“Very well, then,” I said, “I shall surprise you some morning.  Where do you live?” He mentioned Gardener’s Lane.

“What number?

“Number 34, one flight up.”

“Well, well,” I cried, “on the fashionable floor.”

“The house,” he said, “consists in reality only of a ground floor.  But upstairs, next to the garret, there is a small room which I occupy in company with two journeymen.”

“A single room for three people?”

“It is divided into two parts,” he
answered, “and I have my own bed.”

“It is getting late,” I said, “and you must be anxious to get home. Auf Wiedersehen!”

At the same time I put my hand in my pocket with the intention of doubling the trifling amount I had given him before.  But he had already taken up his music-stand with one hand and his violin with the other, and cried hurriedly, “I humbly ask you to refrain.  I have already received ample remuneration for my playing, and I am not aware of having earned any other reward.”  Saying this he made me a rather awkward bow with an approach to elegant ease, and departed as quickly as his old legs could carry him.

As I said before, I had lost for this day all desire of participating further in the festival.  Consequently I turned homeward, taking the road leading to the Leopoldstadt.  Tired out from the dust and heat, I entered one of the many beer-gardens, which, while overcrowded on ordinary days, had today given up all their customers to the Brigittenau.  The stillness of the place, in contradistinction to the noisy crowd, did me good.  I gave myself up to my thoughts, in which the old musician had a considerable share.  Night had come before I thought at last of going home.  I laid the amount of my bill upon the table and walked toward the city.

The old man had said that he lived in Gardener’s Lane.  “Is Gardener’s Lane near-by?” I asked a smell boy who was running across the road.  “Over there, sir,” he replied, pointing to a side street that ran from the mass of houses of the suburb out into the open fields.  I followed the direction indicated.  The street consisted of some scattered houses, which, separated by large vegetable gardens, plainly indicated the occupation of the inhabitants and the origin of the name Gardener’s Lane.  I was wondering in which of these miserable huts my odd friend might live.  I had completely forgotten the number; moreover it was impossible to make out any signs in the darkness.  At that moment a man carrying a heavy load of vegetables passed me.  “The old fellow is scraping his fiddle again,” he grumbled, “and disturbing decent people in their night’s rest.”  At the same time, as I went on, the soft, sustained tone of a violin struck my ear.  It seemed to come from the open attic window of a hovel a short distance away, which, being low and without an upper story like the rest of the houses, attracted attention on account of this