I enjoyed my friend’s poetry: and besides, we varied1 the business with frequent interruptions for conversation and cigarettes. Merivale taught me to smoke—a vice2, if it be a vice, from which I have since derived3 no little solace4. At one o’clock our luncheon5 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 picturesque6 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 initiated7 me into the enjoyment8 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 precisely9 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 diffused10, tinging11 my life with melancholy12 instead of consuming it with sullen13, unremitting fever.
“The scowl14,” declared my friend, “the scowl is merging15 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 scattering16 the virus through the system. Now we will proceed to its total eradication17. I don’t know whether that is the course medical men in general pursue: but it sounds plausible18, 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 contented19; 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 inevitable21 that you should be for a while. But there is no excuse for you to be so any longer. A purely22 selfish sorrow is as much a self-indulgence as a purely selfish joy, and has as little dignity. It dwarfs23, enervates24, demoralizes the soul: a platitude25 which you would do well to memorize.”
At first I had hesitated to try a second experiment with the violin: yet the very motive26 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 tuned27 his Stradivari, and with much the sensation of a fledgling launched upon a perilous28 and uncertain flight, let my right arm have its way. The result was encouraging. I determined29 that henceforward I should practice regularly. The music brought me near to Veronika, and now I could endure this nearness without quailing30. Though it was by no means destitute31 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 remarkable32 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 wrought33 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 momentary34 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 lighting35 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 nostrils36 dilated37, and his eyes flashed fire, and then he crumpled38 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 narrative39 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 rehearsal40. To-morrow night we have our concert. Good. Well, now at the eleventh hour what happens? Why, the soloist41 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 eyebrows42. ‘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 excellence43 was not enough; the public would tolerate mere44 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 awfully45 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 mediocre46 executant I am. My technique is such that I could barely pass muster47 among the second violinists in Doctor Rodolph’s orchestra. It would be the height of effrontery48 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 judgment49.”
“You would not submit me to the humiliation50 of such a trial. After the extravagances you have uttered concerning me, to show myself in my own humble51 colors—the drop would be too great. But I may as well be entirely52 candid53. 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 specimen54. Don’t disappoint a fellow like that.”
I stuck out obdurately55. 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 entails56 pain upon you, are you justified57 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 Inferno58, women would never bring children into the world, if the dread20 of pain were sufficient to subdue59 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 puny60 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 slaughter61. Prepare to trot62 along becomingly at my side, lambkin. Goodnight.”
My efforts to beg off next morning were ineffectual.
“If you desire to forfeit63 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 skeptical64 welcome. Producing a composition quite unfamiliar65 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 nervously66 about the loom67. 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 genial68 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 preyed69 upon me. I practiced my pieces thoroughly70. Merivale busied himself procuring71 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 stamina72? 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 reassured73 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 riveted74 upon my face.
I had anticipated about every catastrophe75 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 lurch76, like the deck of a vessel77 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 industriously78 winding79 off the Tannhauser march.
“How do you feel?” asked Merivale, as I opened my eyes.
“I feel as though I should like to annihilate80 myself,” I answered, as memory cleared up. “I have permanently81 disgraced us both.”
“But what was the trouble? You were doing nobly, splendidly, when all of a sudden you collapsed82 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 undid83 me.”
“Oh, yes; I understand,” said he.
We kept silence all the way home in the carriage.
Next morning, as I entered the sitting-room84, 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 sensational85 account of my fiasco. But what I had most dreaded86 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.
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1
varied
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| adj.多样的，多变化的 | |
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vice
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| n.坏事；恶习；[pl.]台钳，老虎钳；adj.副的 | |
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derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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solace
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| n.安慰；v.使快乐；vt.安慰(物)，缓和 | |
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luncheon
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| n.午宴，午餐，便宴 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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initiated
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| n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始，创始，启蒙，介绍加入 | |
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8
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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diffused
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| 散布的，普及的，扩散的 | |
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tinging
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的现在分词 ) | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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sullen
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| adj.愠怒的，闷闷不乐的，(天气等)阴沉的 | |
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scowl
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| vi.(at)生气地皱眉，沉下脸，怒视；n.怒容 | |
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merging
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| 合并（分类） | |
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scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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eradication
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| n.根除 | |
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plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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dwarfs
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| n.侏儒，矮子（dwarf的复数形式）vt.（使）显得矮小（dwarf的第三人称单数形式） | |
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enervates
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| v.使衰弱，使失去活力( enervate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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platitude
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| n.老生常谈，陈词滥调 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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tuned
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| adj.调谐的，已调谐的v.调音( tune的过去式和过去分词 )；调整；（给收音机、电视等）调谐；使协调 | |
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perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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quailing
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| 害怕，发抖，畏缩( quail的现在分词 ) | |
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destitute
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| adj.缺乏的；穷困的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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dilated
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| adj.加宽的，扩大的v.（使某物）扩大，膨胀，张大( dilate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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soloist
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| n.独奏者，独唱者 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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excellence
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| n.优秀，杰出，(pl.)优点，美德 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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muster
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| v.集合，收集，鼓起，激起；n.集合，检阅，集合人员，点名册 | |
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48
effrontery
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| n.厚颜无耻 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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50
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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51
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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52
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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53
candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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54
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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obdurately
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| adv.顽固地，执拗地 | |
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entails
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| 使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 )； 需要； 限定继承； 使必需 | |
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57
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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inferno
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| n.火海；地狱般的场所 | |
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59
subdue
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| vt.制服，使顺从，征服；抑制，克制 | |
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60
puny
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| adj.微不足道的，弱小的 | |
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61
slaughter
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| n.屠杀，屠宰；vt.屠杀，宰杀 | |
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62
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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63
forfeit
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| vt.丧失；n.罚金，罚款，没收物 | |
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skeptical
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| adj.怀疑的，多疑的 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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67
loom
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| n.织布机，织机；v.隐现，(危险、忧虑等)迫近 | |
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genial
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| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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69
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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71
procuring
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| v.（努力）取得， （设法）获得( procure的现在分词 )；拉皮条 | |
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stamina
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| n.体力；精力；耐力 | |
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reassured
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| adj.使消除疑虑的；使放心的v.再保证，恢复信心( reassure的过去式和过去分词) | |
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74
riveted
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| 铆接( rivet的过去式和过去分词 )； 把…固定住； 吸引； 引起某人的注意 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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lurch
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| n.突然向前或旁边倒；v.蹒跚而行 | |
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vessel
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| n.船舶；容器，器皿；管，导管，血管 | |
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industriously
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winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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annihilate
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| v.使无效；毁灭；取消 | |
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permanently
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| adv.永恒地，永久地，固定不变地 | |
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82
collapsed
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| adj.倒塌的 | |
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Undid
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| v. 解开, 复原 | |
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sitting-room
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| n.（BrE）客厅，起居室 | |
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85
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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