“Now, to the table!” cried Mrs. Berle.
The table was of appetizing aspect; an immaculate cloth, garnished by divers German dishes, and beautified by the flowers our friends had brought. Arthur’s chair was placed at the right of Mrs. Lehmyl’s. Conversation, however, was general from first to last. Hetzel contributed an anecdote in the Irish dialect, at which he was an adept. Arthur told of a comic incident that had happened in court the other day. Mrs. Lehmyl said she could not fancy any thing being comic in a courtroom—the atmosphere of a court-room sent such a chill to the heart, she should think it would operate as an anaesthetic upon the humorous side of a person. Mr. Lipman gave a few reminiscences of the Hungarian revolt of ’49, in which he had been a participant, wielding a brace of empty seltzer bottles, so he said, in default of nobler weapons. This led the talk up to the superiority of America over the effete monarchies of Europe. After a good deal of patriotism had asserted itself, a little criticism began to crop out. By and by the Goddess of Liberty had had her character thoroughly dissected. With the coffee, Mrs. Berle, who had heretofore shone chiefly as a listener, said, “Now, you young gentlemen may smoke, just as if you were three flights higher up.” So they lit their cigars—in which pastime Mr. Lipman joined them—and sat smoking and chatting over the table till it had grown quite dark. At last it was moved that the party should adjourn to the parlor and have some music. There being no Wagnerites present, Mrs. Lehmyl sang Jensen’s Lehn deine Wang, with so much fervor that two big tears gathered in Mr. Lipman’s eyes and rolled down his cheeks. Then, to restore gayety, she sang La Paloma, in the merriest way imaginable; and finally, to bring the pendulum of emotion back to its mean position, Voi chi Sapete from the “Marriage of Figaro.” After this there was an interim during which every body found occasion to say his say; and then Mrs. Berle announced, “My brother plays the ’cello. Now he must also play a little, yes?”
Mrs. Lehmyl was delighted by the prospect of hearing the ’cello played; and Mr. Lipman performed a courtly old bow, and said it would be a veritable inspiration to play to her accompaniment. Thereupon they consulted together until they had agreed upon a selection. It proved to be nothing less antiquated than Boccherini’s minuet. The quaint and graceful measures, wrung out from the deep-voiced ’cello, brought smiles of enjoyment to every face. “But,” says Arthur, “what pleased me quite as much as the music was to keep my eyes fixed on the picture that the two musicians presented; that old man’s wonderful countenance, peering out from behind the neck of his instrument, intent, almost fierce in its earnestness; and hers, pale, luminous, passionate, varying with every modulation of the tune. And all the while the scent of the jasmine bud haunted my nostrils, and recalled vividly the moment she had pinned it into my buttonhole.”—In deference to the demand for an encore, they played Handel’s Largo. Then Mrs. Berle’s maid appeared, bearing the inevitable wine and cakes. By and by Mrs. Hart began to make her adieux. At this, Arthur slipped quietly out of the room. When he returned, half a minute later, he had his hat in his hand. Mrs. Hart protested that it was quite unnecessary for him to trouble himself to see them home. “Why, it is only straight across the street,” she submitted. But Arthur was obstinate.
On her door-step, Mrs. Hart said, “We should be pleased to have you call upon us, Mr. Ripley.”
He and Hetzel sat up till past midnight, talking. The latter volunteered a good many favorable observations anent Mrs. Lehmyl. Arthur could have listened to him till daybreak.—In bed he had difficulty getting to sleep. Among other things, he kept thinking how fortunate it was that Peixada had disapproved of the trip to Europe. “Why, New York,” he soliloquized, “is by all means the most interesting city in the world.”
He took advantage of Mrs. Hart’s permission to call, as soon as he reasonably could. While he was waiting for somebody to appear, he admired the decorations of Mrs. Hart’s parlor. Neat gauze curtains at the windows, a rosy-hued paper on the wall, a soft carpet under foot, pretty pictures, pleasant chairs and tables, lamps and porcelains, and a book-case filled with interesting looking books, combined to lend the room an attractive, homelike aspect; for all of which, without cause, Arthur assumed that Mrs. Lehmyl was answerable. An upright piano occupied a corner; a sheet of music lay open on the rack. He was bending over it, to spell out the composer’s name, when he heard a rustling of silk, and, turning around, he made his bow to—Mrs. Hart.
Mrs. Hart was accompanied by her cats.
Arthur’s spirits sank.
“Ah, how do you do?” said Mrs. Hart. “I’m so glad to see you.”
She shook his hand cordially and bade him be seated. He sat down and looked at the ceiling.