It required no little strength of mind to answer Merivale as I now had to.
“You’re awfully kind, old boy,” I said. “It’s extremely hard to be obliged to say no. But really, you don’t understand the level of violin playing which a soloist must come up to. And you don’t understand either what a mediocre executant I am. My technique is such that I could barely pass muster among the second violinists in Doctor Rodolph’s orchestra. It would be the height of effrontery for me to present myself before him as a would-be soloist.”
“That is a matter for the doctor, and not for you, to decide. No man can correctly estimate his own powers: you not more than the rest. All I say is, come with me to call upon him to-morrow morning and leave the consequences to his judgment.”
“You would not submit me to the humiliation of such a trial. After the extravagances you have uttered concerning me, to show myself in my own humble colors—the drop would be too great. But I may as well be entirely candid. There are other reasons, final ones. I may as well say right out that it will never be possible for me to play my violin anywhere except here, between you and me: you know why.”
“Oh, don’t say that,” he pleaded. “After the trouble I’ve taken, and after the promise I’ve made, and after the pleasure I’ve had in picturing your delight, don’t say you won’t even go to see the Doctor and give him a specimen. Don’t disappoint a fellow like that.”
I stuck out obdurately. Merivale shifted from the attitude of one who begs a favor to that of one who imposes a duty.
“Come,” he cried, “it is simply the old egotism reasserting itself. You won’t play, forsooth, because it doesn’t suit your humor. That, I say, is egotism of the worst sort. You—positively, you make me ashamed for you. It is the part of a man to perform his task manfully. What right have you, I’d like to know, what right have you to hide your light under a bushel, more than another? Simply because the practice of your art entails pain upon you, are you justified in resting idle? Why, all great work entails pain upon the worker. Raphael never would have painted his pictures, Dante never would have written his Inferno, women would never bring children into the world, if the dread of pain were sufficient to subdue courage and the sense of obligation. It is the pain which makes the endeavor heroic. I have all due respect for your feelings, Lexow; but I respect them only in so far as I believe that you are able to master them. When I see them get the upper hand and sap your manhood, then I counsel you to a serious battle with them. The excuse you offer for not wishing to play to-morrow night is a puny excuse. I will have none of it. To-morrow morning you will go with me to Doctor Rodolph’s: and if after this homily you persist in your refusal—well, you’ll know my opinion of you.”
