“I once knew some one,” said I, “who used to say that many a good man and many a great man was lost to the world simply because nothing interrupted the course of his prosperity.”
“Don’t suppose that I am an embryo hero of any description,” said he, bitterly. “I am merely, as I said, a spoiled man, brought to his senses and with life before him to go through as best he may, and the knowledge that his own fault has brought him to what he is.”
“But look here! If it is merely a question of name or money,” I began.
“It is not merely that; but suppose it were, what then?”
“It lies with yourself. You may make a name either as a composer or performer—your head or your fingers will secure you money and fame.”
“None the less should I be, as I said, a spoiled man,” he said, quietly. “I should be ashamed to come forward. It was I myself who sent myself and my prospects caput;[A] and for that sort of obscurity is the best taste and the right sphere.”
“But there’s the boy,” I suggested. “Let him have the advantage.”
“Don’t, don’t!” he said, suddenly, and wincing visibly, as if I had touched a raw spot. “No; my one hope for him is that he may never be known as my son.”
“But—but—”
“Poor little beggar! I wonder what will become of him,” he uttered, after a pause, during which I did not speak again.