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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
59
The
room
where
we
sat
was
small
and
dingy,
with
but
little
furniture
except
our
chairs
and
the
little
table
at
which
we
filled
and
arranged
our
pipes,
and
was
lighted
only
by
a
tallow
candle.
There
were
a
few
pictures
on
the
walls,
for
the
most
part
rude
prints
cut
from
the
columns
of
the
daily
press
and
pasted
up
to
hide
the
bareness
of
the
room.
Only
one
picture
was
in
any
way
noticeable,
a
portrait
admirably
executed
in
pen
and
ink.
The
face
was
that
of
a
young
man,
a
very
beautiful
face,
but
one
of
infinite
sadness.
I
had
long
been
aware,
although
I
know
not
how,
that
Ah-Yen
had
met
with
a
great
sorrow,
and
had
in
some
way
connected
the
fact
with
this
portrait.
I
had
always
refrained,
however,
from
asking
him
about
it,
and
it
was
not
until
the
evening
in
question
that
I
knew
its
history.
We
had
been
smoking
in
silence
for
some
time
when
Ah-Yen
spoke.
My
friend
is
a
man
of
culture
and
wide
reading,
and
his
English
is
consequently
perfect
in
its
construction;
his
speech
is,
of
course,
marked
by
the
lingering
liquid
accent
of
his
country
which
I
will
not
attempt
to
reproduce.
"I
see,"
he
said,
"that
you
have
been
examining
the
portrait
of
my
unhappy
friend,
Fifty-Six.
I
have
never
yet
told
you
of
my
bereavement,
but
as
to-night
is
the
anniversary
of
his
death,
I
would
fain
speak
of
him
for
a
while."
Ah-Yen
paused;
I
lighted
my
pipe
afresh,
and
nodded
to
him
to
show
that
I
was
listening.
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