As he did not point out Tevkin to me, I concluded that the Hebrew poet was not at the café
"Do you know Tevkin?" I inquired.
"There he is," he answered, directing my glance to a gray-haired, clean-shaven, commonplace-looking man of medium stature who stood in the chess corner, watching one of the games. "Do you know him?"
"No, but I have heard of him. You did not include him in your list of notables, did you?"
"Oh, well, he was a notable once upon a time. Our rule is, 'Let the dead past bury it's dead.'"
I felt sorry for poor Tevkin. Turning half-way around in my seat, I took to eying the Hebrew poet. I felt disappointed. That this prosaic-looking old man should have written the lines that I had read at the Astor Library seemed inconceivable. The fact, however, that he was the father of the tall, stately, beautiful girl whose image was ever before me ennobled his face
I stepped over to him and said: "You are Mr. Tevkin, aren't you?
Allow me to introduce myself. Levinsky."
He bowed, grasping my hand, evidently loath to take his eyes off the chess-players
"I read some of your poems the other day," I added
"My poems?" he asked, coloring