Maurice Guest | Page 6

misanthropic, and seemed to steal down the opposite side, to avoid his
too pertinent gaze. Bluff, preoccupied, his keen eyes lowered, the burly
Cantor passed, as he had once done day after day, with the disciplined
regularity of high genius, of the honest citizen, to his appointed work in
the shadows of the organ-loft; behind him, one who had pointed to the
giant with a new burst of ardour, the genial little improviser, whose
triumphs had been those of this town, whose fascinating gifts and still
more fascinating personality, had made him the lion of his age. And it
was only another step in this train of half-conscious thought, that,
before a large lettered poster, which stood out black and white against
the reds and yellows of the circular advertisement-column, and bore the
word "Siegfried," Maurice Guest should not merely be filled with the
anticipation of a world of beauty still unexplored, but that the world
should stand to him for a symbol, as it were, of the easeful and
luxurious side of a life dedicated to art--of a world-wide fame; the
society of princes, kings; the gloss of velvet; the dull glow of
gold.--And again, tapering vistas opened up, through which he could
peer into the future, happy in the knowledge, that he stood firm in a
present which made all things possible to a holy zeal, to an unhesitating
grasp.
But it was growing late, and he slowly retraced his steps. In the
restaurant into which he turned for dinner, he was the only customer.
The principal business of the day was at an end; two waiters sat dozing
in corners, and a man behind the counter, who was washing
metal-topped beer-glasses, had almost the whole pile polished bright
before him. Maurice Guest sat down at a table by the window; and,
when he had finished his dinner and lighted a cigarette, he watched the
passers-by, who crossed the pane of glass like the figures in a moving
photograph.
Suddenly the door opened with an energetic click, and a lady came in,
enveloped in an old-fashioned, circular cloak, and carrying on one arm

a pile of paper-covered music. This, she laid on the table next that at
which the young man was sitting, then took off her hat. When she had
also hung up the unbecoming cloak, he saw that she was young and
slight. For the rest, she seemed to bring with her, into the warm,
tranquil atmosphere of the place, heavy with midday musings, a breath
of wind and outdoor freshness--a suggestion that was heightened by the
quick decisiveness of her movements: the briskness with which she
divested herself of her wrappings, the quick smooth of the hair on
either side, the business-like way in which she drew up her chair to the
table and unfolded her napkin.
She seemed to be no stranger there, for, on her entrance, the younger
and more active waiter had at once sprung up with officious haste, and
almost before she was ready, the little table was newly spread and set,
and the dinner of the day before her. She spoke to the man in a friendly
way as she took her seat, and he replied with a pleased and smiling
respect.
Then she began to eat, deliberately, and with an overemphasised nicety.
As she carried her soup-spoon to her lips, Maurice Guest felt that she
was observing him; and throughout the meal, of which she ate but little,
he was aware of a peculiarly straight and penetrating gaze. It ended by
disconcerting him. Beckoning the waiter, he went through the business
of paying his bill, and this done, was about to push back his chair and
rise to his feet, when the man, in gathering up the money, addressed
what seemed to be a question to him. Fearful lest he had made a
mistake in the strange coinage, Maurice looked up apprehensively. The
waiter repeated his words, but the slight nervousness that gained on the
young man made him incapable of separating the syllables, which were
indistinguishably blurred. He coloured, stuttered, and felt mortally
uncomfortable, as, for the third time, the waiter repeated his remark,
with the utmost slowness.
At this point, the girl at the adjacent table put down her knife and fork,
and leaned slightly forward.
"Excuse me," she said, and smiled. "The waiter only said he thought
you must be a stranger here: DER HERR IST GEWISS FREMD IN
LEIPZIG?" Her rather prominent teeth were visible as she spoke.
Maurice, who understood instantly her pronunciation of the words, was
not set any more at his ease by her explanation. "Thanks very much."

he said, still redder than usual. "I . . . er . . . thought the fellow was
saying something about the money."
"And the Saxon