Part 7

“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.”