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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 *** |