Swartzman and Bella Meunier and I talked and talked and talked ... of Poe ... of Baudelaire, of Balzac....
Then Nichi launched forth on a long disquisition on Japanese and Chinese art, and Mrs. Meunier and I gladly remained silent during the whole morning, enchanted by the vistas of beauty which Swartzman's words opened for us.
"Why," I thought, "must such a man lack audiences? If civilisation were in its right mind, he would hold a chair in some great university, and lecture daily to hundreds ... this man is alive. His fire wakes kindred fire ... why must we leave the business of teaching to the corpse-minded, the dead-hearted? like so many of our professors and teachers!"
I found out afterward that Nichi Swartzman was utterly irresponsible as he was brilliant.
Laston Meunier dug up poor old Fritz Von Hammer, the former Eos pianist—whose breath was still as fetid as ever ... who still insisted on seizing you by the coat lapel and talking right into your nose—dug him up from the moving picture house, where he played.
Von Hammer wept over the piano, as he found himself free again to play as he wished....
The party was in my honour. There were present about a dozen guests, picked from Buffalo's bohemia. They sat about on the floor on cushions.
Swartzman recited Poe's Black Cat, with gestures and facial contortions that were terrifying. His huge, yellow, angular Japanese face grimacing near the ceiling ... he was six foot six, if anything....
His recitation was done so well that, when he had finished, we sat, for a moment, in frightened silence, like children. Then we stormed him with applause.