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The Fifth String
By John Philip Sousa
I
The coming of Diotti to America
had awakened more than usual
interest in the man and his work. His marvelous success as violinist in the
leading capitals of Europe, together with many brilliant contributions to the
literature of his instrument, had long been favorably commented on by the critics
of the old world. Many stories of his struggles and his triumphs had found
their way across the ocean and had been read and re-read with interest.
Therefore, when Mr. Henry Perkins,
the well-known impresario, announced with an air of conscious pride and
pardonable enthusiasm that he had secured Diotti for a “limited” number of
concerts, Perkins’ friends assured that wide-awake gentleman that his foresight
amounted to positive genius, and
they predicted an unparalleled success for his star. On account of his wonderful ability as player, Diotti was a
favorite at half the courts of Europe, and the astute Perkins enlarged upon this
fact without regard for the feelings of the courts or the violinist.
On the night preceding Diotti’s debut in New York, he was the center of
attraction at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader, and a devoted patron of the arts. The violinist made
a deep impression on those fortunate enough to be near him during the even-
ing. He won the respect of the men
by his observations on matters of
international interest, and the admiration of the gentler sex by his chivalric estimate of woman’s influence in the world’s
progress, on which subject he talked with rarest good humor and delicately
implied gallantry.
During one of those sudden and
unexplainable lulls that always occur in general drawing-room conversations, Diotti turned to Mrs. Llewellyn and whispered:
“Who is the charming young
woman just entering?”
“The beauty in white?”
“Yes, the beauty in white,” softly
echoing Mrs. Llewellyn’s query. He
leaned forward and with eager eyes
gazed in admiration at the new-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision,
which moved slowly from between the blue-tinted portieres and stood for the
instant, a perfect embodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against the
silken drapery.
“That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred
Wallace, only child of one of New
York’s prominent bankers.”
“She is beautiful–a queen by divine right,” cried he, and then with a mingling of impetuosity and importunity,
entreated his hostess to present him.
And thus they met.
Mrs. Llewellyn’s entertainments were
celebrated, and justly so. At her receptions one always heard the best singers
and players of the season, and Epicurus’ soul could rest in peace, for her chef had an international reputation. Oh,
remember, you music-fed ascetic, many, aye, very many, regard the transition
from Tschaikowsky to terrapin, from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts
aflame with anticipatory joy–and Mrs. Llewellyn’s dining-room was crowded.
Miss Wallace and Diotti had
wandered into the conservatory.
“A desire for happiness is our common heritage,” he was saying in his
richly melodious voice.
“But to define what constitutes
happiness is very difficult,” she replied.
“Not necessarily,” he went on; “if the motive is clearly within our grasp,
the attainment is possible.”
“For example?” she asked.
“The miser is happy when he hoards
his gold; the philanthropist when he distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are antipodal.”
“Then one possessing sufficient
motives could be happy without end?” she suggested doubtingly.
“That is my theory. The Niobe of
old had happiness within her power.”
“The gods thought not,” said she;
“in their very pity they changed her into stone, and with streaming eyes she
ever tells the story of her sorrow.”
“But are her children weeping?”
he asked. “I think not. Happiness
can bloom from the seeds of deepest woe,” and in a tone almost reverential, he continued: “I remember a picture in
one of our Italian galleries that always impressed me as the ideal image of
maternal happiness. It is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body
of the Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dress of grayish hue, nun-like in its simplicity, seemed more than royal
robe. Her face, illumined as with a light from heaven, seemed inspired with this
thought: `They have killed Him–they have killed my son! Oh, God, I thank
Thee that His suffering is at an end!’ And as I gazed at the holy face, an-
other light seemed to change it by
degrees from saddened motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: `He
is not dead, He but sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best beloved
of the Father!’ ”
“Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony,” she replied, after a pause.
“Not while life is here and eternity beyond,” he said, reassuringly.
“What if a soul lies dormant and
will not arouse?” she asked.
“There are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but only high
enough for heaven,” he said, with evident intention, looking almost directly
at her.
“Then one must come who speaks
in nature’s tongue,” she continued.
“And the soul will then awake,” he
added earnestly.
“But is there such a one?” she
asked.
“Perhaps,” he almost whispered, his thought father to the wish.
“I am afraid not,” she sighed. “I
studied drawing, worked diligently and, I hope, intelligently, and yet I was
quickly convinced that a counterfeit presentment of nature was puny and
insignificant. I painted Niagara. My friends praised my effort. I saw
Niagara again–I destroyed the picture.”
“But you must be prepared to
accept the limitations of man and his work,” said the philosophical violinist
“Annihilation of one’s own identity
in the moment is possible in nature’s domain–never in man’s. The resistless,
never-ending rush of the waters,
madly churning, pitilessly dashing
against the rocks below; the mighty roar of the loosened giant; that was
Niagara. My picture seemed but a
smear of paint.”
“Still, man has won the admiration
of man by his achievements,” he said.
“Alas, for me,” she sighed, “I have not felt it.”
“Surely you have been stirred by the wonders man has accomplished in
music’s realm?” Diotti ventured.
“I never have been.” She spoke
sadly and reflectively.
“But does not the passion-laden theme of a master, or the marvelous feeling of a player awaken your emotions?” persisted he.
She stood leaning lightly against a
pillar by the fountain. “I never hear a pianist, however great and famous, but
I see the little cream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and down
like acrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for the
artist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demand that
these little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, and weary from his
efforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause.
“When I listen to a great singer,”
continued this world-defying skeptic, “trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see a clumsy lot of ah, ah, ahs, awkwardly, uncertainly ambling up
the gamut, saying, `were it not for us she could not sing thus–give us our
meed of praise.’ ”
Slowly he replied: “Masters have
written in wondrous language and masters have played with wondrous power.”
“And I so long to hear,” she said,
almost plaintively. “I marvel at the invention of the composer and the skill
of the player, but there I cease.”
He looked at her intently. She was
standing before him, not a block of chiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his arm and
together they made their way to the drawing-room.
“Perhaps, some day, one will come
who can sing a song of perfect love in perfect tones, and your soul will be
attuned to his melody.”
“Perhaps–and good-night,” she
softly said, leaving his arm and joining her friends, who accompanied her to the
carriage.
II
The intangible something that places
the stamp of popular approval on
one musical enterprise, while another equally artistic and as cleverly managed languishes in a condition of unendorsed
greatness, remains one of the unsolved mysteries.
When a worker in the vineyard of
music or the drama offers his choicest tokay to the public, that fickle coquette may turn to the more ordinary and less
succulent concord. And the worker
and the public itself know not why.
It is true, Diotti’s fame had preceded him, but fame has preceded others and
has not always been proof against financial disaster. All this preliminary,–and
it is but necessary to recall that on the evening of December the twelfth Diotti
made his initial bow in New York, to an audience that completely filled every available space in the Academy of
Music–a representative audience,
distinguished alike for beauty, wealth and discernment.
When the violinist appeared for his
solo, he quietly acknowledged the cordial reception of the audience, and
immediately proceeded with the business of the evening. At a slight nod from
him the conductor rapped attention, then launched the orchestra into the
introduction of the concerto, Diotti’s favorite, selected for the first number. As the violinist turned to the
conductor he faced slightly to the left and in a direct line with the second proscenium box. His poise was admirable. He was
handsome, with the olive-tinted warmth of his southern home–fairly tall, straight- limbed and lithe–a picture of poetic
grace. His was the face of a man who trusted without reserve, the manner of
one who believed implicitly, feeling that good was universal and evil accidental.
As the music grew louder and the
orchestra approached the peroration of the preface of the coming solo, the
violinist raised his head slowly. Suddenly his eyes met the gaze of the solitary
occupant of the second proscenium box. His face flushed. He looked inquiringly, almost appealingly, at her. She sat
immovable and serene, a lace-framed vision in white.
It was she who, since he had met
her, only the night before, held his very soul in thraldom.
He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it on the strings. Faintly came the first
measures of the theme. The melody,
noble, limpid and beautiful, floated in dreamy sway over the vast auditorium,
and seemed to cast a mystic glamour over the player. As the final note of
the first movement was dying away, the audience, awakening from its delicious
trance, broke forth into spontaneous bravos.
Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing the
program, merely drew her wrap closer about her shoulders and sat more erect.
At the end of the concerto the applause was generous enough to satisfy the most
exacting virtuoso. Diotti unquestionably had scored the greatest triumph of
his career. But the lady in the box had remained silent and unaffected throughout.
The poor fellow had seen only her dur- ing the time he played, and the mighty
cheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his ear like the echoes
of mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to his dressing-room and
sank into a chair. He had persuaded himself she should not be insensible to
his genius, but the dying ashes of his hopes, his dreams, were smouldering,
and in his despair came the thought: “I am not great enough for her. I am
but a man; her consort should be a god. Her soul, untouched by human passion
or human skill, demands the power of god-like genius to arouse it.”
Music lovers crowded into his dressing- room, enthusiastic in their praises.
Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicate chirography poured
in upon him, but in vain he looked for some sign, some word from her.
Quickly he left the theater and sought his hotel.
A menacing cloud obscured the wintry
moon. A clock sounded the midnight hour.
He threw himself upon the bed and
almost sobbed his thoughts, and their burden was:
“I am not great enough for her. I
am but a man. I am but a man!”
III
Perkins called in the morning.
Perkins was happy–Perkins was
positively joyous, and Perkins was self- satisfied. The violinist had made a
great hit. But Perkins, confiding in the white-coated dispenser who
concocted his matin Martini, very dry, an hour before, said he regarded the success due as much to the management as
to the artist. And Perkins believed it. Perkins usually took all the credit for a success, and with charming consistency
placed all responsibility for failure on the shoulders of the hapless artist.
When Perkins entered Diotti’s room
he found the violinist heavy-eyed and dejected. “My dear Signor,” he began,
showing a large envelope bulging with newspaper clippings, “I have brought
the notices. They are quite the limit, I assure you. Nothing like them ever
heard before–all tuned in the same key, as you musical fellows would say,” and Perkins cocked his eye.
Perkins enjoyed a glorious reputation with himself for bright sayings, which
he always accompanied with a cock of the eye. The musician not showing any
visible appreciation of the manager’s metaphor, Perkins immediately
proceeded to uncock his eye.
“Passed the box-office coming up,”
continued this voluble enlightener; “nothing left but a few seats in the top gallery. We’ll stand them on their
heads to-morrow night–see if we
don’t.” Then he handed the bursting envelope of notices to Diotti, who
listlessly put them on the table at his side.
“Too tired to read, eh?” said
Perkins, and then with the advance-agent instinct strong within him he selected a clipping, and touching the violinist on
the shoulder: “Let me read this one to you. It is by Herr Totenkellar. He
is a hard nut to crack, but he did himself proud this time. Great critic when
he wants to be.”
Perkins cleared his throat and began: “Diotti combines tremendous feeling
with equally tremendous technique.
The entire audience was under the
witchery of his art.” Diotti slowly negatived that statement with bowed head. “His tone is full, round and clear; his interpretation lends a story-telling charm to the music; for, while we drank deep
at the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within the waters the
lights of Paradise. New York never
has heard his equal. He stands alone, pre-eminent, an artistic giant.”
“Now, that’s what I call great,” said the impresario, dramatically; “when
you hit Totenkellar that way you are good for all kinds of money.”
Perkins took his hat and cane and
moved toward the door. The violinist arose and extended his hand wearily.
“Good-day” came simultaneously;
then “I’m off. We’ll turn ’em
away to-morrow; see if we don’t!”
Whereupon Perkins left Diotti alone in his misery.
IV
It was the evening of the fourteenth, In front of the Academy a strong-
lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented a
beacon light of hope to many tardy patrons of the evening’s entertainment,
especially to the man who had forgotten his wife’s injunction “to be sure
to buy the tickets on the way down
town, dear, and get them in the family circle, not too far back.” This man’s
intentions were sincere, but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning.
He was deeply engrossed in an
article on the causes leading to matrimonial infelicities when his ‘bus passed
the Academy box-office.
He was six blocks farther down town
when he finished the article, only to find that it was a carefully worded
advertisement for a new patent medicine, and of course he had not time to
return. “Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll get them when I go up town to-night.”
But he did not. So with fear in his
heart and a red-faced woman on his
arm he approached the box-office.
“Not a seat left,” sounded to his hen- pecked ears like the concluding words
of the black-robed judge: “and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.” But
a reprieve came, for one of the aforesaid beacon lights of hope rushed forward,
saying: “I have two good seats, not far back, and only ten apiece.” And
the gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his arm
passed in.
They saw the largest crowd in the
history of the Academy. Every seat was occupied, every foot of standing room
taken. Chairs were placed in the side aisles. The programs announced that
it was the second appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowed Tuscan
violinist.
The orchestra had perfunctorily
ground out the overture to “Der
Freischuetz,” the baritone had stentorianly emitted “Dio Possente,” the soprano
was working her way through the closing measures of the mad scene from “Lucia,” and Diotti was number four on
the program. The conductor stood
beside his platform, ready to ascend as Diotti appeared.
The audience, ever ready to act when
those on the stage cease that occupation, gave a splendid imitation of the historic last scene at the Tower of Babel.
Having accomplished this to its evident satisfaction, the audience proceeded, like the closing phrase of the
“Goetterdaemmerung” Dead March, to become exceedingly quiet–then expectant.
This expectancy lasted fully three
minutes. Then there were some impatient handclappings. A few persons
whispered: “Why is he late?” “Why doesn’t he come?” “I wonder where
Diotti is,” and then came unmistakable signs of impatience. At its height
Perkins appeared, hesitatingly. Nervous and jerky he walked to the center of
the stage, and raised his hand begging silence. The audience was stilled.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he falteringly said, “Signor Diotti left his hotel
at seven o’clock and was driven to the Academy. The call-boy rapped at his
dressing-room, and not receiving a reply, opened the door to find the room
empty. We have despatched searchers in every direction and have sent out a
police alarm. We fear some accident has befallen the Signor. We ask your
indulgence for the keen disappointment, and beg to say that your money will be
refunded at the box-office.”
Diotti had disappeared as completely
as though the earth had swallowed him.
V
My Dearest Sister: You
doubtless were exceedingly mystified and troubled over the report that
was flashed to Europe regarding my
sudden disappearance on the eve of my second concert in New York.
Fearing, sweet Francesca, that you
might mourn me as dead, I sent the
cablegram you received some weeks
since, telling you to be of good heart and await my letter. To make my action
thoroughly understood I must give
you a record of what happened to me from the first day I arrived in
America. I found a great interest mani- fested in my premiere, and socially
everything was done to make me happy.
Mrs. James Llewellyn, whom, you
no doubt remember, we met in Florence the winter of 18–, immediately after I
reached New York arranged a reception for me, which was elegant in the
extreme. But from that night dates
my misery.
You ask her name?–Mildred Wallace.
Tell me what she is like, I hear
you say. Of graceful height, willowy and exquisitely molded, not over twenty- four, with the face of a Madonna;
wondrous eyes of darkest blue, hair indescribable in its maze of tawny color –in a word, the perfection of womanhood. In half an hour I was her abject
slave, and proud in my serfdom.
When I returned to the hotel that evening I could not sleep. Her image ever
was before me, elusive and shadowy. And yet we seemed to grow farther and
farther apart–she nearer heaven, I nearer earth.
The next evening I gave my first and
what I fear may prove my last concert in America. The vision of my dreams
was there, radiant in rarest beauty. Singularly enough, she was in the direct line of my vision while I played.
I saw only her, played but for her, and cast my soul at her feet. She sat indifferent and silent. “Cold?” you say. No!
No! Francesca, not cold; superior to my poor efforts. I realized my
limitations. I questioned my genius. When I returned to bow my acknowledgments
for the most generous applause I have ever received, there was no sign on her
part that I had interested her, either through my talent or by appeal to her
curiosity. I hoped against hope that some word might come from her, but I
was doomed to disappointment. The
critics were fulsome in their praise and the public was lavish with its plaudits, but I was abjectly miserable. Another
sleepless night and I was determined to see her. She received me most
graciously, although I fear she thought my visit one of vanity–wounded vanity–
and me petulant because of her lack of appreciation.
Oh, sister mine, I knew better. I
knew my heart craved one word, however matter-of-fact, that would rekindle
the hope that was dying within me.
Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel, I blurted: “I have been wondering
whether you cared for the performance I gave?”
“It certainly ought to make little
difference to you,” she replied; “the public was enthusiastic enough in its
endorsement.”
“But I want your opinion,” I pleaded.
“My opinion would not at all affect
the almost unanimous verdict, “she replied calmly.
“And,” I urged desperately, “you
were not affected in the least?”
Very coldly she answered, “Not in
the least;” and then fearlessly, like a princess in the Palace of Truth: “If
ever a man comes who can awaken my
heart, frankly and honestly I will
confess it.”
“Perhaps such a one lives,” I said,
but has yet to reach the height to win you–your–”
“Speak it,” she said, “to win my
love!”
“Yes,” I cried, startled at her
candor, “to win your love.” Hope slowly rekindled within my breast, and then
with half-closed eyes, and wooingly, she said:
“No drooping Clytie could be more
constant than I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul.”
Her emotion must have surprised her,
but immediately she regained her placidity and reverted no more to the subject.
I went out into the gathering gloom.
Her words haunted me. A strange
feeling came over me. A voice within me cried: “Do not play to-night.
Study! study! Perhaps in the full fruition of your genius your music, like the
warm western wind to the harp, may
bring life to her soul.”
I fled, and I am here. I am delving
deeper and deeper into the mysteries of my art, and I pray God each hour that
He may place within my grasp the
wondrous music His blessed angels
sing, for the soul of her I love is at. tuned to the harmonies of heaven.
Your affectionate brother,
ANGELO.
ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January 2.
VI
When Diotti left New York so
precipitately he took passage
on a coast line steamer sailing for the Bahama Islands. Once there, he leased
a small cay, one of a group off the main land, and lived alone and unattended,
save for the weekly visits of an old fisherman and his son, who brought
supplies of provisions from the town miles away. His dwelling-place,
surrounded with palmetto trees, was little more than a rough shelter. Diotti arose
at daylight, and after a simple repast, betook himself to practise. Hour after
hour he would let his muse run riot with his fingers. Lovingly he wooed
the strings with plaintive song, then conquering and triumphant would be
his theme. But neither satisfied him. The vague dream of a melody more
beautiful than ever man had heard
dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his imagination, but was no nearer realization than when he began. As the day’s
work closed, he wearily placed the
violin within its case, murmuring,
“Not yet, not yet; I have not found it.”
Days passed, weeks crept slowly
on; still he worked, but always
with the same result. One day,
feverish and excited, he played on
in monotone almost listless. His tired, over-wrought brain denied a further
thought. His arm and fingers refused response to his will. With an uncontrollable outburst of grief and anger he
dashed the violin to the floor, where it lay a hopeless wreck. Extending his
arms he cried, in the agony of despair: “It is of no use! If the God of heaven
will not aid me, I ask the prince of darkness to come.”
A tall, rather spare, but well-made
and handsome man appeared at the
door of the hut. His manner was that of one evidently conversant with the usages of good society.
“I beg pardon,” said the musician,
surprised and visibly nettled at the intrusion, and then with forced politeness he asked: “To whom am I indebted
for this unexpected visit?”
“Allow me,” said the stranger taking a card from his case and handing
it to the musician, who read: “Satan,” and, in the lower left-hand corner
“Prince of Darkness.”
“I am the Prince,” said the stranger, bowing low.
There was no hint of the pavement-
made ruler in the information he gave, but rather of the desire of one gentleman to set another right at the beginning.
The musician assumed a position
of open-mouthed wonder, gazing
steadily at the visitor.
“Satan?” he whispered hoarsely.
“You need help and advice,” said
the visitor, his voice sounding like that of a disciple of the healing art, and
implying that he had thoroughly diagnosed the case.
“No, no,” cried the shuddering
violinist; “go away. I do not need you.”
“I regret I can not accept that
statement as gospel truth,” said Satan, sarcastically, “for if ever a man needed help, you are that man.”
“But not from you,” replied Diotti.
“That statement is discredited also
by your outburst of a few moments ago when you called upon me.”
“I do not need you,” reiterated the musician. “I will have none of you!”
and he waved his arm toward the door, as if he desired the interview to end.
“I came at your behest, actuated
entirely by kindness of heart,” said Satan.
Diotti laughed derisively, and Satan, showing just the slightest feeling at
Diotti’s behavior, said reprovingly: “If you will listen a moment, and not be so
rude to an utter stranger, we may reach some conclusion to your benefit.”
“Get thee behind–”
“I know exactly what you were about
to say. Have no fears on that score. I have no demands to make and no
impossible compacts to insist upon.”
“I have heard of you before,” know- ingly spoke the violinist nodding his
head sadly.
“No doubt you have,” smilingly.
“My reputation, which has suffered at the hands of irresponsible people, is not of the best, and places me at times in
awkward positions. But I am beginning to live it down.” The stranger
looked contrition itself. “To prove my sincerity I desire to help you win her
love,” emphasizing her.
“How can you help me?”
“Very easily. You have been wasting
time, energy and health in a wild
desire to play better. The trouble lies not with you.”
“Not with me?” interrupted the
violinist, now thoroughly interested.
“The trouble lies not with you,”
repeated the visitor, “but with the miserable violin you have been using and have
just destroyed,” and he pointed to the shattered instrument.
Tears welled from the poor violinist’s eyes as he gazed on the fragments of his beloved violin, the pieces lying scattered about as the result of his unfortunate
anger.
“It was a Stradivarius,” said Diotti, sadly.
“Had it been a Stradivarius, an Amati or a Guarnerius, or a host of others rolled into one, you would not have found in
it the melody to win the heart of the woman you love. Get a better and
more suitable instrument.”
“Where is one?” earnestly interrogated Diotti, vaguely realizing that
Satan knew.
“In my possession,” Satan replied.
“She would hate me if she knew I
had recourse to the powers of darkness to gain her love,” bitterly interposed
Diotti.
Satan, wincing at this uncomplimentary allusion to himself, replied rather
warmly: “My dear sir, were it not for the fact that I feel in particularly good spirits this morning, I should resent your ill-timed remarks and leave you to end
your miserable existence with rope or pistol,” and Satan pantomimed both
suicidal contingencies.
“Do you want the violin or not?”
“I might look at it,” said Diotti,
resolving mentally that he could go so far without harm.
“Very well,” said Satan. He gave
a long whistle.
An old man, bearing a violin case,
came within the room. He bowed to
the wondering Diotti, and proceeded to open the case. Taking the instrument
out the old man fondled it with loving and tender solicitude, pointing out its
many beauties–the exquisite blending of the curves, the evenness of the grain, the peculiar coloring, the lovely contour of the neck, the graceful outlines of the body, the scroll, rivaling the creations of the ancient sculptors, the solidity of the bridge and its elegantly carved heart, and, waxing exceedingly enthusiastic,
holding up the instrument and looking at it as one does at a cluster of gems, he added, “the adjustment of the strings.”
“That will do,” interrupted Satan,
taking the violin from the little man, who bowed low and ceremoniously
took his departure. Then the devil, pointing to the instrument, asked: “Isn’t it a beauty?”
The musician, eying it keenly,
replied: “Yes, it is, but not the kind of violin I play on.”
“Oh, I see,” carelessly observed the other, “you refer to that extra string.”
“Yes,” answered the puzzled violinist, examining it closely.
“Allow me to explain the peculiar
characteristics of this magnificent instrument,” said his satanic majesty. “This
string,” pointing to the G, “is the string of pity; this one,” referring to the third, “is the string of hope; this,”
plunking the A, “is attuned to love, while this one, the E string, gives forth sounds of joy.
“You will observe,” went on the
visitor, noting the intense interest displayed by the violinist, “that the position
of the strings is the same as on any other violin, and therefore will require no additional study on your part.”
“But that extra string?” interrupted Diotti, designating the middle one on
the violin, a vague foreboding rising within him.
“That,” said Mephistopheles,
solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry, “is the string of death, and he who
plays upon it dies at once.”
“The–string–of–death!” repeated
the violinist almost inaudibly.
“Yes, the string of death,” Satan
repeated, “and he who plays upon it dies at once. But,” he added cheerfully,
“that need not worry you. I noticed a marvelous facility in your arm work.
Your staccato and spiccato are wonderful. Every form of bowing appears
child’s play to you. It will be easy for you to avoid touching the string.”
“Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?”
“Ah, that’s the rub. If you
examine the violin closely you will find that the string of death is made up of
the extra lengths of the other four strings. To cut it off would destroy the others, and then pity, hope, love and joy would cease to exist in the soul of the
violin.”
“How like life itself,” Diotti
reflected, “pity, hope, love, joy end in death, and through death they are born
again.”
“That’s the idea, precisely,” said
Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti’s logic and quick perception.
The violinist examined the instrument with the practised eye of an expert, and turning to Satan said: “The four
strings are beautifully white and transparent, but this one is black and odd
looking.
“What is it wrapped with?” eagerly
inquired Diotti, examining the death string with microscopic care.
“The fifth string was added after an unfortunate episode in the Garden of
Eden, in which I was somewhat
concerned,” said Satan, soberly. “It is wrapped with strands of hair from the
first mother of man.” Impressively then he offered the violin to Diotti.
“I dare not take it,” said the
perplexed musician; “it’s from–”
“Yes, it is directly from there, but I brought it from heaven when I–I left,” said the fallen angel, with remorse in
his voice. “It was my constant
companion there. But no one in my
domain–not I, myself–can play upon it now, for it will respond neither to our
longing for pity, hope, love, joy, nor even death,” and sadly and retrospectively Satan gazed into vacancy; then,
after a long pause: “Try the instrument!”
Diotti placed the violin in position
and drew the bow across the string of joy, improvising on it. Almost instantly the birds of the forest darted hither and thither, caroling forth in gladsome
strains. The devil alone was sad, and with emotion said:
“It is many, many years since I
have heard that string.”
Next the artist changed to the string of pity, and thoughts of the world’s
sorrows came over him like a pall.
“Wonderful, most wonderful!” said
the mystified violinist; “with this instrument I can conquer the world!”
“Aye, more to you than the world,”
said the tempter, “a woman’s love.”
A woman’s love–to the despairing
suitor there was one and only one in this wide, wide world, and her words, burning their way into his heart, had made
this temptation possible: “No droop- ing Clytie could be more constant than
I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul.”
Holding the violin aloft, he cried
exultingly: “Henceforth thou art mine, though death and oblivion lurk ever
near thee!”
VII
Perkins, seated in his office,
threw the morning paper aside.
“It’s no use,” he said, turning to the office boy, “I don’t believe they ever
will find him, dead or alive. Whoever put up the job on Diotti was a past
grand master at that sort of thing. The silent assassin that lurks in the shadow of the midnight moon is an explosion of
dynamite compared to the party that made way with Diotti. You ask, why
should they kill him? My boy, you
don’t know the world. They were
jealous of his enormous hit, of our dazzling success. Jealousy did it.”
The “they” of Perkins comprised
rival managers, rival artists, newspaper critics and everybody at large
who would not concede that the
attractions managed by Perkins were the “greatest on earth.”
“We’ll never see his like again–
come in!” this last in answer to a knock.
Diotti appeared at the open door.
Perkins jumped like one shot from a catapult, and rushing toward the silent
figure in the doorway exclaimed: “Bless my soul, are you a ghost?”
“A substantial one,” said Diotti with a smile.
“Are you really here?” continued
the astonished impresario, using Diotti’s arm as a pump handle and pinching
him at the same time.
When they were seated Perkins plied
Diotti with all manner of questions; “How did it happen?” “How did you
escape?” and the like, all of which Diotti parried with monosyllabic replies, finally saying: “I was dissatisfied with my
playing and went away to study.”
“Do you know that the failure to fulfill your contract has cost me at least ten
thousand dollars?” said the shrewd manager, the commercial side of his
nature asserting itself.
“All of which I will pay,” quietly
replied the artist. “Besides I am ready to play now, and you can announce a
concert within a week if you like.”
“If I like?” cried the hustling Perkins. “Here, James,” calling his office
boy, “run down to the printer’s
and give him this,” making a note of the various sizes of “paper” he desired, “and tell Mr. Tompkins that Diotti is
back and will give a concert next Tuesday. Tell Smith to prepare the newspaper
`ads’ and notices immediately.”
In an hour Perkins had the entire
machinery of his office in motion.
Within twenty-four hours New York
had several versions of the disappearance and return, all leading to one
common point–that Diotti would give a concert the coming Tuesday evening.
The announcement of the reappearance
of the Tuscan contained a line
to the effect that the violinist would play for the first time his new suite–a
meditation on the emotions.
He had not seen Mildred.
As he came upon the stage that night
the lights were turned low, and naught but the shadowy outlines of player and
violin were seen. His reception by the audience was not enthusiastic. They
evidently remembered the disappointment caused by his unexpected disappearance,
but this unfriendly attitude
soon gave way to evidences of kindlier feelings.
Mildred was there, more beautiful
than ever, and to gain her love Diotti would have bartered his soul that moment.
The first movement of the suite was
entitled “Pity,” and the music flowed like melodious tears. A subdued sob
rose and fell with the sadness of the theme.
Mildred’s eyes were moistened as
she fixed them on the lone figure of the player.
Now the theme of pity changed to
hope, and hearts grew brighter under the spell. The next movement depicted joy.
As the virtuoso’s fingers darted here and there, his music seemed the very laughter of fairy voices, the earth looked roses
and sunshine, and Mildred, relaxing her position and leaning forward in the box, with lips slightly parted, was the picture of eager happiness.
The final movement came. Its subject
was love. The introduction depicted the Arcadian beauty of the
trysting place, love-lit eyes sought each other intuitively and a great peace
brooded over the hearts of all. Then followed the song of the Passionate Pilgrim:
“If music and sweet poetry agree,
As they must needs, the sister and the brother, When must the love be great ‘twixt thee and me Because thou lov’st the one, and I the other.
***
Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus’ lute (the queen of music) makes; And I in deep delight, am chiefly drown’d When as himself to singing he betakes.
One god is god of both, as poets
One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.”
Grander and grander the melody
rose, voicing love’s triumph with wondrous sweetness and palpitating rhythm.
Mildred, her face flushed with excitement, a heavenly fire in her eyes and in
an attitude of supplication, reveled in the glory of a new found emotion.
As the violinist concluded his
performance an oppressive silence pervaded the house, then the audience, wild with
excitement, burst into thunders of
applause. In his dressing-room Diotti was besieged by hosts of people,
congratulating him in extravagant terms.
Mildred Wallace came, extending her
hands. He took them almost reverently. She looked into his eyes, and
he knew he had struck the chord responsive in her soul.
VIII
The sun was high in the heavens
when the violinist awoke. A great
weight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness into dawn.
A messenger brought him this note:
My Dear Signor Diotti–I am at home this afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of heaven. Sincerely,
Mildred Wallace.
The messenger returned with this reply:
My Dear Miss Wallace–I will call at three to-day.
Gratefully,
Angelo Diotti.
He watched the hour drag from eleven
to twelve, then counted the minutes to one, and from that time until he left the hotel each second was tabulated in his
mind. Arriving at her residence, he was ushered into the drawing-room. It
was fragrant with the perfume of violets, and he stood gazing at her portrait
expectant of her coming.
Dressed in simple white, entrancing
in her youthful freshness, she entered, her face glowing with happiness, her
eyes languorous and expressive. She hastened to him, offering both hands.
He held them in a loving, tender grasp, and for a moment neither spoke. Then
she, gazing clearly and fearlessly into his eyes, said: “My heart has found its melody!”
He, kneeling like Sir Gareth of old:
“The song and the singer are yours forever. ”
She, bidding him arise: “And I forever yours.” And wondering at her
boldness, she added, “I know and feel that you love me–your eyes confirmed
your love before you spoke.” Then, convincingly and ingenuously, “I knew
you loved me the moment we first met. Then I did not understand what that
meant to you, now I do.”
He drew her gently to him, and the
motive of their happiness was defined in sweet confessions: “My love, my
life–My life, my love.”
The magic of his music had changed
her very being, the breath of love was in her soul, the vision of love was dancing in her eyes. The child of marble,
like the statue of old, had come to life:
“And not long since
I was a cold, dull stone! I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone; That was the first dull gleam of consciousness; I became conscious of a chilly self,
A cold, immovable identity.
I knew that I was stone, and knew no more! Then, by an imperceptible advance,
Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen–darkly and imperfectly–yet seen
The walls surrounding me, and I, alone. That pedestal–that curtain–then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word,
Which seemed to shake my marble to the core, That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless–seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand;
I felt my frame pervaded by a glow
That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved–I lived! Lived in the ecstasy of a new-born life! Lived in the love of him that fashioned me! Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope.”
Day after day he came; they told their love, their hopes, their ambitions. She
assumed absolute proprietorship in him. She gloried in her possession.
He was born into the world, nurtured
in infancy, trained in childhood and matured into manhood, for one express
purpose–to be hers alone. Her
ownership ranged from absolute despotism to humble slavery, and he was happy
through it all.
One day she said: “Angelo, is it your purpose to follow your profession always?”
“Necessarily, it is my livelihood,” he replied.
“But do you not think that after we
stand at the altar, we never should be separated?”
“We will be together always,” said
he, holding her face between his palms, and looking with tender expression into
her inquiring eyes.
“But I notice that women cluster
around you after your concerts–and shake your hand longer than they
should–and talk to you longer than they should–and go away looking self-
satisfied!” she replied brokenly, much as a little girl tells of the theft of her doll.
“Nonsense,” he said, smiling, “that is all part of my profession; it is not
me they care for, it is the music I give that makes them happy. If, in my
playing, I achieve results out of the common, they admire me!” and he kissed
away the unwelcome tears.
“I know,” she continued, “but
lately, since we have loved each other, I can not bear to see a woman near
you. In my dreams again and again
an indefinable shadow mockingly comes; and cries to me, `he is not to be yours, he is to be mine.’ ”
Diotti flushed and drew her to him
“Darling,” his voice carrying conviction, “I am yours, you are mine, all in
all, in life here and beyond!” And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, she
murmured petulantly, “I wish there were no other women in the world.”
Her father was expected from Europe
on the succeeding day’s steamer. Mr. Wallace was a busy man. The various
gigantic enterprises he served as president or director occupied most of his
time. He had been absent in Europe
for several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting his return to tell him of her love.
When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughter
met him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into the drawing- room, hand in hand; he saw a picture
of the violinist on the piano. “Who’s the handsome young fellow?” he asked,
looking at the portrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendid
type of his own sex.
“That is Angelo Diotti, the famous
violinist,” she said, but she could not add another word.
As they strolled through the rooms
he noticed no less than three likenesses of the Tuscan. And as they passed her
room he saw still another on the chiffonnier.
“Seems to me the house is running wild with photographs of that fiddler,” he said.
For the first time in her life she was self-conscious: “I will wait for a more opportune time to tell him,” she thought.
In the scheme of Diotti’s appearance
in New York there were to be two
more concerts. One was to be given
that evening. Mildred coaxed her
father to accompany her to hear the violinist. Mr. Wallace was not fond
of music; “it had been knocked out of him on the farm up in Vermont, when
he was a boy,” he would apologetically explain, and besides he had the old
puritanical abhorrence of stage people– putting them all in one class–as puppets who danced for played or talked for an
idle and unthinking public.
So it was with the thought of a
wasted evening that he accompanied
Mildred to the concert.
The entertainment was a repetition
of the others Diotti had given, and at its end, Mildred said to her father:
“Come, I want to congratulate Signor Diotti in person.”
“That is entirely unnecessary,” he
replied.
“It is my desire,” and the girl led the unwilling parent back of the scenes
and into Diotti’s dressing-room.
Mildred introduced Diotti to her
father, who after a few commonplaces lapsed into silence. The daughter’s
enthusiastic interest in Diotti’s performance and her tender solicitude for his
weariness after the efforts of the evening, quickly attracted the attention of
Mr. Wallace and irritated him exceedingly.
When father and daughter were
seated in their carriage and were hurriedly driving home, he said: “Mildred,
I prefer that you have as little to say to that man as possible.”
“What do you object to in him?”
she asked.
“Everything. Of what use is a man
who dawdles away his time on a fiddle; of what benefit is he to mankind? Do
fiddlers build cities? Do they delve into the earth for precious metals? Do they
sow the seed and harvest the grain? No, no; they are drones–the barnacles
of society.”
“Father, how can you advance such
an argument? Music’s votaries offer no apologies for their art. The husbandman
places the grain within the breast
of Mother Earth for man’s material
welfare; God places music in the heart of man for his spiritual development. In
man’s spring time, his bridal day, music means joy. In man’s winter time,
his burial day, music means comfort. The heaven-born muse has added to the
happiness of the world. Diotti is a great genius. His art brings rest and
tranquillity to the wearied and despairing,” and she did not speak again until
they had reached the house.
The lights were turned low when
father and daughter went into the
drawing-room. Mr. Wallace felt that he had failed to convince Mildred of the utter worthlessness of fiddlers, big or
little, and as one dissatisfied with the outcome of a contest, re-entered the
lists.
“He has visited you?”
“Yes, father.”
“Often?”
“Yes, father,” spoken calmly.
“Often?” louder and more imperiously repeated the father, as if there
must be some mistake.
“Quite often,” and she sat down,
knowing the catechizing would be likely to continue for some minutes.
“How many times, do you think?”
She rose, walked into the hallway;
took the card basket from the table, returned and seated herself beside her
father, emptying its contents into her lap. She picked up a card. It read
“Angelo Diotti,” and she called the name aloud. She took up another and
again her lips voiced the beloved name. “Angelo Diotti,” she continued, repeating at intervals for a minute. Then
looking at her father: “He has called thirty-two times; there are thirty-one
cards here and on one occasion he forgot his card-case.”
“Thirty-two!” said the father, rising angrily and pacing the floor.
“Yes, thirty-two. I remember all
of them distinctly.”
Her father came over to her, half
coaxingly, half seriously. “Mildred, I wish his visits to cease; people will
imagine there is a romantic attachment between you.”
“There is, father,” out it came, “he loves me and I love him.”
“What!” shouted Mr. Wallace, and
then severely, “this must cease immediately.”
She rose quietly and led her father
over to the mantel. Placing a hand on each of his shoulders she said:
“Father, I will obey you implicitly
if you can name a reasonable objection to the man I love. But you can not.
I love him with my whole soul. I love him for the nobility of his character,
and because there is none other in the world for him, nor for me.”
IX
Old Sanders as boy and man
had been in the employ of the
banking and brokerage firm of Wallace Brothers for two generations. The firm
gradually had advanced his position until now he was confidential adviser and
general manager, besides having an
interest in the profits of the business.
He enjoyed the friendship of Mr.
Wallace, and had been a constant visitor at his house from the first days of
that gentleman’s married life. He himself was alone in the world, a confirmed
bachelor. He had seen Mildred creep from babyhood into childhood, and bud
from girlhood to womanhood. To Mildred he was one of that numerous army
of brevet relations known as “gran- pop,” “pop,” or “uncle.” To her he
was Uncle Sanders.
If the old man had one touch of human nature in him it was a solicitude
for Mildred’s future–an authority arrogated to himself–to see that she married
the right man; but even that was
directed to her material gain in this world’s goods, and not to any sentimental consideration for her happiness.
He flattered himself that by timely suggestion he had “stumped” at least half a dozen would-be candidates for Mildred’s hand. He pooh-poohed love as a
necessity for marital felicity, and would enforce his argument by quoting from
the bard:
“All lovers swear more performance
than they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowing
more than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one.”
“You can get at a man’s income,”
he would say, “but not at his heart. Love without money won’t travel as far
as money without love,” and many
married people whose bills were overdue wondered if the old fellow was
not right.
He was cold-blooded and generally
disliked by the men under him. The
more evil-minded gossips in the bank said he was in league with “Old
Nick.” That, of course, was absurd, for it does not necessarily follow,
because a man suggests a means looking to an end, disreputable though it be,
that he has Mephistopheles for a silent partner. The conservative element
among the employees would not openly venture so far, but rather thought if his satanic majesty and old Sanders ran a
race, the former would come in a bad second, if he were not distanced altogether.
The old man always reached the office at nine. Mr. Wallace usually arrived a
half hour later, seldom earlier, which was so well understood by Sanders that he
was greatly surprised when he walked into the president’s office, the morning after that gentleman had attended
Diotti’s concert, to find the head of the firm already there and apparently waiting for him.
“Sanders,” said the banker, “I
want your advice on a matter of great importance and concern to me.”
Sanders came across the room and
stood beside the desk.
“Briefly as possible, I am much
exercised about my daughter.”
The old man moved up a chair and
buried himself in it. Pressing his elbows tightly against his sides, he drew
his neck in, and with the tips of his right hand fingers consorted and
coquetted with their like on the opposite hand; then he simply asked, “Who is
the man?”
“He is the violinist who has created such a sensation here, Angelo Diotti.”
“Yes, I’ve seen the name in print,” returned the old man.
“He has bewitched Mildred. I never
have seen her show the least interest in a man before. She never has appeared
to me as an impressionable girl or one that could easily be won.”
“That is very true,” ejaculated
Sanders; “she always seemed tractable and open to reason in all questions of love
and courting. I can recall several
instances where I have set her right by my estimation of men, and invariably
she has accepted my views.”
“And mine until now,” said the
father, and then he recounted his
experience of the night before. “I had hoped she would not fall in love, but
be a prop and comfort to me now that I am alone. I am dismayed at the
prospect before me.”
Then the old man mused: “In the
chrysalis state of girlhood, a parent arranges all the details of his daughter’s future; when and whom she shall marry.
`I shall not allow her to fall in love until she is twenty-three,’ says the fond parent. `I shall not allow her to marry
until she is twenty-six,’ says the fond parent. `The man she marries will be
the one I approve of, and then she will live happy ever after,’ concludes the
fond parent.”
Deluded parent! false prophet! The
anarchist, Love, steps in and disdains all laws, rules and regulations. When
finally the father confronts the defying daughter, she calmly says, “Well,
what are you going to do about it?” And then tears, forgiveness, complete
capitulation, and, sometimes, she and her husband live happily ever afterwards.
“We must find some means to end
this attachment. A union between a
musician and my daughter would be
most mortifying to me. Some plan
must be devised to separate them, but she must not know of it, for she is
impatient of restraint and will not brook opposition.”
“Are you confident she really loves
this violinist?”
“She confessed as much to me,”
said the perturbed banker.
Old Sanders tapped with both hands
on his shining cranium and asked,
“Are you confident he loves her?”
“No. Even if he does not, he no doubt makes the pretense, and she believes
him. A man who fiddles for money
is not likely to ignore an opportunity to angle for the same commodity,” and
the banker, with a look of scorn on his face, threw himself back into the chair.
“Does she know that you do not
approve of this man?”
“I told her that I desired the
musician’s visits to cease.”
“And her answer?”
“She said she would obey me if I
could name one reasonable objection to the man, and then, with an air of absolute confidence in the impossibility of
such a contingency, added, `But you can not.’ ”
“Yes, but you must,” said Sanders.
“Mildred is strangely constituted. If she loves this man, her love can be
more deadly to the choice of her heart than her hate to one she abhors. The
impatience of restraint you speak of and her very inability to brook opposition
can be turned to good account now.” And old Sanders again tapped in the
rhythm of a dirge on his parchment- bound cranium.
“Your plan?” eagerly asked the
father, whose confidence in his secretary was absolute.
“I would like to study them together. Your position will be stronger with
Mildred if you show no open opposition to the man or his aspirations; bring us
together at your house some evening, and if I can not enter a wedge of
discontent, then they are not as others.”
***
Mildred was delighted when her
father told her on his return in the evening that he was anxious to meet
Signor Diotti, and suggested a dinner party within a few days. He said he
would invite Mr. Sanders, as that
gentleman, no doubt, would consider it a great privilege to meet the famous
musician. Mildred immediately sent an invitation to Diotti, adding a request
that he bring his violin and play for Uncle Sanders, as the latter had found
it impossible to attend his concerts during the season, yet was fond of music,
especially violin music.
X
The little dinner party passed off
pleasantly, and as old Sanders
lighted his cigar he confided to Diotti, with a braggart’s assurance, that when
he was a youngster he was the best fiddler for twenty miles around. “I tell
you there is nothing like a fiddler to catch a petticoat,” he said, with a sharp nudge of his elbow into Diotti’s ribs.
“When I played the Devil’s Dream
there wasn’t a girl in the country could keep from dancing, and `Rosalie, the
Prairie Flower,’ brought them on their knees to me every time;” then after a
pause, “I don’t believe people fiddle as well nowadays as they did in the good
old times,” and he actually sighed in remembrance.
Mildred smiled and whispered to
Diotti. He took his violin from the case and began playing. It seemed to her
as if from above showers of silvery merriment were falling to earth. The old man watched intently, and as the player
changed from joy to pity, from love back to happiness, Sanders never withdrew his gaze. His bead-like eyes followed
the artist; he saw each individual
finger rise and fall, and the bow bound over the finger-board, always avoiding,
never coming in contact with the middle string. Suddenly the old man beat a
tattoo on his cranium and closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought.
As Diotti ceased playing, Sanders
applauded vociferously, and moving
toward the violinist, said: “Magnificent! I never have heard better playing!
What is the make of your violin?”
Diotti, startled at this question,
hurriedly put the instrument in its case; “Oh, it is a famous make,” he drawled.
“Will you let me examine it?” said
the elder, placing his hand on the case.
“I never allow any one to touch my
violin,” replied Diotti, closing the cover quickly.
“Why; is there a magic charm about
it, that you fear other hands may
discover?” queried the old man.
“I prefer that no one handle it,”
said the virtuoso commandingly.
“Very well,” sighed the old man
resignedly, “there are violins and violins, and no doubt yours comes within that
category,” this half sneeringly.
“Uncle,” interposed Mildred tactfully, “you must not be so persistent. Signor
Diotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to play upon it but
himself,” and the look of relief on Diotti’s face amply repaid her.
Mr. Wallace came in at that moment,
and with perfunctory interest in his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of revolutionary relics in
his study.
“I value them highly,” said the
banker, “both for patriotic and ancestral reasons. The Wallaces fought and
died for their country, and helped to make this land what it is.”
The father and the violinist went to
the study, leaving the daughter and old Sanders in the drawing-room. The
old man, seating himself in a large armchair, said: “Mildred, my dear, I do
not wonder at the enormous success of this Diotti.”
“He is a wonderful artist,” replied Mildred; “critics and public alike place him among the greatest of his profession.”
“He is a good-looking young fellow,
too,” said the old man.
“I think he is the handsomest man I
ever have seen,” replied the girl.
“Where does he come from?”
continued Sanders.
“St. Casciano, a small town in Tuscany.”
“Has he a family?”
“Only a sister, whom he loves
dearly,” good-naturedly answered the girl.
“And no one else?” continued the
seemingly garrulous old man.
“None that I have heard him speak
of. No, certainly not,” rather impetuously replied Mildred.