stopper upon your imagination. Let - deductions and corollaries take care of themselves. Confine yourself to - the facts, and you’ll see that they’re not as bad as they might be, after - all. For example—” - </p> - <p> - “But it is just the facts that perplex and horrify me. My father destines - me to be the murderer of Nicholas Pathzuol or of his next of kin. All - ignorant of this destiny, I meet and love a lady whose name is Pathzuol—a - name so rare that I had never heard it before, and have not since, except - in this writing to-day. My lady is murdered; and I, though innocent, am - suspected and accused of the crime. Add to this my father’s threat to come - back from the grave and use me as his instrument, in case I hesitate or in - case I never receive his letter; and—well, it is like a problem in - mathematics—given this and that, to determine so and so. No, no, - there’s no use denying it, this strange combination of facts must have - some awful meaning. It seems as though each minute I was just on the point - of catching it, and then as I tighten my fingers around it, it escapes - again and eludes me.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, man. You are yielding to your fancy, like a child who, because - he feels oppressed in the dark, conjures up ghosts and goblins, and can - not be persuaded that there are none about, till you light the gas and - show him that the room is empty. Come, light the gas of your common sense! - Recognize that your problem has no solution, none because it is not a true - problem, but merely a fortuitous arrangement of circumstances which - chances to bear a superficial resemblance to one. Reduce your <i>quasi</i> - problem to its simplest terms: thus, given x and y and z, to find the - value of b. Don’t you see that there’s no connection?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course, I acknowledge that I can’t <i>see</i> any connection. - That’s just the trouble. I <i>feel</i> that there must be a connection—one - that I can’t see. If I could only see it, it wouldn’t be so bad. But this - perplexity, this——” - </p> - <p> - “This fiddle-stick! You are resolved to distress yourself, and I suppose - it’s useless for me to labor with you. Only this much I will say, that if - you should bestow a little of the energy you are expending in the effort - to catch hold of a non-existent inference, upon sympathy with your - father’s unhappiness, I should have more respect for you. They talk about - suffering ennobling and chastening men, forsooth! So far as you are - concerned, suffering has done nothing but intensify your natural egotism. - For instance, after reading that letter of your father’s, the first idea - that strikes you is, ‘How does it affect <i>me</i>, how am <i>I</i> - concerned by it?’ whereas the spectacle of your father s immense grief - ought to have absorbed you to the exclusion of every thing else, ought to - have left no room in your mind for any other thought.” - </p> - <p> - But for all Merivale could say by way either of appeal or of reprimand, I - was powerless to subdue that feeling which had begun to stir in my breast. - I recognized that I was unreasonable and selfish, but I was also helpless. - I could not get over the shock I had sustained when Pathzuol’s name first - took shape before my eyes. Every time I remembered that moment—and - it kept recurring to me in spite of myself—my heart sank and my - breath became spasmodic, as if I had been confronted by a ghost. And then - ensued that sensation of groping in the dark after something invisible, - unknown, yet surely there, hovering within arm’s reach, but as elusive as - a will-o’-the-wisp. I struggled with this sensation, tried my utmost to - shake it off, but it sat like a monster on my heart. Its weight was - deadly, its touch was icy; it would not be dislodged. - </p> - <p> - “It is true, all that you say, Merivale,” I returned at length. “But the - question is not one of what I ought to do; it is one of what I can do. I - know I ought to regard this matter in the same collected spirit that you - display; but it concerns me so intimately, you see, that I can’t resist - being somewhat perturbed. My wits, so to speak, have been scattered by an - unexpected blow. I shan’t be able to emulate your <i>sang-froid</i> until - they have got back to their proper places. I’m so heated and upset that I - don’t really know what I think or what I feel. I guess perhaps I’d better - go for a walk and cool off, and arrive at an understanding with myself.” - </p> - <p> - “The very worst thing you could possibly do—go away by yourself and - brood and get more and more morbid every minute. What you want is to think - of something else for a while, and then when you come back to this subject - you’ll be in a condition to regard it in its correct light. Let’s—let’s - play a game of cribbage, or read some Rossetti; or suppose you fiddle a - little?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I feel the need of air and exercise. I’ll go out and take a walk. I - sha’n’. brood, I’ll reflect on the sensible things you’ve said. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - I walked briskly through the streets, striving to collect my faculties, - striving to regain sufficient mental tranquillity to comprehend exactly - what the long and short of the whole business was. But the feeling that - there was something more in it than I could make out, intensified. It - would not be dispelled. The oftener I went over the circumstances, the - more significant they seemed.—Significant of what? Precisely the - question that I could not answer. The longer I allowed my mind to dwell - upon them, the more acute became that sensation of wrestling with a - problem, of groping for a something suspended near to me in the dark. My - father had destined me to be a murderer; the name of my intended victim - was Pathzuol; I had been engaged to a young lady of the same name, very - possibly the daughter of my father’s foe; she had indeed been murdered, - though not by my hand; and yet I, despite my innocence, had been deemed - guilty of the crime: this chain of facts kept passing over and over before - me. I felt that it must mean something; it could not be purely fortuitous; - there was a break, a missing link, which, if I could but supply it, would - make the hidden meaning clear. I walked the streets all night, unable to - fix my thoughts on any thing else. I said, “You are merely wearing - yourself out and getting your brains into a tangle: try to divert your - attention. Count up to a thousand. See how much you can remember of the - Moonlight Sonata. Conjugate a Hebrew verb. Do what you will, only stop - puzzling over this matter. As Merivale says, when you have thought of - something else for a while, you will be in a condition to return to it - with refreshed intelligence, and view it in the right light.” But the next - moment I was at it again, in greater perplexity than ever. Of course, I - succeeded in working myself up to a high degree of nervousness: was as - exhausted and as exasperated as though I had spent an hour in futile - attempts to thread a needle. - </p> - <p> - But now it began to get light. The stillness of the night was broken, my - solitude was disturbed. - </p> - <p> - Hosts of sparrows began to congregate upon the window sills, and their - busy twittering filled the air. First one steam-whistle blew in the - distance, then another nearer by, then another, and finally a chorus of - them: bells began to ring, wagons rattled over the pavement, the shrill - whoo-hoop of the milk-man resounded through the streets. The clatter of - footsteps became audible upon the sidewalk. - </p> - <p> - People began to walk abroad. The sky turned from black to gray, from gray - to blue. Shutters were banged, doors slammed, windows thrown open: - housemaids with brooms and buckets appeared upon the stoops. Dawn had - arrived from across the Ocean with the smell of the sea-breeze still - clinging to her skirts. The city was waking to its feverish multifarious - life.—And the result was that I forgot myself—was penetrated - and exalted by that vague tremulous exhilaration which always accompanies - the first breath of morning. I expanded my lungs and inhaled the fresh air - and felt a glow of warmth and animation shoot through my limbs. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” I cried, “a truce to the blue devils! I will go home and take up my - regular life again, just as though this interruption had not occurred.” - </p> - <p> - I hurried back to our lodgings. Merivale was already up and dressed, - smoking a cigarette over the newspaper. - </p> - <p> - “Hail!” I exclaimed. “I am glad to see you out of bed so early!” - </p> - <p> - “I have not been abed since you left,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - “Why not? What have you been doing?” - </p> - <p> - “Thinking about you—about what can be done to make a man of you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you needn’t worry about that. I’m all right now. I sha’n’. play the - fool again, I promise you. I propose that we sink the last four-and-twenty - hours into eternal oblivion. What do you say?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing would more delight me.” - </p> - <p> - “Good! Let’s begin at the first cause. Where’s the manuscript? We’ll set - fire to it, and agree to believe that it never really existed.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Merivale, “I wouldn’t set fire to it—at least not till it - is manifest whether your present mood is merely a reaction from your late - one, or whether it is going to last. I will dispose of the manuscript—see.” - </p> - <p> - He found it on the table, opened the double cover of the box, restored the - papers to the place they had occupied formerly, and locked the box up in - the closet of his writing-desk. - </p> - <p> - “There,” he said, “that’s the best thing to do. I’ll take care of it. Some - day you may have a little sympathy to waste on your father, and then - you’ll be glad this writing was not destroyed.” - </p> - <p> - We had breakfast, and after the cups and saucers were cleared away, - applied ourselves to our ordinary forenoon occupation. It turned out - indeed that my good spirits were, as Merivale had suspected, to some - extent reactionary: but they left me sober rather than sad. I was - absent-minded and committed numberless blunders while my friend dictated - his poems: but I did not let my thoughts settle down again upon the - matters that had engaged them during the night. They simply wandered about - in a random way from one indifferent topic to another, as it is the habit - of thoughts to do when the thinker has not had his customary allotment of - sleep. Presently Merivale suspended his dictation, and I waited passively - for him to resume, supposing that he had reached a point where reflection - was necessary to further progress. His silence continued. Pretty soon my - eyelids dropped like leaden curtains over my eyes, and my chin sank upon - my breast. I was actually nodding. I started up and pinched myself, - ashamed of appearing drowsy. - </p> - <p> - Lo! I perceived that my friend had met with the same mishap. He too was - nodding in his chair. For a moment we eyed each other sheepishly, each - endeavoring to feign wide wakefulness. Then Merivale rose and stretched - himself and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “For my part I cast off the mask,” he cried. “I am sleepy and I am going - to bed. You’d better follow suit.” - </p> - <p> - I needed no urging. We retired to our dormitory, and as speedily as was - practicable one of us at least fell into an unfathomable slumber. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> DON’. know how - many hours afterward I awoke. Gradually, as consciousness asserted itself, - I realized that somebody was playing a violin in the adjacent room: and at - length it struck me that it must be Merivale practicing. I pricked up my - ears and hearkened. Oh, yes; he was running over his part of the last new - composition we had studied. The clock-like tick-tack of his metronome - marked the rhythm. I lay still and listened till he had repeated the same - phrase some twenty times. Finally I got up and crossed the threshold that - divided us. - </p> - <p> - Merivale kept on playing for a minute or two, unaware of my intrusion. Not - till it behooved him to turn the page did he lift his eyes. Then, - encountering my night-robed figure,they lighted up with merriment. Their - owner lowered his instrument, remained silent for a moment, in the end - gave vent to an uproarious peal of laughter. - </p> - <p> - “What are you laughing at?” I stammered. - </p> - <p> - When he had got his hilarity somewhat under control he replied: “At you. - Come and gaze upon yourself.” And conducting me to a mirror he said, - pointing, “There, isn’t that a funny sight?” - </p> - <p> - I looked sleepy, that was all. My hair was awry, and my eyes were heavy, - and my costume was a trifle wrinkled. Still, I suppose, my general - appearance was sufficiently ludicrous. Be that as it may, I could not help - joining in Merivale’s laughter: and, thus put into good humor at the - outset, I cheerfully complied with his request to hasten through my toilet - and “come and fiddle with him.” - </p> - <p> - “Let’s start here,” he said, opening the book. - </p> - <p> - We read for a while in concert. As usual my arm seemed to swing of its - separate will, I myself becoming all but comatose. By and by I perceived - that Merivale had discontinued and was seated at one side with his - instrument upon his knees. Then I perceived that I was no longer following - the book. I closed my eyes and listened. As usual I heard the voice of my - violin very much as though some other person had been the performer. - </p> - <p> - I found that I was playing a lot of bits from memory. I heard the light, - quick tread of a gavotte which I had learned as a boy and meantime almost - forgotten; I heard snatches from the chants the <i>Chazzan</i> sings in - the synagogue; I heard the Flower Song from Faust mixing itself up with a - recitative from Lohengrin. Then I heard the passionate wail of Chopin - become predominant: the exquisite melody of the <i>Berceuse</i>, motives - from <i>Les Polonaises</i>, and at length the impromptu in C-sharp minor—that - to which I have alluded in the early part of this narrative, as - descriptive of Veronika. Following it, came the songs that Veronika - herself had been most prone to sing, Bizet, Pergolese, Schumann, morsels - of German folk <i>liede</i>, old French romances. And ever and anon that - phrase from the impromptu kept recurring. Every thing else seemed to lead - up to it. It terminated a brilliant passage by Liszt. It cropped out in - the middle of a theme from the Meistersinger. And with its every new - recurrence, the picture of Veronika which it pre sented to my imagination - grew more life-like and palpable, until ere long it was almost as though I - saw her standing near me in substantial objective form. As I have said, I - scarcely realized that it was I who played. Except for the sensation along - my wrist as the bow bit the catgut, I believe I should have quite - forgotten it. But now abruptly, without the least volition upon my part, - my arm acquired a fresh vigor. The voice of my violin increased in volume. - The character of the music underwent a change. From a medley of fragments - it turned to a coherent, continuous whole. Note succeeded note in natural - and inevitable sequence. I tried to recognize the composition. I could - not. It was quite unfamiliar to me. Odd, because of course at some time I - must have practiced it again and again. Otherwise how had I been able to - play it now? It flowed from the strings without hitch or hesitancy. Yet my - best efforts to place it were ineffectual. Doubly odd, because it was no - ordinary composition. It had a striking individuality of its own. - </p> - <p> - It began with laughter-provoking scherzo, as dainty as the pattering of - April rain-drops, as riotous as the frolicking of children let loose from - school; which, by degrees tempering to a quieter allegro, presently - modulated into the minor, and necessarily, therefore, became plaintive and - sentimental. For a while bar succeeded bar, fitful and undetermined, as if - groping blindly for a climax. Next, a quick, fluttering crescendo, and an - exultant major chord. This completed the first movement. The second began - pianissimo upon the A and E strings, an allegretto full of placid - contentment; again, a minor modulation; again, blind groping for a climax, - this time more strenuous than before, tinged by a passion, impelled by an - insatiable desire; adagio on G and D, still minor; then a swift return to - major, a leap of the bow and fingers back to A and E, and on these latter - strings a rhapsody expressive of the utmost possible human joy. Third - movement andante, sober but still joyous; the music, which hitherto had - been restless and destitute of an apparent aim, seemed to have caught a - purpose, to have gained substance and confidence in itself. - </p> - <p> - It proceeded in this wise for several periods, when sharply, without the - faintest warning, it broke into a discordant shriek of laughter, the - laughter of a demon whose evil designs had triumphed. - </p> - <p> - Though I had not recognized the composition, up to this point I had - understood it perfectly. Its intrinsic lucidity carried the intelligence - along. But henceforward I was mystified. The reason for the violent change - of theme, time, and quality, I could not divine; nor could I appreciate, - either, how the subsequent effects were produced or what they were meant - to signify. My impression was, as I have said, that the laughter which my - violin seemed to be echoing was demoniac laughter, the outburst of a Satan - over his success, of a Succubus fastening upon his prey. Yet the next - instant I was doubtful whether it was indeed laughter at all? Was it not - perhaps the hysterical sobbing of a human being frenzied by grief? And - again the next instant neither of these conceptions appeared to be the - correct one. Was it not rather a chorus?—a chorus of witches?—plotting - some fiendish atrocity?—chuckling over a vicious pleasantry?—now, - whispering amicably together, now wrangling ferociously, now uniting in - blood-curdling screams of delight? Whatever it might be, I could not - penetrate its sense. I listened with deepening perplexity. I wished it - would come to an end. But it did not occur to me to stop my arm and lay - aside my bow. The music went on and on—until Merivale caught me by - the shoulder and snatched my violin from my grasp. He was speaking. - </p> - <p> - The descent back to earth was too abrupt. It took me some time to gather - myself together. “Eh—what were you saying?” I asked at last. - </p> - <p> - “I was saying, stop! Consider a fellow’s nervous system. Where in the name - of Lucifer did you learn that infernal music? Whom is it by?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” I answered, “oh, I don’t know whom it is by.” - </p> - <p> - “It out-Berliozes Berlioz,” he added. “Is it his?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps. I don’t remember. I am tired. Let me rest a moment without - talking.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he continued, “it was a terrible strain to listen to it. I am - quite played out—feel as if—forgive the comparison—as if - I had spent the last hour in a dentist’s chair. However, for relief’s - sake, let’s go to dinner. Are you aware that we haven’t eaten any thing - since early morning?” - </p> - <p> - After dinner Merivale insisted that we should take a long walk “to shake - out the kinks,” and after the long walk we were tired enough to return to - our pillows. - </p> - <p> - I went straight to sleep; but my sleep was troubled. As soon as Merivale - had said goodnight and extinguished the gas, memory began to repeat the - music I had played. I heard it throughout my sleep. Every little while I - would wake up and try to banish it by fixing my attention on other - matters. But it kept thrumming away in my brain despite myself. I could - not silence it. Merivale’s reference to a dentist’s chair was, if - inelegant, at least a graphic one. I got as hopelessly irritated as I - could have done with a score of dentists simultaneously grinding at my - teeth. My very arteries seemed to be beating to its rhythm. - </p> - <p> - In one fit of wakefulness, that lasted longer than its predecessors had - done, I found myself unconsciously tattooing it upon the wall at my bed’s - head. - </p> - <p> - “Is that you?” Merivale’s voice demanded from out of the darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I replied. “Aren’t you asleep?” - </p> - <p> - “Mercy, no. That music you played—or rather, stray fragments of it, - keep running through my brain. I haven’t been able to sleep for a long - while.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s singular. It affects me the same way. I was just drumming it on - the wall. I’ve been trying to get rid of it all night.” - </p> - <p> - “It has wonderful staying powers, for a fact. I’m glad you’re awake, - though. Companionship in misery is sweet.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I also feel rather more comfortable now that you have spoken. Do you - know, it’s an immense puzzle to me, that music? I can’t imagine where or - when I ever learned it. And yet it is not the sort of thing one would be - apt to forget. I can’t recognize the style even, can’t get a clew to the - composer.” - </p> - <p> - “The style is emphatically that of Berlioz.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps so. But it can’t be by Berlioz, because I never learned any thing - by Berlioz at all.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum!” A pause. Then, “Say, Lexow—” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t possible that it’s original, is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Original? How do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, an improvisation—a little thing of your own.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no; oh, no, I never improvise—at least an entire composition, - like that. Nobody does. It bears all the marks of careful workmanship. It - must be something well-known that has temporarily slipped from my memory. - It’s too striking not to be well-known. Tomorrow I’ll go through my music - and find it; and I’ll wager it will turn out to be quite familiar. Only, - it’s extremely odd that I can’t place it.” - </p> - <p> - “Why wait till to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, we can’t begin to-night, can we?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not? I say, let’s begin right off. The cursed thing is keeping us - awake, and there doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. We may as well - utilize our wakefulness, as lie here doing nothing but toss about. I say, - let’s light the gas and go to work.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well, I’m agreeable. The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.” - </p> - <p> - “Good,” cried Merivale. - </p> - <p> - He sprang out of bed and lighted the gas. - </p> - <p> - “Shall Mahomet go to the mountain or shall the mountain come to Mahomet?” - he inquired, blinking his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “I mean shall we dress and adjourn to the other room? Or shall I bring - your musical library in here, so that we can conduct our investigation - without getting up?” - </p> - <p> - “Just as you please,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “Well, we’ll move the mountain, then,” he said, and left the room. - </p> - <p> - He made two or three trips, back and forth, bearing an armful of music as - the fruit of each. The last folios deposited on the floor, “Now, as to - method,” he inquired, “how shall we start? It will occupy us till - doom’s-day if we undertake to go through the whole of this. I suppose - there are some composers we can eliminate <i>à priori</i>, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Liszt, in particular, we needn’t - trouble with. I’d keep an especially sharp eye out for Ruben-stein and - Dvorak and Winiauski. It’s fortunate that I’ve preserved all the music - I’ve ever owned. We can’t miss it if we’re only patient enough.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, here goes,” he cried, thrusting a thick pile of music into my - hands, and apportioning an equal amount to himself. - </p> - <p> - We were industrious. It is needless that I should tarry with the incidents - of our search. At daybreak we had not yet quite finished, and we had not - yet struck any thing that bore the slightest resemblance to the - composition in question. - </p> - <p> - “But little remains,” said Merivale. “In another five minutes we will have - found it; or my first hypothesis was true.” - </p> - <p> - “Your first hypothesis?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—that it was original—a lucubration of your own.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that, I tell you, isn’t possible. I’m not vain enough to imagine that - I could improvise in such style, thank you.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, we won’t enter into a dispute, at any rate not till our present - line of investigation is exhausted. Back to the saddle!” - </p> - <p> - For a space we were silent. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Eh bien, mon brave!</i>” cried Merivale at length. “There goes the - last of my half,” and he sent a sheet of music fluttering through the air. - </p> - <p> - “And here is the last of mine,” I responded, laying down Schumann’s <i>Warum</i>. - </p> - <p> - “And we are still in the dark.” - </p> - <p> - “Still in the dark.” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t possible that we have overlooked it?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure I haven’t. I took pains with each separate page.” - </p> - <p> - “Likewise, I! Therefore. I congratulate you. I’ll order a laurel wreath at - the florist’s, the first thing after breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense! How many times need I tell you that I could not by hook or - crook have made it up as I went along? The mere notion is ridiculous. It - must have got lost, that’s all.” - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary, the notion that you once learned it, then forgot it, - then played it off without a fault from beginning to end, is trebly - ridiculous. It was ridiculous of us to waste our time hunting for it, - also. I am entirely convinced that it is yours. Why not? Ideas have come - to other people—why not to you? Yesterday while you played, you were - excited and wrought up, and the result was that you had an inspiration. By - Jove, you’re lucky! It’s enough to make you famous.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Merivale, fancy the absurdities you are uttering. Do you seriously - suppose anybody—even a regular composer—could take up his - fiddle and reel off a complicated thing like that without once halting? - Why, man, there are four or five distinct movements. You might as well - pretend that a mere elocutionist could write an intricate epic poem - without once pausing to make an erasure or find a rhyme, as that I, a - simple instrumentalist, could have done this.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, there’s only oneway of settling the matter. We’ll refer it to an - authority. You jot down a few specimen bars on paper, and I’ll submit it - to your friend, Dr. Rodolph. Of course he will identify it at once, if it - isn’t yours.” - </p> - <p> - “If that will satisfy you, well and good,” I assented. - </p> - <p> - In the course of the forenoon, Merivale, having procured a stock of - music-paper at a shop in the neighborhood, said, “I don’t know how rapidly - a man can write music, but if it isn’t too slow work, I’d seriously - counsel you to put down the whole thing, while you’re about it. In fact - I’d counsel you to do so any how. If by hazard it is original, you know, - you’d better make a memorandum of it while it’s still fresh in your mind. - Otherwise you might forget it. That often happens to me. A bright idea, a - felicitous turn of phraseology, occurs to me when I’m away somewhere—in - the horse-cars, at the theater, paying a call, or what-not—and if I - don’t make an instant minute of it in my note-book, it’s sure to fly off - and never be heard from again.” - </p> - <p> - “We’ll see,” I returned. “I haven’t written a bar of music for such a long - while that I don’t know how hard I shall find it. But I used to make a - daily practice of writing from memory, because it increases one’s facility - for sight-reading.” - </p> - <p> - I hummed the first two or three phrases softly to myself, beating time - with my fingers; then drew up to the writing-table and commenced to set - them down. At the outset I had considerable difficulty, was obliged, so to - speak, to spell my way along note by note, and committed several blunders - which I had to go back to and correct. But gradually my path grew smoother - and smoother, until I was no longer conscious of effort; and at last I - became so much absorbed and so much interested by what I was doing, that - my hand sped across the paper like a machine performing the regular - function for which it was contrived. I suppose mental activity always - begets mental exhilaration; and that mental exhilaration in turn, when - allowed to attain too high a pitch, always approaches the borderland of - its antipode, on the principle that extremes meet. At any rate such was my - experience in the present instance. At first, both mind and fingers were - sluggish and moved laboriously. Then mind got into running order, and - fingers lagged behind; then fingers caught up with mind, and for a while - the two kept pace; then, finally, fingers spurted ahead and it was mind’s - turn to acknowledge itself left in the rear. Mental exhilaration gave - place to bewilderment, as I saw that my hand was forging along faster than - my thought could dictate, in apparent obedience to an independent will of - its own—which bewilderment ripened into thoroughgoing mystification, - as the hand dashed forward and back like a shuttle in a loom, with a - velocity that seemed ever to be increasing. I had precisely the sensation - of a man who has started to run down a hill, and whose legs have acquired - such a momentum that he can not stop them: on and on he must submit to be - borne until some outside obstacle interferes, even though a yawning chasm - await him at the bottom. Toward the end I scarcely saw the paper on which - I was writing; I am sure I saw nothing of the matter that I wrote. I said - to myself, “Of course you will find that all this stuff is incoherent and - meaningless when you get through.” But I waited passively till my hand - should get through of its own accord, I made no endeavor to draw the rein - upon it. Eventually it came to a standstill with a round turn. I was quite - winded. I needed leisure in which to recover my equilibrium. - </p> - <p> - Merivale—of whose presence I had become oblivious—crossed over - and began gathering the scattered sheets of paper from the table. The - sight of him helped to bring me to myself. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” I said, “there it is. I don’t suppose you can read it. I got so - excited I hardly knew what I was about.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s all right,” he answered reassuringly. “I’m much obliged to you for - the trouble you’ve taken. But what,” he added abruptly, “but what is all - this that you have written?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, what do you fancy? The music, of course, that you asked me to.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no; I mean this writing, this text, with which you have wound up?” - </p> - <p> - “Writing? Text? What are you driving at?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, here—this,” he said handing me the paper. - </p> - <p> - “Mercy upon me!” I exclaimed, thoroughly amazed. “I was not aware that I - had written any thing.” - </p> - <p> - The last half dozen pages were covered with written words—blotted, - scrawling, scarcely decipherable, but unmistakably written words. - </p> - <p> - “Well, certainly, this is most astonishing. Whatever it is, I have written - it unawares.” - </p> - <p> - I dropped the manuscript and leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded by this - latest development. - </p> - <p> - “Here,” said Merivale, “is the point where the music ends and the words - begin.” - </p> - <p> - The music ended, the words began, just at that point where last night the - shriek of malevolent laughter had interfered with the current of melody. - From that point to the bottom of the last page not another bar of music - was discernible—not a note of the incomprehensible witches’ chorus—simply - words, words that I dared not read. - </p> - <p> - “This is magic, this is ghost-work,” I said. “It appalls me. Look at it, - Merivale. Does it make sense? Or is it simply a mass of scribbling without - rhyme or reason?” - </p> - <p> - “Ye-es,” rejoined Merivale slowly, “it seems to make sense. The penmanship - is pretty blind, but the words appear to hang together. It begins, ‘I - walked re—re—reluctantly’—next word very bad—’I - walked reluctantly—reluctantly—away’—oh yes, that’s it—’away—from - the house. By Jove, this is singular! Shall I go on?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, go on,” I said faintly. There was panic in my heart. - </p> - <p> - Merivale continued, picking his way laboriously. The following is what he - read. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> WALKED - reluctantly away from the house after I saw her light put out. I hated so - to leave her that it was as if a chain and ball had been attached to my - ankle. I had reached a point on Second avenue about half the distance home - when I halted. I had begun to feel sick. Suddenly my ears had begun to - ring, my head to swim. I clutched at a lamppost to keep from falling. The - ringing in my ears became louder and louder—a roar like that of a - strong wind. A deathly nausea overcame me. I thought I was going to faint, - perhaps to die. I held on to the lamp-post and tried to call out for help. - I could not utter the slightest sound; my tongue clove to the roof of my - mouth as it does in nightmare. I seemed to be growing weaker with every - breath. The noise in my ears was like an unbroken peal of thunder. My - brain went spinning around and around as if it had been caught in a - whirlpool. Then all at once my breath began to come in quick short gasps - like the breath of a panting dog or like the breath of a person who has - taken laughing-gas. I closed my eyes and for how long I know not clung to - the lamp-post, waiting for this internal upheaval to reach its climax. By - degrees my breath returned to its normal state; the uproar in my ears - subsided; my brain got quiet again. I felt as well as ever, only a bit - startled, a bit shaky in the legs. I thought, ‘You have had an attack of - vertigo, a half fainting-fit. Now you would best hurry home.’ But—but - to my unmingled consternation my body refused to act in response to my - will. I was puzzled. I tried again. Useless. - </p> - <p> - I had absolutely no control over my muscles. Experiment proved that I - could not move a finger; experiment proved that I could not put forth my - foot and take a step. I was horrified. Ah, I thought, this is a stroke of - paralysis. For a second time I attempted to summon help. For a second time - my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. - </p> - <p> - But if all this horrified me, how much more horrified was I the moment - after, when, in entire independence of my will, that body of mine which I - had fancied paralyzed began to act of its own accord! began to march - briskly off in a direction exactly opposite to that which I wished to - follow! If I had been puzzled before, how much more hopelessly puzzled was - I now! Experiment proved that I was as powerless to stop myself at - present, as an instant since I had been to set myself in motion. I was - appalled. I knew not what this phenomenon was due to or what it might lead - to. It seemed precisely as though the chords connecting my mind and body - had been severed, as though the will of another person had become the - reigning occupant of my frame. A thousand frightful possibilities flashed - upon my imagination. With this utter incompetency to govern my own - movements, God knew what might happen. I might walk into the river; or I - might—I might commit some irretrievable wrong. Helpless and - irresponsible as I was, I might accomplish that which all the rest of my - days I should repent. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile I had moved on, until now I halted again. I looked around. I was - in front of Veronika’s house. I crossed the street, picked my way through - the people who were seated upon the stoop, mounted the staircase, and rang - Veronika’s bell, wondering constantly what the cause and what the upshot - of this adventure might be, and powerless to assert the least influence - over my physical acts. - </p> - <p> - “Veronika’s voice sounded from behind the door, ‘Is that you, uncle?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘No, it is I, my tongue replied of its own volition. - </p> - <p> - “The door opened. I saw Veronika with the knob in her hand. She looked - surprised. My impulse was to take her in my arms and explain to her the - strange accident that had befallen me. I could not. I had no more control - over my body than I had over hers. - </p> - <p> - “Veronika closed the door. She glanced up at my face. Her eyes filled with - fear. - </p> - <p> - “‘Why, Ernest,’ she cried, ‘what is it? What is the matter? Why do you - look like this?’ - </p> - <p> - “I paused to collect my utmost strength, then tried to speak. Total - failure. Tried to reassure her with my eyes. Total failure: eyes as - uncontrollable as the rest of my person. But impelled by that other will - which had usurped the place of mine, I approached her and asked, ‘What is - your name?’ It was my voice, but it was not I, that asked the question. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Veronika besought, ‘don’t act like this. Oh, - my Ernest, what terrible joke are you playing? Don t make me think that - you have gone mad.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘What is your name?’ my voice repeated, stonily. - </p> - <p> - “‘My name? What can you mean? Oh God, what has come over my beloved?’ - </p> - <p> - “Her face was pale, her eyes were full of anguish. And I—I was - impotent to comfort her. My heart went out to her with a great bound of - love; but I was in irons, chained down, compelled to witness, forbidden to - interfere with the action of this awful drama. For a third time my tongue - repeated, ‘Your name—tell me your name.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘My name?’ she gasped. ‘You know my name—Veronika. See, don’t you - recognize me, Ernest? I am Veronika, whom you are going to marry. Oh, my - loved one, you are ill. What can I do to make you well?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Tell me your surname,’ I said. - </p> - <p> - “‘My surname—why, Pathzuol. Oh, Ernest, say you know me.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘And your father’s name?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘My father—his name was Nicholas—but he is dead—died - when I was a little girl. Oh, God, what does this mean?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Enough; come with me,’ said the devil whose victim I had become. - </p> - <p> - “I grasped her wrist and led her down the hallway. If Veronika was - terrified, her terror could not have equaled mine. What deed was I now - bent upon committing? She followed me passively. The expression of her - eyes made my soul ache within me. How I longed to speak to her and soothe - her. How I longed to step between her and myself, to protect her from this - maniac in whose power she was. To be obliged to stand by and see this - thing enacted—imagine the agony I suffered. - </p> - <p> - “I led her down the hallway and into the dining-room. Then I released her - wrist, and crossed over to the sideboard. I opened the sideboard drawer - and took out a long, keen knife. I tried the point and the edge of the - knife upon my thumb. - </p> - <p> - “‘Are you—are you going to kill me, Ernest?’ I heard Veronika ask, - very low. - </p> - <p> - “‘Yes, I am going to kill you. Lead the way to your bed-chamber.’ - </p> - <p> - “Veronika’s hand clutched convulsively at her breast. She said nothing. - She moved slowly back into the hall and thence into her bedroom, I - following. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop and think what you are doing,’ she cried out - suddenly, turning and facing me at the threshold of her room. ‘Think, - Ernest, that it is I, Veronika, whom you are going to kill. Think, oh my - loved one, think how you will suffer if ever you come to and realize what - you have done. Oh, is there no way for me to bring him to himself!’ - </p> - <p> - “Presently she continued, ‘But tell me first what I have done.—Oh, I - can not bear to die until I know that you don’t suspect me of having - wronged you in any way. Oh, Ernest, oh, if you would only speak one word. - Oh, my darling, do not kill me without speaking to me. Oh God, oh God! Oh, - there, there, he is going to kill me; he will not speak to me. Oh, what - have I done? Ernest, <i>Ernest!</i> Wake up—stop your arm—don’t - strike me. Oh God, God, God!’ - </p> - <p> - “After it was over I dried my hands upon my handkerchief, turned out the - gas in the hall, locked the door on the outside, put the key into my - pocket, and went away.” - </p> - <p> - What remains for me to tell? The above is what Merivale read to me. The - above is what I had written. Could I doubt its truth? I did not, I do not, - at any rate. - </p> - <p> - I am informed that a man once tried for murder and acquitted can not, as - the lawyers put it, can not be placed in jeopardy again. But I am enough - of a Jew to believe in eye for eye and tooth for tooth. I shall see to it - that I do not escape that penalty which the law would have imposed upon - me, had the facts I am now aware of come out at my trial. I shall see to - it that the murderer of Veronika Pathzuol meets with the punishment which - his crime demands. - </p> - <p> - It has taken me a week to write out this account. I want the public to - have it. No need to analyze the motives that prompt this wish. I shall - confide the MS. to my friend Merivale with directions that it be printed. - </p> - <p> - I do not think of any thing more that needs to be said. - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - -<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 52704 ***</div> - </body> -</html> - diff --git a/old/52704-h/images/0001.jpg b/old/52704-h/images/0001.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index aa66cf5..0000000 --- a/old/52704-h/images/0001.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/52704-h/images/0007.jpg b/old/52704-h/images/0007.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 36e5ad8..0000000 --- a/old/52704-h/images/0007.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/52704-h/images/0030.jpg b/old/52704-h/images/0030.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 3ecaa1e..0000000 --- a/old/52704-h/images/0030.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/52704-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/52704-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index aa66cf5..0000000 --- a/old/52704-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/52704-h/images/enlarge.jpg b/old/52704-h/images/enlarge.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 5a9bcf3..0000000 --- a/old/52704-h/images/enlarge.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/52704-h/images/god.jpg b/old/52704-h/images/god.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index f8fb92d..0000000 --- a/old/52704-h/images/god.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old/52704-h.htm.2016-08-02 b/old/old/52704-h.htm.2016-08-02 deleted file mode 100644 index 9e424ce..0000000 --- a/old/old/52704-h.htm.2016-08-02 +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6836 +0,0 @@ -<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?>
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- As It Was Written, by Henry Harland (aka Sidney Luska)
- </title>
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-Project Gutenberg's As It Was Written, by Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska
-
-This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most
-other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
-whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of
-the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at
-www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have
-to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook.
-
-
-
-Title: As It Was Written
- A Jewish Musician's Story
-
-Author: Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska
-
-Release Date: August 2, 2016 [EBook #52704]
-
-Language: English
-
-Character set encoding: UTF-8
-
-*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AS IT WAS WRITTEN ***
-
-
-
-
-Produced by David Widger from page images generously
-provided by the Internet Archive
-
-
-
-
-
-
-</pre>
-
-
-<div style="height: 8em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h1>
- AS IT WAS WRITTEN
- </h1>
- <h2>
- A Jewish Musician’s Story
- </h2>
- <h2>
- By Henry Harland (AKA Sidney Luska)
- </h2>
- <h4>
- Cassell & Company, Limited 739 & 741 Broadway, New York.
- </h4>
- <h3>
- 1885
- </h3>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0007.jpg" alt="0007 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0007.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- <b>CONTENTS</b>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> AS IT WAS WRITTEN. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0001a"> I. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII. </a>
- </p>
- <p class="toc">
- <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV. </a>
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- AS IT WAS WRITTEN.
- </h2>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0001a" id="link2H_4_0001a"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- I.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">V</span>ERONIKA PATHZUOL
- was my betrothed. I must give some account of the circumstances under
- which she and I first met each other, so that my tale may be clear and
- complete from the beginning.
- </p>
- <p>
- For a long while, without knowing why, I had been restless—hungry,
- without knowing for what I hungered. Teaching music to support myself, I
- employed all of the day that was not thus occupied in practicing on my own
- behalf. My life consequently was a solitary one, numbering but few
- acquaintances and not any friends. In my short intervals of leisure I was
- generally too tired to seek out society; I was too obscure and unimportant
- to be sought out in turn. Yet, young and of an ardent temperament,
- doubtless it was natural that I should have been dimly conscious of
- something wanting; and, not prone to selfanalysis, doubtless it was also
- natural that I should have had no distinct conception of what the wanting
- something was. Besides, it would soon be summer. The soft air and bright
- sunshine of spring awoke a myriad vague desires in my heart. I strove in
- vain to understand them. They were all the more poignant because they had
- no definite object. Twenty times a day I would catch myself heaving a
- mighty sigh; but asking, “What are you sighing for?” I had to answer, “Who
- can tell?” My thoughts got into the habit of wandering away would fly off
- to cloud-land at the most inopportune moments. While my pupils were
- blundering through their exercises their master would fall to thinking of
- other things—afterward impossible to remember what. From morning to
- night I went about with a feeling of expectancy—an event was
- impending—presently a change would come over the tenor of my life. I
- waited anxiously, on the alert for its first premonitory symptom.
- </p>
- <p>
- I had taken to strolling through the streets at evening. One delicious
- night in May, I found myself leaning over the terrace at the eastern
- extremity of Fifty-first street. The moon had just risen, a huge red disk,
- out of the mist and smoke across the river, and was turning the waves to
- burnished copper. Through the open windows of the neighborhood escaped the
- sounds of quiet talk, of laughter, of piano playing. Now and then a low
- dark shape, with a single bright light gleaming like a jewel at its side,
- and spars and masts sharply outlined against the sky, slipped silently
- past upon the water. The atmosphere was quick with the warmth and the
- scent of spring. I stood there motionless, penetrated by the unspeakable
- beauty of the scene. The moon climbed higher and higher, and gradually
- exchanged its ruddy tint for its ordinary metallic blue. By and by
- somebody with a sweet soprano voice, in one of the nearest houses, began
- to sing the <i>Ave Maria</i> of Gounod. The impassioned music seemed made
- for the time and place. It caught the soul of the moment and gave it
- voice. I could feel my heart swelling with the crescendo: and then how it
- leaped and thrilled when the singer reached that glorious climax of the
- song, “<i>Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae!</i>” At that instant, as if
- released from a spell, I drew a long breath and looked around. Then for
- the first time I saw Veronika Pathzuol. Her eyes and mine met for the
- first time.
- </p>
- <p>
- “A lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange, and sad”—and pale. Her
- face was pale, like an angel’s. The wealth of black hair above it and the
- dark eyes that gazed sadly out of it rendered the pallor more intense. But
- it was not the pallor of ill-health; it was the pallor of a luminous white
- soul. As I beheld her standing there in the moonlight scarcely a yard away
- from me, I knew all at once what it was my heart had craved for so long a
- while. I knew at once, by the sudden pain that pierced it, that my heart
- had been waiting for this lady all its life. I did not stop to reflect and
- determine. Had I done so, most likely—nay, most certain-ly—I
- should never have had to tell this story. The words flew to my tongue and
- were spoken as soon as thought.—“Oh, how beautiful, how beautiful!”
- I exclaimed, meaning her.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very beautiful,” I heard her voice, clear and soft, respond. “It is
- almost a pain, the feeling such intense beauty gives,”—meaning the
- scene before us.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And yet this is every-day, hum-drum, commercial New York,” added another
- voice, one that jarred upon my hearing like the scraping of a contre-bass
- after a cadenza by the flute. She was leaning on the arm of a man. I was
- at the verge of being straightway jealous, when I observed that his hair
- and beard were snowy and that his face was wrinkled.
- </p>
- <p>
- We got into conversation without ceremony. Nature had introduced us. Our
- common appreciation of the loveliness round about broke the ice and
- provided a topic for speech. After her first impulsive utterance, Veronika
- said little. But the old man was voluble, evidently glad of the
- opportunity to express his ideas to a new person. And I was more than glad
- to listen, because while doing so I could gaze upon her face to my heart’s
- content.
- </p>
- <p>
- Something that I had said, in reply to a remark of his upon the singing of
- the <i>Ave</i>, caused him to ask, “Ah, you understand music? You are a
- musician—yes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I play the violin,” I answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you hear, Veronika?” he cried. “Our friend plays the violin! My dear
- sir, you must do us the favor of playing for us before we part. Do not be
- surprised—pay no heed to the formalities. Is not music a
- free-masonry? Come, you shall try your skill upon an Amati. Such an
- evening as this must have an appropriate ending. Come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Without allowing me time to protest, had I been disposed to do so, he
- grasped my arm and started off. He kept on talking as we marched along. I
- had no attention for what he said. My mind was divided between delight at
- my good-fortune, and query as to what its upshot would be. We had not far
- to go. A few doors to the west of First avenue he turned up a stoop. It
- was a modest apartment-house. We climbed to the topmost story and stood
- still in the dark while he fumbled for a match. Then he lighted the gas
- and said, “Sit down.” The room was bare and cheerless. A chromo or two
- sufficed to decorate the walls. The furniture—a few chairs and a
- center-table—was stiff and shabby. The carpet was threadbare.
- </p>
- <p>
- But a piano occupied a corner; and the floor, the table, and the chairs
- were littered thick with music. So I felt at home. As I look back at that
- meager little parlor now, it is transformed into a sanctuary. There the
- deepest moments of two lives were spent. Yet to-day strangers dwell in it;
- come and go, laugh and chatter, eat, drink, and make merry between its
- walls, all unconcernedly, never pausing to bestow a thought upon the sad,
- sweet lady whose presence once hallowed the place, whose tears more than
- once watered the floor over which they tread with indifferent footsteps.
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man lighted the gas and said, “Sit down,” making obedience
- possible by clearing a chair of the music it held. Then scrutinizing my
- face: “You are a Jew, are you not?” he inquired, in his quick, nervous
- way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I said, “by birth.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And by faith?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I am not orthodox, not a zealot.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your name?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Neuman—Ernest Neuman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And mine, Tikulski—Baruch. You see we are of one race—<i>the</i>
- race—the chosen race! Neither am I orthodox. I keep <i>Yom Kippur</i>,
- to be sure, but I have no conscientious scruples against shell-fish, and
- indeed the ‘succulent oyster’ is especially congenial to my palate. This,”
- with a wave of the hand toward Veronika, “this is my niece, Miss Pathzuol—P-a-t-h-z-u-o-1—pronounced
- Patchuol—Hungarian name. Her mother was my sister.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Veronika dropped a courtesy. Her eyes seemed to plead, “Do not laugh at my
- uncle. He is eccentric; but be charitable.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, Veronika, show Mr. Neuman your music and find something that you can
- play together. I will go fetch the violin.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man left the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What will you play?” asked Veronika. Her voice quavered. She was timid,
- as indeed it was natural she should be.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know,” I said, my own voice not as firm as I could have wished.
- “What have you got?”
- </p>
- <p>
- We commenced at the top of a big pile of music and had settled upon the
- prize song from the Meistersinger—not then as hackneyed as it is at
- present, not then the victim of every passable amateur—when Mr.
- Tikulski came back. It was in truth an Amati that he brought. The
- discolored, half obliterated label within said so—but the label
- might have lied. The strong, tense, ringing tone that it emitted in
- response to the <i>A</i> which Veronika gave me said so also—and
- that did not lie. I played as best I could. Rather, the music played
- itself. With a violin under my chin, I lapse into semi-consciousness, lose
- my identity. Another spirit impels my arm, pouring itself out through the
- voice of my instrument. Not until silence is restored do I realize that I
- have been the performer. While the music is going on my personality is
- annihilated. With the final note I seem to “come, to,” as one does from a
- trance.
- </p>
- <p>
- When I came to this time it was to be embraced by my host with an
- effusiveness that overwhelmed me. “Ah, you are a true musician,” he cried,
- releasing me from his arms. “You have the inspiration. Veronika, speak,
- tell him how nobly he has played.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can’t speak, I can’t tell him,” answered Veronika, “it has taken away
- all power of speech.” But she gave me a glance, allowed her eyes to stay
- with mine for a long moment. A fire had been smoldering in my breast from
- the first; at these words, at this glance, it burst into flame. A great
- light inundated my soul. I felt the arteries tingling to my very finger
- tips. I started tuning up, to hide my emotion. Then we played the march
- from Raff’s Lenore.
- </p>
- <p>
- I am afraid my agitation marred the effect of Raffs diamatic composition.
- At any rate, the plaudits were faint when I had done. After a breathing
- spell Mr. Tikulski told Veronika to sing. She played her own accompaniment
- while I stood by to turn.
- </p>
- <p>
- It would be useless for me to try to qualify her singing. Whatever
- critical faculty I had was stricken dumb. I can only say that she sang a
- song in French (an old, old romance, till then unfamiliar to me; so old
- that the composer’s name has been forgotten) in a splendid contralto
- voice, and that it seemed as if she was playing upon the inmost tissue of
- my life, so keenly I felt each note. I quite forgot to turn the page at
- the proper place, and Veronika had to prompt me. It was a little thing,
- and yet I remember as vividly as if from yesterday the nod of the head and
- the inflection with which she said, “Turn, please.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘<i>Le temps fait passer l’amour</i>,’.rdquo; repeated Mr. Tikulski: it was the
- last line of the song. “Veronika, bring some wine. <i>Le vin fait passer
- le temps</i>,” and he chuckled at his joke. Another small thing that I
- remember vividly is how Tikulski, as she left the room, posed his
- forefinger upon his Adam’s-apple and said, “She carries a ‘cello here.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He went on to this effect:—Veronika, as I already knew, was his
- niece. He also was a violinist: more than that, he was a composer, though
- as yet unpublished. With the self-conceit too characteristic of musical
- people, he told me how he was engaged upon “an epoch-making symphony”—had
- been engaged upon it for the last dozen years, would be engaged upon it
- for the dozen years to come. Then the world should have it, and he, not
- having lived in vain, would die content. Veronika was now one-and-twenty.
- During her childhood he had played in an orchestra and arranged
- dance-music and done other hackwork to earn money for her maintenance and
- education. She had received the best musical training, instrumental and
- vocal, that could be had in New York. Now he had turned the tables. Now he
- did nothing but compose—reserved all his time and strength for his
- masterpiece. Veronika had become the breadwinner. She taught on an average
- seven hours a day. She sang regularly in church and synagogue, and at
- concerts and musicals whenever she got a chance.—Veronika reentered
- the room bearing cakes and wine. She sat down near to us, and I forgot
- every thing in the contemplation of her beautiful, sad, strange face. Her
- eyes were bottomless. Far, far in their liquid depths the spirit shone
- like a star. All the history of Israel was in her glance.
- </p>
- <p>
- Every touch of constraint had vanished from her bearing. She spoke with me
- as with one whom she knew well. I could scarcely believe that only an hour
- ago we had been ignorant of each other’s existence. We discussed music and
- found that our tastes were in accord. We compared notes on teaching and
- exchanged anecdotes about our respective pupils. She said among other
- things that more than half the money she earned her uncle sent to Germany
- for the relief of his widowed sister and her offspring, who were extremely
- poor! Her every syllable clove my heart like an arrow. I grew hot with
- indignation to think of this frail, delicate maiden slaving her life away
- in order that her relations might fatten in idleness and her fanatic of an
- uncle work at his impossible symphony. My fists clenched convulsively as I
- fancied her exposed to the ups and downs, the hardships, the humiliations,
- of a music-teacher’s career. I took no pains to regulate my manner: and,
- if she had possessed the least trace of sophistication, she would have
- guessed that I loved her from every modulation of my voice. Love her I
- did. I had already loved her for an eternity—from the moment my eyes
- had first encountered hers in the moonlight by the terrace.—But it
- was getting late. It would not do for me to wear my welcome out.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nay, stay,” interposed Mr. Tikulski, “you have not heard <i>me</i> play
- yet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes, you must hear my uncle play,” said Veronika. “The <i>Adagio</i>
- of Handel? she asked of him.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, child,” he answered, with a tinge of impatience, “the minuet—from
- my own symphony,” aiming the last words at me.
- </p>
- <p>
- Veronika returned to the piano. They began.
- </p>
- <p>
- Indeed, the old man played superbly. His selection was a marvelous
- finger-exercise—but of true music it contained none save that which
- he informed it with by the fervor of his performance. He was a perfect
- executant. His tone was equal to Wilhelm’s. It was a pity, a great pity,
- that he should fritter himself away in the endeavor to compose. Veronika
- and I said as much as this to each other with our eyes when finally his
- bow had reached a standstill.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, if you will insist on going,” he said, “you must at least agree to
- come as soon as possible again. This is Wednesday. We are always at home
- on Wednesday evening. The other nights of the week Veronika is engaged:
- Monday and Tuesday, lessons; Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday,
- rehearsals and services at church and synagogue. The church is in Hoboken:
- she doesn’t get home till eleven o’clock. So on Wednesday we will see you
- without fail—yes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- As I looked forward, Wednesday seemed a million years away. “What an old
- brute you are to make that child track over to Hoboken two nights a week!”
- I thought; and said, “Thank you. You are very kind. Good-by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Veronika gave me her hand. The long slim fingers clasped mine cordially
- and sent an electric thrill into my heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- II.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> SUPPOSE it is
- needless to say that I passed a sleepless night, haunted till morning by
- Veronika’s face and voice; that I tossed endlessly from pillow to pillow,
- going over in memory every circumstance from our meeting to our parting;
- that I built a hundred wondrous castles in the air and that Veronika
- presided as chatelaine in each. I thought I should boil over with rage
- when I dwelt upon the enforced drudgery of her life. I could hardly
- contain myself for sheer joy when I made bold to say, “Why, it is not
- impossible that some day she may love you—not impossible that some
- day she may consent to become your wife.” One doubt, the inevitable one,
- harassed me: Had I a clear field? Was there perchance another suitor there
- before me? Perhaps her affections were already spoken. Still, on the
- whole, probably not. For, where had he kept himself during the evening?
- Surely, if he had existed at all, he would have been at her side. Yet on
- the other hand she was so beautiful, it could scarcely be believed that
- she had attained the age of one-and-twenty without taking some heart
- captive. And that sad, mysterious expression in her eyes—how had it
- come about except through love?—Thus between despair and hope I
- swung, pendulum-like, all night.
- </p>
- <p>
- Dawn filtered through the window. “Thursday!” I muttered. “Seven days
- still to be dragged through—but then!”—Imagination faltered at
- the prospect. I went about my usual business in a sort of intoxication. My
- footstep had acquired an unwonted briskness. Every five minutes my heart
- jumped into my throat and lost a beat. But my pupils suffered.
- </p>
- <p>
- I was more inclined to absent-mindedness than ever. At dusk I revisited
- the terrace despite the rain that fell in torrents, and walked by her
- house and lived through the whole happy episode again.
- </p>
- <p>
- Be assured I was punctual when at last Wednesday came. I remember, as I
- mounted the staircase that led to their abode, an absurd fear beset me.
- What if they had moved away?
- </p>
- <p>
- What if I should not find her after this interminable week of waiting? My
- hand shook as I pulled the bell-knob. I was nerving myself for the worst
- in the interval that elapsed before the door was opened.—The door
- was opened by Veronika herself!
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, good-evening. We were expecting you,” she said.
- </p>
- <p>
- I stammered a response. My temples were throbbing madly.
- </p>
- <p>
- Veronika led me into the dining-room. They were still at table. I began to
- apologize. Tikulski stopped me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have come just at the proper moment,” he cried. “You shall now have
- occasion to confess that my niece is as good a cook as she is a player.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I have dined,” I protested.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you can make room for one morsel more—for a mere taste of
- pudding.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Veronika, with infinite grace, was moving about the room, getting a plate
- and napkin. Then with her own hands she helped me to the pudding.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Doesn’t that flavor do her credit?” cried Tikulski. “It is a melody
- materialized, is it not?”
- </p>
- <p>
- We all laughed; and I ate my pudding at perfect ease.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I hope Mr. Neuman has brought his violin,” said Veronika, “for then we
- can have a first and second.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I took that liberty,” I answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- And afterward, adjourning to the parlor, I played second to the old man’s
- first for an hour or more—reading at sight from his own manuscript
- music, which was not the lightest of tasks. Then Veronika sang to us. And
- then, as it was extremely hot, Mr. Tikulski proposed that we betake
- ourselves to a concert garden in the neighborhood and spend the rest of
- the evening in the open air. We sat at a round table under an ailanthus
- tree, and watched the people come and go, and listened to light tunes
- discoursed by a tolerable band, and by and by had a delicious little
- supper; and while Mr. Tikulski puffed a huge cigar, Veronika and I enjoyed
- a long, delightful confidential talk in which our minds got wonderfully
- close together, and during which one scrap of information dropped from her
- lips that afforded me infinite relief. Speaking of her nocturnal
- pilgrimages to Hoboken, she said, “I go over by myself in the summer
- because it is still light; but coming home, the organist takes me to the
- ferry, where uncle meets me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So,” I concluded, “there is no one ahead of me; for if there were, of
- course he would be her escort.” And I lost no time about putting in a word
- for myself. “I am very anxious to hear you sing in church,” I said. “Your
- voice can not attain its full effect between the narrow walls of a
- parlor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- And it was agreed that I should call upon them Sunday afternoon and that
- we should all three take a walk in Central Park, Veronika and I afterward
- going to Hoboken together. Music had, indeed, proved a freemasonry, so far
- as we were concerned. This was only our second interview; and already we
- treated each other like old and intimate friends.
- </p>
- <p>
- A thunder shower broke above our heads on the way back to Fifty-first
- street, and in default of an umbrella, I lent Veronika my handkerchief to
- protect her hat. She returned it to me at the door of her house, and lo!
- it was freighted with a faint, sweet perfume that it had caught from
- contact with her. I stowed the handkerchief religiously in my pocket, and
- for a week afterward it still retained a trace of the same dainty odor. It
- was a touchstone, by means of which I could call her up bodily before me
- whenever I desired.
- </p>
- <p>
- As I sat alone in my bed-chamber that night, I acknowledged that I was
- more deeply in love than ever. The reader would not wonder at this if he
- could form a true conception of Veronika’s presence. I wish I could
- describe her—that is, render in words the impression wrought upon me
- by her face, and her voice, and her manner, and the things she said. I am
- not accustomed to expressing such matters in words, but with my violin I
- should have no sort of difficulty. If I wanted to give utterance to my
- idea of Veronika, all I should have to do would be to take my violin and
- play this heavenly melody from Chopin’s Impromptu in C-sharp minor:—Sotto
- voce.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div class="fig" style="width:50%;">
- <img src="images/0030.jpg" alt="0030 " width="100%" /><br />
- </div>
- <h5>
- <a href="images/0030.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a>
- </h5>
- <p>
- It seems almost as though Chopin must have had Veronika in mind when he
- composed it. Its color, its passion, its vague dreamy sadness, and withal
- its transparent simplicity, make it for me a perfect musical portrait.
- Those were the traits which most constantly and conspicuously abode in my
- thought of her. Her simplicity, her child-like simplicity, and her
- naturalness, and the serene purity of her soul, made her as different from
- other women that I had seen—though, to be sure, I had seen but few
- women except as I passed them in the street or rode with them in the
- horse-car—made her as different from those I had seen, at any rate,
- as a lily plucked on the hillside is different from a hothouse flower, as
- daylight is different from gaslight, as Schubert’s music is different from
- Liszt’s. In every thing and from every point of view, she was simple and
- natural and serene. Her great pale face, and the dark eyes, and the smile
- that came and went like a melody across her lips, and the way she wore her
- hair, and the way she dressed, and the way she played, sang, spoke, and
- her gestures, and the low, sad, musical laughter that I heard only once or
- twice from the beginning to the end—all were simple, and natural,
- and serene. And yet there was a mystery attaching to each of them, a
- something beyond my comprehension, a something that tinged my love for her
- with awe. A mystery that would neither be defined nor penetrated nor
- ignored, brooded over her, as the perfume broods over a rose. I doubt
- whether an American woman can be like this unless she is older and has had
- certain experiences of her own. Veronika had not had sufficient experience
- of her own to account for what I have described: but she was a Jewess, and
- all the experience of the Jewish race, all the martyrdom of the scattered
- hosts, were hers by inheritance.
- </p>
- <p>
- No matter how I was occupied, whether teaching, or practicing, or reading,
- or writing, or walking, or talking to other people, I was always conscious
- of the love of Veronika astir in my heart. Just as through all the
- vicissitudes of a fugue the subject melody will survive in one form or
- another and be at no minute altogether silenced, so through all the
- changes of my busy day the thought of Veronika lingered in my mind. I can
- not tell how completely the whole aspect of the world had been altered
- since the night I first saw her standing in the moonlight. It was as if my
- life up to that moment had been passed beneath gray skies, and suddenly
- the clouds had dispersed and the sunshine flooded the earth. A myriad
- things became plain and clear that had been invisible until now, and old
- things acquired a new significance. My heart welled with tenderness for
- all living creatures—the overflow of the tenderness it had for her.
- All my senses, all my capacities for pain and pleasure, were more acute
- than before. Suddenly music, which had been my art, became my religion:
- she had glorified it by her devotion. I looked forward to my next visit
- with her as a benighted traveler looks forward to the glowing window that
- promises rest and shelter: only in my case the light illuminated my whole
- pathway and made the progress toward its source a constant delight instead
- of a perfunctory labor. But this is the common story of a man in love, and
- stands without telling. Suffice it that before our acquaintance was a
- month old I had got upon the most intimate terms with Mr. Tikulski and
- Veronika, spending not only every Wednesday evening at their house but
- also each Sunday afternoon, and accompanying her to Hoboken as regularly
- as she had to go. Never was there a prouder man than I at those junctures
- when, with her hand pressed tightly under my arm, I felt that she was
- trusting herself entirely to my charge and that I was answerable for her
- safety and well-being. The Hoboken ferry-boats became to my thinking
- vastly more interesting than the most romantic of Venetian gondolas; and
- to this day I can not sniff the peculiar stuffy odor that always pervades
- a ferry-boat cabin without being transported back across the years to that
- happy, happy time. I actually blessed the necessity that forced her to
- journey so far for her livelihood; and it was with an emphatic pang that I
- listened to the plans which she and Tikulski were prone to discuss whereby
- she was shortly to get an engagement nearer home: though the sight of her
- pale, tired cheek reproached me the moment after. On her side she made no
- concealment of a most cordial regard for me. Her face always lighted up at
- my arrival; she was always eager to share her ideas with me and to call
- forth my opinion of her work, appearing pleased by my praise and impressed
- by my criticism. She set me an admirable example of frankness. She would
- say precisely what she thought of my renditions, sparing not their
- blemishes and indicating how an effective point might be improved.
- </p>
- <p>
- But as yet I had not dared to hope that she loved, or was even in train to
- love me. So as yet I had not intended to speak of love at all.
- </p>
- <p>
- But one day—one Sunday late in June—she proposed to sing me a
- song she had just been learning.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is it?” I asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “From <i>Le Désert</i> of Felicien David,” she said, handing me the music.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the “<i>O, belle nuit, O, sois plus lente</i>,” originally written
- for tenor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should hardly think it would suit your voice,” I said, running over the
- music.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Neither did I, at first; but listen, anyway.” And she began.
- </p>
- <p>
- Her voice had never been in better order, had never been more resonant,
- never more electric. Contrary to my misgivings, the song suited it
- perfectly, afforded its ‘cello quality full scope. She sang with an
- enthusiasm, a precision, a delicacy of shading, that carried me away. As
- the last tender note melted on her lips, she swung around on the
- piano-stool and looked a question with her great, dark, serious eyes. I
- know not what possessed me. A blindness fell upon my sight. My heart gave
- a mighty bound. In another instant I was at her side and had caught her—my
- darling—in my arms. In another instant she was sobbing her life out
- upon my shoulder.
- </p>
- <p>
- By and by, after the first stress of our emotion had subsided, I mustered
- voice to say, “Then, Veronika, you love me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Her hand nestled in mine by way of answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- I told her as well I could how I had loved her from the first.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the terrace and
- spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has been the same
- ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have wanted you so
- much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you waited so long?”
- </p>
- <p>
- No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When Mr.
- Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single
- question, imposed but a single condition.
- </p>
- <p>
- I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her
- comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and her
- brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to earn
- more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony and
- Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a reputation I
- might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It was arranged
- that we should be married the first week in August.
- </p>
- <p>
- Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car
- or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity before. As we left the church
- she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo?
- </p>
- <p>
- “It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Ah, but I had a full heart as I walked home that night. The future was all
- radiant radiant beyond my wildest dream. It frightened me. Such perfect
- bliss seemed scarcely possible, seemed too great and glorious to last. And
- yet had not Veronika’s own lips promised it? and sealed the promise with a
- kiss that burned still where she had placed it? It was useless for me to
- go to bed; it was useless for me to stay in the house. I put on my hat and
- went out and spent the night pacing up and down before her door. And as
- soon as the morning was far enough advanced I rang the bell and invited
- myself to breakfast with her; and after breakfast I helped her to wash the
- dishes, to Mr. Tikulski’s unutterable disapproval—it was
- “unteeknified,” he said—and after that I accompanied her as far as
- the first house where she had to give a lesson.
- </p>
- <p>
- While writing the above I had almost forgotten. Now I remember. I must
- stop for a space to get used to remembering again that she is dead.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- III.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ES, she is dead.
- That is the truth. If truth is good, as men proclaim it to be, then
- goodness is intrinsically cruel. That Veronika is dead is the truth which
- lies like a hot coal upon my consciousness, and goads me along as I tell
- this tale. And the manner of her death and the speediness of it—I
- must tell all.
- </p>
- <p>
- And yet, although I know her to be dead, although I repeat to myself a
- hundred times a day, “She is dead, dead, dead,” and although, God help me,
- I think I realize too well that she is dead, yet to this day I can
- scarcely bring myself to believe it. Truth as it is, it seems to be in
- utter contradiction to the rest of truth. Even those who have abandoned
- faith in Religion, still profess faith in Nature, saying, “Nature is
- provident, beneficent, and wise; Nature is alive with beauty.” And at most
- times, it seems as if these assertions were not to be contested. Yet, how
- can they be true when Nature contained the possibility of Veronika’s
- death? How can Nature be wise, and yet have permitted that maiden life to
- be destroyed?—provident, and yet have flung away her finest product?—beneficent,
- and yet have torn bleeding from my life all that made my life worth
- living?—beautiful, and yet have quenched the beautifying light of
- Veronika’s presence, and hushed the voice that made the world musical? The
- mere fact that Veronika could die gives the lie to the Nature-worshipers.
- In the light of that fact, or rather in the darkness of it, it is mockery
- to sing songs of praise to Nature.—That is why it is so hard for me
- to believe—to believe a thing which annihilates the harmony of the
- universe, and proclaims the optimism of the philosophers to be a delusion,
- a superstition. How could I believe my senses if I should hear Christine
- Nilsson utter a hideous false note? So is it hard for me to believe that
- Nature has allowed Veronika to die. And yet it is the truth, the
- unmistakable, irrevocable, relentless truth.
- </p>
- <p>
- I suppose all lovers are happy: but it does not seem possible that other
- lovers can ever have had such unmitigated happiness as ours was—happiness
- so keen as almost to be a pain. The light of love that burst suddenly into
- our lives, and filled each cranny full to overflowing, was so pure and
- bright as almost to blind us. The happiness was all the keener, the light
- all the brighter, because of the hardship and the monotony of our daily
- tasks. If we had been rich, if we had had leisure and friends and many
- resources for diversion, then most likely our delight in each other would
- not have been so great. But as we were—poor, hard worked, and alone
- in the world—we found all the happiness we had, in ourselves, in
- communing together; and happiness concentrated, was proportionately more
- intense. The few hours in the week which we were permitted to spend side
- by side glittered like diamonds against the dull background of the rest.
- And we improved them to the full. We called upon each fleeting moment to
- stay and perpetuate itself; and we could not understand how Faust had had
- to wait so many years before he could do the same. The season was divine,
- clear skies and balmy weather day after day, and the Park being easily
- accessible, we could imagine ourselves among the green fields of the
- country whenever the fancy seized us. I believe that as a matter of fact
- the turf of the common was sadly parched and brown; but we were not
- critical so long as we could wander over it hand in hand. Then, our
- characters were perfectly accorded; their unison was faultless. Each
- called for the other, needed the other, as the dominant chord calls for
- and needs its tonic. We had not a hope, a fear, an ambition, an
- aspiration, but it was shared equally between us. Our art was a mutual
- passion which we pursued together. When Veronika was seated at the piano
- and I stood at her side with my violin at my shoulder, our cup of
- contentment was full to the brim. Nothing more was wanting. I remember,
- one evening, in the middle of a phrase, her fingers faltered and she
- wheeled around and lifted her eyes upon my face.—“What is the
- matter, darling?” I asked.—“I only want to look at you to realize
- that it isn’t a dream,” she answered.—And yet she is dead.
- </p>
- <p>
- June and half July had wound away; in little more than a fortnight our
- wedding would be celebrated. The night was sultry, and she and I sat
- together by an open window. Her uncle was absent: an idea had come to him
- just before dinner, she explained, and according to his custom he had gone
- out to walk the streets until he had mastered it. We were by no means
- sorry to be alone. We had plenty to talk about; but even without talking
- it was marvelously pleasant to sit together and think the happy thoughts
- that filled our minds and listen to the subdued sounds of human life that
- came in by the window.
- </p>
- <p>
- Veronika had shown me some of her bridal outfit, telling how she had
- worked at it in her short snatches of leisure. We took as much pleasure in
- the contemplation of this modest little trousseau as though it had boasted
- all the rubies and silken fabrics of the Indies. This set us to talking of
- the future and making plans. And afterward we talked of the past. We spoke
- of how strange it was that we should have come together in the way we had—by
- the merest accident, as it seemed; and we doubted if it was indeed an
- accident, if destiny had not purposely guided our footsteps that memorable
- night.—“Why,” she exclaimed, “if uncle and I had been but a few
- moments earlier or later, we never should have seen each other at all.
- Think of the terrible risk we ran! Think if we had never known each
- other!” and her fingers tightened around mine.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And then,” I went on, “that I should have spoken to you, a strange lady,
- and that you should have answered!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It seemed perfectly natural for me to answer; I had done so before I
- stopped to think. But afterward I was ashamed; I was afraid you might
- think it indelicate. But, somehow, the words spoke themselves. I am glad
- of it now.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do believe God’s hand was in it! I do believe it was all pre-ordained
- in heaven. I believe that our Guardian Angel prompted me to speak and you
- to answer. It can’t be that we, who were made for each other, were left to
- find it out by a mere perilous chance—it isn’t credible.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But nobody except myself—not even you, can understand how like a
- miracle it all is to me, because nobody else can know how much I needed
- you. Nobody else can know how dreary and empty my life was before you
- came, or how completely you have filled it and gladdened it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Here we stopped talking for a while.
- </p>
- <p>
- By and by she resumed, “I think that music differs from the other arts. I
- think the musician instinctively needs a companion worker. I know that in
- the old days when I would play or sing, my heart seemed to cry out
- continually for some one to come and share its feeling. Perhaps this was
- because music is the most emotional of the arts, the most sympathetic.
- Really, sometimes I could not bear to touch the piano, the pain of being
- alone was so acute. Of course I had my uncle, a most thorough musician;
- but I wanted somebody who would feel precisely as I did, and he did not.
- He always analyzed and criticised, never allowed himself to be carried
- away, never forgot the intellectual side of the things I would play. But
- now—now that you are with me, my music is a constant source of joy.
- And then, the thought that we are going to work together all our lives,
- the thought of the music we are going to make together—oh, it is too
- great, it takes my breath away! I don’t dare to believe it. I am afraid
- all the time that something will happen to prevent it coming true.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Again for a while we did not speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- Again by and by she resumed, “And then you can not know how lonely I was
- in other ways, how I longed for a little affection, a little tenderness.
- Of course uncle is very good, has always been very good to me; but do you
- think it was ungrateful for me to want a little more affection than he
- gave me? I mean a little more <i>manifest</i> affection; because I know
- that in the bottom of his heart he loves me very warmly. But I longed for
- somebody to <i>show</i> a little care for me, and uncle is very
- undemonstrative—he is so absorbed in his symphony, and then
- sometimes he is exceedingly severe. When I would get home at night it was
- so dreary not to have any one to speak to about the trials of the day—not
- to have any one who would sympathize and understand. You see, other girls
- have their mothers or their brothers and sisters and friends: but I had
- nobody except my uncle; and he was so much older, and regarded things so
- differently, that I do not think it was unnatural for me to wish for some
- one else. Besides, I had so much responsibility; I felt so weak and
- helpless. I thought, what if something should happen to my uncle! or what
- if I should get sick and be unable to teach! Oh, the rest and security
- that you brought to me!”
- </p>
- <p>
- What I replied—a mass of broken sentences—was too incoherent
- to bear recording.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And then, the mere physical fatigue—day after day, work, work,
- work, and never any respite. Of course, every body has to work, but almost
- every body has a holiday now and then; and I never had a single day that I
- could call all my own. In winter it was hardest. No matter how tired I
- was, I had to be up and off giving lessons even if the snow was ankle
- deep. And the ice in the river made it such hard work getting to Hoboken,
- made the journey so very long. I had to do the housework too, you know. We
- couldn’t afford to keep a servant, on account of the money we had to send
- abroad. When I would come home all fagged out I had to clean the rooms and
- cook the dinner; though I am afraid that sometimes I did not more than
- half do my duty. Sometimes I would let the dust lie for a week on the
- mantle-piece. And every day was just the same as the day that had gone
- before. It was like traveling in a circle. When I would go to bed at night
- my weariness would be all the harder because of the thought, ‘To-morrow
- will be just the same, the same round of lessons, the same dead fatigue,
- the same monotonous drudgery from beginning to end.’ And as I saw no
- promise of change, as I thought it would be the same all my life, I could
- not help asking what the use was of having been born. Wasn’t I a dreadful
- grumbler? Yet, what could I do? I think it is natural when one is young to
- long for something to look forward to, for just a little pleasure and just
- a little companionship. But then you came, and every thing was altered. Do
- you remember in the Creation the wonderful awakening one feels when they
- sing, ‘And the Lord said, Let there be light,’ very low, and then with a
- mighty burst of sound, ‘And there was <i>LIGHT?</i>’ Do you remember how
- one’s heart leaps and seems to grow big in one’s breast? It was like that
- when you came to me. I used to wonder why I had ever felt unhappy or
- discontented. The mere prospect of seeing you at the week’s end made my
- heart sing from morning to night. It gave a motive, an object, to my life—made
- me feel that I was working to a purpose, that I should have my reward. I
- had been growing hard and indifferent, even indifferent to music. But now
- I began to love my music more than ever: and no matter how tired I might
- be, when I had a moment of leisure I would sit down and practice so as to
- be able to play well for you. Music seemed to express all the unutterable
- feeling that you inspired me with. One day I had sung the <i>Ave Maria</i>
- of Cherubini to you, and you said, ‘It is so religious—it expresses
- precisely the emotions one experiences in a church.’ But for me it
- expressed rather the emotions a woman has when she is in the presence of
- the man she loves. All the time I had no idea that you would ever feel in
- the same way toward me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- My kisses silenced her. Afterward she sang from Pergolese’s <i>Stabat
- Mater</i>, and played a medley of bits from Chopin: until, looking at my
- watch, I saw it was nearing midnight. Time for me to go away. But her
- uncle had not yet come home. I did not like to leave her alone. I said so.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that is nothing,” she explained. “It always happens when he has one
- of his ideas. Very likely he won’t come in till morning. I am quite
- accustomed to it, and not a bit afraid.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In that event,” I thought, “I certainly ought to go. It may embarrass
- her, my staying so late; and besides, she needs the sleep.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I started to say good-by. Our parting was hard. Again and again, as I
- reached the door, I turned back and began anew. But at last I found myself
- in the street. I looked up at the parlor window, and remained on the
- curbstone until I saw her close the sash and pull the shade, and the light
- being extinguished, knew that she had gone to her bedroom. Then I set my
- face toward home.
- </p>
- <p>
- I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand that
- what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire. My
- tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should be
- dedicated to soothing her and protecting her and making her glad. The
- tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she had
- been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce
- work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to
- return and pour out the yearning of my spirit at your feet. Why had I left
- her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the
- knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that I
- was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when
- that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should
- overwhelm me. I could not contemplate it any more than I could have gazed
- straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I was
- seated at her side, caressing her brow and emptying my life into her eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety
- and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified. I had a presentiment
- that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I
- reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself
- that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for her
- lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not begin
- till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on my hat
- and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street.
- </p>
- <p>
- Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided as abruptly
- and with as little provocation as it had sprung up. Indeed, I laughed as I
- remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the matter. Still I am not
- sorry to have come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me in.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so without my
- noticing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I
- rang again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning hope
- of success: and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside
- to let some one pass.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out so
- early?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I explained.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of coffee. I
- have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little aria. I will
- play it for you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been
- drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every
- thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and
- empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest.
- There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them.
- </p>
- <p>
- Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged it
- on the table, and applied a match to the lamp.
- </p>
- <p>
- “While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you the
- result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down under the
- trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it for
- their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold the
- stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Again he went away—to fetch his instrument.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and
- more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot.
- Still he remained.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. At
- first he did not answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated.
- </p>
- <p>
- I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low,
- inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me. Had he
- met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s vigil?
- paralysis? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room whence his
- voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of the floor,
- immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a man who has
- seen a ghost.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried.
- </p>
- <p>
- He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question.
- </p>
- <p>
- He roused himself. A tremor swept over him. A painful rattling was audible
- in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed. “L-look,” he gasped.
- </p>
- <p>
- I looked. How can I tell what I saw?
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- IV.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ND yet I must tell
- it, though the telling consume me like a flame. I saw a bed and Veronika
- lying on it, face downward. She was dressed in her customary black gown. I
- supposed she was asleep. I supposed she was asleep, for one short moment.
- That was the last moment of my life. For then the truth burst upon me,
- fell upon me like a shaft from out the skies and hurled me into hell. I
- saw—not that she was dead only. If she had only died it would be
- different. I saw—merciful God!—I saw that she was murdered.
- </p>
- <p>
- Oh, of course I would not, could not, believe it. Of course it was a
- dream, a nightmare, an hallucination, from which I should presently awake.
- Of course the thing was impossible, could not be. Of course I flung myself
- upon the bed at her side and crushed her between my arms and covered her
- with kisses and called and cried to her to move, to speak, to come back to
- life. And although her hands were icy cold and her body rigid and her face
- as white as marble, and although—ah, no! I may leave out the
- horrible detail—still I could not believe. I could not believe—yet
- how could I deny? There she lay, my sweetheart, my promised bride, deaf to
- my voice, blind to my presence, unmoved by my despair, beyond the reach of
- my strongest love, never to care for me again—Veronika, my tender,
- sad Veronika—oh, she lay there, dead, murdered! And still, with the
- knife-hilt staring at me like the face of Satan, still I could not
- believe. It was the fact, the unalterable fact, the fact that extinguished
- the light of the sun and stars and flooded the universe with blackness:
- and still, in spite of it, I called to her and crushed her in my embrace
- and kissed her and caressed her and was sure it could not be true. And
- meantime people came and filled the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- I did not see the people. Only in a vague way I knew that they were there,
- heard the murmur of their voices, as if they were a long distance off. I
- had no senses left. I could neither see nor hear distinctly. My eyes were
- burned by a fierce red fire. My ears were full of the uproar of a thousand
- devils. But I knew that people had intruded upon us. I knew that I hated
- them because they would not leave us two alone. I remember I rose and
- faced them and cursed them and told them to be gone. And then I took her
- in my arms again and pressed her hard to me and forgot every thing but
- that she would not answer.
- </p>
- <p>
- Gradually, however, nature was coming to my rescue. Gradually I seemed to
- be sinking into a stupor—had no sensation left except a numb,
- bruised feeling from head to foot—forgot what the matter was, forgot
- even Veronika, simply existed in a state of half conscious wretchedness.
- The first frenzy of grief had spent itself. The very immensity of the pain
- I had suffered acted as an opiate, exhausted and rendered me insensible. I
- heard the voices of the people as a soldier who is wounded may still hear
- something of the din of battle.
- </p>
- <p>
- I don’t know how long I had lain thus when I became aware that a hand was
- placed upon my shoulder. Some one shook me roughly and said, “Get up and
- come away.” Passively, I obeyed. “Sit down,” said the same person, pushing
- me into a chair. I sat down and relapsed into my stupor.
- </p>
- <p>
- Again I don’t know how long it was before they disturbed me for a second
- time. Two or three men were standing in front of me. One of them was in
- uniform. Slowly I recognized that he was an officer, a captain of police.
- He spoke. I heard what he said without understanding, as one who is half
- asleep hears what is said at his bedside. This much only I gathered, that
- he wanted me to go with him somewhere. I was too much dazed to care what I
- did or what was done with me. He took my arm and led me away. He led me
- into the street. There was a a great crowd. I shut my eyes and tottered
- along at his side. We entered a house. Somebody asked me a lot of
- questions—my name and where I lived and so forth—to which my
- lips framed mechanical answers. I can remember nothing more.
- </p>
- <p>
- When consciousness revived I was made to understand that I had fainted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But where am I? What has happened?” I asked, trying to remember.
- </p>
- <p>
- The police-captain explained. “Mr. Neuman,” he said, “I have made all the
- inquiry that is as yet possible, and the result is that I deem it my duty
- to take you in custody. I prefer no charge, but I believe I am bound to
- hold you for the inquest. The hour of your leaving her last night, the
- time that Miss Pathzuol has apparently been dead, and the fact that you
- were the last person known to have been in her company, make it incumbent
- upon me to place you under arrest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I pondered his words. Every thing came back. I was accused, or at least
- suspected, of having murdered Veronika—<i>I!</i>
- </p>
- <p>
- I felt no emotion. I was stunned as yet, like a man who has received a
- blow between the eyes. My brain had turned to stone. I repeated over to
- myself all that the captain had said. The words wrought no effect. I did
- not even experience pain as I thought of her. She is dead? I queried. They
- were three vapid syllables. My senses I had recovered—I could see
- and hear plainly now—could remember the events of the morning in
- detail and in their correct order. But somehow I had lost all capacity for
- feeling.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- V.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ND so it continued
- throughout the inquest and throughout the trial—for, yes, they tried
- me for my sweetheart’s murder. I ate, drank, slept, and answered the
- questions that were put to me, all in a dazed, dull way, but suffered no
- pain, no surprise, no indignation, had no more sensation than a dead man.
- That Veronika had been killed, and that I was accused of having killed
- her, were the facts which I heard told and told again from morning till
- night each day; yet I had not the least conception of what they signified.
- I was too stunned and benumbed to realize.
- </p>
- <p>
- The first day passed by, and the second and the third, every one of them
- busy with events that meant life or death for me: yet I took no notice.
- When left to myself, invariably I closed my eyes, and the stupor settled
- over my senses like a cloud of smoke. When aroused, I did whatever was
- required as passively as an automaton. I remember those first few days as
- one remembers a hateful dream. I remember being driven in a dark, noisy
- vehicle from the station-house to the city prison, and having in the
- latter place a cell assigned to me which was destined to serve as my home
- for many weeks. I remember making several trips, handcuffed to my
- custodian, from the jail to the office where the inquest was held and
- back: but my only recollection of the inquest itself is a confused one—a
- crowded, foul-smelling room, a chaos of faces and voices, endless talking,
- endless questioning of myself by men who were strangers to me. I remember
- that by and by these journeys came to an end: but what the verdict of the
- inquest was I do not remember—I do not think I troubled myself to
- ask at the time. Then I remember that after some days spent alone in my
- cell one of the keepers said, “You are indicted,” and inquired whether I
- wished to communicate with my attorney. Indicted? My attorney? I did not
- comprehend. I do not remember what I answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- Once the door of my cell opened, and they brought in a trunk and a
- violin-case and placed them on the floor at the foot of my cot.
- </p>
- <p>
- I recognized these for my own property. Mechanically I took out my violin
- and drew forth one long, clear note. That note was like a sudden flash of
- light. For a single instant the desolation to which my world had been
- reduced became visible in all its ghastliness. For a single instant I
- realized my position, realized that Veronika was dead, and the rest. The
- truth pierced my consciousness like an arrow and made my body quake with
- pain. But immediately the darkness settled over me again, the stupor
- returned.
- </p>
- <p>
- Slowly, however, this stupor was changing its character. By degrees, so
- far as my mere thinking faculties were involved, it began to be
- dissipated. By degrees my mind struggled out of it. I began to notice and
- to understand things, and was able to converse and to appreciate what was
- said. But over my feelings it retained its sway. Although I was quite
- competent now to follow the explanations of my lawyer—how Veronika
- had been murdered and how and why I was suspected as the murderer—still
- I had no feeling of any sort about the matter. I might have been a log of
- wood.
- </p>
- <p>
- My lawyer had presented himself one day and volunteered his services. I
- had accepted them without even inquiring his name.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t you remember me?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- I looked at his face but could not recall having seen it before.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My name is Epstein,” he said. “We went to school together.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes; I remember,” I replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- Regularly each day he came and reported the progress of affairs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our only hope
- lies in an alibi.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What is that?” I inquired dully.
- </p>
- <p>
- He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell me what
- tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that have leaked
- out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at what hour did you
- leave Miss Pathzuol that night?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At about midnight.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And went directly home?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Directly home.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants? any of
- your fellow-lodgers?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t remember.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you must make an effort to remember. Try.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence irritated me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were the
- life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said, and
- that was the truth.
- </p>
- <p>
- Next day his face wore a somber expression.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and your
- fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know you
- are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At last the trial began.
- </p>
- <p>
- I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room. I
- heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers
- simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was the
- least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the result.
- Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of the trial
- is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story of it.
- </p>
- <p>
- The first day was used in securing a jury.
- </p>
- <p>
- The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called it—by
- the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika was, how she
- had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of the 13th July
- they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable train of
- circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. Then he raised
- his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s soul. Then he faced
- around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his finger at me,
- “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the
- murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all night
- that night; and explained the nature of the relations that subsisted
- between Veronika and myself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was the
- door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney.
- </p>
- <p>
- “In its usual condition.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is to say, locked?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Precisely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It had not been broken open or tampered with?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not so far as I could see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass
- between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every
- reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And when made aware of the death of his betrothed,” pursued my lawyer,
- “how did Mr. Neuman conduct himself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He acted like a crazy man—like one paralyzed by a tremendous blow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can go, Mr. Tikulski,” said my lawyer. “But I wish to say,” began
- Tikulski, “that I do not believe——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Stop,” cried the prosecutor. “Your honor, I object to any expression of
- opinion by the witness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No matter about what you don’t believe,” said the Judge to Tikulski.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But——-”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you must hold your tongue,” imperiously. “You can go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man left the stand and elbowed his way to my side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What I wished to say was,” he whispered into my ear, “that I believe you
- are as innocent as I myself. It is outrageous, this trial. They compelled
- me to testify. But you must understand that I am sure of your innocence. I
- don’t know why they hushed me up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile the captain of police had succeeded him, and sworn to having
- visited the scene of the crime and to having placed the prisoner under
- arrest.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Captain,” said the district-attorney, “here is a key. Have you seen it
- before?” handing a key to the witness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have,” was the reply.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell us when and where.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I took it from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What further can you say about it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Subsequently it was identified as a key to the apartments occupied by the
- deceased.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you try it yourself?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did. It fitted the lock.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How is this?” Epstein asked me. “How did you come by that key?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever having had it
- in my possession.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it is an ugly circumstance, and must be accounted for.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, what difference does it make?” I retorted petulantly. “Leave me
- alone.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A few little trifles like this may make the difference of your neck,”
- muttered Epstein, and he looked disturbed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Captain,” continued the district-attorney, “just one thing more. Do you
- recognize this handkerchief?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; it was found in the pocket of the prisoner when he was searched at
- the station-house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- My lawyer got hold of the handkerchief and exhibited it to me. It was
- stained dull brown. “This is blood,” he said. “How did it happen?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know, I haven’t an idea,” was the utmost I could respond. Epstein
- looked more uneasy than before.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s enough, Captain,” said the prosecutor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But before you leave the stand,” put in Epstein, “kindly tell us what the
- prisoner’s conduct was from the time you took charge of the premises down
- to the time you locked him up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At first he acted as though he was crazy; raved and carried on like a
- madman. Afterward he became quiet and sort of dull. At the station-house
- he fainted away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Didn’t act as though he liked it—as though the death of Miss
- Pathzuol was a thing that pleased him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, sir; on the contrary. He acted as though it had been a great shock to
- him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can go.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Next came a physician.
- </p>
- <p>
- He said he was a police-surgeon. At about nine o’clock on the morning of
- July 13th he had been summoned to the house of the decedent; had examined
- the body and satisfied himself as to the mode of death. There were three
- separate knife-wounds. These he proceeded to describe in technical
- language. Not one of them could have been self-inflicted; any one of them
- was sufficient to have caused immediate death.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dr. Merrill,” inquired the prosecutor, “how long—how many hours—prior
- to your arrival must the crime have been perpetrated?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “From seven to ten hours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So that—?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So that the crime must have been perpetrated between eleven and two
- o’clock.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good.—Now, Doctor, here is a handkerchief which the captain says he
- took from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest. Do you recognize it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Go on—what about it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was submitted to me for chemical analysis—to analyze the
- substance, with which it is discolored.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you found?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I found that it was stained with blood,”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Human blood?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Precisely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “About how long had it been shed? Did its condition indicate?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “From its condition when submitted to me—that is, at about noon on
- the 13th—I inferred that it had been shed not much less nor much
- more than twelve hours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thank you, Doctor,” said the lawyer. To Epstein, “Your witness.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give no
- explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I answered.—To
- the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways, may it not? This
- blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have come from—say,
- a nose-bleed, eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not
- probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of
- blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a
- nose-bleed on the night in question?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know nothing at all about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The next witness was a woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East
- Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the
- street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she had
- opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight o’clock.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were seated
- out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman went out
- a little before twelve o’clock.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now,
- meanwhile, whom else did you admit?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in except
- Mr. Neuman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Was not that a somewhat unusual circumstance?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Most extraordinary. Me and my husband spoke about it at the time.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You can swear positively on this score?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, because we staid on the stoop the whole evening and not a soul could
- have passed us without our seeing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are there any other means of ingress to the house of which you have
- charge than the street door?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir; the basement-door and the scuttle-door in the roof.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What was their condition on the night of the 12th of July?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They were locked and bolted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What was their condition on the morning of the 13th?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “At six o’clock when I opened the house they were still locked and
- bolted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Meantime could they have been unlocked?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, because I carried the keys in my pocket.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, what are the means of ingress to the flat occupied by Mr. Tikulski?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The door that opens from his private hall into the outer hall of the
- house.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Any other?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, your honor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you recognize this key?” handing to the witness the key that the
- officer had identified.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I do, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It’s a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Here befell a pause, during which the jurymen shifted in their seats and
- the prosecutor consulted with his colleague. In a moment he resumed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Now, Mrs. Marshall, you have testified that the prisoner at the bar,
- Ernest Neuman, left the house, No.—East Fifty-first street, shortly
- before midnight on the 12th of July. Your memory on this point is entirely
- trustworthy?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very well. Did you notice his movements after that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tell us what they were.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, sir, he crossed over the street and stood on the sidewalk under a
- lamp-post looking up at the front of the house toward Mr. Tikulski’s
- windows, and then—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “For how long?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I couldn’t tell exactly, but maybe for the time it would take you to walk
- around the block.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “For five minutes?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, or more likely for ten.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And then—?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, and then, as I was saying, he marched straight away toward the
- avenue.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Toward what avenue?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Toward Second avenue.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And disappeared?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And disappeared.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Did you see any thing more of him that night?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I did, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “When and under what circumstances?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “In about a quarter of an hour, your honor, Mr. Neuman he comes back and
- stands leaning up against the railing across the way; and pretty soon
- crosses over and goes past us without speaking a word and enters the
- house, the door being open, and goes up the stairs.” My lawyer turned
- sharply to me. “Is this true?” he whispered. “No, it is entirely false,” I
- answered. But I did not care.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This,” resumed the district-attorney, “was at about what hour?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sure, you can reckon it for yourself, sir. It was a little after twelve.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Very good. Now, at what hour did you shut up the house?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was after one o’clock.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Had the prisoner meantime gone out?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He had not.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So that consecutively from the moment of his reëntrance to the hour of
- your closing up, he was in the house?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He was, sir.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Meanwhile, who else had entered?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Two of the tenants, Mr. and Mrs.————, the tenants
- of the first flat.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Any one else?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No one else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That will do, Mrs. Marshall.”
- </p>
- <p>
- My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless
- to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had
- already sworn to.
- </p>
- <p>
- “John Marshall!” called the prosecutor.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like her,
- was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults.
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the judge.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter.
- </p>
- <p>
- I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein
- joined me in my cell.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How about that key?” he demanded.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I know nothing about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How about the blood on your handkerchief?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are sure you did not reenter the house?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “They have.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Will you take the stand?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What for?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do I care for my life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” I replied, stubbornly.
- </p>
- <p>
- He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted. He
- went his way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury be directed
- to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the prosecution has
- failed to show any motive on the part of my client for the crime of which
- he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly circumstantial, as in the
- present case, a failure to show motive is fatal.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide the case
- on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My landlady took the
- witness-chair and testified to my excellent character. He called a handful
- more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I am ready to sum up, your
- honor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do so,” replied the Court.
- </p>
- <p>
- Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for word;
- yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time.
- </p>
- <p>
- He said, “We are not prepared to contest the matters of fact alleged by
- the prosecution, nor to deny that their bearing is against my client. That
- Mr. Neuman was in Miss Pathzuol’s company on the night of July 12th, and
- that the next morning a blood-stained handkerchief and a key to Mr.
- Tikulski’s door were taken from his pocket, we admit. We will even admit
- that these circumstances are of a sort to cast suspicion upon him: all
- that we claim is that they are not sufficient to confirm that suspicion
- and make it certainty. It is the liberty, perhaps the life, of a human
- being which you have at your disposal. No matter how dark the shadow over
- him may be, if you can entertain a reasonable doubt of his guilt, you must
- acquit. And, putting it to you in all simplicity and sincerity, I ask:
- Does not the evidence offered by the prosecution leave room for a
- reasonable doubt? Is it not possible that some other hand than Neuman’s
- dealt the blows by which Veronika Pathzuol met her death? If such a
- possibility exists, you must give Neuman the benefit of it; you must
- acquit. Consider his good character; consider that he was the betrothed of
- the lady whose murderer they would make him out to be; consider that
- absolutely no trace of motive has been brought home to him; consider that
- on the contrary he was the one man who above all others most desired that
- she might live; consider these matters, and then decide whether in
- reasonableness his guilt is not in doubt. Remember that it is not
- sufficient that there should be a presumption against him. Remember that
- there must be proof. Remember also what a grave duty yours is, and how
- grave the consequences, should you send an innocent man to the gallows.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Only one word more. I had naturally intended to place my client upon the
- stand, and let him justify himself by his own word of mouth. But,
- unfortunately, I am not able to do so, because morally and physically he
- is prostrated and unfitted for sustaining the strain of an examination.
- But after all, if you will for a moment imagine yourselves in Mr. Neuman’s
- position, you can conceive that his defense must necessarily be of a
- passive, not of an active, kind. In his position what could you say? Why,
- only that you were ignorant of the whole transaction, and innocent despite
- appearances, and as much at loss for a solution of the mystery involving
- it as his honor himself. This is what Neuman would say were he able to go
- upon the stand. But one thing more he would say. He would impugn the
- veracity of the Marshalls. He would maintain that they lied <i>in toto</i>
- when they swore to his second entrance. He would tell you that when he
- left the house in Fifty-first street at midnight, he went directly home
- and to his bed, and that he returned no more until the next morning. And
- he would leave you to choose between his story and that of Mr. and Mrs.
- Marshall. My opponent will ask, ‘Why not prove an alibi, then?’ Because,
- when Mr. Neuman returned to his lodging-house late that night, every body,
- as might have been expected, was asleep. He encountered no one in the hall
- or on the stairs. He mounted straight to his own bed-chamber and went to
- bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I trust the matter to your discretion. I am sure that you will weigh it
- carefully and conscientiously. You will realize that the life of a fellow
- man hangs upon your verdict, and you will deliberate well, if there be
- not, on the whole, a reasonable doubt in his favor. You will, I am
- confident, in no uncertain mind consign Ernest Neuman to the grave of a
- felon.” The district-attorney’s address was florid and rhetorical. It
- lasted about two hours. He resumed the evidence. He said that an ordinary
- process of elimination would suffice to fasten the guilt upon the prisoner
- at the bar. The gist of his argument was that as Neuman had been the only
- person in the victim’s company at the time of the commission of the crime,
- he was consequently the only person who by a physical possibility could be
- guilty. He warned the jury against allowing their sympathies to interfere
- with their judgment, and read at length from a law book respecting the
- value of circumstantial proof. He ridiculed Epstein’s impeachment of the
- Marshalls, and added that even without their testimony the doctor’s story
- and the police-captain’s story, coupled with my own “eloquent silence,”
- were conclusive. It was the obvious duty of the jury to convict.
- </p>
- <p>
- The judge delivered his charge, dealing with the legal aspect of the case.
- </p>
- <p>
- Epstein rose again. “I request your honor,” he said, “to charge that in
- the event of the jurymen finding that there is a reasonable doubt in
- Neuman’s favor, they must acquit.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I so charge,” assented the judge.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I request your honor,” Epstein continued, “to charge that if the jurymen
- consider the fact of no motive having been shown, sufficient to establish
- a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, they must acquit.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I so charge you, gentlemen,” said the judge.
- </p>
- <p>
- The jurymen filed out of the room. The judge left the bench. It was now
- about four in the afternoon. Half an hour passed. The court-room began to
- empty. Another half hour passed. Only the court attendants, Epstein, the
- district-attorney’s colleague, and the prisoner remained. One of the
- attendants held a whispered conference with Epstein: then said to me,
- “There is no prospect of a speedy agreement. Come.” I rose, followed him
- to the rear of the room, and was locked up in the prisoner’s pen.
- </p>
- <p>
- It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my
- faculties like a frost.
- </p>
- <p>
- It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The same
- attendant again said, “Come.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on the
- bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him. Epstein
- said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have agreed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled themselves
- in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their
- pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead
- silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk.
- </p>
- <p>
- I stood up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the prisoner,” the
- clerk cried, machine-like.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the faces
- of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the metallic
- voice of the clerk rang out.
- </p>
- <p>
- The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of
- the offense for which he stands indicted?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not guilty,” said the foreman.
- </p>
- <p>
- Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did
- not speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar not
- guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands
- recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word.
- </p>
- <p>
- I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom
- as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my
- breast.
- </p>
- <p>
- Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said. “Come
- with me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness,
- “and much frequented by journalists. What will you have?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am not hungry,” I answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of ruefulness,
- “just a bite to celebrate our victory.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried,
- “Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh wind
- blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to gray.
- “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where will you go?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll stroll about for a while. Good-by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- VI.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> WALKED along
- aimlessly, recounting all the happenings of the last few weeks. I was
- astonished at my own blank insensibility. “Why, Veronika, the Veronika you
- loved, is dead, murdered,” I said to myself, “and you, you who loved her,
- have been in prison and on trial for the crime. They have outraged you.
- They have sworn falsely against you. And the very core of your life has
- been torn out. Yet you—what has come over you? Are you heartless,
- have you no capacity for grief or indignation? Oris it that you are still
- half stunned? And that presently you will come to and begin to feel?” I
- strode on and on. It was broad day now. By and by I looked around.
- </p>
- <p>
- I was in Second avenue, near its southern extremity. I was standing in
- front of a large red brick house. A white placard nailed to the door
- caught my eye. “Room to let,” it said in big black letters.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Room to let?” I repeated. “Why, I am in need of a room.” And I entered
- the house and engaged the room. The landlady asked my name. I told her it
- was Lexow, that having been the maiden-name of my mother. Neuman had
- acquired too unpleasant a notoriety through the published accounts of the
- trial. As Lexow I have been known ever since.
- </p>
- <p>
- I employed an express agent to go to the Tombs and bring back my luggage.
- </p>
- <p>
- Then I sat at my window and watched the people pass in the street. I sat
- there stockstill all day. I was aware of a vague feeling of wretchedness,
- of a vague craving for a relief which I could not name. As dusk gathered,
- a lump grew bigger and bigger in my throat. “I am beginning to be
- unhappy,” I thought. “It is high time.” My insensibility had frightened as
- well as puzzled me. Instinctively, I knew it could not last forever, knew
- it for the calm that precedes the storm. I was anxious that the storm
- should break while I was still strong enough to cope with its fury.
- Waiting weakened me. Besides, I was ashamed of myself, hated myself as one
- shallow and disloyal. That I could be indifferent to Veronika’s death! I,
- who had called myself her lover!
- </p>
- <p>
- But now, as the lump grew in my throat, now, I thought, perhaps the hour
- has come. I sat still in my chair, fanning this forlorn spark of hope.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the end, by imperceptible degrees, sleep stole upon me. It was natural.
- I had been up for more than six-and-thirty hours.
- </p>
- <p>
- When I awoke a singular thing happened. Memory played me a singular trick.
- </p>
- <p>
- I awoke, conscious of a great luminous joy in my heart. It was full
- morning. “Ah,” I thought, “how bright the sunshine is! how sweet the air!
- To-day I will go to Veronika to-day, after my lessons—and spend the
- lest of the afternoon and the evening at her side!” My heart leaped at
- this prospect of happiness in store: and I commenced to plan the afternoon
- and evening in detail. At last I jumped up, eager to begin the delicious
- day.
- </p>
- <p>
- The trick that memory played me was a simple one, after all. The recent
- past had simply for the moment been obliterated, and I transported back
- for a moment into the old time. As I stood now in the middle of the floor,
- my eye was struck by the strangeness of my surroundings.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, how is this?” I questioned. “Where am I?”
- </p>
- <p>
- For a trice I was bewildered, but only for a trice. The truth reasserted
- itself all at once—rose up and faced me with its grim, deathly
- visage, as if cleared by a stroke of lightning. All at once I remembered;
- and what is more, all at once the stupor that had hung like a cloud
- between me and the facts, rolled away. I looked at my world. It was dust
- and ashes, a waste space, peopled by ghosts. My heart recoiled, sickened,
- horrified; then began to throb with the pain that had been ripening in its
- womb ever since the morning when Tikulski pointed to her, stretched
- murdered upon the bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Well, at last the storm had broken; at last I realized. At last I could no
- longer reproach myself for a want of sensibility. At last I had my desire.
- I yielded myself to the enjoyment of it for the remainder of the day.
- </p>
- <p>
- For weeks afterward I lay at the point of death. The slow convalescence
- that ensued afforded me plenty of time to examine my position from every
- point of view, and to get accustomed to understanding that the light had
- gone out of my sky. Of course I hated the fate that condemned me to regain
- my health. The thought that I should have to drag out years and years of
- blank, aimless, joyless life, appalled me. The future was a night through
- which I should be compelled to toil with no hope of morning. Strangely
- enough, the idea of suicide never once suggested itself.
- </p>
- <p>
- When I was able to go out, I repaired to Epstein’s office. Several little
- matters remained to be settled with him. As I was about to leave, he said,
- “Neuman, do you propose to take any steps toward finding the murderer?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Toward finding the murderer? Why, no; I had not thought of doing so.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But of course you will. You won’t allow the affair to rest in <i>statu
- quo?</i>”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, considering your relations to Miss Pathzuol, I should think your
- motive would be plain. Don’t you want to see her murderer punished, her
- death atoned for?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Her death atoned for! Her death can never be atoned for. And the
- punishment of her murderer—would that restore her to me? Would that
- undo the fact that she is dead? Else, why should I bestir myself about
- it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Common human nature ought to be enough; the natural wish to square
- accounts with him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you fancy, Epstein, that such an account as this can be squared?
- Suppose we had him here now at our mercy, what could we do by way of
- squaring accounts? Put him to death? Would that square the account? To say
- so would be to compare his miserable life to hers.—But besides, he
- is not at our mercy. We have no clew to him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, on the contrary, we have.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Indeed? What is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, the most apparent one. You are sure the Marshalls lied?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh yes; I am sure of that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what earthly inducement could they have had for lying—for
- perjuring themselves, mind you, and running the risk of being caught and
- sent to prison—what earthly inducement, unless thereby they hoped to
- cover up their own guilt by throwing suspicion upon another man?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes; that is so. I had not thought of that.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, now, if you and I are sure that the Marshalls participated in that
- crime, there is a solid starting-point. Now, will you not join me and help
- to fasten the guilt upon them?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What good would it do? I say again, would that give her back to me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, my dear fellow, even if you have no desire to see the murderer
- punished, you must at least wish to retaliate upon the wretches who
- jeopardized your life by their false swearing, who sought to thrust upon
- your innocent shoulders the brunt of their own offending.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No; I confess, I have no such wish.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But—but you amaze me. Have you not the ordinary instincts of a man?
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is the business of the police, any how. Let them move in the matter.
- You ought to understand that I am sick and tired, that all I wish for is
- to be left alone. No, no; if the Marshalls should ever be brought to
- justice it will not be by my efforts. The police can manage it for
- themselves.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But there is just the point.” Epstein hesitated; at length went on,
- “There is just the point I wanted to bring to your notice. It will be hard
- for you to hear, but you ought to understand—it is only right that I
- should tell you—that—that—why, hang it, the police will
- remain idle because they suppose they have already finished the business,
- already put their finger on the—the man.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, why should they remain idle on that account? Why don’t they arrest
- him and try him, as they did me, before a jury?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don’t comprehend, Neuman. The fact of the matter is—you must
- pardon me for saying so—the fact is, they still suspect you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Suspect me? What, after the very jury has acquitted me? I thought the
- verdict of the jury was conclusive.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So it is, in one sense. They can’t put you in jeopardy again. But this is
- the way they stand. They say, ‘We haven’t sufficient legal evidence to
- warrant a conviction, but we feel morally certain, all the same, and so
- there’s no use prying further.’ That is my reason for broaching the
- subject and for urging you so strongly. You ought to clear your character,
- vindicate your innocence, by proving to the police that they are wrong,
- that the guilt rests with their own witnesses, the Marshalls.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I thank you, Epstein, for telling me this. I am glad to realize just what
- my status is. But let me cherish no misconception. Is this theory of the
- police—is it held by others?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “To be frank, I am afraid it is. The newspapers took it up and—and
- I’m afraid it s the opinion of the public generally.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then the verdict did not signify?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, at least not so far as public opinion is concerned.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So that I am to rest under this stigma all my life?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, no—not if you choose to exonerate yourself, as I have
- indicated.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I don’t care about that. I don’t care to exonerate myself. What
- difference would it make? Would it make the fact that she is lost to me
- forever one shade less true? Only, it is well that I should have a clear
- understanding of my position, and I thank you for giving it to me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don’t mean to say that you are going to drop the case there?” Epstein
- demanded. “I assure you, I never should have opened my mouth about it, had
- I foreseen this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t reproach yourself. You have simply done your duty. It was my right
- to hear this from you.—Yes, of course I shall drop the case.
- Good-by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will think better of it; you will reconsider it; you will come back
- to-morrow in a wiser frame of mind. Good-by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- As I reentered my lodging-house the landlady met me; thrust an envelope
- into my hand; and vanished.
- </p>
- <p>
- I was surprised to see that the envelope was addressed to “E. Neuman,
- Esquire.” It will be remembered that I had introduced myself as Mr. Lexow.
- I tore it open. It inclosed a memorandum of my arrears of rent and a
- notice to quit, the latter couched thus: “Mr. Neuman’s real name having
- been learned during his sickness, please move out as soon as you have paid
- up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I caught sight of myself in the glass. “So,” I said, “you are the person
- whom people suspect as a murderer! and it is thus that you are to be
- regarded all the rest of your life as one touched with the plague.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I counted my ready money and paid the landlady her due.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am very sorry,” she began, “but the reputation of my house—but
- the other lodgers—but—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You needn’t apologize,” I interposed, and left the house.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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?
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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 <i>confreres</i> watched his decapitation with
- repressed sympathy.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The proprietor glanced up.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I beg your pardon,” I continued in German, “but you have discharged a
- waiter!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?” he responded.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you will probably need somebody to take his place?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well? What of it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I—I—that is, if you think I would do, I should like the
- employment.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What references can you give?” he inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- I mentioned Epstein.
- </p>
- <p>
- “All right,” he said. “You can go to work at once. To-morrow I will look
- up your reference. If it be satisfactory, I will keep you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The <i>Oberkellner</i> provided me with an apron and a short alpaca
- jacket; and in this garb Ernest Neuman, musician, merged his identity, as
- he supposed for good and all, into that of Ernest Lexow, waiter.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- VII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>WO years elapsed.
- Their history is easily told. I lived and moved and had my being in a
- profound apathy to all that passed around me. The material conditions of
- my existence caused me no distress. I dwelt in a dingy room in a dirty
- house; ate poor food, wore poor clothing, worked long hours; was treated
- as a menial and had to put up with a hundred indignities every day; but I
- was wholly indifferent, had other things to think of. My thoughts and my
- feelings were concentrated upon my one great grief. My heart had no room
- left in it for pettier troubles. I do not believe that there was a waking
- moment in those two years’ when I was unconscious of my love and my loss.
- Veronika abode with me morning, noon, and night. My memory of her and my
- unutterable sorrow for her engrossed me to the exclusion of all else.
- </p>
- <p>
- My violin I did not unlock from year’s end to year’s end. I could not get
- over my hatred for the bare idea of music. Music recalled the past too
- vividly. I had not the fortitude to endure it. The sound of a hand-organ
- in the street was enough to cause me a twinge like that of a nerve touched
- by steel.
- </p>
- <p>
- As the winter leaped into spring, and days came which were the duplicates
- of those I had spent with her, of course my pain grew more acute. The
- murmur of out-door life and the warmth and perfume of the spring air,
- penetrated to the very quick of memory and made it quiver. But at about
- this time I began to taste an unexpected pleasure. It was an odd one. Of
- old, during our betrothal, I had been tormented almost nightly by bad
- dreams. As surely as I laid my head upon its pillow, so surely would I be
- wafted off into an ugly nightmare—she and I were separated—we
- had quarreled—she had ceased to love me. But now that my worst dream
- had been excelled by the reality, I began to have dreams of quite another
- sort. As soon as sleep closed upon me, the truth was annihilated, Veronika
- came back. All night long we were supremely happy; we played and sang and
- talked together, just as we had been used to do. These dreams were
- astonishingly life-like. Indeed, in the morning after one, I would wonder
- which was the very fact, the dream or the waking. My nightly dream got to
- be a goal to look forward to during the day. But as the summer deepened, I
- dreamed less and less frequently, and at length ceased altogether.
- </p>
- <p>
- Autumn returned, and winter; and my life did not vary. Time was slow about
- healing my wounds, if time meant to heal them at all. But time did not
- mean to heal them at all, as ere long became apparent.
- </p>
- <p>
- One afternoon in November, a month or so before the two years would have
- terminated, a young man entered the shop and ensconced himself at a table
- in the corner. Having delivered his order and lighted a cigarette, he
- pulled out a yellow covered French book from the pocket of his coat, and
- speedily became immersed in its perusal. I don’t know what it was in the
- appearance of this young man that attracted my attention. Almost from the
- moment of his advent my eyes kept going back to him. His own eyes being
- fastened upon his book, I could stare at him without giving offense. And
- stare at him I did to my heart’s content.
- </p>
- <p>
- He was a tall young fellow and wore his hair a trifle longer than the
- fashion is. He was dressed rather carelessly; he knocked his cigarette
- ashes about so that they soiled his clothes. He had a dark skin, and, in
- singular contrast to it, a pair of large blue eyes. His forehead, nose,
- and chin were strongly modeled and expressed force of character without
- pretending to conventional beauty. He was not a handsome, but a
- distinguished looking man. The absence of beard and mustache lent him
- somewhat of the aspect of a Catholic priest. His big blue eyes were full
- of good-nature and intelligence. He had a quick, energetic way of moving
- which announced plenty of dash within. He had entered the shop like a gust
- of wind, had shot across the floor and taken his seat at the table as if
- impelled by the force of gunpowder, and now he turned the pages of his
- book with the air of a man whose life depended upon what he was doing. No
- sooner had he consumed one of his cigarettes than he applied a match to
- its successor.
- </p>
- <p>
- I stared at him mercilessly and wondered what manner of individual he was.
- </p>
- <p>
- “He is not a business-man,” I said, “nor a lawyer nor a doctor: that is
- evident from his whole bearing; and besides, what would he be doing in a
- wine-shop at this hour of the afternoon? I don’t think he is a musician,
- either—he hasn’t the musician’s eyes or mouth. Possibly he is a
- school-teacher, or it may be—yes, I should say most certainly, he is
- an artist of some sort, a painter or sculptor, or perhaps a writer.”
- </p>
- <p>
- My speculations had proceeded thus far when in the quick, energetic way
- above alluded to the young man looked at his watch, slammed to his book,
- shoved back his chair, and commenced hammering upon the table with the
- bottom of his empty beer-mug.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, sir,” I said, responding to his summons.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Check,” he demanded laconically.
- </p>
- <p>
- I handed him his check. He thrust his fingers into his waistcoat-pocket
- for the money. They roamed about, apparently unrewarded.
- </p>
- <p>
- A puzzled expression came upon his face. The fingers paused in their
- occupation; presently emerged and dived into another pocket and then into
- another. The puzzled expression deepened: at last changed its character,
- became an expression of intense annoyance. He knitted his brows and bit
- his lip. Glancing up, he said, “This is really very awkward. I—I
- find I haven’t a <i>sou</i> about me. It’s—bother it all, I suppose
- you’ll take me for a beat. But—here, I can leave my watch.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that’s entirely unnecessary,” I hastened to put in. “Don’t let it
- distress you. Tomorrow, or any other day you happen to be passing, will do
- as well.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He looked at the same time surprised and relieved. “That’s not a
- conservative way of doing business,” he said. “How do you know I may not
- take advantage of you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I’m quite at rest about that. You need not be disturbed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, such faith in human nature is stimulating,” he answered. “I should
- hate to imperil it. So you may be sure I’ll turn up to-morrow. Meanwhile
- I’m awfully obliged.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Thereat he went away.
- </p>
- <p>
- I paid his reckoning from my own purse, and immediately fell again to
- wondering about him.
- </p>
- <p>
- By and by it occurred to me, “Why, that is the first human being who has
- taken you out of yourself for the last two years!” And thereupon I
- transferred my wonder to the interest he had managed to arouse in my own
- preoccupied mind. Then gradually my thoughts flowed back into their
- customary channels.
- </p>
- <p>
- But early the next day I caught myself asking, “Will he return?” and
- devoutly hoping that he would. Not on account of the money; I had no
- anxiety about the money. But somehow, self-centered as I was, I had felt
- drawn toward this blue-eyed young man, and anticipated seeing him again
- with an approach to genuine pleasure.
- </p>
- <p>
- Surely enough, in the course of the afternoon the door opened and he
- entered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” he said, “you see, I am faithful to my trust. Here is the lucre:
- count it and be satisfied that the sum is just. Really,” he added,
- dropping the mock theatrical manner he had assumed, “really, it was
- frightfully embarrassing yesterday. But I’m a victim of absentmindedness,
- and in changing my clothes I had omitted to transfer my pocket-book from
- the one suit to the other. I can’t tell you how much indebted I am for
- your considerateness. I suppose you are overrun with dead-beats who play
- that dodge regularly—eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I gave him the answer his question called for, served him with the
- drinkables he ordered, and stationed, myself at a respectful distance.
- </p>
- <p>
- He lighted his inevitable cigarette and produced his book. He read and
- smoked for a few moments in silence. Suddenly he flung the book angrily
- upon the table, pushed back his glass, and uttered an audible “Confound
- it!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I hastened forward to learn the subject of his discomposure and to supply
- what remedy I might.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I beg your pardon,” I ventured, “is there any thing wrong with the wine?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eh—what?” he queried. “With the wine? Any thing wrong? Oh—I
- perceive. Oh, no—the wine s all right. It’s this beastly pedantic
- author. He is describing the Jewish ritual, and now just observe his
- idiocy. He goes on at a great rate about the beauty of a certain prayer—gets
- the reader’s curiosity all screwed up—and then—fancy his airs!—and
- then quotes the stuff in the original Hebrew! It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t
- even condescend to affix a translation in a foot-note. Look.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He opened the book and pointed, with a finger dyed brown by tobacco-smoke,
- to the troublesome passage.
- </p>
- <p>
- Now I, having been brought up as an orthodox Jew, had a smattering of
- Hebrew, and at a glance I saw that I could easily translate the few
- sentences in question. So, impulsively and without stopping to reflect
- that my conduct might seem officious, I said, “If you would like, I think
- perhaps I may be able to aid you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What!” he exclaimed, fixing a pair of wide open eyes upon my face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I think I can translate it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The deuce!” he cried. “I didn’t suspect you were a scholar. How in the
- name of goodness did you learn Hebrew?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “A scholar I am not, surely enough: but I am a Jew, and like the rest of
- my faith I studied Hebrew as a boy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, I understand. Well, fire away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I took the book and read the Hebrew aloud. It was a prayer, which, when a
- child, I had known by heart. Afterward I explained its sense while my
- friend jotted it down with a pencil upon the margin.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thanks,” he was good enough to say. “I don’t know what I should have done
- without your help.—And so you are a Jew? You don’t look it. You look
- like a full-blown Teuton. But I congratulate you all the same.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Congratulate me for looking like a Teuton?” The shop being empty, there
- was no harm in my joining in conversation with a client. Besides, I did
- not stop to think whether there was harm in it or not. I yielded to the
- attraction which this young man exerted over me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No—for belonging to the ancient and honorable race of Jews,” he
- answered. “Your ancestors were civilized and dwelt in cities and wrote
- poems, thousands of years ago: whereas mine at that epoch inhabited caves
- and dressed in bearskins and occasionally dined on a roasted neighbor. I
- should be proud of my lineage, were I a Jew.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it is the fashion for the Gentiles to despise us.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, bosh! It is the fashion for a certain ignorant, stupid set of
- Philistines to do so—but those who pretend to the least
- enlightenment, on the contrary, regard the Jews as a most enviable people.
- They envy your history, they envy the success that waits upon your
- enterprises. For my part, I believe the whole future of America depends
- upon the Jews.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Indeed, how is that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, look here. What is the American people to-day? There is no American
- people—or rather there are twenty American peoples—the Irish,
- the German, the Jewish, the English, and the Negro elements—all
- existing independently at the same time, and each as truly American as any
- of the others. Good! But in the future, after emigration has ceased, these
- elements will begin to amalgamate. A single people of homogeneous blood
- will be the consequence. Do you follow?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I follow. But the Jews?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But the Jews—precisely, the Jews. It is the Jewish element that is
- to leaven the whole lump—color the whole mixture. The English
- element alone is, so to speak, one portion of pure water; the German
- element, one portion of <i>eau sucrée</i>; now add the Jewish—it is
- a dose of rich strong wine. It will give fire and flavor to the decoction.
- The future Americans, thanks to the Jew in them, will have passions,
- enthusiasms. They will paint great pictures, compose great music, write
- great poems, be capable of great heroism. Have I said enough?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The result was that we chatted together for half an hour with the freedom
- of old acquaintances. He quite made me forget that I was his servant for
- the time, and led me to speak out my mind with the unreserve of equal to
- equal. I enjoyed a peculiar sense of exhilaration that lasted even after
- he had gone away. In spite of myself I could not help relishing this
- contact with a superior man. Again I fell to wondering about his
- occupation. I was more and more persuaded that he must be an artist of
- some sort, or a writer.
- </p>
- <p>
- The next day he came again, and the next, and the next, and regularly
- every day at about the same hour for a fortnight. As surely as he seated
- himself at the corner table, so surely would he beckon to me and begin to
- talk. In these dialogues he afforded me no end of entertainment, touching
- in a racy way upon a score of topics. He had resided abroad for some years—seemed
- equally at home in Paris, Rome, and Munich—and his anecdotes of
- foreign life were like glimpses into dream-land for me. He had the faculty
- of making me forget myself, and for that reason, if for no other, I should
- have valued his friendliness. Our interviews occurred as bright spots in
- the sad gray monotone of my daily life.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- VIII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>UT 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was afraid I had seen the last of you for the day,” I answered. “This
- is a pleasant surprise, I assure you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- After a few yards in silence he resumed, “I say—oh, by the way, you
- have never told me your name?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My name is Lexow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t understand,” I said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “One confidence deserves another. I have told you my name, tell me yours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My name is Merivale, Daniel.—But don’t change the subject.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Capital! Well, then, for a beginner: You are or were or have at some time
- hoped to be, an artist of some sort—eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, neither of them.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Brava!</i> 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I confess, Mr. Merivale, that you surprise me. You have divined the
- truth, but for the life of me, I don’t see how.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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 <i>Violin!</i>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Guess. I’ll wager you’ll never guess.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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, <i>inédit</i>. 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We had arrived in front of an English-basement house in Seventeenth
- street.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come in,” he repeated. “This is where I live.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is too late,” I said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense,” he retorted. “It is never too late. Advance!”
- </p>
- <p>
- I followed him into the house.
- </p>
- <p>
- The room to which he conducted me was precisely the sort of room one would
- have expected. It was chock-full of odds and ends, piled about in hopeless
- confusion. The walls were hung with a reddish paper, and freckled with
- framed and unframed pictures—etchings, engravings, water-colors,
- charcoals, some suspended correctly by wires from the cornice, others
- pinned up loosely by their corners. The ceiling was tinted to harmonize
- with the walls. The floor was carpetless, of hard wood, waxed to a high
- degree of slipperiness, and relieved by a sporadic rug or two. Bits of
- porcelain and metal ware, specimens of old Italian carving, Chinese
- sculptures in ivory, rich tapestries, bronze and plaster reproductions of
- antique statuary, and books of all sizes and descriptions and in all
- stages of decay, were scattered hither and thither without a pretense to
- order. On the whole the effect of the room was pleasant, though it
- resembled somewhat closely that of a curiosity-shop gone mad. My host
- informed me that it was Liberty Hall and bade me make myself at home.
- Producing a flagon of Benedictine, he said laconically, “Drink.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We drank together in silence. Turning his emptied glass upside down,
- “Now,” he cried, “now for the music. Now you are going to play.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I thought you had forgotten about that,” I answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Tis not among my talents to forget,” he declaimed, theatrically. “You
- must prepare to limber up your fingers.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really, Mr. Merivale,” I insisted, “you don’t know what you are asking. I
- should no more think of touching a violin to-night than, than—no
- need of a comparison. The long and short of the matter is that I have the
- best of reasons for not wanting to play, and that the most you can urge to
- the contrary won’t alter my resolution. I hate to seem boorish or
- disobliging, but really I can’t help it. Besides, my instrument is a mile
- away and unstrung, and it is so late that the other occupants of this
- house would be annoyed. And as the subject is extremely painful to me, I
- wish you would let it drop.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, if you are going to treat the matter <i>au grand sérieux</i>,” said
- Merivale, “I suppose I must give in. But you have no idea of how
- disappointed I shall be. As for an instrument, I’ve a fiddle of my own in
- the next room—one that I scrape on now and then myself. As for the
- other occupants of this house, I pay double rent on the condition that my
- quarters are to be my castle, and that I can create as much rumpus in
- them, day and night, as I desire. If I were disposed to do so, I could
- make this a broad proposition of ethics, and maintain that as an artist
- you have no right to decline to exercise your skill. Your talent is given
- you in trust—a trust which you violate when you bury the talent in
- the ground. But I won’t go so far as that. I’ll simply ask you as a favor
- to play for me, and, if after that you are still obstinate, I’ll hold my
- peace.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, I am forced to be obstinate. Now let’s change the subject.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I bow my head. Only, perhaps you will make a single concession. As I have
- said, I am the possessor of a fiddle. It is one I picked up in Rome. I
- bought it of a seedy Italian nobleman; and he claimed it for a rare one—a
- Stradivari, in fact. I’m no judge of such things, and most likely was
- taken in. Will you look at it and give me your opinion?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes, I have no objection to doing that,”
- </p>
- <p>
- I said, glad to prove myself not altogether churlish.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here it is,” he continued, putting the violin into my hands.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was a beautiful instrument from an optical standpoint. What remained of
- the varnish was ruddy and crystalline, and as smooth as amber.
- </p>
- <p>
- The curves were exquisite. It was also either genuinely old or a marvelous
- imitation. Its interior was dark and dirty—an excellent condition. I
- could descry no label there—another favorable sign. Was it indeed a
- Stradivari? Formerly it had been an ambition of mine to play upon a
- Stradivari; an ambition which I had never had a chance to gratify, because
- among the dozen so-called Stradivaris that I had come upon here and there,
- I had found not one but betrayed its fraudulent origin from the instant
- the bow was drawn across the strings. Something of the old feeling revived
- in me as I held this instrument in my hands, and before I had thought, my
- finger mechanically picked the <i>A</i> string. The clear, bell-like tone
- that responded, caused me to start. I had never heard such a tone as this
- produced before by the mere picking of a string.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I believe you have a treasure here,” I exclaimed. “I’m not connoisseur
- enough to say whether it is a Stradivari; but whoever its maker was, it’s
- a superb instrument.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you really think so?” cried Merivale. “Try it with the bow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He thrust the bow upon me. Without allowing myself time to hesitate, I
- touched the bow to the strings: the result was a voice from heaven, so
- clear, so broad, so sweet, of such magnetic quality, that it actually
- frightened me, made my heart palpitate, summoned a myriad dead emotions
- back to life. And yet I felt an irresistible temptation to continue, to
- push the experiment at least a trifle further.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Tune it up,” said Merivale.
- </p>
- <p>
- I complied. That was the final stroke. After I had drawn the bow for a
- second time across the cat-gut, there was no resisting. I lost possession
- of myself: ere I knew it, I was pouring my life out through the wonderful
- voice of the Stradivari.
- </p>
- <p>
- I don’t remember what I played. Most probably it was a medley of
- reminiscences. I only remember that for the first few minutes I suffered
- the tortures of the damned—an army of devils were tugging at my
- heart-strings—and withal I had no power to restrain the motion of my
- arm and lay the violin aside. Then, I remember, the pain gradually turned
- to pleasure, to an immense sense of relief, as though all the woe pent up
- in the recesses of my soul had suddenly found an outlet and was gushing
- forth in a tremendous flood of sound. As I felt it ebbing away, like a
- poison let loose from my veins, somehow time and space were annihilated,
- facts were undone, truth changed to falsehood. Veronika and I were alone
- together in the pure realm of spirit while I told her in the million
- tempestuous variations of my music the whole story of my sorrow and my
- adoration. I listened to the music precisely as though it had been played
- by another person; I heard it grow soft and softer and melt into a
- scarcely audible whisper; I heard it soar away into mighty, passionate <i>crescendi</i>;
- I heard it modulate swiftly from prayerful minor to triumphant, defiant
- major; I heard it laugh like a child, plead like a lover, sob like Mary at
- the tomb of Christ; I heard it wax wrathful like a God in anger. And I—I
- was caught up and borne away and tossed from high to low by it like a leaf
- on the bosom of the ocean. And at last I heard the sharp retort of a
- breaking string; and I sank into a chair, exhausted.
- </p>
- <p>
- I think I must have come very near to fainting. When I gathered together
- my senses and opened my eyes I was weak, nerveless, bewildered. Merivale
- stood in front of me, his gaze fixed upon my face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “In God’s name,” I heard him say, “tell me what you are. Such music as you
- have played upsets all my established notions, undermines my philosophy,
- forces me back in spite of myself to a belief in witchcraft and magic. Are
- you a Merlin? Have you indeed the secret of enchantment? It is hardly
- credible that simple human genius wove that wonderful web of melody—which
- has at last come to an end, thank heaven! If I had had to listen a moment
- longer, I should have broken down. The strain was too intense. You have
- taken me with you through hell and heaven.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Still weak and nerveless, I could not command my voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are faint,” he exclaimed. “The effort has tired you out. No wonder:
- here—drink this.” He held a glass to my lips. I drank its contents.
- Presently I felt a glow of warmth radiating through my limbs. Then I was
- able to stir and to speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Through hell and heaven,” I repeated, echoing his words. “Yes, we have
- been through hell and heaven.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was a frightful experience,” he added, “more than I bargained for when
- I asked you to play.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must forgive me; I was carried away; I had no intention of harrowing
- you, but I had not played for so long a time that my emotions got the best
- of me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t talk like that,” he protested. “It was a frightful experience,
- but it was one I would not have missed. I had never dreamed that music
- could work such an effect upon me; but now I can understand the ardor with
- which musicians love their art; I can understand the claims they make in
- its behalf. It is indeed the most powerful influence that can be brought
- to bear upon the feelings. For my part I never was so deeply moved before—not
- even by Dante. But tell me, how did you acquire your wonderful skill? What
- must your life have been in order that you should play like that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of ‘wonderful skill’ I have little enough. Tonight perhaps I played with
- a certain enthusiasm because I was excited. But you attribute too much to
- me. A musician would have descried a score of faults. My technique has
- deserted me; but even when I used to practice regularly, I occupied a very
- low grade in my profession.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I care not how you used to play, nor how you were rated, nor how faulty
- your technique may be. You play now with a force that is more than human.
- I am not given either to flattery or to exaggeration, and I am not easily
- stirred up. But you <i>have</i> stirred me up, clear down to the marrow of
- my bones. Perhaps these two years of abstinence have but ripened the
- genius that was already in you—allowed it time to ferment. Tell me,
- what depths of joy and sorrow have you sounded to gather the secrets you
- have just revealed with your violin? What has your life been?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My life has been a very simple one, and for the most part very prosaic.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You might as well call the sun cold, the sea motionless, as pretend that
- your life has been prosaic. Friend, the only element that gives life and
- magnetism to art is profound, human truth That which touches us in a
- picture, a poem, or a symphony, is its likeness to the truth, its nature,
- especially its human nature. That is what makes Wilhelm Meister a powerful
- book, because each page is written, so to speak, in human blood. That is
- what makes Titian’s Assumption a great picture, because the agony in the
- Madonna’s face is true human agony. And that is what gave your music of a
- moment since the power to pierce the very innermost of my heart-because it
- was true music the expression of true human passion. Tell me, what manner
- of life have you lived, to learn so much of the deep things of human
- experience?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I looked into his clear, earnest eyes. They shone with a sympathy that
- fell as balm upon my wounds. An impulse that I could not battle with
- unsealed my lips. I told him my whole story from first to last.
- </p>
- <p>
- Some of the time, as I was speaking, he sat motionless with his brow
- buried in his hands. Some of the time he paced up and down the floor. He
- smoked constantly. Twice or thrice he extended his palm to bid me pause,
- indicating by nodding his head when he wished me to go on. Not once did he
- verbally interrupt, nor for a long while after I had done did he speak.
- </p>
- <p>
- By and by he grasped my hand and wrenched it hard and said, “Will—will
- you understand by my silence what I feel? It would be sacrilege for me to
- talk about this thing. I—I—oh, what a fool I am to open my
- mouth!”
- </p>
- <p>
- But presently he cried, “The injustice, the humiliation, that you have
- been put to! It is shameful. To think that they dared to try you, as
- though the mere sight of your face was not sufficient to prove you
- incapable of the first thought of crime! But I can understand your motive
- for not wishing to hunt the Marshalls down. Only of this I am sure, that
- if there is any such thing as equity in this world, some day their guilt
- will be made manifest and they will receive the chastisement which they
- deserve. Oh, how you have suffered! I tell you, it sobers a man, it
- reminds him of the seriousness of things, the spectacle of such a colossal
- sorrow as yours has been.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Again silence. Eventually he crossed over to the window and sent the
- curtains rattling across their pole. It was getting light outside. I
- pulled myself together. Rising, “Well,” I said, “good-by. My visit to you
- has been like a sojourn in another world. Now, I must return to my own
- dreary sphere. Forgive me if I have wearied you with all this talk about
- myself. I seemed to speak without meaning to—involuntarily. Once
- started, I could not have stopped myself, had I tried.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t speak like that,” he rejoined hastily and with a look of reproach.
- “Don’t make me feel that you repent your confidence. It was only right,
- only natural, that you should unbosom yourself to me. It was the
- consecration of our friendship. Friendship is never complete until it has
- been tested in the fire of sorrow. Mere companionship in pleasure is not
- friendship. No matter how intimately we might have seen each other, we
- should never have been friends until you had told me this.—Moreover,
- don’t get up. You must not think of going away as yet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “As yet? Why, I have outstaid the night itself. I must make haste or I
- shall be behindhand at the shop.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You must not think of returning to the shop to-day. You must go to bed
- and have some sleep. When you awake again I shall have a proposition to
- lay before you. For the present follow me—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But Mr. Merivale—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I anticipate your objections. But they are worthless. But the shop
- may, and I devoutly hope it will, be struck by lightning. Furthermore, if
- you are anxious about it, I’ll send word around to the effect that you’re
- unwell and not able to report for duty. That’s the truth. But any how I
- have a particular reason for wanting to keep possession of you for a while
- longer. Now, be tractable—as an indulgence, do what I ask.”
- </p>
- <p>
- There was no resisting the appeal in Merivale’s big blue eyes. I followed
- him as he desired. He led me into the adjoining room, where there were two
- narrow brass bedsteads side by side.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You see,” he said, “I was prepared for you. Here is your couch, ready for
- your reception. It’s rather odd about this. I’m a great hand for
- presentiments: and experience has taught me to believe in their coming
- true. When I took these quarters I said to myself, ‘Pythias, the Damon you
- have been waiting for all these years will arrive while you are bivouacked
- here. Be therefore in a condition to welcome him properly.’ I don’t know
- why, but I was thoroughly persuaded, I felt in my bones, that Damon’s
- advent would occur during my occupancy of these rooms. So I bought two
- bedsteads and two dressing-stands instead of one. I have got the heroes of
- the old legend somewhat mixed up; can’t remember which was which: but I
- trust I’m not egotistic in assigning the part of Damon to you and keeping
- that of Pythias for myself. At any rate, it’s a mere figure of speech, and
- as such must be taken. Now, Damon or Pythias, whichever you may be, in
- begging you to make yourself comfortable here, I am simply inviting you to
- partake of your own.”
- </p>
- <p>
- As he rattled on thus, he had produced sheets and blankets from a chest of
- drawers near at hand, and now was making the bed with the deftness of an
- expert.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There,” he exclaimed, bestowing a farewell poke upon the pillow, “now go
- to bed with a clear conscience and a mind at peace. I shall speedily
- follow. In the morning—I mean in the afternoon—we will resume
- our session.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He had the delicacy to leave me alone. I was too fatigued to reason about
- what I was doing. I undressed quickly, got into bed, and fell sound
- asleep.
- </p>
- <p>
- The sunlight was streaming through the window when I awoke. Merivale was
- seated upon the foot of the bed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” he cried, as I opened my eyes, “welcome back!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eh, how?” I queried, perplexed for the moment. “Oh yes; I remember. Have
- I been asleep long?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So long that I thought you were never going to wake up. It’s past four in
- the afternoon, and you have been sleeping steadily since six this morning.
- I had the utmost hardship in subduing my impatience. Ten solid hours of
- sleep! You must have been thoroughly exhausted.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You ought to have roused me. One can gorge one’s system with sleep as
- easily as with food. I have slept too much. But—but how shall I ever
- make amends at the shop?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bother the shop! The shop no longer exists. I have caused its
- annihilation during the day.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you Aladdin’s lamp?
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have a substitute for it, at least. The shop has been transported to
- Alaska.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That was unkind of you. Now I shall have to undergo the expense of a
- journey thither. Besides, I prefer a more temperate climate.—But
- seriously, did you send word as you agreed to?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I saw Herr Schwartz personally.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, that was very thoughtful. Did you succeed in appeasing him?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I told him that you wished to resign your position; and when he began to
- splutter, I added that in consideration of the trouble he would be put to,
- you were willing to forgive him whatever back pay he owed you; and when he
- declared that he owed you no back pay at all, I said you would be willing
- to forgive him any way on general principles, and think no more about it.
- Then I ordered beer and cigars and pronounced the magic syllable ‘<i>selbst</i>’
- and in the end he appeared quite reconciled.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense. Be serious. What did you say?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I <i>am</i> serious. That is what I said precisely.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What, you—oh come, you can’t be in earnest.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But I assure you I am in earnest, never was more in earnest in my life.
- You don’t really imagine that I am going to let you ‘stand and wait’ any
- longer, do you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t very clearly see how you are going to prevent it. I have my
- livelihood to earn. I can’t afford to throw up my employment in the
- cavalier manner you propose. It’s ridiculous.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I can prevent it and I will prevent it. How? By the power of friendship,
- by appealing to your heart and to your reason. As for your livelihood, I
- have found you a new occupation, one more befitting your character.
- Henceforward you are to be a private secretary.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Whose private secretary?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Never mind whose—or rather, you will learn whose, presently. First,
- accustom your mind to the abstract idea.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Really, Merivale, you are outrageous. I don’t know why I’m not indignant.
- You meddle with my affairs as if they were your own. You have no right to
- do so. And yet I am not angry. I must be totally devoid of spunk. But
- nevertheless I shan’t abide by your proceedings. As soon as I am dressed I
- shall return to the shop and beg Herr Schwartz to take me back.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I forbid it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am sorry, but I must defy your prohibition. By the way, may I inquire
- your authority?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Certainly. It is every man’s authority to restrain a lunatic. Your notion
- of returning to that wine-shop is downright lunacy. Besides, have I not
- provided you with new employment?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it is a sort of employment which I don’t wish to undertake. I prefer
- work that will leave my mind disengaged. You ought to understand that in
- my position one has no heart for any but manual labor.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I understand perfectly, better indeed than you yourself. I
- understand that while the first shock of your grief lasted it was natural
- for you to take up the first employment that you chanced upon, no matter
- what it was. But I understand now that it is high time for you to come
- back to your proper level. An occupation which leaves your mind disengaged
- is precisely the very worst you could have. With all appreciation of the
- magnitude of your bereavement, and with all reverence for your fidelity to
- your betrothed, I say that it is wrong of you to brood over your troubles.
- I am not brute enough to advise you to court oblivion; but a grief loses
- its dignity, becomes a species of egotism, by constantly brooding over it.
- It is our duty in this world to accept the inevitable with the best grace
- possible, and to make ourselves as comfortable as under the circumstances
- we can. But over and above that consideration there is this, that no man
- has a right to do work that is unworthy of him. It degrades himself and it
- robs society. Every man is bound to do his best work, to accomplish his
- highest usefulness. What would you say of a Newton who had abandoned
- mathematics to drive a plow? You are as much subject to the general moral
- law as the rest of us. You were sent into this world to contribute your
- quota to the sum of human happiness; and your art was permitted you only
- on the condition that you should cultivate it for the benefit of your
- fellow creatures. And yet, you propose to do the business of a common
- waiter in a wretched little <i>brasserie</i>. Now, I won’t urge you to
- return to music forthwith, because I know you suffer too keenly while you
- are playing. But I will say: Remember that you are a gentleman and that
- you are actually stealing from society by doing that which your inferiors
- could do as well. For the present, accept the situation of private
- secretary that I have procured for you. It will be a stepping-stone toward
- your proper place. You see, I can be a preacher on occasions.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And your sermon, I confess, is a wholesome one.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then you will consider the secretaryship?
- </p>
- <p>
- “I will consider whatever you wish me to. I will be guided by your common
- sense.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good! Now get up and dress.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He left the room. As I dressed I thought over the sermon he had preached.
- I could not gainsay its truth. Yet on the other hand I could not
- contemplate a changed mode of life without flinching. Two years of moral
- illness had undermined my moral courage. I wondered who my new employer
- was to be. I dreaded meeting him not a little. Thinking over the
- confidences of the night, I experienced no regret. Indeed I was glad to
- realize that I was no longer altogether alone in the world. Merivale had
- inspired me with an enthusiasm.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What a splendid fellow he is!” I exclaimed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If he and I could only remain together I believe I should find my life
- worth living. It is marvelous, the faculty he has for making me forget
- myself. I suppose it is due to his animal spirits, his healthy
- temperament. He is as vigorous and bracing as a whiff of the west wind
- full in one’s face.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I had never had a friend before. I relished my first taste of friendship.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meantime I was preparing my toilet. In the midst of it Merivale came into
- the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose you know who your future master is to be?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No—how should I know?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you obtuse blockhead! You————”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It isn’t—you don’t mean to say—” I began, a suspicion of the
- truth dawning upon me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Exactly! That is the precise sum and substance of what I mean to say. I
- mean to say that I’m in need of somebody to help me in certain work that
- I’m doing. The need is a real one, not an artificial one trumped up for
- the occasion. I have plenty of cash and am ready to pay what is just for
- my assistant’s time. You on the other hand are looking about fora means of
- subsistence. At the same time, luckily, you are just the person to suit my
- purpose. Hence, as a pure matter of business, I say, Shall we strike a
- bargain? You are going to be sensible and answer, Yes. Wherefore it only
- remains for me to explain the nature of the work and thus to convince you
- that you are not going to draw the salary of a sinecure.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If this is really true,” I said, “I can’t help telling you that nothing
- could make me happier. If I can really be of service to you, and if we can
- really arrange to keep as closely together as such work would bring us,
- why, my contentment will be greater than I can say.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then come into the next room and judge for yourself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We passed into the sitting-room. Merivale drew up to a table near the
- window and taking a pen in his hand said, “Look.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He tried the pen’s nib upon the nail of his thumb, dipped it into an
- inkstand, and applied it to a blank sheet of paper. Then his fingers began
- to work laboriously to and fro, with the result of tracing a scarcely
- legible scrawl. One could, however, by dint of taxing the imagination,
- make out these words: “Good friend, to end all doubt about the present
- matter, learn by this that a penman’s palsy shakes my fist, and
- furthermore, that I inherit a lamentable tendency to gout in the wrist.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Scrivener’s palsy and gout combined,” he added verbally, “and yet I am
- going to publish a volume of poems in the spring. They’re all down on
- paper, but no one can decipher them except myself; and if I should be
- carried off some day unexpectedly, think what the world would lose! My
- idea is to dictate them to you. We will work from nine till one every day,
- and devote the rest of our time to relaxation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you take my handwriting for granted,” I interposed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I think I am safe in doing so,” he replied. “But give me a sample.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I wrote off a few words.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Capital!” was his comment. “Now about the compensation.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I had to haggle with my generous friend and to beat him down half of his
- original offer. My stipend settled, “I admit,” said he, “that I am
- ravenously hungry. Suppose we dine?”
- </p>
- <p>
- We adjourned to Moretti’s. During the dinner we discussed our future. He
- said he was constantly writing new matter and therefore our contract would
- not terminate with the completion of the particular MS. in question. “Ah,
- what good times we are going to enjoy!” he cried. “We are perfectly
- companionable! There is nothing so satisfactory, nothing so productive of
- <i>bien être</i>, as friendship, after all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Dinner over, we strolled arm in arm through the streets. For the first
- time in two years I began to feel that the world was not quite a ruin. At
- home we talked till late into the night. And when I went to bed it was to
- lie awake for hours and hours, congratulating myself upon my newly
- discovered friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- IX.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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, “<i>Das Sehen mussgelernt sein!</i>”—it
- was all the German he knew—and now he taught me to see.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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;
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The musical director?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The same.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course I know him by reputation. Do you mean personally? Why do you
- ask?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Because—but that’s the point. First you must hear my story. It’s
- the greatest stroke of luck that mortal ever had.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, go ahead.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Take your time, then. I possess my soul in patience.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, pray, don’t stop,” I said, as he paused for breath. “Your narrative
- becomes thrilling.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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!”
- </p>
- <p>
- It required no little strength of mind to answer Merivale as I now had to.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The light faded from Merivale’s eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I stuck out obdurately. Merivale shifted from the attitude of one who begs
- a favor to that of one who imposes a duty.
- </p>
- <p>
- “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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- My efforts to beg off next morning were ineffectual.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If you desire to forfeit my respect entirely,” he warned me, “persist in
- this sort of thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I permitted myself to be dragged by the arm through the streets to Doctor
- Rodolph’s house.
- </p>
- <p>
- 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.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Disconcerted, I brought my bow to a standstill and exchanged a forlorn
- glance with Merivale.
- </p>
- <p>
- The doctor approached and looked me quizzically over from head to foot.
- “Where did you study?” he inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “In New York,” I answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you ever played in public?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not at any large affairs.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you teach?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I used to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What—what did you say your name was?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Lexow.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hum, it is odd I haven’t heard of you. Have you been in New York long?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “All my life.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes; you said you studied here. Who were your masters?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I named them.
- </p>
- <p>
- The doctor’s face had been inscrutable. Merivale and I had sat on pins
- during the inquisition. Now the doctor’s face lighted up with a genial
- smile.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You will do, Mr. Lexow,” he said. “I don’t know whom to thank the more,
- you or Mr. Merivale. You have relieved me in a very trying emergency. Your
- playing is fine, though perhaps a trifle too independent, a trifle too
- individual, and the least tone too florid. It is odd, most odd that I
- should never have heard of you; but we shall all hear of you in the
- future.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We agreed upon the selections for the evening. I ran them through in the
- doctor’s presence and listened to his suggestions. Then we bade him
- good-by.
- </p>
- <p>
- That day was a trying one. It would be bootless to catalogue the
- conflicting thoughts and emotions that preyed upon me. I practiced my
- pieces thoroughly. Merivale busied himself procuring what he styled a
- “rig.” The rig consisted of an evening suit and its accessories. He rented
- one at a costumer’s on Union square. As the day drew to a close, I worried
- more and more. “Brace up,” cried Merivale. “Where’s your stamina? And
- here, swallow a glass of brandy.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We waited in the ante-room till it was my turn to go upon the platform.
- </p>
- <p>
- I was conscious of a glow of light and a sea of faces and a mortal
- stage-fright, and of little else, when finally I had taken my position.
- The orchestra played the preliminary bars. I had to begin. I got through
- the first phrase and the second. The voice of my instrument reassured me.
- “After all you will not make a dead failure,” I thought, and ventured to
- lift my eyes. Not two yards distant from me, to my right, among the first
- violins, sat Mr. Tikulski. His gaze was riveted upon my face.
- </p>
- <p>
- I had anticipated about every catastrophe that could possibly befall, but
- strangely enough I had not anticipated this. And it was so sudden, and the
- emotions it occasioned were so powerful, and I was so nervous and unstrung—well,
- the floor gave a lurch, like the deck of a vessel in a storm; the lights
- dashed backward and forward before my sight; a deathly sickness overspread
- my senses; the accompaniment of the orchestra became harsh and incoherent;
- my violin dropped with a crash upon the boards; and the next thing I was
- aware of, I lay at full length on a sofa in the retiring-room, and
- Merivale was holding a smelling-bottle to my nostrils. I could hear the
- orchestra beyond the partition industriously winding off the <i>Tannhauser</i>
- march.
- </p>
- <p>
- “How do you feel?” asked Merivale, as I opened my eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I feel as though I should like to annihilate myself,” I answered, as
- memory cleared up. “I have permanently disgraced us both.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But what was the trouble? You were doing nobly, splendidly, when all of a
- sudden you collapsed like that,” clapping his hands. “The doctor is
- furious, says it was all my fault.” “No, it wasn’t your fault,” I hastened
- to put in. “I should have pulled through after a fashion, only unluckily I
- caught sight of Tikulski—her uncle, you know—in the orchestra;
- and, well, I—I suppose—well, you see it was so unexpected that
- it rather undid me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes; I understand,” said he.
- </p>
- <p>
- We kept silence all the way home in the carriage.
- </p>
- <p>
- Next morning, as I entered the sitting-room, Merivale tried to hide a
- newspaper under his coat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, don’t bother to do that,” I said. “Of course it is all in print?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Possessing myself of the newspaper, I had the satisfaction of reading a
- sensational account of my fiasco. But what I had most dreaded from the
- quarter of the newspapers had not come to pass. None of them identified me
- as the Ernest Neuman who, rather more than two years since, had been tried
- for murder.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- X.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>Y encounter with
- Tikulski was bound to have consequences, practical as well as moral. All
- day Sunday a legion of blue devils were my comrades. Late Monday afternoon
- I received by the post a letter and a package, each addressed to “E.
- Lexow, in care of D. Merivale, Esq.” The penmanship was the same on both—a
- stiff European hand which I could not recognize. I began with the letter.
- It read thus:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. E. Lexow,
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear Sir:
- </p>
- <p>
- “I should have forwarded this to you before, but not apprised of the
- alteration of your name, I was unable to discover your address. I dispatch
- this to the address indicated by Dr. Rodolph, who informs me that you are
- to be reached through D. Merivale, Esquire, as he is not advised of your
- private residence. I found it in a pawnbroking establishment (No.—————-street,
- kept by one M. Arkush) now more than a year, and purchased it with the
- intention of restoring it to you, because I suppose that it must be of
- some value to you as a family memento, and that you would not have
- disposed of it except needing money. Hoping that this letter may find you
- in the enjoyment of good health, I am
- </p>
- <p>
- “Respectfully yours,
- </p>
- <p>
- “B. Tikulski.”
- </p>
- <p>
- What could Tikulski’s letter mean? What could “it” be? I puzzled over
- these questions for a long while before it occurred to me to unseal the
- package.
- </p>
- <p>
- There was an outer wrapper of stout brown paper. Beneath this, an inner
- wrapper of tissue paper. Both removed, I beheld an oval case of red
- leather, considerably the worse for wear. What did it contain? I pressed
- the clasp and raised the lid. It contained a miniature painted on ivory,
- the likeness of a man. The faded colors and the old-fashioned collar and
- cravat showed that it dated from some years back. But of whom was it a
- picture?
- </p>
- <p>
- Why had Tikulski posted it to me? And what did he mean by supposing that I
- should value it as a family memento and that I would not have parted with
- it—I, who had never owned it,—“except needing money?” I was
- thoroughly mystified.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Merivale,” I said, “can you make any thing out of this?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I tossed him the letter and the portrait.
- </p>
- <p>
- Presently he muttered, “Pretty good, by Jove.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?” I questioned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what?” he returned.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what do you make of it? What does it mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, that the likeness is striking, what else? Your father, eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My father? I confess I am in the dark.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “And you have the faculty of dragging me in after you. What are you trying
- to get at?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am trying to get at Mr. Tikulski’s idea. Why should he send me that
- miniature? Whom does it represent?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You don’t mean to say that you haven’t recognized it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Most certainly I do.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Man alive, look in the glass.—Here.” Merivale held up the miniature
- in one hand and a pocket-mirror in the other. As closely as it is possible
- for one human countenance to resemble another, the face of the picture
- resembled my reflection in the glass.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Are you satisfied?” demanded Merivale.—“Why, what ails you?” he
- continued presently, as I did not answer. “You look as if you had seen a
- ghost. Are you ill?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It has caused me quite a turn,” I replied. “It must indeed be a portrait
- of my father. But do you know—wait—let me tell you something.”
- </p>
- <p>
- What I told Merivale I shall have also to tell the reader.
- </p>
- <p>
- I could remember neither of my parents. As a child, I had lived in a dark
- old house with a good old rabbi and his wife—Dr. and Mrs. Hirsch. I
- had never stopped to ask whether or not they were my father and mother
- until I was eleven or twelve years of age. Then, the question having been
- suggested by a schoolmate, I had said, “Dr. Lesser”—Lesser being the
- rabbi’s given name—“are you my father?” To which the doctor, beaming
- at me over the rim of his spectacles, had responded, “No, my child: you
- are an orphan.”—“An orphan? That means?” I pursued. “That your papa
- and mamma are dead,” said he.—“Have they been dead long?” I asked
- indifferently. “Ever since you were the tiniest little tot,” he replied.
- And thereupon, as the subject did not prove especially interesting, I had
- let it drop.
- </p>
- <p>
- Time went on. I was perfectly contented. The doctor and his wife were
- kindness personified. The present occupied me so pleasantly that I forgot
- to be curious about the past. But at length, when I was fifteen, the
- question of my parentage was again brought to my mind—this time by a
- lad with whom I had had a quarrel and who as a parting thrust had inquired
- significantly whether I knew the definition of the Hebrew noun <i>Mamzer</i>.
- Highly incensed, I ran home and burst into the doctor’s study. “Doctor,” I
- demanded, without ceremony, “am I a <i>Mamzer?</i>”—“What a notion!
- Of course you are not,” replied the rabbi.—“Then,” I continued,
- “what am I? Tell me all about my father and mother.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The doctor said there was nothing to tell except that my mother had died
- when I was less than two years old, and my father not a great while after
- her. They had been members of his (the doctor’s) congregation; and rather
- than see me sent to an orphan asylum, he and his wife had taken me to live
- with them.—“But what sort of people were they, my parents?” I
- insisted. “Give me some particulars about them.”—“They were very
- respectable, and by their neighbors generally esteemed well off. Your
- father had been a merchant; but for the last year his health was such as
- to confine him to his bedroom. It was quite a surprise to every body to
- find on his death that very little property was left. That little was
- gobbled up by his creditors. So that you have no legacy to expect except——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Except?” I queried as the doctor hesitated. “There is no exception. You
- have no legacy to expect at all.”—“But,” I resumed, “had my parents
- no relations? Have I no uncles or aunts? Am I altogether without kindred?”—“So
- far as I know, you are.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Your father came originally from Breslau. It is possible that he had
- relatives there; but he had none in this country—at least I never
- heard him speak of any. He was a good man, a pious man. It was sad that he
- should die so young, but it was the will of <i>Adonai</i>—“And my
- mother, had she no brother or sister?”—“About your mother I can tell
- you very little. She came from Savannah. Whether she has connections there
- still, I can not say.”—“Doctor,” I asked, after a moment’s silence,
- “what did you mean by that ‘except’ you used a while ago, speaking of
- legacies?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I meant nothing. I was thinking of a few family relics, papers and
- what-not, which you are to receive when you become of age.”—“Why not
- till then?”—“No reason, save that such was your father’s wish,
- expressed on his death-bed. He said, ‘Don’t let my son have these until he
- is grown to be a man.’.—“Can you tell me definitely what they are?”—“I
- can not. I have never seen them. They are locked up in a box; and the box
- I am not at liberty to open.”—“Doctor, what was my mother’s
- maiden-name?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Bertha, Bertha Lexow.”—“Did you marry her and my father?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no; they were married in the South at Savannah. I think they had been
- married about five years when your father died.”—I went on quizzing
- the doctor until he declined to answer another question. “Go away,
- gad-fly,” he cried. “You are worse than the inquisition.”
- </p>
- <p>
- In my eighteenth year the doctor died suddenly, having survived his wife
- by a six-month only. He was stricken down by paralysis while intoning the
- <i>Kadesh</i> song in the synagogue. In him I lost my only friend. I had
- loved him precisely as though he had been my father. His death was an
- immense affliction. It took me a long while to gather my wits together and
- realize my position.
- </p>
- <p>
- A week or two after the funeral a man came to me and said, “I represent
- the Public Administrator, charged with settling up Dr. Hirsch’s concerns.
- He leaves nothing except household furniture and a few dollars in bank—all
- of which goes to his next-of-kin in Germany. You will have to find other
- quarters. These are to be vacated and the goods sold at auction in a few
- days.”—“Ah,” I said, “if you are his administrator, that reminds me.
- I beg that you will deliver over the things the doctor had belonging to me—a
- box containing papers.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Identify your property and prove your title,” he replied.
- </p>
- <p>
- Strangers came and went in and out of the house for several days. But in
- the inventory which they prepared no such box as the doctor had described
- was mentioned. Furthermore, a thorough search failed to bring it to light.
- The auction was held. The last fork was knocked down to the highest
- bidder. And I had to go about my business with the unpleasant conviction
- that owing to some slip-up somewhere my inheritance had either been lost
- or stolen. Gradually I reconciled myself to this idea, concluding that
- what I already knew about my parents was the most I ever should know; and
- thus matters had remained ever since.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But now,” I added, my recital wound up, “now perhaps in this miniature I
- have a clew. It must be a portrait of my father: and very likely it was
- part of the contents of that box. I suppose, if I were clever, I should
- see a way of following it up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I am consoled,” said Merivale, drawing a deep breath.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Consoled?” I queried.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, consoled for my obstinacy in making you play at the concert. You
- see, it was an inspiration after all. If you had not chanced upon Tikulski—what
- a blood-curdling name! fit for a tragedy villain—if you hadn’t
- chanced upon him as you did, why you never would have received the
- picture, and so the mystery which envelops my hero s antecedents would
- never have been dispelled. Now we must go to work in a systematic way.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Exactly; but how begin?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me see Tikulski’s letter again.”—After he had read the letter,
- “Begin, he said, by paying a visit to the pawn-shop where he got it.
- Luckily he had the presence of mind to mention its whereabouts.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good,” I assented. “But will you go with me?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you imagine I would allow you to go alone, you unfledged gosling? I
- shall not only go with you, but by your permission I shall manage the
- whole transaction. I fancy I surpass you in respect of <i>savoir faire</i>.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is now past four. Shall we start at once?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, of course.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Don’t be too hopeful,” he warned me, as we approached the pawnbroker’s
- door. “Most likely we shall run against a dead wall.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The shop was empty. A bell tinkled as we opened the door. In response, a
- young fellow in his shirt-sleeves emerged from a dark back room.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is Mr. Arkush in?” demanded Merivale, with an air of friendliness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you want to see him personally?” returned the young man, not over
- politely.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have fathomed my purpose,” said Merivale with mock gravity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What about?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Merivale drew near to the young man and shielding his mouth with his hand
- whispered, “Business,” accompanying his utterance with a knowing glance.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, you can see me about business,” rejoined his interlocutor, surlily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Impossible. Here, take my card to Mr. Arkush and say I am pressed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Arkush can’t see nobody. He’s sick.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Sick? Ah, indeed?” cried Merivale. “Has he been sick long? I hope it is
- nothing serious. Pray tell me what the trouble is?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man looked surprised. “Oh, it’s only rheumatism,” he said. “You
- ain’t a friend of his, are you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, my dear fellow, of course I am. By the very nature of his profession
- Mr. Arkush is the friend of every body; and I am the friend of every
- friend of mine. Consequently but the deduction is too obvious. Here, take
- him my card and say that if he is not too ill I shall hope to be
- admitted.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, perhaps I’d better,” said the young man, reflectively.—“Becky,”
- he called, raising his voice.
- </p>
- <p>
- Becky appeared.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good-afternoon, Miss Rebecca,” said Merivale, lifting his hat.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mind the shop,” said the young man to Becky, and thereat vanished.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Come this way,” he said to us, presently returning.
- </p>
- <p>
- He conducted us into the cavernous back room. The atmosphere was heavy
- with the scent of stale cookery. The walls were lined with shelves,
- bearing mysterious parcels done up in paper winding-sheets. Under a grimy
- window at the further end an old man sat in an easy chair, a patch-work
- quilt infolding his legs. Bald, beardless, with sharply accentuated
- features and a yellow skin, he looked like a Midas whose magic was
- beginning to operate upon himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Dear me!” cried Merivale, advancing toward him. “I’m shocked to find you
- suffering like this, Mr. Arkush. Do the legs give you much pain? You must
- try petroleum liniment. I’ll send you a bottle. They say it’s the best
- remedy in the world.—But tell me, how are you getting on? Do you
- notice any improvement?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The old man’s face wore a puzzled expression. “What was the business you
- wanted to see me about?” he inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, never mind about business till you have quieted my anxiety regarding
- your health. Besides, are you sure you will be able to attend?”
- </p>
- <p>
- The mask of Midas betrayed a tendency to smile. “Come, time is money;
- hurry up,” said its owner. He had a strong Jewish accent, thus: “Dime iss
- money.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well,” said Merivale, “if you don’t think it will disturb you, I’ll
- come to the point. But let me disarm beforehand any suspicion which the
- nature of my errand may be calculated to inspire. I am <i>not</i> a
- detective. I am <i>not</i> on the track of stolen goods. I am simply a
- private individual desirous of gaining certain information for certain
- strictly legitimate ends. So you need have no fear of compromising
- yourself by speaking with entire unreserve. Shall I proceed?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “My Gott, what are you talking about? Don’t make foolishness any longer,”
- exclaimed Mr. Arkush with some degree of vivacity.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mr. Arkush,” said Merivale in his most solemn tones, “do you remember
- this?” extracting the miniature from his pocket and handing it to the
- pawnbroker.
- </p>
- <p>
- The latter donned a pair of spectacles and holding the picture off at
- arm’s length, scrutinized it in silence.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I remember it,” he replied finally, “I sold it to a gentleman some
- time ago. What of it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You did. You sold it about a year ago to a gentleman with a white beard.
- Recollect?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, yes, yes: you are right. He had a white beard. He was also a Jew. We
- spoke in <i>Judisch</i>. I remember.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By Jove, hasn’t Mr. Arkusha wonderful memory?” cried Merivale, turning to
- me.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I happen to remember,” volunteered Mr. Arkush, unperturbed by the
- compliment, “because when I put that article into the window I said to
- myself, ‘You won’t get no customer for that. What good is it to anyone?
- You made a mistake to lend your money on it. That was a loss.’ But the
- very same day the old gentleman came in and bought it, which was a
- surprise.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, I see. Could you tell me, Mr. Arkush, of whom you got it originally—who
- pledged it with you?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Du lieber Gott!</i> how should I remember that? It was two years ago
- already.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “True, but—but your books would show.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, my books would show the name the person gave.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, will you kindly refer to your books?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ach, you make me much trouble!—Yakub,” he called.
- </p>
- <p>
- The young man came.
- </p>
- <p>
- Arkush told Yakub to get him the ledger for 18—. It was a ponderous
- and dingy volume. Yakub held it open while his employer turned the pages,
- running his finger from the top to the bottom of each. At length the
- finger reached a stand-still. Mr. Arkush said, “Yes, I have found it. It
- was pawned with me by a man calling himself Joseph White.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The date?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The 16th January.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Have you any means of recalling what sort of looking individual Joseph
- White was? And, by the way, is his residence given?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Residence, Harlem,’ it says. That’s all. How should I remember his
- looks?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course—you see so many people in the course of a year, it is not
- wonderful that you should forget.—But tell me, did White put any
- thing else in pawn that day?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, sir; nothing else.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “He simply pawned this one article and went away; that’s all?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hum!”
- </p>
- <p>
- Merivale reflected. At length he resumed. “But at any other time—that
- is, does White’s name appear on your ledger under any other date?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you expect me to read through the book?” inquired Arkush, with the
- tone of protestation. “That is too much.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m awfully sorry to annoy you, but this information I am seeking is of
- such great importance—you understand—it’s worth a
- consideration.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well, that’s different,” said Arkush. “What will you give?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’ll give twenty-five cents for each month that you go over—is it
- enough?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here, Yakub,” cried Arkush. “Run back from January 16th, and see if you
- find the name of Joseph White again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yakub carried the ledger to a desk hard by, and began his task.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Do you smoke?” Merivale asked the old man, offering him a cigar.
- Presently the air became blue with aromatic vapor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here you are!” called Yakub from his stool. He proceeded to read aloud,
- “‘December 7th—one onyx seal ring—amount, one dollar and a
- quarter—to Joseph White—residence, Leonard street—ticket-number,
- 15,672. Same date—one ornamented wooden box—amount, fifteen
- cents—to Joseph White—residence, as above—ticket-number,
- 15,67.’.rdquo;
- </p>
- <p>
- “Keep still,” said Merivale in an aside, as he saw my lips open. “I’ll do
- the talking.—I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Arkush. Now, if I
- may trespass just a little further upon your indulgence, can you tell me
- whether you still have either of those articles in stock? If so, I should
- be glad to see them—with a view to purchasing, of course.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Look, Yakub,” said Arkush. “Was those goods redeemed?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yakub returned the ledger to the shelf whence he had taken it, and
- produced another book of similar proportions in its stead. Presently he
- said, “Number 15,672, sold August 20, 18—; Number 15,673—see
- profit and loss.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Number 15,672 was the ring, was it not?” asked Merivale. “Number 15,673
- is referred to the account of profit and loss—will you kindly turn
- to it under that head, Mr. Yakub?”
- </p>
- <p>
- Yakub possessed himself of a third volume, and in due time read, “‘Number
- 15,673—July, 18—, given to R.—Amount of loss, fifteen
- cents.’.rdquo;
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let me see that entry,” said Arkush.
- </p>
- <p>
- After he had scrutinized it, “Oh yes,” he continued, “I recollect. White
- was a colored man. I recollect all about it. That ring and that box were
- the first things he brought here; that picture was the last. I happen to
- recollect because I gave that box to my daughter, Rebecca, instead of
- offering it for sale.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” said Merivale, “then I suppose Miss Rebecca has it still. Could she
- be persuaded to show it to us?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I don’t know. I will ask her.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He sent Yakub into the front room with instructions for Rebecca to present
- herself.
- </p>
- <p>
- On her arrival, they held a brief conference together in <i>Judisch</i>.
- Then Rebecca went away, and Arkush said to us, “Yes, she has got it yet.
- She has gone to fetch it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- During her absence Merivale resumed, “You are quite sure that it is
- useless to go further back in your books—that the name of White
- doesn’t occur in any other place?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes; I am sure. I recollect perfectly. He was a colored man. He only
- came twice.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I notice that on one occasion his address is given as Harlem, on another
- as Leonard street. How is that?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “How do I know? Maybe he moved. Maybe neither address was his true one.
- These people very often give false names and addresses.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I suppose they do,” Merivale assented, and thereafter held his peace,
- chewing his nether lip as his habit was when engrossed in thought.
- </p>
- <p>
- For my part I could not see that we had made much progress. I was
- beginning to get impatient.
- </p>
- <p>
- Becky reappeared, bearing the box.
- </p>
- <p>
- The box was about ten inches square by four or five in depth. It was
- empty. Merivale did not allow me to examine it. “Wait,” he said, as I
- reached out my hand to take it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Would you mind very much parting with this box, Miss Arkush?” he asked,
- fixing a pair of languishing eyes upon Rebecca’s face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What will you give me for it?” the business-like young lady inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What will you accept?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “What’s it worth, father?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That box is worth two dollars any how,” replied the shameless old usurer,
- regardless of the fact that we knew to a mill what he had paid for it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Then certainly this will be enough,” said Merivale, and he slipped a
- five-dollar gold piece into Rebecca’s palm. Then he settled with Arkush,
- bestowed a gratuity upon Yakub, and bidding an affable good-by to every
- body, led me out through the shop into the street.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” I said, “we have run against the dead wall that you foresaw.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “So it appears,” said he.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The picture was pawned by a colored man only two years ago—that is,
- four-and-twenty years after my father’s death. We don’t know of any means
- by which to reach that colored man; but even if we did—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It would be a forlorn hope.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Exactly. So that we stand just as we did before we left home, do we not?
- Except that you are by five dollars a poorer man. It was sheer
- extravagance, your purchasing that box. I suppose your imagination
- connected it with <i>the</i> box—the box that Dr. Hirsch told me of.
- But the probabilities are overwhelmingly against that contingency. Then,
- why did you waste your money, buying it? Intrinsically, it isn’t worth
- carrying away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hush, hush,” interposed my friend. “Don’t talk to me. I have an idea—an
- idea for a story—àpropos of Arkush and his daughter. Bless me with
- silence until I have meditated it to my soul’s satisfaction.”
- </p>
- <p>
- At home he began, “Yes, as you have said, our interview with Arkush was
- not fruitful. We have simply learned the name—or the assumed name—of
- the last owner of your father’s picture—for, that it is your
- father’s picture I have no sort of doubt. The next step would logically be
- to find Mr. White and question him. It is possible that a tempting
- advertisement in the newspaper might fetch him; but it is not probable.
- Very likely, he would never see it. Very likely, he is a thief, and even
- if he did see it, would be restrained by caution from replying to it. So
- that the outlook is not hopeful. As for this box being <i>the</i> box—why,
- the hypothesis is absurd. It was not on that supposition that I bought it.
- And even if it were <i>the</i> box, it would be of little consequence,
- empty as it is. I trust you are not too much disappointed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “By no means. I have managed to live for a considerable number of years in
- my present state of ignorance about my vanished legacy, and doubtless I
- shall pull through a few years more. Only, of course I was bound to follow
- the clew that this picture seemed to furnish, as far as it would lead; and
- having done so I am contented. I was not very hopeful when we started out,
- wherefore I am not very disappointed at the result. Let’s think no more
- about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good! Your mind is imbued with a sound philosophy. But now—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But now, tell me why in the name of common sense you invested five
- dollars in that box?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Precisely what I was driving at. Now you are going to have a practical
- illustration of the value of experience.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He took the box up from the table where he had laid it.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You think that ‘intrinsically, this wasn’t worth carrying away,’ and that
- my expenditure of half an eagle was a reckless waste of good material. To
- an inexperienced observer your view would certainly seem the correct one.
- The box is scarcely beautiful. The wood is oak. The metal with which its
- surface is so profusely ornamented looks like copper. The thing as a whole
- appears to have been designed for a cheapish jewel-case, now in the last
- stage of decrepitude. Do I express your sentiments?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Eloquently and with precision.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you, my dear Lexow, are not a connoisseur. I, as chance would have
- it, have seen a box of this description before; saw one in France, the
- property of a lady of high degree; and, strange as it may seem, I don’t
- believe a hundred bright gold pieces such as the one I gave Rebecca, could
- have induced my French lady friend to part with it. Guess why.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why? Oh, I suppose it had certain associations that made her want to keep
- it. We often prize things quite irrespective of their market value. But go
- on: don’t be so roundabout.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, the reason—at least one reason—for her setting such
- store by the box in question—which, I must remind you, was the very
- duplicate of the one we have here—the reason, I say, was that she
- knew enough about such matters to recognize that box for a specimen of
- cinque-cento—<i>a specimen of cinque-cento!</i> Now do you begin to
- realize that the paltry five dollars were not exorbitant?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, from the standpoint of an antiquary, an amateur of bric-a-brac, I
- suppose it was not.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Excellent! No, sir; on the contrary, it was an immense bargain, a
- thorough-going stroke of luck. But now please take the box into your own
- hands, treat it gingerly, inspect it carefully, and tell me whether you
- remark any thing extraordinary about it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nothing, except that it is extraordinarily ugly and doesn’t speak well
- for cinque-cento,” I replied, after the requisite examination.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Another proof that <i>das Sehen muss gelernt sein!</i> Here, I will
- enlighten you.—You behold this metal work which a moment since we
- disposed of as copper; learn that it is bronze; and not cast bronze,
- either, but wrought bronze, bronze shaped with hammer and chisel. Look
- closely at it; note the forms into which it has been modeled. See these
- roses, these lilies, these lotus leaves; see how exquisitely they are
- fashioned; see how they are massed together into a harmonious <i>ensemble</i>.
- Now hold it close to your eyes: see—do you see?—this serpent
- twined among the flowers! The artist must have worked from life—the
- very texture of the skin is reproduced—it makes one shudder.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I said, “I admit it is a fine piece of work.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But we have not yet exhausted the list of its virtues by any means. Now
- open it and look at the interior.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I see nothing remarkable about the interior,” I replied, “nothing but
- bare wood.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That is all <i>you</i> see; but watch.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He applied the point of a pencil to one of the series of nail-heads with
- which the top of the lid was studded. It appeared to sink a hair’s-breadth
- into the wood. Thereat the lower surface of the lid dropped down,
- disclosing a hollow space between it and the upper.—“A double
- cover,” he said, “a place for hiding things and—hello! it isn’t
- empty!”
- </p>
- <p>
- No, it wasn’t empty. It contained a large, square envelope. Merivale
- hastily made a grab for it, and crossed over to the gas-fixture. “Have we
- stumbled upon a romance?” he cried. Holding it up to the light, presently
- he said: “Come hither, Lexow. The writing is German script. I can’t read
- it. Come and help.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He put the envelope into my hands. I ran my eyes over the writing. Next
- moment the envelope fluttered to the floor. I grasped Merivale’s arm to
- support myself. My breath became short and quick. “I was not prepared for
- this,” I gasped.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For what? What is the trouble?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- I sank into a chair. Merivale picked up the envelope and studied it
- intently. “I can make nothing out of it,” he said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Give it to me—I will read it to you,” I rejoined.
- </p>
- <p>
- This is what I read:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “To be delivered to my son, Ernest Neuman, upon his attaining the age of
- one-and-twenty years. Let there be no failure, as the will of a dying man
- is honored.—To my son: Open and read on your twenty-first birthday.
- Be alone when you read.—Your father, Ernest Neuman.”
- </p>
- <p>
- Neither of us broke silence for some minutes afterward.
- </p>
- <p>
- At last, “I guess I’d better clear out,” said Merivale. “This is
- considerably more than we had bargained for. I suppose you’d like to be
- alone. I’ll remain in the next room. Call, if you want me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I returned, “I may as well read it at once. But do you know—it’s
- quite natural, doubtless—I really dread opening it? Who can tell
- what its contents may be? Who can tell what information it may convey, to
- the detriment of that ignorance which is bliss? Who can tell what duty it
- may impose—what change it may make necessary in my mode of life? I—I
- am really afraid of it. The superscription is not reassuring—and
- then, this strange accident by which it has reached its destination after
- so many years! It is like a fatality.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is inevitable that you should feel this way. The suddenness of the
- business was enough to shatter your self-possession. At the same time you
- would best not delay about reading it. You won’t be able to rest until
- you’ve done so, you know.—Yes, indeed, it is like a fatality—like
- an incident in a novel—one of those happenings that we never expect
- to see occur in real life. I’ll wait in the next room till you call.”
- </p>
- <p>
- My heart stood still as I broke the seal. Four double sheets of thin
- glazed paper, covered with minute German script. The ink was faded, and
- there were a good many blots and interlineations; so that it was only by
- dint of straining my eyesight to the utmost that I could decipher my
- father’s message. But screwing up my courage, I attacked it, nor did I
- pause till I had read the last word.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- XI.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span> ERE is a
- translation:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “In the name of God, Amen!
- </p>
- <p>
- “To my son:
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are a little less than two years old; I, your father, am dying. I
- shall be dead before your birthday. That will be the 6th <i>Cheshvan</i>.
- It is now the 2nd <i>Ellul</i> The physician gives me till some time in <i>Tishri</i>
- to keep possession of my faculties. I am dying before my time. I have
- something yet to accomplish in this world. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />
- has willed that it be accomplished. He has willed that you accomplish it
- in my stead. I am in my bed as I write this, in the bed from which I shall
- not rise again. Through the open door of my room I can hear you crowing in
- your nurse’s arms. Ah, would that you could understand by word of mouth
- from me now, what I am compelled to write. There is so much that a man can
- not but forget to put down, when he is writing. Yet <img
- src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will illumine my mind and strengthen my
- trembling fingers. It will not allow me to forget any thing that is
- essential. When this is completed, I shall put it into safe hands, that it
- may be delivered to you at the proper time. I have no fear. I am sure it
- will reach you. It will reach you sooner or later, though all men conspire
- to the contrary. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has promised it. He
- will render this writing indelible, this paper indestructible. He will
- guide this to you, even as He guides the river to the sea, the star to the
- zenith. Blessed be the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> forever.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My son, before you read further, cover your head and pray. Pray to <img
- src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> for strength. Pray that the will of your
- father may be done. Pray that you may be directed aright for the
- fulfillment of this errand of justice with which I charge you.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You have prayed. I also have laid aside my pen for a moment, and,
- summoning your nurse to bring you to my bedside, have prayed with my hand
- upon your head. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will be with you as you
- read. Read on.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My son, you do not, you will never know your mother. You do not love her;
- you hear not the sound of her voice; it is forbidden you to gaze into the
- lustrous depths of her eyes. Ah, my son, you little guess how much you
- lost when you lost your mother. But you must learn the truth.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your mother was younger than I by seven years. I am thirty. Your mother
- would be three-and-twenty had she lived. She was nineteen when I married
- her. It was in Savannah, Georgia, going on five years ago. Ah, my Ernest,
- I can not tell you how beautiful your mother appeared to me when I saw her
- first. I can not tell you with what great love I loved her. Suppose that
- you had never seen a stone more precious than a pebble such as may be
- picked up in our back garden, and that all at once a diamond were shown to
- you, a diamond of the purest water: would you not distrust your eyes,
- crying, ‘Ah, so fine, so wonderful! Can it be?—So was it when I saw
- your mother. I had seen pebbles innumerable, ay, and mock diamonds too.
- She was the first true diamond I had ever seen. I loved her at the first
- glance.—How long, after the sun has risen, does it take the waters
- of the earth to sparkle with the sunlight? So long it took my heart to
- love, after my eyes for the first time had met your mother’s. But how much
- I loved her, how every drop of my life was sucked up and absorbed into my
- love of her, it would be useless for me to try to make you understand.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And yet, loving her as I did, I hesitated to bespeak her for my wife.
- Why?
- </p>
- <p>
- “In my eighteenth year my own father—your grandfather, of holy
- memory—had died. On his death-bed he called me to him. He said:
- ‘When you have become a man you will meet many women. To one of them your
- heart will go out in love. You will desire her for your wife. But I say to
- you here on my death-bed, beware! Do not marry, though your love be
- greater than your life.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘In the fourth generation back of me our ancestor was betrayed by the
- wife of his choice. So great was his hatred of her on this account, that
- he wished his seed, contaminated as it was by having taken root in her
- womb, to become extinct. Therefore he forbade his son to marry. And to
- this prohibition he attached a penalty.
- </p>
- <p>
- “If, in defiance of his wish, his son should take unto himself a woman,
- then should he too taste the bitterness of infidelity within the
- household, then should he too be betrayed and dishonored by his wife. And
- this penalty he made to extend to the seventh and eighth generations.
- Whosoever of his progeny should enter into the wedded state should enter
- by the same step into the antechamber of hell.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘But his son laughed as he listened; and within two years he was married.
- But within two years also the laughter froze upon his lips. For behold,
- the curse of his father had come to pass!
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Thus ever since. Each of our ancestors, despite his father’s caution,
- has taken a wife. He has been betrayed and dishonored by her even as I
- have been betrayed and dishonored by your mother. He has repeated to his
- own son the family malediction even as I am now repeating it to you.—Let
- that malediction then go down into the grave with me. Do not marry, as you
- wish for peace now and hereafter.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was in this wise that on his death-bed my father had spoken to me. I
- remembered his words when I found that I had begun to love a woman. It was
- for this reason that I hesitated to ask your mother to become my wife.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, but, my son, of what avail is hesitation at such a moment?—when
- you are gazing into the eyes of the woman you love? With sails set and a
- strong wind behind it, can the ship hesitate to speed across the sea?
- Thrust into a bed of live coals, can the wood hesitate to kindle and burn?
- With the sun beating hot upon the earth above it, can the seed hesitate to
- sprout and send forth rootlets? How long then could I, with the light of
- your mother’s face shining upon my pathway, how long could I hesitate to
- say, ‘I love you. Be my wife’.—We were married.
- </p>
- <p>
- “You, my son, will never know how happy it is possible for a man to be. A
- woman such as your mother is born only once in all time. You will never
- meet with her like. You will never know the supreme joy of having her for
- your wife. Her breath was sweeter than the fragrance of the sweetest
- flower. The song of the nightingale was less musical than her simplest
- word. All the light of heaven was eclipsed by the light that glowed far
- down in her eyes. Her presence at my side was a foretaste of paradise.
- Only to take her hand into my own and stroke its warm, satiny skin, was an
- ecstasy which I can not describe, which I can not remember even at this
- extreme moment without a quickening of the pulse. For three, yes, for four
- years after our marriage we were so happy that we cried each morning and
- each evening at our prayers, ‘Lord, what have we done to merit such
- happiness?’—I, my son, laughed as I recalled the dying words of my
- father. ‘The family curse in my case,’ I said, ‘has gone astray. I have no
- fear.’—Alas! I took too much for granted. I congratulated myself too
- soon. Our happiness was doomed to be burst like a bubble at a touch. The
- family curse had perhaps gone astray for a little while: it was bound to
- find its way back before the end. The will of our ancestor could not be
- thwarted.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The first three years of our married life we passed at Savannah, dwelling
- with the parents of your mother. There you were born—as it seemed,
- in order to consummate and seal with the seal of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> our
- perfect joy. Then, when you were still but three months old, it became
- necessary that I should return and take up my residence again in New York.
- We were not sorry to come to New York.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nicholas had been my closest friend for many years. Boys together at
- Breslau, we had crossed the sea together, and had started our new life
- together here in America. Before our wedding I had described Nicholas to
- your mother, saying, ‘Him also must you love;’ and to Nicholas I had
- written, bidding him include my wife in his love of me.—This was why
- we were not sorry to leave Savannah and come to New York: because Nicholas
- was here, because we wanted to be near to our best friend.—Nicholas
- met us as we disembarked from the sailing vessel that had brought us
- hither. It made my heart warm to greet my old comrade and to present to
- him my wife and my son.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was a true friend to Nicholas. After your mother and you, he was first
- in my heart. I would have shared with him my last drop of water, my last
- crumb of bread; and he, I believed, would have done the same by me. My
- purse was always open for Nicholas to put in his hand and take out what he
- would, even to the last penny. I thought Nicholas was pure gold. I trusted
- him as I trusted myself. I said to your mother, ‘No evil can betide you so
- long as Nicholas is alive. If any thing should happen to me, in him you
- will have a brother, in him our Ernest will have a second father.’ It gave
- me a sense of perfect security, made me feel that the strength of my own
- right arm was doubled, the fact that Nicholas was my friend.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good. After my return to New York the intimacy between Nicholas and
- myself increased. He was constantly at our house. We were always glad to
- see him. A place was always laid for him at our table; it made our hearts
- light to have him with us, so bright, so gay, withal so good, so sterling,
- such a trusty friend was he. I delighted to witness the friendship that
- rapidly sprang up between your mother and Nicholas. He entertained her,
- told her stories, made her laugh.—She would often exclaim, ‘Dear,
- good Nicholas! What should we do without him?’ I replied, ‘That is right.
- Let him be next to your son and your husband in your affection.’ I do not
- think it is common for one man to love another as I loved Nicholas.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But after we had been in New York a little more than two months, your
- mother’s manner toward Nicholas began to change. She was cold and formal
- to him; when he would arrive, instead of running up with outstretched
- hands and crying, ‘Ah, it is you!’ she would courtesy to him and say
- without smiling, ‘How do you do?’—She laughed no more at his
- stories, she appeared to avoid him when she could; when she could not, she
- was silent and morose. I could see no reason for this. I was pained. I
- said, ‘Bertha, why do you behave so toward our best friend?’ Your mother
- pretended not to understand. ‘Don’t deny it,’ I insisted. ‘You are as
- distant, as polite to him, as if he were a mere acquaintance.’ Your mother
- answered, ‘I am sorry to distress you. I don’t know what you mean. I was
- not aware that I had been discourteous to your friend.’—’Has
- Nicholas done any thing?’ I asked.—’No, he has done nothing.’—I
- blamed your mother severely. I besought her to subdue what I took for her
- caprice. Yet every day her conduct toward Nicholas grew colder and more
- formal. Every day I reproved her more and more earnestly. This was the
- nearest approach to a quarrel that your mother and I had ever had. It
- grieved me deeply that she should adopt such a manner toward my friend. I
- was all the more cordial to him in consequence. I hoped that he would not
- notice the turn affairs had taken.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thus till almost a year ago. You lacked but a fortnight of being one year
- old.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Business had kept me down town till late. At last I made up my mind that
- I should not be able to go home at all that night. So I told Nicholas to
- visit Bertha and let her know. ‘Spend the evening with her,’ I said.
- ‘Explain how it is that I am compelled to remain here. Tell her that I
- will come home to breakfast. Be sure to entertain her. I don’t want to
- think of her as lonesome.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “Next morning I hurried home. I stole softly into the house, to surprise
- your mother. Ah, my son, my son, I need not give you the details.—The
- house was empty. There was a brief letter from your mother. As I read it,
- my head swam, a mortal weakness overpowered me, I sank in a swoon upon the
- floor.
- </p>
- <p>
- “When I recovered from my swoon, I was lying undressed in bed. There were
- people round about. I remembered every thing. What! I was lying idle in
- bed, and Nicholas still alive? I started up to be upon his track. I fell
- back, impotent. ‘What has befallen me?’ I asked. I was informed that I had
- had a hemorrhage of the lungs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I need not tell you what I suffered. My suffering was great in proportion
- to my love. The shame, the disgrace, were nothing. But at one blow to be
- deprived of wife, child, friend; to have my love and my faith and my
- happiness shattered at one stroke: it was too much. Yet, let this be
- impressed upon you, that not for one instant did I blame your mother. I
- realized that she, like myself, was but the helpless victim of the family
- curse. It was my fault. I had defied the inevitable. The keenest agony of
- all was to lie there, unable to rise, and think of Nicholas. Ah, a
- thousand times in imagination I tore his heart bleeding from his breast! I
- hated him now, as much as I had formerly cherished him. And yet, I believe
- I could in the end have forgiven him, if—ah, but of what use to say,
- ‘If’. Listen to the truth.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was a short four months afterward—four months that had seemed,
- however, a thousand years to me—and I still lay here dead in life,
- when the good Dr. Hirsch, (to whom now in my dying hours I commend you, my
- son), came to my bedside and said that he had seen your mother. He
- believed that if I would take her back, she would be glad. If I would take
- her back! ‘Bring her to me,’ I cried. And I thanked <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />
- for this manifestation of his mercy. ‘You must prepare for a sad change in
- her,’ said Dr. Hirsch.—’Bring her, bring her,’ I cried impatiently.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Not even to you, my son, can I reveal the secret of that first hour, of
- that deep hour, when your mother sat again at my side and received my
- pardon—nay, not my pardon, for it was her place to pardon me. If
- before that it had been possible for me to forgive Nicholas, it was so no
- longer. For your mother’s face was deathly pale, her cheek hollow, her eye
- bright with fever. Nicholas had—what? Petted her for a month; for a
- month, ignored her; for another month, ill treated her; in the end,
- abandoned her, it might be to starve. Nicholas had done this Nicholas whom
- I had loved and trusted. As I saw your mother pine away, grow paler and
- more feeble beneath my sight, my hatred of that man intensified. On the
- day your mother died, I promised her that I would get well and live and
- force him to atone for his offense in blood. My great hatred seemed to
- endow me with strength. I believed that <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />
- would not let me die until I had once again met Nicholas face to face.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But this delusion was short-lived. A second hemorrhage threw me back,
- weaker than ever, upon my bed. The physician told me that I had absolutely
- no ground for hope. It was evident that <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />
- had willed that the chastisement of my enemy should not be wrought out by
- my hand. ‘But’ is just,’ I said. ‘He will not allow a crime like this to
- go unavenged.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “It was then that my thought turned to you. And all this time, what of
- you? You too were lying at the point of death. Of you too the physician
- said, ‘He can not survive the winter.’ You, my single hope, threatened at
- any moment to breathe your last. ‘But no,’ I cried, ‘it shall not be so.
- My Ernest must live. As <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> is both just
- and merciful, Ernest will live.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “I watched the fluctuations of your illness, divided between hope and
- fear, between faith in the goodness of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />
- and doubt lest the worst might come to pass. Ah, that was a breathless
- period. Day after day passed by, and there was no certainty. Constantly
- the doctor said, ‘Death is merely a question of a few days, more or less.’
- Constantly my heart replied, ‘No, no, he will not die.” has decreed that
- he shall live.’ I prayed that your life might be spared, morning, noon,
- and night. My own strength was ebbing away. But that was of little matter.
- I wanted to hold out only until I should know for good and all whether my
- son was to survive.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Blessed be the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> forever! At the
- moment when the physician said, ‘He will die within an hour,’ lo! the God
- of our fathers touched your body with his healing wand. There was a change
- for the better. The physician himself could not deny it. He maintained
- that it was but transitory. ‘Nothing short of a miracle,’ said he, ‘can
- save this baby’s life.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘We will see,’ said I aloud. To myself I said, ‘The miracle has been
- performed.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was right. Two days later the physician confessed that your chances of
- recovery were good. Two days later still you were out of danger. <img
- src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> had heard my prayers. The God of Israel is a
- righteous God! Oh, for the tongue of the prophets to sing a sufficient
- song of thanksgiving to <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />. He has
- snatched you from the clutch of death for a purpose. He will see to it
- that you fulfill that purpose, though your heart be burned to ashes in the
- task. He will make you to be great like Ephraim and Manasseh. (<i>Y si me
- ha Elohim k’.phraim v’chi Manasseh!</i>)
- </p>
- <p>
- “Again I have summoned your nurse, to bring you to my bedside. Again I
- have laid down my pen, to place my hand upon your head and bless you in
- the name of Again, before reading further, pause for a space and pray that
- the breath of God may make strong your heart.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <p>
- “My son, I allow you one-and-twenty years to become a man, one-and-twenty
- years to gain strength of arm and firmness of will. I allow you
- one-and-twenty years of youth, one-and-twenty years in which to enjoy
- life, free of care. On your twenty-first birthday, if the good and
- reverend Dr. Hirsch live, he will put this writing into your hands. Should
- he be dead, others will see that you receive it. On your twenty-first
- birthday you will be a boy no longer. You will recognize yourself for a
- man. You will ask, ‘What is to be the aim, the occupation of my life?’ You
- will read this writing, and your question will be answered. Your father on
- the brink of the grave pauses to speak to you as follows:—
- </p>
- <p>
- “In the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />, who in response to my
- prayers has saved your life, who created you out of the dust and the
- ashes, who tore you from the embrace of death and restored health to your
- shattered body for one sole purpose, in Ins name I charge you: Find my
- enemy out and put him to death. He is still a young man. He will scarcely
- be an old man when you have become of age. It is a long time to wait, a
- long time to defer my vengeance, one-and-twenty years, but so I believe
- <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has willed it. After you have reached
- the age of one-and-twenty years, let that be the single motive and object
- of your days: to find him out and put him to death by the most painful
- mode of death you can devise. Do not strike him down with one blow.
- Torture him to death. Pluck his flesh from his bones shred by shred.
- Prolong his agony to the utmost. Thus shall you compensate in some measure
- for the one-and-twenty years of delay. And again and again as he is
- writhing under your heel, cry out to him, ‘Remember, remember the friend
- who loved you and whom you betrayed, whose honey you turned to gall and
- wormwood.’ But, if meanwhile from other causes death should have overtaken
- him, then shall you transfer your anger to his next-of-kin; then, I charge
- you, visit the penalty of his sin upon his children and his children’s
- children. For has not <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> decreed that the
- sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children even unto the third
- and fourth generations? The blood of Nicholas must be spilled, whether it
- courses in his veins or in the veins of his posterity. The race of
- Nicholas must be exterminated, obliterated from the face of the earth. As
- you honor the wish of a dying father, as you dread the wrath of <img
- src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />, falter not in this that I command. Search
- the four corners of the world until you have unearthed my enemy or his
- kindred. Empty his blood upon the sand as you would the blood of swine.
- And think, as he is calling out to you for mercy, think, ‘At last my
- father’s revenge is wreaked! At last my father’s spirit can rest content.
- Even now my father is in transports of delight as he witnesses this
- fruition of his hope. At each thrust of my knife into our enemy’s flesh,
- the heart of my father leaps with satisfaction. At each scream of pain
- that escapes from our enemy’s throat, the voice of my father waxes great
- with joy.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, my son, at that mighty hour, whether I be confined in the bottom
- fastnesses of hell or exalted to the mountain tops of paradise, I shall
- know what is happening, I shall fling myself upon my face and sing a song
- of praise to <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> for the unspeakable rapture which he has
- permitted me to enjoy.
- </p>
- <p>
- “My son, I trust you. You will not falter. You will remember that <img
- src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has saved you from death for this solitary
- purpose, that you have no right to your own life except as you employ it
- for the chastisement of my foe. I have no fear. You will hate him with a
- hatred equal to my own. You will wreak that hatred as I should have
- wreaked it, had my life been spared.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have no fear, no distrust, and yet—all things are possible. My
- son, I warn you. In case you be faint-hearted, in case you recoil from
- this mission you are charged with, or in case by any accident—though
- <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will allow no such accident to happen—in
- case by any accident this writing should fail to reach you, I shall be
- prepared. From my grave I shall watch over you. From my grave I shall
- guide you. From my grave I shall see to it that you do not neglect the
- duty of your life. Though seas roll between you and him, I shall see to it
- that you two meet.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Though your heart be bound to him as to your own flesh and blood, I shall
- see to it that you swerve not. And if he be dead, I shall see to it that
- you are brought face to face with his kindred. Man, woman, or child, spare
- neither. Young or old, able or feeble-bodied, let it matter not. In case
- your strength desert you, in case your courage weaken, I shall be at your
- side, I shall nerve your arm. If you hesitate, remember that my spirit
- will possess your body and do what must be done in spite of your
- hesitation. There will be no escape for you. As certainly as the moon must
- follow the earth, so certainly will and must you, my son, accomplish the
- purpose for which your life is given.—But falter not, as you cherish
- the fair name of your mother, as you honor the desire, as you fear the
- curse, of a dying father, as you hope for peace for your own soul.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have done. I think I have made every thing clear. Farewell.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your father, Ernest Neuman.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have written the above during my moments of strength for the last four
- days. Now I have just read it over. I find that it but feebly expresses
- all that I mean and feel. But <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will
- enlighten you as you read. It is enough. I find also that I have omitted
- to mention his full name. His name is Nicholas Pathzuol.”
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- XII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE emotions that
- grew upon me, as I read my father’s message, need not be detailed. How, as
- I painfully deciphered it, word following upon word added steadily to the
- weight of those emotions, until at length it seemed as though the burden
- was greater than I could bear, I need not tell. Indeed, so engrossed had I
- become by what had gone before, that the sense of the last line did not
- penetrate my mind. I leaned back in my chair and drew a long breath like
- one exhausted by an effort beyond his strength. I waited for the commotion
- of thought and feeling to quiet a little. I was completely horror-stricken
- and tired out and bewildered.
- </p>
- <p>
- But by and by it occurred to me, “What did he say the man’s name was?” And
- languidly I picked up the paper and read the postscript for a second time.
- The next instant I was on my feet, rigid, aghast, for consternation. What!
- </p>
- <p>
- Pathzuol! The name of Veronika! My head swam. It was as if I had sustained
- a terrific blow between the eyes. Could it be that this Pathzuol, the man
- who had dishonored my mother, the man whom my father had commissioned me
- to murder, was <i>her father?</i> the father of her who had indeed been
- murdered, and of whose murder I had been accused? The mere possibility
- stunned and sickened me. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I
- had been under a pretty tense nervous strain ever since the reception of
- Tikulski’s letter in the afternoon. This last utterly undid me. My muscles
- relaxed, my knees knocked together, the perspiration trickled down my
- forehead. I went off into a regular fit of weeping, like a woman.
- </p>
- <p>
- It was not long before Merivale entered. I looked up and saw him standing
- over me, with a physiognomy divided between astonishment and contempt.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah, Lexow,” he said, shaking his head, “I am surprised at you.” Then his
- eyes grew stern, and he continued sharply, “Stop! Stop your crying. You
- ought to be ashamed. Whatever new misfortune has befallen you, you have no
- right to act like this. It is a man’s part to bear misfortune silently. It
- is a school-girl’s or a baby’s to take on in this fashion. Stop your
- crying, dry your eyes, and show what you are made of. Grit your teeth and
- clench your fists and don’t open your mouth till you are ready to behave
- like a reasonable being.”
- </p>
- <p>
- His words sobered me to some extent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” I said, “I am calm now. What do you want?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If I should do what <i>I</i> want,” he answered, “you would not speedily
- forget it. I should—but never mind that. What I want <i>you</i> to
- do is to speak up like a man and explain the occasion of this rumpus, if
- you can.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here, read this,” I said, offering him the paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- He took it, glanced at it, turned it this way and that, handed it back.
- “How can I read it?” he said. “It’s German. Read it to me.—Come,
- read it to me,” he repeated, as I hesitated.
- </p>
- <p>
- I gulped down my reluctance and read the whole thing through as rapidly as
- I could in English. He sat across the table, smoking and drawing figures
- in the ash-pan with the ashes of his cigarette. Once in a while I heard
- him whistle softly to himself. He had thrown his last cigarette aside and
- was biting his fingernails when the reading drew to a close.
- </p>
- <p>
- “No more?” he asked.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Isn’t that enough?” I rejoined.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, I didn’t mean that. Oh, yes; that’s enough; and it’s pretty bad too.
- But I expected something worse from the rough way you cut up.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Worse? In heaven’s name what could be worse? My mother dishonored, my
- father broken hearted, and I marked out for a murderer, even from my
- cradle? And then—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I say it’s hard, deucedly hard. But inasmuch as you’re not a murderer,
- you know, I wouldn’t let that side of the matter bother me, if I were you.
- The bad part of the business is to think of how your father’s happiness,
- your mother’s innocence, were destroyed. Think how he must have suffered!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But you haven’t listened, you haven’t understood the worst, yet. Here,
- see his name—Pathzuol.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, what of it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, don’t you remember? It is the same name as hers—Veronika’s—my
- sweetheart’s.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Decidedly!” exclaimed Merivale. “That is a startling coincidence, I
- admit.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Couple that with—with the rest of my father’s story and with—with
- the—well, with all the facts—and I think you’ll confess that
- it was sufficient to shake me up a bit. To come upon that name at the end
- of such a letter, it was like being knocked down. I lost my
- self-possession. Think! if he <i>was</i> her father! But, oh no; it isn’t
- credible. It’s sheer accident, of course.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Of course it is. The letter doesn’t say that he was even married. I
- suppose there’s more than one Pathzuol in the world as well as more than
- one Merivale. But all the same, it’s a coincidence of a sort to stir a
- fellow up. I don’t wonder you lost your balance. Only, the idea of
- boohooing like a woman! That’s inexcusable. Mercy! what a good hater your
- father was! And what an unspeakable wretch, Nicholas!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I went on, “it gave me a pretty severe jolt, the sight of that
- name; and I can’t seem to get over it. I don’t know why, but I can’t help
- feeling as though there were more in this than either you or I perceive,
- as though there were some deduction or other to be drawn from it which is
- right within arm’s reach and yet which I can’t grasp—some horrible
- corollary, you know. My brain is in a whirl, I—I—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “You are quite unstrung, as it is natural you should be. But you must
- exert your reason and put the stopper upon your imagination. Let
- deductions and corollaries take care of themselves. Confine yourself to
- the facts, and you’ll see that they’re not as bad as they might be, after
- all. For example—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But it is just the facts that perplex and horrify me. My father destines
- me to be the murderer of Nicholas Pathzuol or of his next of kin. All
- ignorant of this destiny, I meet and love a lady whose name is Pathzuol—a
- name so rare that I had never heard it before, and have not since, except
- in this writing to-day. My lady is murdered; and I, though innocent, am
- suspected and accused of the crime. Add to this my father’s threat to come
- back from the grave and use me as his instrument, in case I hesitate or in
- case I never receive his letter; and—well, it is like a problem in
- mathematics—given this and that, to determine so and so. No, no,
- there’s no use denying it, this strange combination of facts must have
- some awful meaning. It seems as though each minute I was just on the point
- of catching it, and then as I tighten my fingers around it, it escapes
- again and eludes me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense, man. You are yielding to your fancy, like a child who, because
- he feels oppressed in the dark, conjures up ghosts and goblins, and can
- not be persuaded that there are none about, till you light the gas and
- show him that the room is empty. Come, light the gas of your common sense!
- Recognize that your problem has no solution, none because it is not a true
- problem, but merely a fortuitous arrangement of circumstances which
- chances to bear a superficial resemblance to one. Reduce your <i>quasi</i>
- problem to its simplest terms: thus, given x and y and z, to find the
- value of b. Don’t you see that there’s no connection?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, of course, I acknowledge that I can’t <i>see</i> any connection.
- That’s just the trouble. I <i>feel</i> that there must be a connection—one
- that I can’t see. If I could only see it, it wouldn’t be so bad. But this
- perplexity, this——”
- </p>
- <p>
- “This fiddle-stick! You are resolved to distress yourself, and I suppose
- it’s useless for me to labor with you. Only this much I will say, that if
- you should bestow a little of the energy you are expending in the effort
- to catch hold of a non-existent inference, upon sympathy with your
- father’s unhappiness, I should have more respect for you. They talk about
- suffering ennobling and chastening men, forsooth! So far as you are
- concerned, suffering has done nothing but intensify your natural egotism.
- For instance, after reading that letter of your father’s, the first idea
- that strikes you is, ‘How does it affect <i>me</i>, how am <i>I</i>
- concerned by it?’ whereas the spectacle of your father s immense grief
- ought to have absorbed you to the exclusion of every thing else, ought to
- have left no room in your mind for any other thought.”
- </p>
- <p>
- But for all Merivale could say by way either of appeal or of reprimand, I
- was powerless to subdue that feeling which had begun to stir in my breast.
- I recognized that I was unreasonable and selfish, but I was also helpless.
- I could not get over the shock I had sustained when Pathzuol’s name first
- took shape before my eyes. Every time I remembered that moment—and
- it kept recurring to me in spite of myself—my heart sank and my
- breath became spasmodic, as if I had been confronted by a ghost. And then
- ensued that sensation of groping in the dark after something invisible,
- unknown, yet surely there, hovering within arm’s reach, but as elusive as
- a will-o’-the-wisp. I struggled with this sensation, tried my utmost to
- shake it off, but it sat like a monster on my heart. Its weight was
- deadly, its touch was icy; it would not be dislodged.
- </p>
- <p>
- “It is true, all that you say, Merivale,” I returned at length. “But the
- question is not one of what I ought to do; it is one of what I can do. I
- know I ought to regard this matter in the same collected spirit that you
- display; but it concerns me so intimately, you see, that I can’t resist
- being somewhat perturbed. My wits, so to speak, have been scattered by an
- unexpected blow. I shan’t be able to emulate your <i>sang-froid</i> until
- they have got back to their proper places. I’m so heated and upset that I
- don’t really know what I think or what I feel. I guess perhaps I’d better
- go for a walk and cool off, and arrive at an understanding with myself.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The very worst thing you could possibly do—go away by yourself and
- brood and get more and more morbid every minute. What you want is to think
- of something else for a while, and then when you come back to this subject
- you’ll be in a condition to regard it in its correct light. Let’s—let’s
- play a game of cribbage, or read some Rossetti; or suppose you fiddle a
- little?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, I feel the need of air and exercise. I’ll go out and take a walk. I
- sha’n’. brood, I’ll reflect on the sensible things you’ve said. Good-by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I walked briskly through the streets, striving to collect my faculties,
- striving to regain sufficient mental tranquillity to comprehend exactly
- what the long and short of the whole business was. But the feeling that
- there was something more in it than I could make out, intensified. It
- would not be dispelled. The oftener I went over the circumstances, the
- more significant they seemed.—Significant of what? Precisely the
- question that I could not answer. The longer I allowed my mind to dwell
- upon them, the more acute became that sensation of wrestling with a
- problem, of groping for a something suspended near to me in the dark. My
- father had destined me to be a murderer; the name of my intended victim
- was Pathzuol; I had been engaged to a young lady of the same name, very
- possibly the daughter of my father’s foe; she had indeed been murdered,
- though not by my hand; and yet I, despite my innocence, had been deemed
- guilty of the crime: this chain of facts kept passing over and over before
- me. I felt that it must mean something; it could not be purely fortuitous;
- there was a break, a missing link, which, if I could but supply it, would
- make the hidden meaning clear. I walked the streets all night, unable to
- fix my thoughts on any thing else. I said, “You are merely wearing
- yourself out and getting your brains into a tangle: try to divert your
- attention. Count up to a thousand. See how much you can remember of the
- Moonlight Sonata. Conjugate a Hebrew verb. Do what you will, only stop
- puzzling over this matter. As Merivale says, when you have thought of
- something else for a while, you will be in a condition to return to it
- with refreshed intelligence, and view it in the right light.” But the next
- moment I was at it again, in greater perplexity than ever. Of course, I
- succeeded in working myself up to a high degree of nervousness: was as
- exhausted and as exasperated as though I had spent an hour in futile
- attempts to thread a needle.
- </p>
- <p>
- But now it began to get light. The stillness of the night was broken, my
- solitude was disturbed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Hosts of sparrows began to congregate upon the window sills, and their
- busy twittering filled the air. First one steam-whistle blew in the
- distance, then another nearer by, then another, and finally a chorus of
- them: bells began to ring, wagons rattled over the pavement, the shrill
- whoo-hoop of the milk-man resounded through the streets. The clatter of
- footsteps became audible upon the sidewalk.
- </p>
- <p>
- People began to walk abroad. The sky turned from black to gray, from gray
- to blue. Shutters were banged, doors slammed, windows thrown open:
- housemaids with brooms and buckets appeared upon the stoops. Dawn had
- arrived from across the Ocean with the smell of the sea-breeze still
- clinging to her skirts. The city was waking to its feverish multifarious
- life.—And the result was that I forgot myself—was penetrated
- and exalted by that vague tremulous exhilaration which always accompanies
- the first breath of morning. I expanded my lungs and inhaled the fresh air
- and felt a glow of warmth and animation shoot through my limbs.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ah,” I cried, “a truce to the blue devils! I will go home and take up my
- regular life again, just as though this interruption had not occurred.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I hurried back to our lodgings. Merivale was already up and dressed,
- smoking a cigarette over the newspaper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hail!” I exclaimed. “I am glad to see you out of bed so early!”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I have not been abed since you left,” he answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not? What have you been doing?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Thinking about you—about what can be done to make a man of you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, you needn’t worry about that. I’m all right now. I sha’n’. play the
- fool again, I promise you. I propose that we sink the last four-and-twenty
- hours into eternal oblivion. What do you say?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nothing would more delight me.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good! Let’s begin at the first cause. Where’s the manuscript? We’ll set
- fire to it, and agree to believe that it never really existed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No,” said Merivale, “I wouldn’t set fire to it—at least not till it
- is manifest whether your present mood is merely a reaction from your late
- one, or whether it is going to last. I will dispose of the manuscript—see.”
- </p>
- <p>
- He found it on the table, opened the double cover of the box, restored the
- papers to the place they had occupied formerly, and locked the box up in
- the closet of his writing-desk.
- </p>
- <p>
- “There,” he said, “that’s the best thing to do. I’ll take care of it. Some
- day you may have a little sympathy to waste on your father, and then
- you’ll be glad this writing was not destroyed.”
- </p>
- <p>
- We had breakfast, and after the cups and saucers were cleared away,
- applied ourselves to our ordinary forenoon occupation. It turned out
- indeed that my good spirits were, as Merivale had suspected, to some
- extent reactionary: but they left me sober rather than sad. I was
- absent-minded and committed numberless blunders while my friend dictated
- his poems: but I did not let my thoughts settle down again upon the
- matters that had engaged them during the night. They simply wandered about
- in a random way from one indifferent topic to another, as it is the habit
- of thoughts to do when the thinker has not had his customary allotment of
- sleep. Presently Merivale suspended his dictation, and I waited passively
- for him to resume, supposing that he had reached a point where reflection
- was necessary to further progress. His silence continued. Pretty soon my
- eyelids dropped like leaden curtains over my eyes, and my chin sank upon
- my breast. I was actually nodding. I started up and pinched myself,
- ashamed of appearing drowsy.
- </p>
- <p>
- Lo! I perceived that my friend had met with the same mishap. He too was
- nodding in his chair. For a moment we eyed each other sheepishly, each
- endeavoring to feign wide wakefulness. Then Merivale rose and stretched
- himself and laughed.
- </p>
- <p>
- “For my part I cast off the mask,” he cried. “I am sleepy and I am going
- to bed. You’d better follow suit.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I needed no urging. We retired to our dormitory, and as speedily as was
- practicable one of us at least fell into an unfathomable slumber.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- XIII.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> DON’. know how
- many hours afterward I awoke. Gradually, as consciousness asserted itself,
- I realized that somebody was playing a violin in the adjacent room: and at
- length it struck me that it must be Merivale practicing. I pricked up my
- ears and hearkened. Oh, yes; he was running over his part of the last new
- composition we had studied. The clock-like tick-tack of his metronome
- marked the rhythm. I lay still and listened till he had repeated the same
- phrase some twenty times. Finally I got up and crossed the threshold that
- divided us.
- </p>
- <p>
- Merivale kept on playing for a minute or two, unaware of my intrusion. Not
- till it behooved him to turn the page did he lift his eyes. Then,
- encountering my night-robed figure,they lighted up with merriment. Their
- owner lowered his instrument, remained silent for a moment, in the end
- gave vent to an uproarious peal of laughter.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What are you laughing at?” I stammered.
- </p>
- <p>
- When he had got his hilarity somewhat under control he replied: “At you.
- Come and gaze upon yourself.” And conducting me to a mirror he said,
- pointing, “There, isn’t that a funny sight?”
- </p>
- <p>
- I looked sleepy, that was all. My hair was awry, and my eyes were heavy,
- and my costume was a trifle wrinkled. Still, I suppose, my general
- appearance was sufficiently ludicrous. Be that as it may, I could not help
- joining in Merivale’s laughter: and, thus put into good humor at the
- outset, I cheerfully complied with his request to hasten through my toilet
- and “come and fiddle with him.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Let’s start here,” he said, opening the book.
- </p>
- <p>
- We read for a while in concert. As usual my arm seemed to swing of its
- separate will, I myself becoming all but comatose. By and by I perceived
- that Merivale had discontinued and was seated at one side with his
- instrument upon his knees. Then I perceived that I was no longer following
- the book. I closed my eyes and listened. As usual I heard the voice of my
- violin very much as though some other person had been the performer.
- </p>
- <p>
- I found that I was playing a lot of bits from memory. I heard the light,
- quick tread of a gavotte which I had learned as a boy and meantime almost
- forgotten; I heard snatches from the chants the <i>Chazzan</i> sings in
- the synagogue; I heard the Flower Song from Faust mixing itself up with a
- recitative from Lohengrin. Then I heard the passionate wail of Chopin
- become predominant: the exquisite melody of the <i>Berceuse</i>, motives
- from <i>Les Polonaises</i>, and at length the impromptu in C-sharp minor—that
- to which I have alluded in the early part of this narrative, as
- descriptive of Veronika. Following it, came the songs that Veronika
- herself had been most prone to sing, Bizet, Pergolese, Schumann, morsels
- of German folk <i>liede</i>, old French romances. And ever and anon that
- phrase from the impromptu kept recurring. Every thing else seemed to lead
- up to it. It terminated a brilliant passage by Liszt. It cropped out in
- the middle of a theme from the Meistersinger. And with its every new
- recurrence, the picture of Veronika which it pre sented to my imagination
- grew more life-like and palpable, until ere long it was almost as though I
- saw her standing near me in substantial objective form. As I have said, I
- scarcely realized that it was I who played. Except for the sensation along
- my wrist as the bow bit the catgut, I believe I should have quite
- forgotten it. But now abruptly, without the least volition upon my part,
- my arm acquired a fresh vigor. The voice of my violin increased in volume.
- The character of the music underwent a change. From a medley of fragments
- it turned to a coherent, continuous whole. Note succeeded note in natural
- and inevitable sequence. I tried to recognize the composition. I could
- not. It was quite unfamiliar to me. Odd, because of course at some time I
- must have practiced it again and again. Otherwise how had I been able to
- play it now? It flowed from the strings without hitch or hesitancy. Yet my
- best efforts to place it were ineffectual. Doubly odd, because it was no
- ordinary composition. It had a striking individuality of its own.
- </p>
- <p>
- It began with laughter-provoking scherzo, as dainty as the pattering of
- April rain-drops, as riotous as the frolicking of children let loose from
- school; which, by degrees tempering to a quieter allegro, presently
- modulated into the minor, and necessarily, therefore, became plaintive and
- sentimental. For a while bar succeeded bar, fitful and undetermined, as if
- groping blindly for a climax. Next, a quick, fluttering crescendo, and an
- exultant major chord. This completed the first movement. The second began
- pianissimo upon the A and E strings, an allegretto full of placid
- contentment; again, a minor modulation; again, blind groping for a climax,
- this time more strenuous than before, tinged by a passion, impelled by an
- insatiable desire; adagio on G and D, still minor; then a swift return to
- major, a leap of the bow and fingers back to A and E, and on these latter
- strings a rhapsody expressive of the utmost possible human joy. Third
- movement andante, sober but still joyous; the music, which hitherto had
- been restless and destitute of an apparent aim, seemed to have caught a
- purpose, to have gained substance and confidence in itself.
- </p>
- <p>
- It proceeded in this wise for several periods, when sharply, without the
- faintest warning, it broke into a discordant shriek of laughter, the
- laughter of a demon whose evil designs had triumphed.
- </p>
- <p>
- Though I had not recognized the composition, up to this point I had
- understood it perfectly. Its intrinsic lucidity carried the intelligence
- along. But henceforward I was mystified. The reason for the violent change
- of theme, time, and quality, I could not divine; nor could I appreciate,
- either, how the subsequent effects were produced or what they were meant
- to signify. My impression was, as I have said, that the laughter which my
- violin seemed to be echoing was demoniac laughter, the outburst of a Satan
- over his success, of a Succubus fastening upon his prey. Yet the next
- instant I was doubtful whether it was indeed laughter at all? Was it not
- perhaps the hysterical sobbing of a human being frenzied by grief? And
- again the next instant neither of these conceptions appeared to be the
- correct one. Was it not rather a chorus?—a chorus of witches?—plotting
- some fiendish atrocity?—chuckling over a vicious pleasantry?—now,
- whispering amicably together, now wrangling ferociously, now uniting in
- blood-curdling screams of delight? Whatever it might be, I could not
- penetrate its sense. I listened with deepening perplexity. I wished it
- would come to an end. But it did not occur to me to stop my arm and lay
- aside my bow. The music went on and on—until Merivale caught me by
- the shoulder and snatched my violin from my grasp. He was speaking.
- </p>
- <p>
- The descent back to earth was too abrupt. It took me some time to gather
- myself together. “Eh—what were you saying?” I asked at last.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I was saying, stop! Consider a fellow’s nervous system. Where in the name
- of Lucifer did you learn that infernal music? Whom is it by?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh,” I answered, “oh, I don’t know whom it is by.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It out-Berliozes Berlioz,” he added. “Is it his?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps. I don’t remember. I am tired. Let me rest a moment without
- talking.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” he continued, “it was a terrible strain to listen to it. I am
- quite played out—feel as if—forgive the comparison—as if
- I had spent the last hour in a dentist’s chair. However, for relief’s
- sake, let’s go to dinner. Are you aware that we haven’t eaten any thing
- since early morning?”
- </p>
- <p>
- After dinner Merivale insisted that we should take a long walk “to shake
- out the kinks,” and after the long walk we were tired enough to return to
- our pillows.
- </p>
- <p>
- I went straight to sleep; but my sleep was troubled. As soon as Merivale
- had said goodnight and extinguished the gas, memory began to repeat the
- music I had played. I heard it throughout my sleep. Every little while I
- would wake up and try to banish it by fixing my attention on other
- matters. But it kept thrumming away in my brain despite myself. I could
- not silence it. Merivale’s reference to a dentist’s chair was, if
- inelegant, at least a graphic one. I got as hopelessly irritated as I
- could have done with a score of dentists simultaneously grinding at my
- teeth. My very arteries seemed to be beating to its rhythm.
- </p>
- <p>
- In one fit of wakefulness, that lasted longer than its predecessors had
- done, I found myself unconsciously tattooing it upon the wall at my bed’s
- head.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Is that you?” Merivale’s voice demanded from out of the darkness.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes,” I replied. “Aren’t you asleep?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mercy, no. That music you played—or rather, stray fragments of it,
- keep running through my brain. I haven’t been able to sleep for a long
- while.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s singular. It affects me the same way. I was just drumming it on
- the wall. I’ve been trying to get rid of it all night.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It has wonderful staying powers, for a fact. I’m glad you’re awake,
- though. Companionship in misery is sweet.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, I also feel rather more comfortable now that you have spoken. Do you
- know, it’s an immense puzzle to me, that music? I can’t imagine where or
- when I ever learned it. And yet it is not the sort of thing one would be
- apt to forget. I can’t recognize the style even, can’t get a clew to the
- composer.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “The style is emphatically that of Berlioz.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Perhaps so. But it can’t be by Berlioz, because I never learned any thing
- by Berlioz at all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Hum!” A pause. Then, “Say, Lexow—”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It isn’t possible that it’s original, is it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Original? How do you mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, an improvisation—a little thing of your own.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, no; oh, no, I never improvise—at least an entire composition,
- like that. Nobody does. It bears all the marks of careful workmanship. It
- must be something well-known that has temporarily slipped from my memory.
- It’s too striking not to be well-known. Tomorrow I’ll go through my music
- and find it; and I’ll wager it will turn out to be quite familiar. Only,
- it’s extremely odd that I can’t place it.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why wait till to-morrow?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, we can’t begin to-night, can we?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why not? I say, let’s begin right off. The cursed thing is keeping us
- awake, and there doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. We may as well
- utilize our wakefulness, as lie here doing nothing but toss about. I say,
- let’s light the gas and go to work.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, well, I’m agreeable. The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Good,” cried Merivale.
- </p>
- <p>
- He sprang out of bed and lighted the gas.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Shall Mahomet go to the mountain or shall the mountain come to Mahomet?”
- he inquired, blinking his eyes.
- </p>
- <p>
- “What do you mean?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I mean shall we dress and adjourn to the other room? Or shall I bring
- your musical library in here, so that we can conduct our investigation
- without getting up?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Just as you please,” I answered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, we’ll move the mountain, then,” he said, and left the room.
- </p>
- <p>
- He made two or three trips, back and forth, bearing an armful of music as
- the fruit of each. The last folios deposited on the floor, “Now, as to
- method,” he inquired, “how shall we start? It will occupy us till
- doom’s-day if we undertake to go through the whole of this. I suppose
- there are some composers we can eliminate <i>à priori</i>, eh?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, yes; Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Liszt, in particular, we needn’t
- trouble with. I’d keep an especially sharp eye out for Ruben-stein and
- Dvorak and Winiauski. It’s fortunate that I’ve preserved all the music
- I’ve ever owned. We can’t miss it if we’re only patient enough.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, here goes,” he cried, thrusting a thick pile of music into my
- hands, and apportioning an equal amount to himself.
- </p>
- <p>
- We were industrious. It is needless that I should tarry with the incidents
- of our search. At daybreak we had not yet quite finished, and we had not
- yet struck any thing that bore the slightest resemblance to the
- composition in question.
- </p>
- <p>
- “But little remains,” said Merivale. “In another five minutes we will have
- found it; or my first hypothesis was true.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Your first hypothesis?” I inquired.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes—that it was original—a lucubration of your own.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Oh, that, I tell you, isn’t possible. I’m not vain enough to imagine that
- I could improvise in such style, thank you.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, we won’t enter into a dispute, at any rate not till our present
- line of investigation is exhausted. Back to the saddle!”
- </p>
- <p>
- For a space we were silent.
- </p>
- <p>
- “<i>Eh bien, mon brave!</i>” cried Merivale at length. “There goes the
- last of my half,” and he sent a sheet of music fluttering through the air.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And here is the last of mine,” I responded, laying down Schumann’s <i>Warum</i>.
- </p>
- <p>
- “And we are still in the dark.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Still in the dark.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “It isn’t possible that we have overlooked it?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “I’m sure I haven’t. I took pains with each separate page.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Likewise, I! Therefore. I congratulate you. I’ll order a laurel wreath at
- the florist’s, the first thing after breakfast.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Nonsense! How many times need I tell you that I could not by hook or
- crook have made it up as I went along? The mere notion is ridiculous. It
- must have got lost, that’s all.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “On the contrary, the notion that you once learned it, then forgot it,
- then played it off without a fault from beginning to end, is trebly
- ridiculous. It was ridiculous of us to waste our time hunting for it,
- also. I am entirely convinced that it is yours. Why not? Ideas have come
- to other people—why not to you? Yesterday while you played, you were
- excited and wrought up, and the result was that you had an inspiration. By
- Jove, you’re lucky! It’s enough to make you famous.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “But, Merivale, fancy the absurdities you are uttering. Do you seriously
- suppose anybody—even a regular composer—could take up his
- fiddle and reel off a complicated thing like that without once halting?
- Why, man, there are four or five distinct movements. You might as well
- pretend that a mere elocutionist could write an intricate epic poem
- without once pausing to make an erasure or find a rhyme, as that I, a
- simple instrumentalist, could have done this.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, there’s only oneway of settling the matter. We’ll refer it to an
- authority. You jot down a few specimen bars on paper, and I’ll submit it
- to your friend, Dr. Rodolph. Of course he will identify it at once, if it
- isn’t yours.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “If that will satisfy you, well and good,” I assented.
- </p>
- <p>
- In the course of the forenoon, Merivale, having procured a stock of
- music-paper at a shop in the neighborhood, said, “I don’t know how rapidly
- a man can write music, but if it isn’t too slow work, I’d seriously
- counsel you to put down the whole thing, while you’re about it. In fact
- I’d counsel you to do so any how. If by hazard it is original, you know,
- you’d better make a memorandum of it while it’s still fresh in your mind.
- Otherwise you might forget it. That often happens to me. A bright idea, a
- felicitous turn of phraseology, occurs to me when I’m away somewhere—in
- the horse-cars, at the theater, paying a call, or what-not—and if I
- don’t make an instant minute of it in my note-book, it’s sure to fly off
- and never be heard from again.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “We’ll see,” I returned. “I haven’t written a bar of music for such a long
- while that I don’t know how hard I shall find it. But I used to make a
- daily practice of writing from memory, because it increases one’s facility
- for sight-reading.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I hummed the first two or three phrases softly to myself, beating time
- with my fingers; then drew up to the writing-table and commenced to set
- them down. At the outset I had considerable difficulty, was obliged, so to
- speak, to spell my way along note by note, and committed several blunders
- which I had to go back to and correct. But gradually my path grew smoother
- and smoother, until I was no longer conscious of effort; and at last I
- became so much absorbed and so much interested by what I was doing, that
- my hand sped across the paper like a machine performing the regular
- function for which it was contrived. I suppose mental activity always
- begets mental exhilaration; and that mental exhilaration in turn, when
- allowed to attain too high a pitch, always approaches the borderland of
- its antipode, on the principle that extremes meet. At any rate such was my
- experience in the present instance. At first, both mind and fingers were
- sluggish and moved laboriously. Then mind got into running order, and
- fingers lagged behind; then fingers caught up with mind, and for a while
- the two kept pace; then, finally, fingers spurted ahead and it was mind’s
- turn to acknowledge itself left in the rear. Mental exhilaration gave
- place to bewilderment, as I saw that my hand was forging along faster than
- my thought could dictate, in apparent obedience to an independent will of
- its own—which bewilderment ripened into thoroughgoing mystification,
- as the hand dashed forward and back like a shuttle in a loom, with a
- velocity that seemed ever to be increasing. I had precisely the sensation
- of a man who has started to run down a hill, and whose legs have acquired
- such a momentum that he can not stop them: on and on he must submit to be
- borne until some outside obstacle interferes, even though a yawning chasm
- await him at the bottom. Toward the end I scarcely saw the paper on which
- I was writing; I am sure I saw nothing of the matter that I wrote. I said
- to myself, “Of course you will find that all this stuff is incoherent and
- meaningless when you get through.” But I waited passively till my hand
- should get through of its own accord, I made no endeavor to draw the rein
- upon it. Eventually it came to a standstill with a round turn. I was quite
- winded. I needed leisure in which to recover my equilibrium.
- </p>
- <p>
- Merivale—of whose presence I had become oblivious—crossed over
- and began gathering the scattered sheets of paper from the table. The
- sight of him helped to bring me to myself.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well,” I said, “there it is. I don’t suppose you can read it. I got so
- excited I hardly knew what I was about.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “That’s all right,” he answered reassuringly. “I’m much obliged to you for
- the trouble you’ve taken. But what,” he added abruptly, “but what is all
- this that you have written?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, what do you fancy? The music, of course, that you asked me to.”
- </p>
- <p>
- “No, no; I mean this writing, this text, with which you have wound up?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Writing? Text? What are you driving at?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Why, here—this,” he said handing me the paper.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Mercy upon me!” I exclaimed, thoroughly amazed. “I was not aware that I
- had written any thing.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The last half dozen pages were covered with written words—blotted,
- scrawling, scarcely decipherable, but unmistakably written words.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Well, certainly, this is most astonishing. Whatever it is, I have written
- it unawares.”
- </p>
- <p>
- I dropped the manuscript and leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded by this
- latest development.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Here,” said Merivale, “is the point where the music ends and the words
- begin.”
- </p>
- <p>
- The music ended, the words began, just at that point where last night the
- shriek of malevolent laughter had interfered with the current of melody.
- From that point to the bottom of the last page not another bar of music
- was discernible—not a note of the incomprehensible witches’ chorus—simply
- words, words that I dared not read.
- </p>
- <p>
- “This is magic, this is ghost-work,” I said. “It appalls me. Look at it,
- Merivale. Does it make sense? Or is it simply a mass of scribbling without
- rhyme or reason?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Ye-es,” rejoined Merivale slowly, “it seems to make sense. The penmanship
- is pretty blind, but the words appear to hang together. It begins, ‘I
- walked re—re—reluctantly’—next word very bad—’I
- walked reluctantly—reluctantly—away’—oh yes, that’s it—’away—from
- the house. By Jove, this is singular! Shall I go on?”
- </p>
- <p>
- “Yes, go on,” I said faintly. There was panic in my heart.
- </p>
- <p>
- Merivale continued, picking his way laboriously. The following is what he
- read.
- </p>
- <p>
- <br /><br />
- </p>
- <hr />
- <p>
- <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a>
- </p>
- <div style="height: 4em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
- <h2>
- XIV.
- </h2>
- <p class="pfirst">
- <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> WALKED
- reluctantly away from the house after I saw her light put out. I hated so
- to leave her that it was as if a chain and ball had been attached to my
- ankle. I had reached a point on Second avenue about half the distance home
- when I halted. I had begun to feel sick. Suddenly my ears had begun to
- ring, my head to swim. I clutched at a lamppost to keep from falling. The
- ringing in my ears became louder and louder—a roar like that of a
- strong wind. A deathly nausea overcame me. I thought I was going to faint,
- perhaps to die. I held on to the lamp-post and tried to call out for help.
- I could not utter the slightest sound; my tongue clove to the roof of my
- mouth as it does in nightmare. I seemed to be growing weaker with every
- breath. The noise in my ears was like an unbroken peal of thunder. My
- brain went spinning around and around as if it had been caught in a
- whirlpool. Then all at once my breath began to come in quick short gasps
- like the breath of a panting dog or like the breath of a person who has
- taken laughing-gas. I closed my eyes and for how long I know not clung to
- the lamp-post, waiting for this internal upheaval to reach its climax. By
- degrees my breath returned to its normal state; the uproar in my ears
- subsided; my brain got quiet again. I felt as well as ever, only a bit
- startled, a bit shaky in the legs. I thought, ‘You have had an attack of
- vertigo, a half fainting-fit. Now you would best hurry home.’ But—but
- to my unmingled consternation my body refused to act in response to my
- will. I was puzzled. I tried again. Useless.
- </p>
- <p>
- I had absolutely no control over my muscles. Experiment proved that I
- could not move a finger; experiment proved that I could not put forth my
- foot and take a step. I was horrified. Ah, I thought, this is a stroke of
- paralysis. For a second time I attempted to summon help. For a second time
- my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth.
- </p>
- <p>
- But if all this horrified me, how much more horrified was I the moment
- after, when, in entire independence of my will, that body of mine which I
- had fancied paralyzed began to act of its own accord! began to march
- briskly off in a direction exactly opposite to that which I wished to
- follow! If I had been puzzled before, how much more hopelessly puzzled was
- I now! Experiment proved that I was as powerless to stop myself at
- present, as an instant since I had been to set myself in motion. I was
- appalled. I knew not what this phenomenon was due to or what it might lead
- to. It seemed precisely as though the chords connecting my mind and body
- had been severed, as though the will of another person had become the
- reigning occupant of my frame. A thousand frightful possibilities flashed
- upon my imagination. With this utter incompetency to govern my own
- movements, God knew what might happen. I might walk into the river; or I
- might—I might commit some irretrievable wrong. Helpless and
- irresponsible as I was, I might accomplish that which all the rest of my
- days I should repent.
- </p>
- <p>
- Meanwhile I had moved on, until now I halted again. I looked around. I was
- in front of Veronika’s house. I crossed the street, picked my way through
- the people who were seated upon the stoop, mounted the staircase, and rang
- Veronika’s bell, wondering constantly what the cause and what the upshot
- of this adventure might be, and powerless to assert the least influence
- over my physical acts.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Veronika’s voice sounded from behind the door, ‘Is that you, uncle?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘No, it is I, my tongue replied of its own volition.
- </p>
- <p>
- “The door opened. I saw Veronika with the knob in her hand. She looked
- surprised. My impulse was to take her in my arms and explain to her the
- strange accident that had befallen me. I could not. I had no more control
- over my body than I had over hers.
- </p>
- <p>
- “Veronika closed the door. She glanced up at my face. Her eyes filled with
- fear.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Why, Ernest,’ she cried, ‘what is it? What is the matter? Why do you
- look like this?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “I paused to collect my utmost strength, then tried to speak. Total
- failure. Tried to reassure her with my eyes. Total failure: eyes as
- uncontrollable as the rest of my person. But impelled by that other will
- which had usurped the place of mine, I approached her and asked, ‘What is
- your name?’ It was my voice, but it was not I, that asked the question.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Veronika besought, ‘don’t act like this. Oh,
- my Ernest, what terrible joke are you playing? Don t make me think that
- you have gone mad.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘What is your name?’ my voice repeated, stonily.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘My name? What can you mean? Oh God, what has come over my beloved?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “Her face was pale, her eyes were full of anguish. And I—I was
- impotent to comfort her. My heart went out to her with a great bound of
- love; but I was in irons, chained down, compelled to witness, forbidden to
- interfere with the action of this awful drama. For a third time my tongue
- repeated, ‘Your name—tell me your name.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘My name?’ she gasped. ‘You know my name—Veronika. See, don’t you
- recognize me, Ernest? I am Veronika, whom you are going to marry. Oh, my
- loved one, you are ill. What can I do to make you well?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Tell me your surname,’ I said.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘My surname—why, Pathzuol. Oh, Ernest, say you know me.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘And your father’s name?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘My father—his name was Nicholas—but he is dead—died
- when I was a little girl. Oh, God, what does this mean?’
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Enough; come with me,’ said the devil whose victim I had become.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I grasped her wrist and led her down the hallway. If Veronika was
- terrified, her terror could not have equaled mine. What deed was I now
- bent upon committing? She followed me passively. The expression of her
- eyes made my soul ache within me. How I longed to speak to her and soothe
- her. How I longed to step between her and myself, to protect her from this
- maniac in whose power she was. To be obliged to stand by and see this
- thing enacted—imagine the agony I suffered.
- </p>
- <p>
- “I led her down the hallway and into the dining-room. Then I released her
- wrist, and crossed over to the sideboard. I opened the sideboard drawer
- and took out a long, keen knife. I tried the point and the edge of the
- knife upon my thumb.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Are you—are you going to kill me, Ernest?’ I heard Veronika ask,
- very low.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Yes, I am going to kill you. Lead the way to your bed-chamber.’
- </p>
- <p>
- “Veronika’s hand clutched convulsively at her breast. She said nothing.
- She moved slowly back into the hall and thence into her bedroom, I
- following.
- </p>
- <p>
- “‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop and think what you are doing,’ she cried out
- suddenly, turning and facing me at the threshold of her room. ‘Think,
- Ernest, that it is I, Veronika, whom you are going to kill. Think, oh my
- loved one, think how you will suffer if ever you come to and realize what
- you have done. Oh, is there no way for me to bring him to himself!’
- </p>
- <p>
- “Presently she continued, ‘But tell me first what I have done.—Oh, I
- can not bear to die until I know that you don’t suspect me of having
- wronged you in any way. Oh, Ernest, oh, if you would only speak one word.
- Oh, my darling, do not kill me without speaking to me. Oh God, oh God! Oh,
- there, there, he is going to kill me; he will not speak to me. Oh, what
- have I done? Ernest, <i>Ernest!</i> Wake up—stop your arm—don’t
- strike me. Oh God, God, God!’
- </p>
- <p>
- “After it was over I dried my hands upon my handkerchief, turned out the
- gas in the hall, locked the door on the outside, put the key into my
- pocket, and went away.”
- </p>
- <p>
- What remains for me to tell? The above is what Merivale read to me. The
- above is what I had written. Could I doubt its truth? I did not, I do not,
- at any rate.
- </p>
- <p>
- I am informed that a man once tried for murder and acquitted can not, as
- the lawyers put it, can not be placed in jeopardy again. But I am enough
- of a Jew to believe in eye for eye and tooth for tooth. I shall see to it
- that I do not escape that penalty which the law would have imposed upon
- me, had the facts I am now aware of come out at my trial. I shall see to
- it that the murderer of Veronika Pathzuol meets with the punishment which
- his crime demands.
- </p>
- <p>
- It has taken me a week to write out this account. I want the public to
- have it. No need to analyze the motives that prompt this wish. I shall
- confide the MS. to my friend Merivale with directions that it be printed.
- </p>
- <p>
- I do not think of any thing more that needs to be said.
- </p>
- <h3>
- THE END.
- </h3>
- <div style="height: 6em;">
- <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />
- </div>
-
-
-
-
-
-
-
-<pre>
-
-
-
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diff --git a/old/old/old-2024-04-10/52704-0.txt b/old/old/old-2024-04-10/52704-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e0b60c7..0000000 --- a/old/old/old-2024-04-10/52704-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,5701 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's As It Was Written, by Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: As It Was Written - A Jewish Musician's Story - -Author: Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska - -Release Date: August 2, 2016 [EBook #52704] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AS IT WAS WRITTEN *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - - - -AS IT WAS WRITTEN - -A Jewish Musician’s Story - -By Henry Harland (AKA Sidney Luska) - -Cassell & Company, Limited 739 & 741 Broadway, New York. - -1885 - - - - -CONTENTS - -AS IT WAS WRITTEN. - -I. - -II. - -III. - -IV. - -V. - -VI. - -VII. - -VIII. - -IX. - -X. - -XI. - -XII. - -XIII. - -XIV. - - - - -AS IT WAS WRITTEN. - - - - -I. - -VERONIKA PATHZUOL was my betrothed. I must give some account of the -circumstances under which she and I first met each other, so that my -tale may be clear and complete from the beginning. - -For a long while, without knowing why, I had been restless—hungry, -without knowing for what I hungered. Teaching music to support myself, -I employed all of the day that was not thus occupied in practicing on my -own behalf. My life consequently was a solitary one, numbering but few -acquaintances and not any friends. In my short intervals of leisure -I was generally too tired to seek out society; I was too obscure and -unimportant to be sought out in turn. Yet, young and of an ardent -temperament, doubtless it was natural that I should have been dimly -conscious of something wanting; and, not prone to selfanalysis, -doubtless it was also natural that I should have had no distinct -conception of what the wanting something was. Besides, it would soon be -summer. The soft air and bright sunshine of spring awoke a myriad vague -desires in my heart. I strove in vain to understand them. They were all -the more poignant because they had no definite object. Twenty times a -day I would catch myself heaving a mighty sigh; but asking, “What are -you sighing for?” I had to answer, “Who can tell?” My thoughts got -into the habit of wandering away would fly off to cloud-land at the -most inopportune moments. While my pupils were blundering through -their exercises their master would fall to thinking of other -things—afterward impossible to remember what. From morning to night -I went about with a feeling of expectancy—an event was -impending—presently a change would come over the tenor of my life. I -waited anxiously, on the alert for its first premonitory symptom. - -I had taken to strolling through the streets at evening. One delicious -night in May, I found myself leaning over the terrace at the eastern -extremity of Fifty-first street. The moon had just risen, a huge red -disk, out of the mist and smoke across the river, and was turning the -waves to burnished copper. Through the open windows of the neighborhood -escaped the sounds of quiet talk, of laughter, of piano playing. Now and -then a low dark shape, with a single bright light gleaming like a jewel -at its side, and spars and masts sharply outlined against the sky, -slipped silently past upon the water. The atmosphere was quick with the -warmth and the scent of spring. I stood there motionless, penetrated by -the unspeakable beauty of the scene. The moon climbed higher and higher, -and gradually exchanged its ruddy tint for its ordinary metallic blue. -By and by somebody with a sweet soprano voice, in one of the nearest -houses, began to sing the Ave Maria of Gounod. The impassioned music -seemed made for the time and place. It caught the soul of the moment and -gave it voice. I could feel my heart swelling with the crescendo: and -then how it leaped and thrilled when the singer reached that glorious -climax of the song, “Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae!” At that -instant, as if released from a spell, I drew a long breath and looked -around. Then for the first time I saw Veronika Pathzuol. Her eyes and -mine met for the first time. - -“A lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange, and sad”—and pale. Her -face was pale, like an angel’s. The wealth of black hair above it -and the dark eyes that gazed sadly out of it rendered the pallor more -intense. But it was not the pallor of ill-health; it was the pallor of -a luminous white soul. As I beheld her standing there in the moonlight -scarcely a yard away from me, I knew all at once what it was my heart -had craved for so long a while. I knew at once, by the sudden pain that -pierced it, that my heart had been waiting for this lady all its life. I -did not stop to reflect and determine. Had I done so, most likely—nay, -most certain-ly—I should never have had to tell this story. The words -flew to my tongue and were spoken as soon as thought.—“Oh, how -beautiful, how beautiful!” I exclaimed, meaning her. - -“Very beautiful,” I heard her voice, clear and soft, respond. “It -is almost a pain, the feeling such intense beauty gives,”—meaning -the scene before us. - -“And yet this is every-day, hum-drum, commercial New York,” added -another voice, one that jarred upon my hearing like the scraping of a -contre-bass after a cadenza by the flute. She was leaning on the arm of -a man. I was at the verge of being straightway jealous, when I observed -that his hair and beard were snowy and that his face was wrinkled. - -We got into conversation without ceremony. Nature had introduced us. -Our common appreciation of the loveliness round about broke the ice -and provided a topic for speech. After her first impulsive utterance, -Veronika said little. But the old man was voluble, evidently glad of the -opportunity to express his ideas to a new person. And I was more than -glad to listen, because while doing so I could gaze upon her face to my -heart’s content. - -Something that I had said, in reply to a remark of his upon the singing -of the Ave, caused him to ask, “Ah, you understand music? You are a -musician—yes?” - -“I play the violin,” I answered. - -“Do you hear, Veronika?” he cried. “Our friend plays the violin! -My dear sir, you must do us the favor of playing for us before we part. -Do not be surprised—pay no heed to the formalities. Is not music a -free-masonry? Come, you shall try your skill upon an Amati. Such an -evening as this must have an appropriate ending. Come.” - -Without allowing me time to protest, had I been disposed to do so, he -grasped my arm and started off. He kept on talking as we marched along. -I had no attention for what he said. My mind was divided between delight -at my good-fortune, and query as to what its upshot would be. We had not -far to go. A few doors to the west of First avenue he turned up a stoop. -It was a modest apartment-house. We climbed to the topmost story and -stood still in the dark while he fumbled for a match. Then he lighted -the gas and said, “Sit down.” The room was bare and cheerless. A -chromo or two sufficed to decorate the walls. The furniture—a few -chairs and a center-table—was stiff and shabby. The carpet was -threadbare. - -But a piano occupied a corner; and the floor, the table, and the chairs -were littered thick with music. So I felt at home. As I look back at -that meager little parlor now, it is transformed into a sanctuary. There -the deepest moments of two lives were spent. Yet to-day strangers -dwell in it; come and go, laugh and chatter, eat, drink, and make merry -between its walls, all unconcernedly, never pausing to bestow a thought -upon the sad, sweet lady whose presence once hallowed the place, whose -tears more than once watered the floor over which they tread with -indifferent footsteps. - -The old man lighted the gas and said, “Sit down,” making obedience -possible by clearing a chair of the music it held. Then scrutinizing -my face: “You are a Jew, are you not?” he inquired, in his quick, -nervous way. - -“Yes,” I said, “by birth.” - -“And by faith?” - -“Well, I am not orthodox, not a zealot.” - -“Your name?” - -“Neuman—Ernest Neuman.” - -“And mine, Tikulski—Baruch. You see we are of one race—the -race—the chosen race! Neither am I orthodox. I keep Yom Kippur, to -be sure, but I have no conscientious scruples against shell-fish, and -indeed the ‘succulent oyster’ is especially congenial to my palate. -This,” with a wave of the hand toward Veronika, “this is my niece, -Miss Pathzuol—P-a-t-h-z-u-o-1—pronounced Patchuol—Hungarian name. -Her mother was my sister.” - -Veronika dropped a courtesy. Her eyes seemed to plead, “Do not laugh -at my uncle. He is eccentric; but be charitable.” - -“Now, Veronika, show Mr. Neuman your music and find something that you -can play together. I will go fetch the violin.” - -The old man left the room. - -“What will you play?” asked Veronika. Her voice quavered. She was -timid, as indeed it was natural she should be. - -“I don’t know,” I said, my own voice not as firm as I could have -wished. “What have you got?” - -We commenced at the top of a big pile of music and had settled upon the -prize song from the Meistersinger—not then as hackneyed as it is -at present, not then the victim of every passable amateur—when Mr. -Tikulski came back. It was in truth an Amati that he brought. The -discolored, half obliterated label within said so—but the label might -have lied. The strong, tense, ringing tone that it emitted in response -to the A which Veronika gave me said so also—and that did not lie. I -played as best I could. Rather, the music played itself. With a violin -under my chin, I lapse into semi-consciousness, lose my identity. -Another spirit impels my arm, pouring itself out through the voice of my -instrument. Not until silence is restored do I realize that I have -been the performer. While the music is going on my personality is -annihilated. With the final note I seem to “come, to,” as one does -from a trance. - -When I came to this time it was to be embraced by my host with an -effusiveness that overwhelmed me. “Ah, you are a true musician,” -he cried, releasing me from his arms. “You have the inspiration. -Veronika, speak, tell him how nobly he has played.” - -“I can’t speak, I can’t tell him,” answered Veronika, “it has -taken away all power of speech.” But she gave me a glance, allowed her -eyes to stay with mine for a long moment. A fire had been smoldering in -my breast from the first; at these words, at this glance, it burst into -flame. A great light inundated my soul. I felt the arteries tingling to -my very finger tips. I started tuning up, to hide my emotion. Then we -played the march from Raff’s Lenore. - -I am afraid my agitation marred the effect of Raffs diamatic -composition. At any rate, the plaudits were faint when I had done. After -a breathing spell Mr. Tikulski told Veronika to sing. She played her own -accompaniment while I stood by to turn. - -It would be useless for me to try to qualify her singing. Whatever -critical faculty I had was stricken dumb. I can only say that she sang a -song in French (an old, old romance, till then unfamiliar to me; so old -that the composer’s name has been forgotten) in a splendid contralto -voice, and that it seemed as if she was playing upon the inmost tissue -of my life, so keenly I felt each note. I quite forgot to turn the page -at the proper place, and Veronika had to prompt me. It was a little -thing, and yet I remember as vividly as if from yesterday the nod of the -head and the inflection with which she said, “Turn, please.” - -“‘Le temps fait passer l’amour,’.rdquo; repeated Mr. Tikulski: -it was the last line of the song. “Veronika, bring some wine. Le vin -fait passer le temps,” and he chuckled at his joke. Another small -thing that I remember vividly is how Tikulski, as she left the room, -posed his forefinger upon his Adam’s-apple and said, “She carries a -‘cello here.” - -He went on to this effect:—Veronika, as I already knew, was his niece. -He also was a violinist: more than that, he was a composer, though as -yet unpublished. With the self-conceit too characteristic of musical -people, he told me how he was engaged upon “an epoch-making -symphony”—had been engaged upon it for the last dozen years, would -be engaged upon it for the dozen years to come. Then the world should -have it, and he, not having lived in vain, would die content. Veronika -was now one-and-twenty. During her childhood he had played in an -orchestra and arranged dance-music and done other hackwork to earn money -for her maintenance and education. She had received the best musical -training, instrumental and vocal, that could be had in New York. Now he -had turned the tables. Now he did nothing but compose—reserved all -his time and strength for his masterpiece. Veronika had become the -breadwinner. She taught on an average seven hours a day. She sang -regularly in church and synagogue, and at concerts and musicals whenever -she got a chance.—Veronika reentered the room bearing cakes and wine. -She sat down near to us, and I forgot every thing in the contemplation -of her beautiful, sad, strange face. Her eyes were bottomless. Far, far -in their liquid depths the spirit shone like a star. All the history of -Israel was in her glance. - -Every touch of constraint had vanished from her bearing. She spoke with -me as with one whom she knew well. I could scarcely believe that only an -hour ago we had been ignorant of each other’s existence. We discussed -music and found that our tastes were in accord. We compared notes on -teaching and exchanged anecdotes about our respective pupils. She said -among other things that more than half the money she earned her uncle -sent to Germany for the relief of his widowed sister and her offspring, -who were extremely poor! Her every syllable clove my heart like an -arrow. I grew hot with indignation to think of this frail, delicate -maiden slaving her life away in order that her relations might fatten in -idleness and her fanatic of an uncle work at his impossible symphony. -My fists clenched convulsively as I fancied her exposed to the ups and -downs, the hardships, the humiliations, of a music-teacher’s career. I -took no pains to regulate my manner: and, if she had possessed the least -trace of sophistication, she would have guessed that I loved her from -every modulation of my voice. Love her I did. I had already loved her -for an eternity—from the moment my eyes had first encountered hers in -the moonlight by the terrace.—But it was getting late. It would not do -for me to wear my welcome out. - -“Nay, stay,” interposed Mr. Tikulski, “you have not heard me play -yet.” - -“Oh, yes, you must hear my uncle play,” said Veronika. “The Adagio -of Handel? she asked of him. - -“No, child,” he answered, with a tinge of impatience, “the -minuet—from my own symphony,” aiming the last words at me. - -Veronika returned to the piano. They began. - -Indeed, the old man played superbly. His selection was a marvelous -finger-exercise—but of true music it contained none save that which -he informed it with by the fervor of his performance. He was a perfect -executant. His tone was equal to Wilhelm’s. It was a pity, a great -pity, that he should fritter himself away in the endeavor to compose. -Veronika and I said as much as this to each other with our eyes when -finally his bow had reached a standstill. - -“Well, if you will insist on going,” he said, “you must at least -agree to come as soon as possible again. This is Wednesday. We are -always at home on Wednesday evening. The other nights of the week -Veronika is engaged: Monday and Tuesday, lessons; Thursday, Friday, -Saturday, and Sunday, rehearsals and services at church and synagogue. -The church is in Hoboken: she doesn’t get home till eleven o’clock. -So on Wednesday we will see you without fail—yes?” - -As I looked forward, Wednesday seemed a million years away. “What an -old brute you are to make that child track over to Hoboken two nights -a week!” I thought; and said, “Thank you. You are very kind. -Good-by.” - -Veronika gave me her hand. The long slim fingers clasped mine cordially -and sent an electric thrill into my heart. - - - - -II. - -I SUPPOSE it is needless to say that I passed a sleepless night, haunted -till morning by Veronika’s face and voice; that I tossed endlessly -from pillow to pillow, going over in memory every circumstance from our -meeting to our parting; that I built a hundred wondrous castles in the -air and that Veronika presided as chatelaine in each. I thought I should -boil over with rage when I dwelt upon the enforced drudgery of her life. -I could hardly contain myself for sheer joy when I made bold to say, -“Why, it is not impossible that some day she may love you—not -impossible that some day she may consent to become your wife.” One -doubt, the inevitable one, harassed me: Had I a clear field? Was there -perchance another suitor there before me? Perhaps her affections were -already spoken. Still, on the whole, probably not. For, where had he -kept himself during the evening? Surely, if he had existed at all, he -would have been at her side. Yet on the other hand she was so beautiful, -it could scarcely be believed that she had attained the age of -one-and-twenty without taking some heart captive. And that sad, -mysterious expression in her eyes—how had it come about except through -love?—Thus between despair and hope I swung, pendulum-like, all night. - -Dawn filtered through the window. “Thursday!” I muttered. “Seven -days still to be dragged through—but then!”—Imagination -faltered at the prospect. I went about my usual business in a sort of -intoxication. My footstep had acquired an unwonted briskness. Every five -minutes my heart jumped into my throat and lost a beat. But my pupils -suffered. - -I was more inclined to absent-mindedness than ever. At dusk I revisited -the terrace despite the rain that fell in torrents, and walked by her -house and lived through the whole happy episode again. - -Be assured I was punctual when at last Wednesday came. I remember, as I -mounted the staircase that led to their abode, an absurd fear beset me. -What if they had moved away? - -What if I should not find her after this interminable week of waiting? -My hand shook as I pulled the bell-knob. I was nerving myself for the -worst in the interval that elapsed before the door was opened.—The -door was opened by Veronika herself! - -“Ah, good-evening. We were expecting you,” she said. - -I stammered a response. My temples were throbbing madly. - -Veronika led me into the dining-room. They were still at table. I began -to apologize. Tikulski stopped me. - -“You have come just at the proper moment,” he cried. “You shall -now have occasion to confess that my niece is as good a cook as she is a -player.” - -“But I have dined,” I protested. - -“But you can make room for one morsel more—for a mere taste of -pudding.” - -Veronika, with infinite grace, was moving about the room, getting a -plate and napkin. Then with her own hands she helped me to the pudding. - -“Doesn’t that flavor do her credit?” cried Tikulski. “It is a -melody materialized, is it not?” - -We all laughed; and I ate my pudding at perfect ease. - -“I hope Mr. Neuman has brought his violin,” said Veronika, “for -then we can have a first and second.” - -“Yes, I took that liberty,” I answered. - -And afterward, adjourning to the parlor, I played second to the old -man’s first for an hour or more—reading at sight from his own -manuscript music, which was not the lightest of tasks. Then Veronika -sang to us. And then, as it was extremely hot, Mr. Tikulski proposed -that we betake ourselves to a concert garden in the neighborhood and -spend the rest of the evening in the open air. We sat at a round -table under an ailanthus tree, and watched the people come and go, and -listened to light tunes discoursed by a tolerable band, and by and by -had a delicious little supper; and while Mr. Tikulski puffed a huge -cigar, Veronika and I enjoyed a long, delightful confidential talk in -which our minds got wonderfully close together, and during which one -scrap of information dropped from her lips that afforded me infinite -relief. Speaking of her nocturnal pilgrimages to Hoboken, she said, “I -go over by myself in the summer because it is still light; but coming -home, the organist takes me to the ferry, where uncle meets me.” - -“So,” I concluded, “there is no one ahead of me; for if there -were, of course he would be her escort.” And I lost no time about -putting in a word for myself. “I am very anxious to hear you sing in -church,” I said. “Your voice can not attain its full effect between -the narrow walls of a parlor.” - -And it was agreed that I should call upon them Sunday afternoon and -that we should all three take a walk in Central Park, Veronika and -I afterward going to Hoboken together. Music had, indeed, proved a -freemasonry, so far as we were concerned. This was only our second -interview; and already we treated each other like old and intimate -friends. - -A thunder shower broke above our heads on the way back to Fifty-first -street, and in default of an umbrella, I lent Veronika my handkerchief -to protect her hat. She returned it to me at the door of her house, and -lo! it was freighted with a faint, sweet perfume that it had caught from -contact with her. I stowed the handkerchief religiously in my pocket, -and for a week afterward it still retained a trace of the same dainty -odor. It was a touchstone, by means of which I could call her up bodily -before me whenever I desired. - -As I sat alone in my bed-chamber that night, I acknowledged that I was -more deeply in love than ever. The reader would not wonder at this if -he could form a true conception of Veronika’s presence. I wish I could -describe her—that is, render in words the impression wrought upon me -by her face, and her voice, and her manner, and the things she said. -I am not accustomed to expressing such matters in words, but with -my violin I should have no sort of difficulty. If I wanted to give -utterance to my idea of Veronika, all I should have to do would be to -take my violin and play this heavenly melody from Chopin’s Impromptu -in C-sharp minor:—Sotto voce. - - - -0030 - -It seems almost as though Chopin must have had Veronika in mind when -he composed it. Its color, its passion, its vague dreamy sadness, and -withal its transparent simplicity, make it for me a perfect musical -portrait. Those were the traits which most constantly and conspicuously -abode in my thought of her. Her simplicity, her child-like simplicity, -and her naturalness, and the serene purity of her soul, made her as -different from other women that I had seen—though, to be sure, I had -seen but few women except as I passed them in the street or rode with -them in the horse-car—made her as different from those I had seen, at -any rate, as a lily plucked on the hillside is different from a hothouse -flower, as daylight is different from gaslight, as Schubert’s music is -different from Liszt’s. In every thing and from every point of view, -she was simple and natural and serene. Her great pale face, and the dark -eyes, and the smile that came and went like a melody across her lips, -and the way she wore her hair, and the way she dressed, and the way -she played, sang, spoke, and her gestures, and the low, sad, musical -laughter that I heard only once or twice from the beginning to the -end—all were simple, and natural, and serene. And yet there was a -mystery attaching to each of them, a something beyond my comprehension, -a something that tinged my love for her with awe. A mystery that would -neither be defined nor penetrated nor ignored, brooded over her, as the -perfume broods over a rose. I doubt whether an American woman can be -like this unless she is older and has had certain experiences of her -own. Veronika had not had sufficient experience of her own to account -for what I have described: but she was a Jewess, and all the experience -of the Jewish race, all the martyrdom of the scattered hosts, were hers -by inheritance. - -No matter how I was occupied, whether teaching, or practicing, or -reading, or writing, or walking, or talking to other people, I was -always conscious of the love of Veronika astir in my heart. Just as -through all the vicissitudes of a fugue the subject melody will survive -in one form or another and be at no minute altogether silenced, so -through all the changes of my busy day the thought of Veronika lingered -in my mind. I can not tell how completely the whole aspect of the -world had been altered since the night I first saw her standing in -the moonlight. It was as if my life up to that moment had been passed -beneath gray skies, and suddenly the clouds had dispersed and the -sunshine flooded the earth. A myriad things became plain and clear -that had been invisible until now, and old things acquired a -new significance. My heart welled with tenderness for all living -creatures—the overflow of the tenderness it had for her. All my -senses, all my capacities for pain and pleasure, were more acute than -before. Suddenly music, which had been my art, became my religion: she -had glorified it by her devotion. I looked forward to my next visit with -her as a benighted traveler looks forward to the glowing window that -promises rest and shelter: only in my case the light illuminated my -whole pathway and made the progress toward its source a constant delight -instead of a perfunctory labor. But this is the common story of a man -in love, and stands without telling. Suffice it that before our -acquaintance was a month old I had got upon the most intimate terms with -Mr. Tikulski and Veronika, spending not only every Wednesday evening -at their house but also each Sunday afternoon, and accompanying her to -Hoboken as regularly as she had to go. Never was there a prouder man -than I at those junctures when, with her hand pressed tightly under my -arm, I felt that she was trusting herself entirely to my charge and that -I was answerable for her safety and well-being. The Hoboken ferry-boats -became to my thinking vastly more interesting than the most romantic of -Venetian gondolas; and to this day I can not sniff the peculiar stuffy -odor that always pervades a ferry-boat cabin without being transported -back across the years to that happy, happy time. I actually blessed the -necessity that forced her to journey so far for her livelihood; and it -was with an emphatic pang that I listened to the plans which she -and Tikulski were prone to discuss whereby she was shortly to get -an engagement nearer home: though the sight of her pale, tired cheek -reproached me the moment after. On her side she made no concealment of -a most cordial regard for me. Her face always lighted up at my arrival; -she was always eager to share her ideas with me and to call forth my -opinion of her work, appearing pleased by my praise and impressed by my -criticism. She set me an admirable example of frankness. She would say -precisely what she thought of my renditions, sparing not their blemishes -and indicating how an effective point might be improved. - -But as yet I had not dared to hope that she loved, or was even in train -to love me. So as yet I had not intended to speak of love at all. - -But one day—one Sunday late in June—she proposed to sing me a song -she had just been learning. - -“What is it?” I asked. - -“From Le Désert of Felicien David,” she said, handing me the -music. - -It was the “O, belle nuit, O, sois plus lente,” originally written -for tenor. - -“I should hardly think it would suit your voice,” I said, running -over the music. - -“Neither did I, at first; but listen, anyway.” And she began. - -Her voice had never been in better order, had never been more resonant, -never more electric. Contrary to my misgivings, the song suited it -perfectly, afforded its ‘cello quality full scope. She sang with an -enthusiasm, a precision, a delicacy of shading, that carried me away. -As the last tender note melted on her lips, she swung around on the -piano-stool and looked a question with her great, dark, serious eyes. -I know not what possessed me. A blindness fell upon my sight. My heart -gave a mighty bound. In another instant I was at her side and had caught -her—my darling—in my arms. In another instant she was sobbing her -life out upon my shoulder. - -By and by, after the first stress of our emotion had subsided, I -mustered voice to say, “Then, Veronika, you love me?” - -Her hand nestled in mine by way of answer. - -I told her as well I could how I had loved her from the first. - -“It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the -terrace and spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has -been the same ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have -wanted you so much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you -waited so long?” - -No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When -Mr. Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single -question, imposed but a single condition. - -I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her -comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and -her brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to -earn more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony -and Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a -reputation I might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It -was arranged that we should be married the first week in August. - -Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car -or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity before. As we left the church -she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo? - -“It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?” - -“Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.” - -Ah, but I had a full heart as I walked home that night. The future was -all radiant radiant beyond my wildest dream. It frightened me. Such -perfect bliss seemed scarcely possible, seemed too great and glorious to -last. And yet had not Veronika’s own lips promised it? and sealed the -promise with a kiss that burned still where she had placed it? It was -useless for me to go to bed; it was useless for me to stay in the house. -I put on my hat and went out and spent the night pacing up and down -before her door. And as soon as the morning was far enough advanced -I rang the bell and invited myself to breakfast with her; and after -breakfast I helped her to wash the dishes, to Mr. Tikulski’s -unutterable disapproval—it was “unteeknified,” he said—and after -that I accompanied her as far as the first house where she had to give a -lesson. - -While writing the above I had almost forgotten. Now I remember. I must -stop for a space to get used to remembering again that she is dead. - - - - -III. - -YES, she is dead. That is the truth. If truth is good, as men proclaim -it to be, then goodness is intrinsically cruel. That Veronika is dead is -the truth which lies like a hot coal upon my consciousness, and goads -me along as I tell this tale. And the manner of her death and the -speediness of it—I must tell all. - -And yet, although I know her to be dead, although I repeat to myself a -hundred times a day, “She is dead, dead, dead,” and although, God -help me, I think I realize too well that she is dead, yet to this day I -can scarcely bring myself to believe it. Truth as it is, it seems to -be in utter contradiction to the rest of truth. Even those who have -abandoned faith in Religion, still profess faith in Nature, saying, -“Nature is provident, beneficent, and wise; Nature is alive with -beauty.” And at most times, it seems as if these assertions were not -to be contested. Yet, how can they be true when Nature contained the -possibility of Veronika’s death? How can Nature be wise, and yet have -permitted that maiden life to be destroyed?—provident, and yet have -flung away her finest product?—beneficent, and yet have torn bleeding -from my life all that made my life worth living?—beautiful, and yet -have quenched the beautifying light of Veronika’s presence, and hushed -the voice that made the world musical? The mere fact that Veronika could -die gives the lie to the Nature-worshipers. In the light of that fact, -or rather in the darkness of it, it is mockery to sing songs of praise -to Nature.—That is why it is so hard for me to believe—to believe a -thing which annihilates the harmony of the universe, and proclaims the -optimism of the philosophers to be a delusion, a superstition. How could -I believe my senses if I should hear Christine Nilsson utter a hideous -false note? So is it hard for me to believe that Nature has allowed -Veronika to die. And yet it is the truth, the unmistakable, irrevocable, -relentless truth. - -I suppose all lovers are happy: but it does not seem possible that -other lovers can ever have had such unmitigated happiness as ours -was—happiness so keen as almost to be a pain. The light of love -that burst suddenly into our lives, and filled each cranny full to -overflowing, was so pure and bright as almost to blind us. The happiness -was all the keener, the light all the brighter, because of the hardship -and the monotony of our daily tasks. If we had been rich, if we had had -leisure and friends and many resources for diversion, then most likely -our delight in each other would not have been so great. But as we -were—poor, hard worked, and alone in the world—we found all the -happiness we had, in ourselves, in communing together; and happiness -concentrated, was proportionately more intense. The few hours in the -week which we were permitted to spend side by side glittered like -diamonds against the dull background of the rest. And we improved them -to the full. We called upon each fleeting moment to stay and perpetuate -itself; and we could not understand how Faust had had to wait so many -years before he could do the same. The season was divine, clear skies -and balmy weather day after day, and the Park being easily accessible, -we could imagine ourselves among the green fields of the country -whenever the fancy seized us. I believe that as a matter of fact the -turf of the common was sadly parched and brown; but we were not critical -so long as we could wander over it hand in hand. Then, our characters -were perfectly accorded; their unison was faultless. Each called for the -other, needed the other, as the dominant chord calls for and needs its -tonic. We had not a hope, a fear, an ambition, an aspiration, but it was -shared equally between us. Our art was a mutual passion which we pursued -together. When Veronika was seated at the piano and I stood at her side -with my violin at my shoulder, our cup of contentment was full to the -brim. Nothing more was wanting. I remember, one evening, in the middle -of a phrase, her fingers faltered and she wheeled around and lifted her -eyes upon my face.—“What is the matter, darling?” I asked.—“I -only want to look at you to realize that it isn’t a dream,” she -answered.—And yet she is dead. - -June and half July had wound away; in little more than a fortnight our -wedding would be celebrated. The night was sultry, and she and I sat -together by an open window. Her uncle was absent: an idea had come to -him just before dinner, she explained, and according to his custom he -had gone out to walk the streets until he had mastered it. We were by no -means sorry to be alone. We had plenty to talk about; but even without -talking it was marvelously pleasant to sit together and think the happy -thoughts that filled our minds and listen to the subdued sounds of human -life that came in by the window. - -Veronika had shown me some of her bridal outfit, telling how she had -worked at it in her short snatches of leisure. We took as much pleasure -in the contemplation of this modest little trousseau as though it had -boasted all the rubies and silken fabrics of the Indies. This set us to -talking of the future and making plans. And afterward we talked of the -past. We spoke of how strange it was that we should have come together -in the way we had—by the merest accident, as it seemed; and we doubted -if it was indeed an accident, if destiny had not purposely guided our -footsteps that memorable night.—“Why,” she exclaimed, “if uncle -and I had been but a few moments earlier or later, we never should have -seen each other at all. Think of the terrible risk we ran! Think if we -had never known each other!” and her fingers tightened around mine. - -“And then,” I went on, “that I should have spoken to you, a -strange lady, and that you should have answered!” - -“It seemed perfectly natural for me to answer; I had done so before -I stopped to think. But afterward I was ashamed; I was afraid you might -think it indelicate. But, somehow, the words spoke themselves. I am glad -of it now.” - -“I do believe God’s hand was in it! I do believe it was all -pre-ordained in heaven. I believe that our Guardian Angel prompted me to -speak and you to answer. It can’t be that we, who were made for each -other, were left to find it out by a mere perilous chance—it isn’t -credible.” - -“But nobody except myself—not even you, can understand how like a -miracle it all is to me, because nobody else can know how much I needed -you. Nobody else can know how dreary and empty my life was before you -came, or how completely you have filled it and gladdened it.” - -Here we stopped talking for a while. - -By and by she resumed, “I think that music differs from the other -arts. I think the musician instinctively needs a companion worker. I -know that in the old days when I would play or sing, my heart seemed to -cry out continually for some one to come and share its feeling. Perhaps -this was because music is the most emotional of the arts, the most -sympathetic. Really, sometimes I could not bear to touch the piano, -the pain of being alone was so acute. Of course I had my uncle, a most -thorough musician; but I wanted somebody who would feel precisely as I -did, and he did not. He always analyzed and criticised, never allowed -himself to be carried away, never forgot the intellectual side of the -things I would play. But now—now that you are with me, my music is a -constant source of joy. And then, the thought that we are going to work -together all our lives, the thought of the music we are going to make -together—oh, it is too great, it takes my breath away! I don’t dare -to believe it. I am afraid all the time that something will happen to -prevent it coming true.” - -Again for a while we did not speak. - -Again by and by she resumed, “And then you can not know how lonely -I was in other ways, how I longed for a little affection, a little -tenderness. Of course uncle is very good, has always been very good -to me; but do you think it was ungrateful for me to want a little more -affection than he gave me? I mean a little more manifest affection; -because I know that in the bottom of his heart he loves me very warmly. -But I longed for somebody to show a little care for me, and uncle is -very undemonstrative—he is so absorbed in his symphony, and then -sometimes he is exceedingly severe. When I would get home at night it -was so dreary not to have any one to speak to about the trials of the -day—not to have any one who would sympathize and understand. You -see, other girls have their mothers or their brothers and sisters and -friends: but I had nobody except my uncle; and he was so much older, and -regarded things so differently, that I do not think it was unnatural for -me to wish for some one else. Besides, I had so much responsibility; I -felt so weak and helpless. I thought, what if something should happen to -my uncle! or what if I should get sick and be unable to teach! Oh, the -rest and security that you brought to me!” - -What I replied—a mass of broken sentences—was too incoherent to bear -recording. - -“And then, the mere physical fatigue—day after day, work, work, -work, and never any respite. Of course, every body has to work, but -almost every body has a holiday now and then; and I never had a single -day that I could call all my own. In winter it was hardest. No matter -how tired I was, I had to be up and off giving lessons even if the snow -was ankle deep. And the ice in the river made it such hard work getting -to Hoboken, made the journey so very long. I had to do the housework -too, you know. We couldn’t afford to keep a servant, on account of the -money we had to send abroad. When I would come home all fagged out I -had to clean the rooms and cook the dinner; though I am afraid that -sometimes I did not more than half do my duty. Sometimes I would let the -dust lie for a week on the mantle-piece. And every day was just the same -as the day that had gone before. It was like traveling in a circle. When -I would go to bed at night my weariness would be all the harder because -of the thought, ‘To-morrow will be just the same, the same round -of lessons, the same dead fatigue, the same monotonous drudgery from -beginning to end.’ And as I saw no promise of change, as I thought it -would be the same all my life, I could not help asking what the use was -of having been born. Wasn’t I a dreadful grumbler? Yet, what could -I do? I think it is natural when one is young to long for something -to look forward to, for just a little pleasure and just a little -companionship. But then you came, and every thing was altered. Do you -remember in the Creation the wonderful awakening one feels when they -sing, ‘And the Lord said, Let there be light,’ very low, and then -with a mighty burst of sound, ‘And there was LIGHT?’ Do you remember -how one’s heart leaps and seems to grow big in one’s breast? It -was like that when you came to me. I used to wonder why I had ever felt -unhappy or discontented. The mere prospect of seeing you at the week’s -end made my heart sing from morning to night. It gave a motive, an -object, to my life—made me feel that I was working to a purpose, that -I should have my reward. I had been growing hard and indifferent, even -indifferent to music. But now I began to love my music more than ever: -and no matter how tired I might be, when I had a moment of leisure I -would sit down and practice so as to be able to play well for you. Music -seemed to express all the unutterable feeling that you inspired me with. -One day I had sung the Ave Maria of Cherubini to you, and you said, -‘It is so religious—it expresses precisely the emotions one -experiences in a church.’ But for me it expressed rather the emotions -a woman has when she is in the presence of the man she loves. All the -time I had no idea that you would ever feel in the same way toward -me.” - -My kisses silenced her. Afterward she sang from Pergolese’s Stabat -Mater, and played a medley of bits from Chopin: until, looking at my -watch, I saw it was nearing midnight. Time for me to go away. But her -uncle had not yet come home. I did not like to leave her alone. I said -so. - -“Oh, that is nothing,” she explained. “It always happens when he -has one of his ideas. Very likely he won’t come in till morning. I am -quite accustomed to it, and not a bit afraid.” - -“In that event,” I thought, “I certainly ought to go. It may -embarrass her, my staying so late; and besides, she needs the sleep.” - -I started to say good-by. Our parting was hard. Again and again, as -I reached the door, I turned back and began anew. But at last I found -myself in the street. I looked up at the parlor window, and remained on -the curbstone until I saw her close the sash and pull the shade, and the -light being extinguished, knew that she had gone to her bedroom. Then I -set my face toward home. - -I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand -that what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire. -My tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should -be dedicated to soothing her and protecting her and making her glad. The -tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she -had been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce -work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to -return and pour out the yearning of my spirit at your feet. Why had I -left her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the -knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that -I was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when -that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should -overwhelm me. I could not contemplate it any more than I could have -gazed straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I -was seated at her side, caressing her brow and emptying my life into her -eyes. - -I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety -and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified. I had a presentiment -that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I -reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself -that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for -her lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not -begin till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on -my hat and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street. - -Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided as -abruptly and with as little provocation as it had sprung up. Indeed, I -laughed as I remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the -matter. Still I am not sorry to have come.” - -“Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me -in. - -“I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so -without my noticing.” - -I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I rang -again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning hope of success: -and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.” - -Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside -to let some one pass. - -“Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out -so early?” - -I explained. - -“Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of -coffee. I have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little -aria. I will play it for you.” - -He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been -drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every -thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and -empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest. -There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them. - -Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged -it on the table, and applied a match to the lamp. - -“While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you -the result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down -under the trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it -for their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold -the stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.” - -Again he went away—to fetch his instrument. - -He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and -more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot. -Still he remained. - -At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. -At first he did not answer. - -“Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated. - -I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low, -inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me. -Had he met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s -vigil? paralysis? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room -whence his voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of -the floor, immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a -man who has seen a ghost. - -“For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried. - -He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question. - -He roused himself. A tremor swept over him. A painful rattling -was audible in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed. -“L-look,” he gasped. - -I looked. How can I tell what I saw? - - - - -IV. - -AND yet I must tell it, though the telling consume me like a flame. I -saw a bed and Veronika lying on it, face downward. She was dressed in -her customary black gown. I supposed she was asleep. I supposed she was -asleep, for one short moment. That was the last moment of my life. For -then the truth burst upon me, fell upon me like a shaft from out the -skies and hurled me into hell. I saw—not that she was dead only. If -she had only died it would be different. I saw—merciful God!—I saw -that she was murdered. - -Oh, of course I would not, could not, believe it. Of course it was a -dream, a nightmare, an hallucination, from which I should presently -awake. Of course the thing was impossible, could not be. Of course I -flung myself upon the bed at her side and crushed her between my arms -and covered her with kisses and called and cried to her to move, to -speak, to come back to life. And although her hands were icy cold and -her body rigid and her face as white as marble, and although—ah, no! -I may leave out the horrible detail—still I could not believe. I could -not believe—yet how could I deny? There she lay, my sweetheart, my -promised bride, deaf to my voice, blind to my presence, unmoved by my -despair, beyond the reach of my strongest love, never to care for me -again—Veronika, my tender, sad Veronika—oh, she lay there, dead, -murdered! And still, with the knife-hilt staring at me like the face of -Satan, still I could not believe. It was the fact, the unalterable fact, -the fact that extinguished the light of the sun and stars and flooded -the universe with blackness: and still, in spite of it, I called to her -and crushed her in my embrace and kissed her and caressed her and was -sure it could not be true. And meantime people came and filled the room. - -I did not see the people. Only in a vague way I knew that they were -there, heard the murmur of their voices, as if they were a long distance -off. I had no senses left. I could neither see nor hear distinctly. My -eyes were burned by a fierce red fire. My ears were full of the uproar -of a thousand devils. But I knew that people had intruded upon us. I -knew that I hated them because they would not leave us two alone. I -remember I rose and faced them and cursed them and told them to be gone. -And then I took her in my arms again and pressed her hard to me and -forgot every thing but that she would not answer. - -Gradually, however, nature was coming to my rescue. Gradually I seemed -to be sinking into a stupor—had no sensation left except a numb, -bruised feeling from head to foot—forgot what the matter was, forgot -even Veronika, simply existed in a state of half conscious wretchedness. -The first frenzy of grief had spent itself. The very immensity of -the pain I had suffered acted as an opiate, exhausted and rendered me -insensible. I heard the voices of the people as a soldier who is wounded -may still hear something of the din of battle. - -I don’t know how long I had lain thus when I became aware that a hand -was placed upon my shoulder. Some one shook me roughly and said, “Get -up and come away.” Passively, I obeyed. “Sit down,” said the same -person, pushing me into a chair. I sat down and relapsed into my stupor. - -Again I don’t know how long it was before they disturbed me for a -second time. Two or three men were standing in front of me. One of them -was in uniform. Slowly I recognized that he was an officer, a captain of -police. He spoke. I heard what he said without understanding, as one -who is half asleep hears what is said at his bedside. This much only -I gathered, that he wanted me to go with him somewhere. I was too much -dazed to care what I did or what was done with me. He took my arm and -led me away. He led me into the street. There was a a great crowd. -I shut my eyes and tottered along at his side. We entered a house. -Somebody asked me a lot of questions—my name and where I lived and -so forth—to which my lips framed mechanical answers. I can remember -nothing more. - -When consciousness revived I was made to understand that I had fainted. - -“But where am I? What has happened?” I asked, trying to remember. - -The police-captain explained. “Mr. Neuman,” he said, “I have made -all the inquiry that is as yet possible, and the result is that I deem -it my duty to take you in custody. I prefer no charge, but I believe I -am bound to hold you for the inquest. The hour of your leaving her last -night, the time that Miss Pathzuol has apparently been dead, and the -fact that you were the last person known to have been in her company, -make it incumbent upon me to place you under arrest.” - -I pondered his words. Every thing came back. I was accused, or at least -suspected, of having murdered Veronika—I! - -I felt no emotion. I was stunned as yet, like a man who has received a -blow between the eyes. My brain had turned to stone. I repeated over to -myself all that the captain had said. The words wrought no effect. I did -not even experience pain as I thought of her. She is dead? I queried. -They were three vapid syllables. My senses I had recovered—I could -see and hear plainly now—could remember the events of the morning in -detail and in their correct order. But somehow I had lost all capacity -for feeling. - - - - -V. - -AND so it continued throughout the inquest and throughout the -trial—for, yes, they tried me for my sweetheart’s murder. I ate, -drank, slept, and answered the questions that were put to me, all in a -dazed, dull way, but suffered no pain, no surprise, no indignation, had -no more sensation than a dead man. That Veronika had been killed, and -that I was accused of having killed her, were the facts which I heard -told and told again from morning till night each day; yet I had not the -least conception of what they signified. I was too stunned and benumbed -to realize. - -The first day passed by, and the second and the third, every one of them -busy with events that meant life or death for me: yet I took no notice. -When left to myself, invariably I closed my eyes, and the stupor settled -over my senses like a cloud of smoke. When aroused, I did whatever was -required as passively as an automaton. I remember those first few days -as one remembers a hateful dream. I remember being driven in a dark, -noisy vehicle from the station-house to the city prison, and having in -the latter place a cell assigned to me which was destined to serve as my -home for many weeks. I remember making several trips, handcuffed to my -custodian, from the jail to the office where the inquest was held and -back: but my only recollection of the inquest itself is a confused -one—a crowded, foul-smelling room, a chaos of faces and voices, -endless talking, endless questioning of myself by men who were strangers -to me. I remember that by and by these journeys came to an end: but -what the verdict of the inquest was I do not remember—I do not think I -troubled myself to ask at the time. Then I remember that after some days -spent alone in my cell one of the keepers said, “You are indicted,” -and inquired whether I wished to communicate with my attorney. Indicted? -My attorney? I did not comprehend. I do not remember what I answered. - -Once the door of my cell opened, and they brought in a trunk and a -violin-case and placed them on the floor at the foot of my cot. - -I recognized these for my own property. Mechanically I took out my -violin and drew forth one long, clear note. That note was like a sudden -flash of light. For a single instant the desolation to which my world -had been reduced became visible in all its ghastliness. For a single -instant I realized my position, realized that Veronika was dead, and the -rest. The truth pierced my consciousness like an arrow and made my body -quake with pain. But immediately the darkness settled over me again, the -stupor returned. - -Slowly, however, this stupor was changing its character. By degrees, -so far as my mere thinking faculties were involved, it began to be -dissipated. By degrees my mind struggled out of it. I began to notice -and to understand things, and was able to converse and to appreciate -what was said. But over my feelings it retained its sway. Although I -was quite competent now to follow the explanations of my lawyer—how -Veronika had been murdered and how and why I was suspected as the -murderer—still I had no feeling of any sort about the matter. I might -have been a log of wood. - -My lawyer had presented himself one day and volunteered his services. I -had accepted them without even inquiring his name. - -“Don’t you remember me?” he asked. - -I looked at his face but could not recall having seen it before. - -“My name is Epstein,” he said. “We went to school together.” - -“Oh, yes; I remember,” I replied. - -Regularly each day he came and reported the progress of affairs. - -“They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our -only hope lies in an alibi.” - -“What is that?” I inquired dully. - -He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell -me what tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that -have leaked out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at -what hour did you leave Miss Pathzuol that night?” - -“At about midnight.” - -“And went directly home?” - -“Directly home.” - -“After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants? -any of your fellow-lodgers?” - -“I don’t remember.” - -“But you must make an effort to remember. Try.” - -“I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence -irritated me. - -“You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were -the life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said, -and that was the truth. - -Next day his face wore a somber expression. - -“This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and -your fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know -you are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.” - -At last the trial began. - -I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room. -I heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers -simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was -the least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the -result. Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of -the trial is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story -of it. - -The first day was used in securing a jury. - -The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called -it—by the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika -was, how she had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of -the 13th July they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable -train of circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. -Then he raised his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s -soul. Then he faced around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his -finger at me, “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the -man.” - -The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the -murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all -night that night; and explained the nature of the relations that -subsisted between Veronika and myself. - -“When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was -the door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney. - -“In its usual condition.” - -“That is to say, locked?” - -“Precisely.” - -“It had not been broken open or tampered with?” - -“Not so far as I could see.” - -“That’s all.” - -On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass -between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every -reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover. - -“And when made aware of the death of his betrothed,” pursued my -lawyer, “how did Mr. Neuman conduct himself?” - -“He acted like a crazy man—like one paralyzed by a tremendous -blow.” - -“You can go, Mr. Tikulski,” said my lawyer. “But I wish to say,” -began Tikulski, “that I do not believe——” - -“Stop,” cried the prosecutor. “Your honor, I object to any -expression of opinion by the witness.” - -“No matter about what you don’t believe,” said the Judge to -Tikulski. - -“But——-” - -“But you must hold your tongue,” imperiously. “You can go.” - -The old man left the stand and elbowed his way to my side. - -“What I wished to say was,” he whispered into my ear, “that I -believe you are as innocent as I myself. It is outrageous, this trial. -They compelled me to testify. But you must understand that I am sure of -your innocence. I don’t know why they hushed me up.” - -Meanwhile the captain of police had succeeded him, and sworn to having -visited the scene of the crime and to having placed the prisoner under -arrest. - -“Captain,” said the district-attorney, “here is a key. Have you -seen it before?” handing a key to the witness. - -“I have,” was the reply. - -“Tell us when and where.” - -“I took it from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest.” - -“What further can you say about it?” - -“Subsequently it was identified as a key to the apartments occupied by -the deceased.” - -“Did you try it yourself?” - -“I did. It fitted the lock.” - -“How is this?” Epstein asked me. “How did you come by that key?” - -“I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever -having had it in my possession.” - -“But it is an ugly circumstance, and must be accounted for.” - -“Oh, what difference does it make?” I retorted petulantly. “Leave -me alone.” - -“A few little trifles like this may make the difference of your -neck,” muttered Epstein, and he looked disturbed. - -“Captain,” continued the district-attorney, “just one thing more. -Do you recognize this handkerchief?” - -“Yes; it was found in the pocket of the prisoner when he was searched -at the station-house.” - -My lawyer got hold of the handkerchief and exhibited it to me. It -was stained dull brown. “This is blood,” he said. “How did it -happen?” - -“I don’t know, I haven’t an idea,” was the utmost I could -respond. Epstein looked more uneasy than before. - -“That’s enough, Captain,” said the prosecutor. - -“But before you leave the stand,” put in Epstein, “kindly tell us -what the prisoner’s conduct was from the time you took charge of the -premises down to the time you locked him up.” - -“At first he acted as though he was crazy; raved and carried on like a -madman. Afterward he became quiet and sort of dull. At the station-house -he fainted away.” - -“Didn’t act as though he liked it—as though the death of Miss -Pathzuol was a thing that pleased him?” - -“No, sir; on the contrary. He acted as though it had been a great -shock to him.” - -“You can go.” - -Next came a physician. - -He said he was a police-surgeon. At about nine o’clock on the morning -of July 13th he had been summoned to the house of the decedent; had -examined the body and satisfied himself as to the mode of death. There -were three separate knife-wounds. These he proceeded to describe in -technical language. Not one of them could have been self-inflicted; any -one of them was sufficient to have caused immediate death. - -“Dr. Merrill,” inquired the prosecutor, “how long—how many -hours—prior to your arrival must the crime have been perpetrated?” - -“From seven to ten hours.” - -“So that—?” - -“So that the crime must have been perpetrated between eleven and two -o’clock.” - -“Good.—Now, Doctor, here is a handkerchief which the captain says -he took from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest. Do you recognize -it?” - -“I do.” - -“Go on—what about it?” - -“It was submitted to me for chemical analysis—to analyze the -substance, with which it is discolored.” - -“And you found?” - -“I found that it was stained with blood,” - -“Human blood?” - -“Precisely.” - -“About how long had it been shed? Did its condition indicate?” - -“From its condition when submitted to me—that is, at about noon on -the 13th—I inferred that it had been shed not much less nor much more -than twelve hours.” - -“Thank you, Doctor,” said the lawyer. To Epstein, “Your -witness.” - -“One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give -no explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I -answered.—To the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways, -may it not? This blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have -come from—say, a nose-bleed, eh?” - -The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not -probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of -blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.” - -“You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a -nose-bleed on the night in question?” - -“I know nothing at all about it.” - -The next witness was a woman. - -She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East -Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the -street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she -had opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight -o’clock. - -“Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?” - -“Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were -seated out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman -went out a little before twelve o’clock.” - -“He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now, -meanwhile, whom else did you admit?” - -“No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in -except Mr. Neuman.” - -“Was not that a somewhat unusual circumstance?” - -“Most extraordinary. Me and my husband spoke about it at the time.” - -“You can swear positively on this score?” - -“Yes, because we staid on the stoop the whole evening and not a soul -could have passed us without our seeing.” - -“Are there any other means of ingress to the house of which you have -charge than the street door?” - -“Yes, sir; the basement-door and the scuttle-door in the roof.” - -“What was their condition on the night of the 12th of July?” - -“They were locked and bolted.” - -“What was their condition on the morning of the 13th?” - -“At six o’clock when I opened the house they were still locked and -bolted.” - -“Meantime could they have been unlocked?” - -“No, because I carried the keys in my pocket.” - -“Now, what are the means of ingress to the flat occupied by Mr. -Tikulski?” - -“The door that opens from his private hall into the outer hall of the -house.” - -“Any other?” - -“No, your honor.” - -“Do you recognize this key?” handing to the witness the key that the -officer had identified. - -“I do, sir.” - -“Well?” - -“It’s a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door?” - -Here befell a pause, during which the jurymen shifted in their seats and -the prosecutor consulted with his colleague. In a moment he resumed. - -“Now, Mrs. Marshall, you have testified that the prisoner at the bar, -Ernest Neuman, left the house, No.—East Fifty-first street, shortly -before midnight on the 12th of July. Your memory on this point is -entirely trustworthy?” - -“It is, sir.” - -“Very well. Did you notice his movements after that?” - -“I did, sir.” - -“Tell us what they were.” - -“Well, sir, he crossed over the street and stood on the sidewalk under -a lamp-post looking up at the front of the house toward Mr. Tikulski’s -windows, and then—” - -“For how long?” - -“I couldn’t tell exactly, but maybe for the time it would take you -to walk around the block.” - -“For five minutes?” - -“Yes, or more likely for ten.” - -“And then—?” - -“Well, and then, as I was saying, he marched straight away toward the -avenue.” - -“Toward what avenue?” - -“Toward Second avenue.” - -“And disappeared?” - -“And disappeared.” - -“Did you see any thing more of him that night?” - -“I did, sir.” - -“When and under what circumstances?” - -“In about a quarter of an hour, your honor, Mr. Neuman he comes back -and stands leaning up against the railing across the way; and pretty -soon crosses over and goes past us without speaking a word and enters -the house, the door being open, and goes up the stairs.” My lawyer -turned sharply to me. “Is this true?” he whispered. “No, it is -entirely false,” I answered. But I did not care. - -“This,” resumed the district-attorney, “was at about what hour?” - -“Sure, you can reckon it for yourself, sir. It was a little after -twelve.” - -“Very good. Now, at what hour did you shut up the house?” - -“It was after one o’clock.” - -“Had the prisoner meantime gone out?” - -“He had not.” - -“So that consecutively from the moment of his reëntrance to the -hour of your closing up, he was in the house?” - -“He was, sir.” - -“Meanwhile, who else had entered?” - -“Two of the tenants, Mr. and Mrs.————, the tenants of the -first flat.” - -“Any one else?” - -“No one else.” - -“That will do, Mrs. Marshall.” - -My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless -to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had -already sworn to. - -“John Marshall!” called the prosecutor. - -It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like -her, was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults. - -“That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the -judge. - -“Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter. - -I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein -joined me in my cell. - -“How about that key?” he demanded. - -“I know nothing about it.” - -“How about the blood on your handkerchief?” - -“I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.” - -“You are sure you did not reenter the house?” - -“Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.” - -“Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?” - -“They have.” - -“Will you take the stand?” - -“What for?” - -“Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.” - -“No.” - -“I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.” - -“What do I care for my life?” - -“But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’ - -“No,” I replied, stubbornly. - -He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted. -He went his way. - -“Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury -be directed to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the -prosecution has failed to show any motive on the part of my client -for the crime of which he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly -circumstantial, as in the present case, a failure to show motive is -fatal.” - -“I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide -the case on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My -landlady took the witness-chair and testified to my excellent character. -He called a handful more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I -am ready to sum up, your honor.” - -“Do so,” replied the Court. - -Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for -word; yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time. - -He said, “We are not prepared to contest the matters of fact alleged -by the prosecution, nor to deny that their bearing is against my client. -That Mr. Neuman was in Miss Pathzuol’s company on the night of July -12th, and that the next morning a blood-stained handkerchief and a key -to Mr. Tikulski’s door were taken from his pocket, we admit. We will -even admit that these circumstances are of a sort to cast suspicion upon -him: all that we claim is that they are not sufficient to confirm that -suspicion and make it certainty. It is the liberty, perhaps the life, -of a human being which you have at your disposal. No matter how dark the -shadow over him may be, if you can entertain a reasonable doubt of his -guilt, you must acquit. And, putting it to you in all simplicity and -sincerity, I ask: Does not the evidence offered by the prosecution leave -room for a reasonable doubt? Is it not possible that some other hand -than Neuman’s dealt the blows by which Veronika Pathzuol met her -death? If such a possibility exists, you must give Neuman the benefit of -it; you must acquit. Consider his good character; consider that he was -the betrothed of the lady whose murderer they would make him out to be; -consider that absolutely no trace of motive has been brought home to -him; consider that on the contrary he was the one man who above all -others most desired that she might live; consider these matters, -and then decide whether in reasonableness his guilt is not in doubt. -Remember that it is not sufficient that there should be a presumption -against him. Remember that there must be proof. Remember also what a -grave duty yours is, and how grave the consequences, should you send an -innocent man to the gallows. - -“Only one word more. I had naturally intended to place my client upon -the stand, and let him justify himself by his own word of mouth. But, -unfortunately, I am not able to do so, because morally and physically he -is prostrated and unfitted for sustaining the strain of an examination. -But after all, if you will for a moment imagine yourselves in Mr. -Neuman’s position, you can conceive that his defense must necessarily -be of a passive, not of an active, kind. In his position what could -you say? Why, only that you were ignorant of the whole transaction, and -innocent despite appearances, and as much at loss for a solution of the -mystery involving it as his honor himself. This is what Neuman would say -were he able to go upon the stand. But one thing more he would say. He -would impugn the veracity of the Marshalls. He would maintain that they -lied in toto when they swore to his second entrance. He would tell you -that when he left the house in Fifty-first street at midnight, he went -directly home and to his bed, and that he returned no more until the -next morning. And he would leave you to choose between his story and -that of Mr. and Mrs. Marshall. My opponent will ask, ‘Why not prove an -alibi, then?’ Because, when Mr. Neuman returned to his lodging-house -late that night, every body, as might have been expected, was asleep. He -encountered no one in the hall or on the stairs. He mounted straight to -his own bed-chamber and went to bed. - -“I trust the matter to your discretion. I am sure that you will weigh -it carefully and conscientiously. You will realize that the life of a -fellow man hangs upon your verdict, and you will deliberate well, if -there be not, on the whole, a reasonable doubt in his favor. You will, I -am confident, in no uncertain mind consign Ernest Neuman to the grave of -a felon.” The district-attorney’s address was florid and rhetorical. -It lasted about two hours. He resumed the evidence. He said that an -ordinary process of elimination would suffice to fasten the guilt upon -the prisoner at the bar. The gist of his argument was that as Neuman -had been the only person in the victim’s company at the time of the -commission of the crime, he was consequently the only person who by -a physical possibility could be guilty. He warned the jury against -allowing their sympathies to interfere with their judgment, and read at -length from a law book respecting the value of circumstantial proof. He -ridiculed Epstein’s impeachment of the Marshalls, and added that even -without their testimony the doctor’s story and the police-captain’s -story, coupled with my own “eloquent silence,” were conclusive. It -was the obvious duty of the jury to convict. - -The judge delivered his charge, dealing with the legal aspect of the -case. - -Epstein rose again. “I request your honor,” he said, “to charge -that in the event of the jurymen finding that there is a reasonable -doubt in Neuman’s favor, they must acquit.” - -“I so charge,” assented the judge. - -“I request your honor,” Epstein continued, “to charge that if the -jurymen consider the fact of no motive having been shown, sufficient -to establish a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, they must -acquit.” - -“I so charge you, gentlemen,” said the judge. - -The jurymen filed out of the room. The judge left the bench. It was now -about four in the afternoon. Half an hour passed. The court-room began -to empty. Another half hour passed. Only the court attendants, Epstein, -the district-attorney’s colleague, and the prisoner remained. One of -the attendants held a whispered conference with Epstein: then said to -me, “There is no prospect of a speedy agreement. Come.” I rose, -followed him to the rear of the room, and was locked up in the -prisoner’s pen. - -It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my -faculties like a frost. - -It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The -same attendant again said, “Come.” - -The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on -the bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him. -Epstein said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have -agreed.” - -The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled -themselves in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their -pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead -silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk. - -I stood up. - -“Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the -prisoner,” the clerk cried, machine-like. - -In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the -faces of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so. - -“Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the -metallic voice of the clerk rang out. - -The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered. - -“How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty -of the offense for which he stands indicted?” - -“Not guilty,” said the foreman. - -Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did -not speak. - -“Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar -not guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands -recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word. - -I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom -as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my -breast. - -Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said. -“Come with me.” - -He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant. - -“This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at -cheerfulness, “and much frequented by journalists. What will you -have?” - -“I am not hungry,” I answered. - -“Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of -ruefulness, “just a bite to celebrate our victory.” - -I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried, -“Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh -wind blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to -gray. “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where -will you go?” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll stroll about for a while. -Good-by.” - -“Good-by.” - - - - -VI. - -I WALKED along aimlessly, recounting all the happenings of the last few -weeks. I was astonished at my own blank insensibility. “Why, Veronika, -the Veronika you loved, is dead, murdered,” I said to myself, “and -you, you who loved her, have been in prison and on trial for the crime. -They have outraged you. They have sworn falsely against you. And the -very core of your life has been torn out. Yet you—what has come over -you? Are you heartless, have you no capacity for grief or indignation? -Oris it that you are still half stunned? And that presently you will -come to and begin to feel?” I strode on and on. It was broad day now. -By and by I looked around. - -I was in Second avenue, near its southern extremity. I was standing in -front of a large red brick house. A white placard nailed to the door -caught my eye. “Room to let,” it said in big black letters. - -“Room to let?” I repeated. “Why, I am in need of a room.” And -I entered the house and engaged the room. The landlady asked my name. -I told her it was Lexow, that having been the maiden-name of my mother. -Neuman had acquired too unpleasant a notoriety through the published -accounts of the trial. As Lexow I have been known ever since. - -I employed an express agent to go to the Tombs and bring back my -luggage. - -Then I sat at my window and watched the people pass in the street. I -sat there stockstill all day. I was aware of a vague feeling of -wretchedness, of a vague craving for a relief which I could not name. -As dusk gathered, a lump grew bigger and bigger in my throat. “I -am beginning to be unhappy,” I thought. “It is high time.” My -insensibility had frightened as well as puzzled me. Instinctively, I -knew it could not last forever, knew it for the calm that precedes -the storm. I was anxious that the storm should break while I was still -strong enough to cope with its fury. Waiting weakened me. Besides, I -was ashamed of myself, hated myself as one shallow and disloyal. That I -could be indifferent to Veronika’s death! I, who had called myself her -lover! - -But now, as the lump grew in my throat, now, I thought, perhaps the hour -has come. I sat still in my chair, fanning this forlorn spark of hope. - -In the end, by imperceptible degrees, sleep stole upon me. It was -natural. I had been up for more than six-and-thirty hours. - -When I awoke a singular thing happened. Memory played me a singular -trick. - -I awoke, conscious of a great luminous joy in my heart. It was full -morning. “Ah,” I thought, “how bright the sunshine is! how sweet -the air! To-day I will go to Veronika to-day, after my lessons—and -spend the lest of the afternoon and the evening at her side!” My heart -leaped at this prospect of happiness in store: and I commenced to plan -the afternoon and evening in detail. At last I jumped up, eager to begin -the delicious day. - -The trick that memory played me was a simple one, after all. The recent -past had simply for the moment been obliterated, and I transported back -for a moment into the old time. As I stood now in the middle of the -floor, my eye was struck by the strangeness of my surroundings. - -“Why, how is this?” I questioned. “Where am I?” - -For a trice I was bewildered, but only for a trice. The truth reasserted -itself all at once—rose up and faced me with its grim, deathly visage, -as if cleared by a stroke of lightning. All at once I remembered; and -what is more, all at once the stupor that had hung like a cloud between -me and the facts, rolled away. I looked at my world. It was dust and -ashes, a waste space, peopled by ghosts. My heart recoiled, sickened, -horrified; then began to throb with the pain that had been ripening in -its womb ever since the morning when Tikulski pointed to her, stretched -murdered upon the bed. - -Well, at last the storm had broken; at last I realized. At last I could -no longer reproach myself for a want of sensibility. At last I had my -desire. I yielded myself to the enjoyment of it for the remainder of the -day. - -For weeks afterward I lay at the point of death. The slow convalescence -that ensued afforded me plenty of time to examine my position from every -point of view, and to get accustomed to understanding that the light -had gone out of my sky. Of course I hated the fate that condemned me to -regain my health. The thought that I should have to drag out years and -years of blank, aimless, joyless life, appalled me. The future was -a night through which I should be compelled to toil with no hope of -morning. Strangely enough, the idea of suicide never once suggested -itself. - -When I was able to go out, I repaired to Epstein’s office. Several -little matters remained to be settled with him. As I was about to leave, -he said, “Neuman, do you propose to take any steps toward finding the -murderer?” - -“Toward finding the murderer? Why, no; I had not thought of doing -so.” - -“But of course you will. You won’t allow the affair to rest in statu -quo?” - -“Why not?” - -“Why, considering your relations to Miss Pathzuol, I should think your -motive would be plain. Don’t you want to see her murderer punished, -her death atoned for?” - -“Her death atoned for! Her death can never be atoned for. And the -punishment of her murderer—would that restore her to me? Would that -undo the fact that she is dead? Else, why should I bestir myself about -it?” - -“Common human nature ought to be enough; the natural wish to square -accounts with him.” - -“Do you fancy, Epstein, that such an account as this can be squared? -Suppose we had him here now at our mercy, what could we do by way of -squaring accounts? Put him to death? Would that square the account? To -say so would be to compare his miserable life to hers.—But besides, he -is not at our mercy. We have no clew to him.” - -“Yes, on the contrary, we have.” - -“Indeed? What is it?” - -“Why, the most apparent one. You are sure the Marshalls lied?” - -“Oh yes; I am sure of that.” - -“Well, what earthly inducement could they have had for lying—for -perjuring themselves, mind you, and running the risk of being caught and -sent to prison—what earthly inducement, unless thereby they hoped to -cover up their own guilt by throwing suspicion upon another man?” - -“Yes; that is so. I had not thought of that.” - -“Well, now, if you and I are sure that the Marshalls participated in -that crime, there is a solid starting-point. Now, will you not join me -and help to fasten the guilt upon them?” - -“What good would it do? I say again, would that give her back to -me?” - -“But, my dear fellow, even if you have no desire to see the murderer -punished, you must at least wish to retaliate upon the wretches who -jeopardized your life by their false swearing, who sought to thrust upon -your innocent shoulders the brunt of their own offending.” - -“No; I confess, I have no such wish.” - -“But—but you amaze me. Have you not the ordinary instincts of a man? - -“It is the business of the police, any how. Let them move in the -matter. You ought to understand that I am sick and tired, that all I -wish for is to be left alone. No, no; if the Marshalls should ever be -brought to justice it will not be by my efforts. The police can manage -it for themselves.” - -“But there is just the point.” Epstein hesitated; at length went on, -“There is just the point I wanted to bring to your notice. It will -be hard for you to hear, but you ought to understand—it is only right -that I should tell you—that—that—why, hang it, the police -will remain idle because they suppose they have already finished the -business, already put their finger on the—the man.” - -“Well, why should they remain idle on that account? Why don’t they -arrest him and try him, as they did me, before a jury?” - -“You don’t comprehend, Neuman. The fact of the matter is—you must -pardon me for saying so—the fact is, they still suspect you.” - -“Suspect me? What, after the very jury has acquitted me? I thought the -verdict of the jury was conclusive.” - -“So it is, in one sense. They can’t put you in jeopardy again. But -this is the way they stand. They say, ‘We haven’t sufficient legal -evidence to warrant a conviction, but we feel morally certain, all the -same, and so there’s no use prying further.’ That is my reason for -broaching the subject and for urging you so strongly. You ought to clear -your character, vindicate your innocence, by proving to the police -that they are wrong, that the guilt rests with their own witnesses, the -Marshalls. - -“I thank you, Epstein, for telling me this. I am glad to realize just -what my status is. But let me cherish no misconception. Is this theory -of the police—is it held by others?” - -“To be frank, I am afraid it is. The newspapers took it up and—and -I’m afraid it s the opinion of the public generally.” - -“Then the verdict did not signify?” - -“Well, at least not so far as public opinion is concerned.” - -“So that I am to rest under this stigma all my life?” - -“Why, no—not if you choose to exonerate yourself, as I have -indicated.” - -“Oh, I don’t care about that. I don’t care to exonerate myself. -What difference would it make? Would it make the fact that she is lost -to me forever one shade less true? Only, it is well that I should have -a clear understanding of my position, and I thank you for giving it to -me.” - -“You don’t mean to say that you are going to drop the case there?” -Epstein demanded. “I assure you, I never should have opened my mouth -about it, had I foreseen this.” - -“Don’t reproach yourself. You have simply done your duty. It was -my right to hear this from you.—Yes, of course I shall drop the case. -Good-by.” - -“You will think better of it; you will reconsider it; you will come -back to-morrow in a wiser frame of mind. Good-by.” - -As I reentered my lodging-house the landlady met me; thrust an envelope -into my hand; and vanished. - -I was surprised to see that the envelope was addressed to “E. Neuman, -Esquire.” It will be remembered that I had introduced myself as Mr. -Lexow. I tore it open. It inclosed a memorandum of my arrears of rent -and a notice to quit, the latter couched thus: “Mr. Neuman’s real -name having been learned during his sickness, please move out as soon as -you have paid up.” - -I caught sight of myself in the glass. “So,” I said, “you are the -person whom people suspect as a murderer! and it is thus that you are to -be regarded all the rest of your life as one touched with the plague.” - -I counted my ready money and paid the landlady her due. - -“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. - -I mentioned Epstein. - -“All right,” he said. “You can go to work at once. To-morrow I -will look up your reference. If it be satisfactory, I will keep you.” - -The Oberkellner provided me with an apron and a short alpaca jacket; -and in this garb Ernest Neuman, musician, merged his identity, as he -supposed for good and all, into that of Ernest Lexow, waiter. - - - - -VII. - -TWO years elapsed. Their history is easily told. I lived and moved and -had my being in a profound apathy to all that passed around me. The -material conditions of my existence caused me no distress. I dwelt in a -dingy room in a dirty house; ate poor food, wore poor clothing, worked -long hours; was treated as a menial and had to put up with a hundred -indignities every day; but I was wholly indifferent, had other things -to think of. My thoughts and my feelings were concentrated upon my one -great grief. My heart had no room left in it for pettier troubles. I do -not believe that there was a waking moment in those two years’ when I -was unconscious of my love and my loss. Veronika abode with me morning, -noon, and night. My memory of her and my unutterable sorrow for her -engrossed me to the exclusion of all else. - -My violin I did not unlock from year’s end to year’s end. I could -not get over my hatred for the bare idea of music. Music recalled the -past too vividly. I had not the fortitude to endure it. The sound of a -hand-organ in the street was enough to cause me a twinge like that of a -nerve touched by steel. - -As the winter leaped into spring, and days came which were the -duplicates of those I had spent with her, of course my pain grew more -acute. The murmur of out-door life and the warmth and perfume of the -spring air, penetrated to the very quick of memory and made it quiver. -But at about this time I began to taste an unexpected pleasure. It was -an odd one. Of old, during our betrothal, I had been tormented almost -nightly by bad dreams. As surely as I laid my head upon its pillow, so -surely would I be wafted off into an ugly nightmare—she and I were -separated—we had quarreled—she had ceased to love me. But now that -my worst dream had been excelled by the reality, I began to have dreams -of quite another sort. As soon as sleep closed upon me, the truth was -annihilated, Veronika came back. All night long we were supremely happy; -we played and sang and talked together, just as we had been used to do. -These dreams were astonishingly life-like. Indeed, in the morning after -one, I would wonder which was the very fact, the dream or the waking. My -nightly dream got to be a goal to look forward to during the day. But as -the summer deepened, I dreamed less and less frequently, and at length -ceased altogether. - -Autumn returned, and winter; and my life did not vary. Time was slow -about healing my wounds, if time meant to heal them at all. But time did -not mean to heal them at all, as ere long became apparent. - -One afternoon in November, a month or so before the two years would -have terminated, a young man entered the shop and ensconced himself at a -table in the corner. Having delivered his order and lighted a cigarette, -he pulled out a yellow covered French book from the pocket of his coat, -and speedily became immersed in its perusal. I don’t know what it was -in the appearance of this young man that attracted my attention. Almost -from the moment of his advent my eyes kept going back to him. His own -eyes being fastened upon his book, I could stare at him without giving -offense. And stare at him I did to my heart’s content. - -He was a tall young fellow and wore his hair a trifle longer than the -fashion is. He was dressed rather carelessly; he knocked his cigarette -ashes about so that they soiled his clothes. He had a dark skin, and, in -singular contrast to it, a pair of large blue eyes. His forehead, nose, -and chin were strongly modeled and expressed force of character -without pretending to conventional beauty. He was not a handsome, but -a distinguished looking man. The absence of beard and mustache lent him -somewhat of the aspect of a Catholic priest. His big blue eyes were full -of good-nature and intelligence. He had a quick, energetic way of moving -which announced plenty of dash within. He had entered the shop like a -gust of wind, had shot across the floor and taken his seat at the table -as if impelled by the force of gunpowder, and now he turned the pages -of his book with the air of a man whose life depended upon what he was -doing. No sooner had he consumed one of his cigarettes than he applied a -match to its successor. - -I stared at him mercilessly and wondered what manner of individual he -was. - -“He is not a business-man,” I said, “nor a lawyer nor a doctor: -that is evident from his whole bearing; and besides, what would he be -doing in a wine-shop at this hour of the afternoon? I don’t think -he is a musician, either—he hasn’t the musician’s eyes or mouth. -Possibly he is a school-teacher, or it may be—yes, I should say most -certainly, he is an artist of some sort, a painter or sculptor, or -perhaps a writer.” - -My speculations had proceeded thus far when in the quick, energetic way -above alluded to the young man looked at his watch, slammed to his book, -shoved back his chair, and commenced hammering upon the table with the -bottom of his empty beer-mug. - -“Yes, sir,” I said, responding to his summons. - -“Check,” he demanded laconically. - -I handed him his check. He thrust his fingers into his waistcoat-pocket -for the money. They roamed about, apparently unrewarded. - -A puzzled expression came upon his face. The fingers paused in their -occupation; presently emerged and dived into another pocket and then -into another. The puzzled expression deepened: at last changed its -character, became an expression of intense annoyance. He knitted his -brows and bit his lip. Glancing up, he said, “This is really very -awkward. I—I find I haven’t a sou about me. It’s—bother it -all, I suppose you’ll take me for a beat. But—here, I can leave my -watch.” - -“Oh, that’s entirely unnecessary,” I hastened to put in. -“Don’t let it distress you. Tomorrow, or any other day you happen to -be passing, will do as well.” - -He looked at the same time surprised and relieved. “That’s not a -conservative way of doing business,” he said. “How do you know I may -not take advantage of you?” - -“Oh, I’m quite at rest about that. You need not be disturbed.” - -“Well, such faith in human nature is stimulating,” he answered. “I -should hate to imperil it. So you may be sure I’ll turn up to-morrow. -Meanwhile I’m awfully obliged.” - -Thereat he went away. - -I paid his reckoning from my own purse, and immediately fell again to -wondering about him. - -By and by it occurred to me, “Why, that is the first human being who -has taken you out of yourself for the last two years!” And thereupon I -transferred my wonder to the interest he had managed to arouse in my -own preoccupied mind. Then gradually my thoughts flowed back into their -customary channels. - -But early the next day I caught myself asking, “Will he return?” -and devoutly hoping that he would. Not on account of the money; I had no -anxiety about the money. But somehow, self-centered as I was, I had felt -drawn toward this blue-eyed young man, and anticipated seeing him again -with an approach to genuine pleasure. - -Surely enough, in the course of the afternoon the door opened and he -entered. - -“Ah,” he said, “you see, I am faithful to my trust. Here is the -lucre: count it and be satisfied that the sum is just. Really,” he -added, dropping the mock theatrical manner he had assumed, “really, -it was frightfully embarrassing yesterday. But I’m a victim of -absentmindedness, and in changing my clothes I had omitted to transfer -my pocket-book from the one suit to the other. I can’t tell you how -much indebted I am for your considerateness. I suppose you are overrun -with dead-beats who play that dodge regularly—eh?” - -I gave him the answer his question called for, served him with the -drinkables he ordered, and stationed, myself at a respectful distance. - -He lighted his inevitable cigarette and produced his book. He read and -smoked for a few moments in silence. Suddenly he flung the book -angrily upon the table, pushed back his glass, and uttered an audible -“Confound it!” - -I hastened forward to learn the subject of his discomposure and to -supply what remedy I might. - -“I beg your pardon,” I ventured, “is there any thing wrong with -the wine?” - -“Eh—what?” he queried. “With the wine? Any thing wrong? Oh—I -perceive. Oh, no—the wine s all right. It’s this beastly pedantic -author. He is describing the Jewish ritual, and now just observe -his idiocy. He goes on at a great rate about the beauty of a certain -prayer—gets the reader’s curiosity all screwed up—and then—fancy -his airs!—and then quotes the stuff in the original Hebrew! It’s -ridiculous. He doesn’t even condescend to affix a translation in a -foot-note. Look.” - -He opened the book and pointed, with a finger dyed brown by -tobacco-smoke, to the troublesome passage. - -Now I, having been brought up as an orthodox Jew, had a smattering of -Hebrew, and at a glance I saw that I could easily translate the few -sentences in question. So, impulsively and without stopping to reflect -that my conduct might seem officious, I said, “If you would like, I -think perhaps I may be able to aid you.” - -“What!” he exclaimed, fixing a pair of wide open eyes upon my face. - -“Yes, I think I can translate it.” - -“The deuce!” he cried. “I didn’t suspect you were a scholar. How -in the name of goodness did you learn Hebrew?” - -“A scholar I am not, surely enough: but I am a Jew, and like the rest -of my faith I studied Hebrew as a boy.” - -“Ah, I understand. Well, fire away.” - -I took the book and read the Hebrew aloud. It was a prayer, which, when -a child, I had known by heart. Afterward I explained its sense while my -friend jotted it down with a pencil upon the margin. - -“Thanks,” he was good enough to say. “I don’t know what I should -have done without your help.—And so you are a Jew? You don’t look -it. You look like a full-blown Teuton. But I congratulate you all the -same.” - -“Congratulate me for looking like a Teuton?” The shop being empty, -there was no harm in my joining in conversation with a client. Besides, -I did not stop to think whether there was harm in it or not. I yielded -to the attraction which this young man exerted over me. - -“No—for belonging to the ancient and honorable race of Jews,” he -answered. “Your ancestors were civilized and dwelt in cities and wrote -poems, thousands of years ago: whereas mine at that epoch inhabited -caves and dressed in bearskins and occasionally dined on a roasted -neighbor. I should be proud of my lineage, were I a Jew.” - -“But it is the fashion for the Gentiles to despise us.” - -“Oh, bosh! It is the fashion for a certain ignorant, stupid set of -Philistines to do so—but those who pretend to the least enlightenment, -on the contrary, regard the Jews as a most enviable people. They envy -your history, they envy the success that waits upon your enterprises. -For my part, I believe the whole future of America depends upon the -Jews.” - -“Indeed, how is that?” - -“Why, look here. What is the American people to-day? There is no -American people—or rather there are twenty American peoples—the -Irish, the German, the Jewish, the English, and the Negro elements—all -existing independently at the same time, and each as truly American as -any of the others. Good! But in the future, after emigration has ceased, -these elements will begin to amalgamate. A single people of homogeneous -blood will be the consequence. Do you follow?” - -“I think I follow. But the Jews?” - -“But the Jews—precisely, the Jews. It is the Jewish element that is -to leaven the whole lump—color the whole mixture. The English element -alone is, so to speak, one portion of pure water; the German element, -one portion of eau sucrée; now add the Jewish—it is a dose of rich -strong wine. It will give fire and flavor to the decoction. The future -Americans, thanks to the Jew in them, will have passions, enthusiasms. -They will paint great pictures, compose great music, write great poems, -be capable of great heroism. Have I said enough?” - -The result was that we chatted together for half an hour with the -freedom of old acquaintances. He quite made me forget that I was his -servant for the time, and led me to speak out my mind with the unreserve -of equal to equal. I enjoyed a peculiar sense of exhilaration that -lasted even after he had gone away. In spite of myself I could not help -relishing this contact with a superior man. Again I fell to wondering -about his occupation. I was more and more persuaded that he must be an -artist of some sort, or a writer. - -The next day he came again, and the next, and the next, and regularly -every day at about the same hour for a fortnight. As surely as he seated -himself at the corner table, so surely would he beckon to me and begin -to talk. In these dialogues he afforded me no end of entertainment, -touching in a racy way upon a score of topics. He had resided abroad for -some years—seemed equally at home in Paris, Rome, and Munich—and his -anecdotes of foreign life were like glimpses into dream-land for me. He -had the faculty of making me forget myself, and for that reason, if for -no other, I should have valued his friendliness. Our interviews occurred -as bright spots in the sad gray monotone of my daily life. - - - - -VIII. - -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!” - -I followed him into the house. - -The room to which he conducted me was precisely the sort of room one -would have expected. It was chock-full of odds and ends, piled about -in hopeless confusion. The walls were hung with a reddish paper, and -freckled with framed and unframed pictures—etchings, engravings, -water-colors, charcoals, some suspended correctly by wires from the -cornice, others pinned up loosely by their corners. The ceiling was -tinted to harmonize with the walls. The floor was carpetless, of hard -wood, waxed to a high degree of slipperiness, and relieved by a sporadic -rug or two. Bits of porcelain and metal ware, specimens of old Italian -carving, Chinese sculptures in ivory, rich tapestries, bronze and -plaster reproductions of antique statuary, and books of all sizes and -descriptions and in all stages of decay, were scattered hither and -thither without a pretense to order. On the whole the effect of the -room was pleasant, though it resembled somewhat closely that of a -curiosity-shop gone mad. My host informed me that it was Liberty Hall -and bade me make myself at home. Producing a flagon of Benedictine, he -said laconically, “Drink.” - -We drank together in silence. Turning his emptied glass upside down, -“Now,” he cried, “now for the music. Now you are going to play.” - -“Oh, I thought you had forgotten about that,” I answered. - -“‘Tis not among my talents to forget,” he declaimed, theatrically. -“You must prepare to limber up your fingers.” - -“Really, Mr. Merivale,” I insisted, “you don’t know what you -are asking. I should no more think of touching a violin to-night than, -than—no need of a comparison. The long and short of the matter is that -I have the best of reasons for not wanting to play, and that the most -you can urge to the contrary won’t alter my resolution. I hate to -seem boorish or disobliging, but really I can’t help it. Besides, my -instrument is a mile away and unstrung, and it is so late that the -other occupants of this house would be annoyed. And as the subject is -extremely painful to me, I wish you would let it drop.” - -“Oh, if you are going to treat the matter au grand sérieux,” -said Merivale, “I suppose I must give in. But you have no idea of how -disappointed I shall be. As for an instrument, I’ve a fiddle of my own -in the next room—one that I scrape on now and then myself. As for the -other occupants of this house, I pay double rent on the condition that -my quarters are to be my castle, and that I can create as much rumpus in -them, day and night, as I desire. If I were disposed to do so, I could -make this a broad proposition of ethics, and maintain that as an artist -you have no right to decline to exercise your skill. Your talent is -given you in trust—a trust which you violate when you bury the talent -in the ground. But I won’t go so far as that. I’ll simply ask you -as a favor to play for me, and, if after that you are still obstinate, -I’ll hold my peace.” - -“Well, I am forced to be obstinate. Now let’s change the subject.” - -“I bow my head. Only, perhaps you will make a single concession. As -I have said, I am the possessor of a fiddle. It is one I picked up in -Rome. I bought it of a seedy Italian nobleman; and he claimed it for -a rare one—a Stradivari, in fact. I’m no judge of such things, -and most likely was taken in. Will you look at it and give me your -opinion?” - -“Oh, yes, I have no objection to doing that,” - -I said, glad to prove myself not altogether churlish. - -“Here it is,” he continued, putting the violin into my hands. - -It was a beautiful instrument from an optical standpoint. What remained -of the varnish was ruddy and crystalline, and as smooth as amber. - -The curves were exquisite. It was also either genuinely old or a -marvelous imitation. Its interior was dark and dirty—an excellent -condition. I could descry no label there—another favorable sign. Was -it indeed a Stradivari? Formerly it had been an ambition of mine to -play upon a Stradivari; an ambition which I had never had a chance to -gratify, because among the dozen so-called Stradivaris that I had come -upon here and there, I had found not one but betrayed its fraudulent -origin from the instant the bow was drawn across the strings. Something -of the old feeling revived in me as I held this instrument in my hands, -and before I had thought, my finger mechanically picked the A string. -The clear, bell-like tone that responded, caused me to start. I had -never heard such a tone as this produced before by the mere picking of a -string. - -“I believe you have a treasure here,” I exclaimed. “I’m not -connoisseur enough to say whether it is a Stradivari; but whoever its -maker was, it’s a superb instrument.” - -“Do you really think so?” cried Merivale. “Try it with the bow.” - -He thrust the bow upon me. Without allowing myself time to hesitate, I -touched the bow to the strings: the result was a voice from heaven, so -clear, so broad, so sweet, of such magnetic quality, that it actually -frightened me, made my heart palpitate, summoned a myriad dead emotions -back to life. And yet I felt an irresistible temptation to continue, to -push the experiment at least a trifle further. - -“Tune it up,” said Merivale. - -I complied. That was the final stroke. After I had drawn the bow for -a second time across the cat-gut, there was no resisting. I lost -possession of myself: ere I knew it, I was pouring my life out through -the wonderful voice of the Stradivari. - -I don’t remember what I played. Most probably it was a medley of -reminiscences. I only remember that for the first few minutes I suffered -the tortures of the damned—an army of devils were tugging at my -heart-strings—and withal I had no power to restrain the motion of -my arm and lay the violin aside. Then, I remember, the pain gradually -turned to pleasure, to an immense sense of relief, as though all the woe -pent up in the recesses of my soul had suddenly found an outlet and was -gushing forth in a tremendous flood of sound. As I felt it ebbing away, -like a poison let loose from my veins, somehow time and space were -annihilated, facts were undone, truth changed to falsehood. Veronika and -I were alone together in the pure realm of spirit while I told her in -the million tempestuous variations of my music the whole story of my -sorrow and my adoration. I listened to the music precisely as though it -had been played by another person; I heard it grow soft and softer and -melt into a scarcely audible whisper; I heard it soar away into mighty, -passionate crescendi; I heard it modulate swiftly from prayerful minor -to triumphant, defiant major; I heard it laugh like a child, plead like -a lover, sob like Mary at the tomb of Christ; I heard it wax wrathful -like a God in anger. And I—I was caught up and borne away and tossed -from high to low by it like a leaf on the bosom of the ocean. And at -last I heard the sharp retort of a breaking string; and I sank into a -chair, exhausted. - -I think I must have come very near to fainting. When I gathered together -my senses and opened my eyes I was weak, nerveless, bewildered. Merivale -stood in front of me, his gaze fixed upon my face. - -“In God’s name,” I heard him say, “tell me what you are. Such -music as you have played upsets all my established notions, undermines -my philosophy, forces me back in spite of myself to a belief in -witchcraft and magic. Are you a Merlin? Have you indeed the secret of -enchantment? It is hardly credible that simple human genius wove that -wonderful web of melody—which has at last come to an end, thank -heaven! If I had had to listen a moment longer, I should have broken -down. The strain was too intense. You have taken me with you through -hell and heaven.” - -Still weak and nerveless, I could not command my voice. - -“You are faint,” he exclaimed. “The effort has tired you out. No -wonder: here—drink this.” He held a glass to my lips. I drank its -contents. Presently I felt a glow of warmth radiating through my limbs. -Then I was able to stir and to speak. - -“Through hell and heaven,” I repeated, echoing his words. “Yes, we -have been through hell and heaven.” - -“It was a frightful experience,” he added, “more than I bargained -for when I asked you to play.” - -“You must forgive me; I was carried away; I had no intention of -harrowing you, but I had not played for so long a time that my emotions -got the best of me.” - -“Oh, don’t talk like that,” he protested. “It was a frightful -experience, but it was one I would not have missed. I had never dreamed -that music could work such an effect upon me; but now I can understand -the ardor with which musicians love their art; I can understand the -claims they make in its behalf. It is indeed the most powerful influence -that can be brought to bear upon the feelings. For my part I never was -so deeply moved before—not even by Dante. But tell me, how did you -acquire your wonderful skill? What must your life have been in order -that you should play like that?” - -“Of ‘wonderful skill’ I have little enough. Tonight perhaps -I played with a certain enthusiasm because I was excited. But you -attribute too much to me. A musician would have descried a score of -faults. My technique has deserted me; but even when I used to practice -regularly, I occupied a very low grade in my profession.” - -“I care not how you used to play, nor how you were rated, nor how -faulty your technique may be. You play now with a force that is more -than human. I am not given either to flattery or to exaggeration, and I -am not easily stirred up. But you have stirred me up, clear down to -the marrow of my bones. Perhaps these two years of abstinence have but -ripened the genius that was already in you—allowed it time to ferment. -Tell me, what depths of joy and sorrow have you sounded to gather the -secrets you have just revealed with your violin? What has your life -been?” - -“My life has been a very simple one, and for the most part very -prosaic.” - -“You might as well call the sun cold, the sea motionless, as pretend -that your life has been prosaic. Friend, the only element that gives -life and magnetism to art is profound, human truth That which touches us -in a picture, a poem, or a symphony, is its likeness to the truth, its -nature, especially its human nature. That is what makes Wilhelm Meister -a powerful book, because each page is written, so to speak, in human -blood. That is what makes Titian’s Assumption a great picture, because -the agony in the Madonna’s face is true human agony. And that is what -gave your music of a moment since the power to pierce the very innermost -of my heart-because it was true music the expression of true human -passion. Tell me, what manner of life have you lived, to learn so much -of the deep things of human experience?” - -I looked into his clear, earnest eyes. They shone with a sympathy that -fell as balm upon my wounds. An impulse that I could not battle with -unsealed my lips. I told him my whole story from first to last. - -Some of the time, as I was speaking, he sat motionless with his brow -buried in his hands. Some of the time he paced up and down the floor. He -smoked constantly. Twice or thrice he extended his palm to bid me pause, -indicating by nodding his head when he wished me to go on. Not once -did he verbally interrupt, nor for a long while after I had done did he -speak. - -By and by he grasped my hand and wrenched it hard and said, -“Will—will you understand by my silence what I feel? It would be -sacrilege for me to talk about this thing. I—I—oh, what a fool I am -to open my mouth!” - -But presently he cried, “The injustice, the humiliation, that you have -been put to! It is shameful. To think that they dared to try you, as -though the mere sight of your face was not sufficient to prove you -incapable of the first thought of crime! But I can understand your -motive for not wishing to hunt the Marshalls down. Only of this I am -sure, that if there is any such thing as equity in this world, some day -their guilt will be made manifest and they will receive the chastisement -which they deserve. Oh, how you have suffered! I tell you, it sobers a -man, it reminds him of the seriousness of things, the spectacle of such -a colossal sorrow as yours has been.” - -Again silence. Eventually he crossed over to the window and sent the -curtains rattling across their pole. It was getting light outside. I -pulled myself together. Rising, “Well,” I said, “good-by. My visit -to you has been like a sojourn in another world. Now, I must return to -my own dreary sphere. Forgive me if I have wearied you with all this -talk about myself. I seemed to speak without meaning to—involuntarily. -Once started, I could not have stopped myself, had I tried.” - -“Don’t speak like that,” he rejoined hastily and with a look of -reproach. “Don’t make me feel that you repent your confidence. It -was only right, only natural, that you should unbosom yourself to me. -It was the consecration of our friendship. Friendship is never complete -until it has been tested in the fire of sorrow. Mere companionship in -pleasure is not friendship. No matter how intimately we might have seen -each other, we should never have been friends until you had told me -this.—Moreover, don’t get up. You must not think of going away as -yet.” - -“As yet? Why, I have outstaid the night itself. I must make haste or I -shall be behindhand at the shop.” - -“You must not think of returning to the shop to-day. You must go to -bed and have some sleep. When you awake again I shall have a proposition -to lay before you. For the present follow me—” - -“But Mr. Merivale—” - -“But I anticipate your objections. But they are worthless. But -the shop may, and I devoutly hope it will, be struck by lightning. -Furthermore, if you are anxious about it, I’ll send word around to the -effect that you’re unwell and not able to report for duty. That’s -the truth. But any how I have a particular reason for wanting to -keep possession of you for a while longer. Now, be tractable—as an -indulgence, do what I ask.” - -There was no resisting the appeal in Merivale’s big blue eyes. I -followed him as he desired. He led me into the adjoining room, where -there were two narrow brass bedsteads side by side. - -“You see,” he said, “I was prepared for you. Here is your couch, -ready for your reception. It’s rather odd about this. I’m a great -hand for presentiments: and experience has taught me to believe in their -coming true. When I took these quarters I said to myself, ‘Pythias, -the Damon you have been waiting for all these years will arrive while -you are bivouacked here. Be therefore in a condition to welcome him -properly.’ I don’t know why, but I was thoroughly persuaded, I felt -in my bones, that Damon’s advent would occur during my occupancy of -these rooms. So I bought two bedsteads and two dressing-stands instead -of one. I have got the heroes of the old legend somewhat mixed up; -can’t remember which was which: but I trust I’m not egotistic in -assigning the part of Damon to you and keeping that of Pythias for -myself. At any rate, it’s a mere figure of speech, and as such must -be taken. Now, Damon or Pythias, whichever you may be, in begging you to -make yourself comfortable here, I am simply inviting you to partake of -your own.” - -As he rattled on thus, he had produced sheets and blankets from a chest -of drawers near at hand, and now was making the bed with the deftness of -an expert. - -“There,” he exclaimed, bestowing a farewell poke upon the pillow, -“now go to bed with a clear conscience and a mind at peace. I shall -speedily follow. In the morning—I mean in the afternoon—we will -resume our session.” - -He had the delicacy to leave me alone. I was too fatigued to reason -about what I was doing. I undressed quickly, got into bed, and fell -sound asleep. - -The sunlight was streaming through the window when I awoke. Merivale was -seated upon the foot of the bed. - -“Ah,” he cried, as I opened my eyes, “welcome back!” - -“Eh, how?” I queried, perplexed for the moment. “Oh yes; I -remember. Have I been asleep long?” - -“So long that I thought you were never going to wake up. It’s past -four in the afternoon, and you have been sleeping steadily since six -this morning. I had the utmost hardship in subduing my impatience. Ten -solid hours of sleep! You must have been thoroughly exhausted.” - -“You ought to have roused me. One can gorge one’s system with sleep -as easily as with food. I have slept too much. But—but how shall I -ever make amends at the shop?” - -“Bother the shop! The shop no longer exists. I have caused its -annihilation during the day.” - -“Have you Aladdin’s lamp? - -“I have a substitute for it, at least. The shop has been transported -to Alaska.” - -“That was unkind of you. Now I shall have to undergo the expense of -a journey thither. Besides, I prefer a more temperate climate.—But -seriously, did you send word as you agreed to?” - -“I saw Herr Schwartz personally.” - -“Ah, that was very thoughtful. Did you succeed in appeasing him?” - -“I told him that you wished to resign your position; and when he began -to splutter, I added that in consideration of the trouble he would be -put to, you were willing to forgive him whatever back pay he owed you; -and when he declared that he owed you no back pay at all, I said you -would be willing to forgive him any way on general principles, and think -no more about it. Then I ordered beer and cigars and pronounced -the magic syllable ‘selbst’ and in the end he appeared quite -reconciled.” - -“Nonsense. Be serious. What did you say?” - -“I am serious. That is what I said precisely.” - -“What, you—oh come, you can’t be in earnest.” - -“But I assure you I am in earnest, never was more in earnest in my -life. You don’t really imagine that I am going to let you ‘stand and -wait’ any longer, do you?” - -“I don’t very clearly see how you are going to prevent it. I have -my livelihood to earn. I can’t afford to throw up my employment in the -cavalier manner you propose. It’s ridiculous.” - -“I can prevent it and I will prevent it. How? By the power of -friendship, by appealing to your heart and to your reason. As for your -livelihood, I have found you a new occupation, one more befitting your -character. Henceforward you are to be a private secretary.” - -“Whose private secretary?” - -“Never mind whose—or rather, you will learn whose, presently. First, -accustom your mind to the abstract idea.” - -“Really, Merivale, you are outrageous. I don’t know why I’m not -indignant. You meddle with my affairs as if they were your own. You have -no right to do so. And yet I am not angry. I must be totally devoid of -spunk. But nevertheless I shan’t abide by your proceedings. As soon as -I am dressed I shall return to the shop and beg Herr Schwartz to take me -back.” - -“I forbid it.” - -“I am sorry, but I must defy your prohibition. By the way, may I -inquire your authority?” - -“Certainly. It is every man’s authority to restrain a lunatic. Your -notion of returning to that wine-shop is downright lunacy. Besides, have -I not provided you with new employment?” - -“But it is a sort of employment which I don’t wish to undertake. I -prefer work that will leave my mind disengaged. You ought to understand -that in my position one has no heart for any but manual labor.” - -“I think I understand perfectly, better indeed than you yourself. -I understand that while the first shock of your grief lasted it was -natural for you to take up the first employment that you chanced upon, -no matter what it was. But I understand now that it is high time for you -to come back to your proper level. An occupation which leaves your -mind disengaged is precisely the very worst you could have. With -all appreciation of the magnitude of your bereavement, and with all -reverence for your fidelity to your betrothed, I say that it is wrong of -you to brood over your troubles. I am not brute enough to advise you -to court oblivion; but a grief loses its dignity, becomes a species of -egotism, by constantly brooding over it. It is our duty in this world -to accept the inevitable with the best grace possible, and to make -ourselves as comfortable as under the circumstances we can. But over and -above that consideration there is this, that no man has a right to do -work that is unworthy of him. It degrades himself and it robs society. -Every man is bound to do his best work, to accomplish his highest -usefulness. What would you say of a Newton who had abandoned mathematics -to drive a plow? You are as much subject to the general moral law as the -rest of us. You were sent into this world to contribute your quota to -the sum of human happiness; and your art was permitted you only on the -condition that you should cultivate it for the benefit of your fellow -creatures. And yet, you propose to do the business of a common waiter in -a wretched little brasserie. Now, I won’t urge you to return to music -forthwith, because I know you suffer too keenly while you are playing. -But I will say: Remember that you are a gentleman and that you are -actually stealing from society by doing that which your inferiors could -do as well. For the present, accept the situation of private secretary -that I have procured for you. It will be a stepping-stone toward your -proper place. You see, I can be a preacher on occasions. - -“And your sermon, I confess, is a wholesome one.” - -“Then you will consider the secretaryship? - -“I will consider whatever you wish me to. I will be guided by your -common sense.” - -“Good! Now get up and dress.” - -He left the room. As I dressed I thought over the sermon he had -preached. I could not gainsay its truth. Yet on the other hand I could -not contemplate a changed mode of life without flinching. Two years of -moral illness had undermined my moral courage. I wondered who my new -employer was to be. I dreaded meeting him not a little. Thinking over -the confidences of the night, I experienced no regret. Indeed I was glad -to realize that I was no longer altogether alone in the world. Merivale -had inspired me with an enthusiasm. - -“What a splendid fellow he is!” I exclaimed. - -“If he and I could only remain together I believe I should find my -life worth living. It is marvelous, the faculty he has for making me -forget myself. I suppose it is due to his animal spirits, his healthy -temperament. He is as vigorous and bracing as a whiff of the west wind -full in one’s face.” - -I had never had a friend before. I relished my first taste of -friendship. - -Meantime I was preparing my toilet. In the midst of it Merivale came -into the room. - -“I suppose you know who your future master is to be?” he asked. - -“No—how should I know?” - -“Oh, you obtuse blockhead! You————” - -“It isn’t—you don’t mean to say—” I began, a suspicion of -the truth dawning upon me. - -“Exactly! That is the precise sum and substance of what I mean to say. -I mean to say that I’m in need of somebody to help me in certain work -that I’m doing. The need is a real one, not an artificial one trumped -up for the occasion. I have plenty of cash and am ready to pay what is -just for my assistant’s time. You on the other hand are looking about -fora means of subsistence. At the same time, luckily, you are just the -person to suit my purpose. Hence, as a pure matter of business, I say, -Shall we strike a bargain? You are going to be sensible and answer, Yes. -Wherefore it only remains for me to explain the nature of the work and -thus to convince you that you are not going to draw the salary of a -sinecure.” - -“If this is really true,” I said, “I can’t help telling you that -nothing could make me happier. If I can really be of service to you, and -if we can really arrange to keep as closely together as such work would -bring us, why, my contentment will be greater than I can say.” - -“Then come into the next room and judge for yourself.” - -We passed into the sitting-room. Merivale drew up to a table near the -window and taking a pen in his hand said, “Look.” - -He tried the pen’s nib upon the nail of his thumb, dipped it into an -inkstand, and applied it to a blank sheet of paper. Then his fingers -began to work laboriously to and fro, with the result of tracing a -scarcely legible scrawl. One could, however, by dint of taxing the -imagination, make out these words: “Good friend, to end all doubt -about the present matter, learn by this that a penman’s palsy shakes -my fist, and furthermore, that I inherit a lamentable tendency to gout -in the wrist.” - -“Scrivener’s palsy and gout combined,” he added verbally, “and -yet I am going to publish a volume of poems in the spring. They’re -all down on paper, but no one can decipher them except myself; and if I -should be carried off some day unexpectedly, think what the world would -lose! My idea is to dictate them to you. We will work from nine till one -every day, and devote the rest of our time to relaxation.” - -“But you take my handwriting for granted,” I interposed. - -“I think I am safe in doing so,” he replied. “But give me a -sample.” - -I wrote off a few words. - -“Capital!” was his comment. “Now about the compensation.” - -I had to haggle with my generous friend and to beat him down half of his -original offer. My stipend settled, “I admit,” said he, “that I am -ravenously hungry. Suppose we dine?” - -We adjourned to Moretti’s. During the dinner we discussed our future. -He said he was constantly writing new matter and therefore our contract -would not terminate with the completion of the particular MS. in -question. “Ah, what good times we are going to enjoy!” he cried. -“We are perfectly companionable! There is nothing so satisfactory, -nothing so productive of bien être, as friendship, after all.” - -Dinner over, we strolled arm in arm through the streets. For the first -time in two years I began to feel that the world was not quite a ruin. -At home we talked till late into the night. And when I went to bed it -was to lie awake for hours and hours, congratulating myself upon my -newly discovered friend. - - - - -IX. - -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?” - -I named them. - -The doctor’s face had been inscrutable. Merivale and I had sat on pins -during the inquisition. Now the doctor’s face lighted up with a genial -smile. - -“You will do, Mr. Lexow,” he said. “I don’t know whom to thank -the more, you or Mr. Merivale. You have relieved me in a very -trying emergency. Your playing is fine, though perhaps a trifle too -independent, a trifle too individual, and the least tone too florid. It -is odd, most odd that I should never have heard of you; but we shall all -hear of you in the future.” - -We agreed upon the selections for the evening. I ran them through in the -doctor’s presence and listened to his suggestions. Then we bade him -good-by. - -That day was a trying one. It would be bootless to catalogue the -conflicting thoughts and emotions that preyed upon me. I practiced my -pieces thoroughly. Merivale busied himself procuring what he styled a -“rig.” The rig consisted of an evening suit and its accessories. -He rented one at a costumer’s on Union square. As the day drew to -a close, I worried more and more. “Brace up,” cried Merivale. -“Where’s your stamina? And here, swallow a glass of brandy.” - -We waited in the ante-room till it was my turn to go upon the platform. - -I was conscious of a glow of light and a sea of faces and a mortal -stage-fright, and of little else, when finally I had taken my position. -The orchestra played the preliminary bars. I had to begin. I got through -the first phrase and the second. The voice of my instrument reassured -me. “After all you will not make a dead failure,” I thought, and -ventured to lift my eyes. Not two yards distant from me, to my right, -among the first violins, sat Mr. Tikulski. His gaze was riveted upon my -face. - -I had anticipated about every catastrophe that could possibly befall, -but strangely enough I had not anticipated this. And it was so sudden, -and the emotions it occasioned were so powerful, and I was so nervous -and unstrung—well, the floor gave a lurch, like the deck of a vessel -in a storm; the lights dashed backward and forward before my sight; -a deathly sickness overspread my senses; the accompaniment of the -orchestra became harsh and incoherent; my violin dropped with a crash -upon the boards; and the next thing I was aware of, I lay at full -length on a sofa in the retiring-room, and Merivale was holding a -smelling-bottle to my nostrils. I could hear the orchestra beyond the -partition industriously winding off the Tannhauser march. - -“How do you feel?” asked Merivale, as I opened my eyes. - -“I feel as though I should like to annihilate myself,” I answered, -as memory cleared up. “I have permanently disgraced us both.” - -“But what was the trouble? You were doing nobly, splendidly, when -all of a sudden you collapsed like that,” clapping his hands. “The -doctor is furious, says it was all my fault.” “No, it wasn’t your -fault,” I hastened to put in. “I should have pulled through after -a fashion, only unluckily I caught sight of Tikulski—her uncle, you -know—in the orchestra; and, well, I—I suppose—well, you see it was -so unexpected that it rather undid me.” - -“Oh, yes; I understand,” said he. - -We kept silence all the way home in the carriage. - -Next morning, as I entered the sitting-room, Merivale tried to hide a -newspaper under his coat. - -“Oh, don’t bother to do that,” I said. “Of course it is all in -print?” - -Possessing myself of the newspaper, I had the satisfaction of reading a -sensational account of my fiasco. But what I had most dreaded from the -quarter of the newspapers had not come to pass. None of them identified -me as the Ernest Neuman who, rather more than two years since, had been -tried for murder. - - - - -X. - -MY encounter with Tikulski was bound to have consequences, practical as -well as moral. All day Sunday a legion of blue devils were my comrades. -Late Monday afternoon I received by the post a letter and a package, -each addressed to “E. Lexow, in care of D. Merivale, Esq.” The -penmanship was the same on both—a stiff European hand which I could -not recognize. I began with the letter. It read thus:— - -“Mr. E. Lexow, - -“Dear Sir: - -“I should have forwarded this to you before, but not apprised of -the alteration of your name, I was unable to discover your address. I -dispatch this to the address indicated by Dr. Rodolph, who informs me -that you are to be reached through D. Merivale, Esquire, as he is -not advised of your private residence. I found it in a pawnbroking -establishment (No.—————-street, kept by one M. Arkush) now -more than a year, and purchased it with the intention of restoring it to -you, because I suppose that it must be of some value to you as a family -memento, and that you would not have disposed of it except needing -money. Hoping that this letter may find you in the enjoyment of good -health, I am - -“Respectfully yours, - -“B. Tikulski.” - -What could Tikulski’s letter mean? What could “it” be? I puzzled -over these questions for a long while before it occurred to me to unseal -the package. - -There was an outer wrapper of stout brown paper. Beneath this, an inner -wrapper of tissue paper. Both removed, I beheld an oval case of red -leather, considerably the worse for wear. What did it contain? I pressed -the clasp and raised the lid. It contained a miniature painted on ivory, -the likeness of a man. The faded colors and the old-fashioned collar and -cravat showed that it dated from some years back. But of whom was it a -picture? - -Why had Tikulski posted it to me? And what did he mean by supposing that -I should value it as a family memento and that I would not have parted -with it—I, who had never owned it,—“except needing money?” I was -thoroughly mystified. - -“Merivale,” I said, “can you make any thing out of this?” - -I tossed him the letter and the portrait. - -Presently he muttered, “Pretty good, by Jove.” - -“Well?” I questioned. - -“Well, what?” he returned. - -“Well, what do you make of it? What does it mean?” - -“Why, that the likeness is striking, what else? Your father, eh?” - -“My father? I confess I am in the dark.” - -“And you have the faculty of dragging me in after you. What are you -trying to get at?” - -“I am trying to get at Mr. Tikulski’s idea. Why should he send me -that miniature? Whom does it represent?” - -“You don’t mean to say that you haven’t recognized it?” - -“Most certainly I do.” - -“Man alive, look in the glass.—Here.” Merivale held up the -miniature in one hand and a pocket-mirror in the other. As closely as it -is possible for one human countenance to resemble another, the face of -the picture resembled my reflection in the glass. - -“Are you satisfied?” demanded Merivale.—“Why, what ails you?” -he continued presently, as I did not answer. “You look as if you had -seen a ghost. Are you ill?” - -“It has caused me quite a turn,” I replied. “It must indeed be -a portrait of my father. But do you know—wait—let me tell you -something.” - -What I told Merivale I shall have also to tell the reader. - -I could remember neither of my parents. As a child, I had lived in a -dark old house with a good old rabbi and his wife—Dr. and Mrs. Hirsch. -I had never stopped to ask whether or not they were my father and mother -until I was eleven or twelve years of age. Then, the question having -been suggested by a schoolmate, I had said, “Dr. Lesser”—Lesser -being the rabbi’s given name—“are you my father?” To which the -doctor, beaming at me over the rim of his spectacles, had responded, -“No, my child: you are an orphan.”—“An orphan? That means?” -I pursued. “That your papa and mamma are dead,” said he.—“Have -they been dead long?” I asked indifferently. “Ever since you were -the tiniest little tot,” he replied. And thereupon, as the subject did -not prove especially interesting, I had let it drop. - -Time went on. I was perfectly contented. The doctor and his wife were -kindness personified. The present occupied me so pleasantly that I -forgot to be curious about the past. But at length, when I was fifteen, -the question of my parentage was again brought to my mind—this time -by a lad with whom I had had a quarrel and who as a parting thrust had -inquired significantly whether I knew the definition of the Hebrew noun -Mamzer. Highly incensed, I ran home and burst into the doctor’s -study. “Doctor,” I demanded, without ceremony, “am I a -Mamzer?”—“What a notion! Of course you are not,” replied the -rabbi.—“Then,” I continued, “what am I? Tell me all about my -father and mother.” - -The doctor said there was nothing to tell except that my mother had -died when I was less than two years old, and my father not a great while -after her. They had been members of his (the doctor’s) congregation; -and rather than see me sent to an orphan asylum, he and his wife had -taken me to live with them.—“But what sort of people were they, -my parents?” I insisted. “Give me some particulars about -them.”—“They were very respectable, and by their neighbors -generally esteemed well off. Your father had been a merchant; but for -the last year his health was such as to confine him to his bedroom. It -was quite a surprise to every body to find on his death that very little -property was left. That little was gobbled up by his creditors. So that -you have no legacy to expect except——” - -“Except?” I queried as the doctor hesitated. “There is no -exception. You have no legacy to expect at all.”—“But,” I -resumed, “had my parents no relations? Have I no uncles or aunts? Am I -altogether without kindred?”—“So far as I know, you are.” - -Your father came originally from Breslau. It is possible that he had -relatives there; but he had none in this country—at least I never -heard him speak of any. He was a good man, a pious man. It was sad -that he should die so young, but it was the will of Adonai—“And my -mother, had she no brother or sister?”—“About your mother I -can tell you very little. She came from Savannah. Whether she has -connections there still, I can not say.”—“Doctor,” I asked, -after a moment’s silence, “what did you mean by that ‘except’ -you used a while ago, speaking of legacies?” - -“I meant nothing. I was thinking of a few family relics, papers and -what-not, which you are to receive when you become of age.”—“Why -not till then?”—“No reason, save that such was your father’s -wish, expressed on his death-bed. He said, ‘Don’t let my son have -these until he is grown to be a man.’.—“Can you tell me definitely -what they are?”—“I can not. I have never seen them. They -are locked up in a box; and the box I am not at liberty to -open.”—“Doctor, what was my mother’s maiden-name?” - -“Bertha, Bertha Lexow.”—“Did you marry her and my father?” - -“Oh, no; they were married in the South at Savannah. I think they -had been married about five years when your father died.”—I went on -quizzing the doctor until he declined to answer another question. “Go -away, gad-fly,” he cried. “You are worse than the inquisition.” - -In my eighteenth year the doctor died suddenly, having survived his wife -by a six-month only. He was stricken down by paralysis while intoning -the Kadesh song in the synagogue. In him I lost my only friend. I had -loved him precisely as though he had been my father. His death was an -immense affliction. It took me a long while to gather my wits together -and realize my position. - -A week or two after the funeral a man came to me and said, “I -represent the Public Administrator, charged with settling up Dr. -Hirsch’s concerns. He leaves nothing except household furniture and a -few dollars in bank—all of which goes to his next-of-kin in Germany. -You will have to find other quarters. These are to be vacated and the -goods sold at auction in a few days.”—“Ah,” I said, “if you -are his administrator, that reminds me. I beg that you will deliver over -the things the doctor had belonging to me—a box containing papers.” - -“Identify your property and prove your title,” he replied. - -Strangers came and went in and out of the house for several days. But -in the inventory which they prepared no such box as the doctor had -described was mentioned. Furthermore, a thorough search failed to bring -it to light. The auction was held. The last fork was knocked down to the -highest bidder. And I had to go about my business with the unpleasant -conviction that owing to some slip-up somewhere my inheritance had -either been lost or stolen. Gradually I reconciled myself to this idea, -concluding that what I already knew about my parents was the most I ever -should know; and thus matters had remained ever since. - -“But now,” I added, my recital wound up, “now perhaps in this -miniature I have a clew. It must be a portrait of my father: and very -likely it was part of the contents of that box. I suppose, if I were -clever, I should see a way of following it up.” - -“I am consoled,” said Merivale, drawing a deep breath. - -“Consoled?” I queried. - -“Yes, consoled for my obstinacy in making you play at the concert. -You see, it was an inspiration after all. If you had not chanced upon -Tikulski—what a blood-curdling name! fit for a tragedy villain—if -you hadn’t chanced upon him as you did, why you never would have -received the picture, and so the mystery which envelops my hero s -antecedents would never have been dispelled. Now we must go to work in a -systematic way. - -“Exactly; but how begin?” - -“Let me see Tikulski’s letter again.”—After he had read the -letter, “Begin, he said, by paying a visit to the pawn-shop where -he got it. Luckily he had the presence of mind to mention its -whereabouts.” - -“Good,” I assented. “But will you go with me?” - -“Do you imagine I would allow you to go alone, you unfledged gosling? -I shall not only go with you, but by your permission I shall manage the -whole transaction. I fancy I surpass you in respect of savoir faire.” - -“It is now past four. Shall we start at once?” - -“Yes, of course.” - -“Don’t be too hopeful,” he warned me, as we approached the -pawnbroker’s door. “Most likely we shall run against a dead wall.” - -The shop was empty. A bell tinkled as we opened the door. In response, a -young fellow in his shirt-sleeves emerged from a dark back room. - -“Is Mr. Arkush in?” demanded Merivale, with an air of friendliness. - -“Do you want to see him personally?” returned the young man, not -over politely. - -“You have fathomed my purpose,” said Merivale with mock gravity. - -“What about?” - -Merivale drew near to the young man and shielding his mouth with his -hand whispered, “Business,” accompanying his utterance with a -knowing glance. - -“Well, you can see me about business,” rejoined his interlocutor, -surlily. - -“Impossible. Here, take my card to Mr. Arkush and say I am pressed.” - -“Mr. Arkush can’t see nobody. He’s sick. - -“Sick? Ah, indeed?” cried Merivale. “Has he been sick long? I hope -it is nothing serious. Pray tell me what the trouble is?” - -The young man looked surprised. “Oh, it’s only rheumatism,” he -said. “You ain’t a friend of his, are you?” - -“Why, my dear fellow, of course I am. By the very nature of his -profession Mr. Arkush is the friend of every body; and I am the friend -of every friend of mine. Consequently but the deduction is too obvious. -Here, take him my card and say that if he is not too ill I shall hope to -be admitted.’ - -“Well, perhaps I’d better,” said the young man, -reflectively.—“Becky,” he called, raising his voice. - -Becky appeared. - -“Good-afternoon, Miss Rebecca,” said Merivale, lifting his hat. - -“Mind the shop,” said the young man to Becky, and thereat vanished. - -“Come this way,” he said to us, presently returning. - -He conducted us into the cavernous back room. The atmosphere was heavy -with the scent of stale cookery. The walls were lined with shelves, -bearing mysterious parcels done up in paper winding-sheets. Under a -grimy window at the further end an old man sat in an easy chair, a -patch-work quilt infolding his legs. Bald, beardless, with sharply -accentuated features and a yellow skin, he looked like a Midas whose -magic was beginning to operate upon himself. - -“Dear me!” cried Merivale, advancing toward him. “I’m shocked -to find you suffering like this, Mr. Arkush. Do the legs give you much -pain? You must try petroleum liniment. I’ll send you a bottle. They -say it’s the best remedy in the world.—But tell me, how are you -getting on? Do you notice any improvement?” - -The old man’s face wore a puzzled expression. “What was the business -you wanted to see me about?” he inquired. - -“Oh, never mind about business till you have quieted my anxiety -regarding your health. Besides, are you sure you will be able to -attend?” - -The mask of Midas betrayed a tendency to smile. “Come, time is money; -hurry up,” said its owner. He had a strong Jewish accent, thus: -“Dime iss money.” - -“Oh, well,” said Merivale, “if you don’t think it will disturb -you, I’ll come to the point. But let me disarm beforehand any -suspicion which the nature of my errand may be calculated to inspire. I -am not a detective. I am not on the track of stolen goods. I am simply -a private individual desirous of gaining certain information for certain -strictly legitimate ends. So you need have no fear of compromising -yourself by speaking with entire unreserve. Shall I proceed?” - -“My Gott, what are you talking about? Don’t make foolishness any -longer,” exclaimed Mr. Arkush with some degree of vivacity. - -“Mr. Arkush,” said Merivale in his most solemn tones, “do you -remember this?” extracting the miniature from his pocket and handing -it to the pawnbroker. - -The latter donned a pair of spectacles and holding the picture off at -arm’s length, scrutinized it in silence. - -“Yes, I remember it,” he replied finally, “I sold it to a -gentleman some time ago. What of it?” - -“You did. You sold it about a year ago to a gentleman with a white -beard. Recollect?” - -“Ah, yes, yes: you are right. He had a white beard. He was also a Jew. -We spoke in Judisch. I remember.” - -“By Jove, hasn’t Mr. Arkusha wonderful memory?” cried Merivale, -turning to me. - -“I happen to remember,” volunteered Mr. Arkush, unperturbed by the -compliment, “because when I put that article into the window I said -to myself, ‘You won’t get no customer for that. What good is it to -anyone? You made a mistake to lend your money on it. That was a loss.’ -But the very same day the old gentleman came in and bought it, which was -a surprise.” - -“Ah, I see. Could you tell me, Mr. Arkush, of whom you got it -originally—who pledged it with you?” - -“Du lieber Gott! how should I remember that? It was two years ago -already.” - -“True, but—but your books would show.” - -“Yes, my books would show the name the person gave.” - -“Well, will you kindly refer to your books?” - -“Ach, you make me much trouble!—Yakub,” he called. - -The young man came. - -Arkush told Yakub to get him the ledger for 18—. It was a ponderous -and dingy volume. Yakub held it open while his employer turned the -pages, running his finger from the top to the bottom of each. At length -the finger reached a stand-still. Mr. Arkush said, “Yes, I have found -it. It was pawned with me by a man calling himself Joseph White.” - -“The date?” - -“The 16th January.” - -“Have you any means of recalling what sort of looking individual -Joseph White was? And, by the way, is his residence given?” - -“‘Residence, Harlem,’ it says. That’s all. How should I remember -his looks?” - -“Of course—you see so many people in the course of a year, it is not -wonderful that you should forget.—But tell me, did White put any thing -else in pawn that day?” - -“No, sir; nothing else.” - -“He simply pawned this one article and went away; that’s all?” - -“That’s all.” - -“Hum!” - -Merivale reflected. At length he resumed. “But at any other -time—that is, does White’s name appear on your ledger under any -other date?” - -“Do you expect me to read through the book?” inquired Arkush, with -the tone of protestation. “That is too much.” - -“I’m awfully sorry to annoy you, but this information I am -seeking is of such great importance—you understand—it’s worth a -consideration.” - -“Oh, well, that’s different,” said Arkush. “What will you -give?” - -“I’ll give twenty-five cents for each month that you go over—is it -enough?” - -“Here, Yakub,” cried Arkush. “Run back from January 16th, and see -if you find the name of Joseph White again.” - -Yakub carried the ledger to a desk hard by, and began his task. - -“Do you smoke?” Merivale asked the old man, offering him a cigar. -Presently the air became blue with aromatic vapor. - -“Here you are!” called Yakub from his stool. He proceeded to read -aloud, “‘December 7th—one onyx seal ring—amount, one dollar and -a quarter—to Joseph White—residence, Leonard street—ticket-number, -15,672. Same date—one ornamented wooden box—amount, fifteen -cents—to Joseph White—residence, as above—ticket-number, -15,67.’.rdquo; - -“Keep still,” said Merivale in an aside, as he saw my lips open. -“I’ll do the talking.—I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Arkush. -Now, if I may trespass just a little further upon your indulgence, can -you tell me whether you still have either of those articles in stock? -If so, I should be glad to see them—with a view to purchasing, of -course.” - -“Look, Yakub,” said Arkush. “Was those goods redeemed?” - -Yakub returned the ledger to the shelf whence he had taken it, and -produced another book of similar proportions in its stead. Presently -he said, “Number 15,672, sold August 20, 18—; Number 15,673—see -profit and loss.” - -“Number 15,672 was the ring, was it not?” asked Merivale. “Number -15,673 is referred to the account of profit and loss—will you kindly -turn to it under that head, Mr. Yakub?” - -Yakub possessed himself of a third volume, and in due time read, -“‘Number 15,673—July, 18—, given to R.—Amount of loss, fifteen -cents.’.rdquo; - -“Let me see that entry,” said Arkush. - -After he had scrutinized it, “Oh yes,” he continued, “I recollect. -White was a colored man. I recollect all about it. That ring and that -box were the first things he brought here; that picture was the last. -I happen to recollect because I gave that box to my daughter, Rebecca, -instead of offering it for sale.” - -“Ah,” said Merivale, “then I suppose Miss Rebecca has it still. -Could she be persuaded to show it to us?” - -“I don’t know. I will ask her.” - -He sent Yakub into the front room with instructions for Rebecca to -present herself. - -On her arrival, they held a brief conference together in Judisch. Then -Rebecca went away, and Arkush said to us, “Yes, she has got it yet. -She has gone to fetch it.” - -During her absence Merivale resumed, “You are quite sure that it -is useless to go further back in your books—that the name of White -doesn’t occur in any other place?” - -“Oh, yes; I am sure. I recollect perfectly. He was a colored man. He -only came twice.” - -“I notice that on one occasion his address is given as Harlem, on -another as Leonard street. How is that?” - -“How do I know? Maybe he moved. Maybe neither address was his true -one. These people very often give false names and addresses.” - -“I suppose they do,” Merivale assented, and thereafter held his -peace, chewing his nether lip as his habit was when engrossed in -thought. - -For my part I could not see that we had made much progress. I was -beginning to get impatient. - -Becky reappeared, bearing the box. - -The box was about ten inches square by four or five in depth. It was -empty. Merivale did not allow me to examine it. “Wait,” he said, as -I reached out my hand to take it. - -“Would you mind very much parting with this box, Miss Arkush?” he -asked, fixing a pair of languishing eyes upon Rebecca’s face. - -“What will you give me for it?” the business-like young lady -inquired. - -“What will you accept?” - -“What’s it worth, father?” - -“That box is worth two dollars any how,” replied the shameless old -usurer, regardless of the fact that we knew to a mill what he had paid -for it. - -“Then certainly this will be enough,” said Merivale, and he slipped -a five-dollar gold piece into Rebecca’s palm. Then he settled with -Arkush, bestowed a gratuity upon Yakub, and bidding an affable good-by -to every body, led me out through the shop into the street. - -“Well,” I said, “we have run against the dead wall that you -foresaw.” - -“So it appears,” said he. - -“The picture was pawned by a colored man only two years ago—that is, -four-and-twenty years after my father’s death. We don’t know of any -means by which to reach that colored man; but even if we did—” - -“It would be a forlorn hope.” - -“Exactly. So that we stand just as we did before we left home, do -we not? Except that you are by five dollars a poorer man. It was sheer -extravagance, your purchasing that box. I suppose your imagination -connected it with the box—the box that Dr. Hirsch told me of. But the -probabilities are overwhelmingly against that contingency. Then, why -did you waste your money, buying it? Intrinsically, it isn’t worth -carrying away.” - -“Hush, hush,” interposed my friend. “Don’t talk to me. I have an -idea—an idea for a story—à propos of Arkush and his daughter. -Bless me with silence until I have meditated it to my soul’s -satisfaction.” - -At home he began, “Yes, as you have said, our interview with Arkush -was not fruitful. We have simply learned the name—or the assumed -name—of the last owner of your father’s picture—for, that it is -your father’s picture I have no sort of doubt. The next step would -logically be to find Mr. White and question him. It is possible that a -tempting advertisement in the newspaper might fetch him; but it is -not probable. Very likely, he would never see it. Very likely, he is a -thief, and even if he did see it, would be restrained by caution from -replying to it. So that the outlook is not hopeful. As for this box -being the box—why, the hypothesis is absurd. It was not on that -supposition that I bought it. And even if it were the box, it would -be of little consequence, empty as it is. I trust you are not too much -disappointed.” - -“By no means. I have managed to live for a considerable number of -years in my present state of ignorance about my vanished legacy, and -doubtless I shall pull through a few years more. Only, of course I was -bound to follow the clew that this picture seemed to furnish, as far as -it would lead; and having done so I am contented. I was not very hopeful -when we started out, wherefore I am not very disappointed at the result. -Let’s think no more about it.” - -“Good! Your mind is imbued with a sound philosophy. But now—” - -“But now, tell me why in the name of common sense you invested five -dollars in that box?” - -“Precisely what I was driving at. Now you are going to have a -practical illustration of the value of experience.” - -He took the box up from the table where he had laid it. - -“You think that ‘intrinsically, this wasn’t worth carrying -away,’ and that my expenditure of half an eagle was a reckless waste -of good material. To an inexperienced observer your view would certainly -seem the correct one. The box is scarcely beautiful. The wood is oak. -The metal with which its surface is so profusely ornamented looks -like copper. The thing as a whole appears to have been designed for a -cheapish jewel-case, now in the last stage of decrepitude. Do I express -your sentiments?” - -“Eloquently and with precision.” - -“But you, my dear Lexow, are not a connoisseur. I, as chance would -have it, have seen a box of this description before; saw one in France, -the property of a lady of high degree; and, strange as it may seem, -I don’t believe a hundred bright gold pieces such as the one I gave -Rebecca, could have induced my French lady friend to part with it. Guess -why.” - -“Why? Oh, I suppose it had certain associations that made her want to -keep it. We often prize things quite irrespective of their market value. -But go on: don’t be so roundabout.” - -“Well, the reason—at least one reason—for her setting such -store by the box in question—which, I must remind you, was the very -duplicate of the one we have here—the reason, I say, was that she -knew enough about such matters to recognize that box for a specimen of -cinque-cento—a specimen of cinque-cento! Now do you begin to realize -that the paltry five dollars were not exorbitant?” - -“Oh, from the standpoint of an antiquary, an amateur of bric-a-brac, I -suppose it was not.” - -“Excellent! No, sir; on the contrary, it was an immense bargain, a -thorough-going stroke of luck. But now please take the box into your own -hands, treat it gingerly, inspect it carefully, and tell me whether you -remark any thing extraordinary about it.” - -“Nothing, except that it is extraordinarily ugly and doesn’t speak -well for cinque-cento,” I replied, after the requisite examination. - -“Another proof that das Sehen muss gelernt sein! Here, I will -enlighten you.—You behold this metal work which a moment since we -disposed of as copper; learn that it is bronze; and not cast bronze, -either, but wrought bronze, bronze shaped with hammer and chisel. Look -closely at it; note the forms into which it has been modeled. See these -roses, these lilies, these lotus leaves; see how exquisitely they are -fashioned; see how they are massed together into a harmonious ensemble. -Now hold it close to your eyes: see—do you see?—this serpent twined -among the flowers! The artist must have worked from life—the very -texture of the skin is reproduced—it makes one shudder.” - -“Yes,” I said, “I admit it is a fine piece of work.” - -“But we have not yet exhausted the list of its virtues by any means. -Now open it and look at the interior.” - -“I see nothing remarkable about the interior,” I replied, “nothing -but bare wood.” - -“That is all you see; but watch.” - -He applied the point of a pencil to one of the series of nail-heads -with which the top of the lid was studded. It appeared to sink a -hair’s-breadth into the wood. Thereat the lower surface of the lid -dropped down, disclosing a hollow space between it and the upper.—“A -double cover,” he said, “a place for hiding things and—hello! it -isn’t empty!” - -No, it wasn’t empty. It contained a large, square envelope. Merivale -hastily made a grab for it, and crossed over to the gas-fixture. “Have -we stumbled upon a romance?” he cried. Holding it up to the light, -presently he said: “Come hither, Lexow. The writing is German script. -I can’t read it. Come and help.” - -He put the envelope into my hands. I ran my eyes over the writing. Next -moment the envelope fluttered to the floor. I grasped Merivale’s -arm to support myself. My breath became short and quick. “I was not -prepared for this,” I gasped. - -“For what? What is the trouble?” he asked. - -I sank into a chair. Merivale picked up the envelope and studied it -intently. “I can make nothing out of it,” he said. - -“Give it to me—I will read it to you,” I rejoined. - -This is what I read:— - -“To be delivered to my son, Ernest Neuman, upon his attaining the age -of one-and-twenty years. Let there be no failure, as the will of a -dying man is honored.—To my son: Open and read on your twenty-first -birthday. Be alone when you read.—Your father, Ernest Neuman.” - -Neither of us broke silence for some minutes afterward. - -At last, “I guess I’d better clear out,” said Merivale. “This is -considerably more than we had bargained for. I suppose you’d like to -be alone. I’ll remain in the next room. Call, if you want me.” - -“Yes,” I returned, “I may as well read it at once. But do you -know—it’s quite natural, doubtless—I really dread opening it? Who -can tell what its contents may be? Who can tell what information it may -convey, to the detriment of that ignorance which is bliss? Who can tell -what duty it may impose—what change it may make necessary in my -mode of life? I—I am really afraid of it. The superscription is not -reassuring—and then, this strange accident by which it has reached its -destination after so many years! It is like a fatality.” - -“It is inevitable that you should feel this way. The suddenness of the -business was enough to shatter your self-possession. At the same time -you would best not delay about reading it. You won’t be able to -rest until you’ve done so, you know.—Yes, indeed, it is like a -fatality—like an incident in a novel—one of those happenings that -we never expect to see occur in real life. I’ll wait in the next room -till you call.” - -My heart stood still as I broke the seal. Four double sheets of thin -glazed paper, covered with minute German script. The ink was faded, and -there were a good many blots and interlineations; so that it was only -by dint of straining my eyesight to the utmost that I could decipher my -father’s message. But screwing up my courage, I attacked it, nor did I -pause till I had read the last word. - - - - -XI. - -H ERE is a translation:— - -“In the name of God, Amen! - -“To my son: - -“You are a little less than two years old; I, your father, am dying. I -shall be dead before your birthday. That will be the 6th Cheshvan. It -is now the 2nd Ellul The physician gives me till some time in Tishri -to keep possession of my faculties. I am dying before my time. I -have something yet to accomplish in this world. has willed that it be -accomplished. He has willed that you accomplish it in my stead. I am in -my bed as I write this, in the bed from which I shall not rise again. -Through the open door of my room I can hear you crowing in your -nurse’s arms. Ah, would that you could understand by word of mouth -from me now, what I am compelled to write. There is so much that a man -can not but forget to put down, when he is writing. Yet will illumine my -mind and strengthen my trembling fingers. It will not allow me to forget -any thing that is essential. When this is completed, I shall put it into -safe hands, that it may be delivered to you at the proper time. I have -no fear. I am sure it will reach you. It will reach you sooner or later, -though all men conspire to the contrary. has promised it. He will render -this writing indelible, this paper indestructible. He will guide this -to you, even as He guides the river to the sea, the star to the zenith. -Blessed be the name of forever. - -“My son, before you read further, cover your head and pray. Pray to -for strength. Pray that the will of your father may be done. Pray that -you may be directed aright for the fulfillment of this errand of justice -with which I charge you. - -“You have prayed. I also have laid aside my pen for a moment, and, -summoning your nurse to bring you to my bedside, have prayed with my -hand upon your head. will be with you as you read. Read on. - -“My son, you do not, you will never know your mother. You do not love -her; you hear not the sound of her voice; it is forbidden you to gaze -into the lustrous depths of her eyes. Ah, my son, you little guess how -much you lost when you lost your mother. But you must learn the truth. - -“Your mother was younger than I by seven years. I am thirty. Your -mother would be three-and-twenty had she lived. She was nineteen when I -married her. It was in Savannah, Georgia, going on five years ago. Ah, -my Ernest, I can not tell you how beautiful your mother appeared to me -when I saw her first. I can not tell you with what great love I loved -her. Suppose that you had never seen a stone more precious than a pebble -such as may be picked up in our back garden, and that all at once a -diamond were shown to you, a diamond of the purest water: would you -not distrust your eyes, crying, ‘Ah, so fine, so wonderful! Can it -be?—So was it when I saw your mother. I had seen pebbles innumerable, -ay, and mock diamonds too. She was the first true diamond I had ever -seen. I loved her at the first glance.—How long, after the sun -has risen, does it take the waters of the earth to sparkle with the -sunlight? So long it took my heart to love, after my eyes for the first -time had met your mother’s. But how much I loved her, how every drop -of my life was sucked up and absorbed into my love of her, it would be -useless for me to try to make you understand. - -“And yet, loving her as I did, I hesitated to bespeak her for my wife. -Why? - -“In my eighteenth year my own father—your grandfather, of holy -memory—had died. On his death-bed he called me to him. He said: -‘When you have become a man you will meet many women. To one of them -your heart will go out in love. You will desire her for your wife. But I -say to you here on my death-bed, beware! Do not marry, though your love -be greater than your life. - -“‘In the fourth generation back of me our ancestor was betrayed by -the wife of his choice. So great was his hatred of her on this account, -that he wished his seed, contaminated as it was by having taken root in -her womb, to become extinct. Therefore he forbade his son to marry. And -to this prohibition he attached a penalty. - -“If, in defiance of his wish, his son should take unto himself a -woman, then should he too taste the bitterness of infidelity within the -household, then should he too be betrayed and dishonored by his -wife. And this penalty he made to extend to the seventh and eighth -generations. Whosoever of his progeny should enter into the wedded state -should enter by the same step into the antechamber of hell. - -“‘But his son laughed as he listened; and within two years he was -married. But within two years also the laughter froze upon his lips. For -behold, the curse of his father had come to pass! - -“‘Thus ever since. Each of our ancestors, despite his father’s -caution, has taken a wife. He has been betrayed and dishonored by her -even as I have been betrayed and dishonored by your mother. He has -repeated to his own son the family malediction even as I am now -repeating it to you.—Let that malediction then go down into the grave -with me. Do not marry, as you wish for peace now and hereafter.’ - -“It was in this wise that on his death-bed my father had spoken to me. -I remembered his words when I found that I had begun to love a woman. -It was for this reason that I hesitated to ask your mother to become my -wife. - -“Ah, but, my son, of what avail is hesitation at such a moment?—when -you are gazing into the eyes of the woman you love? With sails set and -a strong wind behind it, can the ship hesitate to speed across the sea? -Thrust into a bed of live coals, can the wood hesitate to kindle and -burn? With the sun beating hot upon the earth above it, can the seed -hesitate to sprout and send forth rootlets? How long then could I, with -the light of your mother’s face shining upon my pathway, how long -could I hesitate to say, ‘I love you. Be my wife’.—We were -married. - -“You, my son, will never know how happy it is possible for a man to -be. A woman such as your mother is born only once in all time. You will -never meet with her like. You will never know the supreme joy of having -her for your wife. Her breath was sweeter than the fragrance of the -sweetest flower. The song of the nightingale was less musical than her -simplest word. All the light of heaven was eclipsed by the light that -glowed far down in her eyes. Her presence at my side was a foretaste of -paradise. Only to take her hand into my own and stroke its warm, satiny -skin, was an ecstasy which I can not describe, which I can not remember -even at this extreme moment without a quickening of the pulse. For -three, yes, for four years after our marriage we were so happy that we -cried each morning and each evening at our prayers, ‘Lord, what have -we done to merit such happiness?’—I, my son, laughed as I recalled -the dying words of my father. ‘The family curse in my case,’ I -said, ‘has gone astray. I have no fear.’—Alas! I took too much for -granted. I congratulated myself too soon. Our happiness was doomed to be -burst like a bubble at a touch. The family curse had perhaps gone astray -for a little while: it was bound to find its way back before the end. -The will of our ancestor could not be thwarted. - -“The first three years of our married life we passed at Savannah, -dwelling with the parents of your mother. There you were born—as it -seemed, in order to consummate and seal with the seal of our perfect -joy. Then, when you were still but three months old, it became necessary -that I should return and take up my residence again in New York. We were -not sorry to come to New York. - -“Nicholas had been my closest friend for many years. Boys together at -Breslau, we had crossed the sea together, and had started our new life -together here in America. Before our wedding I had described Nicholas to -your mother, saying, ‘Him also must you love;’ and to Nicholas I had -written, bidding him include my wife in his love of me.—This was -why we were not sorry to leave Savannah and come to New York: -because Nicholas was here, because we wanted to be near to our best -friend.—Nicholas met us as we disembarked from the sailing vessel that -had brought us hither. It made my heart warm to greet my old comrade and -to present to him my wife and my son. - -“I was a true friend to Nicholas. After your mother and you, he was -first in my heart. I would have shared with him my last drop of water, -my last crumb of bread; and he, I believed, would have done the same by -me. My purse was always open for Nicholas to put in his hand and take -out what he would, even to the last penny. I thought Nicholas was pure -gold. I trusted him as I trusted myself. I said to your mother, ‘No -evil can betide you so long as Nicholas is alive. If any thing should -happen to me, in him you will have a brother, in him our Ernest will -have a second father.’ It gave me a sense of perfect security, made -me feel that the strength of my own right arm was doubled, the fact that -Nicholas was my friend. - -“Good. After my return to New York the intimacy between Nicholas and -myself increased. He was constantly at our house. We were always glad -to see him. A place was always laid for him at our table; it made our -hearts light to have him with us, so bright, so gay, withal so good, -so sterling, such a trusty friend was he. I delighted to witness the -friendship that rapidly sprang up between your mother and Nicholas. He -entertained her, told her stories, made her laugh.—She would often -exclaim, ‘Dear, good Nicholas! What should we do without him?’ I -replied, ‘That is right. Let him be next to your son and your husband -in your affection.’ I do not think it is common for one man to love -another as I loved Nicholas. - -“But after we had been in New York a little more than two months, -your mother’s manner toward Nicholas began to change. She was cold -and formal to him; when he would arrive, instead of running up with -outstretched hands and crying, ‘Ah, it is you!’ she would courtesy -to him and say without smiling, ‘How do you do?’—She laughed no -more at his stories, she appeared to avoid him when she could; when she -could not, she was silent and morose. I could see no reason for this. -I was pained. I said, ‘Bertha, why do you behave so toward our best -friend?’ Your mother pretended not to understand. ‘Don’t deny -it,’ I insisted. ‘You are as distant, as polite to him, as if he -were a mere acquaintance.’ Your mother answered, ‘I am sorry to -distress you. I don’t know what you mean. I was not aware that I -had been discourteous to your friend.’—’Has Nicholas done any -thing?’ I asked.—’No, he has done nothing.’—I blamed your -mother severely. I besought her to subdue what I took for her caprice. -Yet every day her conduct toward Nicholas grew colder and more formal. -Every day I reproved her more and more earnestly. This was the nearest -approach to a quarrel that your mother and I had ever had. It grieved me -deeply that she should adopt such a manner toward my friend. I was all -the more cordial to him in consequence. I hoped that he would not notice -the turn affairs had taken. - -“Thus till almost a year ago. You lacked but a fortnight of being one -year old. - -“Business had kept me down town till late. At last I made up my -mind that I should not be able to go home at all that night. So I told -Nicholas to visit Bertha and let her know. ‘Spend the evening with -her,’ I said. ‘Explain how it is that I am compelled to remain here. -Tell her that I will come home to breakfast. Be sure to entertain her. I -don’t want to think of her as lonesome.’ - -“Next morning I hurried home. I stole softly into the house, to -surprise your mother. Ah, my son, my son, I need not give you the -details.—The house was empty. There was a brief letter from your -mother. As I read it, my head swam, a mortal weakness overpowered me, I -sank in a swoon upon the floor. - -“When I recovered from my swoon, I was lying undressed in bed. There -were people round about. I remembered every thing. What! I was lying -idle in bed, and Nicholas still alive? I started up to be upon his -track. I fell back, impotent. ‘What has befallen me?’ I asked. I was -informed that I had had a hemorrhage of the lungs. - -“I need not tell you what I suffered. My suffering was great in -proportion to my love. The shame, the disgrace, were nothing. But at one -blow to be deprived of wife, child, friend; to have my love and my faith -and my happiness shattered at one stroke: it was too much. Yet, let this -be impressed upon you, that not for one instant did I blame your mother. -I realized that she, like myself, was but the helpless victim of the -family curse. It was my fault. I had defied the inevitable. The keenest -agony of all was to lie there, unable to rise, and think of Nicholas. -Ah, a thousand times in imagination I tore his heart bleeding from his -breast! I hated him now, as much as I had formerly cherished him. And -yet, I believe I could in the end have forgiven him, if—ah, but of -what use to say, ‘If’. Listen to the truth. - -“It was a short four months afterward—four months that had seemed, -however, a thousand years to me—and I still lay here dead in life, -when the good Dr. Hirsch, (to whom now in my dying hours I commend you, -my son), came to my bedside and said that he had seen your mother. He -believed that if I would take her back, she would be glad. If I would -take her back! ‘Bring her to me,’ I cried. And I thanked for this -manifestation of his mercy. ‘You must prepare for a sad change -in her,’ said Dr. Hirsch.—’Bring her, bring her,’ I cried -impatiently. - -“Not even to you, my son, can I reveal the secret of that first hour, -of that deep hour, when your mother sat again at my side and received -my pardon—nay, not my pardon, for it was her place to pardon me. If -before that it had been possible for me to forgive Nicholas, it was so -no longer. For your mother’s face was deathly pale, her cheek hollow, -her eye bright with fever. Nicholas had—what? Petted her for a month; -for a month, ignored her; for another month, ill treated her; in the -end, abandoned her, it might be to starve. Nicholas had done this -Nicholas whom I had loved and trusted. As I saw your mother pine away, -grow paler and more feeble beneath my sight, my hatred of that man -intensified. On the day your mother died, I promised her that I would -get well and live and force him to atone for his offense in blood. My -great hatred seemed to endow me with strength. I believed that would not -let me die until I had once again met Nicholas face to face. - -“But this delusion was short-lived. A second hemorrhage threw me -back, weaker than ever, upon my bed. The physician told me that I had -absolutely no ground for hope. It was evident that had willed that the -chastisement of my enemy should not be wrought out by my hand. ‘But’ -is just,’ I said. ‘He will not allow a crime like this to go -unavenged.’ - -“It was then that my thought turned to you. And all this time, what of -you? You too were lying at the point of death. Of you too the physician -said, ‘He can not survive the winter.’ You, my single hope, -threatened at any moment to breathe your last. ‘But no,’ I cried, -‘it shall not be so. My Ernest must live. As is both just and -merciful, Ernest will live.’ - -“I watched the fluctuations of your illness, divided between hope and -fear, between faith in the goodness of and doubt lest the worst might -come to pass. Ah, that was a breathless period. Day after day passed -by, and there was no certainty. Constantly the doctor said, ‘Death is -merely a question of a few days, more or less.’ Constantly my heart -replied, ‘No, no, he will not die.” has decreed that he shall -live.’ I prayed that your life might be spared, morning, noon, and -night. My own strength was ebbing away. But that was of little matter. I -wanted to hold out only until I should know for good and all whether my -son was to survive. - -“Blessed be the name of forever! At the moment when the physician -said, ‘He will die within an hour,’ lo! the God of our fathers -touched your body with his healing wand. There was a change for the -better. The physician himself could not deny it. He maintained that it -was but transitory. ‘Nothing short of a miracle,’ said he, ‘can -save this baby’s life.’ - -“‘We will see,’ said I aloud. To myself I said, ‘The miracle has -been performed.’ - -“I was right. Two days later the physician confessed that your chances -of recovery were good. Two days later still you were out of danger. -had heard my prayers. The God of Israel is a righteous God! Oh, for the -tongue of the prophets to sing a sufficient song of thanksgiving to . He -has snatched you from the clutch of death for a purpose. He will see to -it that you fulfill that purpose, though your heart be burned to ashes -in the task. He will make you to be great like Ephraim and Manasseh. (Y -si me ha Elohim k’.phraim v’chi Manasseh!) - -“Again I have summoned your nurse, to bring you to my bedside. Again I -have laid down my pen, to place my hand upon your head and bless you in -the name of Again, before reading further, pause for a space and pray -that the breath of God may make strong your heart.” - - - - - -“My son, I allow you one-and-twenty years to become a man, -one-and-twenty years to gain strength of arm and firmness of will. I -allow you one-and-twenty years of youth, one-and-twenty years in which -to enjoy life, free of care. On your twenty-first birthday, if the good -and reverend Dr. Hirsch live, he will put this writing into your -hands. Should he be dead, others will see that you receive it. On your -twenty-first birthday you will be a boy no longer. You will recognize -yourself for a man. You will ask, ‘What is to be the aim, the -occupation of my life?’ You will read this writing, and your question -will be answered. Your father on the brink of the grave pauses to speak -to you as follows:— - -“In the name of , who in response to my prayers has saved your life, -who created you out of the dust and the ashes, who tore you from the -embrace of death and restored health to your shattered body for one -sole purpose, in Ins name I charge you: Find my enemy out and put him to -death. He is still a young man. He will scarcely be an old man when you -have become of age. It is a long time to wait, a long time to defer my -vengeance, one-and-twenty years, but so I believe has willed it. After -you have reached the age of one-and-twenty years, let that be the single -motive and object of your days: to find him out and put him to death by -the most painful mode of death you can devise. Do not strike him down -with one blow. Torture him to death. Pluck his flesh from his bones -shred by shred. Prolong his agony to the utmost. Thus shall you -compensate in some measure for the one-and-twenty years of delay. And -again and again as he is writhing under your heel, cry out to him, -‘Remember, remember the friend who loved you and whom you betrayed, -whose honey you turned to gall and wormwood.’ But, if meanwhile from -other causes death should have overtaken him, then shall you transfer -your anger to his next-of-kin; then, I charge you, visit the penalty -of his sin upon his children and his children’s children. For has not -decreed that the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children -even unto the third and fourth generations? The blood of Nicholas must -be spilled, whether it courses in his veins or in the veins of his -posterity. The race of Nicholas must be exterminated, obliterated from -the face of the earth. As you honor the wish of a dying father, as you -dread the wrath of , falter not in this that I command. Search the four -corners of the world until you have unearthed my enemy or his kindred. -Empty his blood upon the sand as you would the blood of swine. And -think, as he is calling out to you for mercy, think, ‘At last my -father’s revenge is wreaked! At last my father’s spirit can rest -content. Even now my father is in transports of delight as he witnesses -this fruition of his hope. At each thrust of my knife into our enemy’s -flesh, the heart of my father leaps with satisfaction. At each scream -of pain that escapes from our enemy’s throat, the voice of my father -waxes great with joy.’ - -“Ah, my son, at that mighty hour, whether I be confined in the bottom -fastnesses of hell or exalted to the mountain tops of paradise, I shall -know what is happening, I shall fling myself upon my face and sing a -song of praise to for the unspeakable rapture which he has permitted me -to enjoy. - -“My son, I trust you. You will not falter. You will remember that has -saved you from death for this solitary purpose, that you have no right -to your own life except as you employ it for the chastisement of my foe. -I have no fear. You will hate him with a hatred equal to my own. You -will wreak that hatred as I should have wreaked it, had my life been -spared. - -“I have no fear, no distrust, and yet—all things are possible. My -son, I warn you. In case you be faint-hearted, in case you recoil from -this mission you are charged with, or in case by any accident—though -will allow no such accident to happen—in case by any accident this -writing should fail to reach you, I shall be prepared. From my grave I -shall watch over you. From my grave I shall guide you. From my grave I -shall see to it that you do not neglect the duty of your life. Though -seas roll between you and him, I shall see to it that you two meet. - -“Though your heart be bound to him as to your own flesh and blood, I -shall see to it that you swerve not. And if he be dead, I shall see to -it that you are brought face to face with his kindred. Man, woman, or -child, spare neither. Young or old, able or feeble-bodied, let it matter -not. In case your strength desert you, in case your courage weaken, I -shall be at your side, I shall nerve your arm. If you hesitate, remember -that my spirit will possess your body and do what must be done in spite -of your hesitation. There will be no escape for you. As certainly as -the moon must follow the earth, so certainly will and must you, my son, -accomplish the purpose for which your life is given.—But falter not, -as you cherish the fair name of your mother, as you honor the desire, -as you fear the curse, of a dying father, as you hope for peace for your -own soul. - -“I have done. I think I have made every thing clear. Farewell. - -“Your father, Ernest Neuman. - -“I have written the above during my moments of strength for the last -four days. Now I have just read it over. I find that it but feebly -expresses all that I mean and feel. But will enlighten you as you read. -It is enough. I find also that I have omitted to mention his full name. -His name is Nicholas Pathzuol.” - - - - -XII. - -THE emotions that grew upon me, as I read my father’s message, need -not be detailed. How, as I painfully deciphered it, word following upon -word added steadily to the weight of those emotions, until at length it -seemed as though the burden was greater than I could bear, I need not -tell. Indeed, so engrossed had I become by what had gone before, that -the sense of the last line did not penetrate my mind. I leaned back in -my chair and drew a long breath like one exhausted by an effort beyond -his strength. I waited for the commotion of thought and feeling to quiet -a little. I was completely horror-stricken and tired out and bewildered. - -But by and by it occurred to me, “What did he say the man’s name -was?” And languidly I picked up the paper and read the postscript for -a second time. The next instant I was on my feet, rigid, aghast, for -consternation. What! - -Pathzuol! The name of Veronika! My head swam. It was as if I had -sustained a terrific blow between the eyes. Could it be that this -Pathzuol, the man who had dishonored my mother, the man whom my father -had commissioned me to murder, was her father? the father of her who had -indeed been murdered, and of whose murder I had been accused? The mere -possibility stunned and sickened me. It was the straw that broke the -camel’s back. I had been under a pretty tense nervous strain ever -since the reception of Tikulski’s letter in the afternoon. This last -utterly undid me. My muscles relaxed, my knees knocked together, the -perspiration trickled down my forehead. I went off into a regular fit of -weeping, like a woman. - -It was not long before Merivale entered. I looked up and saw him -standing over me, with a physiognomy divided between astonishment and -contempt. - -“Ah, Lexow,” he said, shaking his head, “I am surprised at you.” -Then his eyes grew stern, and he continued sharply, “Stop! Stop your -crying. You ought to be ashamed. Whatever new misfortune has befallen -you, you have no right to act like this. It is a man’s part to bear -misfortune silently. It is a school-girl’s or a baby’s to take on -in this fashion. Stop your crying, dry your eyes, and show what you are -made of. Grit your teeth and clench your fists and don’t open your -mouth till you are ready to behave like a reasonable being.” - -His words sobered me to some extent. - -“Well,” I said, “I am calm now. What do you want?” - -“If I should do what I want,” he answered, “you would not speedily -forget it. I should—but never mind that. What I want you to do is -to speak up like a man and explain the occasion of this rumpus, if you -can.” - -“Here, read this,” I said, offering him the paper. - -He took it, glanced at it, turned it this way and that, handed it -back. “How can I read it?” he said. “It’s German. Read it to -me.—Come, read it to me,” he repeated, as I hesitated. - -I gulped down my reluctance and read the whole thing through as rapidly -as I could in English. He sat across the table, smoking and drawing -figures in the ash-pan with the ashes of his cigarette. Once in a while -I heard him whistle softly to himself. He had thrown his last cigarette -aside and was biting his fingernails when the reading drew to a close. - -“No more?” he asked. - -“Isn’t that enough?” I rejoined. - -“Oh, I didn’t mean that. Oh, yes; that’s enough; and it’s pretty -bad too. But I expected something worse from the rough way you cut -up.” - -“Worse? In heaven’s name what could be worse? My mother dishonored, -my father broken hearted, and I marked out for a murderer, even from my -cradle? And then—” - -“I say it’s hard, deucedly hard. But inasmuch as you’re not a -murderer, you know, I wouldn’t let that side of the matter bother -me, if I were you. The bad part of the business is to think of how your -father’s happiness, your mother’s innocence, were destroyed. Think -how he must have suffered!” - -“But you haven’t listened, you haven’t understood the worst, yet. -Here, see his name—Pathzuol.” - -“Well, what of it?” - -“Why, don’t you remember? It is the same name as -hers—Veronika’s—my sweetheart’s.” - -“Decidedly!” exclaimed Merivale. “That is a startling coincidence, -I admit.” - -“Couple that with—with the rest of my father’s story and -with—with the—well, with all the facts—and I think you’ll -confess that it was sufficient to shake me up a bit. To come upon that -name at the end of such a letter, it was like being knocked down. I lost -my self-possession. Think! if he was her father! But, oh no; it isn’t -credible. It’s sheer accident, of course.” - -“Of course it is. The letter doesn’t say that he was even married. -I suppose there’s more than one Pathzuol in the world as well as more -than one Merivale. But all the same, it’s a coincidence of a sort to -stir a fellow up. I don’t wonder you lost your balance. Only, the -idea of boohooing like a woman! That’s inexcusable. Mercy! what a good -hater your father was! And what an unspeakable wretch, Nicholas!” - -“Yes,” I went on, “it gave me a pretty severe jolt, the sight of -that name; and I can’t seem to get over it. I don’t know why, but I -can’t help feeling as though there were more in this than either you -or I perceive, as though there were some deduction or other to be drawn -from it which is right within arm’s reach and yet which I can’t -grasp—some horrible corollary, you know. My brain is in a whirl, -I—I—” - -“You are quite unstrung, as it is natural you should be. But you -must exert your reason and put the stopper upon your imagination. Let -deductions and corollaries take care of themselves. Confine yourself to -the facts, and you’ll see that they’re not as bad as they might be, -after all. For example—” - -“But it is just the facts that perplex and horrify me. My father -destines me to be the murderer of Nicholas Pathzuol or of his next of -kin. All ignorant of this destiny, I meet and love a lady whose name is -Pathzuol—a name so rare that I had never heard it before, and have not -since, except in this writing to-day. My lady is murdered; and I, -though innocent, am suspected and accused of the crime. Add to this -my father’s threat to come back from the grave and use me as his -instrument, in case I hesitate or in case I never receive his letter; -and—well, it is like a problem in mathematics—given this and that, -to determine so and so. No, no, there’s no use denying it, this -strange combination of facts must have some awful meaning. It seems as -though each minute I was just on the point of catching it, and then as I -tighten my fingers around it, it escapes again and eludes me.” - -“Nonsense, man. You are yielding to your fancy, like a child who, -because he feels oppressed in the dark, conjures up ghosts and goblins, -and can not be persuaded that there are none about, till you light the -gas and show him that the room is empty. Come, light the gas of your -common sense! Recognize that your problem has no solution, none because -it is not a true problem, but merely a fortuitous arrangement of -circumstances which chances to bear a superficial resemblance to one. -Reduce your quasi problem to its simplest terms: thus, given x and y -and z, to find the value of b. Don’t you see that there’s no -connection?” - -“Oh, of course, I acknowledge that I can’t see any connection. -That’s just the trouble. I feel that there must be a connection—one -that I can’t see. If I could only see it, it wouldn’t be so bad. But -this perplexity, this——” - -“This fiddle-stick! You are resolved to distress yourself, and I -suppose it’s useless for me to labor with you. Only this much I will -say, that if you should bestow a little of the energy you are expending -in the effort to catch hold of a non-existent inference, upon sympathy -with your father’s unhappiness, I should have more respect for you. -They talk about suffering ennobling and chastening men, forsooth! So -far as you are concerned, suffering has done nothing but intensify -your natural egotism. For instance, after reading that letter of your -father’s, the first idea that strikes you is, ‘How does it affect -me, how am I concerned by it?’ whereas the spectacle of your father s -immense grief ought to have absorbed you to the exclusion of every thing -else, ought to have left no room in your mind for any other thought.” - -But for all Merivale could say by way either of appeal or of reprimand, -I was powerless to subdue that feeling which had begun to stir in my -breast. I recognized that I was unreasonable and selfish, but I was -also helpless. I could not get over the shock I had sustained when -Pathzuol’s name first took shape before my eyes. Every time I -remembered that moment—and it kept recurring to me in spite of -myself—my heart sank and my breath became spasmodic, as if I had been -confronted by a ghost. And then ensued that sensation of groping in -the dark after something invisible, unknown, yet surely there, hovering -within arm’s reach, but as elusive as a will-o’-the-wisp. I -struggled with this sensation, tried my utmost to shake it off, but it -sat like a monster on my heart. Its weight was deadly, its touch was -icy; it would not be dislodged. - -“It is true, all that you say, Merivale,” I returned at length. -“But the question is not one of what I ought to do; it is one of what -I can do. I know I ought to regard this matter in the same collected -spirit that you display; but it concerns me so intimately, you see, that -I can’t resist being somewhat perturbed. My wits, so to speak, have -been scattered by an unexpected blow. I shan’t be able to emulate your -sang-froid until they have got back to their proper places. I’m so -heated and upset that I don’t really know what I think or what I feel. -I guess perhaps I’d better go for a walk and cool off, and arrive at -an understanding with myself.” - -“The very worst thing you could possibly do—go away by yourself and -brood and get more and more morbid every minute. What you want is to -think of something else for a while, and then when you come back to this -subject you’ll be in a condition to regard it in its correct light. -Let’s—let’s play a game of cribbage, or read some Rossetti; or -suppose you fiddle a little?” - -“No, I feel the need of air and exercise. I’ll go out and take -a walk. I sha’n’. brood, I’ll reflect on the sensible things -you’ve said. Good-by.” - -I walked briskly through the streets, striving to collect my faculties, -striving to regain sufficient mental tranquillity to comprehend exactly -what the long and short of the whole business was. But the feeling that -there was something more in it than I could make out, intensified. It -would not be dispelled. The oftener I went over the circumstances, -the more significant they seemed.—Significant of what? Precisely the -question that I could not answer. The longer I allowed my mind to dwell -upon them, the more acute became that sensation of wrestling with a -problem, of groping for a something suspended near to me in the dark. My -father had destined me to be a murderer; the name of my intended victim -was Pathzuol; I had been engaged to a young lady of the same name, -very possibly the daughter of my father’s foe; she had indeed been -murdered, though not by my hand; and yet I, despite my innocence, had -been deemed guilty of the crime: this chain of facts kept passing over -and over before me. I felt that it must mean something; it could not be -purely fortuitous; there was a break, a missing link, which, if I could -but supply it, would make the hidden meaning clear. I walked the streets -all night, unable to fix my thoughts on any thing else. I said, “You -are merely wearing yourself out and getting your brains into a tangle: -try to divert your attention. Count up to a thousand. See how much you -can remember of the Moonlight Sonata. Conjugate a Hebrew verb. Do what -you will, only stop puzzling over this matter. As Merivale says, -when you have thought of something else for a while, you will be in a -condition to return to it with refreshed intelligence, and view it in -the right light.” But the next moment I was at it again, in greater -perplexity than ever. Of course, I succeeded in working myself up to -a high degree of nervousness: was as exhausted and as exasperated as -though I had spent an hour in futile attempts to thread a needle. - -But now it began to get light. The stillness of the night was broken, my -solitude was disturbed. - -Hosts of sparrows began to congregate upon the window sills, and their -busy twittering filled the air. First one steam-whistle blew in the -distance, then another nearer by, then another, and finally a chorus of -them: bells began to ring, wagons rattled over the pavement, the shrill -whoo-hoop of the milk-man resounded through the streets. The clatter of -footsteps became audible upon the sidewalk. - -People began to walk abroad. The sky turned from black to gray, from -gray to blue. Shutters were banged, doors slammed, windows thrown open: -housemaids with brooms and buckets appeared upon the stoops. Dawn had -arrived from across the Ocean with the smell of the sea-breeze still -clinging to her skirts. The city was waking to its feverish multifarious -life.—And the result was that I forgot myself—was penetrated and -exalted by that vague tremulous exhilaration which always accompanies -the first breath of morning. I expanded my lungs and inhaled the fresh -air and felt a glow of warmth and animation shoot through my limbs. - -“Ah,” I cried, “a truce to the blue devils! I will go home and -take up my regular life again, just as though this interruption had not -occurred.” - -I hurried back to our lodgings. Merivale was already up and dressed, -smoking a cigarette over the newspaper. - -“Hail!” I exclaimed. “I am glad to see you out of bed so early!” - -“I have not been abed since you left,” he answered. - -“Why not? What have you been doing?” - -“Thinking about you—about what can be done to make a man of you.” - -“Oh, you needn’t worry about that. I’m all right now. I -sha’n’. play the fool again, I promise you. I propose that we -sink the last four-and-twenty hours into eternal oblivion. What do you -say?” - -“Nothing would more delight me.” - -“Good! Let’s begin at the first cause. Where’s the manuscript? -We’ll set fire to it, and agree to believe that it never really -existed.” - -“No,” said Merivale, “I wouldn’t set fire to it—at least not -till it is manifest whether your present mood is merely a reaction from -your late one, or whether it is going to last. I will dispose of the -manuscript—see.” - -He found it on the table, opened the double cover of the box, restored -the papers to the place they had occupied formerly, and locked the box -up in the closet of his writing-desk. - -“There,” he said, “that’s the best thing to do. I’ll take care -of it. Some day you may have a little sympathy to waste on your father, -and then you’ll be glad this writing was not destroyed.” - -We had breakfast, and after the cups and saucers were cleared away, -applied ourselves to our ordinary forenoon occupation. It turned out -indeed that my good spirits were, as Merivale had suspected, to some -extent reactionary: but they left me sober rather than sad. I was -absent-minded and committed numberless blunders while my friend dictated -his poems: but I did not let my thoughts settle down again upon the -matters that had engaged them during the night. They simply wandered -about in a random way from one indifferent topic to another, as it is -the habit of thoughts to do when the thinker has not had his customary -allotment of sleep. Presently Merivale suspended his dictation, and -I waited passively for him to resume, supposing that he had reached a -point where reflection was necessary to further progress. His silence -continued. Pretty soon my eyelids dropped like leaden curtains over my -eyes, and my chin sank upon my breast. I was actually nodding. I started -up and pinched myself, ashamed of appearing drowsy. - -Lo! I perceived that my friend had met with the same mishap. He too was -nodding in his chair. For a moment we eyed each other sheepishly, each -endeavoring to feign wide wakefulness. Then Merivale rose and stretched -himself and laughed. - -“For my part I cast off the mask,” he cried. “I am sleepy and I am -going to bed. You’d better follow suit.” - -I needed no urging. We retired to our dormitory, and as speedily as was -practicable one of us at least fell into an unfathomable slumber. - - - - -XIII. - -I DON’. know how many hours afterward I awoke. Gradually, as -consciousness asserted itself, I realized that somebody was playing a -violin in the adjacent room: and at length it struck me that it must be -Merivale practicing. I pricked up my ears and hearkened. Oh, yes; he was -running over his part of the last new composition we had studied. The -clock-like tick-tack of his metronome marked the rhythm. I lay still and -listened till he had repeated the same phrase some twenty times. Finally -I got up and crossed the threshold that divided us. - -Merivale kept on playing for a minute or two, unaware of my intrusion. -Not till it behooved him to turn the page did he lift his eyes. Then, -encountering my night-robed figure,they lighted up with merriment. Their -owner lowered his instrument, remained silent for a moment, in the end -gave vent to an uproarious peal of laughter. - -“What are you laughing at?” I stammered. - -When he had got his hilarity somewhat under control he replied: “At -you. Come and gaze upon yourself.” And conducting me to a mirror he -said, pointing, “There, isn’t that a funny sight?” - -I looked sleepy, that was all. My hair was awry, and my eyes were heavy, -and my costume was a trifle wrinkled. Still, I suppose, my general -appearance was sufficiently ludicrous. Be that as it may, I could not -help joining in Merivale’s laughter: and, thus put into good humor at -the outset, I cheerfully complied with his request to hasten through my -toilet and “come and fiddle with him.” - -“Let’s start here,” he said, opening the book. - -We read for a while in concert. As usual my arm seemed to swing of its -separate will, I myself becoming all but comatose. By and by I perceived -that Merivale had discontinued and was seated at one side with his -instrument upon his knees. Then I perceived that I was no longer -following the book. I closed my eyes and listened. As usual I heard the -voice of my violin very much as though some other person had been the -performer. - -I found that I was playing a lot of bits from memory. I heard the light, -quick tread of a gavotte which I had learned as a boy and meantime -almost forgotten; I heard snatches from the chants the Chazzan sings in -the synagogue; I heard the Flower Song from Faust mixing itself up with -a recitative from Lohengrin. Then I heard the passionate wail of Chopin -become predominant: the exquisite melody of the Berceuse, motives from -Les Polonaises, and at length the impromptu in C-sharp minor—that to -which I have alluded in the early part of this narrative, as descriptive -of Veronika. Following it, came the songs that Veronika herself had been -most prone to sing, Bizet, Pergolese, Schumann, morsels of German folk -liede, old French romances. And ever and anon that phrase from the -impromptu kept recurring. Every thing else seemed to lead up to it. It -terminated a brilliant passage by Liszt. It cropped out in the middle of -a theme from the Meistersinger. And with its every new recurrence, the -picture of Veronika which it pre sented to my imagination grew more -life-like and palpable, until ere long it was almost as though I saw -her standing near me in substantial objective form. As I have said, I -scarcely realized that it was I who played. Except for the sensation -along my wrist as the bow bit the catgut, I believe I should have quite -forgotten it. But now abruptly, without the least volition upon my -part, my arm acquired a fresh vigor. The voice of my violin increased in -volume. The character of the music underwent a change. From a medley of -fragments it turned to a coherent, continuous whole. Note succeeded -note in natural and inevitable sequence. I tried to recognize the -composition. I could not. It was quite unfamiliar to me. Odd, because of -course at some time I must have practiced it again and again. Otherwise -how had I been able to play it now? It flowed from the strings without -hitch or hesitancy. Yet my best efforts to place it were ineffectual. -Doubly odd, because it was no ordinary composition. It had a striking -individuality of its own. - -It began with laughter-provoking scherzo, as dainty as the pattering -of April rain-drops, as riotous as the frolicking of children let loose -from school; which, by degrees tempering to a quieter allegro, presently -modulated into the minor, and necessarily, therefore, became plaintive -and sentimental. For a while bar succeeded bar, fitful and undetermined, -as if groping blindly for a climax. Next, a quick, fluttering crescendo, -and an exultant major chord. This completed the first movement. The -second began pianissimo upon the A and E strings, an allegretto full of -placid contentment; again, a minor modulation; again, blind groping for -a climax, this time more strenuous than before, tinged by a passion, -impelled by an insatiable desire; adagio on G and D, still minor; then -a swift return to major, a leap of the bow and fingers back to A and E, -and on these latter strings a rhapsody expressive of the utmost possible -human joy. Third movement andante, sober but still joyous; the music, -which hitherto had been restless and destitute of an apparent aim, -seemed to have caught a purpose, to have gained substance and confidence -in itself. - -It proceeded in this wise for several periods, when sharply, without -the faintest warning, it broke into a discordant shriek of laughter, the -laughter of a demon whose evil designs had triumphed. - -Though I had not recognized the composition, up to this point I had -understood it perfectly. Its intrinsic lucidity carried the intelligence -along. But henceforward I was mystified. The reason for the violent -change of theme, time, and quality, I could not divine; nor could I -appreciate, either, how the subsequent effects were produced or what -they were meant to signify. My impression was, as I have said, that the -laughter which my violin seemed to be echoing was demoniac laughter, the -outburst of a Satan over his success, of a Succubus fastening upon his -prey. Yet the next instant I was doubtful whether it was indeed laughter -at all? Was it not perhaps the hysterical sobbing of a human being -frenzied by grief? And again the next instant neither of these -conceptions appeared to be the correct one. Was it not rather -a chorus?—a chorus of witches?—plotting some fiendish -atrocity?—chuckling over a vicious pleasantry?—now, whispering -amicably together, now wrangling ferociously, now uniting in -blood-curdling screams of delight? Whatever it might be, I could not -penetrate its sense. I listened with deepening perplexity. I wished it -would come to an end. But it did not occur to me to stop my arm and lay -aside my bow. The music went on and on—until Merivale caught me by the -shoulder and snatched my violin from my grasp. He was speaking. - -The descent back to earth was too abrupt. It took me some time to gather -myself together. “Eh—what were you saying?” I asked at last. - -“I was saying, stop! Consider a fellow’s nervous system. Where in -the name of Lucifer did you learn that infernal music? Whom is it by?” - -“Oh,” I answered, “oh, I don’t know whom it is by.” - -“It out-Berliozes Berlioz,” he added. “Is it his?” - -“Perhaps. I don’t remember. I am tired. Let me rest a moment without -talking.” - -“Well,” he continued, “it was a terrible strain to listen to it. I -am quite played out—feel as if—forgive the comparison—as if I -had spent the last hour in a dentist’s chair. However, for relief’s -sake, let’s go to dinner. Are you aware that we haven’t eaten any -thing since early morning?” - -After dinner Merivale insisted that we should take a long walk “to -shake out the kinks,” and after the long walk we were tired enough to -return to our pillows. - -I went straight to sleep; but my sleep was troubled. As soon as Merivale -had said goodnight and extinguished the gas, memory began to repeat the -music I had played. I heard it throughout my sleep. Every little while -I would wake up and try to banish it by fixing my attention on other -matters. But it kept thrumming away in my brain despite myself. I could -not silence it. Merivale’s reference to a dentist’s chair was, if -inelegant, at least a graphic one. I got as hopelessly irritated as I -could have done with a score of dentists simultaneously grinding at my -teeth. My very arteries seemed to be beating to its rhythm. - -In one fit of wakefulness, that lasted longer than its predecessors -had done, I found myself unconsciously tattooing it upon the wall at my -bed’s head. - -“Is that you?” Merivale’s voice demanded from out of the darkness. - -“Yes,” I replied. “Aren’t you asleep?” - -“Mercy, no. That music you played—or rather, stray fragments of it, -keep running through my brain. I haven’t been able to sleep for a long -while.” - -“That’s singular. It affects me the same way. I was just drumming it -on the wall. I’ve been trying to get rid of it all night.” - -“It has wonderful staying powers, for a fact. I’m glad you’re -awake, though. Companionship in misery is sweet.” - -“Yes, I also feel rather more comfortable now that you have spoken. Do -you know, it’s an immense puzzle to me, that music? I can’t imagine -where or when I ever learned it. And yet it is not the sort of thing one -would be apt to forget. I can’t recognize the style even, can’t get -a clew to the composer.” - -“The style is emphatically that of Berlioz.” - -“Perhaps so. But it can’t be by Berlioz, because I never learned any -thing by Berlioz at all.” - -“Hum!” A pause. Then, “Say, Lexow—” - -“Well?” - -“It isn’t possible that it’s original, is it?” - -“Original? How do you mean?” - -“Why, an improvisation—a little thing of your own.” - -“Oh, no; oh, no, I never improvise—at least an entire composition, -like that. Nobody does. It bears all the marks of careful workmanship. -It must be something well-known that has temporarily slipped from my -memory. It’s too striking not to be well-known. Tomorrow I’ll go -through my music and find it; and I’ll wager it will turn out to be -quite familiar. Only, it’s extremely odd that I can’t place it.” - -“Why wait till to-morrow?” - -“Why, we can’t begin to-night, can we?” - -“Why not? I say, let’s begin right off. The cursed thing is keeping -us awake, and there doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. We may as -well utilize our wakefulness, as lie here doing nothing but toss about. -I say, let’s light the gas and go to work.” - -“Oh, well, I’m agreeable. The sooner the better as far as I’m -concerned.” - -“Good,” cried Merivale. - -He sprang out of bed and lighted the gas. - -“Shall Mahomet go to the mountain or shall the mountain come to -Mahomet?” he inquired, blinking his eyes. - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean shall we dress and adjourn to the other room? Or shall I bring -your musical library in here, so that we can conduct our investigation -without getting up?” - -“Just as you please,” I answered. - -“Well, we’ll move the mountain, then,” he said, and left the room. - -He made two or three trips, back and forth, bearing an armful of music -as the fruit of each. The last folios deposited on the floor, “Now, as -to method,” he inquired, “how shall we start? It will occupy us till -doom’s-day if we undertake to go through the whole of this. I suppose -there are some composers we can eliminate à priori, eh?” - -“Oh, yes; Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Liszt, in particular, we -needn’t trouble with. I’d keep an especially sharp eye out for -Ruben-stein and Dvorak and Winiauski. It’s fortunate that I’ve -preserved all the music I’ve ever owned. We can’t miss it if we’re -only patient enough.” - -“Well, here goes,” he cried, thrusting a thick pile of music into my -hands, and apportioning an equal amount to himself. - -We were industrious. It is needless that I should tarry with the -incidents of our search. At daybreak we had not yet quite finished, and -we had not yet struck any thing that bore the slightest resemblance to -the composition in question. - -“But little remains,” said Merivale. “In another five minutes we -will have found it; or my first hypothesis was true.” - -“Your first hypothesis?” I inquired. - -“Yes—that it was original—a lucubration of your own.” - -“Oh, that, I tell you, isn’t possible. I’m not vain enough to -imagine that I could improvise in such style, thank you.” - -“Well, we won’t enter into a dispute, at any rate not till our -present line of investigation is exhausted. Back to the saddle!” - -For a space we were silent. - -“Eh bien, mon brave!” cried Merivale at length. “There goes the -last of my half,” and he sent a sheet of music fluttering through the -air. - -“And here is the last of mine,” I responded, laying down -Schumann’s Warum. - -“And we are still in the dark.” - -“Still in the dark.” - -“It isn’t possible that we have overlooked it?” - -“I’m sure I haven’t. I took pains with each separate page.” - -“Likewise, I! Therefore. I congratulate you. I’ll order a laurel -wreath at the florist’s, the first thing after breakfast.” - -“Nonsense! How many times need I tell you that I could not by hook or -crook have made it up as I went along? The mere notion is ridiculous. It -must have got lost, that’s all.” - -“On the contrary, the notion that you once learned it, then forgot -it, then played it off without a fault from beginning to end, is trebly -ridiculous. It was ridiculous of us to waste our time hunting for it, -also. I am entirely convinced that it is yours. Why not? Ideas have come -to other people—why not to you? Yesterday while you played, you were -excited and wrought up, and the result was that you had an inspiration. -By Jove, you’re lucky! It’s enough to make you famous.” - -“But, Merivale, fancy the absurdities you are uttering. Do you -seriously suppose anybody—even a regular composer—could take up his -fiddle and reel off a complicated thing like that without once halting? -Why, man, there are four or five distinct movements. You might as well -pretend that a mere elocutionist could write an intricate epic poem -without once pausing to make an erasure or find a rhyme, as that I, a -simple instrumentalist, could have done this.” - -“Well, there’s only oneway of settling the matter. We’ll refer it -to an authority. You jot down a few specimen bars on paper, and I’ll -submit it to your friend, Dr. Rodolph. Of course he will identify it at -once, if it isn’t yours.” - -“If that will satisfy you, well and good,” I assented. - -In the course of the forenoon, Merivale, having procured a stock of -music-paper at a shop in the neighborhood, said, “I don’t know how -rapidly a man can write music, but if it isn’t too slow work, I’d -seriously counsel you to put down the whole thing, while you’re about -it. In fact I’d counsel you to do so any how. If by hazard it is -original, you know, you’d better make a memorandum of it while it’s -still fresh in your mind. Otherwise you might forget it. That often -happens to me. A bright idea, a felicitous turn of phraseology, occurs -to me when I’m away somewhere—in the horse-cars, at the theater, -paying a call, or what-not—and if I don’t make an instant minute -of it in my note-book, it’s sure to fly off and never be heard from -again.” - -“We’ll see,” I returned. “I haven’t written a bar of music for -such a long while that I don’t know how hard I shall find it. But -I used to make a daily practice of writing from memory, because it -increases one’s facility for sight-reading.” - -I hummed the first two or three phrases softly to myself, beating time -with my fingers; then drew up to the writing-table and commenced to set -them down. At the outset I had considerable difficulty, was obliged, -so to speak, to spell my way along note by note, and committed several -blunders which I had to go back to and correct. But gradually my path -grew smoother and smoother, until I was no longer conscious of effort; -and at last I became so much absorbed and so much interested by what I -was doing, that my hand sped across the paper like a machine performing -the regular function for which it was contrived. I suppose mental -activity always begets mental exhilaration; and that mental exhilaration -in turn, when allowed to attain too high a pitch, always approaches the -borderland of its antipode, on the principle that extremes meet. At any -rate such was my experience in the present instance. At first, both -mind and fingers were sluggish and moved laboriously. Then mind got into -running order, and fingers lagged behind; then fingers caught up with -mind, and for a while the two kept pace; then, finally, fingers spurted -ahead and it was mind’s turn to acknowledge itself left in the rear. -Mental exhilaration gave place to bewilderment, as I saw that my hand -was forging along faster than my thought could dictate, in apparent -obedience to an independent will of its own—which bewilderment ripened -into thoroughgoing mystification, as the hand dashed forward and -back like a shuttle in a loom, with a velocity that seemed ever to be -increasing. I had precisely the sensation of a man who has started to -run down a hill, and whose legs have acquired such a momentum that -he can not stop them: on and on he must submit to be borne until some -outside obstacle interferes, even though a yawning chasm await him -at the bottom. Toward the end I scarcely saw the paper on which I was -writing; I am sure I saw nothing of the matter that I wrote. I said to -myself, “Of course you will find that all this stuff is incoherent and -meaningless when you get through.” But I waited passively till my hand -should get through of its own accord, I made no endeavor to draw the -rein upon it. Eventually it came to a standstill with a round turn. I -was quite winded. I needed leisure in which to recover my equilibrium. - -Merivale—of whose presence I had become oblivious—crossed over and -began gathering the scattered sheets of paper from the table. The sight -of him helped to bring me to myself. - -“Well,” I said, “there it is. I don’t suppose you can read it. I -got so excited I hardly knew what I was about.” - -“That’s all right,” he answered reassuringly. “I’m much -obliged to you for the trouble you’ve taken. But what,” he added -abruptly, “but what is all this that you have written?” - -“Why, what do you fancy? The music, of course, that you asked me -to.” - -“No, no; I mean this writing, this text, with which you have wound -up?” - -“Writing? Text? What are you driving at?” - -“Why, here—this,” he said handing me the paper. - -“Mercy upon me!” I exclaimed, thoroughly amazed. “I was not aware -that I had written any thing.” - -The last half dozen pages were covered with written words—blotted, -scrawling, scarcely decipherable, but unmistakably written words. - -“Well, certainly, this is most astonishing. Whatever it is, I have -written it unawares.” - -I dropped the manuscript and leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded by -this latest development. - -“Here,” said Merivale, “is the point where the music ends and the -words begin.” - -The music ended, the words began, just at that point where last night -the shriek of malevolent laughter had interfered with the current of -melody. From that point to the bottom of the last page not another bar -of music was discernible—not a note of the incomprehensible witches’ -chorus—simply words, words that I dared not read. - -“This is magic, this is ghost-work,” I said. “It appalls me. -Look at it, Merivale. Does it make sense? Or is it simply a mass of -scribbling without rhyme or reason?” - -“Ye-es,” rejoined Merivale slowly, “it seems to make sense. The -penmanship is pretty blind, but the words appear to hang together. It -begins, ‘I walked re—re—reluctantly’—next word very -bad—’I walked reluctantly—reluctantly—away’—oh yes, that’s -it—’away—from the house. By Jove, this is singular! Shall I go -on?” - -“Yes, go on,” I said faintly. There was panic in my heart. - -Merivale continued, picking his way laboriously. The following is what -he read. - - - - -XIV. - -I WALKED reluctantly away from the house after I saw her light put out. -I hated so to leave her that it was as if a chain and ball had been -attached to my ankle. I had reached a point on Second avenue about half -the distance home when I halted. I had begun to feel sick. Suddenly my -ears had begun to ring, my head to swim. I clutched at a lamppost to -keep from falling. The ringing in my ears became louder and louder—a -roar like that of a strong wind. A deathly nausea overcame me. I thought -I was going to faint, perhaps to die. I held on to the lamp-post and -tried to call out for help. I could not utter the slightest sound; my -tongue clove to the roof of my mouth as it does in nightmare. I seemed -to be growing weaker with every breath. The noise in my ears was like an -unbroken peal of thunder. My brain went spinning around and around as if -it had been caught in a whirlpool. Then all at once my breath began to -come in quick short gasps like the breath of a panting dog or like the -breath of a person who has taken laughing-gas. I closed my eyes and for -how long I know not clung to the lamp-post, waiting for this internal -upheaval to reach its climax. By degrees my breath returned to its -normal state; the uproar in my ears subsided; my brain got quiet again. -I felt as well as ever, only a bit startled, a bit shaky in the legs. I -thought, ‘You have had an attack of vertigo, a half fainting-fit. Now -you would best hurry home.’ But—but to my unmingled consternation -my body refused to act in response to my will. I was puzzled. I tried -again. Useless. - -I had absolutely no control over my muscles. Experiment proved that I -could not move a finger; experiment proved that I could not put forth my -foot and take a step. I was horrified. Ah, I thought, this is a stroke -of paralysis. For a second time I attempted to summon help. For a second -time my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. - -But if all this horrified me, how much more horrified was I the moment -after, when, in entire independence of my will, that body of mine which -I had fancied paralyzed began to act of its own accord! began to march -briskly off in a direction exactly opposite to that which I wished to -follow! If I had been puzzled before, how much more hopelessly puzzled -was I now! Experiment proved that I was as powerless to stop myself at -present, as an instant since I had been to set myself in motion. I was -appalled. I knew not what this phenomenon was due to or what it might -lead to. It seemed precisely as though the chords connecting my mind and -body had been severed, as though the will of another person had become -the reigning occupant of my frame. A thousand frightful possibilities -flashed upon my imagination. With this utter incompetency to govern my -own movements, God knew what might happen. I might walk into the river; -or I might—I might commit some irretrievable wrong. Helpless and -irresponsible as I was, I might accomplish that which all the rest of my -days I should repent. - -Meanwhile I had moved on, until now I halted again. I looked around. I -was in front of Veronika’s house. I crossed the street, picked my -way through the people who were seated upon the stoop, mounted the -staircase, and rang Veronika’s bell, wondering constantly what the -cause and what the upshot of this adventure might be, and powerless to -assert the least influence over my physical acts. - -“Veronika’s voice sounded from behind the door, ‘Is that you, -uncle?’ - -“‘No, it is I, my tongue replied of its own volition. - -“The door opened. I saw Veronika with the knob in her hand. She looked -surprised. My impulse was to take her in my arms and explain to her -the strange accident that had befallen me. I could not. I had no more -control over my body than I had over hers. - -“Veronika closed the door. She glanced up at my face. Her eyes filled -with fear. - -“‘Why, Ernest,’ she cried, ‘what is it? What is the matter? Why -do you look like this?’ - -“I paused to collect my utmost strength, then tried to speak. Total -failure. Tried to reassure her with my eyes. Total failure: eyes as -uncontrollable as the rest of my person. But impelled by that other will -which had usurped the place of mine, I approached her and asked, ‘What -is your name?’ It was my voice, but it was not I, that asked the -question. - -“‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Veronika besought, ‘don’t act like -this. Oh, my Ernest, what terrible joke are you playing? Don t make me -think that you have gone mad.’ - -“‘What is your name?’ my voice repeated, stonily. - -“‘My name? What can you mean? Oh God, what has come over my -beloved?’ - -“Her face was pale, her eyes were full of anguish. And I—I was -impotent to comfort her. My heart went out to her with a great bound of -love; but I was in irons, chained down, compelled to witness, forbidden -to interfere with the action of this awful drama. For a third time my -tongue repeated, ‘Your name—tell me your name.’ - -“‘My name?’ she gasped. ‘You know my name—Veronika. See, -don’t you recognize me, Ernest? I am Veronika, whom you are going to -marry. Oh, my loved one, you are ill. What can I do to make you well?’ - -“‘Tell me your surname,’ I said. - -“‘My surname—why, Pathzuol. Oh, Ernest, say you know me.’ - -“‘And your father’s name?’ - -“‘My father—his name was Nicholas—but he is dead—died when I -was a little girl. Oh, God, what does this mean?’ - -“‘Enough; come with me,’ said the devil whose victim I had become. - -“I grasped her wrist and led her down the hallway. If Veronika was -terrified, her terror could not have equaled mine. What deed was I now -bent upon committing? She followed me passively. The expression of -her eyes made my soul ache within me. How I longed to speak to her and -soothe her. How I longed to step between her and myself, to protect her -from this maniac in whose power she was. To be obliged to stand by and -see this thing enacted—imagine the agony I suffered. - -“I led her down the hallway and into the dining-room. Then I released -her wrist, and crossed over to the sideboard. I opened the sideboard -drawer and took out a long, keen knife. I tried the point and the edge -of the knife upon my thumb. - -“‘Are you—are you going to kill me, Ernest?’ I heard Veronika -ask, very low. - -“‘Yes, I am going to kill you. Lead the way to your bed-chamber.’ - -“Veronika’s hand clutched convulsively at her breast. She said -nothing. She moved slowly back into the hall and thence into her -bedroom, I following. - -“‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop and think what you are doing,’ she -cried out suddenly, turning and facing me at the threshold of her room. -‘Think, Ernest, that it is I, Veronika, whom you are going to kill. -Think, oh my loved one, think how you will suffer if ever you come to -and realize what you have done. Oh, is there no way for me to bring him -to himself!’ - -“Presently she continued, ‘But tell me first what I have done.—Oh, -I can not bear to die until I know that you don’t suspect me of having -wronged you in any way. Oh, Ernest, oh, if you would only speak one -word. Oh, my darling, do not kill me without speaking to me. Oh God, oh -God! Oh, there, there, he is going to kill me; he will not speak to me. -Oh, what have I done? Ernest, Ernest! Wake up—stop your arm—don’t -strike me. Oh God, God, God!’ - -“After it was over I dried my hands upon my handkerchief, turned out -the gas in the hall, locked the door on the outside, put the key into my -pocket, and went away.” - -What remains for me to tell? The above is what Merivale read to me. The -above is what I had written. Could I doubt its truth? I did not, I do -not, at any rate. - -I am informed that a man once tried for murder and acquitted can not, as -the lawyers put it, can not be placed in jeopardy again. But I am enough -of a Jew to believe in eye for eye and tooth for tooth. I shall see to -it that I do not escape that penalty which the law would have imposed -upon me, had the facts I am now aware of come out at my trial. I -shall see to it that the murderer of Veronika Pathzuol meets with the -punishment which his crime demands. - -It has taken me a week to write out this account. I want the public to -have it. No need to analyze the motives that prompt this wish. I -shall confide the MS. to my friend Merivale with directions that it be -printed. - -I do not think of any thing more that needs to be said. - - -THE END. - - - - - - - - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of As It Was Written, by -Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AS IT WAS WRITTEN *** - -***** This file should be named 52704-0.txt or 52704-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/7/0/52704/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - - - -Title: As It Was Written - A Jewish Musician's Story - -Author: Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska - -Release Date: August 2, 2016 [EBook #52704] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AS IT WAS WRITTEN *** - - - - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<div style="height: 8em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h1> - AS IT WAS WRITTEN - </h1> - <h2> - A Jewish Musician’s Story - </h2> - <h2> - By Henry Harland (AKA Sidney Luska) - </h2> - <h4> - Cassell & Company, Limited 739 & 741 Broadway, New York. - </h4> - <h3> - 1885 - </h3> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0001" id="linkimage-0001"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0001.jpg" alt="0001 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0001.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0002" id="linkimage-0002"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0007.jpg" alt="0007 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0007.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - <b>CONTENTS</b> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> AS IT WAS WRITTEN. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0001a"> I. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> II. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0003"> III. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> IV. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> V. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> VI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> VII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> VIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> IX. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> X. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> XI. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> XII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> XIII. </a> - </p> - <p class="toc"> - <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> XIV. </a> - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - AS IT WAS WRITTEN. - </h2> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0001a" id="link2H_4_0001a"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - I. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">V</span>ERONIKA PATHZUOL - was my betrothed. I must give some account of the circumstances under - which she and I first met each other, so that my tale may be clear and - complete from the beginning. - </p> - <p> - For a long while, without knowing why, I had been restless—hungry, - without knowing for what I hungered. Teaching music to support myself, I - employed all of the day that was not thus occupied in practicing on my own - behalf. My life consequently was a solitary one, numbering but few - acquaintances and not any friends. In my short intervals of leisure I was - generally too tired to seek out society; I was too obscure and unimportant - to be sought out in turn. Yet, young and of an ardent temperament, - doubtless it was natural that I should have been dimly conscious of - something wanting; and, not prone to selfanalysis, doubtless it was also - natural that I should have had no distinct conception of what the wanting - something was. Besides, it would soon be summer. The soft air and bright - sunshine of spring awoke a myriad vague desires in my heart. I strove in - vain to understand them. They were all the more poignant because they had - no definite object. Twenty times a day I would catch myself heaving a - mighty sigh; but asking, “What are you sighing for?” I had to answer, “Who - can tell?” My thoughts got into the habit of wandering away would fly off - to cloud-land at the most inopportune moments. While my pupils were - blundering through their exercises their master would fall to thinking of - other things—afterward impossible to remember what. From morning to - night I went about with a feeling of expectancy—an event was - impending—presently a change would come over the tenor of my life. I - waited anxiously, on the alert for its first premonitory symptom. - </p> - <p> - I had taken to strolling through the streets at evening. One delicious - night in May, I found myself leaning over the terrace at the eastern - extremity of Fifty-first street. The moon had just risen, a huge red disk, - out of the mist and smoke across the river, and was turning the waves to - burnished copper. Through the open windows of the neighborhood escaped the - sounds of quiet talk, of laughter, of piano playing. Now and then a low - dark shape, with a single bright light gleaming like a jewel at its side, - and spars and masts sharply outlined against the sky, slipped silently - past upon the water. The atmosphere was quick with the warmth and the - scent of spring. I stood there motionless, penetrated by the unspeakable - beauty of the scene. The moon climbed higher and higher, and gradually - exchanged its ruddy tint for its ordinary metallic blue. By and by - somebody with a sweet soprano voice, in one of the nearest houses, began - to sing the <i>Ave Maria</i> of Gounod. The impassioned music seemed made - for the time and place. It caught the soul of the moment and gave it - voice. I could feel my heart swelling with the crescendo: and then how it - leaped and thrilled when the singer reached that glorious climax of the - song, “<i>Nunc et in hora mortis nostrae!</i>” At that instant, as if - released from a spell, I drew a long breath and looked around. Then for - the first time I saw Veronika Pathzuol. Her eyes and mine met for the - first time. - </p> - <p> - “A lady, young, tall, beautiful, strange, and sad”—and pale. Her - face was pale, like an angel’s. The wealth of black hair above it and the - dark eyes that gazed sadly out of it rendered the pallor more intense. But - it was not the pallor of ill-health; it was the pallor of a luminous white - soul. As I beheld her standing there in the moonlight scarcely a yard away - from me, I knew all at once what it was my heart had craved for so long a - while. I knew at once, by the sudden pain that pierced it, that my heart - had been waiting for this lady all its life. I did not stop to reflect and - determine. Had I done so, most likely—nay, most certain-ly—I - should never have had to tell this story. The words flew to my tongue and - were spoken as soon as thought.—“Oh, how beautiful, how beautiful!” - I exclaimed, meaning her. - </p> - <p> - “Very beautiful,” I heard her voice, clear and soft, respond. “It is - almost a pain, the feeling such intense beauty gives,”—meaning the - scene before us. - </p> - <p> - “And yet this is every-day, hum-drum, commercial New York,” added another - voice, one that jarred upon my hearing like the scraping of a contre-bass - after a cadenza by the flute. She was leaning on the arm of a man. I was - at the verge of being straightway jealous, when I observed that his hair - and beard were snowy and that his face was wrinkled. - </p> - <p> - We got into conversation without ceremony. Nature had introduced us. Our - common appreciation of the loveliness round about broke the ice and - provided a topic for speech. After her first impulsive utterance, Veronika - said little. But the old man was voluble, evidently glad of the - opportunity to express his ideas to a new person. And I was more than glad - to listen, because while doing so I could gaze upon her face to my heart’s - content. - </p> - <p> - Something that I had said, in reply to a remark of his upon the singing of - the <i>Ave</i>, caused him to ask, “Ah, you understand music? You are a - musician—yes?” - </p> - <p> - “I play the violin,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “Do you hear, Veronika?” he cried. “Our friend plays the violin! My dear - sir, you must do us the favor of playing for us before we part. Do not be - surprised—pay no heed to the formalities. Is not music a - free-masonry? Come, you shall try your skill upon an Amati. Such an - evening as this must have an appropriate ending. Come.” - </p> - <p> - Without allowing me time to protest, had I been disposed to do so, he - grasped my arm and started off. He kept on talking as we marched along. I - had no attention for what he said. My mind was divided between delight at - my good-fortune, and query as to what its upshot would be. We had not far - to go. A few doors to the west of First avenue he turned up a stoop. It - was a modest apartment-house. We climbed to the topmost story and stood - still in the dark while he fumbled for a match. Then he lighted the gas - and said, “Sit down.” The room was bare and cheerless. A chromo or two - sufficed to decorate the walls. The furniture—a few chairs and a - center-table—was stiff and shabby. The carpet was threadbare. - </p> - <p> - But a piano occupied a corner; and the floor, the table, and the chairs - were littered thick with music. So I felt at home. As I look back at that - meager little parlor now, it is transformed into a sanctuary. There the - deepest moments of two lives were spent. Yet to-day strangers dwell in it; - come and go, laugh and chatter, eat, drink, and make merry between its - walls, all unconcernedly, never pausing to bestow a thought upon the sad, - sweet lady whose presence once hallowed the place, whose tears more than - once watered the floor over which they tread with indifferent footsteps. - </p> - <p> - The old man lighted the gas and said, “Sit down,” making obedience - possible by clearing a chair of the music it held. Then scrutinizing my - face: “You are a Jew, are you not?” he inquired, in his quick, nervous - way. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I said, “by birth.” - </p> - <p> - “And by faith?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I am not orthodox, not a zealot.” - </p> - <p> - “Your name?” - </p> - <p> - “Neuman—Ernest Neuman.” - </p> - <p> - “And mine, Tikulski—Baruch. You see we are of one race—<i>the</i> - race—the chosen race! Neither am I orthodox. I keep <i>Yom Kippur</i>, - to be sure, but I have no conscientious scruples against shell-fish, and - indeed the ‘succulent oyster’ is especially congenial to my palate. This,” - with a wave of the hand toward Veronika, “this is my niece, Miss Pathzuol—P-a-t-h-z-u-o-1—pronounced - Patchuol—Hungarian name. Her mother was my sister.” - </p> - <p> - Veronika dropped a courtesy. Her eyes seemed to plead, “Do not laugh at my - uncle. He is eccentric; but be charitable.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, Veronika, show Mr. Neuman your music and find something that you can - play together. I will go fetch the violin.” - </p> - <p> - The old man left the room. - </p> - <p> - “What will you play?” asked Veronika. Her voice quavered. She was timid, - as indeed it was natural she should be. - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know,” I said, my own voice not as firm as I could have wished. - “What have you got?” - </p> - <p> - We commenced at the top of a big pile of music and had settled upon the - prize song from the Meistersinger—not then as hackneyed as it is at - present, not then the victim of every passable amateur—when Mr. - Tikulski came back. It was in truth an Amati that he brought. The - discolored, half obliterated label within said so—but the label - might have lied. The strong, tense, ringing tone that it emitted in - response to the <i>A</i> which Veronika gave me said so also—and - that did not lie. I played as best I could. Rather, the music played - itself. With a violin under my chin, I lapse into semi-consciousness, lose - my identity. Another spirit impels my arm, pouring itself out through the - voice of my instrument. Not until silence is restored do I realize that I - have been the performer. While the music is going on my personality is - annihilated. With the final note I seem to “come, to,” as one does from a - trance. - </p> - <p> - When I came to this time it was to be embraced by my host with an - effusiveness that overwhelmed me. “Ah, you are a true musician,” he cried, - releasing me from his arms. “You have the inspiration. Veronika, speak, - tell him how nobly he has played.” - </p> - <p> - “I can’t speak, I can’t tell him,” answered Veronika, “it has taken away - all power of speech.” But she gave me a glance, allowed her eyes to stay - with mine for a long moment. A fire had been smoldering in my breast from - the first; at these words, at this glance, it burst into flame. A great - light inundated my soul. I felt the arteries tingling to my very finger - tips. I started tuning up, to hide my emotion. Then we played the march - from Raff’s Lenore. - </p> - <p> - I am afraid my agitation marred the effect of Raffs diamatic composition. - At any rate, the plaudits were faint when I had done. After a breathing - spell Mr. Tikulski told Veronika to sing. She played her own accompaniment - while I stood by to turn. - </p> - <p> - It would be useless for me to try to qualify her singing. Whatever - critical faculty I had was stricken dumb. I can only say that she sang a - song in French (an old, old romance, till then unfamiliar to me; so old - that the composer’s name has been forgotten) in a splendid contralto - voice, and that it seemed as if she was playing upon the inmost tissue of - my life, so keenly I felt each note. I quite forgot to turn the page at - the proper place, and Veronika had to prompt me. It was a little thing, - and yet I remember as vividly as if from yesterday the nod of the head and - the inflection with which she said, “Turn, please.” - </p> - <p> - “‘<i>Le temps fait passer l’amour</i>,’.rdquo; repeated Mr. Tikulski: it was the - last line of the song. “Veronika, bring some wine. <i>Le vin fait passer - le temps</i>,” and he chuckled at his joke. Another small thing that I - remember vividly is how Tikulski, as she left the room, posed his - forefinger upon his Adam’s-apple and said, “She carries a ‘cello here.” - </p> - <p> - He went on to this effect:—Veronika, as I already knew, was his - niece. He also was a violinist: more than that, he was a composer, though - as yet unpublished. With the self-conceit too characteristic of musical - people, he told me how he was engaged upon “an epoch-making symphony”—had - been engaged upon it for the last dozen years, would be engaged upon it - for the dozen years to come. Then the world should have it, and he, not - having lived in vain, would die content. Veronika was now one-and-twenty. - During her childhood he had played in an orchestra and arranged - dance-music and done other hackwork to earn money for her maintenance and - education. She had received the best musical training, instrumental and - vocal, that could be had in New York. Now he had turned the tables. Now he - did nothing but compose—reserved all his time and strength for his - masterpiece. Veronika had become the breadwinner. She taught on an average - seven hours a day. She sang regularly in church and synagogue, and at - concerts and musicals whenever she got a chance.—Veronika reentered - the room bearing cakes and wine. She sat down near to us, and I forgot - every thing in the contemplation of her beautiful, sad, strange face. Her - eyes were bottomless. Far, far in their liquid depths the spirit shone - like a star. All the history of Israel was in her glance. - </p> - <p> - Every touch of constraint had vanished from her bearing. She spoke with me - as with one whom she knew well. I could scarcely believe that only an hour - ago we had been ignorant of each other’s existence. We discussed music and - found that our tastes were in accord. We compared notes on teaching and - exchanged anecdotes about our respective pupils. She said among other - things that more than half the money she earned her uncle sent to Germany - for the relief of his widowed sister and her offspring, who were extremely - poor! Her every syllable clove my heart like an arrow. I grew hot with - indignation to think of this frail, delicate maiden slaving her life away - in order that her relations might fatten in idleness and her fanatic of an - uncle work at his impossible symphony. My fists clenched convulsively as I - fancied her exposed to the ups and downs, the hardships, the humiliations, - of a music-teacher’s career. I took no pains to regulate my manner: and, - if she had possessed the least trace of sophistication, she would have - guessed that I loved her from every modulation of my voice. Love her I - did. I had already loved her for an eternity—from the moment my eyes - had first encountered hers in the moonlight by the terrace.—But it - was getting late. It would not do for me to wear my welcome out. - </p> - <p> - “Nay, stay,” interposed Mr. Tikulski, “you have not heard <i>me</i> play - yet.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, you must hear my uncle play,” said Veronika. “The <i>Adagio</i> - of Handel? she asked of him. - </p> - <p> - “No, child,” he answered, with a tinge of impatience, “the minuet—from - my own symphony,” aiming the last words at me. - </p> - <p> - Veronika returned to the piano. They began. - </p> - <p> - Indeed, the old man played superbly. His selection was a marvelous - finger-exercise—but of true music it contained none save that which - he informed it with by the fervor of his performance. He was a perfect - executant. His tone was equal to Wilhelm’s. It was a pity, a great pity, - that he should fritter himself away in the endeavor to compose. Veronika - and I said as much as this to each other with our eyes when finally his - bow had reached a standstill. - </p> - <p> - “Well, if you will insist on going,” he said, “you must at least agree to - come as soon as possible again. This is Wednesday. We are always at home - on Wednesday evening. The other nights of the week Veronika is engaged: - Monday and Tuesday, lessons; Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, - rehearsals and services at church and synagogue. The church is in Hoboken: - she doesn’t get home till eleven o’clock. So on Wednesday we will see you - without fail—yes?” - </p> - <p> - As I looked forward, Wednesday seemed a million years away. “What an old - brute you are to make that child track over to Hoboken two nights a week!” - I thought; and said, “Thank you. You are very kind. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - Veronika gave me her hand. The long slim fingers clasped mine cordially - and sent an electric thrill into my heart. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0002" id="link2H_4_0002"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - II. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> SUPPOSE it is - needless to say that I passed a sleepless night, haunted till morning by - Veronika’s face and voice; that I tossed endlessly from pillow to pillow, - going over in memory every circumstance from our meeting to our parting; - that I built a hundred wondrous castles in the air and that Veronika - presided as chatelaine in each. I thought I should boil over with rage - when I dwelt upon the enforced drudgery of her life. I could hardly - contain myself for sheer joy when I made bold to say, “Why, it is not - impossible that some day she may love you—not impossible that some - day she may consent to become your wife.” One doubt, the inevitable one, - harassed me: Had I a clear field? Was there perchance another suitor there - before me? Perhaps her affections were already spoken. Still, on the - whole, probably not. For, where had he kept himself during the evening? - Surely, if he had existed at all, he would have been at her side. Yet on - the other hand she was so beautiful, it could scarcely be believed that - she had attained the age of one-and-twenty without taking some heart - captive. And that sad, mysterious expression in her eyes—how had it - come about except through love?—Thus between despair and hope I - swung, pendulum-like, all night. - </p> - <p> - Dawn filtered through the window. “Thursday!” I muttered. “Seven days - still to be dragged through—but then!”—Imagination faltered at - the prospect. I went about my usual business in a sort of intoxication. My - footstep had acquired an unwonted briskness. Every five minutes my heart - jumped into my throat and lost a beat. But my pupils suffered. - </p> - <p> - I was more inclined to absent-mindedness than ever. At dusk I revisited - the terrace despite the rain that fell in torrents, and walked by her - house and lived through the whole happy episode again. - </p> - <p> - Be assured I was punctual when at last Wednesday came. I remember, as I - mounted the staircase that led to their abode, an absurd fear beset me. - What if they had moved away? - </p> - <p> - What if I should not find her after this interminable week of waiting? My - hand shook as I pulled the bell-knob. I was nerving myself for the worst - in the interval that elapsed before the door was opened.—The door - was opened by Veronika herself! - </p> - <p> - “Ah, good-evening. We were expecting you,” she said. - </p> - <p> - I stammered a response. My temples were throbbing madly. - </p> - <p> - Veronika led me into the dining-room. They were still at table. I began to - apologize. Tikulski stopped me. - </p> - <p> - “You have come just at the proper moment,” he cried. “You shall now have - occasion to confess that my niece is as good a cook as she is a player.” - </p> - <p> - “But I have dined,” I protested. - </p> - <p> - “But you can make room for one morsel more—for a mere taste of - pudding.” - </p> - <p> - Veronika, with infinite grace, was moving about the room, getting a plate - and napkin. Then with her own hands she helped me to the pudding. - </p> - <p> - “Doesn’t that flavor do her credit?” cried Tikulski. “It is a melody - materialized, is it not?” - </p> - <p> - We all laughed; and I ate my pudding at perfect ease. - </p> - <p> - “I hope Mr. Neuman has brought his violin,” said Veronika, “for then we - can have a first and second.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I took that liberty,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - And afterward, adjourning to the parlor, I played second to the old man’s - first for an hour or more—reading at sight from his own manuscript - music, which was not the lightest of tasks. Then Veronika sang to us. And - then, as it was extremely hot, Mr. Tikulski proposed that we betake - ourselves to a concert garden in the neighborhood and spend the rest of - the evening in the open air. We sat at a round table under an ailanthus - tree, and watched the people come and go, and listened to light tunes - discoursed by a tolerable band, and by and by had a delicious little - supper; and while Mr. Tikulski puffed a huge cigar, Veronika and I enjoyed - a long, delightful confidential talk in which our minds got wonderfully - close together, and during which one scrap of information dropped from her - lips that afforded me infinite relief. Speaking of her nocturnal - pilgrimages to Hoboken, she said, “I go over by myself in the summer - because it is still light; but coming home, the organist takes me to the - ferry, where uncle meets me.” - </p> - <p> - “So,” I concluded, “there is no one ahead of me; for if there were, of - course he would be her escort.” And I lost no time about putting in a word - for myself. “I am very anxious to hear you sing in church,” I said. “Your - voice can not attain its full effect between the narrow walls of a - parlor.” - </p> - <p> - And it was agreed that I should call upon them Sunday afternoon and that - we should all three take a walk in Central Park, Veronika and I afterward - going to Hoboken together. Music had, indeed, proved a freemasonry, so far - as we were concerned. This was only our second interview; and already we - treated each other like old and intimate friends. - </p> - <p> - A thunder shower broke above our heads on the way back to Fifty-first - street, and in default of an umbrella, I lent Veronika my handkerchief to - protect her hat. She returned it to me at the door of her house, and lo! - it was freighted with a faint, sweet perfume that it had caught from - contact with her. I stowed the handkerchief religiously in my pocket, and - for a week afterward it still retained a trace of the same dainty odor. It - was a touchstone, by means of which I could call her up bodily before me - whenever I desired. - </p> - <p> - As I sat alone in my bed-chamber that night, I acknowledged that I was - more deeply in love than ever. The reader would not wonder at this if he - could form a true conception of Veronika’s presence. I wish I could - describe her—that is, render in words the impression wrought upon me - by her face, and her voice, and her manner, and the things she said. I am - not accustomed to expressing such matters in words, but with my violin I - should have no sort of difficulty. If I wanted to give utterance to my - idea of Veronika, all I should have to do would be to take my violin and - play this heavenly melody from Chopin’s Impromptu in C-sharp minor:—Sotto - voce. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /><a name="linkimage-0003" id="linkimage-0003"> </a> - </p> - <div class="fig" style="width:50%;"> - <img src="images/0030.jpg" alt="0030 " width="100%" /><br /> - </div> - <h5> - <a href="images/0030.jpg"><img src="images/enlarge.jpg" alt="" /> </a> - </h5> - <p> - It seems almost as though Chopin must have had Veronika in mind when he - composed it. Its color, its passion, its vague dreamy sadness, and withal - its transparent simplicity, make it for me a perfect musical portrait. - Those were the traits which most constantly and conspicuously abode in my - thought of her. Her simplicity, her child-like simplicity, and her - naturalness, and the serene purity of her soul, made her as different from - other women that I had seen—though, to be sure, I had seen but few - women except as I passed them in the street or rode with them in the - horse-car—made her as different from those I had seen, at any rate, - as a lily plucked on the hillside is different from a hothouse flower, as - daylight is different from gaslight, as Schubert’s music is different from - Liszt’s. In every thing and from every point of view, she was simple and - natural and serene. Her great pale face, and the dark eyes, and the smile - that came and went like a melody across her lips, and the way she wore her - hair, and the way she dressed, and the way she played, sang, spoke, and - her gestures, and the low, sad, musical laughter that I heard only once or - twice from the beginning to the end—all were simple, and natural, - and serene. And yet there was a mystery attaching to each of them, a - something beyond my comprehension, a something that tinged my love for her - with awe. A mystery that would neither be defined nor penetrated nor - ignored, brooded over her, as the perfume broods over a rose. I doubt - whether an American woman can be like this unless she is older and has had - certain experiences of her own. Veronika had not had sufficient experience - of her own to account for what I have described: but she was a Jewess, and - all the experience of the Jewish race, all the martyrdom of the scattered - hosts, were hers by inheritance. - </p> - <p> - No matter how I was occupied, whether teaching, or practicing, or reading, - or writing, or walking, or talking to other people, I was always conscious - of the love of Veronika astir in my heart. Just as through all the - vicissitudes of a fugue the subject melody will survive in one form or - another and be at no minute altogether silenced, so through all the - changes of my busy day the thought of Veronika lingered in my mind. I can - not tell how completely the whole aspect of the world had been altered - since the night I first saw her standing in the moonlight. It was as if my - life up to that moment had been passed beneath gray skies, and suddenly - the clouds had dispersed and the sunshine flooded the earth. A myriad - things became plain and clear that had been invisible until now, and old - things acquired a new significance. My heart welled with tenderness for - all living creatures—the overflow of the tenderness it had for her. - All my senses, all my capacities for pain and pleasure, were more acute - than before. Suddenly music, which had been my art, became my religion: - she had glorified it by her devotion. I looked forward to my next visit - with her as a benighted traveler looks forward to the glowing window that - promises rest and shelter: only in my case the light illuminated my whole - pathway and made the progress toward its source a constant delight instead - of a perfunctory labor. But this is the common story of a man in love, and - stands without telling. Suffice it that before our acquaintance was a - month old I had got upon the most intimate terms with Mr. Tikulski and - Veronika, spending not only every Wednesday evening at their house but - also each Sunday afternoon, and accompanying her to Hoboken as regularly - as she had to go. Never was there a prouder man than I at those junctures - when, with her hand pressed tightly under my arm, I felt that she was - trusting herself entirely to my charge and that I was answerable for her - safety and well-being. The Hoboken ferry-boats became to my thinking - vastly more interesting than the most romantic of Venetian gondolas; and - to this day I can not sniff the peculiar stuffy odor that always pervades - a ferry-boat cabin without being transported back across the years to that - happy, happy time. I actually blessed the necessity that forced her to - journey so far for her livelihood; and it was with an emphatic pang that I - listened to the plans which she and Tikulski were prone to discuss whereby - she was shortly to get an engagement nearer home: though the sight of her - pale, tired cheek reproached me the moment after. On her side she made no - concealment of a most cordial regard for me. Her face always lighted up at - my arrival; she was always eager to share her ideas with me and to call - forth my opinion of her work, appearing pleased by my praise and impressed - by my criticism. She set me an admirable example of frankness. She would - say precisely what she thought of my renditions, sparing not their - blemishes and indicating how an effective point might be improved. - </p> - <p> - But as yet I had not dared to hope that she loved, or was even in train to - love me. So as yet I had not intended to speak of love at all. - </p> - <p> - But one day—one Sunday late in June—she proposed to sing me a - song she had just been learning. - </p> - <p> - “What is it?” I asked. - </p> - <p> - “From <i>Le Désert</i> of Felicien David,” she said, handing me the music. - </p> - <p> - It was the “<i>O, belle nuit, O, sois plus lente</i>,” originally written - for tenor. - </p> - <p> - “I should hardly think it would suit your voice,” I said, running over the - music. - </p> - <p> - “Neither did I, at first; but listen, anyway.” And she began. - </p> - <p> - Her voice had never been in better order, had never been more resonant, - never more electric. Contrary to my misgivings, the song suited it - perfectly, afforded its ‘cello quality full scope. She sang with an - enthusiasm, a precision, a delicacy of shading, that carried me away. As - the last tender note melted on her lips, she swung around on the - piano-stool and looked a question with her great, dark, serious eyes. I - know not what possessed me. A blindness fell upon my sight. My heart gave - a mighty bound. In another instant I was at her side and had caught her—my - darling—in my arms. In another instant she was sobbing her life out - upon my shoulder. - </p> - <p> - By and by, after the first stress of our emotion had subsided, I mustered - voice to say, “Then, Veronika, you love me?” - </p> - <p> - Her hand nestled in mine by way of answer. - </p> - <p> - I told her as well I could how I had loved her from the first. - </p> - <p> - “It is strange,” she said, “when you turned to me there on the terrace and - spoke, it was as if a light broke into my life. And it has been the same - ever since—my heart has been full of light. Oh, I have wanted you so - much! I was afraid you did not care for me. Why have you waited so long?” - </p> - <p> - No need of putting down my answer nor the rest of our dialogue. When Mr. - Tikulski came back I confessed every thing. He asked but a single - question, imposed but a single condition. - </p> - <p> - I replied that I earned enough by my teaching to support him and her - comfortably and to contribute toward the maintenance of the widow and her - brood in Germany. Furthermore, I had solid grounds for expecting to earn - more next winter. There would be an opening for me in the Symphony and - Philharmonic Societies, and as I was gaining something of a reputation I - might reasonably demand a higher price for my lessons. It was arranged - that we should be married the first week in August. - </p> - <p> - Our journey to Hoboken was all too short that night. Never had horse-car - or ferry-boat advanced with such velocity before. As we left the church - she asked, “Did you notice how my voice trembled in my solo? - </p> - <p> - “It only added to its effect,” I answered. “Were you nervous?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no, I was happy, so happy that I could not control my voice.” - </p> - <p> - Ah, but I had a full heart as I walked home that night. The future was all - radiant radiant beyond my wildest dream. It frightened me. Such perfect - bliss seemed scarcely possible, seemed too great and glorious to last. And - yet had not Veronika’s own lips promised it? and sealed the promise with a - kiss that burned still where she had placed it? It was useless for me to - go to bed; it was useless for me to stay in the house. I put on my hat and - went out and spent the night pacing up and down before her door. And as - soon as the morning was far enough advanced I rang the bell and invited - myself to breakfast with her; and after breakfast I helped her to wash the - dishes, to Mr. Tikulski’s unutterable disapproval—it was - “unteeknified,” he said—and after that I accompanied her as far as - the first house where she had to give a lesson. - </p> - <p> - While writing the above I had almost forgotten. Now I remember. I must - stop for a space to get used to remembering again that she is dead. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0003" id="link2H_4_0003"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - III. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">Y</span>ES, she is dead. - That is the truth. If truth is good, as men proclaim it to be, then - goodness is intrinsically cruel. That Veronika is dead is the truth which - lies like a hot coal upon my consciousness, and goads me along as I tell - this tale. And the manner of her death and the speediness of it—I - must tell all. - </p> - <p> - And yet, although I know her to be dead, although I repeat to myself a - hundred times a day, “She is dead, dead, dead,” and although, God help me, - I think I realize too well that she is dead, yet to this day I can - scarcely bring myself to believe it. Truth as it is, it seems to be in - utter contradiction to the rest of truth. Even those who have abandoned - faith in Religion, still profess faith in Nature, saying, “Nature is - provident, beneficent, and wise; Nature is alive with beauty.” And at most - times, it seems as if these assertions were not to be contested. Yet, how - can they be true when Nature contained the possibility of Veronika’s - death? How can Nature be wise, and yet have permitted that maiden life to - be destroyed?—provident, and yet have flung away her finest product?—beneficent, - and yet have torn bleeding from my life all that made my life worth - living?—beautiful, and yet have quenched the beautifying light of - Veronika’s presence, and hushed the voice that made the world musical? The - mere fact that Veronika could die gives the lie to the Nature-worshipers. - In the light of that fact, or rather in the darkness of it, it is mockery - to sing songs of praise to Nature.—That is why it is so hard for me - to believe—to believe a thing which annihilates the harmony of the - universe, and proclaims the optimism of the philosophers to be a delusion, - a superstition. How could I believe my senses if I should hear Christine - Nilsson utter a hideous false note? So is it hard for me to believe that - Nature has allowed Veronika to die. And yet it is the truth, the - unmistakable, irrevocable, relentless truth. - </p> - <p> - I suppose all lovers are happy: but it does not seem possible that other - lovers can ever have had such unmitigated happiness as ours was—happiness - so keen as almost to be a pain. The light of love that burst suddenly into - our lives, and filled each cranny full to overflowing, was so pure and - bright as almost to blind us. The happiness was all the keener, the light - all the brighter, because of the hardship and the monotony of our daily - tasks. If we had been rich, if we had had leisure and friends and many - resources for diversion, then most likely our delight in each other would - not have been so great. But as we were—poor, hard worked, and alone - in the world—we found all the happiness we had, in ourselves, in - communing together; and happiness concentrated, was proportionately more - intense. The few hours in the week which we were permitted to spend side - by side glittered like diamonds against the dull background of the rest. - And we improved them to the full. We called upon each fleeting moment to - stay and perpetuate itself; and we could not understand how Faust had had - to wait so many years before he could do the same. The season was divine, - clear skies and balmy weather day after day, and the Park being easily - accessible, we could imagine ourselves among the green fields of the - country whenever the fancy seized us. I believe that as a matter of fact - the turf of the common was sadly parched and brown; but we were not - critical so long as we could wander over it hand in hand. Then, our - characters were perfectly accorded; their unison was faultless. Each - called for the other, needed the other, as the dominant chord calls for - and needs its tonic. We had not a hope, a fear, an ambition, an - aspiration, but it was shared equally between us. Our art was a mutual - passion which we pursued together. When Veronika was seated at the piano - and I stood at her side with my violin at my shoulder, our cup of - contentment was full to the brim. Nothing more was wanting. I remember, - one evening, in the middle of a phrase, her fingers faltered and she - wheeled around and lifted her eyes upon my face.—“What is the - matter, darling?” I asked.—“I only want to look at you to realize - that it isn’t a dream,” she answered.—And yet she is dead. - </p> - <p> - June and half July had wound away; in little more than a fortnight our - wedding would be celebrated. The night was sultry, and she and I sat - together by an open window. Her uncle was absent: an idea had come to him - just before dinner, she explained, and according to his custom he had gone - out to walk the streets until he had mastered it. We were by no means - sorry to be alone. We had plenty to talk about; but even without talking - it was marvelously pleasant to sit together and think the happy thoughts - that filled our minds and listen to the subdued sounds of human life that - came in by the window. - </p> - <p> - Veronika had shown me some of her bridal outfit, telling how she had - worked at it in her short snatches of leisure. We took as much pleasure in - the contemplation of this modest little trousseau as though it had boasted - all the rubies and silken fabrics of the Indies. This set us to talking of - the future and making plans. And afterward we talked of the past. We spoke - of how strange it was that we should have come together in the way we had—by - the merest accident, as it seemed; and we doubted if it was indeed an - accident, if destiny had not purposely guided our footsteps that memorable - night.—“Why,” she exclaimed, “if uncle and I had been but a few - moments earlier or later, we never should have seen each other at all. - Think of the terrible risk we ran! Think if we had never known each - other!” and her fingers tightened around mine. - </p> - <p> - “And then,” I went on, “that I should have spoken to you, a strange lady, - and that you should have answered!” - </p> - <p> - “It seemed perfectly natural for me to answer; I had done so before I - stopped to think. But afterward I was ashamed; I was afraid you might - think it indelicate. But, somehow, the words spoke themselves. I am glad - of it now.” - </p> - <p> - “I do believe God’s hand was in it! I do believe it was all pre-ordained - in heaven. I believe that our Guardian Angel prompted me to speak and you - to answer. It can’t be that we, who were made for each other, were left to - find it out by a mere perilous chance—it isn’t credible.” - </p> - <p> - “But nobody except myself—not even you, can understand how like a - miracle it all is to me, because nobody else can know how much I needed - you. Nobody else can know how dreary and empty my life was before you - came, or how completely you have filled it and gladdened it.” - </p> - <p> - Here we stopped talking for a while. - </p> - <p> - By and by she resumed, “I think that music differs from the other arts. I - think the musician instinctively needs a companion worker. I know that in - the old days when I would play or sing, my heart seemed to cry out - continually for some one to come and share its feeling. Perhaps this was - because music is the most emotional of the arts, the most sympathetic. - Really, sometimes I could not bear to touch the piano, the pain of being - alone was so acute. Of course I had my uncle, a most thorough musician; - but I wanted somebody who would feel precisely as I did, and he did not. - He always analyzed and criticised, never allowed himself to be carried - away, never forgot the intellectual side of the things I would play. But - now—now that you are with me, my music is a constant source of joy. - And then, the thought that we are going to work together all our lives, - the thought of the music we are going to make together—oh, it is too - great, it takes my breath away! I don’t dare to believe it. I am afraid - all the time that something will happen to prevent it coming true.” - </p> - <p> - Again for a while we did not speak. - </p> - <p> - Again by and by she resumed, “And then you can not know how lonely I was - in other ways, how I longed for a little affection, a little tenderness. - Of course uncle is very good, has always been very good to me; but do you - think it was ungrateful for me to want a little more affection than he - gave me? I mean a little more <i>manifest</i> affection; because I know - that in the bottom of his heart he loves me very warmly. But I longed for - somebody to <i>show</i> a little care for me, and uncle is very - undemonstrative—he is so absorbed in his symphony, and then - sometimes he is exceedingly severe. When I would get home at night it was - so dreary not to have any one to speak to about the trials of the day—not - to have any one who would sympathize and understand. You see, other girls - have their mothers or their brothers and sisters and friends: but I had - nobody except my uncle; and he was so much older, and regarded things so - differently, that I do not think it was unnatural for me to wish for some - one else. Besides, I had so much responsibility; I felt so weak and - helpless. I thought, what if something should happen to my uncle! or what - if I should get sick and be unable to teach! Oh, the rest and security - that you brought to me!” - </p> - <p> - What I replied—a mass of broken sentences—was too incoherent - to bear recording. - </p> - <p> - “And then, the mere physical fatigue—day after day, work, work, - work, and never any respite. Of course, every body has to work, but almost - every body has a holiday now and then; and I never had a single day that I - could call all my own. In winter it was hardest. No matter how tired I - was, I had to be up and off giving lessons even if the snow was ankle - deep. And the ice in the river made it such hard work getting to Hoboken, - made the journey so very long. I had to do the housework too, you know. We - couldn’t afford to keep a servant, on account of the money we had to send - abroad. When I would come home all fagged out I had to clean the rooms and - cook the dinner; though I am afraid that sometimes I did not more than - half do my duty. Sometimes I would let the dust lie for a week on the - mantle-piece. And every day was just the same as the day that had gone - before. It was like traveling in a circle. When I would go to bed at night - my weariness would be all the harder because of the thought, ‘To-morrow - will be just the same, the same round of lessons, the same dead fatigue, - the same monotonous drudgery from beginning to end.’ And as I saw no - promise of change, as I thought it would be the same all my life, I could - not help asking what the use was of having been born. Wasn’t I a dreadful - grumbler? Yet, what could I do? I think it is natural when one is young to - long for something to look forward to, for just a little pleasure and just - a little companionship. But then you came, and every thing was altered. Do - you remember in the Creation the wonderful awakening one feels when they - sing, ‘And the Lord said, Let there be light,’ very low, and then with a - mighty burst of sound, ‘And there was <i>LIGHT?</i>’ Do you remember how - one’s heart leaps and seems to grow big in one’s breast? It was like that - when you came to me. I used to wonder why I had ever felt unhappy or - discontented. The mere prospect of seeing you at the week’s end made my - heart sing from morning to night. It gave a motive, an object, to my life—made - me feel that I was working to a purpose, that I should have my reward. I - had been growing hard and indifferent, even indifferent to music. But now - I began to love my music more than ever: and no matter how tired I might - be, when I had a moment of leisure I would sit down and practice so as to - be able to play well for you. Music seemed to express all the unutterable - feeling that you inspired me with. One day I had sung the <i>Ave Maria</i> - of Cherubini to you, and you said, ‘It is so religious—it expresses - precisely the emotions one experiences in a church.’ But for me it - expressed rather the emotions a woman has when she is in the presence of - the man she loves. All the time I had no idea that you would ever feel in - the same way toward me.” - </p> - <p> - My kisses silenced her. Afterward she sang from Pergolese’s <i>Stabat - Mater</i>, and played a medley of bits from Chopin: until, looking at my - watch, I saw it was nearing midnight. Time for me to go away. But her - uncle had not yet come home. I did not like to leave her alone. I said so. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that is nothing,” she explained. “It always happens when he has one - of his ideas. Very likely he won’t come in till morning. I am quite - accustomed to it, and not a bit afraid.” - </p> - <p> - “In that event,” I thought, “I certainly ought to go. It may embarrass - her, my staying so late; and besides, she needs the sleep.” - </p> - <p> - I started to say good-by. Our parting was hard. Again and again, as I - reached the door, I turned back and began anew. But at last I found myself - in the street. I looked up at the parlor window, and remained on the - curbstone until I saw her close the sash and pull the shade, and the light - being extinguished, knew that she had gone to her bedroom. Then I set my - face toward home. - </p> - <p> - I had never loved her as I loved her now. Every lover will understand that - what she had said during the evening had added fuel to the fire. My - tenderness for her had increased a hundredfold. All my life should be - dedicated to soothing her and protecting her and making her glad. The - tired child should find rest and peace in my arms. To think of how she had - been exposed to the noise and the heat and the glare of the fierce - work-a-day world! Ah, Veronika, Veronika, I wanted, late as it was, to - return and pour out the yearning of my spirit at your feet. Why had I left - her at all? Each heart-beat seemed to speak her name. And when the - knowledge that in a fortnight we were really going to be married, that I - was really going to have the right to be to her what I wished—when - that knowledge flashed in upon me, I had to turn away lest it should - overwhelm me. I could not contemplate it any more than I could have gazed - straight upon the sun.—Finally I fell asleep and dreamed that I was - seated at her side, caressing her brow and emptying my life into her eyes. - </p> - <p> - I awoke next morning with a start. My first sensation was one of anxiety - and unrest. As I dressed, this feeling intensified. I had a presentiment - that something had gone wrong. I tried to reason it away. The more I - reasoned, the stronger it waxed. I wanted to see her and satisfy myself - that every thing was right. It was eight o’clock. She would leave for her - lessons in half an hour. Luckily to-day my own engagements did not begin - till ten. If I hurried, I should be in time to catch her. I put on my hat - and walked at top-speed toward Fifty-first street. - </p> - <p> - Arrived at the door of the apartment-house, my worry subsided as abruptly - and with as little provocation as it had sprung up. Indeed, I laughed as I - remembered it. “Of course,” I said, “nothing is the matter. Still I am not - sorry to have come.” - </p> - <p> - “Has Miss Pathzuol gone out yet?” I asked the janitress who let me in. - </p> - <p> - “I have not seen her,” she answered. “But she may have done so without my - noticing.” - </p> - <p> - I ran up the stairs and rang Veronika’s bell.—No response.—I - rang again.—Again no response.—A third ring, with waning hope - of success: and, “So,” I thought, “I am too late.” - </p> - <p> - Disappointed, I was retracing my steps down the staircase. I stood aside - to let some one pass. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, how do you do?” exclaimed Mr. Tikulski. “What brings you out so - early?” - </p> - <p> - I explained. - </p> - <p> - “Never mind,” he said, “but come back with me and have a cup of coffee. I - have been out all night, struggling with an obstinate little aria. I will - play it for you.” - </p> - <p> - He unlocked the door. The parlor was dark. The shades had not yet been - drawn. As he sent them flying up with a screech, my heart sank. Every - thing was just as we had left it last night; but it was cheerless and - empty with her away. There lay the Chopin still open on the music rest. - There were our two chairs still close together as we had placed them. - </p> - <p> - Tikulski went after the coffee apparatus; presently returned, arranged it - on the table, and applied a match to the lamp. - </p> - <p> - “While we wait for the water to boil,” he said, “I will give you the - result of my night’s labor. I composed it walking up and down under the - trees in the park, so that they—the trees—might claim it for - their fruit! Ha-ha! A heavenly night: the sky could scarcely hold the - stars, there were so many; but terribly warm.” - </p> - <p> - Again he went away—to fetch his instrument. - </p> - <p> - He was gone a long while. The water began to boil—boiled loudly and - more loudly. A dense stream of vapor gushed from the nozzle of the pot. - Still he remained. - </p> - <p> - At last I lost patience. Stepping to the threshold, I called his name. At - first he did not answer. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Tikulski!” I repeated. - </p> - <p> - I seemed to hear—no, certainly did hear—his voice, low, - inarticulate, down at the other end of the hallway. It alarmed me. Had he - met with an accident? hurt himself? fainted after the night’s vigil? - paralysis? apoplexy? I hastened toward him, entered the room whence his - voice had sounded. There he stood. He stood in the center of the floor, - immobile as a statue, his face livid, his attitude that of a man who has - seen a ghost. - </p> - <p> - “For God’s sake, what has happened?” I cried. - </p> - <p> - He appeared not to hear. I repeated my question. - </p> - <p> - He roused himself. A tremor swept over him. A painful rattling was audible - in his throat. He raised his arm heavily and pointed. “L-look,” he gasped. - </p> - <p> - I looked. How can I tell what I saw? - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ND yet I must tell - it, though the telling consume me like a flame. I saw a bed and Veronika - lying on it, face downward. She was dressed in her customary black gown. I - supposed she was asleep. I supposed she was asleep, for one short moment. - That was the last moment of my life. For then the truth burst upon me, - fell upon me like a shaft from out the skies and hurled me into hell. I - saw—not that she was dead only. If she had only died it would be - different. I saw—merciful God!—I saw that she was murdered. - </p> - <p> - Oh, of course I would not, could not, believe it. Of course it was a - dream, a nightmare, an hallucination, from which I should presently awake. - Of course the thing was impossible, could not be. Of course I flung myself - upon the bed at her side and crushed her between my arms and covered her - with kisses and called and cried to her to move, to speak, to come back to - life. And although her hands were icy cold and her body rigid and her face - as white as marble, and although—ah, no! I may leave out the - horrible detail—still I could not believe. I could not believe—yet - how could I deny? There she lay, my sweetheart, my promised bride, deaf to - my voice, blind to my presence, unmoved by my despair, beyond the reach of - my strongest love, never to care for me again—Veronika, my tender, - sad Veronika—oh, she lay there, dead, murdered! And still, with the - knife-hilt staring at me like the face of Satan, still I could not - believe. It was the fact, the unalterable fact, the fact that extinguished - the light of the sun and stars and flooded the universe with blackness: - and still, in spite of it, I called to her and crushed her in my embrace - and kissed her and caressed her and was sure it could not be true. And - meantime people came and filled the room. - </p> - <p> - I did not see the people. Only in a vague way I knew that they were there, - heard the murmur of their voices, as if they were a long distance off. I - had no senses left. I could neither see nor hear distinctly. My eyes were - burned by a fierce red fire. My ears were full of the uproar of a thousand - devils. But I knew that people had intruded upon us. I knew that I hated - them because they would not leave us two alone. I remember I rose and - faced them and cursed them and told them to be gone. And then I took her - in my arms again and pressed her hard to me and forgot every thing but - that she would not answer. - </p> - <p> - Gradually, however, nature was coming to my rescue. Gradually I seemed to - be sinking into a stupor—had no sensation left except a numb, - bruised feeling from head to foot—forgot what the matter was, forgot - even Veronika, simply existed in a state of half conscious wretchedness. - The first frenzy of grief had spent itself. The very immensity of the pain - I had suffered acted as an opiate, exhausted and rendered me insensible. I - heard the voices of the people as a soldier who is wounded may still hear - something of the din of battle. - </p> - <p> - I don’t know how long I had lain thus when I became aware that a hand was - placed upon my shoulder. Some one shook me roughly and said, “Get up and - come away.” Passively, I obeyed. “Sit down,” said the same person, pushing - me into a chair. I sat down and relapsed into my stupor. - </p> - <p> - Again I don’t know how long it was before they disturbed me for a second - time. Two or three men were standing in front of me. One of them was in - uniform. Slowly I recognized that he was an officer, a captain of police. - He spoke. I heard what he said without understanding, as one who is half - asleep hears what is said at his bedside. This much only I gathered, that - he wanted me to go with him somewhere. I was too much dazed to care what I - did or what was done with me. He took my arm and led me away. He led me - into the street. There was a a great crowd. I shut my eyes and tottered - along at his side. We entered a house. Somebody asked me a lot of - questions—my name and where I lived and so forth—to which my - lips framed mechanical answers. I can remember nothing more. - </p> - <p> - When consciousness revived I was made to understand that I had fainted. - </p> - <p> - “But where am I? What has happened?” I asked, trying to remember. - </p> - <p> - The police-captain explained. “Mr. Neuman,” he said, “I have made all the - inquiry that is as yet possible, and the result is that I deem it my duty - to take you in custody. I prefer no charge, but I believe I am bound to - hold you for the inquest. The hour of your leaving her last night, the - time that Miss Pathzuol has apparently been dead, and the fact that you - were the last person known to have been in her company, make it incumbent - upon me to place you under arrest.” - </p> - <p> - I pondered his words. Every thing came back. I was accused, or at least - suspected, of having murdered Veronika—<i>I!</i> - </p> - <p> - I felt no emotion. I was stunned as yet, like a man who has received a - blow between the eyes. My brain had turned to stone. I repeated over to - myself all that the captain had said. The words wrought no effect. I did - not even experience pain as I thought of her. She is dead? I queried. They - were three vapid syllables. My senses I had recovered—I could see - and hear plainly now—could remember the events of the morning in - detail and in their correct order. But somehow I had lost all capacity for - feeling. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - V. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">A</span>ND so it continued - throughout the inquest and throughout the trial—for, yes, they tried - me for my sweetheart’s murder. I ate, drank, slept, and answered the - questions that were put to me, all in a dazed, dull way, but suffered no - pain, no surprise, no indignation, had no more sensation than a dead man. - That Veronika had been killed, and that I was accused of having killed - her, were the facts which I heard told and told again from morning till - night each day; yet I had not the least conception of what they signified. - I was too stunned and benumbed to realize. - </p> - <p> - The first day passed by, and the second and the third, every one of them - busy with events that meant life or death for me: yet I took no notice. - When left to myself, invariably I closed my eyes, and the stupor settled - over my senses like a cloud of smoke. When aroused, I did whatever was - required as passively as an automaton. I remember those first few days as - one remembers a hateful dream. I remember being driven in a dark, noisy - vehicle from the station-house to the city prison, and having in the - latter place a cell assigned to me which was destined to serve as my home - for many weeks. I remember making several trips, handcuffed to my - custodian, from the jail to the office where the inquest was held and - back: but my only recollection of the inquest itself is a confused one—a - crowded, foul-smelling room, a chaos of faces and voices, endless talking, - endless questioning of myself by men who were strangers to me. I remember - that by and by these journeys came to an end: but what the verdict of the - inquest was I do not remember—I do not think I troubled myself to - ask at the time. Then I remember that after some days spent alone in my - cell one of the keepers said, “You are indicted,” and inquired whether I - wished to communicate with my attorney. Indicted? My attorney? I did not - comprehend. I do not remember what I answered. - </p> - <p> - Once the door of my cell opened, and they brought in a trunk and a - violin-case and placed them on the floor at the foot of my cot. - </p> - <p> - I recognized these for my own property. Mechanically I took out my violin - and drew forth one long, clear note. That note was like a sudden flash of - light. For a single instant the desolation to which my world had been - reduced became visible in all its ghastliness. For a single instant I - realized my position, realized that Veronika was dead, and the rest. The - truth pierced my consciousness like an arrow and made my body quake with - pain. But immediately the darkness settled over me again, the stupor - returned. - </p> - <p> - Slowly, however, this stupor was changing its character. By degrees, so - far as my mere thinking faculties were involved, it began to be - dissipated. By degrees my mind struggled out of it. I began to notice and - to understand things, and was able to converse and to appreciate what was - said. But over my feelings it retained its sway. Although I was quite - competent now to follow the explanations of my lawyer—how Veronika - had been murdered and how and why I was suspected as the murderer—still - I had no feeling of any sort about the matter. I might have been a log of - wood. - </p> - <p> - My lawyer had presented himself one day and volunteered his services. I - had accepted them without even inquiring his name. - </p> - <p> - “Don’t you remember me?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - I looked at his face but could not recall having seen it before. - </p> - <p> - “My name is Epstein,” he said. “We went to school together.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I remember,” I replied. - </p> - <p> - Regularly each day he came and reported the progress of affairs. - </p> - <p> - “They are building up a strong case against you,” he said. “Our only hope - lies in an alibi.” - </p> - <p> - “What is that?” I inquired dully. - </p> - <p> - He explained; and continued, “Of course the prosecution won’t tell me what - tack they mean to pursue, but from several little things that have leaked - out I infer that they have a pretty strong case. Now, at what hour did you - leave Miss Pathzuol that night?” - </p> - <p> - “At about midnight.” - </p> - <p> - “And went directly home?” - </p> - <p> - “Directly home.” - </p> - <p> - “After entering your house did you meet any of the other occupants? any of - your fellow-lodgers?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t remember.” - </p> - <p> - “But you must make an effort to remember. Try.” - </p> - <p> - “I tell you, I don’t remember,” I repeated. His persistence irritated me. - </p> - <p> - “You appear to take as little interest in this case as though it were the - life of a dog hanging in the scales instead of your own,” he said, and - that was the truth. - </p> - <p> - Next day his face wore a somber expression. - </p> - <p> - “This is too bad,” he cried. “I have interviewed your landlady and your - fellow-lodgers, and not one of them can swear to your alibi. I know you - are innocent, but I don t see how I am to prove it.” - </p> - <p> - At last the trial began. - </p> - <p> - I sat through that trial, the most indifferent person in the court-room. I - heard the testimony of the witnesses and the speeches of the lawyers - simply because I was close at hand and could not help it. But I was the - least interested of the many auditors, the least curious as to the result. - Yet, stolid, indifferent, inattentive as I was, every detail of the trial - is stamped upon my memory in indelible hues. Here is the story of it. - </p> - <p> - The first day was used in securing a jury. - </p> - <p> - The second day commenced with an address—an “opening” they called it—by - the counsel for the prosecution. He told quietly who Veronika was, how she - had lived alone with her uncle, and how on the morning of the 13th July - they had found her, murdered. He said that a remarkable train of - circumstantial evidence pointed to one man as the murderer. Then he raised - his voice and dwelt upon the blackness of that man’s soul. Then he faced - around and bade the prisoner stand up. Shaking his finger at me, - “Gentlemen of the jury,” he thundered, “there is the man.” - </p> - <p> - The first witness was Tikulski. He testified to the discovery of the - murder in the manner already known; told how he had been absent all night - that night; and explained the nature of the relations that subsisted - between Veronika and myself. - </p> - <p> - “When you got home on the morning of the 13th in what condition was the - door of your apartment?” asked the district-attorney. - </p> - <p> - “In its usual condition.” - </p> - <p> - “That is to say, locked?” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely.” - </p> - <p> - “It had not been broken open or tampered with?” - </p> - <p> - “Not so far as I could see.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s all.” - </p> - <p> - On cross-examination he said that he had never heard a harsh word pass - between Veronika and myself, that on the contrary I had given him every - reason for considering me a most tender and devoted lover. - </p> - <p> - “And when made aware of the death of his betrothed,” pursued my lawyer, - “how did Mr. Neuman conduct himself?” - </p> - <p> - “He acted like a crazy man—like one paralyzed by a tremendous blow.” - </p> - <p> - “You can go, Mr. Tikulski,” said my lawyer. “But I wish to say,” began - Tikulski, “that I do not believe——” - </p> - <p> - “Stop,” cried the prosecutor. “Your honor, I object to any expression of - opinion by the witness.” - </p> - <p> - “No matter about what you don’t believe,” said the Judge to Tikulski. - </p> - <p> - “But——-” - </p> - <p> - “But you must hold your tongue,” imperiously. “You can go.” - </p> - <p> - The old man left the stand and elbowed his way to my side. - </p> - <p> - “What I wished to say was,” he whispered into my ear, “that I believe you - are as innocent as I myself. It is outrageous, this trial. They compelled - me to testify. But you must understand that I am sure of your innocence. I - don’t know why they hushed me up.” - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile the captain of police had succeeded him, and sworn to having - visited the scene of the crime and to having placed the prisoner under - arrest. - </p> - <p> - “Captain,” said the district-attorney, “here is a key. Have you seen it - before?” handing a key to the witness. - </p> - <p> - “I have,” was the reply. - </p> - <p> - “Tell us when and where.” - </p> - <p> - “I took it from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest.” - </p> - <p> - “What further can you say about it?” - </p> - <p> - “Subsequently it was identified as a key to the apartments occupied by the - deceased.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you try it yourself?” - </p> - <p> - “I did. It fitted the lock.” - </p> - <p> - “How is this?” Epstein asked me. “How did you come by that key?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure I don’t know,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever having had it - in my possession.” - </p> - <p> - “But it is an ugly circumstance, and must be accounted for.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, what difference does it make?” I retorted petulantly. “Leave me - alone.” - </p> - <p> - “A few little trifles like this may make the difference of your neck,” - muttered Epstein, and he looked disturbed. - </p> - <p> - “Captain,” continued the district-attorney, “just one thing more. Do you - recognize this handkerchief?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; it was found in the pocket of the prisoner when he was searched at - the station-house.” - </p> - <p> - My lawyer got hold of the handkerchief and exhibited it to me. It was - stained dull brown. “This is blood,” he said. “How did it happen?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know, I haven’t an idea,” was the utmost I could respond. Epstein - looked more uneasy than before. - </p> - <p> - “That’s enough, Captain,” said the prosecutor. - </p> - <p> - “But before you leave the stand,” put in Epstein, “kindly tell us what the - prisoner’s conduct was from the time you took charge of the premises down - to the time you locked him up.” - </p> - <p> - “At first he acted as though he was crazy; raved and carried on like a - madman. Afterward he became quiet and sort of dull. At the station-house - he fainted away.” - </p> - <p> - “Didn’t act as though he liked it—as though the death of Miss - Pathzuol was a thing that pleased him?” - </p> - <p> - “No, sir; on the contrary. He acted as though it had been a great shock to - him.” - </p> - <p> - “You can go.” - </p> - <p> - Next came a physician. - </p> - <p> - He said he was a police-surgeon. At about nine o’clock on the morning of - July 13th he had been summoned to the house of the decedent; had examined - the body and satisfied himself as to the mode of death. There were three - separate knife-wounds. These he proceeded to describe in technical - language. Not one of them could have been self-inflicted; any one of them - was sufficient to have caused immediate death. - </p> - <p> - “Dr. Merrill,” inquired the prosecutor, “how long—how many hours—prior - to your arrival must the crime have been perpetrated?” - </p> - <p> - “From seven to ten hours.” - </p> - <p> - “So that—?” - </p> - <p> - “So that the crime must have been perpetrated between eleven and two - o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - “Good.—Now, Doctor, here is a handkerchief which the captain says he - took from the prisoner on the morning of his arrest. Do you recognize it?” - </p> - <p> - “I do.” - </p> - <p> - “Go on—what about it?” - </p> - <p> - “It was submitted to me for chemical analysis—to analyze the - substance, with which it is discolored.” - </p> - <p> - “And you found?” - </p> - <p> - “I found that it was stained with blood,” - </p> - <p> - “Human blood?” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely.” - </p> - <p> - “About how long had it been shed? Did its condition indicate?” - </p> - <p> - “From its condition when submitted to me—that is, at about noon on - the 13th—I inferred that it had been shed not much less nor much - more than twelve hours.” - </p> - <p> - “Thank you, Doctor,” said the lawyer. To Epstein, “Your witness.” - </p> - <p> - “One moment, Doctor,” said Epstein. Turning to me, “You can give no - explanation of this circumstance?” he whispered.—“None,” I answered.—To - the witness, “Doctor, blood may be shed in divers ways, may it not? This - blood on the handkerchief, for instance—it might have come from—say, - a nose-bleed, eh?” - </p> - <p> - The surgeon smiled, hesitated, then replied, “Possibly, though not - probably. Its quality is rather that of blood from a wound than that of - blood from congested capillaries. But it is quite possible.” - </p> - <p> - “You can go, Doctor.”—To me, “Are you sure you didn’t have a - nose-bleed on the night in question?” - </p> - <p> - “I know nothing at all about it.” - </p> - <p> - The next witness was a woman. - </p> - <p> - She said she was the janitress of the apartment-house, No.—East - Fifty-first street. It was a portion of her duty as such to open the - street-door when the bell was rung. On the evening of July 12th, she had - opened the door and admitted the prisoner between seven and eight o’clock. - </p> - <p> - “Can you say at what hour the prisoner left the house?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir, I can. It was a warm night, and me and my husband were seated - out on the stoop for the sake of the breeze till late. Mr. Neuman went out - a little before twelve o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - “He entered between seven and eight. He left at about midnight. Now, - meanwhile, whom else did you admit?” - </p> - <p> - “No one at all. From half past seven until midnight no one went in except - Mr. Neuman.” - </p> - <p> - “Was not that a somewhat unusual circumstance?” - </p> - <p> - “Most extraordinary. Me and my husband spoke about it at the time.” - </p> - <p> - “You can swear positively on this score?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, because we staid on the stoop the whole evening and not a soul could - have passed us without our seeing.” - </p> - <p> - “Are there any other means of ingress to the house of which you have - charge than the street door?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir; the basement-door and the scuttle-door in the roof.” - </p> - <p> - “What was their condition on the night of the 12th of July?” - </p> - <p> - “They were locked and bolted.” - </p> - <p> - “What was their condition on the morning of the 13th?” - </p> - <p> - “At six o’clock when I opened the house they were still locked and - bolted.” - </p> - <p> - “Meantime could they have been unlocked?” - </p> - <p> - “No, because I carried the keys in my pocket.” - </p> - <p> - “Now, what are the means of ingress to the flat occupied by Mr. Tikulski?” - </p> - <p> - “The door that opens from his private hall into the outer hall of the - house.” - </p> - <p> - “Any other?” - </p> - <p> - “No, your honor.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you recognize this key?” handing to the witness the key that the - officer had identified. - </p> - <p> - “I do, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “It’s a key to Mr. Tikulski’s door?” - </p> - <p> - Here befell a pause, during which the jurymen shifted in their seats and - the prosecutor consulted with his colleague. In a moment he resumed. - </p> - <p> - “Now, Mrs. Marshall, you have testified that the prisoner at the bar, - Ernest Neuman, left the house, No.—East Fifty-first street, shortly - before midnight on the 12th of July. Your memory on this point is entirely - trustworthy?” - </p> - <p> - “It is, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Very well. Did you notice his movements after that?” - </p> - <p> - “I did, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Tell us what they were.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, sir, he crossed over the street and stood on the sidewalk under a - lamp-post looking up at the front of the house toward Mr. Tikulski’s - windows, and then—” - </p> - <p> - “For how long?” - </p> - <p> - “I couldn’t tell exactly, but maybe for the time it would take you to walk - around the block.” - </p> - <p> - “For five minutes?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, or more likely for ten.” - </p> - <p> - “And then—?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, and then, as I was saying, he marched straight away toward the - avenue.” - </p> - <p> - “Toward what avenue?” - </p> - <p> - “Toward Second avenue.” - </p> - <p> - “And disappeared?” - </p> - <p> - “And disappeared.” - </p> - <p> - “Did you see any thing more of him that night?” - </p> - <p> - “I did, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “When and under what circumstances?” - </p> - <p> - “In about a quarter of an hour, your honor, Mr. Neuman he comes back and - stands leaning up against the railing across the way; and pretty soon - crosses over and goes past us without speaking a word and enters the - house, the door being open, and goes up the stairs.” My lawyer turned - sharply to me. “Is this true?” he whispered. “No, it is entirely false,” I - answered. But I did not care. - </p> - <p> - “This,” resumed the district-attorney, “was at about what hour?” - </p> - <p> - “Sure, you can reckon it for yourself, sir. It was a little after twelve.” - </p> - <p> - “Very good. Now, at what hour did you shut up the house?” - </p> - <p> - “It was after one o’clock.” - </p> - <p> - “Had the prisoner meantime gone out?” - </p> - <p> - “He had not.” - </p> - <p> - “So that consecutively from the moment of his reëntrance to the hour of - your closing up, he was in the house?” - </p> - <p> - “He was, sir.” - </p> - <p> - “Meanwhile, who else had entered?” - </p> - <p> - “Two of the tenants, Mr. and Mrs.————, the tenants - of the first flat.” - </p> - <p> - “Any one else?” - </p> - <p> - “No one else.” - </p> - <p> - “That will do, Mrs. Marshall.” - </p> - <p> - My lawyer cross-questioned her for an hour. His utmost art was powerless - to shake her. She reiterated absolutely and word for word what she had - already sworn to. - </p> - <p> - “John Marshall!” called the prosecutor. - </p> - <p> - It was the husband of the janitress. He confirmed her story, and like her, - was impregnable to Epstein’s assaults. - </p> - <p> - “That’s our case, your honor,” said the district-attorney to the judge. - </p> - <p> - “Then we will adjourn until to-morrow,” replied the latter. - </p> - <p> - I was handcuffed and led back to the Tombs, a crowd following. Epstein - joined me in my cell. - </p> - <p> - “How about that key?” he demanded. - </p> - <p> - “I know nothing about it.” - </p> - <p> - “How about the blood on your handkerchief?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t remember. Perhaps, as you suggested, I had a nose-bleed.” - </p> - <p> - “You are sure you did not reenter the house?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I am sure of that. I went straight home and to bed.” - </p> - <p> - “Then the Marshalls have lied out and out?” - </p> - <p> - “They have.” - </p> - <p> - “Will you take the stand?” - </p> - <p> - “What for?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, to defend, to exonerate yourself.” - </p> - <p> - “No.” - </p> - <p> - “I feared as much. My friend, your life depends upon it.” - </p> - <p> - “What do I care for my life?” - </p> - <p> - “But your good name—you cherish your good name, do you not?’ - </p> - <p> - “No,” I replied, stubbornly. - </p> - <p> - He attempted to plead, to reason with me. “No, no, no,” I insisted. He - went his way. - </p> - <p> - “Your honor,” he said next day in court, “I ask that the jury be directed - to render a verdict of not guilty, on the ground that the prosecution has - failed to show any motive on the part of my client for the crime of which - he is accused. Where the evidence is wholly circumstantial, as in the - present case, a failure to show motive is fatal.” - </p> - <p> - “I shall not hamper the jury,” said the judge. “They must decide the case - on its merits.” Epstein called, “Mrs. Burrows.” My landlady took the - witness-chair and testified to my excellent character. He called a handful - more to testify to the same thing; then said, “I am ready to sum up, your - honor.” - </p> - <p> - “Do so,” replied the Court. - </p> - <p> - Epstein spoke shortly and quietly. I remember his argument word for word; - yet I was not conscious of attending to it at the time. - </p> - <p> - He said, “We are not prepared to contest the matters of fact alleged by - the prosecution, nor to deny that their bearing is against my client. That - Mr. Neuman was in Miss Pathzuol’s company on the night of July 12th, and - that the next morning a blood-stained handkerchief and a key to Mr. - Tikulski’s door were taken from his pocket, we admit. We will even admit - that these circumstances are of a sort to cast suspicion upon him: all - that we claim is that they are not sufficient to confirm that suspicion - and make it certainty. It is the liberty, perhaps the life, of a human - being which you have at your disposal. No matter how dark the shadow over - him may be, if you can entertain a reasonable doubt of his guilt, you must - acquit. And, putting it to you in all simplicity and sincerity, I ask: - Does not the evidence offered by the prosecution leave room for a - reasonable doubt? Is it not possible that some other hand than Neuman’s - dealt the blows by which Veronika Pathzuol met her death? If such a - possibility exists, you must give Neuman the benefit of it; you must - acquit. Consider his good character; consider that he was the betrothed of - the lady whose murderer they would make him out to be; consider that - absolutely no trace of motive has been brought home to him; consider that - on the contrary he was the one man who above all others most desired that - she might live; consider these matters, and then decide whether in - reasonableness his guilt is not in doubt. Remember that it is not - sufficient that there should be a presumption against him. Remember that - there must be proof. Remember also what a grave duty yours is, and how - grave the consequences, should you send an innocent man to the gallows. - </p> - <p> - “Only one word more. I had naturally intended to place my client upon the - stand, and let him justify himself by his own word of mouth. But, - unfortunately, I am not able to do so, because morally and physically he - is prostrated and unfitted for sustaining the strain of an examination. - But after all, if you will for a moment imagine yourselves in Mr. Neuman’s - position, you can conceive that his defense must necessarily be of a - passive, not of an active, kind. In his position what could you say? Why, - only that you were ignorant of the whole transaction, and innocent despite - appearances, and as much at loss for a solution of the mystery involving - it as his honor himself. This is what Neuman would say were he able to go - upon the stand. But one thing more he would say. He would impugn the - veracity of the Marshalls. He would maintain that they lied <i>in toto</i> - when they swore to his second entrance. He would tell you that when he - left the house in Fifty-first street at midnight, he went directly home - and to his bed, and that he returned no more until the next morning. And - he would leave you to choose between his story and that of Mr. and Mrs. - Marshall. My opponent will ask, ‘Why not prove an alibi, then?’ Because, - when Mr. Neuman returned to his lodging-house late that night, every body, - as might have been expected, was asleep. He encountered no one in the hall - or on the stairs. He mounted straight to his own bed-chamber and went to - bed. - </p> - <p> - “I trust the matter to your discretion. I am sure that you will weigh it - carefully and conscientiously. You will realize that the life of a fellow - man hangs upon your verdict, and you will deliberate well, if there be - not, on the whole, a reasonable doubt in his favor. You will, I am - confident, in no uncertain mind consign Ernest Neuman to the grave of a - felon.” The district-attorney’s address was florid and rhetorical. It - lasted about two hours. He resumed the evidence. He said that an ordinary - process of elimination would suffice to fasten the guilt upon the prisoner - at the bar. The gist of his argument was that as Neuman had been the only - person in the victim’s company at the time of the commission of the crime, - he was consequently the only person who by a physical possibility could be - guilty. He warned the jury against allowing their sympathies to interfere - with their judgment, and read at length from a law book respecting the - value of circumstantial proof. He ridiculed Epstein’s impeachment of the - Marshalls, and added that even without their testimony the doctor’s story - and the police-captain’s story, coupled with my own “eloquent silence,” - were conclusive. It was the obvious duty of the jury to convict. - </p> - <p> - The judge delivered his charge, dealing with the legal aspect of the case. - </p> - <p> - Epstein rose again. “I request your honor,” he said, “to charge that in - the event of the jurymen finding that there is a reasonable doubt in - Neuman’s favor, they must acquit.” - </p> - <p> - “I so charge,” assented the judge. - </p> - <p> - “I request your honor,” Epstein continued, “to charge that if the jurymen - consider the fact of no motive having been shown, sufficient to establish - a reasonable doubt of the defendant’s guilt, they must acquit.” - </p> - <p> - “I so charge you, gentlemen,” said the judge. - </p> - <p> - The jurymen filed out of the room. The judge left the bench. It was now - about four in the afternoon. Half an hour passed. The court-room began to - empty. Another half hour passed. Only the court attendants, Epstein, the - district-attorney’s colleague, and the prisoner remained. One of the - attendants held a whispered conference with Epstein: then said to me, - “There is no prospect of a speedy agreement. Come.” I rose, followed him - to the rear of the room, and was locked up in the prisoner’s pen. - </p> - <p> - It got dark. I sat still in the dark and waited. The stupor bound my - faculties like a frost. - </p> - <p> - It had been dark many hours when the door of the pen swung open. The same - attendant again said, “Come.” - </p> - <p> - The court-room was lighted by a few feeble gas jets. The judge sat on the - bench. The district-attorney was laughing and chatting with him. Epstein - said, “For God’s sake, summon all your strength. They have agreed.” - </p> - <p> - The jurymen entered in single file, took their places, settled themselves - in their chairs. The judge and the prosecutor suspended their - pleasantries. The clerk cleared his throat. There was a second of dead - silence. Then, “Prisoner, stand up,” called the clerk. - </p> - <p> - I stood up. - </p> - <p> - “Prisoner, look you upon the jury. Jury, look you upon the prisoner,” the - clerk cried, machine-like. - </p> - <p> - In the murky light of the gas I could have gathered nothing from the faces - of the jurymen, even had I been concerned to do so. - </p> - <p> - “Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon a verdict?” the metallic - voice of the clerk rang out. - </p> - <p> - The foreman rose. “We have,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - “How say you, do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of - the offense for which he stands indicted?” - </p> - <p> - “Not guilty,” said the foreman. - </p> - <p> - Epstein grasped my hand and crunched it hard. His own was clammy. He did - not speak. - </p> - <p> - “Gentlemen of the jury, you say you find the prisoner at the bar not - guilty of homicide in the first degree, and so your verdict stands - recorded. Neuman, you are discharged.” It was the clerk’s last word. - </p> - <p> - I quitted the court-room, a free man. I was as indifferent to my freedom - as I had been to my peril. There was no consciousness of relief in my - breast. - </p> - <p> - Epstein stood at my elbow. “You must be weak and faint,” he said. “Come - with me.” - </p> - <p> - He led me through the silent streets and into a restaurant. - </p> - <p> - “This is an all-night place,” he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness, - “and much frequented by journalists. What will you have?” - </p> - <p> - “I am not hungry,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, but you must take something,” he urged with a touch of ruefulness, - “just a bite to celebrate our victory.” - </p> - <p> - I drank a cup of coffee. When we were again out-doors, Epstein cried, - “Why, see; it is beginning to get light. Morning already.” A fresh wind - blew in our faces, and the blackness of the sky was giving place to gray. - “I must leave you now,” said Epstein, “and hurry home. Where will you go?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t know,” I replied. “I’ll stroll about for a while. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - “Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0006" id="link2H_4_0006"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> WALKED along - aimlessly, recounting all the happenings of the last few weeks. I was - astonished at my own blank insensibility. “Why, Veronika, the Veronika you - loved, is dead, murdered,” I said to myself, “and you, you who loved her, - have been in prison and on trial for the crime. They have outraged you. - They have sworn falsely against you. And the very core of your life has - been torn out. Yet you—what has come over you? Are you heartless, - have you no capacity for grief or indignation? Oris it that you are still - half stunned? And that presently you will come to and begin to feel?” I - strode on and on. It was broad day now. By and by I looked around. - </p> - <p> - I was in Second avenue, near its southern extremity. I was standing in - front of a large red brick house. A white placard nailed to the door - caught my eye. “Room to let,” it said in big black letters. - </p> - <p> - “Room to let?” I repeated. “Why, I am in need of a room.” And I entered - the house and engaged the room. The landlady asked my name. I told her it - was Lexow, that having been the maiden-name of my mother. Neuman had - acquired too unpleasant a notoriety through the published accounts of the - trial. As Lexow I have been known ever since. - </p> - <p> - I employed an express agent to go to the Tombs and bring back my luggage. - </p> - <p> - Then I sat at my window and watched the people pass in the street. I sat - there stockstill all day. I was aware of a vague feeling of wretchedness, - of a vague craving for a relief which I could not name. As dusk gathered, - a lump grew bigger and bigger in my throat. “I am beginning to be - unhappy,” I thought. “It is high time.” My insensibility had frightened as - well as puzzled me. Instinctively, I knew it could not last forever, knew - it for the calm that precedes the storm. I was anxious that the storm - should break while I was still strong enough to cope with its fury. - Waiting weakened me. Besides, I was ashamed of myself, hated myself as one - shallow and disloyal. That I could be indifferent to Veronika’s death! I, - who had called myself her lover! - </p> - <p> - But now, as the lump grew in my throat, now, I thought, perhaps the hour - has come. I sat still in my chair, fanning this forlorn spark of hope. - </p> - <p> - In the end, by imperceptible degrees, sleep stole upon me. It was natural. - I had been up for more than six-and-thirty hours. - </p> - <p> - When I awoke a singular thing happened. Memory played me a singular trick. - </p> - <p> - I awoke, conscious of a great luminous joy in my heart. It was full - morning. “Ah,” I thought, “how bright the sunshine is! how sweet the air! - To-day I will go to Veronika to-day, after my lessons—and spend the - lest of the afternoon and the evening at her side!” My heart leaped at - this prospect of happiness in store: and I commenced to plan the afternoon - and evening in detail. At last I jumped up, eager to begin the delicious - day. - </p> - <p> - The trick that memory played me was a simple one, after all. The recent - past had simply for the moment been obliterated, and I transported back - for a moment into the old time. As I stood now in the middle of the floor, - my eye was struck by the strangeness of my surroundings. - </p> - <p> - “Why, how is this?” I questioned. “Where am I?” - </p> - <p> - For a trice I was bewildered, but only for a trice. The truth reasserted - itself all at once—rose up and faced me with its grim, deathly - visage, as if cleared by a stroke of lightning. All at once I remembered; - and what is more, all at once the stupor that had hung like a cloud - between me and the facts, rolled away. I looked at my world. It was dust - and ashes, a waste space, peopled by ghosts. My heart recoiled, sickened, - horrified; then began to throb with the pain that had been ripening in its - womb ever since the morning when Tikulski pointed to her, stretched - murdered upon the bed. - </p> - <p> - Well, at last the storm had broken; at last I realized. At last I could no - longer reproach myself for a want of sensibility. At last I had my desire. - I yielded myself to the enjoyment of it for the remainder of the day. - </p> - <p> - For weeks afterward I lay at the point of death. The slow convalescence - that ensued afforded me plenty of time to examine my position from every - point of view, and to get accustomed to understanding that the light had - gone out of my sky. Of course I hated the fate that condemned me to regain - my health. The thought that I should have to drag out years and years of - blank, aimless, joyless life, appalled me. The future was a night through - which I should be compelled to toil with no hope of morning. Strangely - enough, the idea of suicide never once suggested itself. - </p> - <p> - When I was able to go out, I repaired to Epstein’s office. Several little - matters remained to be settled with him. As I was about to leave, he said, - “Neuman, do you propose to take any steps toward finding the murderer?” - </p> - <p> - “Toward finding the murderer? Why, no; I had not thought of doing so.” - </p> - <p> - “But of course you will. You won’t allow the affair to rest in <i>statu - quo?</i>” - </p> - <p> - “Why not?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, considering your relations to Miss Pathzuol, I should think your - motive would be plain. Don’t you want to see her murderer punished, her - death atoned for?” - </p> - <p> - “Her death atoned for! Her death can never be atoned for. And the - punishment of her murderer—would that restore her to me? Would that - undo the fact that she is dead? Else, why should I bestir myself about - it?” - </p> - <p> - “Common human nature ought to be enough; the natural wish to square - accounts with him.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you fancy, Epstein, that such an account as this can be squared? - Suppose we had him here now at our mercy, what could we do by way of - squaring accounts? Put him to death? Would that square the account? To say - so would be to compare his miserable life to hers.—But besides, he - is not at our mercy. We have no clew to him.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, on the contrary, we have.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed? What is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, the most apparent one. You are sure the Marshalls lied?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh yes; I am sure of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what earthly inducement could they have had for lying—for - perjuring themselves, mind you, and running the risk of being caught and - sent to prison—what earthly inducement, unless thereby they hoped to - cover up their own guilt by throwing suspicion upon another man?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes; that is so. I had not thought of that.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, now, if you and I are sure that the Marshalls participated in that - crime, there is a solid starting-point. Now, will you not join me and help - to fasten the guilt upon them?” - </p> - <p> - “What good would it do? I say again, would that give her back to me?” - </p> - <p> - “But, my dear fellow, even if you have no desire to see the murderer - punished, you must at least wish to retaliate upon the wretches who - jeopardized your life by their false swearing, who sought to thrust upon - your innocent shoulders the brunt of their own offending.” - </p> - <p> - “No; I confess, I have no such wish.” - </p> - <p> - “But—but you amaze me. Have you not the ordinary instincts of a man? - </p> - <p> - “It is the business of the police, any how. Let them move in the matter. - You ought to understand that I am sick and tired, that all I wish for is - to be left alone. No, no; if the Marshalls should ever be brought to - justice it will not be by my efforts. The police can manage it for - themselves.” - </p> - <p> - “But there is just the point.” Epstein hesitated; at length went on, - “There is just the point I wanted to bring to your notice. It will be hard - for you to hear, but you ought to understand—it is only right that I - should tell you—that—that—why, hang it, the police will - remain idle because they suppose they have already finished the business, - already put their finger on the—the man.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, why should they remain idle on that account? Why don’t they arrest - him and try him, as they did me, before a jury?” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t comprehend, Neuman. The fact of the matter is—you must - pardon me for saying so—the fact is, they still suspect you.” - </p> - <p> - “Suspect me? What, after the very jury has acquitted me? I thought the - verdict of the jury was conclusive.” - </p> - <p> - “So it is, in one sense. They can’t put you in jeopardy again. But this is - the way they stand. They say, ‘We haven’t sufficient legal evidence to - warrant a conviction, but we feel morally certain, all the same, and so - there’s no use prying further.’ That is my reason for broaching the - subject and for urging you so strongly. You ought to clear your character, - vindicate your innocence, by proving to the police that they are wrong, - that the guilt rests with their own witnesses, the Marshalls. - </p> - <p> - “I thank you, Epstein, for telling me this. I am glad to realize just what - my status is. But let me cherish no misconception. Is this theory of the - police—is it held by others?” - </p> - <p> - “To be frank, I am afraid it is. The newspapers took it up and—and - I’m afraid it s the opinion of the public generally.” - </p> - <p> - “Then the verdict did not signify?” - </p> - <p> - “Well, at least not so far as public opinion is concerned.” - </p> - <p> - “So that I am to rest under this stigma all my life?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, no—not if you choose to exonerate yourself, as I have - indicated.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I don’t care about that. I don’t care to exonerate myself. What - difference would it make? Would it make the fact that she is lost to me - forever one shade less true? Only, it is well that I should have a clear - understanding of my position, and I thank you for giving it to me.” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t mean to say that you are going to drop the case there?” Epstein - demanded. “I assure you, I never should have opened my mouth about it, had - I foreseen this.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t reproach yourself. You have simply done your duty. It was my right - to hear this from you.—Yes, of course I shall drop the case. - Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - “You will think better of it; you will reconsider it; you will come back - to-morrow in a wiser frame of mind. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - As I reentered my lodging-house the landlady met me; thrust an envelope - into my hand; and vanished. - </p> - <p> - I was surprised to see that the envelope was addressed to “E. Neuman, - Esquire.” It will be remembered that I had introduced myself as Mr. Lexow. - I tore it open. It inclosed a memorandum of my arrears of rent and a - notice to quit, the latter couched thus: “Mr. Neuman’s real name having - been learned during his sickness, please move out as soon as you have paid - up.” - </p> - <p> - I caught sight of myself in the glass. “So,” I said, “you are the person - whom people suspect as a murderer! and it is thus that you are to be - regarded all the rest of your life as one touched with the plague.” - </p> - <p> - I counted my ready money and paid the landlady her due. - </p> - <p> - “I am very sorry,” she began, “but the reputation of my house—but - the other lodgers—but—” - </p> - <p> - “You needn’t apologize,” I interposed, and left the house. - </p> - <p> - 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? - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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 <i>confreres</i> watched his decapitation with - repressed sympathy. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - The proprietor glanced up. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon,” I continued in German, “but you have discharged a - waiter!” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” he responded. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you will probably need somebody to take his place?” - </p> - <p> - “Well? What of it?” - </p> - <p> - “I—I—that is, if you think I would do, I should like the - employment.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “What references can you give?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - I mentioned Epstein. - </p> - <p> - “All right,” he said. “You can go to work at once. To-morrow I will look - up your reference. If it be satisfactory, I will keep you.” - </p> - <p> - The <i>Oberkellner</i> provided me with an apron and a short alpaca - jacket; and in this garb Ernest Neuman, musician, merged his identity, as - he supposed for good and all, into that of Ernest Lexow, waiter. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>WO years elapsed. - Their history is easily told. I lived and moved and had my being in a - profound apathy to all that passed around me. The material conditions of - my existence caused me no distress. I dwelt in a dingy room in a dirty - house; ate poor food, wore poor clothing, worked long hours; was treated - as a menial and had to put up with a hundred indignities every day; but I - was wholly indifferent, had other things to think of. My thoughts and my - feelings were concentrated upon my one great grief. My heart had no room - left in it for pettier troubles. I do not believe that there was a waking - moment in those two years’ when I was unconscious of my love and my loss. - Veronika abode with me morning, noon, and night. My memory of her and my - unutterable sorrow for her engrossed me to the exclusion of all else. - </p> - <p> - My violin I did not unlock from year’s end to year’s end. I could not get - over my hatred for the bare idea of music. Music recalled the past too - vividly. I had not the fortitude to endure it. The sound of a hand-organ - in the street was enough to cause me a twinge like that of a nerve touched - by steel. - </p> - <p> - As the winter leaped into spring, and days came which were the duplicates - of those I had spent with her, of course my pain grew more acute. The - murmur of out-door life and the warmth and perfume of the spring air, - penetrated to the very quick of memory and made it quiver. But at about - this time I began to taste an unexpected pleasure. It was an odd one. Of - old, during our betrothal, I had been tormented almost nightly by bad - dreams. As surely as I laid my head upon its pillow, so surely would I be - wafted off into an ugly nightmare—she and I were separated—we - had quarreled—she had ceased to love me. But now that my worst dream - had been excelled by the reality, I began to have dreams of quite another - sort. As soon as sleep closed upon me, the truth was annihilated, Veronika - came back. All night long we were supremely happy; we played and sang and - talked together, just as we had been used to do. These dreams were - astonishingly life-like. Indeed, in the morning after one, I would wonder - which was the very fact, the dream or the waking. My nightly dream got to - be a goal to look forward to during the day. But as the summer deepened, I - dreamed less and less frequently, and at length ceased altogether. - </p> - <p> - Autumn returned, and winter; and my life did not vary. Time was slow about - healing my wounds, if time meant to heal them at all. But time did not - mean to heal them at all, as ere long became apparent. - </p> - <p> - One afternoon in November, a month or so before the two years would have - terminated, a young man entered the shop and ensconced himself at a table - in the corner. Having delivered his order and lighted a cigarette, he - pulled out a yellow covered French book from the pocket of his coat, and - speedily became immersed in its perusal. I don’t know what it was in the - appearance of this young man that attracted my attention. Almost from the - moment of his advent my eyes kept going back to him. His own eyes being - fastened upon his book, I could stare at him without giving offense. And - stare at him I did to my heart’s content. - </p> - <p> - He was a tall young fellow and wore his hair a trifle longer than the - fashion is. He was dressed rather carelessly; he knocked his cigarette - ashes about so that they soiled his clothes. He had a dark skin, and, in - singular contrast to it, a pair of large blue eyes. His forehead, nose, - and chin were strongly modeled and expressed force of character without - pretending to conventional beauty. He was not a handsome, but a - distinguished looking man. The absence of beard and mustache lent him - somewhat of the aspect of a Catholic priest. His big blue eyes were full - of good-nature and intelligence. He had a quick, energetic way of moving - which announced plenty of dash within. He had entered the shop like a gust - of wind, had shot across the floor and taken his seat at the table as if - impelled by the force of gunpowder, and now he turned the pages of his - book with the air of a man whose life depended upon what he was doing. No - sooner had he consumed one of his cigarettes than he applied a match to - its successor. - </p> - <p> - I stared at him mercilessly and wondered what manner of individual he was. - </p> - <p> - “He is not a business-man,” I said, “nor a lawyer nor a doctor: that is - evident from his whole bearing; and besides, what would he be doing in a - wine-shop at this hour of the afternoon? I don’t think he is a musician, - either—he hasn’t the musician’s eyes or mouth. Possibly he is a - school-teacher, or it may be—yes, I should say most certainly, he is - an artist of some sort, a painter or sculptor, or perhaps a writer.” - </p> - <p> - My speculations had proceeded thus far when in the quick, energetic way - above alluded to the young man looked at his watch, slammed to his book, - shoved back his chair, and commenced hammering upon the table with the - bottom of his empty beer-mug. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, sir,” I said, responding to his summons. - </p> - <p> - “Check,” he demanded laconically. - </p> - <p> - I handed him his check. He thrust his fingers into his waistcoat-pocket - for the money. They roamed about, apparently unrewarded. - </p> - <p> - A puzzled expression came upon his face. The fingers paused in their - occupation; presently emerged and dived into another pocket and then into - another. The puzzled expression deepened: at last changed its character, - became an expression of intense annoyance. He knitted his brows and bit - his lip. Glancing up, he said, “This is really very awkward. I—I - find I haven’t a <i>sou</i> about me. It’s—bother it all, I suppose - you’ll take me for a beat. But—here, I can leave my watch.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that’s entirely unnecessary,” I hastened to put in. “Don’t let it - distress you. Tomorrow, or any other day you happen to be passing, will do - as well.” - </p> - <p> - He looked at the same time surprised and relieved. “That’s not a - conservative way of doing business,” he said. “How do you know I may not - take advantage of you?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I’m quite at rest about that. You need not be disturbed.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, such faith in human nature is stimulating,” he answered. “I should - hate to imperil it. So you may be sure I’ll turn up to-morrow. Meanwhile - I’m awfully obliged.” - </p> - <p> - Thereat he went away. - </p> - <p> - I paid his reckoning from my own purse, and immediately fell again to - wondering about him. - </p> - <p> - By and by it occurred to me, “Why, that is the first human being who has - taken you out of yourself for the last two years!” And thereupon I - transferred my wonder to the interest he had managed to arouse in my own - preoccupied mind. Then gradually my thoughts flowed back into their - customary channels. - </p> - <p> - But early the next day I caught myself asking, “Will he return?” and - devoutly hoping that he would. Not on account of the money; I had no - anxiety about the money. But somehow, self-centered as I was, I had felt - drawn toward this blue-eyed young man, and anticipated seeing him again - with an approach to genuine pleasure. - </p> - <p> - Surely enough, in the course of the afternoon the door opened and he - entered. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” he said, “you see, I am faithful to my trust. Here is the lucre: - count it and be satisfied that the sum is just. Really,” he added, - dropping the mock theatrical manner he had assumed, “really, it was - frightfully embarrassing yesterday. But I’m a victim of absentmindedness, - and in changing my clothes I had omitted to transfer my pocket-book from - the one suit to the other. I can’t tell you how much indebted I am for - your considerateness. I suppose you are overrun with dead-beats who play - that dodge regularly—eh?” - </p> - <p> - I gave him the answer his question called for, served him with the - drinkables he ordered, and stationed, myself at a respectful distance. - </p> - <p> - He lighted his inevitable cigarette and produced his book. He read and - smoked for a few moments in silence. Suddenly he flung the book angrily - upon the table, pushed back his glass, and uttered an audible “Confound - it!” - </p> - <p> - I hastened forward to learn the subject of his discomposure and to supply - what remedy I might. - </p> - <p> - “I beg your pardon,” I ventured, “is there any thing wrong with the wine?” - </p> - <p> - “Eh—what?” he queried. “With the wine? Any thing wrong? Oh—I - perceive. Oh, no—the wine s all right. It’s this beastly pedantic - author. He is describing the Jewish ritual, and now just observe his - idiocy. He goes on at a great rate about the beauty of a certain prayer—gets - the reader’s curiosity all screwed up—and then—fancy his airs!—and - then quotes the stuff in the original Hebrew! It’s ridiculous. He doesn’t - even condescend to affix a translation in a foot-note. Look.” - </p> - <p> - He opened the book and pointed, with a finger dyed brown by tobacco-smoke, - to the troublesome passage. - </p> - <p> - Now I, having been brought up as an orthodox Jew, had a smattering of - Hebrew, and at a glance I saw that I could easily translate the few - sentences in question. So, impulsively and without stopping to reflect - that my conduct might seem officious, I said, “If you would like, I think - perhaps I may be able to aid you.” - </p> - <p> - “What!” he exclaimed, fixing a pair of wide open eyes upon my face. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I think I can translate it.” - </p> - <p> - “The deuce!” he cried. “I didn’t suspect you were a scholar. How in the - name of goodness did you learn Hebrew?” - </p> - <p> - “A scholar I am not, surely enough: but I am a Jew, and like the rest of - my faith I studied Hebrew as a boy.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I understand. Well, fire away.” - </p> - <p> - I took the book and read the Hebrew aloud. It was a prayer, which, when a - child, I had known by heart. Afterward I explained its sense while my - friend jotted it down with a pencil upon the margin. - </p> - <p> - “Thanks,” he was good enough to say. “I don’t know what I should have done - without your help.—And so you are a Jew? You don’t look it. You look - like a full-blown Teuton. But I congratulate you all the same.” - </p> - <p> - “Congratulate me for looking like a Teuton?” The shop being empty, there - was no harm in my joining in conversation with a client. Besides, I did - not stop to think whether there was harm in it or not. I yielded to the - attraction which this young man exerted over me. - </p> - <p> - “No—for belonging to the ancient and honorable race of Jews,” he - answered. “Your ancestors were civilized and dwelt in cities and wrote - poems, thousands of years ago: whereas mine at that epoch inhabited caves - and dressed in bearskins and occasionally dined on a roasted neighbor. I - should be proud of my lineage, were I a Jew.” - </p> - <p> - “But it is the fashion for the Gentiles to despise us.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, bosh! It is the fashion for a certain ignorant, stupid set of - Philistines to do so—but those who pretend to the least - enlightenment, on the contrary, regard the Jews as a most enviable people. - They envy your history, they envy the success that waits upon your - enterprises. For my part, I believe the whole future of America depends - upon the Jews.” - </p> - <p> - “Indeed, how is that?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, look here. What is the American people to-day? There is no American - people—or rather there are twenty American peoples—the Irish, - the German, the Jewish, the English, and the Negro elements—all - existing independently at the same time, and each as truly American as any - of the others. Good! But in the future, after emigration has ceased, these - elements will begin to amalgamate. A single people of homogeneous blood - will be the consequence. Do you follow?” - </p> - <p> - “I think I follow. But the Jews?” - </p> - <p> - “But the Jews—precisely, the Jews. It is the Jewish element that is - to leaven the whole lump—color the whole mixture. The English - element alone is, so to speak, one portion of pure water; the German - element, one portion of <i>eau sucrée</i>; now add the Jewish—it is - a dose of rich strong wine. It will give fire and flavor to the decoction. - The future Americans, thanks to the Jew in them, will have passions, - enthusiasms. They will paint great pictures, compose great music, write - great poems, be capable of great heroism. Have I said enough?” - </p> - <p> - The result was that we chatted together for half an hour with the freedom - of old acquaintances. He quite made me forget that I was his servant for - the time, and led me to speak out my mind with the unreserve of equal to - equal. I enjoyed a peculiar sense of exhilaration that lasted even after - he had gone away. In spite of myself I could not help relishing this - contact with a superior man. Again I fell to wondering about his - occupation. I was more and more persuaded that he must be an artist of - some sort, or a writer. - </p> - <p> - The next day he came again, and the next, and the next, and regularly - every day at about the same hour for a fortnight. As surely as he seated - himself at the corner table, so surely would he beckon to me and begin to - talk. In these dialogues he afforded me no end of entertainment, touching - in a racy way upon a score of topics. He had resided abroad for some years—seemed - equally at home in Paris, Rome, and Munich—and his anecdotes of - foreign life were like glimpses into dream-land for me. He had the faculty - of making me forget myself, and for that reason, if for no other, I should - have valued his friendliness. Our interviews occurred as bright spots in - the sad gray monotone of my daily life. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0008" id="link2H_4_0008"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - VIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">B</span>UT 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “I was afraid I had seen the last of you for the day,” I answered. “This - is a pleasant surprise, I assure you.” - </p> - <p> - After a few yards in silence he resumed, “I say—oh, by the way, you - have never told me your name?” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Lexow.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t understand,” I said. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “One confidence deserves another. I have told you my name, tell me yours.” - </p> - <p> - “My name is Merivale, Daniel.—But don’t change the subject.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Capital! Well, then, for a beginner: You are or were or have at some time - hoped to be, an artist of some sort—eh?” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “No, neither of them.” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Brava!</i> 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.” - </p> - <p> - “I confess, Mr. Merivale, that you surprise me. You have divined the - truth, but for the life of me, I don’t see how.” - </p> - <p> - “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 <i>Violin!</i> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “Guess. I’ll wager you’ll never guess.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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, <i>inédit</i>. 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “We had arrived in front of an English-basement house in Seventeenth - street. - </p> - <p> - “Come in,” he repeated. “This is where I live.” - </p> - <p> - “It is too late,” I said. - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense,” he retorted. “It is never too late. Advance!” - </p> - <p> - I followed him into the house. - </p> - <p> - The room to which he conducted me was precisely the sort of room one would - have expected. It was chock-full of odds and ends, piled about in hopeless - confusion. The walls were hung with a reddish paper, and freckled with - framed and unframed pictures—etchings, engravings, water-colors, - charcoals, some suspended correctly by wires from the cornice, others - pinned up loosely by their corners. The ceiling was tinted to harmonize - with the walls. The floor was carpetless, of hard wood, waxed to a high - degree of slipperiness, and relieved by a sporadic rug or two. Bits of - porcelain and metal ware, specimens of old Italian carving, Chinese - sculptures in ivory, rich tapestries, bronze and plaster reproductions of - antique statuary, and books of all sizes and descriptions and in all - stages of decay, were scattered hither and thither without a pretense to - order. On the whole the effect of the room was pleasant, though it - resembled somewhat closely that of a curiosity-shop gone mad. My host - informed me that it was Liberty Hall and bade me make myself at home. - Producing a flagon of Benedictine, he said laconically, “Drink.” - </p> - <p> - We drank together in silence. Turning his emptied glass upside down, - “Now,” he cried, “now for the music. Now you are going to play.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I thought you had forgotten about that,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “‘Tis not among my talents to forget,” he declaimed, theatrically. “You - must prepare to limber up your fingers.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, Mr. Merivale,” I insisted, “you don’t know what you are asking. I - should no more think of touching a violin to-night than, than—no - need of a comparison. The long and short of the matter is that I have the - best of reasons for not wanting to play, and that the most you can urge to - the contrary won’t alter my resolution. I hate to seem boorish or - disobliging, but really I can’t help it. Besides, my instrument is a mile - away and unstrung, and it is so late that the other occupants of this - house would be annoyed. And as the subject is extremely painful to me, I - wish you would let it drop.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, if you are going to treat the matter <i>au grand sérieux</i>,” said - Merivale, “I suppose I must give in. But you have no idea of how - disappointed I shall be. As for an instrument, I’ve a fiddle of my own in - the next room—one that I scrape on now and then myself. As for the - other occupants of this house, I pay double rent on the condition that my - quarters are to be my castle, and that I can create as much rumpus in - them, day and night, as I desire. If I were disposed to do so, I could - make this a broad proposition of ethics, and maintain that as an artist - you have no right to decline to exercise your skill. Your talent is given - you in trust—a trust which you violate when you bury the talent in - the ground. But I won’t go so far as that. I’ll simply ask you as a favor - to play for me, and, if after that you are still obstinate, I’ll hold my - peace.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, I am forced to be obstinate. Now let’s change the subject.” - </p> - <p> - “I bow my head. Only, perhaps you will make a single concession. As I have - said, I am the possessor of a fiddle. It is one I picked up in Rome. I - bought it of a seedy Italian nobleman; and he claimed it for a rare one—a - Stradivari, in fact. I’m no judge of such things, and most likely was - taken in. Will you look at it and give me your opinion?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes, I have no objection to doing that,” - </p> - <p> - I said, glad to prove myself not altogether churlish. - </p> - <p> - “Here it is,” he continued, putting the violin into my hands. - </p> - <p> - It was a beautiful instrument from an optical standpoint. What remained of - the varnish was ruddy and crystalline, and as smooth as amber. - </p> - <p> - The curves were exquisite. It was also either genuinely old or a marvelous - imitation. Its interior was dark and dirty—an excellent condition. I - could descry no label there—another favorable sign. Was it indeed a - Stradivari? Formerly it had been an ambition of mine to play upon a - Stradivari; an ambition which I had never had a chance to gratify, because - among the dozen so-called Stradivaris that I had come upon here and there, - I had found not one but betrayed its fraudulent origin from the instant - the bow was drawn across the strings. Something of the old feeling revived - in me as I held this instrument in my hands, and before I had thought, my - finger mechanically picked the <i>A</i> string. The clear, bell-like tone - that responded, caused me to start. I had never heard such a tone as this - produced before by the mere picking of a string. - </p> - <p> - “I believe you have a treasure here,” I exclaimed. “I’m not connoisseur - enough to say whether it is a Stradivari; but whoever its maker was, it’s - a superb instrument.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you really think so?” cried Merivale. “Try it with the bow.” - </p> - <p> - He thrust the bow upon me. Without allowing myself time to hesitate, I - touched the bow to the strings: the result was a voice from heaven, so - clear, so broad, so sweet, of such magnetic quality, that it actually - frightened me, made my heart palpitate, summoned a myriad dead emotions - back to life. And yet I felt an irresistible temptation to continue, to - push the experiment at least a trifle further. - </p> - <p> - “Tune it up,” said Merivale. - </p> - <p> - I complied. That was the final stroke. After I had drawn the bow for a - second time across the cat-gut, there was no resisting. I lost possession - of myself: ere I knew it, I was pouring my life out through the wonderful - voice of the Stradivari. - </p> - <p> - I don’t remember what I played. Most probably it was a medley of - reminiscences. I only remember that for the first few minutes I suffered - the tortures of the damned—an army of devils were tugging at my - heart-strings—and withal I had no power to restrain the motion of my - arm and lay the violin aside. Then, I remember, the pain gradually turned - to pleasure, to an immense sense of relief, as though all the woe pent up - in the recesses of my soul had suddenly found an outlet and was gushing - forth in a tremendous flood of sound. As I felt it ebbing away, like a - poison let loose from my veins, somehow time and space were annihilated, - facts were undone, truth changed to falsehood. Veronika and I were alone - together in the pure realm of spirit while I told her in the million - tempestuous variations of my music the whole story of my sorrow and my - adoration. I listened to the music precisely as though it had been played - by another person; I heard it grow soft and softer and melt into a - scarcely audible whisper; I heard it soar away into mighty, passionate <i>crescendi</i>; - I heard it modulate swiftly from prayerful minor to triumphant, defiant - major; I heard it laugh like a child, plead like a lover, sob like Mary at - the tomb of Christ; I heard it wax wrathful like a God in anger. And I—I - was caught up and borne away and tossed from high to low by it like a leaf - on the bosom of the ocean. And at last I heard the sharp retort of a - breaking string; and I sank into a chair, exhausted. - </p> - <p> - I think I must have come very near to fainting. When I gathered together - my senses and opened my eyes I was weak, nerveless, bewildered. Merivale - stood in front of me, his gaze fixed upon my face. - </p> - <p> - “In God’s name,” I heard him say, “tell me what you are. Such music as you - have played upsets all my established notions, undermines my philosophy, - forces me back in spite of myself to a belief in witchcraft and magic. Are - you a Merlin? Have you indeed the secret of enchantment? It is hardly - credible that simple human genius wove that wonderful web of melody—which - has at last come to an end, thank heaven! If I had had to listen a moment - longer, I should have broken down. The strain was too intense. You have - taken me with you through hell and heaven.” - </p> - <p> - Still weak and nerveless, I could not command my voice. - </p> - <p> - “You are faint,” he exclaimed. “The effort has tired you out. No wonder: - here—drink this.” He held a glass to my lips. I drank its contents. - Presently I felt a glow of warmth radiating through my limbs. Then I was - able to stir and to speak. - </p> - <p> - “Through hell and heaven,” I repeated, echoing his words. “Yes, we have - been through hell and heaven.” - </p> - <p> - “It was a frightful experience,” he added, “more than I bargained for when - I asked you to play.” - </p> - <p> - “You must forgive me; I was carried away; I had no intention of harrowing - you, but I had not played for so long a time that my emotions got the best - of me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t talk like that,” he protested. “It was a frightful experience, - but it was one I would not have missed. I had never dreamed that music - could work such an effect upon me; but now I can understand the ardor with - which musicians love their art; I can understand the claims they make in - its behalf. It is indeed the most powerful influence that can be brought - to bear upon the feelings. For my part I never was so deeply moved before—not - even by Dante. But tell me, how did you acquire your wonderful skill? What - must your life have been in order that you should play like that?” - </p> - <p> - “Of ‘wonderful skill’ I have little enough. Tonight perhaps I played with - a certain enthusiasm because I was excited. But you attribute too much to - me. A musician would have descried a score of faults. My technique has - deserted me; but even when I used to practice regularly, I occupied a very - low grade in my profession.” - </p> - <p> - “I care not how you used to play, nor how you were rated, nor how faulty - your technique may be. You play now with a force that is more than human. - I am not given either to flattery or to exaggeration, and I am not easily - stirred up. But you <i>have</i> stirred me up, clear down to the marrow of - my bones. Perhaps these two years of abstinence have but ripened the - genius that was already in you—allowed it time to ferment. Tell me, - what depths of joy and sorrow have you sounded to gather the secrets you - have just revealed with your violin? What has your life been?” - </p> - <p> - “My life has been a very simple one, and for the most part very prosaic.” - </p> - <p> - “You might as well call the sun cold, the sea motionless, as pretend that - your life has been prosaic. Friend, the only element that gives life and - magnetism to art is profound, human truth That which touches us in a - picture, a poem, or a symphony, is its likeness to the truth, its nature, - especially its human nature. That is what makes Wilhelm Meister a powerful - book, because each page is written, so to speak, in human blood. That is - what makes Titian’s Assumption a great picture, because the agony in the - Madonna’s face is true human agony. And that is what gave your music of a - moment since the power to pierce the very innermost of my heart-because it - was true music the expression of true human passion. Tell me, what manner - of life have you lived, to learn so much of the deep things of human - experience?” - </p> - <p> - I looked into his clear, earnest eyes. They shone with a sympathy that - fell as balm upon my wounds. An impulse that I could not battle with - unsealed my lips. I told him my whole story from first to last. - </p> - <p> - Some of the time, as I was speaking, he sat motionless with his brow - buried in his hands. Some of the time he paced up and down the floor. He - smoked constantly. Twice or thrice he extended his palm to bid me pause, - indicating by nodding his head when he wished me to go on. Not once did he - verbally interrupt, nor for a long while after I had done did he speak. - </p> - <p> - By and by he grasped my hand and wrenched it hard and said, “Will—will - you understand by my silence what I feel? It would be sacrilege for me to - talk about this thing. I—I—oh, what a fool I am to open my - mouth!” - </p> - <p> - But presently he cried, “The injustice, the humiliation, that you have - been put to! It is shameful. To think that they dared to try you, as - though the mere sight of your face was not sufficient to prove you - incapable of the first thought of crime! But I can understand your motive - for not wishing to hunt the Marshalls down. Only of this I am sure, that - if there is any such thing as equity in this world, some day their guilt - will be made manifest and they will receive the chastisement which they - deserve. Oh, how you have suffered! I tell you, it sobers a man, it - reminds him of the seriousness of things, the spectacle of such a colossal - sorrow as yours has been.” - </p> - <p> - Again silence. Eventually he crossed over to the window and sent the - curtains rattling across their pole. It was getting light outside. I - pulled myself together. Rising, “Well,” I said, “good-by. My visit to you - has been like a sojourn in another world. Now, I must return to my own - dreary sphere. Forgive me if I have wearied you with all this talk about - myself. I seemed to speak without meaning to—involuntarily. Once - started, I could not have stopped myself, had I tried.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t speak like that,” he rejoined hastily and with a look of reproach. - “Don’t make me feel that you repent your confidence. It was only right, - only natural, that you should unbosom yourself to me. It was the - consecration of our friendship. Friendship is never complete until it has - been tested in the fire of sorrow. Mere companionship in pleasure is not - friendship. No matter how intimately we might have seen each other, we - should never have been friends until you had told me this.—Moreover, - don’t get up. You must not think of going away as yet.” - </p> - <p> - “As yet? Why, I have outstaid the night itself. I must make haste or I - shall be behindhand at the shop.” - </p> - <p> - “You must not think of returning to the shop to-day. You must go to bed - and have some sleep. When you awake again I shall have a proposition to - lay before you. For the present follow me—” - </p> - <p> - “But Mr. Merivale—” - </p> - <p> - “But I anticipate your objections. But they are worthless. But the shop - may, and I devoutly hope it will, be struck by lightning. Furthermore, if - you are anxious about it, I’ll send word around to the effect that you’re - unwell and not able to report for duty. That’s the truth. But any how I - have a particular reason for wanting to keep possession of you for a while - longer. Now, be tractable—as an indulgence, do what I ask.” - </p> - <p> - There was no resisting the appeal in Merivale’s big blue eyes. I followed - him as he desired. He led me into the adjoining room, where there were two - narrow brass bedsteads side by side. - </p> - <p> - “You see,” he said, “I was prepared for you. Here is your couch, ready for - your reception. It’s rather odd about this. I’m a great hand for - presentiments: and experience has taught me to believe in their coming - true. When I took these quarters I said to myself, ‘Pythias, the Damon you - have been waiting for all these years will arrive while you are bivouacked - here. Be therefore in a condition to welcome him properly.’ I don’t know - why, but I was thoroughly persuaded, I felt in my bones, that Damon’s - advent would occur during my occupancy of these rooms. So I bought two - bedsteads and two dressing-stands instead of one. I have got the heroes of - the old legend somewhat mixed up; can’t remember which was which: but I - trust I’m not egotistic in assigning the part of Damon to you and keeping - that of Pythias for myself. At any rate, it’s a mere figure of speech, and - as such must be taken. Now, Damon or Pythias, whichever you may be, in - begging you to make yourself comfortable here, I am simply inviting you to - partake of your own.” - </p> - <p> - As he rattled on thus, he had produced sheets and blankets from a chest of - drawers near at hand, and now was making the bed with the deftness of an - expert. - </p> - <p> - “There,” he exclaimed, bestowing a farewell poke upon the pillow, “now go - to bed with a clear conscience and a mind at peace. I shall speedily - follow. In the morning—I mean in the afternoon—we will resume - our session.” - </p> - <p> - He had the delicacy to leave me alone. I was too fatigued to reason about - what I was doing. I undressed quickly, got into bed, and fell sound - asleep. - </p> - <p> - The sunlight was streaming through the window when I awoke. Merivale was - seated upon the foot of the bed. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” he cried, as I opened my eyes, “welcome back!” - </p> - <p> - “Eh, how?” I queried, perplexed for the moment. “Oh yes; I remember. Have - I been asleep long?” - </p> - <p> - “So long that I thought you were never going to wake up. It’s past four in - the afternoon, and you have been sleeping steadily since six this morning. - I had the utmost hardship in subduing my impatience. Ten solid hours of - sleep! You must have been thoroughly exhausted.” - </p> - <p> - “You ought to have roused me. One can gorge one’s system with sleep as - easily as with food. I have slept too much. But—but how shall I ever - make amends at the shop?” - </p> - <p> - “Bother the shop! The shop no longer exists. I have caused its - annihilation during the day.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you Aladdin’s lamp? - </p> - <p> - “I have a substitute for it, at least. The shop has been transported to - Alaska.” - </p> - <p> - “That was unkind of you. Now I shall have to undergo the expense of a - journey thither. Besides, I prefer a more temperate climate.—But - seriously, did you send word as you agreed to?” - </p> - <p> - “I saw Herr Schwartz personally.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, that was very thoughtful. Did you succeed in appeasing him?” - </p> - <p> - “I told him that you wished to resign your position; and when he began to - splutter, I added that in consideration of the trouble he would be put to, - you were willing to forgive him whatever back pay he owed you; and when he - declared that he owed you no back pay at all, I said you would be willing - to forgive him any way on general principles, and think no more about it. - Then I ordered beer and cigars and pronounced the magic syllable ‘<i>selbst</i>’ - and in the end he appeared quite reconciled.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense. Be serious. What did you say?” - </p> - <p> - “I <i>am</i> serious. That is what I said precisely.” - </p> - <p> - “What, you—oh come, you can’t be in earnest.” - </p> - <p> - “But I assure you I am in earnest, never was more in earnest in my life. - You don’t really imagine that I am going to let you ‘stand and wait’ any - longer, do you?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t very clearly see how you are going to prevent it. I have my - livelihood to earn. I can’t afford to throw up my employment in the - cavalier manner you propose. It’s ridiculous.” - </p> - <p> - “I can prevent it and I will prevent it. How? By the power of friendship, - by appealing to your heart and to your reason. As for your livelihood, I - have found you a new occupation, one more befitting your character. - Henceforward you are to be a private secretary.” - </p> - <p> - “Whose private secretary?” - </p> - <p> - “Never mind whose—or rather, you will learn whose, presently. First, - accustom your mind to the abstract idea.” - </p> - <p> - “Really, Merivale, you are outrageous. I don’t know why I’m not indignant. - You meddle with my affairs as if they were your own. You have no right to - do so. And yet I am not angry. I must be totally devoid of spunk. But - nevertheless I shan’t abide by your proceedings. As soon as I am dressed I - shall return to the shop and beg Herr Schwartz to take me back.” - </p> - <p> - “I forbid it.” - </p> - <p> - “I am sorry, but I must defy your prohibition. By the way, may I inquire - your authority?” - </p> - <p> - “Certainly. It is every man’s authority to restrain a lunatic. Your notion - of returning to that wine-shop is downright lunacy. Besides, have I not - provided you with new employment?” - </p> - <p> - “But it is a sort of employment which I don’t wish to undertake. I prefer - work that will leave my mind disengaged. You ought to understand that in - my position one has no heart for any but manual labor.” - </p> - <p> - “I think I understand perfectly, better indeed than you yourself. I - understand that while the first shock of your grief lasted it was natural - for you to take up the first employment that you chanced upon, no matter - what it was. But I understand now that it is high time for you to come - back to your proper level. An occupation which leaves your mind disengaged - is precisely the very worst you could have. With all appreciation of the - magnitude of your bereavement, and with all reverence for your fidelity to - your betrothed, I say that it is wrong of you to brood over your troubles. - I am not brute enough to advise you to court oblivion; but a grief loses - its dignity, becomes a species of egotism, by constantly brooding over it. - It is our duty in this world to accept the inevitable with the best grace - possible, and to make ourselves as comfortable as under the circumstances - we can. But over and above that consideration there is this, that no man - has a right to do work that is unworthy of him. It degrades himself and it - robs society. Every man is bound to do his best work, to accomplish his - highest usefulness. What would you say of a Newton who had abandoned - mathematics to drive a plow? You are as much subject to the general moral - law as the rest of us. You were sent into this world to contribute your - quota to the sum of human happiness; and your art was permitted you only - on the condition that you should cultivate it for the benefit of your - fellow creatures. And yet, you propose to do the business of a common - waiter in a wretched little <i>brasserie</i>. Now, I won’t urge you to - return to music forthwith, because I know you suffer too keenly while you - are playing. But I will say: Remember that you are a gentleman and that - you are actually stealing from society by doing that which your inferiors - could do as well. For the present, accept the situation of private - secretary that I have procured for you. It will be a stepping-stone toward - your proper place. You see, I can be a preacher on occasions. - </p> - <p> - “And your sermon, I confess, is a wholesome one.” - </p> - <p> - “Then you will consider the secretaryship? - </p> - <p> - “I will consider whatever you wish me to. I will be guided by your common - sense.” - </p> - <p> - “Good! Now get up and dress.” - </p> - <p> - He left the room. As I dressed I thought over the sermon he had preached. - I could not gainsay its truth. Yet on the other hand I could not - contemplate a changed mode of life without flinching. Two years of moral - illness had undermined my moral courage. I wondered who my new employer - was to be. I dreaded meeting him not a little. Thinking over the - confidences of the night, I experienced no regret. Indeed I was glad to - realize that I was no longer altogether alone in the world. Merivale had - inspired me with an enthusiasm. - </p> - <p> - “What a splendid fellow he is!” I exclaimed. - </p> - <p> - “If he and I could only remain together I believe I should find my life - worth living. It is marvelous, the faculty he has for making me forget - myself. I suppose it is due to his animal spirits, his healthy - temperament. He is as vigorous and bracing as a whiff of the west wind - full in one’s face.” - </p> - <p> - I had never had a friend before. I relished my first taste of friendship. - </p> - <p> - Meantime I was preparing my toilet. In the midst of it Merivale came into - the room. - </p> - <p> - “I suppose you know who your future master is to be?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “No—how should I know?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you obtuse blockhead! You————” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t—you don’t mean to say—” I began, a suspicion of the - truth dawning upon me. - </p> - <p> - “Exactly! That is the precise sum and substance of what I mean to say. I - mean to say that I’m in need of somebody to help me in certain work that - I’m doing. The need is a real one, not an artificial one trumped up for - the occasion. I have plenty of cash and am ready to pay what is just for - my assistant’s time. You on the other hand are looking about fora means of - subsistence. At the same time, luckily, you are just the person to suit my - purpose. Hence, as a pure matter of business, I say, Shall we strike a - bargain? You are going to be sensible and answer, Yes. Wherefore it only - remains for me to explain the nature of the work and thus to convince you - that you are not going to draw the salary of a sinecure.” - </p> - <p> - “If this is really true,” I said, “I can’t help telling you that nothing - could make me happier. If I can really be of service to you, and if we can - really arrange to keep as closely together as such work would bring us, - why, my contentment will be greater than I can say.” - </p> - <p> - “Then come into the next room and judge for yourself.” - </p> - <p> - We passed into the sitting-room. Merivale drew up to a table near the - window and taking a pen in his hand said, “Look.” - </p> - <p> - He tried the pen’s nib upon the nail of his thumb, dipped it into an - inkstand, and applied it to a blank sheet of paper. Then his fingers began - to work laboriously to and fro, with the result of tracing a scarcely - legible scrawl. One could, however, by dint of taxing the imagination, - make out these words: “Good friend, to end all doubt about the present - matter, learn by this that a penman’s palsy shakes my fist, and - furthermore, that I inherit a lamentable tendency to gout in the wrist.” - </p> - <p> - “Scrivener’s palsy and gout combined,” he added verbally, “and yet I am - going to publish a volume of poems in the spring. They’re all down on - paper, but no one can decipher them except myself; and if I should be - carried off some day unexpectedly, think what the world would lose! My - idea is to dictate them to you. We will work from nine till one every day, - and devote the rest of our time to relaxation.” - </p> - <p> - “But you take my handwriting for granted,” I interposed. - </p> - <p> - “I think I am safe in doing so,” he replied. “But give me a sample.” - </p> - <p> - I wrote off a few words. - </p> - <p> - “Capital!” was his comment. “Now about the compensation.” - </p> - <p> - I had to haggle with my generous friend and to beat him down half of his - original offer. My stipend settled, “I admit,” said he, “that I am - ravenously hungry. Suppose we dine?” - </p> - <p> - We adjourned to Moretti’s. During the dinner we discussed our future. He - said he was constantly writing new matter and therefore our contract would - not terminate with the completion of the particular MS. in question. “Ah, - what good times we are going to enjoy!” he cried. “We are perfectly - companionable! There is nothing so satisfactory, nothing so productive of - <i>bien être</i>, as friendship, after all.” - </p> - <p> - Dinner over, we strolled arm in arm through the streets. For the first - time in two years I began to feel that the world was not quite a ruin. At - home we talked till late into the night. And when I went to bed it was to - lie awake for hours and hours, congratulating myself upon my newly - discovered friend. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0009" id="link2H_4_0009"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - IX. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">O</span>N 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. - </p> - <p> - 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, “<i>Das Sehen mussgelernt sein!</i>”—it - was all the German he knew—and now he taught me to see. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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; - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - “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?” - </p> - <p> - “The musical director?” - </p> - <p> - “The same.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course I know him by reputation. Do you mean personally? Why do you - ask?” - </p> - <p> - “Because—but that’s the point. First you must hear my story. It’s - the greatest stroke of luck that mortal ever had.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, go ahead.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Take your time, then. I possess my soul in patience.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, pray, don’t stop,” I said, as he paused for breath. “Your narrative - becomes thrilling.” - </p> - <p> - “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!” - </p> - <p> - It required no little strength of mind to answer Merivale as I now had to. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - The light faded from Merivale’s eyes. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - I stuck out obdurately. Merivale shifted from the attitude of one who begs - a favor to that of one who imposes a duty. - </p> - <p> - “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.” - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - My efforts to beg off next morning were ineffectual. - </p> - <p> - “If you desire to forfeit my respect entirely,” he warned me, “persist in - this sort of thing.” - </p> - <p> - I permitted myself to be dragged by the arm through the streets to Doctor - Rodolph’s house. - </p> - <p> - 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.” - </p> - <p> - Disconcerted, I brought my bow to a standstill and exchanged a forlorn - glance with Merivale. - </p> - <p> - The doctor approached and looked me quizzically over from head to foot. - “Where did you study?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - “In New York,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “Have you ever played in public?” - </p> - <p> - “Not at any large affairs.” - </p> - <p> - “Do you teach?” - </p> - <p> - “I used to.” - </p> - <p> - “What—what did you say your name was?” - </p> - <p> - “Lexow.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum, it is odd I haven’t heard of you. Have you been in New York long?” - </p> - <p> - “All my life.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; you said you studied here. Who were your masters?” - </p> - <p> - I named them. - </p> - <p> - The doctor’s face had been inscrutable. Merivale and I had sat on pins - during the inquisition. Now the doctor’s face lighted up with a genial - smile. - </p> - <p> - “You will do, Mr. Lexow,” he said. “I don’t know whom to thank the more, - you or Mr. Merivale. You have relieved me in a very trying emergency. Your - playing is fine, though perhaps a trifle too independent, a trifle too - individual, and the least tone too florid. It is odd, most odd that I - should never have heard of you; but we shall all hear of you in the - future.” - </p> - <p> - We agreed upon the selections for the evening. I ran them through in the - doctor’s presence and listened to his suggestions. Then we bade him - good-by. - </p> - <p> - That day was a trying one. It would be bootless to catalogue the - conflicting thoughts and emotions that preyed upon me. I practiced my - pieces thoroughly. Merivale busied himself procuring what he styled a - “rig.” The rig consisted of an evening suit and its accessories. He rented - one at a costumer’s on Union square. As the day drew to a close, I worried - more and more. “Brace up,” cried Merivale. “Where’s your stamina? And - here, swallow a glass of brandy.” - </p> - <p> - We waited in the ante-room till it was my turn to go upon the platform. - </p> - <p> - I was conscious of a glow of light and a sea of faces and a mortal - stage-fright, and of little else, when finally I had taken my position. - The orchestra played the preliminary bars. I had to begin. I got through - the first phrase and the second. The voice of my instrument reassured me. - “After all you will not make a dead failure,” I thought, and ventured to - lift my eyes. Not two yards distant from me, to my right, among the first - violins, sat Mr. Tikulski. His gaze was riveted upon my face. - </p> - <p> - I had anticipated about every catastrophe that could possibly befall, but - strangely enough I had not anticipated this. And it was so sudden, and the - emotions it occasioned were so powerful, and I was so nervous and unstrung—well, - the floor gave a lurch, like the deck of a vessel in a storm; the lights - dashed backward and forward before my sight; a deathly sickness overspread - my senses; the accompaniment of the orchestra became harsh and incoherent; - my violin dropped with a crash upon the boards; and the next thing I was - aware of, I lay at full length on a sofa in the retiring-room, and - Merivale was holding a smelling-bottle to my nostrils. I could hear the - orchestra beyond the partition industriously winding off the <i>Tannhauser</i> - march. - </p> - <p> - “How do you feel?” asked Merivale, as I opened my eyes. - </p> - <p> - “I feel as though I should like to annihilate myself,” I answered, as - memory cleared up. “I have permanently disgraced us both.” - </p> - <p> - “But what was the trouble? You were doing nobly, splendidly, when all of a - sudden you collapsed like that,” clapping his hands. “The doctor is - furious, says it was all my fault.” “No, it wasn’t your fault,” I hastened - to put in. “I should have pulled through after a fashion, only unluckily I - caught sight of Tikulski—her uncle, you know—in the orchestra; - and, well, I—I suppose—well, you see it was so unexpected that - it rather undid me.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I understand,” said he. - </p> - <p> - We kept silence all the way home in the carriage. - </p> - <p> - Next morning, as I entered the sitting-room, Merivale tried to hide a - newspaper under his coat. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, don’t bother to do that,” I said. “Of course it is all in print?” - </p> - <p> - Possessing myself of the newspaper, I had the satisfaction of reading a - sensational account of my fiasco. But what I had most dreaded from the - quarter of the newspapers had not come to pass. None of them identified me - as the Ernest Neuman who, rather more than two years since, had been tried - for murder. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0010" id="link2H_4_0010"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - X. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">M</span>Y encounter with - Tikulski was bound to have consequences, practical as well as moral. All - day Sunday a legion of blue devils were my comrades. Late Monday afternoon - I received by the post a letter and a package, each addressed to “E. - Lexow, in care of D. Merivale, Esq.” The penmanship was the same on both—a - stiff European hand which I could not recognize. I began with the letter. - It read thus:— - </p> - <p> - “Mr. E. Lexow, - </p> - <p> - “Dear Sir: - </p> - <p> - “I should have forwarded this to you before, but not apprised of the - alteration of your name, I was unable to discover your address. I dispatch - this to the address indicated by Dr. Rodolph, who informs me that you are - to be reached through D. Merivale, Esquire, as he is not advised of your - private residence. I found it in a pawnbroking establishment (No.—————-street, - kept by one M. Arkush) now more than a year, and purchased it with the - intention of restoring it to you, because I suppose that it must be of - some value to you as a family memento, and that you would not have - disposed of it except needing money. Hoping that this letter may find you - in the enjoyment of good health, I am - </p> - <p> - “Respectfully yours, - </p> - <p> - “B. Tikulski.” - </p> - <p> - What could Tikulski’s letter mean? What could “it” be? I puzzled over - these questions for a long while before it occurred to me to unseal the - package. - </p> - <p> - There was an outer wrapper of stout brown paper. Beneath this, an inner - wrapper of tissue paper. Both removed, I beheld an oval case of red - leather, considerably the worse for wear. What did it contain? I pressed - the clasp and raised the lid. It contained a miniature painted on ivory, - the likeness of a man. The faded colors and the old-fashioned collar and - cravat showed that it dated from some years back. But of whom was it a - picture? - </p> - <p> - Why had Tikulski posted it to me? And what did he mean by supposing that I - should value it as a family memento and that I would not have parted with - it—I, who had never owned it,—“except needing money?” I was - thoroughly mystified. - </p> - <p> - “Merivale,” I said, “can you make any thing out of this?” - </p> - <p> - I tossed him the letter and the portrait. - </p> - <p> - Presently he muttered, “Pretty good, by Jove.” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” I questioned. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what?” he returned. - </p> - <p> - “Well, what do you make of it? What does it mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, that the likeness is striking, what else? Your father, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “My father? I confess I am in the dark.” - </p> - <p> - “And you have the faculty of dragging me in after you. What are you trying - to get at?” - </p> - <p> - “I am trying to get at Mr. Tikulski’s idea. Why should he send me that - miniature? Whom does it represent?” - </p> - <p> - “You don’t mean to say that you haven’t recognized it?” - </p> - <p> - “Most certainly I do.” - </p> - <p> - “Man alive, look in the glass.—Here.” Merivale held up the miniature - in one hand and a pocket-mirror in the other. As closely as it is possible - for one human countenance to resemble another, the face of the picture - resembled my reflection in the glass. - </p> - <p> - “Are you satisfied?” demanded Merivale.—“Why, what ails you?” he - continued presently, as I did not answer. “You look as if you had seen a - ghost. Are you ill?” - </p> - <p> - “It has caused me quite a turn,” I replied. “It must indeed be a portrait - of my father. But do you know—wait—let me tell you something.” - </p> - <p> - What I told Merivale I shall have also to tell the reader. - </p> - <p> - I could remember neither of my parents. As a child, I had lived in a dark - old house with a good old rabbi and his wife—Dr. and Mrs. Hirsch. I - had never stopped to ask whether or not they were my father and mother - until I was eleven or twelve years of age. Then, the question having been - suggested by a schoolmate, I had said, “Dr. Lesser”—Lesser being the - rabbi’s given name—“are you my father?” To which the doctor, beaming - at me over the rim of his spectacles, had responded, “No, my child: you - are an orphan.”—“An orphan? That means?” I pursued. “That your papa - and mamma are dead,” said he.—“Have they been dead long?” I asked - indifferently. “Ever since you were the tiniest little tot,” he replied. - And thereupon, as the subject did not prove especially interesting, I had - let it drop. - </p> - <p> - Time went on. I was perfectly contented. The doctor and his wife were - kindness personified. The present occupied me so pleasantly that I forgot - to be curious about the past. But at length, when I was fifteen, the - question of my parentage was again brought to my mind—this time by a - lad with whom I had had a quarrel and who as a parting thrust had inquired - significantly whether I knew the definition of the Hebrew noun <i>Mamzer</i>. - Highly incensed, I ran home and burst into the doctor’s study. “Doctor,” I - demanded, without ceremony, “am I a <i>Mamzer?</i>”—“What a notion! - Of course you are not,” replied the rabbi.—“Then,” I continued, - “what am I? Tell me all about my father and mother.” - </p> - <p> - The doctor said there was nothing to tell except that my mother had died - when I was less than two years old, and my father not a great while after - her. They had been members of his (the doctor’s) congregation; and rather - than see me sent to an orphan asylum, he and his wife had taken me to live - with them.—“But what sort of people were they, my parents?” I - insisted. “Give me some particulars about them.”—“They were very - respectable, and by their neighbors generally esteemed well off. Your - father had been a merchant; but for the last year his health was such as - to confine him to his bedroom. It was quite a surprise to every body to - find on his death that very little property was left. That little was - gobbled up by his creditors. So that you have no legacy to expect except——” - </p> - <p> - “Except?” I queried as the doctor hesitated. “There is no exception. You - have no legacy to expect at all.”—“But,” I resumed, “had my parents - no relations? Have I no uncles or aunts? Am I altogether without kindred?”—“So - far as I know, you are.” - </p> - <p> - Your father came originally from Breslau. It is possible that he had - relatives there; but he had none in this country—at least I never - heard him speak of any. He was a good man, a pious man. It was sad that he - should die so young, but it was the will of <i>Adonai</i>—“And my - mother, had she no brother or sister?”—“About your mother I can tell - you very little. She came from Savannah. Whether she has connections there - still, I can not say.”—“Doctor,” I asked, after a moment’s silence, - “what did you mean by that ‘except’ you used a while ago, speaking of - legacies?” - </p> - <p> - “I meant nothing. I was thinking of a few family relics, papers and - what-not, which you are to receive when you become of age.”—“Why not - till then?”—“No reason, save that such was your father’s wish, - expressed on his death-bed. He said, ‘Don’t let my son have these until he - is grown to be a man.’.—“Can you tell me definitely what they are?”—“I - can not. I have never seen them. They are locked up in a box; and the box - I am not at liberty to open.”—“Doctor, what was my mother’s - maiden-name?” - </p> - <p> - “Bertha, Bertha Lexow.”—“Did you marry her and my father?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no; they were married in the South at Savannah. I think they had been - married about five years when your father died.”—I went on quizzing - the doctor until he declined to answer another question. “Go away, - gad-fly,” he cried. “You are worse than the inquisition.” - </p> - <p> - In my eighteenth year the doctor died suddenly, having survived his wife - by a six-month only. He was stricken down by paralysis while intoning the - <i>Kadesh</i> song in the synagogue. In him I lost my only friend. I had - loved him precisely as though he had been my father. His death was an - immense affliction. It took me a long while to gather my wits together and - realize my position. - </p> - <p> - A week or two after the funeral a man came to me and said, “I represent - the Public Administrator, charged with settling up Dr. Hirsch’s concerns. - He leaves nothing except household furniture and a few dollars in bank—all - of which goes to his next-of-kin in Germany. You will have to find other - quarters. These are to be vacated and the goods sold at auction in a few - days.”—“Ah,” I said, “if you are his administrator, that reminds me. - I beg that you will deliver over the things the doctor had belonging to me—a - box containing papers.” - </p> - <p> - “Identify your property and prove your title,” he replied. - </p> - <p> - Strangers came and went in and out of the house for several days. But in - the inventory which they prepared no such box as the doctor had described - was mentioned. Furthermore, a thorough search failed to bring it to light. - The auction was held. The last fork was knocked down to the highest - bidder. And I had to go about my business with the unpleasant conviction - that owing to some slip-up somewhere my inheritance had either been lost - or stolen. Gradually I reconciled myself to this idea, concluding that - what I already knew about my parents was the most I ever should know; and - thus matters had remained ever since. - </p> - <p> - “But now,” I added, my recital wound up, “now perhaps in this miniature I - have a clew. It must be a portrait of my father: and very likely it was - part of the contents of that box. I suppose, if I were clever, I should - see a way of following it up.” - </p> - <p> - “I am consoled,” said Merivale, drawing a deep breath. - </p> - <p> - “Consoled?” I queried. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, consoled for my obstinacy in making you play at the concert. You - see, it was an inspiration after all. If you had not chanced upon Tikulski—what - a blood-curdling name! fit for a tragedy villain—if you hadn’t - chanced upon him as you did, why you never would have received the - picture, and so the mystery which envelops my hero s antecedents would - never have been dispelled. Now we must go to work in a systematic way. - </p> - <p> - “Exactly; but how begin?” - </p> - <p> - “Let me see Tikulski’s letter again.”—After he had read the letter, - “Begin, he said, by paying a visit to the pawn-shop where he got it. - Luckily he had the presence of mind to mention its whereabouts.” - </p> - <p> - “Good,” I assented. “But will you go with me?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you imagine I would allow you to go alone, you unfledged gosling? I - shall not only go with you, but by your permission I shall manage the - whole transaction. I fancy I surpass you in respect of <i>savoir faire</i>.” - </p> - <p> - “It is now past four. Shall we start at once?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Don’t be too hopeful,” he warned me, as we approached the pawnbroker’s - door. “Most likely we shall run against a dead wall.” - </p> - <p> - The shop was empty. A bell tinkled as we opened the door. In response, a - young fellow in his shirt-sleeves emerged from a dark back room. - </p> - <p> - “Is Mr. Arkush in?” demanded Merivale, with an air of friendliness. - </p> - <p> - “Do you want to see him personally?” returned the young man, not over - politely. - </p> - <p> - “You have fathomed my purpose,” said Merivale with mock gravity. - </p> - <p> - “What about?” - </p> - <p> - Merivale drew near to the young man and shielding his mouth with his hand - whispered, “Business,” accompanying his utterance with a knowing glance. - </p> - <p> - “Well, you can see me about business,” rejoined his interlocutor, surlily. - </p> - <p> - “Impossible. Here, take my card to Mr. Arkush and say I am pressed.” - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Arkush can’t see nobody. He’s sick. - </p> - <p> - “Sick? Ah, indeed?” cried Merivale. “Has he been sick long? I hope it is - nothing serious. Pray tell me what the trouble is?” - </p> - <p> - The young man looked surprised. “Oh, it’s only rheumatism,” he said. “You - ain’t a friend of his, are you?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, my dear fellow, of course I am. By the very nature of his profession - Mr. Arkush is the friend of every body; and I am the friend of every - friend of mine. Consequently but the deduction is too obvious. Here, take - him my card and say that if he is not too ill I shall hope to be - admitted.’ - </p> - <p> - “Well, perhaps I’d better,” said the young man, reflectively.—“Becky,” - he called, raising his voice. - </p> - <p> - Becky appeared. - </p> - <p> - “Good-afternoon, Miss Rebecca,” said Merivale, lifting his hat. - </p> - <p> - “Mind the shop,” said the young man to Becky, and thereat vanished. - </p> - <p> - “Come this way,” he said to us, presently returning. - </p> - <p> - He conducted us into the cavernous back room. The atmosphere was heavy - with the scent of stale cookery. The walls were lined with shelves, - bearing mysterious parcels done up in paper winding-sheets. Under a grimy - window at the further end an old man sat in an easy chair, a patch-work - quilt infolding his legs. Bald, beardless, with sharply accentuated - features and a yellow skin, he looked like a Midas whose magic was - beginning to operate upon himself. - </p> - <p> - “Dear me!” cried Merivale, advancing toward him. “I’m shocked to find you - suffering like this, Mr. Arkush. Do the legs give you much pain? You must - try petroleum liniment. I’ll send you a bottle. They say it’s the best - remedy in the world.—But tell me, how are you getting on? Do you - notice any improvement?” - </p> - <p> - The old man’s face wore a puzzled expression. “What was the business you - wanted to see me about?” he inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, never mind about business till you have quieted my anxiety regarding - your health. Besides, are you sure you will be able to attend?” - </p> - <p> - The mask of Midas betrayed a tendency to smile. “Come, time is money; - hurry up,” said its owner. He had a strong Jewish accent, thus: “Dime iss - money.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well,” said Merivale, “if you don’t think it will disturb you, I’ll - come to the point. But let me disarm beforehand any suspicion which the - nature of my errand may be calculated to inspire. I am <i>not</i> a - detective. I am <i>not</i> on the track of stolen goods. I am simply a - private individual desirous of gaining certain information for certain - strictly legitimate ends. So you need have no fear of compromising - yourself by speaking with entire unreserve. Shall I proceed?” - </p> - <p> - “My Gott, what are you talking about? Don’t make foolishness any longer,” - exclaimed Mr. Arkush with some degree of vivacity. - </p> - <p> - “Mr. Arkush,” said Merivale in his most solemn tones, “do you remember - this?” extracting the miniature from his pocket and handing it to the - pawnbroker. - </p> - <p> - The latter donned a pair of spectacles and holding the picture off at - arm’s length, scrutinized it in silence. - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I remember it,” he replied finally, “I sold it to a gentleman some - time ago. What of it?” - </p> - <p> - “You did. You sold it about a year ago to a gentleman with a white beard. - Recollect?” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, yes, yes: you are right. He had a white beard. He was also a Jew. We - spoke in <i>Judisch</i>. I remember.” - </p> - <p> - “By Jove, hasn’t Mr. Arkusha wonderful memory?” cried Merivale, turning to - me. - </p> - <p> - “I happen to remember,” volunteered Mr. Arkush, unperturbed by the - compliment, “because when I put that article into the window I said to - myself, ‘You won’t get no customer for that. What good is it to anyone? - You made a mistake to lend your money on it. That was a loss.’ But the - very same day the old gentleman came in and bought it, which was a - surprise.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah, I see. Could you tell me, Mr. Arkush, of whom you got it originally—who - pledged it with you?” - </p> - <p> - “<i>Du lieber Gott!</i> how should I remember that? It was two years ago - already.” - </p> - <p> - “True, but—but your books would show.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, my books would show the name the person gave.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, will you kindly refer to your books?” - </p> - <p> - “Ach, you make me much trouble!—Yakub,” he called. - </p> - <p> - The young man came. - </p> - <p> - Arkush told Yakub to get him the ledger for 18—. It was a ponderous - and dingy volume. Yakub held it open while his employer turned the pages, - running his finger from the top to the bottom of each. At length the - finger reached a stand-still. Mr. Arkush said, “Yes, I have found it. It - was pawned with me by a man calling himself Joseph White.” - </p> - <p> - “The date?” - </p> - <p> - “The 16th January.” - </p> - <p> - “Have you any means of recalling what sort of looking individual Joseph - White was? And, by the way, is his residence given?” - </p> - <p> - “‘Residence, Harlem,’ it says. That’s all. How should I remember his - looks?” - </p> - <p> - “Of course—you see so many people in the course of a year, it is not - wonderful that you should forget.—But tell me, did White put any - thing else in pawn that day?” - </p> - <p> - “No, sir; nothing else.” - </p> - <p> - “He simply pawned this one article and went away; that’s all?” - </p> - <p> - “That’s all.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum!” - </p> - <p> - Merivale reflected. At length he resumed. “But at any other time—that - is, does White’s name appear on your ledger under any other date?” - </p> - <p> - “Do you expect me to read through the book?” inquired Arkush, with the - tone of protestation. “That is too much.” - </p> - <p> - “I’m awfully sorry to annoy you, but this information I am seeking is of - such great importance—you understand—it’s worth a - consideration.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well, that’s different,” said Arkush. “What will you give?” - </p> - <p> - “I’ll give twenty-five cents for each month that you go over—is it - enough?” - </p> - <p> - “Here, Yakub,” cried Arkush. “Run back from January 16th, and see if you - find the name of Joseph White again.” - </p> - <p> - Yakub carried the ledger to a desk hard by, and began his task. - </p> - <p> - “Do you smoke?” Merivale asked the old man, offering him a cigar. - Presently the air became blue with aromatic vapor. - </p> - <p> - “Here you are!” called Yakub from his stool. He proceeded to read aloud, - “‘December 7th—one onyx seal ring—amount, one dollar and a - quarter—to Joseph White—residence, Leonard street—ticket-number, - 15,672. Same date—one ornamented wooden box—amount, fifteen - cents—to Joseph White—residence, as above—ticket-number, - 15,67.’.rdquo; - </p> - <p> - “Keep still,” said Merivale in an aside, as he saw my lips open. “I’ll do - the talking.—I’m infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Arkush. Now, if I - may trespass just a little further upon your indulgence, can you tell me - whether you still have either of those articles in stock? If so, I should - be glad to see them—with a view to purchasing, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Look, Yakub,” said Arkush. “Was those goods redeemed?” - </p> - <p> - Yakub returned the ledger to the shelf whence he had taken it, and - produced another book of similar proportions in its stead. Presently he - said, “Number 15,672, sold August 20, 18—; Number 15,673—see - profit and loss.” - </p> - <p> - “Number 15,672 was the ring, was it not?” asked Merivale. “Number 15,673 - is referred to the account of profit and loss—will you kindly turn - to it under that head, Mr. Yakub?” - </p> - <p> - Yakub possessed himself of a third volume, and in due time read, “‘Number - 15,673—July, 18—, given to R.—Amount of loss, fifteen - cents.’.rdquo; - </p> - <p> - “Let me see that entry,” said Arkush. - </p> - <p> - After he had scrutinized it, “Oh yes,” he continued, “I recollect. White - was a colored man. I recollect all about it. That ring and that box were - the first things he brought here; that picture was the last. I happen to - recollect because I gave that box to my daughter, Rebecca, instead of - offering it for sale.” - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” said Merivale, “then I suppose Miss Rebecca has it still. Could she - be persuaded to show it to us?” - </p> - <p> - “I don’t know. I will ask her.” - </p> - <p> - He sent Yakub into the front room with instructions for Rebecca to present - herself. - </p> - <p> - On her arrival, they held a brief conference together in <i>Judisch</i>. - Then Rebecca went away, and Arkush said to us, “Yes, she has got it yet. - She has gone to fetch it.” - </p> - <p> - During her absence Merivale resumed, “You are quite sure that it is - useless to go further back in your books—that the name of White - doesn’t occur in any other place?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; I am sure. I recollect perfectly. He was a colored man. He only - came twice.” - </p> - <p> - “I notice that on one occasion his address is given as Harlem, on another - as Leonard street. How is that?” - </p> - <p> - “How do I know? Maybe he moved. Maybe neither address was his true one. - These people very often give false names and addresses.” - </p> - <p> - “I suppose they do,” Merivale assented, and thereafter held his peace, - chewing his nether lip as his habit was when engrossed in thought. - </p> - <p> - For my part I could not see that we had made much progress. I was - beginning to get impatient. - </p> - <p> - Becky reappeared, bearing the box. - </p> - <p> - The box was about ten inches square by four or five in depth. It was - empty. Merivale did not allow me to examine it. “Wait,” he said, as I - reached out my hand to take it. - </p> - <p> - “Would you mind very much parting with this box, Miss Arkush?” he asked, - fixing a pair of languishing eyes upon Rebecca’s face. - </p> - <p> - “What will you give me for it?” the business-like young lady inquired. - </p> - <p> - “What will you accept?” - </p> - <p> - “What’s it worth, father?” - </p> - <p> - “That box is worth two dollars any how,” replied the shameless old usurer, - regardless of the fact that we knew to a mill what he had paid for it. - </p> - <p> - “Then certainly this will be enough,” said Merivale, and he slipped a - five-dollar gold piece into Rebecca’s palm. Then he settled with Arkush, - bestowed a gratuity upon Yakub, and bidding an affable good-by to every - body, led me out through the shop into the street. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” I said, “we have run against the dead wall that you foresaw.” - </p> - <p> - “So it appears,” said he. - </p> - <p> - “The picture was pawned by a colored man only two years ago—that is, - four-and-twenty years after my father’s death. We don’t know of any means - by which to reach that colored man; but even if we did—” - </p> - <p> - “It would be a forlorn hope.” - </p> - <p> - “Exactly. So that we stand just as we did before we left home, do we not? - Except that you are by five dollars a poorer man. It was sheer - extravagance, your purchasing that box. I suppose your imagination - connected it with <i>the</i> box—the box that Dr. Hirsch told me of. - But the probabilities are overwhelmingly against that contingency. Then, - why did you waste your money, buying it? Intrinsically, it isn’t worth - carrying away.” - </p> - <p> - “Hush, hush,” interposed my friend. “Don’t talk to me. I have an idea—an - idea for a story—àpropos of Arkush and his daughter. Bless me with - silence until I have meditated it to my soul’s satisfaction.” - </p> - <p> - At home he began, “Yes, as you have said, our interview with Arkush was - not fruitful. We have simply learned the name—or the assumed name—of - the last owner of your father’s picture—for, that it is your - father’s picture I have no sort of doubt. The next step would logically be - to find Mr. White and question him. It is possible that a tempting - advertisement in the newspaper might fetch him; but it is not probable. - Very likely, he would never see it. Very likely, he is a thief, and even - if he did see it, would be restrained by caution from replying to it. So - that the outlook is not hopeful. As for this box being <i>the</i> box—why, - the hypothesis is absurd. It was not on that supposition that I bought it. - And even if it were <i>the</i> box, it would be of little consequence, - empty as it is. I trust you are not too much disappointed.” - </p> - <p> - “By no means. I have managed to live for a considerable number of years in - my present state of ignorance about my vanished legacy, and doubtless I - shall pull through a few years more. Only, of course I was bound to follow - the clew that this picture seemed to furnish, as far as it would lead; and - having done so I am contented. I was not very hopeful when we started out, - wherefore I am not very disappointed at the result. Let’s think no more - about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Good! Your mind is imbued with a sound philosophy. But now—” - </p> - <p> - “But now, tell me why in the name of common sense you invested five - dollars in that box?” - </p> - <p> - “Precisely what I was driving at. Now you are going to have a practical - illustration of the value of experience.” - </p> - <p> - He took the box up from the table where he had laid it. - </p> - <p> - “You think that ‘intrinsically, this wasn’t worth carrying away,’ and that - my expenditure of half an eagle was a reckless waste of good material. To - an inexperienced observer your view would certainly seem the correct one. - The box is scarcely beautiful. The wood is oak. The metal with which its - surface is so profusely ornamented looks like copper. The thing as a whole - appears to have been designed for a cheapish jewel-case, now in the last - stage of decrepitude. Do I express your sentiments?” - </p> - <p> - “Eloquently and with precision.” - </p> - <p> - “But you, my dear Lexow, are not a connoisseur. I, as chance would have - it, have seen a box of this description before; saw one in France, the - property of a lady of high degree; and, strange as it may seem, I don’t - believe a hundred bright gold pieces such as the one I gave Rebecca, could - have induced my French lady friend to part with it. Guess why.” - </p> - <p> - “Why? Oh, I suppose it had certain associations that made her want to keep - it. We often prize things quite irrespective of their market value. But go - on: don’t be so roundabout.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, the reason—at least one reason—for her setting such - store by the box in question—which, I must remind you, was the very - duplicate of the one we have here—the reason, I say, was that she - knew enough about such matters to recognize that box for a specimen of - cinque-cento—<i>a specimen of cinque-cento!</i> Now do you begin to - realize that the paltry five dollars were not exorbitant?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, from the standpoint of an antiquary, an amateur of bric-a-brac, I - suppose it was not.” - </p> - <p> - “Excellent! No, sir; on the contrary, it was an immense bargain, a - thorough-going stroke of luck. But now please take the box into your own - hands, treat it gingerly, inspect it carefully, and tell me whether you - remark any thing extraordinary about it.” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing, except that it is extraordinarily ugly and doesn’t speak well - for cinque-cento,” I replied, after the requisite examination. - </p> - <p> - “Another proof that <i>das Sehen muss gelernt sein!</i> Here, I will - enlighten you.—You behold this metal work which a moment since we - disposed of as copper; learn that it is bronze; and not cast bronze, - either, but wrought bronze, bronze shaped with hammer and chisel. Look - closely at it; note the forms into which it has been modeled. See these - roses, these lilies, these lotus leaves; see how exquisitely they are - fashioned; see how they are massed together into a harmonious <i>ensemble</i>. - Now hold it close to your eyes: see—do you see?—this serpent - twined among the flowers! The artist must have worked from life—the - very texture of the skin is reproduced—it makes one shudder.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I said, “I admit it is a fine piece of work.” - </p> - <p> - “But we have not yet exhausted the list of its virtues by any means. Now - open it and look at the interior.” - </p> - <p> - “I see nothing remarkable about the interior,” I replied, “nothing but - bare wood.” - </p> - <p> - “That is all <i>you</i> see; but watch.” - </p> - <p> - He applied the point of a pencil to one of the series of nail-heads with - which the top of the lid was studded. It appeared to sink a hair’s-breadth - into the wood. Thereat the lower surface of the lid dropped down, - disclosing a hollow space between it and the upper.—“A double - cover,” he said, “a place for hiding things and—hello! it isn’t - empty!” - </p> - <p> - No, it wasn’t empty. It contained a large, square envelope. Merivale - hastily made a grab for it, and crossed over to the gas-fixture. “Have we - stumbled upon a romance?” he cried. Holding it up to the light, presently - he said: “Come hither, Lexow. The writing is German script. I can’t read - it. Come and help.” - </p> - <p> - He put the envelope into my hands. I ran my eyes over the writing. Next - moment the envelope fluttered to the floor. I grasped Merivale’s arm to - support myself. My breath became short and quick. “I was not prepared for - this,” I gasped. - </p> - <p> - “For what? What is the trouble?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - I sank into a chair. Merivale picked up the envelope and studied it - intently. “I can make nothing out of it,” he said. - </p> - <p> - “Give it to me—I will read it to you,” I rejoined. - </p> - <p> - This is what I read:— - </p> - <p> - “To be delivered to my son, Ernest Neuman, upon his attaining the age of - one-and-twenty years. Let there be no failure, as the will of a dying man - is honored.—To my son: Open and read on your twenty-first birthday. - Be alone when you read.—Your father, Ernest Neuman.” - </p> - <p> - Neither of us broke silence for some minutes afterward. - </p> - <p> - At last, “I guess I’d better clear out,” said Merivale. “This is - considerably more than we had bargained for. I suppose you’d like to be - alone. I’ll remain in the next room. Call, if you want me.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I returned, “I may as well read it at once. But do you know—it’s - quite natural, doubtless—I really dread opening it? Who can tell - what its contents may be? Who can tell what information it may convey, to - the detriment of that ignorance which is bliss? Who can tell what duty it - may impose—what change it may make necessary in my mode of life? I—I - am really afraid of it. The superscription is not reassuring—and - then, this strange accident by which it has reached its destination after - so many years! It is like a fatality.” - </p> - <p> - “It is inevitable that you should feel this way. The suddenness of the - business was enough to shatter your self-possession. At the same time you - would best not delay about reading it. You won’t be able to rest until - you’ve done so, you know.—Yes, indeed, it is like a fatality—like - an incident in a novel—one of those happenings that we never expect - to see occur in real life. I’ll wait in the next room till you call.” - </p> - <p> - My heart stood still as I broke the seal. Four double sheets of thin - glazed paper, covered with minute German script. The ink was faded, and - there were a good many blots and interlineations; so that it was only by - dint of straining my eyesight to the utmost that I could decipher my - father’s message. But screwing up my courage, I attacked it, nor did I - pause till I had read the last word. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XI. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">H</span> ERE is a - translation:— - </p> - <p> - “In the name of God, Amen! - </p> - <p> - “To my son: - </p> - <p> - “You are a little less than two years old; I, your father, am dying. I - shall be dead before your birthday. That will be the 6th <i>Cheshvan</i>. - It is now the 2nd <i>Ellul</i> The physician gives me till some time in <i>Tishri</i> - to keep possession of my faculties. I am dying before my time. I have - something yet to accomplish in this world. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - has willed that it be accomplished. He has willed that you accomplish it - in my stead. I am in my bed as I write this, in the bed from which I shall - not rise again. Through the open door of my room I can hear you crowing in - your nurse’s arms. Ah, would that you could understand by word of mouth - from me now, what I am compelled to write. There is so much that a man can - not but forget to put down, when he is writing. Yet <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will illumine my mind and strengthen my - trembling fingers. It will not allow me to forget any thing that is - essential. When this is completed, I shall put it into safe hands, that it - may be delivered to you at the proper time. I have no fear. I am sure it - will reach you. It will reach you sooner or later, though all men conspire - to the contrary. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has promised it. He - will render this writing indelible, this paper indestructible. He will - guide this to you, even as He guides the river to the sea, the star to the - zenith. Blessed be the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> forever. - </p> - <p> - “My son, before you read further, cover your head and pray. Pray to <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> for strength. Pray that the will of your - father may be done. Pray that you may be directed aright for the - fulfillment of this errand of justice with which I charge you. - </p> - <p> - “You have prayed. I also have laid aside my pen for a moment, and, - summoning your nurse to bring you to my bedside, have prayed with my hand - upon your head. <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will be with you as you - read. Read on. - </p> - <p> - “My son, you do not, you will never know your mother. You do not love her; - you hear not the sound of her voice; it is forbidden you to gaze into the - lustrous depths of her eyes. Ah, my son, you little guess how much you - lost when you lost your mother. But you must learn the truth. - </p> - <p> - “Your mother was younger than I by seven years. I am thirty. Your mother - would be three-and-twenty had she lived. She was nineteen when I married - her. It was in Savannah, Georgia, going on five years ago. Ah, my Ernest, - I can not tell you how beautiful your mother appeared to me when I saw her - first. I can not tell you with what great love I loved her. Suppose that - you had never seen a stone more precious than a pebble such as may be - picked up in our back garden, and that all at once a diamond were shown to - you, a diamond of the purest water: would you not distrust your eyes, - crying, ‘Ah, so fine, so wonderful! Can it be?—So was it when I saw - your mother. I had seen pebbles innumerable, ay, and mock diamonds too. - She was the first true diamond I had ever seen. I loved her at the first - glance.—How long, after the sun has risen, does it take the waters - of the earth to sparkle with the sunlight? So long it took my heart to - love, after my eyes for the first time had met your mother’s. But how much - I loved her, how every drop of my life was sucked up and absorbed into my - love of her, it would be useless for me to try to make you understand. - </p> - <p> - “And yet, loving her as I did, I hesitated to bespeak her for my wife. - Why? - </p> - <p> - “In my eighteenth year my own father—your grandfather, of holy - memory—had died. On his death-bed he called me to him. He said: - ‘When you have become a man you will meet many women. To one of them your - heart will go out in love. You will desire her for your wife. But I say to - you here on my death-bed, beware! Do not marry, though your love be - greater than your life. - </p> - <p> - “‘In the fourth generation back of me our ancestor was betrayed by the - wife of his choice. So great was his hatred of her on this account, that - he wished his seed, contaminated as it was by having taken root in her - womb, to become extinct. Therefore he forbade his son to marry. And to - this prohibition he attached a penalty. - </p> - <p> - “If, in defiance of his wish, his son should take unto himself a woman, - then should he too taste the bitterness of infidelity within the - household, then should he too be betrayed and dishonored by his wife. And - this penalty he made to extend to the seventh and eighth generations. - Whosoever of his progeny should enter into the wedded state should enter - by the same step into the antechamber of hell. - </p> - <p> - “‘But his son laughed as he listened; and within two years he was married. - But within two years also the laughter froze upon his lips. For behold, - the curse of his father had come to pass! - </p> - <p> - “‘Thus ever since. Each of our ancestors, despite his father’s caution, - has taken a wife. He has been betrayed and dishonored by her even as I - have been betrayed and dishonored by your mother. He has repeated to his - own son the family malediction even as I am now repeating it to you.—Let - that malediction then go down into the grave with me. Do not marry, as you - wish for peace now and hereafter.’ - </p> - <p> - “It was in this wise that on his death-bed my father had spoken to me. I - remembered his words when I found that I had begun to love a woman. It was - for this reason that I hesitated to ask your mother to become my wife. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, but, my son, of what avail is hesitation at such a moment?—when - you are gazing into the eyes of the woman you love? With sails set and a - strong wind behind it, can the ship hesitate to speed across the sea? - Thrust into a bed of live coals, can the wood hesitate to kindle and burn? - With the sun beating hot upon the earth above it, can the seed hesitate to - sprout and send forth rootlets? How long then could I, with the light of - your mother’s face shining upon my pathway, how long could I hesitate to - say, ‘I love you. Be my wife’.—We were married. - </p> - <p> - “You, my son, will never know how happy it is possible for a man to be. A - woman such as your mother is born only once in all time. You will never - meet with her like. You will never know the supreme joy of having her for - your wife. Her breath was sweeter than the fragrance of the sweetest - flower. The song of the nightingale was less musical than her simplest - word. All the light of heaven was eclipsed by the light that glowed far - down in her eyes. Her presence at my side was a foretaste of paradise. - Only to take her hand into my own and stroke its warm, satiny skin, was an - ecstasy which I can not describe, which I can not remember even at this - extreme moment without a quickening of the pulse. For three, yes, for four - years after our marriage we were so happy that we cried each morning and - each evening at our prayers, ‘Lord, what have we done to merit such - happiness?’—I, my son, laughed as I recalled the dying words of my - father. ‘The family curse in my case,’ I said, ‘has gone astray. I have no - fear.’—Alas! I took too much for granted. I congratulated myself too - soon. Our happiness was doomed to be burst like a bubble at a touch. The - family curse had perhaps gone astray for a little while: it was bound to - find its way back before the end. The will of our ancestor could not be - thwarted. - </p> - <p> - “The first three years of our married life we passed at Savannah, dwelling - with the parents of your mother. There you were born—as it seemed, - in order to consummate and seal with the seal of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> our - perfect joy. Then, when you were still but three months old, it became - necessary that I should return and take up my residence again in New York. - We were not sorry to come to New York. - </p> - <p> - “Nicholas had been my closest friend for many years. Boys together at - Breslau, we had crossed the sea together, and had started our new life - together here in America. Before our wedding I had described Nicholas to - your mother, saying, ‘Him also must you love;’ and to Nicholas I had - written, bidding him include my wife in his love of me.—This was why - we were not sorry to leave Savannah and come to New York: because Nicholas - was here, because we wanted to be near to our best friend.—Nicholas - met us as we disembarked from the sailing vessel that had brought us - hither. It made my heart warm to greet my old comrade and to present to - him my wife and my son. - </p> - <p> - “I was a true friend to Nicholas. After your mother and you, he was first - in my heart. I would have shared with him my last drop of water, my last - crumb of bread; and he, I believed, would have done the same by me. My - purse was always open for Nicholas to put in his hand and take out what he - would, even to the last penny. I thought Nicholas was pure gold. I trusted - him as I trusted myself. I said to your mother, ‘No evil can betide you so - long as Nicholas is alive. If any thing should happen to me, in him you - will have a brother, in him our Ernest will have a second father.’ It gave - me a sense of perfect security, made me feel that the strength of my own - right arm was doubled, the fact that Nicholas was my friend. - </p> - <p> - “Good. After my return to New York the intimacy between Nicholas and - myself increased. He was constantly at our house. We were always glad to - see him. A place was always laid for him at our table; it made our hearts - light to have him with us, so bright, so gay, withal so good, so sterling, - such a trusty friend was he. I delighted to witness the friendship that - rapidly sprang up between your mother and Nicholas. He entertained her, - told her stories, made her laugh.—She would often exclaim, ‘Dear, - good Nicholas! What should we do without him?’ I replied, ‘That is right. - Let him be next to your son and your husband in your affection.’ I do not - think it is common for one man to love another as I loved Nicholas. - </p> - <p> - “But after we had been in New York a little more than two months, your - mother’s manner toward Nicholas began to change. She was cold and formal - to him; when he would arrive, instead of running up with outstretched - hands and crying, ‘Ah, it is you!’ she would courtesy to him and say - without smiling, ‘How do you do?’—She laughed no more at his - stories, she appeared to avoid him when she could; when she could not, she - was silent and morose. I could see no reason for this. I was pained. I - said, ‘Bertha, why do you behave so toward our best friend?’ Your mother - pretended not to understand. ‘Don’t deny it,’ I insisted. ‘You are as - distant, as polite to him, as if he were a mere acquaintance.’ Your mother - answered, ‘I am sorry to distress you. I don’t know what you mean. I was - not aware that I had been discourteous to your friend.’—’Has - Nicholas done any thing?’ I asked.—’No, he has done nothing.’—I - blamed your mother severely. I besought her to subdue what I took for her - caprice. Yet every day her conduct toward Nicholas grew colder and more - formal. Every day I reproved her more and more earnestly. This was the - nearest approach to a quarrel that your mother and I had ever had. It - grieved me deeply that she should adopt such a manner toward my friend. I - was all the more cordial to him in consequence. I hoped that he would not - notice the turn affairs had taken. - </p> - <p> - “Thus till almost a year ago. You lacked but a fortnight of being one year - old. - </p> - <p> - “Business had kept me down town till late. At last I made up my mind that - I should not be able to go home at all that night. So I told Nicholas to - visit Bertha and let her know. ‘Spend the evening with her,’ I said. - ‘Explain how it is that I am compelled to remain here. Tell her that I - will come home to breakfast. Be sure to entertain her. I don’t want to - think of her as lonesome.’ - </p> - <p> - “Next morning I hurried home. I stole softly into the house, to surprise - your mother. Ah, my son, my son, I need not give you the details.—The - house was empty. There was a brief letter from your mother. As I read it, - my head swam, a mortal weakness overpowered me, I sank in a swoon upon the - floor. - </p> - <p> - “When I recovered from my swoon, I was lying undressed in bed. There were - people round about. I remembered every thing. What! I was lying idle in - bed, and Nicholas still alive? I started up to be upon his track. I fell - back, impotent. ‘What has befallen me?’ I asked. I was informed that I had - had a hemorrhage of the lungs. - </p> - <p> - “I need not tell you what I suffered. My suffering was great in proportion - to my love. The shame, the disgrace, were nothing. But at one blow to be - deprived of wife, child, friend; to have my love and my faith and my - happiness shattered at one stroke: it was too much. Yet, let this be - impressed upon you, that not for one instant did I blame your mother. I - realized that she, like myself, was but the helpless victim of the family - curse. It was my fault. I had defied the inevitable. The keenest agony of - all was to lie there, unable to rise, and think of Nicholas. Ah, a - thousand times in imagination I tore his heart bleeding from his breast! I - hated him now, as much as I had formerly cherished him. And yet, I believe - I could in the end have forgiven him, if—ah, but of what use to say, - ‘If’. Listen to the truth. - </p> - <p> - “It was a short four months afterward—four months that had seemed, - however, a thousand years to me—and I still lay here dead in life, - when the good Dr. Hirsch, (to whom now in my dying hours I commend you, my - son), came to my bedside and said that he had seen your mother. He - believed that if I would take her back, she would be glad. If I would take - her back! ‘Bring her to me,’ I cried. And I thanked <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - for this manifestation of his mercy. ‘You must prepare for a sad change in - her,’ said Dr. Hirsch.—’Bring her, bring her,’ I cried impatiently. - </p> - <p> - “Not even to you, my son, can I reveal the secret of that first hour, of - that deep hour, when your mother sat again at my side and received my - pardon—nay, not my pardon, for it was her place to pardon me. If - before that it had been possible for me to forgive Nicholas, it was so no - longer. For your mother’s face was deathly pale, her cheek hollow, her eye - bright with fever. Nicholas had—what? Petted her for a month; for a - month, ignored her; for another month, ill treated her; in the end, - abandoned her, it might be to starve. Nicholas had done this Nicholas whom - I had loved and trusted. As I saw your mother pine away, grow paler and - more feeble beneath my sight, my hatred of that man intensified. On the - day your mother died, I promised her that I would get well and live and - force him to atone for his offense in blood. My great hatred seemed to - endow me with strength. I believed that <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - would not let me die until I had once again met Nicholas face to face. - </p> - <p> - “But this delusion was short-lived. A second hemorrhage threw me back, - weaker than ever, upon my bed. The physician told me that I had absolutely - no ground for hope. It was evident that <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - had willed that the chastisement of my enemy should not be wrought out by - my hand. ‘But’ is just,’ I said. ‘He will not allow a crime like this to - go unavenged.’ - </p> - <p> - “It was then that my thought turned to you. And all this time, what of - you? You too were lying at the point of death. Of you too the physician - said, ‘He can not survive the winter.’ You, my single hope, threatened at - any moment to breathe your last. ‘But no,’ I cried, ‘it shall not be so. - My Ernest must live. As <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> is both just - and merciful, Ernest will live.’ - </p> - <p> - “I watched the fluctuations of your illness, divided between hope and - fear, between faith in the goodness of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> - and doubt lest the worst might come to pass. Ah, that was a breathless - period. Day after day passed by, and there was no certainty. Constantly - the doctor said, ‘Death is merely a question of a few days, more or less.’ - Constantly my heart replied, ‘No, no, he will not die.” has decreed that - he shall live.’ I prayed that your life might be spared, morning, noon, - and night. My own strength was ebbing away. But that was of little matter. - I wanted to hold out only until I should know for good and all whether my - son was to survive. - </p> - <p> - “Blessed be the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> forever! At the - moment when the physician said, ‘He will die within an hour,’ lo! the God - of our fathers touched your body with his healing wand. There was a change - for the better. The physician himself could not deny it. He maintained - that it was but transitory. ‘Nothing short of a miracle,’ said he, ‘can - save this baby’s life.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘We will see,’ said I aloud. To myself I said, ‘The miracle has been - performed.’ - </p> - <p> - “I was right. Two days later the physician confessed that your chances of - recovery were good. Two days later still you were out of danger. <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> had heard my prayers. The God of Israel is a - righteous God! Oh, for the tongue of the prophets to sing a sufficient - song of thanksgiving to <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />. He has - snatched you from the clutch of death for a purpose. He will see to it - that you fulfill that purpose, though your heart be burned to ashes in the - task. He will make you to be great like Ephraim and Manasseh. (<i>Y si me - ha Elohim k’.phraim v’chi Manasseh!</i>) - </p> - <p> - “Again I have summoned your nurse, to bring you to my bedside. Again I - have laid down my pen, to place my hand upon your head and bless you in - the name of Again, before reading further, pause for a space and pray that - the breath of God may make strong your heart.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <p> - “My son, I allow you one-and-twenty years to become a man, one-and-twenty - years to gain strength of arm and firmness of will. I allow you - one-and-twenty years of youth, one-and-twenty years in which to enjoy - life, free of care. On your twenty-first birthday, if the good and - reverend Dr. Hirsch live, he will put this writing into your hands. Should - he be dead, others will see that you receive it. On your twenty-first - birthday you will be a boy no longer. You will recognize yourself for a - man. You will ask, ‘What is to be the aim, the occupation of my life?’ You - will read this writing, and your question will be answered. Your father on - the brink of the grave pauses to speak to you as follows:— - </p> - <p> - “In the name of <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />, who in response to my - prayers has saved your life, who created you out of the dust and the - ashes, who tore you from the embrace of death and restored health to your - shattered body for one sole purpose, in Ins name I charge you: Find my - enemy out and put him to death. He is still a young man. He will scarcely - be an old man when you have become of age. It is a long time to wait, a - long time to defer my vengeance, one-and-twenty years, but so I believe - <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has willed it. After you have reached - the age of one-and-twenty years, let that be the single motive and object - of your days: to find him out and put him to death by the most painful - mode of death you can devise. Do not strike him down with one blow. - Torture him to death. Pluck his flesh from his bones shred by shred. - Prolong his agony to the utmost. Thus shall you compensate in some measure - for the one-and-twenty years of delay. And again and again as he is - writhing under your heel, cry out to him, ‘Remember, remember the friend - who loved you and whom you betrayed, whose honey you turned to gall and - wormwood.’ But, if meanwhile from other causes death should have overtaken - him, then shall you transfer your anger to his next-of-kin; then, I charge - you, visit the penalty of his sin upon his children and his children’s - children. For has not <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> decreed that the - sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children even unto the third - and fourth generations? The blood of Nicholas must be spilled, whether it - courses in his veins or in the veins of his posterity. The race of - Nicholas must be exterminated, obliterated from the face of the earth. As - you honor the wish of a dying father, as you dread the wrath of <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" />, falter not in this that I command. Search - the four corners of the world until you have unearthed my enemy or his - kindred. Empty his blood upon the sand as you would the blood of swine. - And think, as he is calling out to you for mercy, think, ‘At last my - father’s revenge is wreaked! At last my father’s spirit can rest content. - Even now my father is in transports of delight as he witnesses this - fruition of his hope. At each thrust of my knife into our enemy’s flesh, - the heart of my father leaps with satisfaction. At each scream of pain - that escapes from our enemy’s throat, the voice of my father waxes great - with joy.’ - </p> - <p> - “Ah, my son, at that mighty hour, whether I be confined in the bottom - fastnesses of hell or exalted to the mountain tops of paradise, I shall - know what is happening, I shall fling myself upon my face and sing a song - of praise to <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> for the unspeakable rapture which he has - permitted me to enjoy. - </p> - <p> - “My son, I trust you. You will not falter. You will remember that <img - src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> has saved you from death for this solitary - purpose, that you have no right to your own life except as you employ it - for the chastisement of my foe. I have no fear. You will hate him with a - hatred equal to my own. You will wreak that hatred as I should have - wreaked it, had my life been spared. - </p> - <p> - “I have no fear, no distrust, and yet—all things are possible. My - son, I warn you. In case you be faint-hearted, in case you recoil from - this mission you are charged with, or in case by any accident—though - <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will allow no such accident to happen—in - case by any accident this writing should fail to reach you, I shall be - prepared. From my grave I shall watch over you. From my grave I shall - guide you. From my grave I shall see to it that you do not neglect the - duty of your life. Though seas roll between you and him, I shall see to it - that you two meet. - </p> - <p> - “Though your heart be bound to him as to your own flesh and blood, I shall - see to it that you swerve not. And if he be dead, I shall see to it that - you are brought face to face with his kindred. Man, woman, or child, spare - neither. Young or old, able or feeble-bodied, let it matter not. In case - your strength desert you, in case your courage weaken, I shall be at your - side, I shall nerve your arm. If you hesitate, remember that my spirit - will possess your body and do what must be done in spite of your - hesitation. There will be no escape for you. As certainly as the moon must - follow the earth, so certainly will and must you, my son, accomplish the - purpose for which your life is given.—But falter not, as you cherish - the fair name of your mother, as you honor the desire, as you fear the - curse, of a dying father, as you hope for peace for your own soul. - </p> - <p> - “I have done. I think I have made every thing clear. Farewell. - </p> - <p> - “Your father, Ernest Neuman. - </p> - <p> - “I have written the above during my moments of strength for the last four - days. Now I have just read it over. I find that it but feebly expresses - all that I mean and feel. But <img src="images/god.jpg" alt="" /> will - enlighten you as you read. It is enough. I find also that I have omitted - to mention his full name. His name is Nicholas Pathzuol.” - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0012" id="link2H_4_0012"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">T</span>HE emotions that - grew upon me, as I read my father’s message, need not be detailed. How, as - I painfully deciphered it, word following upon word added steadily to the - weight of those emotions, until at length it seemed as though the burden - was greater than I could bear, I need not tell. Indeed, so engrossed had I - become by what had gone before, that the sense of the last line did not - penetrate my mind. I leaned back in my chair and drew a long breath like - one exhausted by an effort beyond his strength. I waited for the commotion - of thought and feeling to quiet a little. I was completely horror-stricken - and tired out and bewildered. - </p> - <p> - But by and by it occurred to me, “What did he say the man’s name was?” And - languidly I picked up the paper and read the postscript for a second time. - The next instant I was on my feet, rigid, aghast, for consternation. What! - </p> - <p> - Pathzuol! The name of Veronika! My head swam. It was as if I had sustained - a terrific blow between the eyes. Could it be that this Pathzuol, the man - who had dishonored my mother, the man whom my father had commissioned me - to murder, was <i>her father?</i> the father of her who had indeed been - murdered, and of whose murder I had been accused? The mere possibility - stunned and sickened me. It was the straw that broke the camel’s back. I - had been under a pretty tense nervous strain ever since the reception of - Tikulski’s letter in the afternoon. This last utterly undid me. My muscles - relaxed, my knees knocked together, the perspiration trickled down my - forehead. I went off into a regular fit of weeping, like a woman. - </p> - <p> - It was not long before Merivale entered. I looked up and saw him standing - over me, with a physiognomy divided between astonishment and contempt. - </p> - <p> - “Ah, Lexow,” he said, shaking his head, “I am surprised at you.” Then his - eyes grew stern, and he continued sharply, “Stop! Stop your crying. You - ought to be ashamed. Whatever new misfortune has befallen you, you have no - right to act like this. It is a man’s part to bear misfortune silently. It - is a school-girl’s or a baby’s to take on in this fashion. Stop your - crying, dry your eyes, and show what you are made of. Grit your teeth and - clench your fists and don’t open your mouth till you are ready to behave - like a reasonable being.” - </p> - <p> - His words sobered me to some extent. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” I said, “I am calm now. What do you want?” - </p> - <p> - “If I should do what <i>I</i> want,” he answered, “you would not speedily - forget it. I should—but never mind that. What I want <i>you</i> to - do is to speak up like a man and explain the occasion of this rumpus, if - you can.” - </p> - <p> - “Here, read this,” I said, offering him the paper. - </p> - <p> - He took it, glanced at it, turned it this way and that, handed it back. - “How can I read it?” he said. “It’s German. Read it to me.—Come, - read it to me,” he repeated, as I hesitated. - </p> - <p> - I gulped down my reluctance and read the whole thing through as rapidly as - I could in English. He sat across the table, smoking and drawing figures - in the ash-pan with the ashes of his cigarette. Once in a while I heard - him whistle softly to himself. He had thrown his last cigarette aside and - was biting his fingernails when the reading drew to a close. - </p> - <p> - “No more?” he asked. - </p> - <p> - “Isn’t that enough?” I rejoined. - </p> - <p> - “Oh, I didn’t mean that. Oh, yes; that’s enough; and it’s pretty bad too. - But I expected something worse from the rough way you cut up.” - </p> - <p> - “Worse? In heaven’s name what could be worse? My mother dishonored, my - father broken hearted, and I marked out for a murderer, even from my - cradle? And then—” - </p> - <p> - “I say it’s hard, deucedly hard. But inasmuch as you’re not a murderer, - you know, I wouldn’t let that side of the matter bother me, if I were you. - The bad part of the business is to think of how your father’s happiness, - your mother’s innocence, were destroyed. Think how he must have suffered!” - </p> - <p> - “But you haven’t listened, you haven’t understood the worst, yet. Here, - see his name—Pathzuol.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, what of it?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, don’t you remember? It is the same name as hers—Veronika’s—my - sweetheart’s.” - </p> - <p> - “Decidedly!” exclaimed Merivale. “That is a startling coincidence, I - admit.” - </p> - <p> - “Couple that with—with the rest of my father’s story and with—with - the—well, with all the facts—and I think you’ll confess that - it was sufficient to shake me up a bit. To come upon that name at the end - of such a letter, it was like being knocked down. I lost my - self-possession. Think! if he <i>was</i> her father! But, oh no; it isn’t - credible. It’s sheer accident, of course.” - </p> - <p> - “Of course it is. The letter doesn’t say that he was even married. I - suppose there’s more than one Pathzuol in the world as well as more than - one Merivale. But all the same, it’s a coincidence of a sort to stir a - fellow up. I don’t wonder you lost your balance. Only, the idea of - boohooing like a woman! That’s inexcusable. Mercy! what a good hater your - father was! And what an unspeakable wretch, Nicholas!” - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I went on, “it gave me a pretty severe jolt, the sight of that - name; and I can’t seem to get over it. I don’t know why, but I can’t help - feeling as though there were more in this than either you or I perceive, - as though there were some deduction or other to be drawn from it which is - right within arm’s reach and yet which I can’t grasp—some horrible - corollary, you know. My brain is in a whirl, I—I—” - </p> - <p> - “You are quite unstrung, as it is natural you should be. But you must - exert your reason and put the stopper upon your imagination. Let - deductions and corollaries take care of themselves. Confine yourself to - the facts, and you’ll see that they’re not as bad as they might be, after - all. For example—” - </p> - <p> - “But it is just the facts that perplex and horrify me. My father destines - me to be the murderer of Nicholas Pathzuol or of his next of kin. All - ignorant of this destiny, I meet and love a lady whose name is Pathzuol—a - name so rare that I had never heard it before, and have not since, except - in this writing to-day. My lady is murdered; and I, though innocent, am - suspected and accused of the crime. Add to this my father’s threat to come - back from the grave and use me as his instrument, in case I hesitate or in - case I never receive his letter; and—well, it is like a problem in - mathematics—given this and that, to determine so and so. No, no, - there’s no use denying it, this strange combination of facts must have - some awful meaning. It seems as though each minute I was just on the point - of catching it, and then as I tighten my fingers around it, it escapes - again and eludes me.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense, man. You are yielding to your fancy, like a child who, because - he feels oppressed in the dark, conjures up ghosts and goblins, and can - not be persuaded that there are none about, till you light the gas and - show him that the room is empty. Come, light the gas of your common sense! - Recognize that your problem has no solution, none because it is not a true - problem, but merely a fortuitous arrangement of circumstances which - chances to bear a superficial resemblance to one. Reduce your <i>quasi</i> - problem to its simplest terms: thus, given x and y and z, to find the - value of b. Don’t you see that there’s no connection?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, of course, I acknowledge that I can’t <i>see</i> any connection. - That’s just the trouble. I <i>feel</i> that there must be a connection—one - that I can’t see. If I could only see it, it wouldn’t be so bad. But this - perplexity, this——” - </p> - <p> - “This fiddle-stick! You are resolved to distress yourself, and I suppose - it’s useless for me to labor with you. Only this much I will say, that if - you should bestow a little of the energy you are expending in the effort - to catch hold of a non-existent inference, upon sympathy with your - father’s unhappiness, I should have more respect for you. They talk about - suffering ennobling and chastening men, forsooth! So far as you are - concerned, suffering has done nothing but intensify your natural egotism. - For instance, after reading that letter of your father’s, the first idea - that strikes you is, ‘How does it affect <i>me</i>, how am <i>I</i> - concerned by it?’ whereas the spectacle of your father s immense grief - ought to have absorbed you to the exclusion of every thing else, ought to - have left no room in your mind for any other thought.” - </p> - <p> - But for all Merivale could say by way either of appeal or of reprimand, I - was powerless to subdue that feeling which had begun to stir in my breast. - I recognized that I was unreasonable and selfish, but I was also helpless. - I could not get over the shock I had sustained when Pathzuol’s name first - took shape before my eyes. Every time I remembered that moment—and - it kept recurring to me in spite of myself—my heart sank and my - breath became spasmodic, as if I had been confronted by a ghost. And then - ensued that sensation of groping in the dark after something invisible, - unknown, yet surely there, hovering within arm’s reach, but as elusive as - a will-o’-the-wisp. I struggled with this sensation, tried my utmost to - shake it off, but it sat like a monster on my heart. Its weight was - deadly, its touch was icy; it would not be dislodged. - </p> - <p> - “It is true, all that you say, Merivale,” I returned at length. “But the - question is not one of what I ought to do; it is one of what I can do. I - know I ought to regard this matter in the same collected spirit that you - display; but it concerns me so intimately, you see, that I can’t resist - being somewhat perturbed. My wits, so to speak, have been scattered by an - unexpected blow. I shan’t be able to emulate your <i>sang-froid</i> until - they have got back to their proper places. I’m so heated and upset that I - don’t really know what I think or what I feel. I guess perhaps I’d better - go for a walk and cool off, and arrive at an understanding with myself.” - </p> - <p> - “The very worst thing you could possibly do—go away by yourself and - brood and get more and more morbid every minute. What you want is to think - of something else for a while, and then when you come back to this subject - you’ll be in a condition to regard it in its correct light. Let’s—let’s - play a game of cribbage, or read some Rossetti; or suppose you fiddle a - little?” - </p> - <p> - “No, I feel the need of air and exercise. I’ll go out and take a walk. I - sha’n’. brood, I’ll reflect on the sensible things you’ve said. Good-by.” - </p> - <p> - I walked briskly through the streets, striving to collect my faculties, - striving to regain sufficient mental tranquillity to comprehend exactly - what the long and short of the whole business was. But the feeling that - there was something more in it than I could make out, intensified. It - would not be dispelled. The oftener I went over the circumstances, the - more significant they seemed.—Significant of what? Precisely the - question that I could not answer. The longer I allowed my mind to dwell - upon them, the more acute became that sensation of wrestling with a - problem, of groping for a something suspended near to me in the dark. My - father had destined me to be a murderer; the name of my intended victim - was Pathzuol; I had been engaged to a young lady of the same name, very - possibly the daughter of my father’s foe; she had indeed been murdered, - though not by my hand; and yet I, despite my innocence, had been deemed - guilty of the crime: this chain of facts kept passing over and over before - me. I felt that it must mean something; it could not be purely fortuitous; - there was a break, a missing link, which, if I could but supply it, would - make the hidden meaning clear. I walked the streets all night, unable to - fix my thoughts on any thing else. I said, “You are merely wearing - yourself out and getting your brains into a tangle: try to divert your - attention. Count up to a thousand. See how much you can remember of the - Moonlight Sonata. Conjugate a Hebrew verb. Do what you will, only stop - puzzling over this matter. As Merivale says, when you have thought of - something else for a while, you will be in a condition to return to it - with refreshed intelligence, and view it in the right light.” But the next - moment I was at it again, in greater perplexity than ever. Of course, I - succeeded in working myself up to a high degree of nervousness: was as - exhausted and as exasperated as though I had spent an hour in futile - attempts to thread a needle. - </p> - <p> - But now it began to get light. The stillness of the night was broken, my - solitude was disturbed. - </p> - <p> - Hosts of sparrows began to congregate upon the window sills, and their - busy twittering filled the air. First one steam-whistle blew in the - distance, then another nearer by, then another, and finally a chorus of - them: bells began to ring, wagons rattled over the pavement, the shrill - whoo-hoop of the milk-man resounded through the streets. The clatter of - footsteps became audible upon the sidewalk. - </p> - <p> - People began to walk abroad. The sky turned from black to gray, from gray - to blue. Shutters were banged, doors slammed, windows thrown open: - housemaids with brooms and buckets appeared upon the stoops. Dawn had - arrived from across the Ocean with the smell of the sea-breeze still - clinging to her skirts. The city was waking to its feverish multifarious - life.—And the result was that I forgot myself—was penetrated - and exalted by that vague tremulous exhilaration which always accompanies - the first breath of morning. I expanded my lungs and inhaled the fresh air - and felt a glow of warmth and animation shoot through my limbs. - </p> - <p> - “Ah,” I cried, “a truce to the blue devils! I will go home and take up my - regular life again, just as though this interruption had not occurred.” - </p> - <p> - I hurried back to our lodgings. Merivale was already up and dressed, - smoking a cigarette over the newspaper. - </p> - <p> - “Hail!” I exclaimed. “I am glad to see you out of bed so early!” - </p> - <p> - “I have not been abed since you left,” he answered. - </p> - <p> - “Why not? What have you been doing?” - </p> - <p> - “Thinking about you—about what can be done to make a man of you.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, you needn’t worry about that. I’m all right now. I sha’n’. play the - fool again, I promise you. I propose that we sink the last four-and-twenty - hours into eternal oblivion. What do you say?” - </p> - <p> - “Nothing would more delight me.” - </p> - <p> - “Good! Let’s begin at the first cause. Where’s the manuscript? We’ll set - fire to it, and agree to believe that it never really existed.” - </p> - <p> - “No,” said Merivale, “I wouldn’t set fire to it—at least not till it - is manifest whether your present mood is merely a reaction from your late - one, or whether it is going to last. I will dispose of the manuscript—see.” - </p> - <p> - He found it on the table, opened the double cover of the box, restored the - papers to the place they had occupied formerly, and locked the box up in - the closet of his writing-desk. - </p> - <p> - “There,” he said, “that’s the best thing to do. I’ll take care of it. Some - day you may have a little sympathy to waste on your father, and then - you’ll be glad this writing was not destroyed.” - </p> - <p> - We had breakfast, and after the cups and saucers were cleared away, - applied ourselves to our ordinary forenoon occupation. It turned out - indeed that my good spirits were, as Merivale had suspected, to some - extent reactionary: but they left me sober rather than sad. I was - absent-minded and committed numberless blunders while my friend dictated - his poems: but I did not let my thoughts settle down again upon the - matters that had engaged them during the night. They simply wandered about - in a random way from one indifferent topic to another, as it is the habit - of thoughts to do when the thinker has not had his customary allotment of - sleep. Presently Merivale suspended his dictation, and I waited passively - for him to resume, supposing that he had reached a point where reflection - was necessary to further progress. His silence continued. Pretty soon my - eyelids dropped like leaden curtains over my eyes, and my chin sank upon - my breast. I was actually nodding. I started up and pinched myself, - ashamed of appearing drowsy. - </p> - <p> - Lo! I perceived that my friend had met with the same mishap. He too was - nodding in his chair. For a moment we eyed each other sheepishly, each - endeavoring to feign wide wakefulness. Then Merivale rose and stretched - himself and laughed. - </p> - <p> - “For my part I cast off the mask,” he cried. “I am sleepy and I am going - to bed. You’d better follow suit.” - </p> - <p> - I needed no urging. We retired to our dormitory, and as speedily as was - practicable one of us at least fell into an unfathomable slumber. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0013" id="link2H_4_0013"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIII. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> DON’. know how - many hours afterward I awoke. Gradually, as consciousness asserted itself, - I realized that somebody was playing a violin in the adjacent room: and at - length it struck me that it must be Merivale practicing. I pricked up my - ears and hearkened. Oh, yes; he was running over his part of the last new - composition we had studied. The clock-like tick-tack of his metronome - marked the rhythm. I lay still and listened till he had repeated the same - phrase some twenty times. Finally I got up and crossed the threshold that - divided us. - </p> - <p> - Merivale kept on playing for a minute or two, unaware of my intrusion. Not - till it behooved him to turn the page did he lift his eyes. Then, - encountering my night-robed figure,they lighted up with merriment. Their - owner lowered his instrument, remained silent for a moment, in the end - gave vent to an uproarious peal of laughter. - </p> - <p> - “What are you laughing at?” I stammered. - </p> - <p> - When he had got his hilarity somewhat under control he replied: “At you. - Come and gaze upon yourself.” And conducting me to a mirror he said, - pointing, “There, isn’t that a funny sight?” - </p> - <p> - I looked sleepy, that was all. My hair was awry, and my eyes were heavy, - and my costume was a trifle wrinkled. Still, I suppose, my general - appearance was sufficiently ludicrous. Be that as it may, I could not help - joining in Merivale’s laughter: and, thus put into good humor at the - outset, I cheerfully complied with his request to hasten through my toilet - and “come and fiddle with him.” - </p> - <p> - “Let’s start here,” he said, opening the book. - </p> - <p> - We read for a while in concert. As usual my arm seemed to swing of its - separate will, I myself becoming all but comatose. By and by I perceived - that Merivale had discontinued and was seated at one side with his - instrument upon his knees. Then I perceived that I was no longer following - the book. I closed my eyes and listened. As usual I heard the voice of my - violin very much as though some other person had been the performer. - </p> - <p> - I found that I was playing a lot of bits from memory. I heard the light, - quick tread of a gavotte which I had learned as a boy and meantime almost - forgotten; I heard snatches from the chants the <i>Chazzan</i> sings in - the synagogue; I heard the Flower Song from Faust mixing itself up with a - recitative from Lohengrin. Then I heard the passionate wail of Chopin - become predominant: the exquisite melody of the <i>Berceuse</i>, motives - from <i>Les Polonaises</i>, and at length the impromptu in C-sharp minor—that - to which I have alluded in the early part of this narrative, as - descriptive of Veronika. Following it, came the songs that Veronika - herself had been most prone to sing, Bizet, Pergolese, Schumann, morsels - of German folk <i>liede</i>, old French romances. And ever and anon that - phrase from the impromptu kept recurring. Every thing else seemed to lead - up to it. It terminated a brilliant passage by Liszt. It cropped out in - the middle of a theme from the Meistersinger. And with its every new - recurrence, the picture of Veronika which it pre sented to my imagination - grew more life-like and palpable, until ere long it was almost as though I - saw her standing near me in substantial objective form. As I have said, I - scarcely realized that it was I who played. Except for the sensation along - my wrist as the bow bit the catgut, I believe I should have quite - forgotten it. But now abruptly, without the least volition upon my part, - my arm acquired a fresh vigor. The voice of my violin increased in volume. - The character of the music underwent a change. From a medley of fragments - it turned to a coherent, continuous whole. Note succeeded note in natural - and inevitable sequence. I tried to recognize the composition. I could - not. It was quite unfamiliar to me. Odd, because of course at some time I - must have practiced it again and again. Otherwise how had I been able to - play it now? It flowed from the strings without hitch or hesitancy. Yet my - best efforts to place it were ineffectual. Doubly odd, because it was no - ordinary composition. It had a striking individuality of its own. - </p> - <p> - It began with laughter-provoking scherzo, as dainty as the pattering of - April rain-drops, as riotous as the frolicking of children let loose from - school; which, by degrees tempering to a quieter allegro, presently - modulated into the minor, and necessarily, therefore, became plaintive and - sentimental. For a while bar succeeded bar, fitful and undetermined, as if - groping blindly for a climax. Next, a quick, fluttering crescendo, and an - exultant major chord. This completed the first movement. The second began - pianissimo upon the A and E strings, an allegretto full of placid - contentment; again, a minor modulation; again, blind groping for a climax, - this time more strenuous than before, tinged by a passion, impelled by an - insatiable desire; adagio on G and D, still minor; then a swift return to - major, a leap of the bow and fingers back to A and E, and on these latter - strings a rhapsody expressive of the utmost possible human joy. Third - movement andante, sober but still joyous; the music, which hitherto had - been restless and destitute of an apparent aim, seemed to have caught a - purpose, to have gained substance and confidence in itself. - </p> - <p> - It proceeded in this wise for several periods, when sharply, without the - faintest warning, it broke into a discordant shriek of laughter, the - laughter of a demon whose evil designs had triumphed. - </p> - <p> - Though I had not recognized the composition, up to this point I had - understood it perfectly. Its intrinsic lucidity carried the intelligence - along. But henceforward I was mystified. The reason for the violent change - of theme, time, and quality, I could not divine; nor could I appreciate, - either, how the subsequent effects were produced or what they were meant - to signify. My impression was, as I have said, that the laughter which my - violin seemed to be echoing was demoniac laughter, the outburst of a Satan - over his success, of a Succubus fastening upon his prey. Yet the next - instant I was doubtful whether it was indeed laughter at all? Was it not - perhaps the hysterical sobbing of a human being frenzied by grief? And - again the next instant neither of these conceptions appeared to be the - correct one. Was it not rather a chorus?—a chorus of witches?—plotting - some fiendish atrocity?—chuckling over a vicious pleasantry?—now, - whispering amicably together, now wrangling ferociously, now uniting in - blood-curdling screams of delight? Whatever it might be, I could not - penetrate its sense. I listened with deepening perplexity. I wished it - would come to an end. But it did not occur to me to stop my arm and lay - aside my bow. The music went on and on—until Merivale caught me by - the shoulder and snatched my violin from my grasp. He was speaking. - </p> - <p> - The descent back to earth was too abrupt. It took me some time to gather - myself together. “Eh—what were you saying?” I asked at last. - </p> - <p> - “I was saying, stop! Consider a fellow’s nervous system. Where in the name - of Lucifer did you learn that infernal music? Whom is it by?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh,” I answered, “oh, I don’t know whom it is by.” - </p> - <p> - “It out-Berliozes Berlioz,” he added. “Is it his?” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps. I don’t remember. I am tired. Let me rest a moment without - talking.” - </p> - <p> - “Well,” he continued, “it was a terrible strain to listen to it. I am - quite played out—feel as if—forgive the comparison—as if - I had spent the last hour in a dentist’s chair. However, for relief’s - sake, let’s go to dinner. Are you aware that we haven’t eaten any thing - since early morning?” - </p> - <p> - After dinner Merivale insisted that we should take a long walk “to shake - out the kinks,” and after the long walk we were tired enough to return to - our pillows. - </p> - <p> - I went straight to sleep; but my sleep was troubled. As soon as Merivale - had said goodnight and extinguished the gas, memory began to repeat the - music I had played. I heard it throughout my sleep. Every little while I - would wake up and try to banish it by fixing my attention on other - matters. But it kept thrumming away in my brain despite myself. I could - not silence it. Merivale’s reference to a dentist’s chair was, if - inelegant, at least a graphic one. I got as hopelessly irritated as I - could have done with a score of dentists simultaneously grinding at my - teeth. My very arteries seemed to be beating to its rhythm. - </p> - <p> - In one fit of wakefulness, that lasted longer than its predecessors had - done, I found myself unconsciously tattooing it upon the wall at my bed’s - head. - </p> - <p> - “Is that you?” Merivale’s voice demanded from out of the darkness. - </p> - <p> - “Yes,” I replied. “Aren’t you asleep?” - </p> - <p> - “Mercy, no. That music you played—or rather, stray fragments of it, - keep running through my brain. I haven’t been able to sleep for a long - while.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s singular. It affects me the same way. I was just drumming it on - the wall. I’ve been trying to get rid of it all night.” - </p> - <p> - “It has wonderful staying powers, for a fact. I’m glad you’re awake, - though. Companionship in misery is sweet.” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, I also feel rather more comfortable now that you have spoken. Do you - know, it’s an immense puzzle to me, that music? I can’t imagine where or - when I ever learned it. And yet it is not the sort of thing one would be - apt to forget. I can’t recognize the style even, can’t get a clew to the - composer.” - </p> - <p> - “The style is emphatically that of Berlioz.” - </p> - <p> - “Perhaps so. But it can’t be by Berlioz, because I never learned any thing - by Berlioz at all.” - </p> - <p> - “Hum!” A pause. Then, “Say, Lexow—” - </p> - <p> - “Well?” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t possible that it’s original, is it?” - </p> - <p> - “Original? How do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, an improvisation—a little thing of your own.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, no; oh, no, I never improvise—at least an entire composition, - like that. Nobody does. It bears all the marks of careful workmanship. It - must be something well-known that has temporarily slipped from my memory. - It’s too striking not to be well-known. Tomorrow I’ll go through my music - and find it; and I’ll wager it will turn out to be quite familiar. Only, - it’s extremely odd that I can’t place it.” - </p> - <p> - “Why wait till to-morrow?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, we can’t begin to-night, can we?” - </p> - <p> - “Why not? I say, let’s begin right off. The cursed thing is keeping us - awake, and there doesn’t seem to be any escape from it. We may as well - utilize our wakefulness, as lie here doing nothing but toss about. I say, - let’s light the gas and go to work.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, well, I’m agreeable. The sooner the better as far as I’m concerned.” - </p> - <p> - “Good,” cried Merivale. - </p> - <p> - He sprang out of bed and lighted the gas. - </p> - <p> - “Shall Mahomet go to the mountain or shall the mountain come to Mahomet?” - he inquired, blinking his eyes. - </p> - <p> - “What do you mean?” - </p> - <p> - “I mean shall we dress and adjourn to the other room? Or shall I bring - your musical library in here, so that we can conduct our investigation - without getting up?” - </p> - <p> - “Just as you please,” I answered. - </p> - <p> - “Well, we’ll move the mountain, then,” he said, and left the room. - </p> - <p> - He made two or three trips, back and forth, bearing an armful of music as - the fruit of each. The last folios deposited on the floor, “Now, as to - method,” he inquired, “how shall we start? It will occupy us till - doom’s-day if we undertake to go through the whole of this. I suppose - there are some composers we can eliminate <i>à priori</i>, eh?” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, yes; Beethoven, Mendelssohn, Wagner, Liszt, in particular, we needn’t - trouble with. I’d keep an especially sharp eye out for Ruben-stein and - Dvorak and Winiauski. It’s fortunate that I’ve preserved all the music - I’ve ever owned. We can’t miss it if we’re only patient enough.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, here goes,” he cried, thrusting a thick pile of music into my - hands, and apportioning an equal amount to himself. - </p> - <p> - We were industrious. It is needless that I should tarry with the incidents - of our search. At daybreak we had not yet quite finished, and we had not - yet struck any thing that bore the slightest resemblance to the - composition in question. - </p> - <p> - “But little remains,” said Merivale. “In another five minutes we will have - found it; or my first hypothesis was true.” - </p> - <p> - “Your first hypothesis?” I inquired. - </p> - <p> - “Yes—that it was original—a lucubration of your own.” - </p> - <p> - “Oh, that, I tell you, isn’t possible. I’m not vain enough to imagine that - I could improvise in such style, thank you.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, we won’t enter into a dispute, at any rate not till our present - line of investigation is exhausted. Back to the saddle!” - </p> - <p> - For a space we were silent. - </p> - <p> - “<i>Eh bien, mon brave!</i>” cried Merivale at length. “There goes the - last of my half,” and he sent a sheet of music fluttering through the air. - </p> - <p> - “And here is the last of mine,” I responded, laying down Schumann’s <i>Warum</i>. - </p> - <p> - “And we are still in the dark.” - </p> - <p> - “Still in the dark.” - </p> - <p> - “It isn’t possible that we have overlooked it?” - </p> - <p> - “I’m sure I haven’t. I took pains with each separate page.” - </p> - <p> - “Likewise, I! Therefore. I congratulate you. I’ll order a laurel wreath at - the florist’s, the first thing after breakfast.” - </p> - <p> - “Nonsense! How many times need I tell you that I could not by hook or - crook have made it up as I went along? The mere notion is ridiculous. It - must have got lost, that’s all.” - </p> - <p> - “On the contrary, the notion that you once learned it, then forgot it, - then played it off without a fault from beginning to end, is trebly - ridiculous. It was ridiculous of us to waste our time hunting for it, - also. I am entirely convinced that it is yours. Why not? Ideas have come - to other people—why not to you? Yesterday while you played, you were - excited and wrought up, and the result was that you had an inspiration. By - Jove, you’re lucky! It’s enough to make you famous.” - </p> - <p> - “But, Merivale, fancy the absurdities you are uttering. Do you seriously - suppose anybody—even a regular composer—could take up his - fiddle and reel off a complicated thing like that without once halting? - Why, man, there are four or five distinct movements. You might as well - pretend that a mere elocutionist could write an intricate epic poem - without once pausing to make an erasure or find a rhyme, as that I, a - simple instrumentalist, could have done this.” - </p> - <p> - “Well, there’s only oneway of settling the matter. We’ll refer it to an - authority. You jot down a few specimen bars on paper, and I’ll submit it - to your friend, Dr. Rodolph. Of course he will identify it at once, if it - isn’t yours.” - </p> - <p> - “If that will satisfy you, well and good,” I assented. - </p> - <p> - In the course of the forenoon, Merivale, having procured a stock of - music-paper at a shop in the neighborhood, said, “I don’t know how rapidly - a man can write music, but if it isn’t too slow work, I’d seriously - counsel you to put down the whole thing, while you’re about it. In fact - I’d counsel you to do so any how. If by hazard it is original, you know, - you’d better make a memorandum of it while it’s still fresh in your mind. - Otherwise you might forget it. That often happens to me. A bright idea, a - felicitous turn of phraseology, occurs to me when I’m away somewhere—in - the horse-cars, at the theater, paying a call, or what-not—and if I - don’t make an instant minute of it in my note-book, it’s sure to fly off - and never be heard from again.” - </p> - <p> - “We’ll see,” I returned. “I haven’t written a bar of music for such a long - while that I don’t know how hard I shall find it. But I used to make a - daily practice of writing from memory, because it increases one’s facility - for sight-reading.” - </p> - <p> - I hummed the first two or three phrases softly to myself, beating time - with my fingers; then drew up to the writing-table and commenced to set - them down. At the outset I had considerable difficulty, was obliged, so to - speak, to spell my way along note by note, and committed several blunders - which I had to go back to and correct. But gradually my path grew smoother - and smoother, until I was no longer conscious of effort; and at last I - became so much absorbed and so much interested by what I was doing, that - my hand sped across the paper like a machine performing the regular - function for which it was contrived. I suppose mental activity always - begets mental exhilaration; and that mental exhilaration in turn, when - allowed to attain too high a pitch, always approaches the borderland of - its antipode, on the principle that extremes meet. At any rate such was my - experience in the present instance. At first, both mind and fingers were - sluggish and moved laboriously. Then mind got into running order, and - fingers lagged behind; then fingers caught up with mind, and for a while - the two kept pace; then, finally, fingers spurted ahead and it was mind’s - turn to acknowledge itself left in the rear. Mental exhilaration gave - place to bewilderment, as I saw that my hand was forging along faster than - my thought could dictate, in apparent obedience to an independent will of - its own—which bewilderment ripened into thoroughgoing mystification, - as the hand dashed forward and back like a shuttle in a loom, with a - velocity that seemed ever to be increasing. I had precisely the sensation - of a man who has started to run down a hill, and whose legs have acquired - such a momentum that he can not stop them: on and on he must submit to be - borne until some outside obstacle interferes, even though a yawning chasm - await him at the bottom. Toward the end I scarcely saw the paper on which - I was writing; I am sure I saw nothing of the matter that I wrote. I said - to myself, “Of course you will find that all this stuff is incoherent and - meaningless when you get through.” But I waited passively till my hand - should get through of its own accord, I made no endeavor to draw the rein - upon it. Eventually it came to a standstill with a round turn. I was quite - winded. I needed leisure in which to recover my equilibrium. - </p> - <p> - Merivale—of whose presence I had become oblivious—crossed over - and began gathering the scattered sheets of paper from the table. The - sight of him helped to bring me to myself. - </p> - <p> - “Well,” I said, “there it is. I don’t suppose you can read it. I got so - excited I hardly knew what I was about.” - </p> - <p> - “That’s all right,” he answered reassuringly. “I’m much obliged to you for - the trouble you’ve taken. But what,” he added abruptly, “but what is all - this that you have written?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, what do you fancy? The music, of course, that you asked me to.” - </p> - <p> - “No, no; I mean this writing, this text, with which you have wound up?” - </p> - <p> - “Writing? Text? What are you driving at?” - </p> - <p> - “Why, here—this,” he said handing me the paper. - </p> - <p> - “Mercy upon me!” I exclaimed, thoroughly amazed. “I was not aware that I - had written any thing.” - </p> - <p> - The last half dozen pages were covered with written words—blotted, - scrawling, scarcely decipherable, but unmistakably written words. - </p> - <p> - “Well, certainly, this is most astonishing. Whatever it is, I have written - it unawares.” - </p> - <p> - I dropped the manuscript and leaned back in my chair, dumbfounded by this - latest development. - </p> - <p> - “Here,” said Merivale, “is the point where the music ends and the words - begin.” - </p> - <p> - The music ended, the words began, just at that point where last night the - shriek of malevolent laughter had interfered with the current of melody. - From that point to the bottom of the last page not another bar of music - was discernible—not a note of the incomprehensible witches’ chorus—simply - words, words that I dared not read. - </p> - <p> - “This is magic, this is ghost-work,” I said. “It appalls me. Look at it, - Merivale. Does it make sense? Or is it simply a mass of scribbling without - rhyme or reason?” - </p> - <p> - “Ye-es,” rejoined Merivale slowly, “it seems to make sense. The penmanship - is pretty blind, but the words appear to hang together. It begins, ‘I - walked re—re—reluctantly’—next word very bad—’I - walked reluctantly—reluctantly—away’—oh yes, that’s it—’away—from - the house. By Jove, this is singular! Shall I go on?” - </p> - <p> - “Yes, go on,” I said faintly. There was panic in my heart. - </p> - <p> - Merivale continued, picking his way laboriously. The following is what he - read. - </p> - <p> - <br /><br /> - </p> - <hr /> - <p> - <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> </a> - </p> - <div style="height: 4em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - <h2> - XIV. - </h2> - <p class="pfirst"> - <span class="dropcap" style="font-size: 4.00em">I</span> WALKED - reluctantly away from the house after I saw her light put out. I hated so - to leave her that it was as if a chain and ball had been attached to my - ankle. I had reached a point on Second avenue about half the distance home - when I halted. I had begun to feel sick. Suddenly my ears had begun to - ring, my head to swim. I clutched at a lamppost to keep from falling. The - ringing in my ears became louder and louder—a roar like that of a - strong wind. A deathly nausea overcame me. I thought I was going to faint, - perhaps to die. I held on to the lamp-post and tried to call out for help. - I could not utter the slightest sound; my tongue clove to the roof of my - mouth as it does in nightmare. I seemed to be growing weaker with every - breath. The noise in my ears was like an unbroken peal of thunder. My - brain went spinning around and around as if it had been caught in a - whirlpool. Then all at once my breath began to come in quick short gasps - like the breath of a panting dog or like the breath of a person who has - taken laughing-gas. I closed my eyes and for how long I know not clung to - the lamp-post, waiting for this internal upheaval to reach its climax. By - degrees my breath returned to its normal state; the uproar in my ears - subsided; my brain got quiet again. I felt as well as ever, only a bit - startled, a bit shaky in the legs. I thought, ‘You have had an attack of - vertigo, a half fainting-fit. Now you would best hurry home.’ But—but - to my unmingled consternation my body refused to act in response to my - will. I was puzzled. I tried again. Useless. - </p> - <p> - I had absolutely no control over my muscles. Experiment proved that I - could not move a finger; experiment proved that I could not put forth my - foot and take a step. I was horrified. Ah, I thought, this is a stroke of - paralysis. For a second time I attempted to summon help. For a second time - my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. - </p> - <p> - But if all this horrified me, how much more horrified was I the moment - after, when, in entire independence of my will, that body of mine which I - had fancied paralyzed began to act of its own accord! began to march - briskly off in a direction exactly opposite to that which I wished to - follow! If I had been puzzled before, how much more hopelessly puzzled was - I now! Experiment proved that I was as powerless to stop myself at - present, as an instant since I had been to set myself in motion. I was - appalled. I knew not what this phenomenon was due to or what it might lead - to. It seemed precisely as though the chords connecting my mind and body - had been severed, as though the will of another person had become the - reigning occupant of my frame. A thousand frightful possibilities flashed - upon my imagination. With this utter incompetency to govern my own - movements, God knew what might happen. I might walk into the river; or I - might—I might commit some irretrievable wrong. Helpless and - irresponsible as I was, I might accomplish that which all the rest of my - days I should repent. - </p> - <p> - Meanwhile I had moved on, until now I halted again. I looked around. I was - in front of Veronika’s house. I crossed the street, picked my way through - the people who were seated upon the stoop, mounted the staircase, and rang - Veronika’s bell, wondering constantly what the cause and what the upshot - of this adventure might be, and powerless to assert the least influence - over my physical acts. - </p> - <p> - “Veronika’s voice sounded from behind the door, ‘Is that you, uncle?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘No, it is I, my tongue replied of its own volition. - </p> - <p> - “The door opened. I saw Veronika with the knob in her hand. She looked - surprised. My impulse was to take her in my arms and explain to her the - strange accident that had befallen me. I could not. I had no more control - over my body than I had over hers. - </p> - <p> - “Veronika closed the door. She glanced up at my face. Her eyes filled with - fear. - </p> - <p> - “‘Why, Ernest,’ she cried, ‘what is it? What is the matter? Why do you - look like this?’ - </p> - <p> - “I paused to collect my utmost strength, then tried to speak. Total - failure. Tried to reassure her with my eyes. Total failure: eyes as - uncontrollable as the rest of my person. But impelled by that other will - which had usurped the place of mine, I approached her and asked, ‘What is - your name?’ It was my voice, but it was not I, that asked the question. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, for the love of God,’ Veronika besought, ‘don’t act like this. Oh, - my Ernest, what terrible joke are you playing? Don t make me think that - you have gone mad.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘What is your name?’ my voice repeated, stonily. - </p> - <p> - “‘My name? What can you mean? Oh God, what has come over my beloved?’ - </p> - <p> - “Her face was pale, her eyes were full of anguish. And I—I was - impotent to comfort her. My heart went out to her with a great bound of - love; but I was in irons, chained down, compelled to witness, forbidden to - interfere with the action of this awful drama. For a third time my tongue - repeated, ‘Your name—tell me your name.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘My name?’ she gasped. ‘You know my name—Veronika. See, don’t you - recognize me, Ernest? I am Veronika, whom you are going to marry. Oh, my - loved one, you are ill. What can I do to make you well?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Tell me your surname,’ I said. - </p> - <p> - “‘My surname—why, Pathzuol. Oh, Ernest, say you know me.’ - </p> - <p> - “‘And your father’s name?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘My father—his name was Nicholas—but he is dead—died - when I was a little girl. Oh, God, what does this mean?’ - </p> - <p> - “‘Enough; come with me,’ said the devil whose victim I had become. - </p> - <p> - “I grasped her wrist and led her down the hallway. If Veronika was - terrified, her terror could not have equaled mine. What deed was I now - bent upon committing? She followed me passively. The expression of her - eyes made my soul ache within me. How I longed to speak to her and soothe - her. How I longed to step between her and myself, to protect her from this - maniac in whose power she was. To be obliged to stand by and see this - thing enacted—imagine the agony I suffered. - </p> - <p> - “I led her down the hallway and into the dining-room. Then I released her - wrist, and crossed over to the sideboard. I opened the sideboard drawer - and took out a long, keen knife. I tried the point and the edge of the - knife upon my thumb. - </p> - <p> - “‘Are you—are you going to kill me, Ernest?’ I heard Veronika ask, - very low. - </p> - <p> - “‘Yes, I am going to kill you. Lead the way to your bed-chamber.’ - </p> - <p> - “Veronika’s hand clutched convulsively at her breast. She said nothing. - She moved slowly back into the hall and thence into her bedroom, I - following. - </p> - <p> - “‘Oh, for God’s sake, stop and think what you are doing,’ she cried out - suddenly, turning and facing me at the threshold of her room. ‘Think, - Ernest, that it is I, Veronika, whom you are going to kill. Think, oh my - loved one, think how you will suffer if ever you come to and realize what - you have done. Oh, is there no way for me to bring him to himself!’ - </p> - <p> - “Presently she continued, ‘But tell me first what I have done.—Oh, I - can not bear to die until I know that you don’t suspect me of having - wronged you in any way. Oh, Ernest, oh, if you would only speak one word. - Oh, my darling, do not kill me without speaking to me. Oh God, oh God! Oh, - there, there, he is going to kill me; he will not speak to me. Oh, what - have I done? Ernest, <i>Ernest!</i> Wake up—stop your arm—don’t - strike me. Oh God, God, God!’ - </p> - <p> - “After it was over I dried my hands upon my handkerchief, turned out the - gas in the hall, locked the door on the outside, put the key into my - pocket, and went away.” - </p> - <p> - What remains for me to tell? The above is what Merivale read to me. The - above is what I had written. Could I doubt its truth? I did not, I do not, - at any rate. - </p> - <p> - I am informed that a man once tried for murder and acquitted can not, as - the lawyers put it, can not be placed in jeopardy again. But I am enough - of a Jew to believe in eye for eye and tooth for tooth. I shall see to it - that I do not escape that penalty which the law would have imposed upon - me, had the facts I am now aware of come out at my trial. I shall see to - it that the murderer of Veronika Pathzuol meets with the punishment which - his crime demands. - </p> - <p> - It has taken me a week to write out this account. I want the public to - have it. No need to analyze the motives that prompt this wish. I shall - confide the MS. to my friend Merivale with directions that it be printed. - </p> - <p> - I do not think of any thing more that needs to be said. - </p> - <h3> - THE END. - </h3> - <div style="height: 6em;"> - <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> - </div> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of As It Was Written, by -Henry Harland, AKA Sidney Luska - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AS IT WAS WRITTEN *** - -***** This file should be named 52704-h.htm or 52704-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/7/0/52704/ - -Produced by David Widger from page images generously -provided by the Internet Archive - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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