Turning half-way around in my seat, I
took to eying the Hebrew poet. I felt disappointed. That this
prosaic-looking old man should have written the lines that I had
read at the Astor Library seemed inconceivable. The fact,
however, that he was the father of the tall, stately, beautiful girl
whose image was ever before me ennobled his face
I stepped over to him and said: "You are Mr. Tevkin, aren't you?
Allow me to introduce myself. Levinsky."
He bowed, grasping my hand, evidently loath to take his eyes off
the chess-players
"I read some of your poems the other day," I added
"My poems?" he asked, coloring
"Yes; I had heard of them, and as I happened to be at the Astor
Library I asked for your three volumes. I read several things in
each of them. I liked them tremendously."
He blushed again. "It seems an age since they were written," he
said, in confusion. "Those were different days."
We sat down at a secluded table. To propitiate the proprietor and
the waiter I ordered hot cheese-cakes. I offered to order something
for Tevkin, but he declined, and he ordered a glass of tea, with the
tacit understanding that he was to pay for it himself
"Why don't you give us some more poems like those?"
He produced his business card, saying, "This is the kind of poetry
that goes in America.
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