His concluding words were: "There's at least one
saying that has come true. I mean the saying, 'There's no use
crying over spilled milk.' Mr. Levinsky, you certainly have no
reason to cry over the milk you spilled at Manheimer's, have
you?"
I had heard the witticism from him more than once before. So had
some of the other men present. Nevertheless, he now delivered it
with gusto, and it was received with a hearty roar of merriment, in
which his own laughter was the loudest
Among the people who came to rejoice in my success were some
whose appearance was an amusing surprise to me. One of these
was Octavius, the violinist, who had had nothing but contempt for
me in the days when to go twenty-four hours without food was a
usual experience with me. He had scarcely changed. He entered
my office with bohemian self-importance
"Glad to see you, Levinsky. I was glad to hear of your rise in the
world," he said, somewhat pompously. "I can't complain, either,
though. However, our fields are so different."
The implication was that, while I had succeeded as a prosaic,
pitiable cloak-manufacturer, he had conquered the world by the
magic of his violin and compositions.
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