Absorbed in themselves, they had not noticed that a stranger, seated at a neighbouring table, had been listening with attention. He rose and, apologising with easy grace for intrusion into a conversation he could hardly have avoided overhearing, requested permission to be of service. The restaurant was dimly lighted; the three friends on entering had chosen its obscurest corner. The Stranger appeared to be well-dressed; his voice and bearing suggested the man of affairs; his face—what feeble light there was being behind him—remained in shadow.
The three friends eyed him furtively: possibly some rich but eccentric patron of the arts; not beyond the bounds of speculation that he was acquainted with their work, had read the Poet’s verses in one of the minor magazines, had stumbled upon some sketch of the Painter’s while bargain-hunting among the dealers of the Quartier St. Antoine, been struck by the beauty of the Composer’s Nocturne in F heard at some student’s concert; having made enquiries concerning their haunts, had chosen this method of introducing himself. The young men made room for him with feelings of hope mingled with curiosity. The affable Stranger called for liqueurs, and handed round his cigar-case. And almost his first words brought them joy.
“Before we go further,” said the smiling Stranger, “it is my pleasure to inform you that all three of you are destined to become great.”
The liqueurs to their unaccustomed palates were proving potent. The Stranger’s cigars were singularly aromatic. It seemed the most reasonable thing in the world that the Stranger should be thus able to foretell to them their future.
“Fame, fortune will be yours,” continued the agreeable Stranger. “All things delightful will be to your hand: the adoration of women, the honour of men, the incense of Society, joys spiritual and material, beauteous surroundings, choice foods, all luxury and ease, the world your pleasure-ground.”
The stained walls of the dingy restaurant were fading into space before the young men’s eyes. They saw themselves as gods walking in the garden of their hearts’ desires.
“But, alas,” went on the Stranger—and with the first note of his changed voice the visions vanished, the dingy walls came back—“these things take time. You will, all three, be well past middle-age before you will reap the just reward of your toil and talents. Meanwhile—” the sympathetic Stranger shrugged his shoulders—“it is the old story: genius spending its youth battling for recognition against indifference, ridicule, envy; the spirit crushed by its sordid environment, the drab monotony of narrow days. There will be winter nights when you will tramp the streets, cold, hungry, forlorn; summer days when you will hide in your attics, ashamed of the sunlight on your ragged garments; chill dawns when you will watch wild-eyed the suffering of those you love, helpless by reason of your poverty to alleviate their pain.”
The Stranger paused while the ancient waiter replenished the empty glasses. The three friends drank in silence.
“I propose,” said the Stranger, with a pleasant laugh, “that we pass over this customary period of probation—that we skip the intervening years—arrive at once at our true destination.”
The Stranger, leaning back in his chair, regarded the three friends with a smile they felt rather than saw. And something about the Stranger—they could not have told themselves what—made all things possible.