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MISFITS AND REMNANTS 
 
Misfits and Remnants 
 
 BY 
 
 L. D. VENTURA 
 
 AND 
 
 S. SHEVITCH 
 
 BOSTON 
 
 TICKNOR AND COMPANY 
 
 1886 
 

 Copyright, 1886^ 
 By Ticknor and Company. 
 
 All rights reserved* 
 
 John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 
 
^\}Xfi ^ook 
 
 IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED 
 TO 
 
 MRS. GEORGE HOWE, 
 By the Authors. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 -♦- 
 
 Page 
 
 Pepping i 
 
 Only a Dog 51 
 
 Beppo ()^ 
 
 The ** Herr Baron '' 85 
 
 Our Nihilist . 109 
 
 A Wrecked Life . 129 
 
 The Stage Fiend 149 
 
 Graziella the Model 173 
 
 Who was He? 191 
 
 The Elf of Hohenheim 215 
 
PEPPING. 
 
MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 PEPPING. 
 
 F you should ever go to New York, 
 and on some fine day in the month 
 of May should saunter, half on busi- 
 ness, half for pleasure, in the direction of 
 the Post-Office, take my advice, — do not 
 get into the horse-car which goes through 
 Union Square to Barclay Street, for you 
 will surely be crushed to suffocation in the 
 mass of stout women who seem to frequent 
 these vehicles. Neither should you take 
 an omnibus, — that relic of barbarism, that 
 unblushing exhibitor of pretty ankles; but 
 take my advice, I repeat, light a good cigar, 
 and quietly pursue your way on foot, fol- 
 
4 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 lowing the right-hand sidewalk. Not only 
 will you have saved five cents, but you will 
 see the beautiful things spread out to 
 tempt you in the shop-windows ; you will 
 meet many pretty women; you will be 
 much amused by the absurd walking ad- 
 vertisements, and edified by the soles of 
 boots at the windows of the reading-rooms 
 of the St. Nicholas and the New York 
 Hotel ; and besides all this you will make 
 the acquaintance of Peppino. 
 
 For I do not imagine that you are of 
 those who waste their time by blacking 
 their own boots, but that you much prefer 
 to patronize the poor Italian who for five 
 cents will put so wonderful a polish upon 
 your lower extremities. For see now, we 
 must all live, in one way or another ; and 
 my poor countrymen have a right to exist, 
 w^ere it only by selling melons or by black- 
 ing boots. 
 
 Do you know Peppino? No? Then I 
 will introduce you to him. Come with me 
 to the corner of Prince Street, opposite the 
 Metropolitan Hotel. On that corner stands 
 
PEPPINO, 5 
 
 a boy about twelve years old, with a 
 brown skin made yet browner by the sun, 
 a head covered with thick, curly hair, a 
 pug-nose, and a je ne sais quoi in his ap- 
 pearance which makes him look very droll 
 as he stands there, with his blacking-box 
 strapped across his chest. Peppino is not 
 dirty. He wears a blue jacket with a sailor- 
 collar, trousers rather short, indeed, but 
 clean, and on his feet are slippers of yellow 
 leather. 
 
 When Peppino cries out to you '' Shine ? ** 
 you will not be able to resist the fascina- 
 tion, and, like so many others who are pass- 
 ing him, will stop and confide your boots 
 to him while he makes them shine like a 
 mirror. 
 
 Peppino is an aristocrat in his own way, 
 and has a ruling idea in life. Who has not? 
 His ambition is to be able to possess, one 
 of these days, by the aid of your boots, 
 a swell-front in his native town, a little 
 America in the heart of Southern Italy. 
 If you will give me time, I will relate to 
 you how I came to know Peppino, and will 
 
6 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 tell you things that you do not hear every 
 day. 
 
 This came to pass at that blessed time 
 when I first came to America. At that 
 epoch I was not precisely in intimate rela- 
 tion with the Manhattan Bank ; but in three 
 weeks of New York life I had experi- 
 enced great fluctuations in my own special 
 '^ Bourse," and in a relatively short space 
 of time I had had my financial Waterloo. 
 
 Picture to yourself that I had come from 
 Italy with five hundred francs in my 
 pocket and with an idea, even many ideas, 
 in my head : I believed that in America 
 money ran like a river through the streets, 
 and therefore it was not necessary to bring 
 any, but simply to come and gather it up. 
 With these ideas five hundred francs were 
 more than a superfluity; and to say the 
 truth, I got rid of them with an indifl'er- 
 ence worthy of a nabob. 
 
 For instance, I had been led to believe 
 one could not be modestly lodged in New 
 York for less than fifteen dollars a week ; 
 and in the matter of food there was noth- 
 
PEPPINO. 7 
 
 ing to be thought of but the bill of fare at 
 Delmonico's, or indeed Martinelli's menu. 
 Naturally, therefore, I threw myself into 
 the hospitable arms of Ernest Delmonico's 
 maitre d'hotel^ and of Paolo, the aide-de- 
 camp of Martinelli. I was a little sur- 
 prised to see seated at these tables only 
 gentlemen in full dress and ladies in the 
 most fashionable attire, and even said to 
 myself: ^' I wonder where the working 
 people live ? '' But I answered myself: 
 " You stupid ! they probably eat at an hour 
 when you do not happen to be hungry/* 
 
 As I went on my way, seeing all things 
 as through a prism, and not knowing a 
 word of English, having determined at all 
 costs to discover America for myself, it 
 occurred to me that in three weeks I had 
 descended through all the semitones of 
 the financial scale, and had learned three 
 things : First, that I had been obliged to 
 go from a lodging at fifteen dollars a week 
 to one at ten, and then to one at five, and 
 at last was not able to pay anything at all ; 
 second, that I had fallen from the height 
 
8 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 of Delmonico's to the depths of an under- 
 ground restaurant, where I paid twenty- 
 five cents for my dinner, beer included; 
 and third, that it had become almost im- 
 possible for me to have my boots blacked. 
 The result was that at the end of three 
 weeks I found myself possessed of the 
 appetite of a wolf, that I had unblacked 
 boots, and a quantity of manuscript with 
 which I intended to civilize America. 
 
 Every morning I put these big rolls of 
 paper in my pockets, — a political article on 
 M. Gambetta, a criticism on M. Zola, a com- 
 edy in three acts, with chansonnettes, and 
 the inevitable biography of poor old Gari- 
 baldi. Armed with these, I went to the 
 " New York Herald '* office and asked the 
 janitor when Mr. Bennett, who was in Eu- 
 rope, would be hkely to return, and to the 
 ** Sun,*' to know if perhaps Mr. Dana had 
 finished his breakfast. Then I sought out 
 the editors of the various departments, and 
 emptied the treasures of my pockets upon 
 their tables. It was true the brave fellows 
 could not understand a word I said ; but 
 
PEPPINO, 9 
 
 they had travelled the same stormy road 
 themselves, and could at least sympathize. 
 
 The following day I would return to find 
 my precious things in the box devoted to 
 rejected contributions, and attached to 
 them this sacred legend: *' This manu- 
 script returned, with thanks." It was only 
 after several of these excursions that I 
 found out that I had given my political 
 articles to the ''sport" department, and 
 my literary criticisms to the obituary 
 notices. 
 
 It was during one of these peregrina- 
 tions that I first saw Peppino. I had just 
 issued from a grocer's shop, where I had 
 been buying ten cents' w^orth of crackers 
 and cheese, of which my breakfast for two 
 mornings had been constituted. While I 
 awaited the sale of my first article, to 
 allow me to dream of some sort of dinner, 
 as I was passing the Metropolitan Hotel 
 a boy suddenly started from the wall, 
 and dropping on his knees and calling 
 in a high voice, '* Shine ! shine ! " without 
 giving me time for resistance, seized one 
 
lO MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 foot, and in a moment my right boot was 
 blacked and polished. 
 
 ** My boy — "I expostulated. 
 
 " I will do it very quickly, signorino,'* 
 said the lad. 
 
 It was in vain to protest; my second 
 boot was already in process of cleaning, 
 and soon shone like its predecessor. At 
 last my foot was free ; but, alas ! I was in 
 bonds mentally. I truly believe that I 
 turned pale. Do you guess why? No? 
 Well, the truth was that I had passed 
 through Rabelais' mauvais quart d heure iox 
 the want of five cents. My entire property 
 consisted in a bag of crackers in my hand 
 and a biography of Garibaldi in my coat- 
 pocket. I looked at the boy; he stared 
 at me. Several of his customers went by, 
 making a sign to him to black their boots ; 
 but he did not stir. 
 
 '' Five cents ! " he sighed at last. 
 
 *' I have n't a single one !" I ejaculated 
 with some difficulty. 
 
 *^It is no matter at all; non ja minti ; 
 the Madonna be with you ! " was his reply. 
 
PEPPINO. I I 
 
 I took hold of his arm with a friendly- 
 grasp. 
 
 '' What is your name? " I said. 
 
 *' Peppino/' touching his cap. 
 
 *' Thank you, my Peppino ; I shall come 
 and see you again to-morrow." 
 
 '' The Madonna be with you ! " he said 
 again, and I walked away with tears in my 
 eyes, saying to myself: *' Now I must make 
 some money at any cost, in order to re- 
 ward this boy for his honest trust in me." 
 
 Evidently the boy brought me luck, for 
 on reaching my room I read in the paper 
 that the Ministre de Justice had just died 
 in Italy. In all haste I wrote an obituary 
 on the great man, and took it to the 
 *' New York Herald." It was accepted; 
 and better than that, they sent me imme- 
 diately the money for it, which amounted 
 to the enormous sum of seven dollars. 
 Picture it ! Seven dollars ! It was indeed 
 like manna in the desert to poor starving 
 me. My first thought was to seek Peppino. 
 He received me with the srrfile of an old 
 acquaintance. " , 
 
12 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 " I knew very well that you would come 
 back," he said ; and without more ado took 
 possession again of my boots, and polished 
 them as if I had been the best customer 
 in the world. When he had finished, I 
 slipped fifty cents into his hand; where- 
 upon he began to search his pockets for 
 the change, still on his knees. He found 
 forty cents, and would have given them 
 to me; but I told him to keep them. He 
 looked at me with an air that seemed to 
 say: ** Don't you think me capable of 
 blacking a pair of boots on credit with- 
 out usury?'' 
 
 '^ Keep the money, my boy," I said ; 
 ** and if you would like it, come to me 
 every morning at eight o'clock to black 
 my boots." 
 
 " Indeed I will; but where shall I go?*' 
 
 *'No. 25, Ludlow Place." 
 
 ** Va bene ! all right ; I shall be there." 
 
FEPPINO. 13 
 
 II. 
 
 I SAW nothing of my Peppino the next 
 morning, and I supposed that he had pre- 
 ferred some customer whose pay would 
 be more certain than mine. I was a Httle 
 disappointed ; and scarcely conscious of 
 the direction in which I went, strolled 
 down town, and came upon Peppino at 
 the corner of Prince Street, where he was 
 busily brushing the boots of a colored 
 man. He made me a hasty sign with his 
 brush to wait, and worked away busily at 
 the larger surface which required to be 
 polished. This finished at last, he turned 
 to me and said in rather an injured tone, 
 pulling the strap of his box over his 
 shoulder as he spoke, — 
 
 *^ I went to your house this morning, as 
 I said I would ; and after keeping me wait- 
 ing a long quarter of an hour on the door- 
 step, an old woman came, and I asked 
 for you. Ah ! signorino, she must be bad, 
 
14 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 that old woman, for she was very, very 
 cross to me, and if I had not run away, 
 she would have called the police to put 
 me off the steps; she said she would." 
 
 '^ What do you mean? She really sent 
 you away? " 
 
 ^^ Proprio cosi, exactly so,'' said the boy; 
 and then, seeing that I looked sorry and 
 mortified, added : ** Never mind ; if you 
 want me, I will come again, I am not 
 afraid." 
 
 '^ I believe you, Peppino ; and you shall 
 come again, and the old woman shall re- 
 ceive you properly, I promise you." 
 
 I wished to shake hands with him; he 
 hesitated a little, and then with some con- 
 fusion began to rub his hand on his trou- 
 sers, trying to wipe away the stains that 
 the blacking had left on his fingers. 
 
 ** Well," I said, *' are you not going to 
 shake hands with me? " 
 
 '^With you, a signore? " said he, open- 
 ing his great black eyes; and then he 
 reached out his hand and put it in mine 
 with great satisfaction. 
 
PEP PINO. 1 5 
 
 That afternoon when I returned home I 
 went to the sitting-room of my landlady. 
 This worthy woman, thin of person and 
 cat-like of voice, was always installed in 
 a small, dark apartment, furnished with 
 black horsehair chairs and sofa, a marble- 
 topped table, and a large Bible. She was 
 very pious and very grim. When she saw 
 me she asked in sharp tones, — 
 
 *' What can I do for you, Mr. Fortuna?" 
 
 ** Nothing, madam, except that I wish 
 you would not prevent one of my country- 
 men from com.ing to see me." 
 
 *' What do you mean by countrymen? 
 The only person that has been here to see 
 you was a dirty little Italian brigand. I 
 don't want such people in my house." 
 
 ** Madam," I replied, '* Peppino is a com- 
 patriot of mine and an honest gentleman ; 
 and as I pay you for my lodging, I wish 
 you to allow my friends to visit me in it. 
 This boy wishes to gain an honest living; 
 he comes to black my boots." 
 
 At this my landlady held up her hands 
 in holy horror. 
 
1 6 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 " To black your boots? I should think 
 that it would be much better for you to 
 black your own boots/' 
 
 Now I had passed through many stages 
 of poverty ; I had breakfasted on crackers, 
 and had gone without any dinner to speak 
 of: but I own it had never entered my head 
 to be the possessor of blacking-box and 
 brushes. I had often put my boots out- 
 side my chamber-door, thinking that per- 
 haps the servant-girl might take pity on 
 them, but with no result ; and they were 
 indeed very rusty when I first made ac- 
 quaintance with Peppino. 
 
 Not caring to discuss this point with her, 
 however, I reiterated that I wished her to 
 have Peppino let in whenever he came; 
 and left her, she shutting her door with 
 a malicious slam as I took my way up- 
 stairs. 
 
 From this time Peppino and I became 
 the best of friends. His entrance into my 
 room every morning was like a ray of 
 warm sunlight from my dear native land, 
 and I could see that he was really pleased 
 
FEFFINO. 17 
 
 with the familiar friendliness with which 
 I always treated him. He was very in- 
 telligent, and always respectful and polite, 
 never coming in without knocking at the 
 door and saying, 
 
 *' Buon giorno, signore." 
 
 While he was at work he watched me 
 as I wrote at my table, going quietly about 
 the room on the tips of his toes, for fear of 
 disturbing me. When my credit of forty 
 cents was exhausted, and I wished to give 
 him some money, he said in a timid voice, 
 
 ** Non fa nie7ttey if you have no change.'* 
 
 The boy understood my situation, and if 
 he had dared to, would have offered to 
 black my boots for nothing. 
 
 "■ But you must take it," I said, a little 
 provoked. 
 
 So he pocketed the pennies without 
 another word. 
 
 My affairs went on from day to day in 
 about the same way. My landlady was 
 always sour of aspect, bringing my bill, 
 with a grim and suspicious look on her 
 face, early every Saturday morning. Pep- 
 
 2 
 
1 8 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 pino said nothing, but I had reason to 
 think that his way to me was often inter- 
 rupted by combats, more or less personal, 
 with the aggressive woman. Once he said 
 to me : '* How can you live, signorino, in 
 the house of that bad-tempered woman, 
 you a signore? " 
 
 *^ ' Signore ! ' " I repeated ; *' I live here be- 
 cause I am poor, and cannot find cheaper 
 lodgings.'* 
 
 *' But you, a signore ! " 
 
 Peppino evidently thought that this word 
 ** signore " meant many things. 
 
 One day, when I was in a talkative mood, 
 I asked him : *^ How much money do you 
 make a day, my boy? " 
 
 *' That depends, signore ; sometimes I 
 make a dollar and a quarter, sometimes 
 only seventy-five cents. In the summer I 
 have more work, but my winter customers 
 pay me better ; so it comes to about the 
 same thing." 
 
 *^ And how much do you spend? " 
 
 ^^ Chi lo sa? Who knows? Sometimes 
 ten cents, sometimes twenty-five cents.'* 
 
PEPPINO, 19 
 
 '^ Why, then you are a rich man ! What 
 do you do with all this money? " 
 
 *^ We send it home." 
 
 **We? Who is we?^^ 
 
 '' Myself and my two brothers." 
 
 ^* And what do your brothers do for a 
 living?'^ 
 
 " Oh ! my brother Antonio is a first-class 
 boot-black. He stands at the corner of 
 Union Square and Broadway, and his 
 price is fifteen cents. He is very smart, 
 my brother ; sometimes he makes as much 
 as three dollars and ten cents a day. But 
 he plays mora, and then he loses his 
 money." 
 
 *'And do you give your money to 
 him?" 
 
 " No, not to him, but to my brother 
 Filippo, il signore; he plays on the vio- 
 lin, he does, and dresses like a gentle- 
 man. He plays the violin on the Coney 
 Island boats. It is to him that I give my 
 money, and he sends it home to Italy by 
 Signor Cantoni, who has the bank in Wall 
 Street." 
 
20 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 *' How much does Filippo make?'* I 
 went on. 
 
 '* Oh ! a great deal. Sometimes four dol- 
 lars a day/' 
 
 '* And where do you live? " 
 
 *'We live all three together in a little 
 room in Crosby Street, and we cook maca- 
 roni every Sunday." He added breath- 
 lessly: *^ Would you come and eat maca- 
 roni with us next Sunday?'' 
 
 *' Oh I I thank you, my child, but I think 
 not." 
 
 " Ah, signore, you must say yes ; I have 
 already spoken of it to my brothers, and 
 they want you so much to come." 
 
 This invitation seemed a little strange; 
 but I would not have ofifended Peppino 
 for the world, and I accepted it. The 
 following Sunday he appeared, quite trans- 
 figured. He had put on a jacket of black 
 cloth, black trousers, and a pair of laced 
 shoes, much too large for his feet, but re- 
 splendently new. He had washed his face 
 until it shone, and had a bright red-and- 
 white handkerchief tied round his throat 
 
PEPPINO. 2 1 
 
 for a cravat. When I saw him in this at- 
 tire, with his blacking-box strapped round 
 his shoulder, the whole get-up was so in- 
 congruous that I could not help smiling; 
 at which the tears came into his eyes, and 
 I hastened to assure him that I did not 
 mean jt in ridicule, but was he going to 
 work in those fine clothes? 
 
 ** Oh, no ! it is festa grmide to-day," he 
 said ; ** and you are coming, are you not? " 
 
 ** Yes, sir ; but it is only half-past eight 
 o'clock.'* 
 
 *' It is true ; but my brother has to go on 
 the boat to-day to make music, and for 
 that we must have our macaroni at about 
 nine o'clock/' 
 
 Upon this I jumped out of bed and was 
 soon ready, and we set forth together. 
 
 The house where Peppino and his broth- 
 ers lived was of dismal appearance, in the 
 most crowded part of Crosby Street, where 
 human lives and rubbish of every descrip- 
 tion seem to be thrown together pell-mell, 
 in a heap. As we ascended the steps of 
 the house, I found that I was really in the 
 
22 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 midst of Southern Italy. Sitting on the 
 ground were httle children, dirty and ill- 
 clothed ; others rolled happily among the 
 mud-puddles. Olive- skinned women were 
 combing each other's long black hair; 
 others, of the true Abruzzi type, wore 
 bright petticoats, somewhat ragged, and 
 scarlet btistiniy according to the custom 
 of their country. They had gold neck- 
 laces with pendant crosses, and long 
 earrings, called scioccagi^ which almost 
 touched their shoulders. Old women 
 were pulling over rags in baskets, w^hile 
 the men disposed themselves in various 
 attitudes, enjoying the dolce far rziente^ 
 smoking bad cigars and drinking worse 
 beer. When they saw us, the women has- 
 tily caught up their children from the 
 ground, and the men made way for us, 
 saying, — 
 
 ** Ecco ! here comes the signore." 
 Peppino was quite triumphant, and 
 laughed until his white teeth sparkled be- 
 tween his red lips. ^' Yes, indeed, it is the 
 signore,'* he cried to all of them, and 
 
PEPPINO. 23 
 
 tossed his cap high into the air and caught 
 it again, as he showed me the way up- 
 stairs. Making our way with some diffi- 
 culty through many hospitable people dis- 
 persed here and there on the stairways, 
 who asked us cordially to have a Mrink of 
 beer as w^e went by, we came at last to the 
 top of the house and stopped before a 
 door which seemed to have for all fastening 
 a loop of cord, which passed through a 
 hole made in the wood, and was caught 
 inside. This door opened, and two young 
 fellows appeared, upon which Peppino 
 introduced us to each other as follows, — 
 
 ** It is the signore." 
 
 The two brothers took me in with a 
 comprehensive glance, from head to foot, 
 and then cried both together : "' Ben ve- 
 nuto ! " ** Welcome ! " and gave me so cor- 
 dial an American shake of the hand that 
 my wrist was almost dislocated. 
 
 ** Keep on your hat,'' said the musi- 
 cian. 
 
 *' Thank you," I replied. 
 
 ** And don't stand on ceremony,'* added 
 
24 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 the vicious gambler at mora while he got 
 a chair and put it for me in the very mid- 
 dle of the room, as if to put me in pos- 
 session of the place. At the same time 
 Filippo drew up a table, on which was 
 served iri a moment the traditional dish of 
 macaroni, which was evidently all ready 
 and waiting. At nine o'clock in the morn- 
 ing I confess that I was not enormously 
 inclined to do much honor to the Neapoli- 
 tan dainty; but it was pressed upon me 
 with such cordiality that I found myself 
 finishing two platefuls, and not finding it 
 bad at all. After the macaroni came a 
 course of candy and peanuts. 
 
 Peppino was radiant. 
 
 The room was poor, certainly, but very 
 neat. There were two beds, one for the 
 violinist, and the other occupied evidently 
 by the two younger brothers. On these 
 beds were bright-colored figured cotton 
 quilts. Over the head of each bed was a 
 print nailed to the wall with big black 
 nails. One represented the Crucifixion, 
 and the other the Madonna del Rosario. 
 
PEP PINO. 2 5 
 
 In one corner was a large wooden chest, 
 once white, but now yellowed by age and 
 weather, wherein they kept all their effects ; 
 and four straw-seated chairs completed the 
 furniture of the room. There was a wash- 
 basin on a shelf; here also, leaning against 
 the wall, were two bits of looking-glass. 
 Red cotton curtains hung before the win- 
 dows, and on one window-seat was a splen- 
 did red geranium in full bloom. 
 
 *' You are lodged like princes here," said 
 I to the three brothers. 
 
 ** We are contented," said the violinist. 
 ** But this is nothing ; we shall have a 
 house down there." 
 
 *^Down there? Where?" 
 
 " At Viggiano." 
 
 "Are you from Viggiano?" I asked. 
 
 *' Certainly," replied Antonio ; '' we are 
 going to have a first-rate house on Broad- 
 way." 
 
 I was puzzled. Viggiano — Broadway ! 
 I could not understand, and began to sus- 
 pect that a very petit vin de Sicile, of 
 which my hosts had drunk at breakfast, 
 
26 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 had got into their brains or mine. I 
 laughed, not knowing what else to do. 
 
 *' I see," said Filippo calmly, '^ that you 
 know nothing of Viggiano." 
 
 III. 
 
 ''Well, then,'' said FiHppo, ''would 
 you like to have me tell you all about 
 Viggiano? " 
 
 " Now, why should the signore care to 
 know about Viggiano?" interposed Pep- 
 pino, who feared that it would not inter- 
 est me, and wished to be agreeable to 
 me at any cost. 
 
 To reassure him, I declared that nothing 
 would please me more than to hear what 
 Filippo had to say. 
 
 " You must know, then," began he, 
 "that our Viggiano is in Basilicata." 
 
 " Yes, I know." 
 
 " He knows," said Peppino in a stage 
 whisper. 
 
 **And at Viggiano everybody plays on 
 some instrument or other, — harp or vio- 
 
FEPPINO. 27 
 
 lin. That comes by nature ; no one teaches 
 us that. One fine day some one went 
 away from among us to seek his future and 
 see the world, without knowing whither 
 he went ; and this some one, always wan- 
 dering, found himself at last in America. 
 Now, since this first some one returned 
 to Viggiano with five thousand dollars in 
 his pocket, emigration has not ceased for 
 a moment. From father to son, for twenty- 
 five years, it has been always the same 
 story. One leaves one's house a little 
 boy, a harp on the back or a violin under 
 the arm ; and always playing as one goes 
 along the roadsides of Italy, one picks 
 up sous. These sous have grown to be 
 many by the time one reaches Genoa. 
 Then it is easy to get a passage on board 
 some ship going to America; and if the 
 passage-money is not quite complete at 
 starting, one makes it up by playing on 
 board, and so gaining a little. That is 
 the way we get here. Every month we 
 go to Signor Cantoni's and take the money 
 we have made, — some of us by playing, 
 
28 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 some by blacking boots. When we have 
 sixty dollars it is sent to the mayor of our 
 village. He is one of us; he has been in 
 America, and now he is a rich man.'' 
 
 *' How much money does a man require, 
 to be called a rich man? " I asked. 
 
 ** Oh ! with four thousand dollars you 
 are very rich,'' answered Filippo. 
 
 ^^ And what security do they give you 
 for the money you send?" 
 
 " We ask none but a receipt, and with 
 that we are perfectly content. With the 
 money they buy for us a lot on Broad- 
 way. Broadway is the name of our great 
 street, half a mile long ! It was called 
 so by one of our mayors, who had been 
 chief boot-black in Broadway in New York 
 for ten years. It is he who had the church 
 built at his own expense. So you see," con- 
 tinued Filippo, lighting a pipe as bespoke, 
 *' that thirty years ago Viggiano was only 
 a cluster of poor little cottages, whereas 
 now every one who comes back from Amer- 
 ica speaks more English than Italian and 
 has a house with a swell-front ! Not fine 
 
PEPPINO. 29 
 
 houses like the ones on Fifth Avenue, to 
 be sure, but yet very nice, very nice — 
 white plastered, with swell-fronts ! *' 
 
 Great emphasis on the swell-front. Pep- 
 pino clapped his hands in applause, and 
 Antonio puffed away at his cigar with an 
 expression of supreme content, watching 
 me the while to see the impression that 
 all this made upon me. Surely I had 
 never dreamed that there was this curious 
 little reflection, as it were, of American 
 life and manners among the mountains of 
 Basilicata. 
 
 ** Are you never afraid of losing your 
 money ? '' I ventured to ask. 
 
 *' Never,'' said Peppino. *' Here we save 
 every sou and live with the greatest econ- 
 omy; but there we have plenty, we want 
 nothing. We have beautiful festas, and 
 music never stops at all. My cousin 
 Paolo has a room papered with New 
 Year's cards that were picked up in the 
 streets here and sent to him, and the 
 aire has a trunk entirely covered with 
 American stamps ! " 
 
30 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 *^ In about a year/' added Filippo, *' I 
 shall go back to Viggiano and marry my 
 cousin Filomena, who has been waiting for 
 me these eight years. I have paid the 
 schoolmaster to teach her to read ; I have 
 paid him a dollar a year." 
 
 ''A fine salary for a schoolmaster!''! 
 observed. 
 
 "Why he is very rich," said Antonio. 
 ** There are six hundred inhabitants at Vig- 
 giano, and he makes almost four hundred 
 dollars a year. That is a very good in- 
 come down there." 
 
 ** You see," said Filippo, with a slightly 
 superior air, "" I am a violin-player, and 
 well-dressed, because, going into the world 
 as much as I do, that is necessary. But 
 Peppino and Antonio only black boots, and 
 of course they cannot dress like gentlemen. 
 No one would give them any work if they 
 knew they had money already. Here we 
 are always poor, for all our money is for 
 the paese ; here we lay up comfort for 
 our old age. If you only knew how beau- 
 tiful it is at Viggiano, signore ! They have 
 
PEP PINO, 3 1 
 
 flowers there, and in the evening every- 
 body sits and sings outside of his swell- 
 front/' These swell-fronts were evidently 
 the mania of the place. He continued : ''I 
 went home last year, because my old father 
 wanted to see me, and besides that he 
 wanted me to promise not to be false to 
 Filomena. Some gossip had written home 
 a story that I was in love with an organ- 
 grinder. She lives in the house just oppo- 
 site here ; but that is nothing. Things have 
 changed a little at home. Nowadays the 
 children go directly from Viggiano to Amer- 
 ica, without stopping to play by the road- 
 sides in Italy, and there is always an older 
 brother or cousin to receive them when 
 they land at Castle Garden." 
 
 Antonio now proposed a game of mora, 
 but Peppino reproved him. with a severe as- 
 pect; and as Filippo was obliged to go to 
 the Coney Island boat, w^e accompanied 
 him to the foot of Twenty-second Street. 
 That day I invited Peppino to dine with 
 me, and after a little urging he accepted 
 my invitation with great delight. We eat 
 
32 MISFITS AXD REMNANTS. 
 
 our modest repast at a French restaurant 
 in Houston Street, at the sign of '' Le 
 Grand Charlemagne." 
 
 *' People Uke Antonio," said Peppino, 
 with great gravitj', " have a cafe and bar 
 at Viggiano, where they can play mora ; 
 but Filippo says that if one is going to 
 drink, it is better to drink at home than to 
 patronize the keeper of that cafe\ who had 
 a bad reputation in New York for always 
 gaining at mora. For myself, I should n't 
 think of going there, — no, not once in six 
 years." This with an air of reflection. 
 
 "That's right, my lad," I said, patting 
 him on the shoulder- 
 
 I really almost envied Peppino, and went 
 to sleep that night, my head full of swell- 
 fronts and Broadways ; and I blessed 
 America, that makes of my poor country- 
 men so many good and industrious citizens. 
 
 My landlady's manner became so very 
 unpleasant that I decided to change my 
 lodging, and was obliged to take one so far 
 from Prince Street, where Peppino stood at 
 his work, that although the boy was most 
 
PEPPINO. 33 
 
 anxious to come to me even- morning, I 
 persuaded him that he ought not to ^o a 
 thing so much against his interest. He was 
 quite unhappy; but I promised him that I 
 would go to him twice a week, which I did. 
 I managed, by a little timid advice, to in- 
 duce him to take more care of his personal 
 appearance, telling him that politeness and 
 neatness should go hand in hand. He was 
 very docile, and promised to take a bath 
 every now and then, and scrupulously 
 brushed his hair every morning. The 
 poor little fellow did most willingly all 
 that I asked him. 
 
 '' Say, viaestro^' he said one day, '' when 
 I go back to Viggiano I shall w^ish so much 
 to know how to read. How much shall I 
 pay \'ou to give me lessons?" 
 
 *' Peppino," I answered, '' I will teach you 
 to read with much pleasure ; but I could not 
 think of taking anv monev. No, no." 
 
 '*Xo? But this is business, signore, — 
 no money, no lesson." 
 
 ''Ver}- well; we will see about it this 
 summer some time." I said. 
 
34 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 Just about that time I was called away 
 to the West in haste. I wanted to say 
 good-by to Peppino, and went to Prince 
 Street for the purpose. He was not there. 
 I was really disappointed, but left New 
 York without seeing him. I was away 
 longer than I had expected to be, and did 
 not find myself in New York again until 
 three months had passed. Almost the day 
 after my return I was seized with an attack 
 of low fever which kept me in the house 
 for a fortnight. At last I recovered, and 
 one of my first thoughts was to see my 
 Peppino. For my first walk I sought him 
 and found him. How glad he was to see 
 me ! He left a customer with a boot half 
 finished, and taking me by the arm, led 
 me a little aside. When we were alone, 
 he told me how sadly the time had gone 
 while he had not seen me, and that now 
 I must let him come again to me every 
 morning. So I gave him my address most 
 willingly. 
 
 During the fortnight that I had been ill 
 the small sum of money that I had made 
 
PEPPINO. 35 
 
 in the West had flown away hke summer 
 flies, so that I was once more almost penni- 
 less. But I had learned how to make my 
 way more easily with the editors of the 
 daily papers, and I managed to get on 
 somehow or other by my pen and a few 
 lessons in Italian. One morning when 
 Peppino came to my room I was still in 
 bed, and not in the best possible humor; 
 I fear I did not answer his Bti07i giorno 
 in the pleasantest way. He went to work 
 at my boots ; but when he had finished he 
 did not go, but after reaching the door once 
 or twice, came back without opening it. 
 
 '' Well," I cried, '' what is the matter? " 
 
 " It is that you seem so sad, — are you. 
 ill?" 
 
 '' Yes/' I said, '' I am ill." 
 
 '' That is not true." 
 
 **But since I tell you so — " in spite of 
 myself I was forced to smile at his air of 
 assurance. The child still shook his head, 
 and I could not help a sigh. While this 
 little comedy was going on we heard a 
 knock at the door. 
 
36 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 *' Come in," I said. 
 
 In rushed my landlady with a paper in 
 her hand. Addressing herself to me, she 
 said that I had allowed my bill to go over 
 two days» that I used too much gas, that 
 she must pay the gas-man, and that I must 
 either give her the money or leave the 
 room. 
 
 *' But, madam, I am ill.'* 
 
 " I will give you twenty-four hours," she 
 answered, and she went away. 
 
 This was the secret of my bad-humor, 
 — I could not pay my lodging-bill. 
 
 When the woman had gone, Peppino 
 came timidly to my bedside. 
 
 " Sentitey signore, listen ! '' said he. " Will 
 you let me come back in ten minutes? I 
 want to speak to you about something." 
 
 " Yes, Peppino, I shall not go out at all." 
 
 There must have been something quite 
 terrible to the child in my face as I said 
 these words, for he left me quite overcome. 
 At the end of fifteen minutes he was back 
 again. He had in his hand a red handker- 
 chief. In this handkerchief there was some- 
 
PEPPINO, 37 
 
 thing heavy and round of body, Hke a 
 bottle tied at the neck. He approached 
 the bed half roguishly, half ashamed, and 
 in a tone as if he were imploring a great 
 favor, cried, — 
 
 ** You will do me this pleasure, won't 
 you? You can pay me back, you know. 
 Hold ! " And at the same moment he 
 untied the handkerchief, and out tumbled 
 a quantity of pieces of money on my 
 bed, — quarters of dollars, ten-cent and 
 five-cent pieces, and pennies. All this 
 made a large heap on the bed. A bank- 
 teller would have been puzzled to guess 
 how much money was there. 
 
 " And you wish," I stammered, '' to 
 lend ! " 
 
 '' To lend you this to pay the padrona. 
 Come, now, do take it ! I know I am only 
 a poor boy, but I am of your own coun- 
 try, and I cannot see you insulted." 
 
 I was not strong, and the tears over- 
 flowed my eyes and rained down my 
 cheeks. The poor boy was shocked, and 
 I compelled myself to say, — 
 
38 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 '' So be It; I will take it. Count it/' 
 
 ** It is counted," he answered; ** there 
 are twenty-five dollars there. Do you 
 really want it counted? '* 
 
 This with an air which meant that of 
 course he would count it if I insisted, but 
 it would take a long, long time to do it, 
 and his customers were waiting. 
 
 '' Go," I said, ** and come back to-mor- 
 row, and thank you." 
 
 " Grazie a voiy' replied Peppino. 
 
 The little episode just related surprised 
 and touched me at the same time. That 
 which I had not been able to obtain by 
 my most strenuous and desperate labor, 
 that which men who professed to recog- 
 nize merit and perseverance had not done 
 for me, was offered to me by an obscure 
 blacker of boots, by a child ; and it made 
 me reflect that into the hands of children 
 is often put the gracious work of Provi- 
 dence. Already once before had Peppino 
 brought me luck, at my first meeting with 
 him, and my debt to him of five cents 
 was followed by the sale of my first arti- 
 
PEPPINO, 39 
 
 cle in a New York paper. And now again, 
 as you will see, Peppino was to have a 
 good influence upon my destiny. 
 
 I counted his money with great mean- 
 ness, it must be confessed. There was not 
 one cent more or less than the twenty-five 
 dollars. I called my landlady, and as a 
 kind of punishment for her harshness I 
 paid her the five dollars for one week in 
 pennies. As a slight mitigation the price 
 of another week was added in two-cent 
 pieces, and to cap the climax I gave her 
 a quarter for the servant; and the ser- 
 vant and the landlady happening to be 
 merged in the same individual, she went 
 from my room with the air of having wit- 
 nessed a miracle. 
 
 Fifteen dollars still remained, which I 
 proposed to return to Peppino when he 
 should come the next morning. He ap- 
 peared in due season, with an aspect more 
 than usually beaming. The postman had 
 brought a letter for me, and he had taken 
 it from him and bounded upstairs with it, 
 knowing how anxious I always was for the 
 
40 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 mail. As he opened my door, he held it 
 above his head, that I might see it on the 
 instant. It was a large envelope. My 
 eyes sparkled when I saw on it the stamp 
 of the ''World." I opened it, and forth- 
 with began a species of dance of joy 
 around the room. Peppino looked at me 
 astounded, his brush arrested in mid air 
 on its way to my boot. 
 
 ** Good news ! " I cried. 
 
 ''Me ne consolo; that delights me/* he 
 said. 
 
 "Are you busy to-day? " I asked. 
 
 " Have you an errand for me to do? I 
 am here to serve you." 
 
 "Very well; I shall give you a dollar 
 for the commission." Peppino was pet- 
 rified. 
 
 " See, now," I said. " You won*t under- 
 stand about it, but that is no matter. You 
 know that all these words that you see in 
 writing on paper are called an article for a 
 paper. Very well ; a paper has bought 
 these words. Do you understand?'' 
 
 " Yes, signore." 
 
PEPPINO. 41 
 
 '^ I shall give you a note to the editor 
 of the paper, or rather his check, and he 
 will give you the money, and you will 
 bring it back to me immediately. No ; 
 on second thought, another way will be 
 better. They will give you forty dollars. 
 Take twenty-five, which belong to you, 
 and put them into your pocket. The fif- 
 teen that will remain you will put in an 
 envelope and come and put it here on 
 this table, for I shall not be here prob- 
 ably when you get back. You under- 
 stand?" 
 
 *^ Yes, certainly, signore." 
 
 I wrote a word to the clerk at the 
 paying-desk of the '' World " office, beg- 
 ging him to remit the amount of the 
 check to the bearer, who was a person 
 in whom I had perfect confidence. It 
 was pleasant to see how proud Peppino 
 was to be intrusted with this important 
 mission. He told me again and again 
 how quick he would be, and how partic- 
 ular in all details, and I bid him good- 
 by until the following morning, and put 
 
42 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 into his hand the dollar, to be earned by 
 the business he was to do for me, which 
 dollar was one of the twenty-five he had 
 so generously lent me. 
 
 The boy went; I was very happy, — 
 happy in my little success, and happy 
 that I was able to show the child how 
 entire my confidence was in him: in 
 him who had shown so much in me. 
 And I thought of his twenty-five dollars, 
 gathered together cent by cent, and then 
 thrown in a heap upon the bed of a sick 
 man who was not able to earn his own 
 living. And I built enough chdteatix in 
 Spain that day as I went about my af- 
 fairs to fill a volume with the telling 
 about them. 
 
 I returned to my room quite late in the 
 evening, and naturally my first glance was 
 towards the table upon which I expected to 
 find the envelope that Peppino had left for 
 me; but nothing was there. I searched, 
 I turned over everything. Nothing ! It 
 was strange ; but I said to myself that 
 probably Peppino did not like to leave 
 
PEPPINO. 43 
 
 the parcel on my table, and had there- 
 fore given it to the landlady to keep for 
 me. It was so late that she was doubt- 
 less in bed, and it would be cruel to wake 
 her. I would wait, and in the morning 
 I should know all about it. And I went 
 quietly to sleep, and dreamed that I had 
 been offered the head of the dramatic 
 department of the ** World." I waked 
 early. It was Sunday. My first thought 
 was to buy a copy of the ^* World." There 
 was my article, occupying three columns, 
 and looking so very well ! It was in a 
 humorous vein, and they had really paid 
 me royally for it. I read it over, and 
 confessed to myself I was very proud 
 of it. 
 
 At eight o'clock my landlady knocked 
 at my door. ''Ah," thought I, ''she is 
 coming to bring my envelope ! " 
 
 *' Have you the ' World,' Mr. Fortuna,'* 
 said the woman, '' and would you lend 
 it to me?" 
 
 " Certainly, Mrs. Woodmilken ; and with 
 all the more pleasure that you will be able 
 
44 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 to read my article, of three columns, Mrs. 
 Woodmilken/' 
 
 '* Indeed ! " she muttered. 
 
 Meantime I waited for my money; but 
 not a word. 
 
 '' By the by, madam,'* I said, *^ if you 
 would be so good as to give me my en- 
 velope — " 
 
 *^What envelope ?'* she asked. 
 
 **Why, you know — Peppino, did he not 
 leave something with you for me?*' 
 
 ^' Absolutely nothing,*' croaked the bird 
 of ill omen ; and she went away evidently 
 glad to see that I was troubled a little by 
 something about the despised Italian boy. 
 
 ** Oh, well !" I said to myself, *' Peppino 
 will soon be here, and then all will be 
 explained." Nine o'clock struck, and then 
 ten, and so time went on until noon. 
 Then I began to be restless, and went out, 
 walking to the corner where Peppino 
 always was. No Peppino. Then I went 
 to Union Square, where Antonio ought 
 to be. Not the shadow of Antonio. This 
 began to be decidedly strange. At three 
 
PEPPINO, 45 
 
 o^clock I knocked at the door of the 
 house in Crosby Street. The door was 
 hermetically sealed. By this time I was 
 seriously anxious. The next day the 
 same search, with the same result. I 
 went to the ** World'* office. The check 
 had been paid in bills and given to the 
 bearer who brought my letter. What was 
 I to think? I went back to the house 
 where Peppino lodged, and asked the 
 neighbors if they knew anything of him. 
 They had not seen the boy for two days. 
 Antonio had gone to Chicago some time 
 before, and Filippo also was away, travel- 
 ling with a troupe of Spanish students. 
 
 Then I was at the end of my resources, 
 and had to make up my mind, most sor- 
 rowfully, that the boy had either been 
 assassinated perhaps, or at all events my 
 money — ah, no ! It was horrible to sus- 
 pect even for a moment the boy, who was 
 honor itself. Nevertheless, I must confess 
 that the idea came to me that perhaps 
 poor Peppino had lost the money and had 
 hidden away in the fear of confessing it. 
 
46 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 Two days went by ; three ; a whole week. 
 Then I put on mourning for my money as 
 lost, and tried to fall back on whatever 
 scepticism I possessed on the subject of 
 Italian boys. 
 
 One evening, in loafing about the streets, 
 I found myself in front of the yard of the 
 Bellevue Hospital, and in passing the gate 
 I heard a voice calling, ** Signore, signore." 
 I turned, and what did I see? Peppino, 
 face to face with me. A torrent of ques- 
 tions poured out of my mouth before I 
 could pay attention to anything. Then as 
 he came nearer to me I saw that he was 
 lame in his right leg. I looked more at- 
 tentively at him. He was pale, frightfully 
 pale. 
 
 ** But what is the matter?'* I asked. 
 ** What are you doing here?'* 
 
 ** It is the hospital here," he answered. 
 And he told me how on the very day he 
 went to the ** World " office for me he had 
 been run over by a heavy cart, how he had 
 been picked up and carried to the hospital 
 in a fainting condition, and how no one 
 
FEFFINO. 47 
 
 had been able to understand what he said 
 when he revived. 
 
 ^* But you did wrong not to send for 
 me," I said; ''you knew so well that I 
 was your friend." 
 
 '' Yes," answered the child hesitatingly, 
 ''but — " 
 
 "But — " 
 
 " I did not know your name, signore." 
 
 It was true. How much these simple 
 words meant to me ! He did not even 
 know my name, and he had done so much 
 for me. I learned afterwards that he had 
 tried to tell them where I lived ; but as he 
 could give no name, and his English was 
 worse than poor, they did nothing about it. 
 
 "And the money that you got for me 
 that day, my poor child, of course it was 
 lost when you fell in the street?" 
 
 " Not at all," he said. " I never lose 
 money; I never lost a cent of it. I put 
 it, you know, in a book on the table, for 
 fear that the bad, cross landlady would see 
 it. I don't like to have business with 
 her." 
 
48 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 '' The book? On the table? Ah, I see ! 
 You are much better, are you not? Would 
 you like to come away with me? You 
 shall be well taken care of. I will speak 
 to the doctor here about it." 
 
 '^ Fate come volete. Do as you please, 
 signore." 
 
 I went to the office of the hospital, and 
 was allowed to claim the boy and take him 
 away. I called a hack and put him care- 
 fully in it and carried him home. He was 
 still quite lame, although no bones had 
 been broken. He was able to get upstairs 
 with the assistance of the hack-driver and 
 myself; but when he reached the door of 
 my room he refused all aid, and hopping 
 on one foot, scrambled as quickly as he 
 could to my writing-table, and resting the 
 lame leg on a chair, began to turn over all 
 my books. At last, at the very bottom of 
 all, he found an old *' OUendorf,'* and took 
 possession of it with great joy. He opened 
 it, took an envelope out from between the 
 leaves, and waved it in the air. 
 
 ^^ Ecco r^ he cried, his eyes full of de- 
 
PEPPINO. 49 
 
 light. '' Here is the money ! I hope that 
 you never had a doubt of me? " 
 
 I embraced him with all my heart, and 
 assured him that I could never think any 
 ill of him. 
 
 Will you believe it, my reader? the poor 
 boy had not dared to open the envelope, 
 as I had given him full authority to do. 
 His own money was there, as well as mine, 
 and OUendorf had taken the best care of 
 our little fortune. 
 
 Peppino remained with me a week, sleep- 
 ing on my sofa and being cared for by a 
 good doctor who would not accept any 
 remuneration for his frequent visits. More 
 than that, when the child was able to work 
 again, and had taken his old stand at the 
 corner of Prince Street, the doctor became 
 one of his regular customers, and never 
 failed to shake hands with him and give 
 him ten cents every time he blacked his 
 boots. 
 
 Peppino was very proud of his aristo- 
 cratic friends, and always declared that it 
 was to me that he owed everything. But, 
 
 4 
 
50 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 on the contrary, I considered that all the 
 luck was on my side in having met that 
 rare thing in this world, — a good and 
 honest heart. 
 
 And let me beg of you, my readers, — 
 if, indeed, you are of the masculine 
 gender, — never to go by the corner of 
 Prince Street without stopping to have 
 your boots blacked by Peppino. 
 
 Peppino is modest, and I cannot give 
 him greater pleasure than by putting my 
 own obscure name in the shadow, as it 
 were, of his great honesty. 
 
ONLY A DOG. 
 
ONLY A DOG. 
 
 m 
 
 NYBODY who happened, several 
 years ago, to visit pier No. — on 
 the North River, whence sail the 
 steamers of one of the most popular and 
 best patronized ocean steamship com- 
 panies, must have known ** Jack/* Jack 
 was a celebrity of the place, and, unHke 
 other celebrities, enjoyed a vast popu- 
 larity among the sailors, 'longshoremen, 
 custom-house officers, and other water-side 
 characters. 
 
 If a stranger came on the pier and 
 noticed the big black dog curled up in a 
 corner at the extreme end of the pier, he 
 was sure to meet with somebody who 
 could tell him that that dog was called 
 
54 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 '' Jack/' and that there was a story about 
 him well known all around the place. 
 
 The dog had come there with his master 
 on a departure day. In the bustle and 
 confusion he had lost sight of the latter, 
 who did not seem to care a great deal 
 about him. The poor brute ran about 
 the pier whining and crying, with haggard 
 eyes and panting breath, until the last bell 
 sounded, the plank was drawn in, and the 
 ship glided off through the still waters of 
 the river. Then a frenzy of despair seemed 
 to seize the dog. Standing on the very 
 extremity of the pier, he broke out into a 
 dismal howl which did not cease until the 
 last wreath of smoke from the steamer had 
 disappeared on the horizon beyond the 
 Narrows. Then he lay down, and all at- 
 tempts to drive him off the pier proved 
 vain. He was a big fellow, of a queer, 
 mixed breed, — something between a New- 
 foundland and a Danish dog, — and he had 
 an uncomfortable way of showing his teeth 
 when anybody tried to drive him away. 
 At first the people on the pier wanted to 
 
ONLY A DOG. 55 
 
 shoot him ; but on after thoughts they re- 
 solved to let him stay where he was, hop- 
 ing he would make a good watch-dog. 
 
 For many a day and night he remained 
 lying there at the same place whence he 
 had watched the departure of the steamer. 
 At night he did not sleep, but howled dis- 
 mally. The old night watchman on the pier 
 took pity on him, and supposing he was hun- 
 gry, brought him the remnants of his own 
 supper and a pail of water. The dog 
 wagged his tail and licked the old man's 
 hands gratefully, but did not touch the food. 
 He lay there, his eyes riveted on the spot 
 where the ship had disappeared, trembling 
 from head to foot, moaning miserably. 
 
 Thus the days passed on. Jack had 
 dwindled almost to a skeleton. Nearly 
 ten days elapsed before he began to eat, 
 but nothing could induce him to leave the 
 pier. The old watchman, to whom he 
 seemed to have taken a fancy, tried to 
 coax him to his home ; but in vain. The 
 dog followed him as far as the street, but 
 there invariably left him, with a farewell 
 
56 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 wag of his bushy tail, as if he wanted to 
 say: ^* I am sensible of your kindness, 
 good man, but you are not my master; 
 duty before all ! " 
 
 And he trotted back, whining in a melan- 
 choly undertone. Nothing could induce 
 him to leave the post of observation he 
 had selected, — an open space at the ex- 
 tremity of the pier. There he lay day 
 after day, night after night, in the scorch- 
 ing August sun and through the dreary 
 storms of winter. When the sea-wind 
 howled, throwing up huge waves against 
 the massive structure of the pier, the spray 
 covering the woodwork with a sheet of ice ; 
 when all around seemed deserted and dead ; 
 when even old Pat, the night watchman, 
 crept into his cabin and shivered under 
 his old coat, — Jack stuck to his post. 
 Trembling from head to foot, he stood on 
 the brink of the pier howling dismally into 
 the storm, — a black silhouette against the 
 black wintry sky. He was evidently per- 
 fectly aware of the fact that his master 
 had left on board a ship, for on arrival 
 
ONLY A DOG. 5/ 
 
 days a great change seemed to come over 
 poor Jack. As soon as he saw the great 
 bulk of a vessel looming over the pier, a 
 feverish agitation seized him. With eyes 
 glowing and ears erect, he ran to and fro, 
 panting breathlessly. While the ponder- 
 ous vessel was being slowly warped in 
 alongside the pier a breathless, devouring 
 impatience racked the poor dog's heart, for 
 on seeing him thus, what hopeless sceptic 
 could have doubted that he had a heart? 
 
 Sometimes, with an impatient yelp, he 
 sprang all fours on a large post which 
 stood out of the water about a yard dis- 
 tant from the pier itself; there he evi- 
 dently thought he was nearer to the ship 
 and to his master. When at last the gang- 
 w^ay was lowered, his first impulse was to 
 run on board. Rut driven away by the 
 deck-hands, he remained on the pier scruti- 
 nizing with eager, blood-shot eyes every 
 passenger. Sometimes when some figure, 
 presenting from a distance a vague resem- 
 blance to his master, struck his view% he 
 rushed forward with a joyful bark; then. 
 
58 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 convinced of his mistake, he stopped short 
 and turned back despondingly until some 
 other man attracted his attention. Thus he 
 waited until the last passenger had landed. 
 When he perceived that all hope for this 
 time was in vain, he returned to his cus- 
 tomary post, rolled himself up in a corner, 
 and — I was going to say, "cried;'' for 
 never did I see in a dog's eyes such an 
 expression of utter misery and despair. 
 
 Many a time I was a witness of this 
 scene, and it never failed to make on me 
 a deep impression. Poor humanity, I 
 thought! We are so proud of being the 
 kings of the earth, we deem ourselves in 
 matters of intellect and feeling to be so im- 
 measurably higher than all the rest of the. 
 live creation, that we repulse as an offence 
 the very idea of a comparison between us 
 and other animals. And yet here is that 
 dog living for months and months wrapped 
 up in one feeling of attachment to his mas- 
 ter — to a master who seemingly did not 
 even care much for him ; for how else could 
 he have thus heedlessly left him behind? — 
 
ONLY A DOG. 59 
 
 to a master of whom he could expect nei- 
 ther food, nor a gentle word, nor a caress. 
 And then I thought how many mothers 
 had gone by that same ship, leaving their 
 sons and daughters behind ; how many 
 wives and husbands had been torn from 
 one another ; how many lovers had drowned 
 their parting kiss in a flood of tears, vow- 
 ing to each other eternal love ! Where now 
 were all these sons, husbands, and lovers? 
 The great ocean of life had dragged them 
 down into its never-resting whirlpool ; and 
 battling with its waves, they had doubtless 
 acquired, long ago, new habits, new forms 
 of existence. New purposes and interests 
 had engrossed all their energies, absorbing 
 the best and the noblest part of their heart 
 and mind, and only at rare intervals, per- 
 haps in the dead of night, did the old feel- 
 ing haunt their heart's memory, like the 
 shadow of a long-forgotten strain, like the 
 image of a once dear face seen in a glass 
 darkly ! 
 
 Poor Jack, however, was not destined to 
 remain friendless. Some two months after 
 
6o MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 his master's departure he found a friend 
 who soon became devotedly attached to 
 him. His name was Jimmy, and he was 
 as forlorn and lonely creature as Jack him- 
 self, with the slight difference that Jimmy 
 was a street-boy, and Jack a dog. Their 
 destinies and mode of life hardly differed, 
 however. 
 
 As Jack had probably first beheld the 
 light of day on some heap of refuse in a 
 backyard, so did Jimmy find himself once 
 sprawling in the mud in a dark and dingy 
 street of our brilliant metropolis. There 
 was a material difference, however, between 
 these children of Nature. While Jack had 
 until then always found a master who fed 
 and shielded him from cold and rain, Jim-* 
 my could boast of no such thing. And this 
 was natural too, and could not hav^e been 
 otherwise, for Jack, though not of full 
 breed, still had a price, and was worth 
 some money; but who would have ever 
 thought of giving a cent for Jimmy? The 
 little chap grew up, and did not die of 
 hunger, — not for want of opportunities for 
 
ONLY A DOG, 6l 
 
 doing so, however, but simply because 
 human nature is tough, exceedingly tough, 
 and requires a good deal of wear and tear 
 before it gives up the game. When he 
 was five years old somebody put an even- 
 ing newspaper into his tiny dirty hand 
 and bade him cry out its title in the streets, 
 — which he did in a particularly screeching 
 voice for four years without intermission, 
 flying off and on car-platforms with mon- 
 key-like agility, clinging occasionally with 
 a desperate grip to the rear of a bobtail 
 car, and plunging its driver into a frenzy 
 of impotent rage ; in short, fulfilling in 
 every particular the well-known type of 
 the New York street-arab. 
 
 One frosty night an ill-humored car- 
 conductor pushed him off the platform 
 a little unceremoniously, as he had been 
 pushed off hundreds of times before. But 
 on this particular night the pavement was 
 very slippery. Jimmy lost his balance and 
 fell on the opposite track just as a car 
 was passing. A faint shriek, the car 
 stopped, and a few moments later the 
 
62 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 little senseless and motionless body was 
 extricated from under the wheels, looking 
 like a bundle of dirty rags in the arms of 
 a policeman who took charge of him. 
 
 Even then, however, Jimmy was not 
 dead. The doctors in the hospital cut 
 off one of his legs, and were very good to 
 him during all the long, weary months 
 he lay in bed. And when he was well 
 and strong again, they had a pair of 
 crutches made for him and taught him 
 how to use them, and then said '' good- 
 by" to him. He was once more in the 
 streets. But no more jumping on car- 
 platforms now. Timidly, scarcely daring 
 to venture out of the gates of the hos- 
 pital, he picked his way with his crutches, 
 stumbling at every step. When fairly 
 out in the street he found his condition 
 still more insupportable. Small boys in 
 possession of both their legs, inspired by 
 that innate good nature peculiar to the 
 gentle dawn of human life, taunted and 
 quizzed him and threw mud at him. The 
 din and confusion of the great city bewil- 
 
ONLY A DOG. 63 
 
 dered and dazed him. He grew faint, 
 and was about to fall on the sidewalk 
 when a rough hand seized him by the 
 collar, lifted him up so that both crutches 
 fell to the ground, and two powerful arms 
 carried him away with the crutches — 
 v/hither he knew not and cared not. He 
 heard a gruff voice speaking to him as 
 in a dream, and then fell asleep. He 
 awoke in a small, dark bar-room of the 
 river-side, haunted exclusively by sailors 
 and 'longshoremen. Several burly, sun- 
 burned fellows were standing apparently 
 in earnest consultation around the table 
 on which Jimmy lay. 
 
 '' Say, little chap," said one of the group 
 on seeing Jimmy open his eyes, *^ can you 
 sing a song?'* 
 
 ** Guess I can ! " was the prompt answer. 
 
 ** Then it is all right ! " returned the other. 
 
 And it was '^ all right." Jimmy re- 
 mained there ; and when of an evening 
 a merry company met in the little bar- 
 room, he was called forth to give a song, 
 which he did, beating the measure with 
 
64 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 his crutches. This proved an excellent 
 business for the saloon-keeper; the tiny 
 songster on crutches was " a new feature," 
 and drew great and enthusiastic audi- 
 ences. 
 
 Thus it was that Jimmy and Jack met. 
 The former hung daily about the pier on 
 which the latter bemoaned his lost master, 
 and the two outcasts soon became close 
 friends. It was touching to see with what 
 almost fatherly care the big dog sur- 
 rounded the poor little cripple. For him 
 he even consented to leave the pier for 
 a short time, and invariably accompanied 
 him to the door of the bar-room. And woe 
 to the urchin who dared to tease or laugh 
 at Jimmy ! Jack had a peculiar snarl, 
 which promptly silenced all insolence. 
 Often it happened that in fine weather 
 Jimmy lay all day on the pier leaning 
 against Jack's broad shoulder, pulling his 
 ears, singing and speaking to him without 
 interruption. Then the dog's face took 
 a proud, dignified look. He lay there 
 without moving, not to disturb his little 
 
ONLY A DOG. 65 
 
 friend, only occasionally turning his head 
 towards the Httle face close by and licking 
 it all over with his broad tongue. And 
 thus both lived on together. The friend- 
 less boy in a city with over a million of 
 his fellow-creatures had found a dog 
 which had befriended him. 
 
 On coming one morning as usual to the 
 pier, Jimmy found Jack lying on his side 
 stiff and dead ; somebody had poisoned the 
 dog over night: The poor cripple broke 
 out into a flood of tears and lay down 
 soblDing on the corpse of his only friend. 
 Old Pat, who was passing that way, stopped 
 to look at the group, and said in a severe 
 voice, — 
 
 ** Cheer up, now, lad ! For shame ; *t is 
 but a dog after all ! " 
 
B E P P O 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 HEY called him Beppo, and her Rita. 
 
 And seldom, indeed, did it happen 
 
 that the one was mentioned without 
 
 the other ; for if ever there were bosom 
 
 friends in the world, Beppo and Rita 
 
 were such. 
 
 Who were their parents? Who can say? 
 They themselves were least able to give a 
 satisfactory answer to this question. All 
 they could remember was that they had 
 found themselves one day side by side 
 basking in the sun and scrambling about 
 among the sands and pebbles of the shore 
 at Naples, that since that day that shore 
 had become their home, and that they had 
 always remained together. Thrice a day 
 Zio Antonio (Uncle Antonio) took them 
 
70 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 to his hut and gave them macaroni and 
 friLtti di 7nare. When night came, if Rita 
 felt chilly, they knocked at Antonio's door 
 and huddled together among his nets and 
 fishing-tackle. But mostly they remained 
 lying on the sand, looking at the bright 
 stars overhead, chattering and laughing 
 until the great sea lulled its children to 
 sleep with its deep, soft murmur. 
 
 Beppo was somewhat older than Rita, 
 and she looked up to him as to her natural 
 and powerful protector. He was proudly 
 conscious of this, and would have sprung 
 into a lion's jaws to shield her from harm. 
 
 So they grew up, like all that is alive in 
 Nature grows up in those blessed climes, — 
 children of the rich, burning soil on which 
 they lay, of the blue sea which like a 
 mother sang them to sleep. 
 
 Beppo was about fourteen, and Rita per- 
 haps two years younger, when Zio Antonio 
 announced to them that in future they had 
 no more macaroni to expect from him, for 
 he was going away — far, far away — to a 
 land called America. Things looked bad 
 
BEPPO. 71 
 
 in Naples, he said, molta ge7ite e poco 
 danaro (many people and little money) ; 
 and so he preferred work in foreign lands 
 to starvation at home. 
 
 The poor children cried bitterly in tak- 
 ing leave of the old man. He was the only 
 human being who had ever cared for them, 
 and now they were all -alone in the world. 
 It was not for his macaroni alone that they 
 cried ; as long as there was a fisherman on 
 the shore they had no fear of hunger. But 
 the macaroni is, after all, not everything 
 in life, even to a Neapolitan lazzarone. 
 After Zio Antonio had left them, Beppo 
 grew daily more restless and thoughtful. 
 He would sit for hours in the sand, his dark, 
 sparkling eyes fixed with a longing look on 
 the blue space of open sea between Capri 
 and Ischia; and when Rita crept up to 
 him, and, nestling on his lap, asked what 
 he thought about, he answered : *^ Zio 
 Antonio and that foreign land he has 
 gone to.'* 
 
 One day, as they were thus sitting 
 together, a man dressed like a sailor 
 
72 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 approached them, and, tapping Beppo on 
 the shoulder, said, — 
 
 '' Cheer up, my lad ; I have good news 
 for you from Zio Antonio. I have seen 
 the old man on the other side ; he is doing 
 very well, and is fast becoming rich. 
 Would you hke to go to him? That ship, 
 the captain of which is a friend of mine, 
 starts to-morrow. He will give you a free 
 passage for Antonio's sake." 
 
 Beppo sprang up in delight. 
 
 " Of course we will go,'' he exclaimed; 
 *^ won't we, Rita?" 
 
 *' As you will, Beppo," she answered, 
 simply. 
 
 And the pair started, hand in hand, pre- 
 ceded by the sailor. The same night they 
 were brought on board the ship, where 
 the captain, a burly, coarse-looking, red- 
 haired fellow, met them. 
 
 '' Hallo, Domenico," he cried, '' are you 
 bringing me some more? We are pretty 
 full already." 
 
 '' Only two more," answered the man. 
 '' Squeeze them up a bit." 
 
BEPFO. 73 
 
 Then the captain and the man who 
 brought the children drew aside and held 
 a whispered conference. Some money 
 passed from hand to hand, and then the 
 sailor jumped into his boat and rowed 
 back to the shore. 
 
 ''What are you staring at?" cried the 
 captain to the children, who stood on deck 
 side by side, bewildered, amazed by all 
 they had seen and heard. '' Go down 
 and sleep.'' Saying which, he seized them 
 roughly by the shoulder and pushed them 
 down a steep ladder into an utterly dark 
 and narrow hole. Groping their way 
 through the darkness, the children stum- 
 bled at each step they made on prostrate 
 human forms. Cries and groans arose, and 
 chilled their hearts with nameless terror. 
 Beppo, with Rita half fainting in his arms, 
 rushed back to the ladder; but it had 
 already been drawn up. He screamed 
 aloud ; nobody answered him. He shook 
 his fists and stamped on the floor in im- 
 potent rage; all in vain. They were 
 locked up, buried alive. With difficulty 
 
74 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 Beppo succeeded in finding an empty 
 space on the floor. He took Rita in his 
 arms, and, pressed closely against each 
 other, both children cried themselves to 
 sleep. 
 
 When they awoke, the broad daylight 
 streamed in through the hatchway. In 
 the narrow and close space forming a part 
 of the steerage a dozen or more ragged 
 children of all ages, from ten to sixteen, 
 were crowded together, lying on the bare 
 floor, with no other bedding than their 
 own miserable rags. One by one the 
 poor wretches awoke, crying bitterly. 
 The ship had heaved her anchor during 
 the night and had already gained the 
 open sea. 
 
 *'What does this mean? What is going 
 to become of us?'' asked Beppo of his 
 neighbor, a little chap of scarcely ten 
 years of age, who cried as if his heart 
 would break. 
 
 '' We are sold,'* cried the little one, sob- 
 bing, *' sold to wild people over the seas, 
 who will roast us and eat us." 
 
BEPPO. 75 
 
 The whole passage, which lasted nearly 
 two months, was an uninterrupted series of 
 suffering for the children. Not one soul 
 on board cared for them in any way. 
 Their food was brought to them twice a 
 day in a trough, and consisted for the most 
 part of sea-biscuit soaked in water. Most 
 of the children dwindled to skeletons be- 
 fore they reached New York. Two of 
 them died, and the corpses were thrown 
 overboard without further ceremony. 
 • But of all these hardships and sufferings 
 Beppo felt little ; his attention was too in- 
 tensely absorbed by the care he had to 
 bestow on poor Rita, who was sick nearly 
 the whole time. The lad nursed her with a 
 touching, untiring devotion ; and w^hen at 
 length he heard that New York was in 
 sight, his heart leaped with joy. He for- 
 got all the uncertainty of their future doom 
 in the joy of the one feeling that Rita 
 would feel well again. 
 
 The next day after the ship had come 
 to anchor in the North River, two uncom- 
 monly mean and brutal looking Itahans 
 
'je MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 came on board, and were received by the 
 captain with unusual honors. After indulg- 
 ing in a copious libation in the captain's 
 cabin, the three worthies proceeded on 
 deck and ordered the children to be 
 brought out. The little ones flocked out, 
 shivering in the chilly atmosphere of a 
 November morning. Every one of them 
 was minutely scrutinized by both visitors. 
 Half of the party remained on board ; the 
 rest, five in number, among them Rita and 
 Beppo, were packed into the boat and 
 brought on shore. On landing, the pad- 
 roni separated, — the one taking, with three 
 children, an easterly direction, and the 
 other driving Beppo and Rita before him 
 like a yoke of oxen in the direction of 
 Baxter Street. 
 
 While walking, the Italian explained to 
 Beppo that his name was Matteo, and that 
 they were going to live together. 
 
 **And where is Zio Antonio?" asked 
 the lad in despair. 
 
 ''What do I know about your Zio 
 Antonio?'' rejoined the padrone gruffly. 
 
BEPPO. 
 
 77 
 
 " You have no business to know anybody 
 but me." 
 
 They walked on in silence. With each 
 step through the busy, roaring streets the 
 poor children became more frightened and 
 bewildered by the bustle which surrounded 
 them. A feeling of utter despair and help- 
 lessness seized Beppo as he became con- 
 scious of the impossibility of finding Zio 
 Antonio amid the waves of this human 
 ocean. 
 
 ** Here we are/' said Matteo, stopping 
 in the doorway of one of the loftiest and 
 most dingy tenement-houses in Baxter 
 Street; ** follow me." He stepped into 
 the dark hall. The children followed, 
 trembling with an indefinable horror. 
 The walls of the hall were damp and 
 clammy, the air foul with stenches and ema- 
 nations of all kinds. The poor lazzaroni, 
 used to the balmy, invigorating breezes 
 of the Mediterranean, felt nearly choked 
 in this atmosphere. At the end of a long 
 corridor they descended a few steps into 
 what seemed to be an entirely dark cellar. 
 
78 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 Matteo opened a door in a narrow, badly 
 lighted basement-room, in which, besides a 
 rough bedstead in the corner, they could 
 distinguish only a great heap of nondescript 
 rags, peanuts, egg-shells, and rubbish of 
 every kind. In the middle of the room 
 there stood a small decapitated iron stove, 
 which had evidently not yet been used 
 during that season, for the air in the room 
 was damp and cold. 
 
 " There is your bed," said Matteo, point- 
 ing to a heap of rags in the corner. 
 *^ There is always enough of that rubbish 
 about for you to lie on. Now come along; 
 I will show you your business.'* 
 
 *' But Rita cannot walk," exclaimed 
 Beppo indignantly. ** She has been sick 
 all the way. Give her something to eat 
 before going." 
 
 *' Time enough for that," rejoined Mat- 
 teo, grinning. ** Well, the girl may remain 
 at home for this once." Matteo led the 
 boy through a labyrinth of narrow streets 
 to one of the busiest and noisiest corners 
 of that noisy neighborhood. There the 
 
BEPPO. 79 
 
 worthy padrone possessed a thriving pea- 
 nut-stand, which he intended to trust to 
 Beppo, himself desiring to embrace a new 
 and more lucrative career. 
 
 From that day a weary, miserable life 
 began for the poor children. It was not 
 the wretched food and cruel treatment on 
 the part of Matteo which pained them the 
 most ; it was first of all the dreadful house, 
 the abominable underground hole in which 
 they lived, the feeling of dependence, 
 almost of slavery, which was hard to bear 
 for these children of Nature. Many a 
 sleepless night did they spend sitting on 
 their heap of rags and talking in a whis- 
 per about Santa Lucia and the nights on 
 the coast and Zio Antonio. 
 
 Sometimes Rita accompanied Beppo to 
 his peanut-stand. But mostly she re- 
 mained at home, or was sent out by 
 Matteo to sell evening papers, the names 
 of which he had taught her. One bitter 
 cold night, as Beppo returned home a 
 little earlier than usual, he heard on ap- 
 proaching the door of their room the 
 
8o MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 angry voice of Matteo swearing and scold- 
 ing, while Rita cried and moaned in an 
 agony of pain. Beppo rushed into the 
 room and saw Matteo holding the girl 
 by the hair with one hand, while with the 
 other he lashed her naked back with a 
 whip. Beside himself with rage, Beppo 
 sprang at Matteo's throat and clung to it 
 with such a firm grip that the man was 
 obliged to release poor Rita. Of course 
 he turned all his fury against the boy. 
 He whipped him until the blood sprang 
 out of his scars ; then, opening the door, 
 he threw the senseless body of the lad out 
 into the inner yard of the house. Rita 
 ran after him, and Matteo locked both out, 
 saying, — 
 
 ** Freeze there all night, you curs ! *' 
 
 The cold air revived Beppo very soon. 
 On recovering his senses, his first question 
 was after Rita. She was kneeling by his 
 side, crying bitterly. 
 
 ''Why has the rascal whipped you?'* 
 he asked. 
 
 " He wanted to teach me how to draw 
 
BEFFO. 8 1 
 
 a handkerchief out of his pocket so that 
 he should not feel it; and I could not, 
 and then he beat me/' answered the girl, 
 sobbing. 
 
 Beppo said nothing ; but he clenched his 
 fists, and his eyes flashed like those of a 
 wild beast. Rita was shivering with cold. 
 The boy got up and rapped at Matteo's 
 window. An oath and an order to keep 
 quiet was all the answer he could get. With 
 every hour the night became colder. An 
 icy wind came sweeping over the city, and, 
 descending into the deep court-yard in 
 Baxter Street, kept whirling and whirling 
 around, chilling the poor Italian children to 
 their very hearts. Beppo took off his coat 
 and waistcoat to keep Rita as warm as possi- 
 ble, and feeling his limbs stiffening in the 
 frost, leaned against the door and drew the 
 girl close to his bosom. Thus they lay 
 as they had so often lain, locked in a close 
 embrace on the sand of their native coast. 
 Sleep, the great friend of childhood, for 
 whom there are no rich and no poor, who 
 with equal love and mercy extends his 
 
 6 
 
82 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 soothing hand over the palace and the 
 hut, closed their eyelids with a gentle 
 touch, and sent his sunniest dreams to 
 soothe and to cheer them. A smile of 
 happiness hovered about their pale faces ; 
 they saw once more before them the Bay 
 of Naples glittering in the rays of their 
 native sun, they felt the warm breeze ca- 
 ressing their cheeks. The smile on their 
 lips grew brighter and happier. 
 
 *' Beppo ! " whispered the girl. 
 
 He heard her in his sleep, and drew 
 her still closer to him. 
 
 And then all was still. The smiling 
 friend of childhood had fled, and in his 
 place a graver angel looked down upon 
 the poor sleeping waifs and took them 
 in his arms. The sunshine grew brighter 
 and brighter in their dreams, the breeze 
 warmer and balmier, their smile more 
 radiant. Thus they lay through all that 
 long cold night. And when the morn- 
 ing came at last, and all that giant house 
 awoke to its day's misery and crime, the 
 two lifeless forms were found lying in 
 
BEPPO, 83 
 
 close embrace, with the same blissful smile 
 illumining their faces. 
 
 What became of Matteo? Nothing, of 
 course. He easily proved that he had 
 always been a ** respectable " man, that 
 he knew nothing about what had become 
 of the children on that night, and that 
 by ** honest work*' he had collected a 
 few paltry dollars, of which he would 
 readily give a share to any friends who 
 would help him out of that scrape. It 
 is hardly necessary to add that he found 
 such friends easily. 
 
THE "HERR BARON." 
 
THE *^HERR BARON/' 
 
 CITY like New York may well be 
 termed the camera-obscura of the 
 world. 
 As on the white " reflecting board " of a 
 dark chamber all the features of the sur- 
 rounding landscape appear in accurate 
 though diminished shapes, so do the varied 
 elements of the population crowded to- 
 gether on the narrow slip of land between 
 the East and the North rivers present a 
 vivid and faithful picture of all nations, 
 customs, and positions in life from all 
 parts of the world. These infinitely varied 
 elements of humanity whose representa- 
 tives crowd our streets are pressed to- 
 gether in this narrow city without mingling 
 
88 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 with one another, each retaining its own 
 peculiarities, tastes, and interests. As in 
 our hotels — those immense caravansaries 
 which are in themselves an emblem of the 
 life in our metropolis — guests live weeks 
 and months side by side without caring 
 even to ask who their neighbors are, so 
 the nationalities constituting the popula- 
 tion of the city live side by side, and yet 
 apart. 
 
 Each nationality forming a part of our 
 heterogeneous population represents a little 
 world by itself, obeying its own social laws 
 and customs, and jealously maintaining all 
 its peculiarities. Of these nationalities by 
 far the most numerous, best organized, and 
 most firmly combined by common interests, 
 recollections, tastes, and ways of life, is the 
 German. Statistics prove New York to 
 be the third of the great German cities of 
 the world ; and as everybody knows, there 
 are whole districts in the city in which 
 a knowledge of the German language is 
 much more necessary than of the English. 
 The characteristic feature of these districts 
 
THE '' HERR BARONS 89 
 
 is undoubtedly the beer '^ saloons," which 
 are as the stars in heaven. These estab- 
 hshments scarcely ought to be designated 
 by a name which in France is associated 
 with remembrances of powdered wigs, 
 hoops, and Madame de Sevigne, while in 
 America it is suggestive of cocktails, stale 
 tobacco-smoke, and spittoons. On enter- 
 ing one of the popular German beer- 
 houses you immediately become aware of 
 the fact that you are in a wirthschaft, and 
 not in a saloon. The mild and soothing 
 spirit of lager reigns here paramount, and 
 its influence is seen and felt everywhere. 
 The bar is nearly deserted; no row of 
 lean, shrewd-looking, and loud-talking gen- 
 tlemen is to be seen treating themselves all 
 round to mysterious multicolored chemi- 
 cals served in glasses as '' mixed drinks." 
 All the guests here are seated at round 
 tables, for the most part in company with 
 their families, with large glasses of the 
 foaming beverage before them, which are 
 filled and refilled incessantly; clouds of 
 tobacco-smoke from pipes and cigars hang 
 
90 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 motionless in the air; the conversation 
 flows slowly on in a quiet, somewhat drawl- 
 ing tone ; peace and repose, a rather heavy 
 but solid and carefully balanced sort of 
 enjoyment, pervade the atmosphere of the 
 place. The German wirthschaft is not 
 only a place devoted to the sale and ab- 
 sorption of liquors ; it is more than that : 
 it is a national institution, to uphold which, 
 as for instance in Munich, many a riot has 
 already been set afoot. 
 
 One night in passing through one of the 
 quiet streets which run from Second to 
 Third Avenue, and which some ten years 
 ago still enjoyed the reputation of being 
 up town, one particular wirthschaft, which 
 I had not happened to notice before, at- 
 tracted my attention from its peculiarly 
 snug look. The narrow entrance was half 
 concealed by the thick foliage of a creep- 
 ing vine, from behind which a lantern, 
 with the inscription, ^* H, Gorr — Wirth- 
 schaft," was barely visible. A small white 
 sign above the door exhibited the word 
 ^* Sommergarten." From inside a female 
 
THE ''HERR BARONS 91 
 
 voice was heard singing an old German 
 song, accompanied by a piano. Neither 
 the singer nor the instrument seemed to 
 be very much out of tune. 
 
 All this had a promising look, so I 
 stepped into the establishment. The bar- 
 room and the restaurant were deserted. 
 An open door led out into the back yard, 
 which had been converted into a summer 
 garden, or rather into a bower of ivy and 
 other creepers. Every available place in 
 the '' garden " was filled with small round 
 tables, and .every chair at these tables 
 seemed at present to have already its occu- 
 pant. On my entering, however, a fleet- 
 footed waiter came flying towards me and 
 directed me to a small table, situated be- 
 hind the piano, which had hitherto passed 
 unobserved by the other guests. 
 
 I sat down, and was just about to give 
 my order, when the meagre form of the 
 waiter who had welcomed me was sud- 
 denly thrust aside by a superior force, and 
 in his stead appeared a portly, solemn- 
 looking man, clad with the most correct 
 
92 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 and irreproachable elegance, dress-coat, 
 white waistcoat, white necktie, a napkin 
 wound round his right hand, — in a word, 
 a model of a waiter such as any first-class 
 cafe^ from Delmonico's to Bignon's, might 
 have been proud of. 
 
 "You can go, Franz," this majestic man 
 said to the other waiter in a mellow, sono- 
 rous voice ; ** I will serve this gentleman 
 myself." 
 
 The combination of condescending civil- 
 ity and self-importance he contrived to 
 throw into this one word '^myself " was 
 overwhelming. In the presence of this 
 majestic official my original intention of 
 ordering modestly *^ one lager " melted 
 away like wax. I felt it would be almost 
 a sacrilege to ask for so little of so great a 
 being, — it would be like asking Jupiter 
 for one of his thunderbolts to light a cigar- 
 ette ! I muttered bashfully, "A pint bottle 
 of Rhine wine, if you please." The great 
 man bowed and moved away as majesti- 
 cally as he had come. He had scarcely 
 disappeared within the restaurant, when a 
 
THE " HERR BARONS 93 
 
 strange half-consciousness crept upon me 
 of having seen him somewhere before in 
 very different circumstances, where and 
 when it was impossible for me to recollect. 
 Somehow or other, by a mysterious asso- 
 ciation of ideas, pictures of a time long 
 past, of better and merrier days, arose in 
 my memory. I saw again the Boulevards 
 of Paris, with all their bustle at the hour 
 when the theatres close. I felt once more 
 about me that atmosphere of feverish ex- 
 citement, of restless life, which surrounds 
 the great Babylon of Europe. Had I seen 
 that man at some cafe in Paris? No, it 
 was not that. I could not have remem- 
 bered for five long and eventful years such 
 a trifling circumstance. 
 
 All of a sudden a name flashed upon 
 me. Waldheim — Count von Waldheim 
 — was the man this waiter reminded me 
 of, and to whom he bore a most striking 
 resemblance. Poor Waldheim, he was one 
 of the maddest viveurs of Paris ! As open- 
 handed and generous as he was reckless, 
 always in good spirits, he was the univer- 
 
94 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 sal favorite of that tout Paris whose centre 
 is the Boulevard des Italiens. 
 
 How well I remember the last supper 
 the poor fellow gave us in the corner-room 
 of the Cafe Anglais ! There were not more 
 than a dozen of us, — three or four ladies 
 in the number, who by virtue of their 
 beauty and of their diamonds were the 
 leading ** stars " in that strange hemi- 
 sphere. I do believe that was the merriest 
 night I ever passed in my life. A sort of 
 frenzy of childish light-heartedness seemed 
 to have seized on all the guests at that 
 ** funeral banquet," as Waldheim called it. 
 So uproarious were we in our merriment 
 that about three o'clock in the morning a 
 serge7tt de ville sent up one of the waiters to 
 request us either to shut the window or to 
 make less noise, as we were disturbing the 
 neighborhood. At daybreak Waldheim 
 sprang up from his seat, filled his glass for 
 the last time, and opening the balcony 
 door, pointed to the Boulevards stretching 
 quiet and deserted at our feet in the dim 
 gray light of dawn. 
 
THE ''HERR BARON:' 95 
 
 *' My last toast, ladies and gentlemen," 
 he exclaimed, '' is to this great living mon- 
 ster of Paris, which has devoured me and so 
 many others ! For thee, in thine enchant- 
 ing embrace, I have lost all I possessed in 
 the world. A beggar now, I bid thee fare- 
 well ! MorituruSy Ccesar, te saluto ! " 
 
 He emptied his glass and threw it 
 out of the window on the pavement be- 
 low. Then he took- leave of all of us, 
 making us promise not to follow him and 
 not to search for him during at least three 
 days, and was about to quit the room, 
 when Valentine Ghemar, one of the ladies 
 present, a well-known operetta-singer of 
 the time, sprang up, and flinging her arms 
 impetuously around Waldheim's neck, 
 exclaimed, — 
 
 **You are a man, a brave man, and I 
 love you ! Wherever you go, let me go 
 with you ! '' 
 
 *^ My dear little Valentine,'' answered 
 Waldheim with a sad smile, *^ no ro- 
 mance, if you please ! The times of love 
 in a cottage are passed. Here in Paris, if 
 
96 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 the cottage took the shape of a Httle hotel 
 in the Champs Elysees, it might be all very- 
 well. But where I am now going things will 
 look different; it will be up-hill work, a 
 fierce battle with want and death, and not 
 a life you, a delicate hot-house flower, 
 might share with me. No, no; let me 
 go," he said, gently disengaging himself 
 from her embrace. *^ Farewell, and be 
 happy, all of you ! '\ 
 
 With these words he disappeared, leaving 
 us all moved to the heart, and poor Valen- 
 tine sobbing disconsolately. 
 
 In Paris everybody still remembers the 
 dreadful scandal Count Waldheim's sud- 
 den disappearance occasioned. The scan- 
 dal was perhaps the greater because the 
 Count had left no debts unpaid. Such 
 conduct society judged to be preposterous, 
 incomprehensible. What business had 
 a man to run away after paying all his 
 debts, when by paying half of them, and 
 cheating his creditors out of the rest, he 
 could have gone on living like a gen- 
 tleman? Two days later the scandal- 
 
THE '' HERR BARONr 97 
 
 mongers had a new and still more sensa- 
 tional topic to comment upon, — Valentine 
 Ghemar had broken all her engagements, 
 and quitted Paris the same night. All the 
 newspapers were full of romantic stories 
 about this double disappearance, till at 
 last an enterprising reporter of the *' Fig- 
 aro '* succeeded in ascertaining that Count 
 Waldheim had sailed from Havre to New 
 York, and that Valentine Ghemar had 
 been seen on board the same vessel. 
 Since then nobody had ever heard from 
 either of the fugitives ; the huge waves of 
 Parisian life closed over them, and in a 
 month both were forgotten. 
 
 This old story was revived in my mem- 
 ory by the sight of the majestic waiter in 
 a small New York wirthschaft. *'What an 
 extraordinary resemblance!" I thought; 
 ** could it be possible?" But I laughed 
 at the bare suggestion that the brilliant, 
 dashing Count Waldheim could have 
 been transformed into a kellner ! 
 
 Presently this personage returned, bear- 
 ing the bottle of wine I had ordered, neatly 
 
 7 
 
98 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 wrapped up in a napkin. While he was 
 uncorking it, an elderly gentleman, appar- 
 ently an habitue of the place, entered the 
 garden, and passing by the waiter, tapped 
 him familiarly on the shoulder, saying: 
 ** How do you do to-night, Herr Baron? '' 
 
 I started involuntarily on hearing the 
 title, and again looked fixedly at the 
 man. The resemblance to Waldheim was 
 perfectly wonderful. 
 
 ''Why do they call you Herr Baron?'* I 
 asked, while he was filling my glass. 
 
 " It is a joke, sir, of some of the friends 
 of the house,'' he answered, smiling dis- 
 creetly; ''they pretend that I look like a 
 baron.'* 
 
 " Not like a baron," I retorted, staring 
 him straight in the face, " but very much 
 like a count. Did you ever hear of a 
 Count von Waldheim?" 
 
 He turned suddenly pale, and his hand 
 shook as he put the bottle down on the 
 table. 
 
 "No, sir," he answered with difificulty; 
 " I never heard the name." 
 
THE ''HERR BARONr 99 
 
 His discomfiture had, however, ah*eady 
 betrayed him. So I rose, and stretching 
 out my hand to him, said in an undertone : 
 
 ^^Waldheim, don't you know me?'' 
 
 *^ By all that is wonderful ! " he ex- 
 
 claim.ed, '* can this really be you, S ? 
 
 For Heaven's sake do riot speak to me 
 here ! Nobody knows me. And oh that 
 you should be the first to see me in such 
 a plight ! " 
 
 ** My dear friend ! " I observed, " do not 
 let this circumstance put you out in the 
 least. If one of us is to be pitied, it is I. 
 I am a journalist ! '* 
 
 Waldheim laughed, and said in a more 
 cheerful tone, — 
 
 '^ Well, I am heartily glad to see you, all 
 the same. In half an hour we close here. 
 Will you then wait a moment for me out- 
 side? We can have a talk about old 
 times." 
 
 I of course assented, and an hour later 
 we were both established in a snug corner 
 of a Third Avenue oyster-saloon in the 
 company of a bottle of champagne to 
 
lOO MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 which the " Herr Baron '' had insisted on 
 treating me. 
 
 *' And Valentine Ghemar, where is she? " 
 was my first question. " The papers said at 
 the time that you had gone off together ? " 
 
 ^' Yes, — quite in spite of me, however. 
 I had not the remotest notion of the girl's 
 escapade until she all of a sudden ap- 
 peared on the ship when we were already 
 out of the harbor. Poor girl ! she was a 
 madcap, but a good, loving soul.'* 
 
 *' You speak of her in the past, — is she 
 dead?" 
 
 '^ Worse," rejoined Waldheim sorrow- 
 fully; *^she is married!" 
 
 *' Married! "I echoed; *' is it possible? 
 To whom? " 
 
 "To an Alsatian named Schmittberger, 
 a head clerk at one of the most important 
 breweries in the city." 
 
 '' Howvery extraordinary all that sounds," 
 I exclaimed. '^ But now you must make a 
 clean breast of it, my dear fellow. Come, 
 tell me all that has befallen you on our 
 glorious soil of liberty." 
 
THE '' HERR BARONS lOI 
 
 Waldheim filled both our glasses, and 
 began by reciting in a lugubrious voice : 
 
 " * Infandum, regina, jubes renovare dolorem ! ' 
 
 My career so far has not been a glorious 
 one. I have been alternately a washer in 
 a public bath, a street-cleaner, a reporter 
 on a German paper, a 'boy* on a farm in 
 Jersey (the people actually called me ' boy,' 
 and gave me the romantic name of Jimmy), 
 a tramp, a sleeper in the parks, and a car- 
 driver. My last position was that of a 
 * sandwich.' I trotted up and down Broad- 
 way clad as an Indian, with a great adver- 
 tisement for Indian-clubs on my back, and 
 another for some * miraculous toothache- 
 drops ' on my breast. I was a combination- 
 sandwich. Two enterprising minds had 
 united their energies in utilizing my front 
 and back. 
 
 " Once I narrowly escaped becoming a 
 valet de chambre. That was after having 
 passed three nights in Madison Square 
 Park. An advertisement in the papers 
 caught my eye of a lady wanting a man- 
 
102 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 servant of distinguished appearance in a 
 first-class household. I called at once at 
 the house (which was indeed set up in the 
 most elegant style) and proffered my ser- 
 vices. The lady seemed greatly pleased 
 with my appearance, and the thing was all 
 settled between us, w^hen she remarked : 
 * Of course you will have to shave your 
 whiskers and mustache ; it is a rule of my 
 house.' The blood shot up irfto my face 
 at these words. All of a sudden I became 
 painfully aware of the position I was 
 about to accept, with all the consequences 
 it involved. I declined, and went back to 
 the park. 
 
 ** And yet, as you see, I have not es- 
 caped my fate. Instead of serving one, I 
 serve many. I will tell you what it is, my 
 dear fellow, a European aristocrat in this 
 country is about the most useless being 
 who ever trod the earth, unless he is rich. 
 What have I ever learned that might have 
 been of any use to me in this country? 
 Except the art of spending money, nothing 
 thoroughly. The only knowledge I could 
 
THE ''HERE BARONr 1 03 
 
 put to profit here was that of a servant's 
 or a waiter's duties, which I had formerly 
 claimed from others. I know exactly the 
 way in which a table-service must be laid 
 out. The icing of champagne has no 
 mysteries for me. I know the names of 
 all the dishes existing in the world, and 
 of all the wines worth drinking. I speak 
 German, French, and English, without men- 
 tioning the Russian language, which is not 
 likely to prove of great use in this line of 
 business ; with all these accomplishments, 
 am I not a waiter born and bred? I tell 
 you, my friend, a ruined nobleman coming 
 to America is predestined to become a 
 kellner ! 
 
 ** Do you know what was the most 
 humiliating and horrible sensation I ever 
 experienced in my life? It was the first 
 time I heard a whistle and a ' Pst ! ' and 
 realized the fact that both sounds were 
 intended for me, and that I had to obey 
 them. You may laugh at me, my dear 
 fellow, but I tell you the idea of being 
 whistled for like a domestic animal is any- 
 
104 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 thing but enjoyable so long as a man is 
 not accustomed to it." 
 
 '' Poor VValdheim ! " I exclaimed, laugh- 
 ing in spite of myself at the serio-comic 
 good-humor with which he told me all his 
 woes. *' But you have not yet told me what 
 became of Valentine in all this odyssey.'* 
 
 '' Oh ! she is a Parisian ; and Parisian wo- 
 men are like cats, — they always fall on their 
 feet. The first weeks of her stay here all 
 went on smoothly. When I had finally 
 got down to my last five hundred francs I 
 gave them to the girl, and said, ' My dear 
 Valentine, the best you can do now is to 
 return to Paris ; ' but she refused peremp- 
 torily, saying that she would never leave 
 me. Yet I w^as obliged to leave her to 
 seek for work, for I was penniless. It w^as 
 then that I passed a season on the Jersey 
 farm as * Jimmy.' While there I received a 
 letter from Valentine, in which, after glow- 
 ing protestations of love and fidelity, she 
 announced to me her approaching mar- 
 riage with that man Schmittberger, whose 
 offer, she said, she had accepted only for 
 
THE '' HERR BARONS 105 
 
 my sake ! As soon as they were married, 
 she added, she would procure me a suitable 
 position in the office of the brewery, of 
 which her bridegroom was head clerk, and 
 then I could live happy forevermore, — 
 emphasizing the words with three dashes ! 
 As you may imagine, I respectfully declined 
 this tempting offer, and have never seen 
 Mrs. Schmittberger since." 
 
 ** Requiescat in pace ! " I exclaimed, 
 raising my glass. ** But to return to your 
 own affairs. Is it possible that you have 
 got used to this business?" 
 
 ^* My dear fellow, honestly and truly, 
 yes ! Behold the decay of a great charac- 
 ter ! This business is not so bad after all. 
 I am excellently paid, and in the two years 
 during which I have worn this mask of 
 * Ernest' (this is the name I bear in the 
 profession), I have saved a good deal of 
 money." 
 
 *^ So you are content with your lot?" I 
 said. 
 
 ''Content? — no; but I take things as 
 they are, without making them worse." 
 
I06 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 '^ Well, my dear Waldheim, I am heartily- 
 glad to have met you/' I said, rising and 
 shaking him by the hand. '' I hope to see 
 you again soon. Now it is late, time for 
 both of us to go to sleep/' 
 
 We took leave of one another like old 
 friends, with mutual promises to meet often. 
 
 Some three weeks after our first meet- 
 ing, however, I was sent on newspaper 
 business to South Carolina, and remained 
 there over three months. When I re- 
 turned, the '^Herr Baron" had left H. 
 Gorrs' little wirthschafty and had gone, — 
 whither, no one knew. 
 
 A year passed without my hearing any- 
 thing of Waldheim. A few days ago I 
 caught sight by chance of a copy of the 
 ** Saratoga Advertiser," in which I noticed 
 the announcement of the opening of a new 
 *' first-class hotel" in that fashionable water- 
 ing-place. After the usual flourishes of 
 rhetoric, promising the '' distinguished 
 traveller" all the advantages of a diminu- 
 tive paradise on earth, I read the following 
 words : — 
 
THE '' HERR BARONS lOJ 
 
 "The manager, M. Ernest, will devote all 
 his energies and extensive experience in 
 hotel business to the direction of this new 
 and vast enterprise/' 
 
 There was no doubt possible ; this must 
 be the *^ Herr Baron/' I wrote to him, and 
 received a jubilant reply; his hotel was 
 thriving, and fast becoming one of the 
 most fashionable haunts of the place. 
 
 And thus Heinrich Kurd, Count von 
 VValdheim, the brilliant Parisian viveiiry 
 son of the ex-grand marshal of the nobility 
 of Livonia, some of whose forefathers had 
 shed their blood in the Crusades, others 
 of whom had at one time aspired to the 
 throne of the German Empire, became the 
 manager of a thriving hotel at Saratoga. 
 
OUR NIHILIST, 
 
OUR NIHILIST. 
 
 HE work at the office of the '' New 
 York Town Crier " was particularly 
 brisk on a sultry night in May of the 
 year 1879. Important news had come in 
 from different parts of the world, — includ- 
 ing Baxter Street and the Five Points, 
 whereto an exploring party of enterprising 
 reporters had been despatched on the pre- 
 ceding day to count the number of dead 
 cats lying on the pavement and to analyze 
 the perfume emanating from unemptied 
 ash-barrels. The expedition had just re- 
 turned, and was preparing an elaborate 
 report, of which the various head-lines 
 alone were to occupy over half a column. 
 Moreover, a stenographic account had 
 
112 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 come in by telegraph of all (including 
 profane language) General Grant had ut- 
 tered the day before on some wild island 
 of the Pacific Ocean with a very queer 
 name, the exact position of which it re- 
 quired the combined wisdom of all the 
 editor's staff and numerous cyclopaedias 
 to ascertain. A "• cable special " from the 
 Paris correspondent, containing but the 
 words, ^* Last week deuced bore," was 
 about to be transformed into two columns 
 of small type by a young man specially 
 engaged for the purpose who had ac- 
 quired a vast reputation from the inesti- 
 mable faculty he possessed of producing 
 in the shortest lapse of time possible any 
 amount of '* copy." Last, not least, an 
 event of the utmost importance, on the 
 issue of which the national honor of the 
 people of the United States depended, 
 was in process of development in Gil- 
 more's Garden. An Englishman and an 
 American were deciding between them 
 the thrilling question whose legs and lungs 
 were the strongest. In regard to the 
 
OUR NIHILIST. 113 
 
 latter topic, the " Town Crier '* was next 
 day to come out with a tremendous sen- 
 sation, — a reporter had counted the drops 
 of perspiration which had fallen from the 
 brow of each '* champion" during each 
 ** lap." The complicated mathematical 
 calculations which this work necessitated, 
 together with the account of the match 
 itself, would fill two pages of the paper. 
 
 It is not more than might have been 
 expected that on such a night as this, out- 
 side visitors were not welcome at the 
 office. Accordingly, when a young man 
 presented himself in the narrow and some- 
 what dingy waiting-room reserved for 
 visitors at the entrance to the editorial 
 sanctum, the old janitor peremptorily re- 
 fused to take in even the card of the 
 former, saying that he had been positively 
 forbidden to disturb the editors in any 
 manner. 
 
 ** But, my dear man," expostulated the 
 visitor in a somewhat haughty tone and 
 with a marked foreign accent, *^ I am the 
 bearer of a special message for Mr. 
 
 8 
 
114 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 O'Bragan'* (such was the name of the 
 editor-in-chief). *^At least take to him 
 this letter, which is from the St. Peters- 
 burg correspondent of the ^ Town Crier ; ' 
 it is of the utmost importance." 
 
 This the old Cerberus consented to do, 
 and disappeared behind the mysterious 
 door. Left alone, the stranger looked 
 about him, not without a certain curi- 
 osity. 
 
 '* This then," he muttered in German, *' is 
 the palace of that mysterious power which, 
 being the voice of the people, rules the 
 people. Well, I imagined it otherwise. 
 However, as it is, I will try and make the 
 best of it." 
 
 At this moment the old janitor returned ; 
 and holding the door open for the young 
 man to enter, said to him with that su- 
 preme indifference which a constant 
 intercourse with journalists naturally 
 engenders, — 
 
 '' Mr. O'Bragan will see you, sir. Please 
 step in." 
 
 A moment later the visitor was closeted 
 
OUR NIHILIST, 115 
 
 with the '* chief" in the private office of 
 the latter. 
 
 '* I infer from the letter of Mr. Patrick 
 Flanharty, our St. Petersburg correspon- 
 dent," began Mr. O'Bragan, " that you can 
 give us valuable information in regard to 
 the present Nihilist movement in Russia." 
 
 '' It is so," responded the stranger in a 
 solemn voice. *^ I am the plenipotentiary 
 of the Russian Central Revolutionary Com- 
 mittee for the United States. Here are 
 my credentials." 
 
 Saying which, the young man drew from 
 his breast-pocket a large paper, which he 
 unfolded, displaying a diploma, printed in 
 Russian and French, stating that the bearer, 
 Ivan Sapeur, was specially recommended to 
 all free nations and their representatives 
 as an emissary of the Russian Central 
 Revolutionary Committee, which Commit- 
 tee was fighting for the liberty of its own 
 nation. The diploma was surmounted 
 with a flaring red flag and a vignette rep- 
 resenting a cheerful combination of axes, 
 poniards, revolvers, and human skulls. 
 
Il6 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 The sight of this document evidently 
 impressed Mr. O'Bragan deeply, the more 
 so as he was unable to understand 
 one word of either of the languages 
 it was printed in. He folded the paper 
 carefully, and returned it to the plenipo- 
 tentiary. 
 
 *'Well, sir,'' continued the chief in a 
 business-like tone, " I am somewhat short 
 of time to-night. Will you please give an 
 account in a few words, for the ' Town 
 Crier,' of the present state of the Nihilist 
 order in Russia, its origin and develop- 
 ment, together, if possible, with a short 
 epitome of Russian history, with a few 
 sprightly anecdotes about Peter the Great, 
 Siberian mines, and the like." 
 
 Mr. Ivan Sapeur looked for a moment 
 bewildered by the variety of information 
 required from him, but only for a moment. 
 He then smiled complacently, and said, — 
 *' I write English fluently, and can put 
 down the required notes in half an hour. 
 Before doing it, however, let me ask you a 
 favor, — a few letters of introduction to 
 
OUR NIHILIST. 117 
 
 distinguished families in the city. For the 
 work I have to do of gaining the sympa- 
 thies of the American people for the cause 
 of Russian liberty, some personal connec- 
 tions with the leading members of society 
 are absolutely necessary. You can do that 
 without fear, Mr. O'Bragan. If even the let- 
 ter of my friend Patrick Flanharty should 
 not suffice to assure you of my respecta- 
 bility, — and I do not doubt that it does suf- 
 fice, — a few weeks hence, when coming 
 events shall allow me to speak openly, you 
 will have ample opportunity to convince 
 yourself of the fact that Russia has sent to 
 your great country a representative of one 
 of its first and noblest families." 
 
 Vividly impressed by the dignified de- 
 meanor of the stranger, which betrayed 
 at first sight the true-born aristocrat, Mr. 
 O'Bragan promised to give him the letters 
 he asked for; whereupon the emissary 
 went to work compiling the required '* in- 
 terview " about things in general in Russia, 
 while the editor prepared the letters. An 
 hour later, Ivan Sapeur had delivered his 
 
Il8 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 manuscript, and with the letters in his 
 pocket left the office of the ''Town Crier," 
 taking an entirely easterly direction, towards 
 Franklin Square and Roosevelt Street. In 
 this neighborhood, in a very dingy and ill- 
 famed '' hotel,'' the distinguished represen- 
 tative of one of the noblest families of 
 Russia had taken up his abode. On reach- 
 ing his home, he found it still alive with 
 boisterous merriment. The parlor was full 
 of people. The noble stranger entered it, 
 and was immediately accosted by one of 
 the ladies present, — 
 
 ''You are late to-night. Jack; hang it 
 all! what has kept you so long? The 
 boys are restless without music. Sit down, 
 and be quick about it ! '' 
 
 Whereupon the noble Ivan complied, — 
 doubtless out of inborn gallantry. He sat 
 down to the old broken piano which stood 
 in the corner of the room, and began to 
 drum a waltz in that careless, slovenly 
 manner peculiar to all artists of this par- 
 ticular school. 
 
OUR NIHILIST. 119 
 
 '^ Oh, Mr. Sapeur, tell me more about 
 the poor, dear, miserable wretches ! " ex- 
 claimed Miss Lucy in her own sweet, 
 gushing way. Miss Lucy was the daugh- 
 ter of Mr. Frederick B. Bonnard, a busi- 
 ness man of considerable fortune, to whom 
 was addressed one of the letters the editor- 
 in-chief of the *^ Town Crier '' had given 
 to the illustrious fugitive. Miss Lucy was 
 not pretty, neither was she very young; 
 but she certainly was very gushing, and 
 altogether *' interesting,*' and the longer 
 she lived, and the more she realized the 
 fact that one man after another around 
 her dropped into Hymen's lap without 
 even looking at her, the more gushing and 
 *' interesting '' she became. Thus far, how- 
 ever, she had gushed in vain. 
 
 ** Oh, dear Mr. Sapeur, do tell me more 
 about those heroic, poor, unfortunate mar- 
 tyrs, the Nihilists ! " she repeated in a sup- 
 plicating tone, folding her hands on the 
 young man's arm. 
 
 For a while he was silent, seemingly 
 overcome by the torrent of feeling which 
 
I20 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 invaded his heart. Then he answered in 
 a low tone, a rapturous smile hovering 
 about his lips, — 
 
 ** You have said * dear Mr. Sapeur ! * 
 Oh, could it be true ! Could I indeed 
 hope to have found a friend in you, what 
 an unutterable joy it would be for a poor 
 exile like me ! " 
 
 He took her hand, which she blushingly 
 abandoned to his grasp, and drew it to his 
 lips. This touching scene took place in 
 Mr. Bonnard's elegant parlor, after a late 
 dinner to which the exile had been invited. 
 He had in a few weeks become very inti- 
 mate at the house. During his second or 
 third visit he had adroitly dropped a few 
 hints about his distinguished parentage in 
 Russia. His elegant manners, together 
 with the atmosphere of mystery which 
 surrounded him, exercised a powerful 
 charm even on Mr. Bonnard himself, who, 
 though a practical business man, was not 
 insensible to the honor of receiving a 
 ** Russian prince " at his house. As for 
 Miss Lucy, she was from the very first day 
 
OUR NIHILIST, 121 
 
 captivated by the elegance, the good 
 looks, and the misfortunes of this young 
 and interesting representative of Nihilism. 
 To her he had confided under an oath of 
 secrecy his true name, — Count Adlerberg, 
 a nephew of the minister of the Imperial 
 Court of Russia, and a son of the Czar's 
 most intimate friend. 
 
 " Can you doubt of my friendship, dear 
 Count?" whispered Miss Lucy, while the 
 illustrious exile still held her hand. '^ Could 
 you have heard how I answered my father's 
 warning this morning ! " 
 
 ''Your father's warning! Did he warn 
 you against me? " 
 
 *'Well, no, not directly. At least he 
 only repeated what the Russian consul 
 had told him, — that he, the consul, knew 
 nothing about a Mr. Sapeur, and that 
 he supposed the latter to be an obscure 
 adventurer.'* 
 
 The exile sprang from his seat, a prey 
 to an irrepressible agitation. 
 
 '' Poor man ! " he whispered. '' I do not 
 know whether I shall be able to save him 
 
122 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 from the avenging arm of my comrade. 
 How imprudent it was ! *' 
 
 "Whom do you mean?'* asked Miss 
 Lucy, considerably bewildered. 
 
 *'The consul/' answered Ivan, sighing 
 heavily. '' By slandering me he risks his 
 life. Our awful Committee strikes surely 
 and quickly ! " 
 
 Miss Lucy shuddered. 
 
 ** Fear not, Lucy ! " exclaimed the exile 
 rapturously. *' Fear not that my — or may 
 I say our? — happiness should be over- 
 shadowed by a bloody deed. Farewell ! I 
 will hasten home to take all possible meas- 
 ures to save that poor blinded official. 
 Farewell, farewell, Lucy ! " 
 
 The maiden answered not a w^ord ; but 
 as the young man took her hand she 
 bowed her head down on his breast, his 
 lips touched her forehead, and his arms 
 encircled her slender v/aist. 
 
 Two days later there appeared in the 
 '^ New York Town Crier " the following 
 warning addressed to the Russian consul : 
 
OUR NIHILIST. 123 
 
 C. R. R. C.i 
 
 The arm of the avenger is ready to strike ! 
 Beware ! 
 
 You K., Russian consul-general, have dared to 
 slander one of our friends, one of the most dis- 
 tinguished patriots Russia possesses. Beware ! 
 
 The avenger is nigh at hand. If you dare 
 repeat your slander, the blow shall fall and crush 
 you ! 
 
 C. R. R. C, American Branch. 
 
 New York, May 20, 1879. 
 
 When Mr. Sapeur made his appearance 
 at Mr. Bonnard's house the same evening, 
 Miss Lucy came to meet him, trembling 
 and all in a flutter. 
 
 ** Oh, dear me ! " she exclaimed, '' have 
 you read that awful thing in to-day's 
 * Town Crier ' ? Your prediction has been 
 fulfilled with terrible swiftness ! " 
 
 The young man patted her soothingly 
 on the shoulder. 
 
 "Fear not, my dear, noble Lucy," he 
 said ; '* by my interference the man has 
 
 1 Central Russian Revolutionary Committee. 
 
124 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 been saved from instant death. If he 
 keeps quiet now, his hfe is saved/' 
 
 *' Oh, how noble, how great you are ! '' 
 
 The interview between the young people 
 was that night longer and more confidential 
 than usual. While Mr. Bonnard dozed in 
 his arm-chair after dinner, a whispered con- 
 ference, seemingly of the utmost import- 
 ance, took place, at the close of which the 
 young exile took leave in the usual affec- 
 tionate manner. Miss Lucy accompanied 
 him to the street-door. 
 
 ** To-morrow at two, my love, my dear- 
 est ! '* he whispered, giving her a parting 
 kiss. 
 
 The next day at the appointed hour 
 a coupe stopped at Mr. Bonnard's. Mr. 
 Sapeur emerged from it. Mr. Bonnard 
 was, as might have been expected, not at 
 home ; but Miss Lucy was there, with her 
 bonnet on, ready for her promised drive. 
 The hopeful pair stepped into the carriage, 
 which drove off rapidly — not so rapidly, 
 however, as to get out of sight of another 
 carriage which followed Mr. Sapeur's 
 
OUR NIHILIST. 125 
 
 coupe at some distance, and contained 
 three gentlemen, one of whom, doubtless 
 for the sake of fresh air, had taken a seat 
 on the box by the coachman's side. 
 
 An hour later Mr. Sapeur's coupe re- 
 turned to the door of the Bonnards' house. 
 The young man helped Miss Lucy out, and 
 entered the house with her. They had 
 barely had time, however, to step into the 
 parlor when the door-bell again resounded, 
 and on the servant opening it three gentle- 
 men came in and asked to see Mr. Sapeur. 
 Hearing his name, the young man became 
 somewhat pale ; but quickly recovering his 
 composure, he opened the parlor door, and 
 was about to ask what the gentlemen 
 wanted, when, on perceiving the face of 
 one of them, he suddenly grew ashy pale 
 and staggered back into the room, while 
 the man who had so frightened him ex- 
 claimed, — 
 
 *^ It is he ; arrest him ! " 
 
 One of the other gentlemen then stepped 
 forward, and addressing the noble fugitive, 
 said in a quiet tone, — 
 
126 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 *' I am sorry to disturb you and your 
 lady, Mr. Herzenstein, alias Sapeur, alias 
 Count Adlerberg; but we have looked 
 for you so long that you really must fol- 
 low us now. I arrest you on the charge 
 of forgery, committed to the amount of 
 ten thousand roubles, to the detriment of 
 the Commercial Bank of Moscow. Here 
 is the warrant.'' 
 
 At this moment a piercing cry rang 
 through the room, and Miss Lucy, ex- 
 claiming, *' Great heavens ! he is my hus- 
 band," fell senseless to the ground. 
 
 The illustrious exile stood motionless, 
 dumfounded, seeming insensible to all 
 things. The police officer took him by 
 the arm and led him out of the room, at 
 the same time directing the chambermaid, 
 whom the noise had attracted to the door, 
 to attend to her swooning mistress. 
 
 In the hall the young man who had 
 first recognized the prisoner stepped up 
 to him, and looking him straight in the 
 face said, — 
 
 '* Herzenstein, it is I who hunted you 
 
OUR NIHILIST. 127 
 
 down. You know me well ; I am indeed a 
 member of our secret organization, and 
 will never allow our holy cause to be dis- 
 graced by rascals such as you.'* 
 
 Thereupon the party entered the car- 
 riage which waited at the door, and drove 
 off. 
 
 Curiously enough, the omniscient and 
 ubiquitous *^ Town Crier '' kept the pro- 
 foundest silence about these events, despite 
 the considerable sensation they produced. 
 But the very same day a '' cable special '* 
 was despatched to Mr. Patrick Flanharty at 
 St. Petersburg, which, though containing 
 but one single word, was so explicit and 
 so powerful that we dare not venture to 
 reproduce it here. 
 
A WRECKED LIFE. 
 
A WRECKED LIFE. 
 
 EVERAL months ago there ap- 
 peared in all the city papers a 
 notice containing a rather strange 
 story about a man having been arrested 
 on Sixth Avenue, where he was walking 
 in a state utterly incompatible with the 
 manners of modern civilization. With no 
 other dress but his long, unkempt hair 
 hanging over his shoulders, and a gray 
 beard falling over his chest, he had rushed 
 out in this unseemly condition from one 
 of the by-streets, crying at the top of his 
 voice, ** Stella ! Stella ! " As might have 
 been expected, he was not allowed to pur- 
 sue his course farther than a block or so, 
 when he ran into the sheltering arms of 
 one of the guardians of the public peace, 
 
132 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 who, after administering to this rebel child 
 of Nature a preparatory clubbing, hailed 
 a cab, pushed his patient in, pulled down 
 the blinds, and drove off rapidly, before 
 even the crowd of idlers who had already 
 gathered could realize what a splendid 
 opportunity for extraordinary and utterly 
 unprecedented ** fun " they had missed. 
 Upon investigation, the man who had mis- 
 taken Sixth Avenue for a thoroughfare of 
 the Hottentot metropolis proved to be a 
 poor maniac who had lived for a year in 
 a dark closet forming part of a basement 
 room in West Forty-sixth Street, in which 
 an old ragman had his abode. Nobody 
 seemed exactly to know who he was or 
 where he came from. The only informa- 
 tion which the papers gave was that he 
 had been sent to the City Hospital, and 
 that in his former neighborhood he was 
 known as the **mad Dutchman." No name, 
 no means of identification, could be found. 
 Why did this story, which the very next 
 day after its publication was buried under 
 the waves of public life in the great city, — 
 
A WRECKED LIFE. 133 
 
 that great, never-resting ocean of oblivion, 
 — why did this story impress me so vividly? 
 I know not. It was certainly not the mys- 
 tery in which the whole afTair appeared to 
 be shrouded which attracted my attention. 
 For what are those petty mysteries of every- 
 day life w^hich crowd our daily papers to 
 a professional journalist? — a tool of his 
 profession, an '* item " to be disposed of 
 as concisely as possible; nothing more. 
 
 It was that name, Stella, which the 
 poor idiot had shouted out in the street 
 in his madness, which sounded familiar to 
 my ear and recalled in me long-forgotten 
 memories of a once-dear friend. It was 
 more than twelve years ago, in London. 
 Things and men were different then, and 
 looked, somehow, brighter and more hope- 
 ful than now. Even the London fog as- 
 sumed a rosy hue, viewed by the light 
 of the hopes, the dreams, and the illusions 
 of early youth. And as I looked back 
 into this long-past sunshine there arose 
 in my memory a face which for me was in 
 some way associated with all those hopes, 
 
134 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 dreams, and illusions. George Nordhoff 
 was indeed a bright fellow. Though about 
 ten years my senior, he was in character 
 and disposition certainly the junior of the 
 two. He was a scion of one of the oldest 
 families of Livonia, and held at the time 
 the office of second secretary of the Russian 
 embassy in London. I never met a man 
 who so unmistakably seemed to have been 
 born on the sunny side of life as Nordhoff. 
 Not very rich, yet just rich enough to be 
 able to indulge his artistic and social tastes ; 
 the universal favorite with young and old 
 of both sexes; possessing an excellent 
 physical constitution, and endowed with 
 that precious quality of the mind which 
 enables the man always to keep the '' golden 
 mean " in sentiment, passion, and enjoy- 
 ment, — Nordhoff was the type of the happy 
 man. Somehow or other, his happiness 
 seemed contagious ; all ill-humor vanished 
 at his approach : and looking at his beam- 
 ing, good-natured face, it seemed impossible 
 to believe that such a thing as tears could 
 exist in the world. 
 
A WRECKED LIFE. 135 
 
 Poor Nordhoff ! All this was true till the 
 day when Stella crossed his path. She 
 was an actress belonging to a French opera- 
 bouffe troupe which had given a few per- 
 formances in London. She was neither 
 handsome nor clever; her singing was so 
 wretched that it could only bear a compari- 
 son with her acting: and yet — who shall 
 ever be able to fathom the mystery of love ? 
 Nordhoff fell madly in love with this second- 
 rate chansonniere. All of a sudden he dis- 
 appeared from the social circles and haunts 
 we had been accustomed to visit together. 
 Strange inconsistency of passion ! He 
 actually seemed to be ashamed of the un- 
 worthiness of his feeling, for he studiously 
 concealed even from me what it was that 
 engrossed all his time and energy. At last 
 the day came when all attempts at dis- 
 simulation were useless. Nordhoff began 
 to neglect even his official duties, light as 
 they were. The ambassador, Baron Brun- 
 now, had already on several occasions 
 reprimanded him in a friendly, fatherly 
 manner, and Nordhoff had promised to 
 
136 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 amend; but in vain, the passion devour- 
 ing him was stronger than even his sense 
 of honor. 
 
 At last the catastrophe came. One night 
 I awoke suddenly, and found Nordhoff 
 standing at my bedside. He held a candle 
 in his hand, and by its flickering light I 
 could see that the appearance of the man 
 was utterly transformed. His face was 
 pale and worn, his dress in disorder, his 
 sunken eyes had an unsteady, searching, 
 almost fierce look in them, like that of a 
 hunted animal. 
 
 " Get up and help me ! " he gasped. " I 
 must be off this morning to America, or 
 I shall be a dead man to-night. Don't ask 
 me any questions, if you still have any 
 friendship for me, but lend me the money 
 for the passage." 
 
 I had, indeed, no questions to ask ; his 
 face was answer enough to all. I got up, 
 and we went together to one of those ben- 
 efactors of the human race for whom there 
 is no difference between day and night 
 when a service can be rendered — at lOO 
 
A WRECKED LIFE. 1 37 
 
 per cent. On leaving the money-lender, 
 Nordhoff positively refused to let me ac- 
 company him farther. We took leave of 
 each other on the street. 
 
 From that time I never heard any more 
 of Nordhoff. His disappearance produced 
 something of a sensation, and was spoken 
 of and commented upon a good deal. In 
 due time, however, the whole story was 
 forgotten ; and even I, it must be owned, 
 scarcely thought of Nordhoff and his mis- 
 erable love until the name of Stella, which 
 I found in the story of the poor maniac, 
 revived in me old recollections. Could it 
 be possible, I thought, that it had come to 
 this? 
 
 At all events, I resolved to investigate 
 the matter. At the station-house to which 
 the maniac was first conveyed, I was in- 
 formed that he had been sent to the City 
 Hospital. I proceeded thither accordingly. 
 The employees had no difficulty in remem- 
 bering the case, and I was directed to 
 bed No. 302. A young doctor accom- 
 panied me. 
 
138 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 " What is the matter with the man ? '* 
 I asked on the way. 
 
 ** Appears to be softening of the brain," 
 was the answer; *^ he is not hkely to hve 
 long. Curious case though." 
 
 We had by this time reached the room 
 in which No. 302 lay, and we approached 
 the bed. The patient was lying closely 
 wrapped up in his blanket, his face turned 
 to the wall, either sleeping or insensible. 
 
 '^ Do you want to see his face? " asked 
 the doctor; and before I was able to 
 motion him not to disturb the patient, 
 the latter turned suddenly, and with a 
 blank stare exclaimed : ** Who is there ? — 
 Stella?" 
 
 His whole figure, as he leaned heavily 
 on* his elbow, appeared emaciated and 
 worn to a skeleton; his hair had been 
 cut short, showing painfully every protrud- 
 ing eminence of the skull ; his long beard 
 was gray and wild ; the vacant stare of his 
 large, deeply sunken gray eyes gave to the 
 whole face an expression of idiocy which 
 rendered the features nearly unrecogniza- 
 
A WRECKED LIFE, 139 
 
 ble : and yet, notwithstanding all this dread- 
 ful change, I knew the man instantly. 
 
 *'Nordhoff! " I cried, bending over him 
 and looking him straight in the face, ** do 
 you know me? '' 
 
 A gleam of intelligence seemed for a 
 moment to pass over his face, but only for 
 a moment. Then again the same vacant 
 expression settled on it, and he muttered : 
 '' Who is there? Is it Stella? '' 
 
 There was no hope. Love — the truest, 
 most ardent, most passionate love a man 
 is capable of — had done its work here to 
 the end. 
 
 II. 
 
 By degrees, by questioning the ragman 
 in whose miserable dwelling Nordhoff had 
 found a shelter, the neighbors, and some of 
 the associates of his former life, I succeeded 
 in tracing the history of the unhappy man 
 back to the time when he had landed at 
 New York with his wife, — for he had, 
 before starting, married that French girl. 
 
I40 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 He had always been a lucky man, and 
 it seemed at first that his good fortune had 
 accompanied him over the ocean. He 
 found lucrative employment at the office 
 of a rich broker, a Polish Jew who had 
 formerly been a business agent of Nord- 
 hoff's father in a small way, and was now 
 proud and happy to give a lift to the 
 son. All went on smoothly enough for a 
 year, until a French opera-bouffe com- 
 pany visited New York. Among the sing- 
 ers belonging to the latter, Stella found 
 some former acquaintances. She went to 
 see them, and the demon of the stage 
 seized again on her. Despite the earn- 
 est entreaties of her husband, she passed 
 all her evenings and part of her nights 
 at the theatre in company with some 
 of the wildest Bohemians of the troupe. 
 Among these the women were all very 
 elegant, and covered with jewels they were 
 proud of, which they boastingly showed to 
 Stella. 
 
 ** What is the use of your having mar- 
 ried that fellow," one of those plain-spoken 
 
A WRECKED LIFE. 141 
 
 ** ladies " exclaimed, " if he is unable to 
 give you even a decent outfit?" 
 
 This taunt was not forgotten by Stella. 
 She loved Nordhoff in her way ; but from 
 that moment the notion settled in her mind 
 that somehow he did not treat her as he 
 ought and as she had a right to expect. 
 
 *^ I have given up for him all my pros- 
 pects/' she thought ; '' and now I must cook 
 his dinner for him. It 's shameful ! " 
 
 For all he had given up for her she 
 seemed to be utterly blind. 
 
 At last the day came when the woman 
 openly accused her husband of neglect- 
 ing her. 
 
 *^ You make lots of money," she cried, 
 bursting into tears, '^ and I have not a de- 
 cent dress to put on. I see it all ; you do 
 not love me any more ! " 
 
 Poor Nordhoff tried hard to satisfy his 
 wife's most extravagant wishes. In addi- 
 tion to his office work he succeeded in 
 getting night employment on one of the 
 great newspapers of the city. For a year 
 he worked like a galley-slave, earning about 
 
142 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 five thousand dollars. But what was this 
 sum to a woman used to the extravagances 
 of Parisian fast life? Scenes of peevish, 
 worrying complaints became on her part 
 daily more frequent. Nordhoff was com- 
 paratively happy only while at work, and 
 he actually came to dread the moment 
 he had to go home. And still he loved 
 her with a mad, clinging passion, against 
 which all the dictates of reason remained 
 powerless. 
 
 One summer evening after dark he was 
 taking her out for a walk on Broadway. 
 As they passed the doorway of the Fifth 
 Avenue Hotel the throng separated them 
 for a moment, Nordhoff remaining a few 
 paces behind. At that instant he heard 
 an elegantly dressed man who -had stood 
 at the entrance of the hotel hall accost 
 his wife in a familiar voice, — 
 
 '' Hallo, Stella ! Be there to-night.^' 
 
 Nordhoff sprang forward, and seizing the 
 
 man by the arm, exclaimed: *'This lady 
 
 is my wife, sir ! Who are you ? " The man 
 
 thus accosted seemed at first inclined to 
 
A WRECKED LIFE, 1 43 
 
 resent the action as well as the words, as 
 he was much taller and stronger than Nord- 
 hoff ; but as he looked down on the enraged 
 husband his expression suddenly changed. 
 He cast one more glance at Stella, and then, 
 bowing courteously to Nordhofif, said, — 
 
 ** Excuse me ! I regret my mistake 
 most sincerely. I am short-sighted, and 
 have mistaken your wife for a — a wo- 
 man whose name I dare not even men- 
 tion in the presence of a lady whose 
 husband is a gentleman. Once more, 
 excuse me!'* 
 
 The stranger walked away, leaving Nord- 
 hofif in a fearful state of excitement, uncer- 
 tainty, and dread of something, the horror 
 of which he could scarcely fathom. Seiz- 
 ing his wife's arm with an iron grip, he led 
 her home without uttering a word or heed- 
 ing her lamentations about his *^ brutality.'* 
 Neither did he ask her any questions when 
 they reached home. He was trembling 
 from head to foot, as if with terror. At 
 length, mastering his emotion, he ex- 
 claimed in a hoarse whisper, — 
 
144 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 *' Tell me where you have seen that 
 man ! " 
 
 '' Did not he tell you himself that he 
 had made a mistake?'* was the indignant 
 reply. 
 
 But Nordhoff's suspicion, once aroused, 
 was not so easily to be allayed. He 
 pressed Stella with questions, and there 
 was an expression in his eyes, riveted on 
 her, that somehow awed her into a par- 
 tial avowal. She told him she had met 
 that gentleman at a cafe in Sixth Avenue, 
 " a very decent place," she averred, where 
 she had been but once to eat some ice- 
 cream. Nordhoff pressed her no further, 
 but resolved to watch her. One night, 
 about a week later, instead of going to 
 the office of his journal, he remained con- 
 cealed behind a corner of the street he 
 dwelt in, whence he could have a full view 
 of his house. He had been waiting scarcely 
 half an hour when he saw his wife come 
 out of the house, and, after looking aboirt 
 her carefully, hail a car and drive away. 
 Resolved to have done once for all with 
 
A WRECKED LIFE. 1 45 
 
 his suspicions, Nordhoff followed the car on 
 foot. He ran thus for over a mile, panting 
 for breath, the perspiration rolling in large 
 drops from his forehead. At length the 
 car stopped and Stella alighted. She 
 crossed the street rapidly and entered an 
 *^ establishment," over the entrance of which 
 Nordhoff read the words, — 
 
 CONCERT HALL. ENTRANCE FREE! 
 Beautiful Barmaids in Attendance ! 
 
 Half mad with rage and misery, he 
 pushed the door open, entered, walked 
 straight to the table at which he saw 
 Stella sitting, and took a chair. The 
 woman became pale as death, and was 
 about to run away; but Nordhoff held 
 her fast. 
 
 '^ You need not fear me," he said in an 
 apparently calm tone ; *' I shall not inter- 
 fere with you any longer. Good-by ! " 
 
 Saying which, he rose, and walked out 
 of the room. Whither he went that night 
 no one knows. He simply disappeared, 
 as so many people disappear in our great 
 
 10 
 
146 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 metropolis. His name was added to the 
 list of the '* missing," and a few days later 
 he was forgotten. 
 
 A week after the meeting at the concert- 
 hall a policeman picked up in one of the 
 most disreputable by-streets of the west 
 side a man lying in the gutter, appar- 
 ently in a state of drunken insensibility. 
 Before the judge the man was unable to 
 give any name, and so was sent for ninety 
 days' incognito to the Island. He must 
 have been very drunk indeed, for during 
 all these ninety days he did not recover 
 his senses, and remained in a state of phy- 
 sical and moral lethargy, utterly indifferent 
 to all surroundings. In due time he was 
 released, and came back to New York. 
 Wandering listlessly through the streets in 
 his absent, unconscious way, he came upon 
 an old ragman who was bending under the 
 load of a bag by far exceeding his strength. 
 The released prisoner offered to help him, 
 took the bag on his shoulders, carried it 
 to the old man's home, and after deposit- 
 ing his load in the middle of the dingy 
 
A WRECKED LIFE. 147 
 
 basement-room, sat down on it and smiled 
 blandly in the old man's face. Wise po- 
 litical economists call poor men ^' danger- 
 ous and ill-natured." Perhaps this was the 
 reason why the old ragman, who certainly 
 had always belonged to the poorest of the 
 poor, had pity on this miserable specimen 
 of humanity which had followed him into 
 his den, and let him remain where he was. 
 During the day the poor, harmless idiot 
 helped the old man in his work. At night 
 he lay down on the rags he had gathered 
 during the day. 
 
 So this strange pair lived on for nearly a 
 year. Suddenly the sick man seemed to 
 grow worse. He became restless, refused 
 resolutely to leave his couch, and at night 
 screamed and cried and talked all sorts of 
 nonsense. A few days later, precisely on 
 the anniversary of Nordhoff 's parting from 
 Stella, the ragman's weak-minded comrade 
 executed that extraordinary freak which 
 again brought him into collision with the 
 police authorities, who had him conveyed 
 to the City Hospital. 
 
148 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 There he lay now, — the miserable 
 wreck of the brilliant Nordhoff. I visited 
 him daily, and watched the progress of 
 the sickness which was to give the death- 
 stroke to his ruined mind and body. On 
 the tenth day he died. A few minutes be- 
 fore closing forever, his eyes suddenly 
 shone with a gleam of their former lustre, 
 a smile flitted over his lips, he whispered, 
 '' Stella ! '' and fell back on the pillows — 
 dead. 
 
 And Stella? What became of her? 
 Who knows, or who cares to know? 
 
THE STAGE FIEND, 
 
THE STAGE FIEND. 
 
 HE wind howled and swept down 
 Fifth Avenue with a dismal moan, 
 rattling the shutters and weather- 
 cocks of the silent, sombre mansions which 
 line the Corso of the New World. The 
 day — a dreary, wet, and cold November 
 day — was gradually waning into night. 
 Here and there a street-lamp flickered, 
 and from behind the closely drawn blinds 
 of the windows a ruddy light shone into 
 the street, suggestive of comfortable homes 
 and warm fire-places — for those who en- 
 joyed the supreme happiness of a home on 
 this dreary night. 
 
 This was evidently not the case with an 
 old fiddler who stood on the sidewalk 
 
152 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 bareheaded, with his gray hair flowing in 
 the wind, plying his instrument diHgently. 
 Through the stillness of the street the 
 sounds of his violin were heard distinctly, 
 and seemed less discordant than perform- 
 ances of street musicians are generally apt 
 to be. His repertoire was not rich ; " Pa- 
 rigi cara,*' from the ** Traviata,'' ^* Santa 
 Lucia,'' and a romance by Gordigiani were 
 all he could play. But he played these 
 songs with genuine feeling, with tolerable 
 precision, and with that peculiar chic which 
 immediately betrayed the Italian perform- 
 ing his own national music. After the 
 end of each piece he wistfully looked up 
 at the closed windows on both sides, a 
 shiver passed over his emaciated, poorly 
 clad figure, and after waiting a few mo- 
 ments without result, he again took up his 
 violin and began the next piece. 
 
 While the angry November night closed 
 in on this dreary picture of human desola- 
 tion and helplessness, the glow of a great 
 fire burning cheerfully in a luxuriantly 
 furnished parlor of the house at the gate 
 
THE STAGE FIEND. I 53 
 
 of which the old musician was standing, 
 shone on another picture of solitary grief 
 and misery. A young woman, dressed 
 with a sort of careless luxury in a morning 
 robe of yellow silk, paced fretfully to and 
 fro in the large room. Now she approached 
 the piano and played with one finger the 
 first notes of '^ Parigi la bella ; " then she 
 sprang up again, wrung her hands, while 
 something escaped her lips which sounded 
 very much like an Italian oath, and yawned 
 in the most dismal and (we are sorry to 
 say) inelegant fashion. Here in this abode 
 of wealth and luxury, ennui, the dreadest 
 of all the monsters which assail and tor- 
 ment humanity, had evidently fixed his 
 residence. 
 
 Suddenly its fair victim pulled at the 
 bell with an angry jerk which sent the 
 sound ringing and vibrating through the 
 whole house. A young chambermaid 
 appeared on the threshold. 
 
 ** Annette," said the mistress in French, 
 *^ go and call that musician into the base- 
 ment. I feel terribly dull to-night; per- 
 
154 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 haps a few minutes' conversation with that 
 man will amuse me. But he must not 
 know that I am the mistress of the house. 
 I will change my dress and go downstairs. 
 You and Jean treat me just as if I were the 
 lady's maid, or something of the kind. 
 Do you hear?" 
 
 The young girl smilingly nodded and 
 withdrew. She was evidently used to the 
 many whims of her capricious mistress. 
 A moment later the playing in the street 
 ceased, and the voice of the old man was 
 heard in the basement showering blessings 
 in very imperfect English on the head of 
 the '' noble signora " who had taken pity 
 on a forlorn, helpless old man. 
 
 While he was speaking, the lady herself 
 entered the basement-room. She had 
 changed her dress for a plainer gown; 
 and in pursuance of the directions they 
 had received, neither Annette nor the 
 man-servant Jean noticed in any w^ay her 
 presence. 
 
 '' Well, have you a good appetite? " she 
 asked the old man in Italian. ^* The lady 
 
THE STAGE FIEND. 155 
 
 has ordered us to give you as much as you 
 Hke to eat and drink." 
 
 *' Oh, my most humble thanks to her 
 excellency ! " the old man exclaimed rap- 
 turously, pointing to the wine and the 
 slices of cold roast beef which stood before 
 him on the table. ^' I have never had so 
 good a meal since the blessed days in our 
 own beloved Italy when I played first 
 violin at San Carlo to the singing of the 
 great Barberini." 
 
 At this name the lady suddenly sprang 
 up, and with an imperative gesture impos- 
 ing silence on her servants, took a seat 
 close by the musician. 
 
 ** So you have accompanied the Barber- 
 ini? " she asked in an eager tone. 
 
 *^ Many a time, signorina ; and I shall 
 never forget those nights if I live to be as 
 old as Methuselah. Oh, what an artist, 
 what a blessed child of God she was ! And 
 what a shame it was for her to quit the 
 stage ! '* 
 
 *'You think so?" retorted the lady 
 sharply. '' Do not you know that she left 
 
156 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 the stage to marry a man whom she dearly 
 loved?" 
 
 '' I know that well enough. But where 
 can she find that human love which could 
 replace the glory, the excitement, the in- 
 effable joy Art alone bestows on her favor- 
 ite children? I do not know whom the 
 Barberini married ; I have once been told 
 her husband was an American banker. If 
 so, she is now probably very rich, and living 
 amid the most exquisite luxury; and yet — 
 well, I am sure she feels dull and miserable, 
 and bitterly regrets the time when she 
 possessed nothing in the world but her 
 voice, and that voice alone sufficed to bring 
 the whole world to her feet." 
 
 The lady answered not a word. A dark 
 frown had settled on her brow while the old 
 man spoke. When he had ended, she sprang 
 from her chair and walked quickly out of the 
 room, slamming the door behind her. 
 
 The old man looked in speechless won- 
 der from Annette to Jean. 
 
 ''What is the matter?" he at length 
 uttered. '' Who is this lady? " 
 
THE STAGE FIEND. I 57 
 
 ^*Well, old gentleman," retorted the 
 young soubrette^ with a mischievous smile, 
 ** you have made a nice mess of it ! Do 
 you know who the lady is you have spoken 
 to? No other than Adelina Barberini 
 herself, now Mrs. Henry Thorndike Van 
 Puyten ! " 
 
 The poor old violinist's consternation 
 may be easier imagined than described. 
 At first he insisted on going upstairs and 
 imploring the '' signora's " pardon, but 
 yielded at length to the voice of reason ; 
 and after muttering countless invocations to 
 all the saints whose names he could muster, 
 he left the house heavily laden with victuals 
 of every description, with which the good- 
 natured Annette had stuffed his pockets. 
 
 If he could have witnessed the effect his 
 words had produced on the lady of the 
 house, the old violinist's distress would have 
 been still greater. On leaving her protege 
 Mrs. Van Puyten returned to the parlor 
 and sat down on a low stool near the fire. 
 With heaving bosom, her brows contracted, 
 and her beautiful black eyes shining with 
 
158 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 tears, she sat there for a long while, look- 
 ing steadfastly into the flames. 
 
 Her whole past life appeared to her as 
 in a mirror. She again saw the brilliantly- 
 illuminated, crowded house ; she heard the 
 storm of applause rising around her; she 
 felt once more that atmosphere of thrilling, 
 feverish excitement which hovers about 
 the mysterious and picturesque world of 
 the stage. It was there she had made the 
 acquaintance of her present husband, who 
 was one of her most ardent admirers. 
 Frequent meetings in society ripened the 
 acquaintance to intimacy, and at length to 
 love, or at least to what might have been 
 easily mistaken for love. He loved in her 
 his own vanity, the proud satisfaction of 
 having attracted the notice of a woman at 
 whose feet the richest potentates of the 
 financial and aristocratic world had fallen 
 in vain. She had been captivated by his 
 youth, his original wit, and last, not least, 
 by the dazzling prospect of a life full of 
 social triumphs, of all the luxuries which 
 millions can purchase. 
 
THE STAGE FIEND, 159 
 
 They were married, and came to live in 
 New York. Two years had passed since, — 
 two years of the bitterest disappointment. 
 Her husband, as well as the life of those 
 circles of New York society which she 
 naturally entered, proved on closer ac- 
 quaintance to be widely different from the 
 brilliant picture the ci-devmit Barberini had 
 drawn of both while the '' charm of the 
 unknown " still surrounded them. H. 
 Thorndike Van der Puyten (of the name 
 Thorndike and of his unquestionable 
 Knickerbocker descent he was immeas- 
 urably proud) was what one is apt to call 
 ^^ a capital fellow." A thorough sports- 
 man, he possessed all those qualities which 
 rendered life enjoyable in a quiet, every- 
 day fashion, without ever becoming un- 
 comfortable or clashing with the ways and 
 manners of the so-called '' world." In the 
 limits prescribed by fashion he found all 
 that his heart or his imagination could 
 desire. All interests and pursuits lying 
 beyond these limits were put down as 
 eccentric or ** improper." 
 
l6o MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 That the passionate Itahan prima donna, 
 accustomed from her earHest youth to the 
 bustle and fre'edom of stage Hfe, should 
 feel from day to day more miserable in 
 this narrow sphere of barren social con- 
 ventionalities, was not more than might 
 have been expected. Gradually her tem- 
 per changed. She grew fretful, melancholy. 
 Violent scenes between husband and wife 
 became daily more frequent, and were the 
 more bitter as neither of the parties had a 
 feeling of being in the wrong. Little by 
 little, poor Thorndike came to consider his 
 home as the very reverse of paradise, and 
 was happy when business afforded him the 
 welcome pretext for a more or less pro- 
 longed absence. Just now he had gone as 
 far as San Francisco, to inspect a mine he 
 had an important interest in. This forced 
 solitude had still more embittered the sig- 
 nora's temper, for she loved her husband 
 still, and though tormenting him when he 
 was present, missed him painfully when he 
 left her. She had no intimate friends, and 
 derived no pleasure from a superficial 
 
THE STAGE FIEND, l6l 
 
 intercourse with the fashionable *^ set *' to 
 whom her husband had introduced her. 
 Thus she passed nearly all her days alone, 
 with no other company than the recollec- 
 tions of her past eventful life, and repeat- 
 ing over and over again, in the dreary 
 notes of the Venetian gondolier's chant, 
 Dante's verse, — 
 
 " Nessun maggior dolore 
 Che ricordarsi del tempo felice 
 Nella miseria." 
 
 The effect which the unexpected meet- 
 ing with an old associate of those *' happy 
 times '' produced on the fretting mind and 
 rebel heart of the artiste, can more easily 
 be imagined than described. The old vio- 
 linist had by his words, which corresponded 
 so exactly with her innermost feelings, 
 raised a storm in the heart of the ex-prima 
 donna. The ^' fever of the stage " seized 
 on her with uncontrollable power. 
 
 *^ No," she exclaimed to herself, spring- 
 ing up from her seat by the fire, ** I will 
 not, I cannot bear it any longer. This 
 
 II 
 
1 62 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 old beggar with his fiddle is happier than 
 I, for he at least — " 
 
 A sudden idea seemed to strike her. 
 She lifted her head with an eager look, and 
 an exulting smile crept over her lips. She 
 sat down at her writing-desk, snatched a 
 sheet of note-paper out of one of the 
 drawers, and wrote hastily a few lines. 
 Then she rang the bell ; and giving Annette 
 the letter, said, '* Be sure to have it sent the 
 very first thing to-morrow morning.'* 
 
 On leaving the room the chambermaid 
 read the address : ^^ Mr. Maurice Savarez, 
 1 6 W. Fourteenth Street, City.'' The 
 name was that of a well-known operatic 
 manager. The pretty soubrette smiled 
 slyly on delivering the letter to Jean. 
 Both domestics looked at one another in 
 a knowing way, but said nothing. 
 
 The next morning, before eleven, an ele- 
 gant coupe dashed to the door of Mrs. Van 
 Puyten's residence, and thence leaped out in 
 a state of feverish excitement the well-known 
 little figure of Savarez. Adelina remained 
 closeted with him for more than an hour. 
 
THE STAGE FIEND. 163 
 
 The result of this conference became evi- 
 dent the very next day. Mysterious notices 
 were published by the papers, hinting at 
 the possibiHty and even probabihty of an 
 impending ** event " of unparalleled interest 
 to the musical world. 
 
 A few days later there appeared in all 
 the journals the following card : — 
 
 ADELINA BARBERINI 
 
 HAS THE HONOR OF ANNOUNCING THAT SHE 
 
 WILL GIVE A 
 
 CONCERT, 
 
 FOR THE BENEFIT OF A POOR ARTISTE, AT 
 
 THE ACADEMY OF MUSIC 
 
 On Novernber 28. 
 
 The news of the impending event ran 
 like lightning through the city. The papers 
 published biographical sketches of the 
 artiste, giving wonderful particulars of 
 her former triumphs, and hinting delicate- 
 ly at her present high social position. In a 
 few days every available seat in the house 
 was reserved. Many had sent tenfold the 
 actual price for their tickets; the stock- 
 
l64 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 holders of the Academy themselves on 
 this extraordinary and memorable occa- 
 sion paid full price for their boxes. Before 
 the concert had taken place the receipts 
 had already attained a sum which Signor 
 Savarez declared to be unparalleled in 
 the annals of musical enterprise. 
 
 At length the great day came. The pro- 
 gramme, distributed only on the morning 
 of the 28th, added still more to the interest 
 of the event. Signora Barberini was to 
 appear as Margherita in the third act of 
 Gounod's ** Faust," seconded by the first 
 artiste of the Italian Opera. 
 
 Long before eight o'clock the Academy 
 was crowded to its utmost capacity. A 
 thrill of suspense and of intense curiosity 
 ran through the house while the overture, 
 played by the orchestra of the Italian 
 Opera (who had volunteered their services 
 for the occasion), and the other numbers of 
 the programme, all performed by exquisite 
 artisteSy were being disposed of. All the 
 interest, all the attention of the thousands 
 of people who crammed the house were 
 
THE STAGE FIEND. 165 
 
 concentrated on that one act of ''Faust" 
 which was to close the concert. At length 
 the curtain rose, displaying the well-known 
 scenery of Margherita's garden. Siebel 
 sang his air to the flowers, Faust (one of 
 the few good tenors still treading on earth) 
 rendered, wath exquisite feeling, his invoca- 
 tion to the dimora casta e pii7'a; the wicked 
 tempter Mephisto placed his casket of jew- 
 els on a chair ; then came some soft, mellow 
 tones in the orchestra, announcing the 
 entrance of Margherita, the garden-door 
 opened, and then, like the roar of the ocean, 
 there arose from all parts of the house a 
 deafening storm of cheers and applause 
 which drowned every other sound. One 
 moment the artiste stopped at the door, 
 seemingly dazzled by the enthusiasm she ex- 
 cited ; then she advanced slowly, bowing as 
 she went. When she reached the footlights 
 the musical director — a gray-haired veteran 
 of the artistic world — rose from his seat, 
 and bowing low to the artiste, presented her, 
 in the name of the orchestra, with a beau- 
 tiful nosegay of white roses and violets. 
 
1 66 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 This was the signal for a new and still 
 more enthusiastic ovation. Following the 
 example of the musicians and their direc- 
 tor, nearly the whole audience rose from 
 their seats, while a shower of flowers was 
 poured from the proscenium boxes on the 
 stage. In the midst of all this frenzy of 
 applause the Barberini stood motionless, 
 with bowed head, a smile of unutterable 
 happiness illumining her face, and big 
 tears running down her cheeks. 
 
 Never had the great artiste looked more 
 beautiful. She had disdained to follow 
 the tradition, and had not concealed un- 
 der a blond wig her own beautiful black 
 hair, which fell in two shining tresses over 
 her shoulders; her eyes, flashing with hap- 
 piness, triumph, and tears, gave a peculiar 
 lustre to all her features. She stood there in 
 all her dazzling beauty, with heaving bosom, 
 like a statue, — a work of art of wonderful 
 perfection, but full of passion and life. 
 
 More than five minutes elapsed before 
 the first enthusiasm subsided so as to allow 
 the artiste to begin her part. How she 
 
THE STAGE FIEND. 1 67 
 
 sang it; how after each air the applause 
 broke out afresh ; how many times she was 
 called before the curtain at the close of the 
 act, — all this baffles description, and is 
 still fresh in the memory of all who were 
 fortunate enough to witness that remark- 
 able performance. 
 
 While the applause and the frenzy of the 
 public were at their highest, nobody no- 
 ticed an old man, in a shabby black coat, 
 standing at one of the doors of the parquet. 
 With arms stretched out towards the stage, 
 he stood there sobbing like a child, and 
 muttering in a broken voice, — 
 
 *' What an angel ! What an angel of 
 heaven she is ! " 
 
 On her arrival at home the artiste was 
 received with another and still more touch- 
 ing demonstration. The chorus of the 
 Italian Opera waited with lighted torches 
 at her door, and serenaded her, the music 
 consisting exclusively of Italian national 
 airs. 
 
 The night was far advanced when Mrs. 
 Van Puyten at last found herself alone in 
 
1 68 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 her bedroom. She was tired out by all the 
 emotions of the evening, but could find no 
 rest. She paced about the room with a 
 nervous, restless step, wringing her hands, 
 sighing deeply, convulsive sobs shaking 
 from time to time her whole figure. A 
 fearful struggle, on the issue of which her 
 whole future life depended, seemed to be 
 raging in her breast. 
 
 The pale light of a November morning 
 was breaking through the curtains when 
 Mrs. Van Puyten sat down to her table 
 and dashed off a few hasty lines on a sheet 
 of note-paper. The letter began with 
 the words, — 
 
 ^' Forgive me, forgive me ! I cannot bear 
 this life any longer ! It would but render us 
 both still more miserable ! " 
 
 Two months later, on a lovely night in 
 January, the great hall of the San Carlo 
 Theatre at Naples was crowded with all 
 that fashion and art could muster in the 
 great city. From Rome, from Florence, 
 the connoisseurs had assembled to wel- 
 
THE STAGE FIEND, 1 69 
 
 come the great Barberini back to the 
 stage. It was an event which all Italy 
 celebrated as a national festival. 
 
 While the orchestra were tuning their 
 instruments many among the audience no- 
 ticed an old man sitting in the row of the 
 first violins, and wearing an expression of 
 unutterable joy and solemn triumph on his 
 lean, wrinkled face. As he took up his 
 violin and adjusted it under his chin, he 
 looked more like a priest preparing, for a 
 solemn ritual than an orchestra musician 
 about to do his night's work. 
 
 ** It is I, my friend," he whispered to 
 his neighbor in an exulting tone, '^ who 
 brought her back to the stage. Thank 
 God ! " 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL. 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL. 
 
 NE day last summer as Bartholdi 
 
 and I were going to the studio of 
 
 a rather eccentric friend of ours, 
 
 known to the art world as Frederic Holt, 
 
 I was suddenly startled by these words 
 
 from my companion, — 
 
 ** Where on earth, old fellow, do you 
 rake up subjects for your little stories? " 
 
 ** Ah ! ** I exclaimed, ^' do you find my 
 little stories so trivial?'* 
 
 I confess I was just a trifle nettled by 
 the tone of the question, which was not 
 complimentary, but on the contrary seemed 
 to imply a slight feeling of scorn for my 
 brain labors past, present, and future. I 
 was hurt; but having no extraordinary 
 
1/4 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 opinion of my friend's literary judgment, 
 I stifled my anger and replied in a calm 
 unruffled voice, — 
 
 ** To-day, my good friend, you may 
 perhaps see the kind of place wherein I 
 not unfrequently find subjects for my * little 
 stories/ as you are pleased to call them. 
 At the same time," I continued, with that 
 calm irony for which I am noted, **you 
 must keep your eyes open ; for there are 
 certain people who are unable to see be- 
 yond their own noses, and who value liter- 
 ary work by its bulk, rather than by its 
 quality. Attar of roses, my friend, is offen- 
 sive to the coarse senses of certain people, 
 and I have no doubt there are men living 
 in this world who would ask in their ignor- 
 ance where Shakspeare picked up the ma- 
 terials for his little story of Hamlet." 
 
 As I concluded my bitterly sarcastic 
 speech we found ourselves in a sort of 
 court-yard built in the Italian style of no 
 particular era, at the end of which was 
 a door cut in the wall of an old house. 
 Guarding this door were two lions in an 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL, 175 
 
 attitude suggesting that they intended to 
 hurl themselves against the bars of their 
 cage. Their eyes were flashing, their 
 mouths open, and their tongues protruding ; 
 but as these terrible beasts were only in 
 the form of a rough design sketched on 
 the wall, we boldly approached the door 
 and passed it with no further mishap than 
 a slight soiling of our coats with white- 
 wash and crumbling plaster. 
 
 For several days past Frederic Holt 
 had been almost a fixture in his studio, 
 working with tremendous energy on a 
 picture in which he intended to display all 
 his technique and at the same time reveal 
 his knowledge of drawing and of color. 
 His great desire was at the same time 
 to arouse the interest of a particular patron 
 well known to the community of artists; 
 but on account of some circumstances only 
 known to himself, Frederic was compelled 
 to put the finishing touches to his already 
 over-elaborated picture, with the sickening 
 conviction that, after all, it must go to the 
 general Academy exhibition, and there be 
 
176 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 subjected to the cold and unsympathetic 
 criticisms of a hard-hearted pubHc. 
 
 Our friend had studied for many years 
 in Europe, and not only had a great repu- 
 tation, but had also produced a few good 
 pictures, — which is a paradox I do not care 
 to explain. As soon as it was known that 
 an interesting subject was under treatment 
 on his easel, friends and the pubHc gener- 
 ally were attracted to his studio. 
 
 According to his custom, the artist had 
 chosen an historical subject; and fondly 
 believing that his talents would be judged 
 from the size of his picture, he had filled 
 an immense canvas with a representation 
 called ** Nero's Dream.'* This represented 
 a bare-legged man, confined in the Laocoon 
 folds of a streaming toga, standing on the 
 ruins of a Parthenonic building and wildly 
 shivering at the sight of a multitude of 
 phantoms that were scantily dressed in 
 sheets and ornamented with clanking iron 
 chains. 
 
 We found our friend moving nervously 
 about among his visitors, constantly ap- 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL. 177 
 
 preaching his picture to turn it a little to 
 the right or left, arranging the curtains to 
 obtain the best possible light, and at the 
 same time watching the faces of his guests 
 as if he hoped to read the secrets of their 
 very souls. 
 
 ** Superb, grand, gigantic, massive, bold, 
 delicate, fine, delightful, Michelangel- 
 esque,'' were the adjectives freely bandied 
 about. 
 
 '^Do you not find relief in the picture, a 
 general mastery of color, and good per- 
 spective?" Frederic modestly inquired, 
 while he enjoyed to the full the praises of 
 his indulgent brother artists. 
 
 "Magnificent! perfect!" they exclaimed; 
 and they turned their backs to the picture 
 to enjoy the more refreshing sight of a keg 
 of beer that was in the corner of the studio, 
 and served to modify the customary acidity 
 of the critical throat and voice. 
 
 In the din of voices no one in the room 
 seemed to hear several discreet taps on the 
 door ; as there was no response to them, the 
 portihe that screened the entrance was 
 
1/8 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 quietly raised, and the figure of a young 
 girl appeared. 
 
 " Ah ! that 's Graziella ! '' exclaimed 
 several of the men. 
 
 " Come in ! " said Frederic, advancing 
 towards her and holding out his hand. 
 
 *' I fear I shall disturb you,'' she said, 
 with a foreign but agreeable accent. *^ Ex- 
 cuse me ; I will come back another day." 
 
 Frederic, who would willingly have de- 
 tained the girl, saw her flit from the room 
 with the grace and shyness of a chamois. 
 
 ^* There goes an exception to her sex 
 in general and her nation in particular," 
 said the artist with a half-sigh. 
 
 '' Ah, how charitable ! how gallant ! how 
 interesting ! " exclaimed one of the young 
 men present. " But I should like to teach 
 your exception good manners," he added, 
 rushing to the window and making pan- 
 tomimic signs to the retreating Graziella, 
 who turned her back on him, evidently 
 vexed for having indulged in a retrospec- 
 tive glance. 
 
 The unabashed young fellow approached 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL. 1 79 
 
 the artist, and digging him in the ribs, 
 said, — 
 
 '' You are a lucky dog, Holt ! We 
 understand, you know. Artist and model ! 
 Lake of Como and Ovid ! " 
 
 The turn the conversation had taken 
 caused some anger in the breast of the 
 painter of *' Nero's Dream; " and drawing 
 himself up, he explained with indignant 
 warmth that the girl was no ordinary fre- 
 quenter of studios, and that having noth- 
 ing in common with those of the profession, 
 she was the impersonation of modesty and 
 virtue. 
 
 *' I would answer for her as for my 
 sister," he exclaimed, with flushed cheeks 
 and flashing eyes. 
 
 '' See here, Frederic, don't fly off* at a 
 tangent. She is pretty, confoundedly 
 pretty. How long have you known her? " 
 
 ** Only for a few months. She is re- 
 served and good, and worthy the honest 
 love of any man.'' 
 
 " Go it, Fred, my boy ! I say, though, 
 if you keep on you will end by speaking 
 
l80 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 blank verse. By the way, though, what 
 a splendid title and subject for a picture : 
 * The Organ-Grinder's Child ; or, the 
 Artist's Infatuation/ '' 
 
 ** Laugh on, my critic ! and yet I still dare 
 to affirm that the girl is honest and good/* 
 
 In fact Graziella merited all that the 
 artist could say in her defence. At the 
 age of fifteen she had left her native coun- 
 try, the superb coast of Sorrento, to emi- 
 grate with a band of Neapolitans, and a 
 few weeks later had disembarked with a 
 miscellaneous assortment of good and evil 
 at Castle Garden, New York. 
 
 Having neither father nor mother, Grazi- 
 ella had brought with her no other souve- 
 nir than the memory of her native village 
 and her young lazzarone lover, who passed 
 his days in sleeping under the vines by 
 the sea, often having no other breakfast 
 than the warm rays of sunlight that pen- 
 etrate every nook and corner of that 
 favored land. 
 
 Upon the arrival of Graziella and her 
 Neapolitan friends in New York the band 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL, l8l 
 
 became scattered, though a large number 
 settled in the neighborhood of Marion and 
 Crosby streets, while Graziella found a 
 home for herself with an old country- 
 woman of hers in a dreary house devoid 
 of sunshine and all other comforts, except 
 that of the protection and good-will of 
 the old woman. 
 
 The girl's only pleasure was to sally 
 forth at daybreak, and after a long walk 
 to wander about Castle Garden, which 
 became her habitual promenade; so that 
 one might have supposed that the bright 
 little figure bloomed there like the other 
 flowers. 
 
 After the fashion of many of her coun- 
 trywomen she retained the national cos- 
 tume, which consisted of a green petticoat 
 short enough to reveal her tidy shoes and 
 stockings, a dark velvet bodice, the never- 
 failing striped apron, and the white head- 
 covering that set off to advantage the 
 glossiness of the thick black hair. The 
 cleanliness of her apparel amounted almost 
 to daintiness. • 
 
1 82 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 As an exception to her race, her com- 
 plexion was pink and white, in strong 
 contrast to the usual dark-olive hue of 
 the ordinary Neapolitan. Her complexion 
 was not only fine, but her features were 
 of the utmost regularity. Coral lips, tiny 
 mouth, and large, tender eyes, shaded by 
 long lashes, arrested the attention of passers- 
 by; and not unfrequently poor Graziella 
 was frightened by the undisguised admira- 
 tion of the unknown who congregated at 
 the Battery on Sunday afternoons. 
 
 If by chance she was accosted by some 
 unknown person, she quietly betook her- 
 self to another part of the park, to dream 
 in peace in the beautiful October sunlight 
 of New York. 
 
 These hours of dolce far niente became 
 less and less frequent, however ; for Grazi- 
 ella, like her compatriots, was obliged to 
 earn her daily bread, which she had also 
 to share with the old woman to whom she 
 owed shelter. 
 
 To provide for her wants this girl had 
 two resources ; namely, to pose as a model 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL. 183 
 
 for artists during the morning, and in the 
 afternoon to turn the handle of a small 
 organ in the most frequented streets. 
 
 She had been initiated into the profes- 
 sion of model by Frederic Holt, who had 
 seen her one day turning the hand-organ 
 opposite the window of Martinelli's restau- 
 rant, where he was dining. Her natural 
 beauty and simple grace at once attracted 
 his trained eye, that was ever on the alert 
 for the picturesque and the beautiful. Soon 
 the girl became a favorite in the studios, 
 where by posing three or four hours daily 
 she was eventually enabled to hire a more 
 cheerful room for herself and the old 
 woman, whom she would not abandon in 
 the days of her comparative prosperity. 
 
 Notwithstanding her seeming content- 
 ment, a sigh would sometimes escape from 
 the little Graziella's lips, — the mute expres- 
 sion of a longing desire to see her lover, 
 Salvatore, who was so far away. 
 
 Her only amusement in the evening was 
 to count up the little earnings of the day, 
 over and above the modest needs of the 
 
1 84 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 small household. An old woollen stocking 
 was the receptacle for these coins, and a 
 dilapidated chest the safety deposit vault 
 of the stocking. 
 
 ** And when shall I have five hundred 
 dollars, I wonder?'' Graziella would repeat 
 to herself with weary, yearning iteration. 
 
 Five hundred dollars ! 
 
 That was the sum the young girl had 
 fixed on to carry back with her to Sorrento. 
 It was to be the dowry she had set her 
 heart on, — her marriage-basket the day 
 that she should become the legitimate wife 
 of worthy Salvatore, who in the mean 
 time was patiently idling away his time 
 and awaiting his bride, sleeping under the 
 orange-trees like a dormouse. 
 
 Alas ! it would take a long time yet to 
 collect five hundred dollars ; many pictures 
 must be posed for before the magic sum 
 would be complete. 
 
 Frederic Holt felt a tender sentiment 
 for his little model, — a sentiment whose 
 full meaning he perhaps did not interpret 
 even to himself. He felt happy when she 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL. 185 
 
 was in his studio, and loved to hear the 
 sound of her pleasant little voice and 
 note the changeful expression of her bright, 
 dazzling eyes. She was only a model ; yet 
 he had never dreamed of paining her 
 little heart with an evil action. The 
 idea of marriage with her was ridiculous; 
 and yet how dark his studio seemed to 
 grow when she left it ! what sunshine she 
 brought with her, and what a lonely life 
 was his ! 
 
 The day following that of the reception 
 at the studio, Graziella reappeared accord- 
 ing to her promise. The door being open, 
 she entered without knocking, to find her- 
 self quite alone in the room which the 
 artist had just left. 
 
 On entering soon after, he heard a little 
 cry of joy, and saw his model standing 
 before a bright oil-sketch hung against 
 the wall, in a corner usually concealed by 
 a heavy tapestry curtain ; and here, amid a 
 quantity of studio rubbish and sketches 
 brought from Italy, was the painting that 
 had attracted Graziella's attention. She 
 
1 86 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 clapped her hands with pleasure, while her 
 breath came more and more quickly, and 
 her great eyes dilated as though receiving 
 a reflection from the vivifying Italian sun. 
 
 The whole attitude of the girl was that 
 of ecstasy. '' Oh, it is that ! It is that ! '' 
 she murmured. **The laurel-trees, the wild 
 chestnut behind the hill, where the boys 
 play mora; and, blessed Maria! the very 
 houses are there, even the one where I wa^ 
 born ! How beautiful it is ! how happy it 
 makes me to see my country again ! Ah, 
 if I could only remain here looking at it 
 forever ! " 
 
 The girl had fallen on her knees as be- 
 fore a Madonna, repeating to herself, — 
 
 ** How lovely it is ! It seems as though 
 I must be back in Sorrento, and Salvatore 
 must be coming to meet me ! I was cold 
 a little while ago; now I am warm. I feel 
 the sun upon the canvas, which sparkles in 
 the tree-tops and on the sea. It is beauti- 
 ful, so beautiful ! " 
 
 Graziella was so absorbed in the con- 
 templation of the picture and the memories 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL, \Z^ 
 
 it called forth that she did not notice 
 the entrance of Frederic, who gently ap- 
 proached her, and after listening with 
 thoughtful face to her enthusiastic mono- 
 logue, touched her cheek lightly with a 
 trembling finger and said, — 
 
 *^ Are you praying, little one? '* 
 
 *' Oh, no! signor; I was thinking that 
 these sketches must be worth something, — 
 at least this one of my own country." 
 
 ** I had forgotten them, little one," he 
 answered. 
 
 '* This one of Sorrento, signor, is beau- 
 tiful; how well I know it! It needs only 
 Salvatore in it to make it perfect." 
 
 '' Salvatore," he repeated, gazing down 
 thoughtfully at the flushed, excited face of 
 the girl. 
 
 ** My intended husband, signor ; he lives 
 in the place you have so beautifully 
 painted." 
 
 " And are you so anxious to see him 
 again, little one?" 
 
 The girl did not answer in words, but 
 tears welled up to her eyes, and her lips 
 
1 88 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 trembled. The man turned aside and 
 walked to the dusty window, and in a mo- 
 ment the girl was by his side. 
 
 *' Your soul speaks in that picture, sig- 
 nor. It is lovely, — better, far better than 
 that," she added, pointing to the famous 
 '' Nero's Dream.'' 
 
 " You shall see Salvatore, little one," 
 said the artist, gazing sadly at the girl; 
 ** but leave me now, for I have no need of 
 you this morning." 
 
 There was yet a day to spare before the 
 expiration of the time in which his pictures 
 were to be sent to the exhibition. 
 
 When Graziella left the room, '* Nero's 
 Dream " was turned to the wall and was 
 never finished. Two weeks later, Frederic 
 had the satisfaction of seeing his '' Sor- 
 rento " admirably hung at the Academy, 
 where it was enthusiastically praised, and, 
 what is better, was sold at an extravagant 
 and unlooked-for price to an enthusiastic 
 millionnaire. 
 
 One day, when Graziella was again pos- 
 ing for our friend, and looking more pen- 
 
GRAZIELLA THE MODEL. 1 89 
 
 sive than usual, Frederic suddenly surprised 
 her by asking how much money was yet 
 lacking to make up the sum of the coveted 
 five hundred dollars. 
 
 *'Alas! signor, three hundred dollars/' 
 was the mournful reply. *^ I shall not see 
 Salvatore for many a year.'* 
 
 "And are you so anxious to see him, 
 little one?'' 
 
 *' My heart would break, signor, without 
 that hope. He is my life, my soul ! " 
 
 The artist sighed, and stared gloomily at 
 the young girl. 
 
 *' Are you angry with me, signor?" she 
 asked timidly. 
 
 '* Angry, little one? No! See, my 
 child, here are three hundred dollars. 
 Take them; they are honestly yours, for 
 without you they would never have been 
 earned. Through you I sold my Italian 
 sketch, and I give you this to take you 
 back to Italy and to — Salvatore ! One 
 kiss, my child, as a memory, and then 
 good-by to you forever." 
 
 And this is the reason that, ten days 
 
I90 
 
 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 later, the little model bade farewell to New 
 York, to return to her native land and to 
 her Salvatore, whom perhaps she has been 
 able to keep awake by relating to him her 
 wonderful experiences in the great city 
 beyond the sea. 
 
WHO WAS HE? 
 
WHO WAS HE? 
 
 *' There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than 
 are dreamt of in your philosophy." — Shakspeare. 
 
 F the story I am about to narrate 
 seems strange, even incomprehen- 
 sible, to the reader, I beg to state 
 from the very first that I myself am of 
 the same opinion about it. Though I 
 actually witnessed and even took part in 
 the strange occurrences I am about to re- 
 late ; though I lived for years in intimate 
 intercourse with the strange being I have 
 again heard from so unexpectedly but 
 a few days ago, — yet I am still entirely 
 unable to explain what I have seen. I 
 simply state facts, leaving it to the reader 
 to draw what inferences he may choose. 
 
 13 
 
194 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 In the autumn of the year 1864 I en- 
 tered the University of St. Petersburg. 
 Having passed my childhood and early 
 youth in Germany and in England, I had 
 naturally but few acquaintances in Russia ; 
 and though a Russian by birth, I had some 
 trouble in mastering the language suffi- 
 ciently to follow the course of studies I had 
 selected. I worked hard, and avoided the 
 society of other students of my class, — first, 
 because as a set of light-headed young 
 " swells" belonging to rich and aristocratic 
 families, bent much more on amusement 
 than on study, they would have interfered 
 with my occupations; and secondly, be- 
 cause even then I was imbued with those 
 political ideas which have since had such 
 a powerful influence on my whole life, 
 and which naturally kept me from ming- 
 ling with representatives of a class which 
 I hated as the source of misery and 
 oppression. 
 
 For a young man not yet out of his teens 
 I led a rather solitary, almost monastic, 
 life. But though not mingling with society 
 
WHO WAS HE 9 195 
 
 in its brilliant and noisy manifestations, 
 I was a careful observer- of the earnest 
 current of discontent which undermined 
 it, and which even then was preparing 
 the powerful revolutionary movement now 
 in progress. Having no personal connec- 
 tion with the representatives of the radical 
 party of the time, I confined myself to 
 reading diHgently the publications which, 
 within the narrow limits of the Russian 
 press censorship, were considered the 
 mouthpieces of the advanced party. The 
 Sovremennik (Contemporary) and the 
 Riisskoye Sioso (Russian World), both edi- 
 ted by some of the most distinguished 
 publicists and critics Russia has ever pos- 
 sessed, were always to be found on my 
 table. And with what eager enthusiasm I 
 cut the sheets of a new critical essay of 
 Dobroluboff, a new poem of Nekrassoff, 
 ** the poet of Russian woe and sorrow,*' 
 some newly published politico-economical 
 article of Tchernyshevsky, who was then 
 pining in a subterranean dungeon of the 
 "Peter and Paul fortress " at St. Petersburg, 
 
196 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 previous to being buried alive in the town 
 of Eastern Siberia to which he was later 
 sent. The writings of these men were my 
 only companions; and as I knew that in 
 this respect I should find neither compre- 
 hension nor sympathy on the part of most 
 of my " aristocratic" fellow-students, I held 
 aloof from them. 
 
 Among the throng of young faces which 
 I met daily in the lecture-hall was one 
 which had struck me from the very first, 
 and not agreeably. It was that of a 
 young man dressed always with the ut- 
 most elegance. This face wore a curi- 
 ously mingled look of juvenile freshness 
 and deep melancholy, the latter mostly 
 concealed under a bland smile, which gave 
 to the whole countenance a cunning and 
 insinuating expression. The melancholy 
 lay in the eyes, which looked old and life- 
 less out of the young, fresh face. This 
 contrast between the eyes and the rest of 
 the face was peculiarly striking, disagree- 
 able, and at the same time fascinating. 
 Wherever that queer face appeared I 
 
WHO WAS HE? 197 
 
 could not help feeling myself attracted 
 by it; and this attraction seemed to me 
 mutual, for as often as I looked up to it 
 I could feel those sad, pensive eyes fixed 
 on me. 
 
 On one bitter cold night as I walked 
 home from the university, muffled in my 
 fur-coat up to the ears, I heard the 
 footsteps of a man following me, and 
 on turning round found myself face to 
 face with the young student I have 
 mentioned. 
 
 *^ Do not let me detain you," he said, 
 touching his beaver cap ; *' the evening is 
 cold, and we can talk while we walk, and 
 finish our conversation in your room, as 
 you will certainly invite me to take a cup 
 of tea with you/* 
 
 He laughed as he spoke, and that same 
 cunning, disagreeable smile I had so often 
 noticed lit up his face. 
 
 '' You doubtless consider me," he con- 
 tinued, *^ a very impertinent fellow. Never 
 mind ; bear with me for an hour or so, 
 and then we are sure to be the best friends 
 
198 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 in the world, — that is, if I am not greatly 
 mistaken in you/* 
 
 There was a frank, guileless tone in his 
 speech which prevented my getting angry 
 with him. 
 
 *• If you are so sure about our becoming 
 friends so soon," I answered, laughing, 
 *^ you will perhaps be kind enough to men- 
 tion your name." 
 
 ''Certainly; my name is Michael 
 Somoff." 
 
 We walked on in silence. On reaching 
 the door of my house I stopped. 
 
 "Well," exclaimed Somoff, **you do 
 not invite me to step in. Oh, what an 
 inhospitable wretch you are ! Very well, 
 I will not trouble you any longer; but 
 if you read in to-morrow's paper that 
 a frozen corpse, belonging to Michael 
 Somoff, student at law, has been found in 
 the street, then may my blood and that of 
 my future children rest on your soul ! " 
 
 What could I answer? Of course I 
 laughed, opened my door, and invited him 
 to enter. 
 
WHO WAS HE? 199 
 
 Half an hour later we were engaged in 
 a most lively and engrossing conversation. 
 I found in Somoff a man of extensive 
 learning and experience. An article about 
 the rate of wages in the manufacturing 
 districts of Russia, which had just then 
 appeared in one of the monthly reviews, 
 furnished him the occasion of displaying 
 a thorough knowledge of the customs, 
 ways of life, and economical condition of 
 the working classes in the different prov- 
 inces of the empire, which was surprising 
 in so young a representative of the *^ fash- 
 ionable " youth of the capital. That our 
 political opinions were identical, Somoff 
 seemed to take for granted from the very 
 first. But while my revolutionary pro- 
 pensities bore rather the character of an 
 undeveloped instinct, his political creed, 
 as it appeared in every word he spoke, 
 was matured by experience and a pro- 
 found, earnest study of Russian national 
 hfe. 
 
 After an hour's talk the man had entirely 
 bewitched me. I am unable to find another 
 
200 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 word to express the peculiar influence he 
 gained over my mind. Everything he 
 said appeared to me so true, so noble, 
 so full of authority, that I scarcely ven- 
 tured to take part in the conversation, 
 and let him speak and speak, listening 
 to his clear, metallic voice as to a sweet 
 melody. 
 
 At last he stopped, and rising abruptly, 
 looked at his watch. 
 
 ** It is nine o'clock; and I had promised 
 to call on poor little Adele at eight ! '' 
 
 The man seemed suddenly transformed. 
 The political enthusiast, the eloquent 
 speaker had disappeared. Before me stood, 
 with the same insipid smile on his lips, the 
 " swell " whose appearance had so often 
 repulsed me. 
 
 *'Do you know Adele?" he continued. 
 *' A charming little girl. I will introduce 
 you one of these days. Now, good-by, 
 my friend ! I hope to find in you soon 
 a worthy pupil of Dr. Dillmann," he added 
 in an earnest undertone. 
 
 *' Dillmann ! " I repeated, transfixed with 
 
WHO WAS HE? 201 
 
 amazement. '^ What do you know about 
 him?" 
 
 But Somoff had already left the room 
 and closed the door behind him. 
 
 I was utterly bewildered. Dr. Dillmann 
 was one of the ablest leaders of the German 
 democracy, whom I had frequently met 
 in Heidelberg, and who had exercised a 
 powerful influence on my political opinions. 
 How could Somofif, who, as he said, had 
 never left Russia, know about my relations 
 with that man? 
 
 The next morning when I met Somoff 
 in the lecture-room, this was naturally the 
 first question I asked him. He did not, 
 however, answer directly. On my pressing 
 him with questions he at length said, — 
 
 " There is nothing extraordinary in this ; 
 we have had our eyes on you a long time." 
 
 Saying which, he left me abruptly and 
 disappeared in the throng of students 
 which just then crowded the entrance- 
 door. This one word " we " threw me 
 into the profoundest and most joyful 
 excitement. 
 
202 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 The melancholy solitude in which I had 
 hitherto lived weighed heavily on my mind, 
 the more so as I knew of the existence of 
 some secret association, the members of 
 which pursued the same social and political 
 purposes as those to which I was devoted. 
 Was I at last to come into contact with 
 one of these associations? 
 
 A prey to a feverish agitation, I ran the 
 same evening to Somoff's room. I found 
 him at home, but succeeded in learning 
 but little from him. He seemed absent 
 and worn out, spoke of two sleepless 
 nights he had passed, and at last put me 
 unceremoniously out, saying that he ex- 
 pected a visit from a man who preferred 
 not to be seen. At the same time he 
 dropped a few hints showing his knowl- 
 edge of some facts of my past life w^hich 
 I had hitherto considered unknown to all 
 except myself. 
 
 Weeks of morbid, feverish excitement 
 followed, during which Somoff held me as 
 in a dream of mystery, intrigue, and bewil- 
 derment. I met him daily, and countless 
 
WHO WAS HE? 203 
 
 trifles showed me that my every step was 
 watched and reported to him. I felt my- 
 self in the hands of some unknown, invis- 
 ible power; but to all my questions as to 
 the nature of that power Somoff answered 
 invariably, — 
 
 '' Patience, my friend ! You are not 
 ripe yet.'* 
 
 At length (our acquaintance was already 
 three months old) he seemed to yield to 
 my entreaties. One night as we were 
 closeted together in a cabinet particulier at 
 Dusaux's (one of the fashionable restaur- 
 ants of St. Petersburg), my mysterious 
 friend suddenly exclaimed, — 
 
 '* So you want to be one of us? ** 
 
 " First tell me at length who you are,'* 
 I replied. 
 
 Somoff looked at me fixedly with his 
 sad, lustreless eyes. His whole face took 
 an expression of weariness and old age I 
 had never before witnessed, and his voice 
 had a peculiarly hollow sound in it as he 
 spoke to me. 
 
 '^ Child, child,'* he said, " I fear you know 
 
204 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 not what you ask or what you wish ! We 
 are outcasts ; we are men who have abjured 
 every personal aim, affection, or passion in 
 Hfe ; we have given up our whole being to 
 the service of one idea, and have severed 
 all human ties that make life worth living 
 to the rest of mankind. Not only our life 
 (that would be nothing), but our honor, 
 our pride, the desire to love and to be loved, 
 — all that is killed in us, and must be sacri- 
 ficed at any time if our holy cause requires 
 it. You have been educated in the tradi- 
 tions of German democracy ; do not expect 
 to find here anything approaching the com- 
 fortable and so to say * home-made' concern 
 of what the people there call * revolution.' 
 Here we live in the realm of darkness, and 
 have to work in the dark. Not even the 
 prestige of becoming celebrated is awarded 
 us. Restless, hopeless, all-absorbing is our 
 work; we have renounced all the joys of 
 hfe ; we are " — he stopped, and seemed 
 to seek for an adequate expression — ''we 
 are the monks of the Russian revolution ! 
 Wilt thou become such a monk?" 
 
WHO WAS HE? 205 
 
 Bewildered, almost frightened by this 
 sudden outburst of gloomy passion, I 
 answered in a low voice, — 
 
 ** First tell me more about the purpose 
 and strength of your society." 
 
 *^ The purpose?" he rejoined. '^You 
 know well enough, — it is the struggle with 
 and ultimate overthrow of czardom, and a 
 reorganization of all the economical and 
 political institutions of our country. Our 
 strength? Well, have you not had during 
 the past few months countless proofs of 
 our power? Have I not shown you that 
 we have devoted servants and agents 
 everywhere? More I cannot tell you. 
 If you wish to work with us you must 
 believe and obey me and only me — 
 blindly; you must do always and only 
 whatever I order you to do. For years, 
 perhaps forever, I shall be the sole con- 
 necting link between you and the power, 
 the true representatives of which will re- 
 main concealed from you. Do you con- 
 sent to these conditions?" 
 
 I was then so entirely under the influence 
 
206 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 of this strange man that I would joyfully 
 have consented to almost anything he could 
 have proposed to me. 
 
 That night a strange life began for me. 
 I was obliged to leave off nearly all my 
 studies, for my time was engrossed by 
 occupations the precise nature of which 
 I was unable to understand. Somoff kept 
 me constantly on the move. Obeying his 
 order, I began to lead a busy, almost dissi- 
 pated society life ; and before going to a 
 ball or to a soiree I invariably received 
 my instructions as to whom I was to 
 speak and what I had to find out and 
 report. 
 
 At intervals a horrible idea sti'uck 
 me. 
 
 '* In fact, what I am doing," I thought, 
 *' is the work of a spy. What if all this is 
 but a ghastly, horrible mummery? What 
 if Somoff is the agent not of a secret 
 political association, but of some other 
 secret power, — perhaps of the terrible 
 Third Section of the secret police it- 
 self? " 
 
WHO WAS HE? 207 
 
 I repelled this frightful suspicion, as 
 unworthy of a man like Somoff; but still 
 it haunted me sometimes, putting still 
 more uneasiness and excitement into my 
 mind. 
 
 Once Somoff came to me in the early 
 morning, before daylight, and awakening 
 me from a deep slumber,, gave me a sealed 
 package, saying, — 
 
 '' Keep this, it is a document of the ut- 
 most importance. You are as yet unsus- 
 pected by the police, so it is safe in your 
 hands. But do not deliver it to any one 
 under any pretext whatever. Good-by; 
 I am in a hurry." 
 
 A moment later he had disappeared, 
 leaving a large sealed envelope on my 
 bed. I got up, lighted a candle, and ex- 
 amined carefully the package intrusted to 
 my care. It was a large quarto envelope, 
 sealed with a plain seal and bearing no 
 address. On examining it more closely, 
 however, I remarked that the outer en- 
 velope inclosed another, and that the 
 latter bore a direction. Looking about 
 
208 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 me anxiously, as if fearing that the very 
 walls might see and betray me, I held 
 the package as near as possible to the 
 light, and tried to decipher the inscrip- 
 tion I had discovered on the second 
 envelope. 
 
 As long as I live I shall never forget 
 the unspeakable horror which overcame 
 me as one letter after another of this fatal 
 address struck my eye. I read, — 
 
 To HIS Excellency 
 
 Victor Vassilievitch Schultz, 
 
 Secretary of the Third Section of His Imperial Majesty* s 
 Private Cha7icery. 
 
 With trembling hands, drops of cold 
 sweat falling from my brow, I tore open 
 the envelope and began reading the in- 
 closed manuscript with feverish haste. It 
 contained, in Somoff's handwriting, a 
 monthly report of the actions and mode 
 of life of a number of persons for which 
 I — I myself — had furnished the mate- 
 rial ! 
 
 Why I did not go mad in that horrible 
 
WHO WAS HE? 209 
 
 moment I do not know. Mechanically I 
 threw some clothes on and rushed into 
 the street. It was a bitter cold morning, 
 and I ran out in a light coat and without a 
 hat; but I felt not the cold. I rushed at 
 a breathless pace to where Somoff lived. 
 I found his door locked. With a super- 
 human effort I broke it open and entered. 
 Somoff, who had been writing at his table, 
 rose at the noise I made, and stood now 
 facing me. 
 
 '* What is the matter?'' he asked in his 
 cold, sarcastic tone. 
 
 ** Scoundrel ! " I gasped, throwing the 
 envelope into his face. 
 
 He quickly picked it up, and seeing that 
 I had opened it, said with unutterable sad- 
 ness in his voice, — 
 
 '' So you have not borne the test ! " 
 
 *^ Scoundrel ! " I repeated, seizing him 
 by the throat. But at the same time I 
 felt my senses fail me, and fell back 
 unconscious. 
 
 When I recovered, I found myself ly- 
 ing on Somoff's bed, he looking at me 
 
 14 
 
2IO MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 with an expression of longing melan- 
 choly in his eyes which went straight to 
 my heart. 
 
 ** Get up ! " he said, speaking slowly and 
 with difficulty. *' You must hate me. 
 You are right; I have deceived you. Go, 
 leave me ! " 
 
 I obeyed, and without saying a word 
 opened the door. Suddenly Somoff ex- 
 claimed, in a voice of heartrending an- 
 guish,— 
 
 '' oh, trust in me ! Cannot you trust 
 in me? " 
 
 Then, as if recollecting himself, he 
 added, — 
 
 ** No, I forgot. Go ; leave me ! I have 
 deceived you ; there is no such association 
 as the one I spoke to you about. I am 
 a spy, a wretched, despicable creature. 
 Farewell ! " 
 
 I closed the door, and that was the last 
 time I ever saw Michael Somoff. 
 
 AH these events, however, had seriously 
 injured my health. A violent brain-fever 
 attacked me, during which I lay for more 
 
WHO IVAS HE ? 211 
 
 than two weeks unconscious. Sometimes 
 as in a dream it seemed to me that 
 amidst the troubled, fantastic shapes the 
 demon Fever conjured up in my brain 
 there appeared the sad, pensive face of 
 Michael Somoff. . But this was doubt- 
 less an illusion ; for when on recover- 
 ing I asked the Sister of Charity I found 
 sitting at my bedside if a man of the 
 name of Somoff had come to see me, 
 she answered no, but that the Count Ivan 
 Troubetzkoi had been a constant visitor, 
 and that he had engaged her, the Sister, 
 for me. 
 
 How strange ! I thought. The Count 
 was a somewhat eccentric personage, 
 immensely rich, but leading a secluded 
 life in his great palace of the Fon- 
 tanka. I had met him several times in 
 society and been introduced to him ; but 
 nothing in our intercourse warranted the 
 interest he seemed now to take in me. 
 
 In the afternoon of the same day the 
 Count called on me, and cutting short the 
 expression of gratitude I was about to 
 
212 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 utter, exclaimed, shaking me heartily by 
 the hand, — 
 
 *^ I am very glad to see you doing so 
 well, and was very happy to have been 
 able to render you a little service. Do 
 not forget that your father and I were 
 friends/' 
 
 The Count was a middle-aged man, 
 nearly bald, and looked at least double 
 my age. And yet as he sat before me 
 with the light falling full into his face, 
 a strange resemblance struck me, — the 
 eyes, those gray, lustreless, lifeless eyes, 
 were Somofifs; there could be no doubt 
 of it. The more I looked at them, the 
 more I tried to persuade myself of the 
 madness of my supposition, the more 1 
 felt convinced that those eyes could be- 
 long but to one man, and that that man 
 was Somoff. 
 
 The Count noticed my confusion, and 
 rising, said, '' You seem to be a little tired 
 now ; I will go." 
 
 He gave me his hand ; then stopping at 
 the door, he turned round once more, and 
 
WHO WAS HE? 213 
 
 I heard him — no, not him, not the Count, 
 I heard the voice, the actual voice of 
 Michael SomofT, say, — 
 
 " Live on happy, my child, and keep 
 aloof from our gloomy work." 
 
 I would have leaped out of bed if the 
 Sister of Charity had not held me back by 
 main force. 
 
 ** Who is that man? " I gasped. 
 
 " Be quiet, sir," she replied ; *' it is the 
 Count Ivan Petruvitch Troubetzkoi, your 
 excellent friend." 
 
 After my recovery I was obliged to 
 leave St. Petersburg abruptly. A razzia on 
 all '' suspected " persons had taken place, 
 and among others I was informed that I 
 had to leave the capital in twenty-four 
 hours. 
 
 Thus began my life of homeless wan- 
 dering, which has lasted ever since. Of 
 Somoff I heard nothing, till about a year 
 ago a Russian friend in New York showed 
 me a copy of one of the clandestine Rus- 
 sian publications, in which the public was 
 warned against a certain Michael Somoff, 
 
214 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 suspected of being a secret agent of the 
 police. The same number brought the 
 report that Count Ivan Troubetzkoi had 
 been arrested on suspicion of being con- 
 cerned in some conspiracy, and had been 
 released the same day. All this did not in 
 any way tend to solve the mystery which 
 surrounded these two men. 
 
 Some ten days ago I received a letter 
 bearing the stamp of Post-Office Station D 
 in New York City. On opening it I read 
 the following words : — 
 
 Farewell, friend ! I have sacrificed and des- 
 troyed all that is human in me. For the sake of 
 our cause I have borne with contempt and slan- 
 der ; I have lost your friendship. Now human 
 nature takes back its right, its last right, — that 
 of self-destruction. I have accomplished the work. 
 I want rest, eternal rest. Farewell ! 
 
 Michael Somoff. 
 
 What did this letter mean? All re- 
 searches were vain. Had the unfortunate 
 man indeed found the repose he longed for 
 in the deep waters of the Hudson, or was this 
 
WHO WAS HE? 215 
 
 letter but a stratagem on the part of this 
 extraordinary being? 
 
 I know not ; neither do I attempt, as I 
 have said before, to unravel this riddle. It 
 stands before me dark as the Sphinx, and 
 time alone will solve it, if it ever be solved. 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM. 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM. 
 
 N descending the Volga years and 
 years ago on a radiant moonlight 
 night in midsummer, I entered into 
 conversation with an old Russian sectarian 
 patriarch whom I met on board the boat, 
 and with whom — as always happens when 
 I meet one of these extraordinary men — 
 I was soon deeply engaged in a theological 
 discussion. 
 
 ** Can you tell me, Father Onufry," I 
 asked in the course of the conversation, 
 '^ on what, besides the Scriptures, you base 
 your faith in an eternal life of bliss beyond 
 the grave? " 
 
 The old man raised his white head from 
 his bosom, and extending his hand towards 
 
220 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 the endless steppes which border the river, 
 said in a solemn voice, — 
 
 " On the immensity of human misery on 
 earth ! '' 
 
 Through time and space this answer 
 rings in my ears in all its unutterable sad- 
 ness as the last and highest expression of 
 the whole martyr-nation's misery ; and the 
 longer I live, the deeper and fuller becomes 
 the stream of humanity running past me 
 on the broad and rugged causeway of life, 
 the more I learn to fathom the depth of 
 those simple words, — 
 
 ** On the immensity of human misery 
 on earth ! " 
 
 It was on a Saturday night in the 
 Bowery, when I was returning on foot at a 
 slow pace from my office, intent upon the 
 picture of busy life and confusion which 
 surrounded me, and which for years had 
 never been so noisy and bustling as then. 
 The *'good times" had set in; and like a 
 huge monster stretching out his limbs after 
 years of prostration, the great city was 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM, 221 
 
 sending out of all its thoroughfares thou- 
 sands and thousands of its population, bent 
 on enjoying life, on putting to immediate 
 profit the gains of the day while the rising 
 tide should last, and before the ebb should 
 set in again. Though the hour was late, 
 the stores were ablaze with light and 
 thronged with customers. On the side- 
 walk the bustle was so great that I had 
 some pains in pushing my way along: 
 women, bending under the load of baskets 
 and parcels, chatted, laughed, and screamed 
 as they went ; parties of men, strolling with 
 pipes and cigars in their mouths, were 
 enjoying the clear, mild night after a hard 
 week's work ; pairs of '' our boys," swagger- 
 ing along with all the imperturbable and 
 inimitable impertinence pecuhar to the 
 promising offshoots of Young America, 
 blocked up occasionally the whole side- 
 walk, spitting and brawling in the most 
 accomplished fashion, and occasionally in- 
 terchanging some choice epithet of endear- 
 ment or ridicule with parties of ''girls,'' 
 who, as to the noise -they made, were in no 
 
222 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 way inferior to the stronger sex. Italian 
 peanut-venders, with their dark Southern 
 faces lighted by the flaring torches sur- 
 rounding their stands, advertised their 
 goods in a shrill mixture of Italian and 
 Irish-American ; pedlers babbled out their 
 endless stories, collecting groups of the 
 ubiquitous loafer around them. In the 
 midst of all this turmoil the discordant 
 sounds of a street-organ performing the 
 " Wacht am Rhein" pierced through the 
 other sounds, and an old bald-headed 
 Frenchman, with a long white beard, 
 bawled out the '' Marseillaise " at the top 
 of his voice. 
 
 Slowly I advanced amid all this bustle, 
 admiring and in some measure fascinated 
 by this picture, so full of a coarse but in- 
 tense and robust life, and on which the 
 lights in the store-windows, the petroleum 
 torches of the street-venders, the stained, 
 multi-colored gas-lamps of the dime mu- 
 seum and other places of equivocal and 
 unequivocal amusement, shed a lurid, al- 
 most fantastic glare. All of a sudden I 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM. 223 
 
 stopped as if struck by lightning. What 
 was this before me? A ghost; a horrible 
 freak of my imagination, — or what? 
 
 That ashy pale face, that stooping figure, 
 creeping along with difficulty and thrown 
 from side to side by the busy crowd like 
 a broken reed, — where had I seen a sem- 
 blance of them before? 
 
 This ghastly figure was that of a woman. 
 By the hand she led a child, a baby of 
 some three years of age, who seemed so 
 exhausted that its legs refused service 
 entirely. It did not even scream, but let 
 itself be dragged along by the woman like 
 a lifeless corpse. I turned round and fol- 
 lowed this wretched pair. I soon found 
 out that the woman's walk was not pur- 
 poseless. She staggered from one ash- 
 barrel to another ; at each of these orna- 
 ments of our metropolitan thoroughfares 
 she stooped down, plunged her bare arm 
 into the heap of refuse, and kept it there, 
 searching till she had found some remnant 
 of something which might one day have 
 served as food for man or beast. This she 
 
224 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 clutched at with eager grasp ; the best bits 
 she gave to the child, the rest she devoured 
 herself. 
 
 And in the mean time the busy, roaring 
 wave of humanity rolled past her as coldly 
 and indifferently as if it were indeed a bil- 
 low of the ocean, and not a living throng 
 of men, of whom thousands would the very 
 next morning worship in proud, self-com- 
 placency the Christian God, — the God of 
 mercy, charity, and love ! 
 
 Stepping to her side, I touched the wo- 
 man's shoulder. She looked around with 
 a wild and scared expression as the light of 
 a torch fell full on her face. '' Good God ! 
 is it possible? " I screamed, '' Emily ! " 
 
 Her whole frame shook under the 
 rags which half covered it; she drew back 
 from me, and with a groan of irrepressible 
 terror attempted to run away. I held her 
 fast, however. 
 
 *'Come, now," I said, ''whoever you may 
 be. Think of your child, — it seems to be 
 dying; let me give it something to eat." 
 She bowed her head in silent obedience 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM. 22$ 
 
 and suffered me to lead her to a small hotel 
 in the neighborhood kept by an honest old 
 German on whose discretion I could reckon. 
 I engaged a room, ordered a supper and a 
 bottle of strong wine, and bidding the wo- 
 man wash and undress herself and the 
 child, I went out to purchase in one of the 
 Bowery stores a cheap but decent outfit 
 for both, which on returning to the hotel 
 I sent up to her by the chambermaid. 
 A quarter of an hour later supper was 
 brought. I knocked at her door, a feeble 
 voice answered, '* Come in," and on enter- 
 ing I remained two or three seconds stand- 
 ing motionless, speechless, at the door, 
 staring at the apparition before me. The 
 hasty toilet she had made had wrought 
 an extraordinary change in all the young 
 woman's appearance. She sat before me 
 with the child in her lap in all her won- 
 drous, delicate, bewitching beauty, the ''elf 
 of Hohenheim," as we used to call her; but 
 no longer the wild, wayward, elf-Hke child, 
 but such as I had seen her in my boyish 
 dreams, — a beautiful, fairy-like woman ! 
 
 15 
 
226 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 " Emily Rechberg/' I whispered when 
 the chambermaid had left us, *^ do you 
 know me? " 
 
 She looked up at me, and dropping her 
 head into both her hands, broke into a tor- 
 rent of tears. After soothing and quieting 
 her as best I could, I insisted on her 
 and the child eating the supper I had or- 
 dered before entering on any explanations. 
 After the last morsel had disappeared, and 
 the child, which had already fallen asleep 
 while eating, had been put to bed, Emily 
 sat down by my side, and with many a 
 sigh and many a tear told me her story. 
 It was the sad, old, old story. 
 
 I was barely seventeen, and had just 
 entered the celebrated Academy of Agri- 
 culture at Hohenheim, near Stuttgart, 
 Wiirtemberg, when I first made the ac- 
 quaintance of Emily and of her uncle, the 
 famous mathematician. Dr. Aloysius Rech- 
 berg, with whom, having lost her par- 
 ents, she then lived. The old professor's 
 house was a favorite haunt of all us boys. 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM, 22/ 
 
 Himself childless, but yet full of energy 
 and animal spirits, the old man liked to 
 be surrounded by the noise and bustle of 
 youth. On some evenings of the week, 
 and indeed not unfrequently during whole 
 days, the professor's house looked more 
 like a student's kneipe (tavern) than the 
 abode of one of the first scientific author- 
 ities of Germany. In the snug parlor on 
 the first-floor of the lovely cottage Recli- 
 berg occupied stood a large oak-table, 
 surrounded with old-fashioned carved- 
 wood chairs. Many a joyous, never-to- 
 be-forgotten night of mirth and delightful 
 entertainment have we passed there, — 
 youth and happiness in our hearts, the 
 foaming beer-glass before us, and the 
 professor's hearty voice and laugh cheer- 
 ing us to new mirth, and giving us the 
 example of youth and joy. 
 
 Little Emily, '' elf of Hohenheim," as we 
 had nicknamed her, never failed at these 
 queer assemblies. Indeed she was the 
 genius, the spirit of our band ; and a mad, 
 uncontrollable spirit it was, to be sure ! 
 
228 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 Scarcely fifteen years of age, she was 
 already as far advanced in her studies 
 with her uncle as any of us. 
 
 '' I don't want to make of the girl one 
 of your insipid hot-house flowers, which 
 droop and shudder at everything/' the 
 old man used to say to us. '^ Let her 
 see, study, and enjoy life just as it is. 
 You are all of you a set of honest, though 
 excessively lazy lads, at whose hands she 
 has no harm to fear. So let her enjoy her 
 freedom, — the only thing she possesses, 
 poor thing! I trust her to you; do not 
 deceive me, lads." 
 
 And Emily was indeed our friend, our 
 comrade, — almost our sister. She felt so 
 secure inside the domain of her adopted 
 brothers that she w^andered in summer 
 and winter all alone through the exten- 
 sive woods of Hohenheim, considering 
 them, as it were, a sort of paradise on 
 earth, in which no fatal tree or wily ser- 
 pent could ever tempt her. Elf-like, she 
 haunted the grounds around our academy, 
 climbing in the trees, imitating the singing 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM. 229 
 
 of the birds around her, making the air re- 
 sound with her clear, silvery laugh, shed- 
 ding on all things the fairy light of her 
 dear, innocent presence. Such she had 
 lived on in my remembrance these many 
 years since our parting. Such, as the 
 long-lost dream of youth and light, she ap- 
 peared at times to me amid the dark shad- 
 ows and bitter realities of life. Who was 
 the villain that had darkened and polluted 
 this bright vision of light? Who had made 
 this of my little ''elf of Hohenheim? " 
 
 His name was, she told me, — or at least 
 was supposed to be, — Count Ladislas 
 Brodzinsky, and he pretended to be a Po- 
 lish nobleman of immense wealth. Like 
 the rest of the students, he too had been 
 received with the usual free hospitality at 
 the professor's house, but had soon by his 
 manner excited the old man's suspicions. 
 He was forbidden the house ; but the mis- 
 chief was already done, — Emily was madly 
 in love with him. Interviews went on be- 
 tween them clandestinely; the wretch be- 
 witched her more and more, until at length 
 
230 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 she consented to elope with him to America, 
 whither, he said, important business matters 
 called him. The pair fled first to Paris, 
 thence to London, where they stayed nearly 
 a week. While in that city Brodzinsky 
 came home one day seemingly a prey to 
 terrible agitation. 
 
 *' Somebody is on our track, my dearest 
 Emily 1" he exclaimed. ''I have been 
 followed the whole day. We cannot start 
 from here together. You must go to-night 
 direct to Queenstown, and wait a day there 
 for the boat which shall bring me from 
 Liverpool. The people who are tracking 
 me must see me get on board alone. Do 
 you trust me, my love? " 
 
 Of course she did, and obeyed him 
 guilelessly, confidingly. Long before the 
 steamer had been sighted she was standing 
 on the Queenstown dock, waiting, straining 
 her eyes for the streak of smoke on the 
 horizon. At length it came. The tug- 
 boat took the Queenstown passengers on 
 board the huge ocean steamer. Emily 
 found her cabin reserved for her, but no 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM, 23 1 
 
 Ladislas Brodzinsky to meet her. Trem- 
 bling, bewildered, she inquired if there was 
 a passenger of that name on board. The 
 steward who had accompanied her to the 
 cabin thought there was, and promised to 
 inquire immediately. 
 
 He went, and Emily remained in her 
 cabin trembling, fearing she knew not what, 
 feeling as if each minute that passed be- 
 came a century of suspense. In the mean 
 time the steamer had heaved her anchor, 
 the screw had been put in motion, and the 
 ocean monster glided majestically into the 
 open sea. 
 
 At length the steward returned with the 
 answer: ''No, miss, there is no gentleman 
 of that name on board ! '' 
 
 On hearing these words Emily remained 
 for some time like one paralyzed by terror 
 and despair. Then realizing all of a sud- 
 den the horror of her situation, she rushed 
 out of the cabin with a piercing cry and 
 ran on deck, whence, had not the captain 
 met her and held her fast, she would have 
 jumped into the sea. 
 
232 MISFITS AND REMNANTS. 
 
 She then began beseeching the captain 
 in a frantic way to turn back, to put her 
 on shore anywhere; the poor man had a 
 good deal of trouble to explain to her the 
 impossibility of her demand, and to quiet 
 her so far as to lead her back into the 
 cabin. She need but wait patiently, he 
 said ; in New York she would be sure to 
 find a telegram explaining all. 
 
 She waited, but in vain ; no message, no 
 friendly word bade her welcome to the 
 New World. The captain and some of the 
 passengers took an interest in the poor 
 girl, and accompanied her to the German 
 consulate. There she gave her uncle's 
 address, and the consul promised her to 
 cable to him immediately. The next day 
 she was to learn the answer. She came 
 the next day. The consul led her to his 
 private office, and with a grave face invited 
 her to take a seat. 
 
 *' Have you other relatives in Germany, 
 Miss Rechberg, besides your uncle?" he 
 inquired. 
 
 '* None," she answered. 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM. . 233 
 
 *' I regret it," rejoined the consul, '' for 
 your uncle is dead. Here is the answer I 
 received this morning." And he showed 
 her the fatal message. 
 
 Emily had suffered so much during the 
 passage that this new blow could scarcely 
 hurt, but only stun her. She sat there 
 motionless, staring at the paper before her 
 with a vacant gaze. 
 
 *' Do you wish, under the circumstances," 
 continued the German official, '' to return 
 to Europe? I could facilitate your ar- 
 rangements if such should be your wish." 
 
 '* What for?" she asked dejectedly. 
 
 ** Just as you please," answered the con- 
 sul. She rose from her seat, thanked him 
 mechanically, and went out into the street. 
 
 '' Oh ! do not ask me," exclaimed Emily, 
 covering her face with her hands, '' to tell 
 you all that befell me here. It is a tale of 
 shame and misery I will spare you and my- 
 self. Four months after my landing, this 
 child — his child — w^as born. Some time 
 later I received a letter from him off"ering 
 me money, and explaining his treachery 
 
234 MISFITS AND REMNANTS, 
 
 with perfect frankness. My love, he said, 
 had become troublesome to him, for just 
 then the possibility of a rich marriage 
 with a woman older than himself and ex- 
 ceedingly jealous had presented itself to 
 him, and thus he resolved to put me out 
 of the way. How well he knew me ! 
 In writing this letter he placed a deadly 
 weapon in my hand : he knew well enough 
 I should not use it." 
 
 The night was far advanced when Emily 
 had told me her sad story to the end. I 
 took leave of her, promising to come back 
 the next morning, and not to forsake her 
 till a suitable position had presented itself 
 for her. 
 
 I came, and returned the next day and 
 the next, and so on for nearly three weeks, 
 until, little by little, the intercourse with 
 Emily became the most engrossing occu- 
 pation of my day. 
 
 She became daily more beautiful, and 
 daily I saw revived before me the fair 
 image of the ''elf of Hohenheim" of my 
 boyish dreams, turned to a still more be- 
 witching reality. 
 
THE ELF OF HOHENHEIM. 235 
 
 One day, as I entered as usual the little 
 German hotel, the fat host came to meet 
 me with a letter in his hand. 
 
 ** For you," he said laconically. 
 
 I tore open the envelope. It was from 
 Emily, and contained the following lines : 
 
 My dearest, my only Friend, — I leave you 
 who have saved me, whom I have learned to 
 love more than my life ; and it is just because of 
 my great love that I go. Your life must remain 
 as it is, — pure and free and noble. Your path 
 must not be soiled by a creature like me. Fare- 
 well ! God bless you ! May every tear which 
 falls from my cheek while I write this bring you 
 years and years of happiness ! Do not grieve 
 for me. I have found honest work in another 
 city far away. Do not search for me, and do 
 not quite forget your poor, loving 
 
 Elf of Hohenheim. 
 
 A year has passed ; I have never seen 
 or heard from her since. 
 
 University Press : John Wilson & .Son, Cambridi^e. 
 
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