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diff --git a/29481-h/29481-h.htm b/29481-h/29481-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1be83ea --- /dev/null +++ b/29481-h/29481-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,3578 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=utf-8" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Fifth String, by John Philip Sousa</title> + <style type="text/css" media="screen"> + + /* Reset styles to avoid cross-browser problems */ + html, body, div, span, h1, h2, h3, h4, h5, h6, p, blockquote, pre, a, abbr, acronym, cite, del, em, img, ins, strong, sub, sup, ol, ul, li, + table, caption, tbody, tfoot, thead, tr, th, td { margin: 0; padding: 0; border: 0; outline: 0; font-size: 100%; vertical-align: baseline; background: transparent; } + body { line-height: 1; } + ol, ul { list-style: none; } + ins { text-decoration: none; } + del { text-decoration: line-through; } + abbr, img { text-decoration: none; } + table { border-collapse: collapse; border-spacing: 0; } + + + /* Overall document styles start here */ + html { margin:1em; font-family: Palatino, "Palatino Linotype", "Times New Roman", Times, serif; } + body { margin-left:10%; margin-right:10%; } + p { text-align: justify; line-height: 1.3; text-indent: 1em; } + h1,h2 { text-align: center; font-weight: normal; clear: both; text-indent:0em;} + blockquote {margin:1em 2em; font-size:.9em;} + + div.illo {text-align:center; + margin:2em auto; + text-indent:0em;} + p.caption {text-align:center;text-indent:0;font-size:.9em;} + + img { border:none;} + .illo a:hover { background-color:transparent;} + + /* Page number styling */ + .pagenum { position: absolute; left: 2%; font-size: 10px; font-weight:normal; font-variant:normal; font-style: normal; letter-spacing: normal; text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; color: gray; } + .pagenum:after { content: attr(title); } /* Comment/uncomment this instruction to hide/show page numbers*/ + .disguise { visibility:hidden;} /* Used to make some page numbers invisible but still anchors. Used on pages that do not have page numbers printed on them but are included in the numbering scheme. */ + + /* Front and end matter */ + #title-page {margin:3em 0; padding-top:3em; line-height:4em; font-style:italic;} + #title-page p {text-align:center;text-indent:0em;} + #title-page h1 {font-size:3em;} + #title-page #author {font-size:1.25em;line-height:2em;margin:4em 0;} + #title-page #illustrator {font-size:1.1em;} + #title-page #pub_data {font-size:.9em;line-height:1.5em;margin:4em 0;} + + #copyright-page {margin:5em 0;} + #copyright-page p {text-indent:0em; text-align:center;} + #copyright-statement {font-style:italic; margin-bottom:6em;} + #printer {font-size:.8em;margin:6em 0;} + + .internal-title {text-align:center;text-indent:0em;font-size:2.5em;} + + #the_beginning {margin:3em 0; padding-top:3em; border-top:2px gray solid;line-height:4em;} + #the_end {margin:3em 0;padding-bottom:3em; border-bottom:2px gray solid;} + #the_end p { text-align:center; text-indent:0em;font-style:italic;} + + /* Chapters */ + .chapter { margin: 6em 0; } + .chapter h2 { margin:2em 0; font-size:1.5em; line-height:1.5;} + .first_paragraph {text-indent:0;} + .first_word {font-variant:small-caps;font-size:1.8em;font-style:italic;line-height:1;} + .first_paragraph:first-letter {float:left;height:1em;margin:.2em .1em 0 0;display:block;} + hr.thoughtbreak { border:none; text-decoration:none; text-align:center; width:35%; margin:1.5em auto;} + .thoughtbreak:before {content:"* * * * * *"; font-size:1em; letter-spacing:.5em;} + + .poem {margin:.75em 0em 1em .5em; font-style:italic;} + .poem p {text-indent:-.75em;text-align:left;padding-left:1em;margin:0em;line-height:1.2;} + p.i12 {text-indent:6em;} + p.poetry_break {letter-spacing:2em;text-indent:1em;font-weight:bold;} + + .chapter > .poem {margin-left:2em;} + + .letter {margin:2em; font-style:italic;} + .signature {text-align:right; text-indent:0em;margin-right:10em;} + .signed {text-align:right;margin-right:-5em; display:block;} + .special_name {font-variant:small-caps;} + + + /* Anchors */ + a:link {color: #3A3E9D; background-color: inherit; text-decoration: none;} + a:visited {color: #000066; background-color: inherit; text-decoration: none;} + a:hover {color: #A8480E; background-color: #CC9;} + + div.pg { font-family: "Times-Roman", serif; } + h1.pg { text-align: center; font-weight: bold; clear: both; text-indent:0em; font-size: 190%; font-family: "Times-Roman", serif; } + h3.pg { text-align: center; font-size: 110%; } + hr.full { width: 100%; + margin-top: 3em; + margin-bottom: 0em; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; + height: 4px; + border-width: 4px 0 0 0; /* remove all borders except the top one */ + border-style: solid; + border-color: #000000; + clear: both; } + .center {text-align: center; } + pre {font-size: 85%;} + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h1 class="pg">The Project Gutenberg eBook, The Fifth String, by John Philip Sousa, +Illustrated by Howard Chandler Christy</h1> +<p> </p> +<pre> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at <a href = "http://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a></pre> +<div class="pg"> +<p> </p> +<p>Title: The Fifth String<br /> <br /> </p> +<p>Author: John Philip Sousa<br /> </p> +<p>Release Date: July 22, 2009 [eBook #29481]<br /> </p> +<p>Language: English<br /> </p> +<p>Character set encoding: UTF-8<br /> </p> +<p>***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FIFTH STRING***<br /> </p> +<p> </p> +<h3 class="pg">E-text prepared by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier,<br /> + and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team<br /> + (http://www.pgdp.net)</h3> +<p> </p> +<hr class="full" /> +<p> </p> +</div> + +<div id="illo1" class="illo"><a class="pagenum disguise" id="pagei" title="i"> </a> + <a href="images/illo1.jpg"><img src="images/illo1-th.jpg" width="355" height="518" alt="A young woman in fine, stylish clothing sits with a paper on her lap. Other well-dressed women are nearby." /></a> +</div> + +<div id="title-page"><a class="pagenum disguise" id="pageii" title="ii"> </a> + +<h1>The Fifth String</h1> + + +<p id="author">By<br /> +John Philip Sousa</p> + + +<p id="illustrator">The Illustrations by<br /> +Howard Chandler Christy</p> + + +<p id="pub_data">Indianapolis<br /> +The Bowen-Merrill Company<br /> +Publishers</p> +</div> + +<div id="copyright-page"><a class="pagenum disguise" id="pageiii" title="iii"> </a> +<p id="copyright-statement">Copyright 1902<br /> +The Bowen-Merrill Company</p> + +<p id="printer">PRESS OF<br /> +BRAUNWORTH & CO.<br /> +BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS<br /> +BROOKLYN, N. Y.</p> +</div> + +<!-- <p class="internal-title"><a class="pagenum" id="pageiv" title="iv"> </a>The Fifth String</p> --> +<!-- Left out because it's close to the next one --> +<!-- <a class="pagenum" id="pagev" title="v"> </a>[Blank Page] --> + +<div id="chapter_1" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page1" title="1"> </a> + +<p class="internal-title">The Fifth String</p> + +<h2>I</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">The</span> 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. +<a class="pagenum" id="page2" title="2"> </a> +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.</p> + +<p>On the night preceding Diotti’s début +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 evening. +<a class="pagenum" id="page3" title="3"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“The beauty in white?”</p> + +<p>“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 portières and stood for the +<a class="pagenum" id="page4" title="4"> </a>instant, a perfect embodiment of radiant +womanhood, silhouetted against the +silken drapery.</p> + +<p>“That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred +Wallace, only child of one of New +York’s prominent bankers.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>And thus they met.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page5" title="5"> </a>aflame with anticipatory joy—and Mrs. +Llewellyn’s dining-room was crowded.</p> + +<p>Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered +into the conservatory.</p> + +<p>“A desire for happiness is our common +heritage,” he was saying in his +richly melodious voice.</p> + +<p>“But to define what constitutes happiness +is very difficult,” she replied.</p> + +<p>“Not necessarily,” he went on; “if +the motive is clearly within our grasp, +the attainment is possible.”</p> + +<p>“For example?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“The miser is happy when he hoards +his gold; the philanthropist when he +distributes his. The attainment is identical, +but the motives are antipodal.”</p> + +<p>“Then one possessing sufficient motives +could be happy without end?” +she suggested doubtingly.</p> + +<p>“That is my theory. The Niobe of +old had happiness within her power.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page6" title="6"> </a>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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, another +<a class="pagenum" id="page7" title="7"> </a>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!’”</p> + +<p>“Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony,” +she replied, after a pause.</p> + +<p>“Not while life is here and eternity +beyond,” he said, reassuringly.</p> + +<p>“What if a soul lies dormant and +will not arouse?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Then one must come who speaks +in nature’s tongue,” she continued.</p> + +<p>“And the soul will then awake,” he +added earnestly. +<a class="pagenum" id="page8" title="8"> </a> +“But is there such a one?” she +asked.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps,” he almost whispered, his +thought father to the wish.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But you must be prepared to accept +the limitations of man and his +work,” said the philosophical violinist.</p> + +<p>“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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page9" title="9"> </a>Niagara. My picture seemed but a +smear of paint.”</p> + +<div id="illo2" class="illo"> + <a href="images/illo2.jpg"><img src="images/illo2-th.jpg" width="349" height="510" alt="A man and a woman in evening dress stand in conversation" /></a> +</div> + +<p>“Still, man has won the admiration +of man by his achievements,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Alas, for me,” she sighed, “I have +not felt it.”</p> + +<p>“Surely you have been stirred by the +wonders man has accomplished in music’s +realm?” Diotti ventured.</p> + +<p>“I never have been.” She spoke +sadly and reflectively.</p> + +<p>“But does not the passion-laden theme +of a master, or the marvelous feeling of +a player awaken your emotions?” persisted +he.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page10" title="10"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>“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.’”</p> + +<p>Slowly he replied: “Masters have +written in wondrous language and masters +have played with wondrous power.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>He looked at her intently. She was +<a class="pagenum" id="page11" title="11"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps—and good-night,” she +softly said, leaving his arm and joining +her friends, who accompanied her to the +carriage.</p> + +<div id="illo3" class="illo"> + <a href="images/illo3.jpg"><img src="images/illo3-th.jpg" width="275" height="414" alt="Flyer announcing Diotti's first appearance in America" /></a> +</div> +</div> +<div id="chapter_2" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page12" title="12"> </a> +<h2>II</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">The</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It is true, Diotti’s fame had preceded +him, but fame has preceded others and +<a class="pagenum" id="page13" title="13"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page14" title="14"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>It was she who, since he had met +her, only the night before, held his very +soul in thraldom.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page15" title="15"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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 <em>virtuoso</em>. Diotti unquestionably +had scored the greatest triumph of +his career. But the lady in the box had +remained silent and unaffected throughout.</p> + +<p>The poor fellow had seen only her during +<a class="pagenum" id="page16" title="16"> </a>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page17" title="17"> </a>Quickly he left the theater and sought +his hotel.</p> + +<p>A menacing cloud obscured the wintry +moon. A clock sounded the midnight +hour.</p> + +<p>He threw himself upon the bed and +almost sobbed his thoughts, and their +burden was:</p> + +<p>“I am not great enough for her. I +am but a man. I am but a man!”</p> +</div> +<div id="chapter_3" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page18" title="18"> </a> +<h2>III</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">Perkins</span> 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 <em>matin Martini</em>, 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.</p> + +<p>When Perkins entered Diotti’s room +<a class="pagenum" id="page19" title="19"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page20" title="20"> </a>envelope of notices to Diotti, who listlessly +put them on the table at his side.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page21" title="21"> </a>lights of Paradise. New York never +has heard his equal. He stands alone, +pre-eminent, an artistic giant.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> +</div> +<div id="chapter_4" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page22" title="22"> </a> + +<h2>IV</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">It</span> 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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page23" title="23"> </a>article on the causes leading to matrimonial +infelicities when his ‘bus passed +the Academy box-office.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page24" title="24"> </a>and the red-faced woman on his arm +passed in.</p> + +<p>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 renowned Tuscan +violinist.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>The audience, ever ready to act when +those on the stage cease that occupation, +<a class="pagenum" id="page25" title="25"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page26" title="26"> </a>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.”</p> + +<p>Diotti had disappeared as completely +as though the earth had swallowed +him.</p> +</div> +<div id="chapter_5" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page27" title="27"> </a> + +<h2>V</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">My dearest sister:</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 manifested +<a class="pagenum" id="page28" title="28"> </a>in my première, and socially everything +was done to make me happy.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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. +<a class="pagenum" id="page29" title="29"> </a>And yet we seemed to grow farther and +farther apart—she nearer heaven, I +nearer earth.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page30" title="30"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel, +I blurted: “I have been wondering +whether you cared for the performance +I gave?”</p> + +<p>“It certainly ought to make little +difference to you,” she replied; “the +public was enthusiastic enough in its +endorsement.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page31" title="31"> </a>“But I want your opinion,” I pleaded.</p> + +<p>“My opinion would not at all affect +the almost unanimous verdict,” she +replied calmly.</p> + +<p>“And,” I urged desperately, “you +were not affected in the least?”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps such a one lives,” I said, +“but has yet to reach the height to win +you—your—”</p> + +<p>“Speak it,” she said, “to win my +love!”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” I cried, startled at her candor, +“to win your love.” Hope slowly +rekindled within my breast, and then +<a class="pagenum" id="page32" title="32"> </a>with half-closed eyes, and wooingly, she +said:</p> + +<p>“No drooping Clytie could be more +constant than I to him who strikes the +chord that is responsive in my soul.”</p> + +<p>Her emotion must have surprised her, +but immediately she regained her placidity +and reverted no more to the subject.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page33" title="33"> </a>sing, for the soul of her I love is attuned +to the harmonies of heaven.</p> + +<p class="signature">Your affectionate brother,<br /> +<span class="signed special_name">Angelo.</span></p> +<p><span class="special_name">Island of Bahama</span>, January 2.</p> +</div> +<div id="chapter_6" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page34" title="34"> </a> + +<h2>VI</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">When</span> 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 <em>cay</em>, 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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page35" title="35"> </a>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.”</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page36" title="36"> </a>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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I am the Prince,” said the stranger, +bowing low.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page37" title="37"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>“Satan?” he whispered hoarsely.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“No, no,” cried the shuddering violinist; +“go away. I do not need you.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But not from you,” replied Diotti.</p> + +<p>“That statement is discredited also +<a class="pagenum" id="page38" title="38"> </a>by your outburst of a few moments ago +when you called upon me.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“I came at your behest, actuated +entirely by kindness of heart,” said Satan.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“Get thee behind—”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“I have heard of you before,” knowingly +<a class="pagenum" id="page39" title="39"> </a>spoke the violinist, nodding his +head sadly.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“How can you help me?”</p> + +<p>“Very easily. You have been wasting +time, energy and health in a wild +desire to play better. The trouble lies +not with you.”</p> + +<p>“Not with me?” interrupted the violinist, +now thoroughly interested.</p> + +<p>“The trouble lies not with you,” repeated +the visitor, “but with the miserable +violin you have been using and have +<a class="pagenum" id="page40" title="40"> </a>just destroyed,” and he pointed to the +shattered instrument.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“It was a Stradivarius,” said Diotti, +sadly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Where is one?” earnestly interrogated +Diotti, vaguely realizing that +Satan knew.</p> + +<p>“In my possession,” Satan replied.</p> + +<p>“She would hate me if she knew I +had recourse to the powers of darkness +<a class="pagenum" id="page41" title="41"> </a>to gain her love,” bitterly interposed +Diotti.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Do you want the violin or not?”</p> + +<p>“I might look at it,” said Diotti, resolving +mentally that he could go so +far without harm.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” said Satan. He gave +a long whistle.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page42" title="42"> </a>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.”</p> + +<p>“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?”</p> + +<p>The musician, eying it keenly, replied: +“Yes, it is, but not the kind of +violin I play on.”</p> + +<div id="illo4" class="illo"> + <a href="images/illo4.jpg"><img src="images/illo4-th.jpg" width="352" height="500" alt="A bearded old man kneels and holds up a violin, while a young man watches over his shoulder" /></a> +</div> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page43" title="43"> </a>“Oh, I see,” carelessly observed the +other, “you refer to that extra string.”</p> + +<p>“Yes,” answered the puzzled violinist, +examining it closely.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“But that extra string?” interrupted +Diotti, designating the middle one on +<a class="pagenum" id="page44" title="44"> </a>the violin, a vague foreboding rising +within him.</p> + +<p>“That,” said Mephistopheles, solemnly, +and with no pretense of sophistry, +“is the string of death, and he who +plays upon it dies at once.”</p> + +<p>“The—string—of—death!” repeated +the violinist almost inaudibly.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Why avoid it? Can it not be cut +off?”</p> + +<p>“Ah, that’s the rub. If you examine +the violin closely you will find +that the string of death is made up of +<a class="pagenum" id="page45" title="45"> </a>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.”</p> + +<p>“How like life itself,” Diotti reflected, +“pity, hope, love, joy end in +death, and through death they are born +again.”</p> + +<p>“That’s the idea, precisely,” said +Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti’s +logic and quick perception.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“What is it wrapped with?” eagerly +inquired Diotti, examining the death +string with microscopic care.</p> + +<p>“The fifth string was added after an +<a class="pagenum" id="page46" title="46"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>“I dare not take it,” said the perplexed +musician; “it’s from—”</p> + +<p>“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!”</p> + +<p>Diotti placed the violin in position +<a class="pagenum" id="page47" title="47"> </a>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:</p> + +<p>“It is many, many years since I +have heard that string.”</p> + +<p>Next the artist changed to the string +of pity, and thoughts of the world’s +sorrows came over him like a pall.</p> + +<p>“Wonderful, most wonderful!” said +the mystified violinist; “with this instrument +I can conquer the world!”</p> + +<p>“Aye, more to you than the world,” +said the tempter, “a woman’s love.”</p> + +<p>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 drooping +<a class="pagenum" id="page48" title="48"> </a>Clytie could be more constant than +I to him who strikes the chord that is +responsive in my soul.”</p> + +<p>Holding the violin aloft, he cried exultingly: +“Henceforth thou art mine, +though death and oblivion lurk ever +near thee!”</p> +</div> +<div id="chapter_7" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page49" title="49"> </a> +<h2>VII</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">Perkins</span>, 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.” +<a class="pagenum" id="page50" title="50"> </a> +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.”</p> + +<p>“We’ll never see his like again—come +in!” this last in answer to a knock.</p> + +<p>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?”</p> + +<p>“A substantial one,” said Diotti with +a smile.</p> + +<p>“Are you really here?” continued +the astonished impresario, using Diotti’s +arm as a pump handle and pinching +him at the same time.</p> + +<p>When they were seated Perkins plied +Diotti with all manner of questions: +“How did it happen?” “How did you +<a class="pagenum" id="page51" title="51"> </a>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.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page52" title="52"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>He had not seen Mildred.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page53" title="53"> </a>soon gave way to evidences of kindlier +feelings.</p> + +<p>Mildred was there, more beautiful +than ever, and to gain her love Diotti +would have bartered his soul that moment.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>Mildred’s eyes were moistened as +she fixed them on the lone figure of the +player.</p> + +<p>Now the theme of pity changed to +hope, and hearts grew brighter under the +spell. The next movement depicted joy. +As the <em>virtuoso’s</em> fingers darted here and +there, his music seemed the very laughter +of fairy voices, the earth looked roses +and sunshine, and Mildred, relaxing her +<a class="pagenum" id="page54" title="54"> </a>position and leaning forward in the box, +with lips slightly parted, was the picture +of eager happiness.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<div class="poem"> +<p>“If music and sweet poetry agree,</p> +<p>As they must needs, the sister and the brother,</p> +<p>Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me</p> +<p>Because thou lov’st the one, and I the other.</p> +<p class="poetry_break">* * * * </p> +<p>Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound</p> +<p>That Phœbus’ lute (the queen of music) makes;</p> +<p>And I in deep delight, am chiefly drown’d</p> +<p>When as himself to singing he betakes.</p> +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page55" title="55"> </a>One god is god of both, as poets feign,</p> +<p>One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.”</p> +</div> + +<div id="illo5" class="illo"> + <img src="images/illo5-th.jpg" width="354" height="509" alt="A man holds the hand of a woman in a reception room." /> + <p class="caption">He took her hand reverently</p> +</div> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +</div> +<div id="chapter_8" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page56" title="56"> </a> +<h2>VIII</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">The</span> 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.</p> + +<p>A messenger brought him this note:</p> + +<blockquote class="letter"> + <p>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.</p> + <p class="signature">Sincerely,<br /> + <span class="signed">Mildred Wallace.</span></p> +</blockquote> + + +<p>The messenger returned with this reply:</p> + + +<blockquote class="letter"> + <p>My Dear Miss Wallace—I will call at three + to-day.</p> + <p class="signature">Gratefully,<br /> + <span class="signed">Angelo Diotti.</span></p> +</blockquote> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page57" title="57"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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!”</p> + +<p>He, kneeling like Sir Gareth of old: +“The song and the singer are yours +forever.”</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page58" title="58"> </a>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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>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:</p> + + +<div class="poem"> + <p class="i12">“And not long since</p> + <p>I was a cold, dull stone! I recollect</p> + <p>That by some means I knew that I was stone;</p> + <p>That was the first dull gleam of consciousness;</p> + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page59" title="59"> </a>I became conscious of a chilly self,</p> + <p>A cold, immovable identity.</p> + <p>I knew that I was stone, and knew no more!</p> + <p>Then, by an imperceptible advance,</p> + <p>Came the dim evidence of outer things,</p> + <p>Seen—darkly and imperfectly—yet seen</p> + <p>The walls surrounding me, and I, alone.</p> + <p>That pedestal—that curtain—then a voice</p> + <p>That called on Galatea! At that word,</p> + <p>Which seemed to shake my marble to the core,</p> + <p>That which was dim before, came evident.</p> + <p>Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct,</p> + <p>Vague, meaningless—seemed to resolve themselves</p> + <p>Into a language I could understand;</p> + <p>I felt my frame pervaded by a glow</p> + <p>That seemed to thaw my marble into flesh;</p> + <p>Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life,</p> + <p>My limbs grew supple, and I moved—I lived!</p> + <p>Lived in the ecstasy of a new-born life!</p> + <p>Lived in the love of him that fashioned me!</p> + <p>Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope.”</p> +</div> + +<p>Day after day he came; they told their +<a class="pagenum" id="page60" title="60"> </a>love, their hopes, their ambitions. She +assumed absolute proprietorship in him. +She gloried in her possession.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>One day she said: “Angelo, is it +your purpose to follow your profession +always?”</p> + +<p>“Necessarily, it is my livelihood,” he +replied.</p> + +<p>“But do you not think that after we +stand at the altar, we never should be +separated?”</p> + +<p>“We will be together always,” said +he, holding her face between his palms, +and looking with tender expression into +her inquiring eyes.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page61" title="61"> </a>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“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.’” +<a class="pagenum" id="page62" title="62"> </a> +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.”</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page63" title="63"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>“That is Angelo Diotti, the famous +violinist,” she said, but she could not +add another word.</p> + +<p>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 <em>chiffonnier</em>.</p> + +<p>“Seems to me the house is running +wild with photographs of that fiddler,” +he said.</p> + +<p>For the first time in her life she was +self-conscious: “I will wait for a more +opportune time to tell him,” she +thought.</p> + +<p>In the scheme of Diotti’s appearance +in New York there were to be two +more concerts. One was to be given +<a class="pagenum" id="page64" title="64"> </a>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 or played or talked for an +idle and unthinking public.</p> + +<p>So it was with the thought of a +wasted evening that he accompanied +Mildred to the concert.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“That is entirely unnecessary,” he +replied.</p> + +<p>“It is my desire,” and the girl led +<a class="pagenum" id="page65" title="65"> </a>the unwilling parent back of the scenes +and into Diotti’s dressing-room.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“What do you object to in him?” +she asked.</p> + +<p>“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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page66" title="66"> </a>the earth for precious metals? Do they +sow the seed and harvest the grain? +No, no; they are drones—the barnacles +of society.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>The lights were turned low when +father and daughter went into the +<a class="pagenum" id="page67" title="67"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>“He has visited you?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, father.”</p> + +<p>“Often?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, father,” spoken calmly.</p> + +<p>“Often?” louder and more imperiously +repeated the father, as if there +must be some mistake.</p> + +<p>“Quite often,” and she sat down, +knowing the catechizing would be likely +to continue for some minutes.</p> + +<p>“How many times, do you think?”</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page68" title="68"> </a>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Thirty-two!” said the father, rising +angrily and pacing the floor.</p> + +<p>“Yes, thirty-two. I remember all +of them distinctly.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“There is, father,” out it came, “he +loves me and I love him.”</p> + +<div id="illo6" class="illo"> + <a href="images/illo6.jpg"><img src="images/illo6-th.jpg" width="356" height="530" alt="A young woman and old man face each other, standing in front of a fireplace. Her hands are on his jacket lapels." /></a> + <p class="caption">Father I will obey you implicitly</p> +</div> + +<p>“What!” shouted Mr. Wallace, and +<a class="pagenum" id="page69" title="69"> </a>then severely, “this must cease immediately.”</p> + +<p>She rose quietly and led her father +over to the mantel. Placing a hand on +each of his shoulders she said:</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +</div> +<div id="chapter_9" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page70" title="70"> </a> +<h2>IX</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">Old Sanders</span> 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.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page71" title="71"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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:</p> + +<p>“All lovers swear more performance +than they are able, and yet reserve an +<a class="pagenum" id="page72" title="72"> </a>ability that they never perform; vowing +more than the perfection of ten, and +discharging less than the tenth part of +one.”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page73" title="73"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“Sanders,” said the banker, “I +want your advice on a matter of great +importance and concern to me.”</p> + +<p>Sanders came across the room and +stood beside the desk.</p> + +<p>“Briefly as possible, I am much exercised +about my daughter.” +<a class="pagenum" id="page74" title="74"> </a> +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?”</p> + +<p>“He is the violinist who has created +such a sensation here, Angelo Diotti.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I’ve seen the name in print,” +returned the old man.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page75" title="75"> </a>my estimation of men, and invariably +she has accepted my views.”</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>Deluded parent! false prophet! The +<a class="pagenum" id="page76" title="76"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>“Are you confident she really loves +this violinist?”</p> + +<p>“She confessed as much to me,” +said the perturbed banker.</p> + +<p>Old Sanders tapped with both hands +<a class="pagenum" id="page77" title="77"> </a>on his shining cranium and asked, +“Are you confident he loves her?”</p> + +<p>“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.</p> + +<p>“Does she know that you do not approve +of this man?”</p> + +<p>“I told her that I desired the musician’s +visits to cease.”</p> + +<p>“And her answer?”</p> + +<p>“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.’”</p> + +<p>“Yes, but you must,” said Sanders. +“Mildred is strangely constituted. If +<a class="pagenum" id="page78" title="78"> </a>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.</p> + +<p>“Your plan?” eagerly asked the +father, whose confidence in his secretary +was absolute.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + + +<p>Mildred was delighted when her +father told her on his return in the +<a class="pagenum" id="page79" title="79"> </a>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.</p> +</div> +<div id="chapter_10" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page80" title="80"> </a> + +<h2>X</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">The</span> 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 +<a class="pagenum" id="page81" title="81"> </a>well nowadays as they did in the good +old times,” and he actually sighed in +remembrance.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>As Diotti ceased playing, Sanders applauded +vociferously, and moving toward +the violinist, said: “Magnificent! +<a class="pagenum" id="page82" title="82"> </a>I never have heard better playing! +What is the make of your violin?”</p> + +<p>Diotti, startled at this question, hurriedly +put the instrument in its case; +“Oh, it is a famous make,” he drawled.</p> + +<p>“Will you let me examine it?” said +the elder, placing his hand on the case.</p> + +<p>“I never allow any one to touch my +violin,” replied Diotti, closing the cover +quickly.</p> + +<p>“Why; is there a magic charm about +it, that you fear other hands may discover?” +queried the old man.</p> + +<p>“I prefer that no one handle it,” +said the <em>virtuoso</em> commandingly.</p> + +<p>“Very well,” sighed the old man resignedly, +“there are violins and violins, +and no doubt yours comes within that +category,” this half sneeringly.</p> + +<p>“Uncle,” interposed Mildred tactfully, +“you must not be so persistent. Signor +Diotti prizes his violin highly and will +<a class="pagenum" id="page83" title="83"> </a>not allow any one to play upon it but +himself,” and the look of relief on +Diotti’s face amply repaid her.</p> + +<p>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.</p> + +<p>“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.”</p> + +<p>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.”</p> + +<p>“He is a wonderful artist,” replied +Mildred; “critics and public alike place +<a class="pagenum" id="page84" title="84"> </a>him among the greatest of his profession.”</p> + +<p>“He is a good-looking young fellow, +too,” said the old man.</p> + +<p>“I think he is the handsomest man I +ever have seen,” replied the girl.</p> + +<p>“Where does he come from?” continued +Sanders.</p> + +<p>“St. Casciano, a small town in Tuscany.”</p> + +<p>“Has he a family?”</p> + +<p>“Only a sister, whom he loves +dearly,” good-naturedly answered the +girl.</p> + +<p>“And no one else?” continued the +seemingly garrulous old man.</p> + +<p>“None that I have heard him speak +of. No, certainly not,” rather impetuously +replied Mildred.</p> + +<p>“How old is he?” continued the old +man. +<a class="pagenum" id="page85" title="85"> </a> +“Twenty-eight next month; why do +you wish to know?” she quizzically +asked.</p> + +<p>“Simply idle curiosity,” old Sanders +carelessly replied. “I wonder if he is +in love with any one in Tuscany?”</p> + +<p>“Of course not; how could he be?” +quickly rejoined the girl.</p> + +<p>“And why not?” added old Sanders.</p> + +<p>“Why? Because, because—he is in +love with some one in America.”</p> + +<p>“Ah, with you, I see,” said the old +man, as if it were the greatest discovery +of his life; “are you sure he has not +some beautiful sweetheart in Tuscany +as well as here?”</p> + +<p>“What a foolish question,” she replied. +“Men like Angelo Diotti do +not fall in love as soldiers fall in line. +Love to a man of his nobility is too +serious to be treated so lightly.” +<a class="pagenum" id="page86" title="86"> </a> +“Very true, and that’s what has excited +my curiosity!” whereupon the old +man smoked away in silence.</p> + +<p>“Excited your curiosity!” said +Mildred. “What do you mean?”</p> + +<p>“It may be something; it may be +nothing; but my speculative instinct has +been aroused by a strange peculiarity in +his playing.”</p> + +<p>“His playing is wonderful!” replied +Mildred proudly.</p> + +<p>“Aye, more than wonderful! I +watched him intently,” said the old +man; “I noted with what marvelous +facility he went from one string to the +other. But however rapid, however difficult +the composition, he steadily avoided +one string; in fact, that string remained +untouched during the entire hour he +played for us.”</p> + +<p>“Perhaps the composition did not +<a class="pagenum" id="page87" title="87"> </a>call for its use,” suggested Mildred, unconscious +of any other meaning in the +old man’s observation, save praise for +her lover.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps so, but the oddity impressed +me; it was a new string to me. +I have never seen one like it on a violin +before.”</p> + +<p>“That can scarcely be, for I do not +remember of Signor Diotti telling me +there was anything unusual about his +violin.”</p> + +<p>“I am sure it has a fifth string.”</p> + +<p>“And I am equally sure the string +can be of no importance or Angelo +would have told me of it,” Mildred +quickly rejoined.</p> + +<p>“I recall a strange story of Paganini,” +continued the old man, apparently +not noticing her interruption; “he +became infatuated with a lady of high +<a class="pagenum" id="page88" title="88"> </a>rank, who was insensible of the admiration +he had for her beauty.</p> + +<p>“He composed a love scene for two +strings, the ‘E’ and ‘G,’ the first was +to personate the lady, the second himself. +It commenced with a species of +dialogue, intending to represent her +indifference and his passion; now sportive, +now sad; laughter on her part and +tears from him, ending in an apotheosis +of loving reconciliation. It affected the +lady to that degree that ever after she +loved the violinist.”</p> + +<p>“And no doubt they were happy?” +Mildred suggested smilingly.</p> + +<p>“Yes,” said the old man, with assumed +sentiment, “even when his profession +called him far away, for she had +made him promise her he never would +play upon the two strings whose music +had won her heart, so those strings were +mute, except for her.” +<a class="pagenum" id="page89" title="89"> </a> +The old man puffed away in silence +for a moment, then with logical directness +continued: “Perhaps the string +that’s mute upon Diotti’s violin is mute +for some such reason.”</p> + +<p>“Nonsense,” said the girl, half impatiently.</p> + +<p>“The string is black and glossy as +the tresses that fall in tangled skeins on +the shoulders of the dreamy beauties of +Tuscany. It may be an idle fancy, but +if that string is not a woven strand from +some woman’s crowning glory, then I +have no discernment.”</p> + +<p>“You are jesting, uncle,” she replied, +but her heart was heavy already.</p> + +<p>“Ask him to play on that string; I’ll +wager he’ll refuse,” said the old man, +contemptuously.</p> + +<p>“He will not refuse when I ask him, +but I will not to-night,” answered the +unhappy girl, with forced determination. +<a class="pagenum" id="page90" title="90"> </a>Then, taking the old man’s hands, +she said: “Good-night, I am going to +my room; please make my excuses to +Signor Diotti and father,” and wearily +she ascended the stairs.</p> + +<p>Mr. Wallace and the violinist soon +after joined old Sanders, fresh cigars +were lighted and regrets most earnestly +expressed by the violinist for Mildred’s +“sick headache.”</p> + +<p>“No need to worry; she will be all +right in the morning,” said Sanders, +and he and the violinist buttoned their +coats tightly about them, for the night +was bitter cold, and together they left +the house.</p> + +<p>In her bed-chamber Mildred stood +looking at the portrait of her lover. She +studied his face long and intently, then +crossing the room she mechanically took +a volume from the shelf, and as she +opened it her eyes fell on these lines: +<a class="pagenum" id="page91" title="91"> </a>“How art thou fallen from Heaven, O +Lucifer, son of the Morning!”</p> + +<hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + +<p>Old Sanders builded better than he +knew.</p> + +</div> +<div id="chapter_11" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page92" title="92"> </a> + +<h2>XI</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">When</span> Diotti and old Sanders left +the house they walked rapidly +down Fifth Avenue. It was after eleven, +and the streets were bare of pedestrians, +but blinking-eyed cabs came up the avenue, +looking at a distance like a trail +of Megatheriums, gliding through the +darkness. The piercing wind made the +men hasten their steps, the old man by +a semi-rotary motion keeping up with +the longer strides and measured tread of +the younger.</p> + +<p>When they reached Fourteenth Street, +the elder said, “I live but a block from +here,” pointing eastward; “what do +<a class="pagenum" id="page93" title="93"> </a>you say to a hot toddy? It will warm +the cockles of your heart; come over to +my house and I’ll mix you the best +drink in New York.”</p> + +<p>The younger thought the suggestion +a good one and they turned toward the +house of old Sanders.</p> + +<p>It was a neat, red brick, two-story +house, well in from the street, off the +line of the more pretentious buildings on +either side. As the old man opened the +iron gate, the police officer on the beat +passed; he peered into the faces of the +men, and recognizing Sanders, said, +“tough night, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Very,” replied the addressed.</p> + +<p>“All good old gentlemen should be in +bed at this hour,” said the officer, lifting +one foot after the other in an effort +to keep warm, and in so doing showing +little terpsichorean grace.</p> + +<p>“It’s only the shank of the evening, +<a class="pagenum" id="page94" title="94"> </a>officer,” rejoined the old man, as he +fumbled with the latch key and finally +opened the door. The two men entered +and the officer passed on.</p> + +<p>Every man has a fad. One will tell +you he sees nothing in billiards or pool +or golf or tennis, but will grow enthusiastic +over the scientific possibilities of +mumble-peg; you agree with him, only +you substitute “skittles” for “mumble-peg.”</p> + +<p>Old Sanders’ fad was mixing toddies +and punches.</p> + +<p>“The nectar of the gods pales into +nothingness when compared with a toddy +such as I make,” said he. “Ambrosia +may have been all right for the +degenerates of the old Grecian and Roman +days, but an American gentleman +demands a toddy—a hot toddy.” And +then he proceeded with circumspection +<a class="pagenum" id="page95" title="95"> </a>and dignity to demonstrate the process +of decocting that mysterious beverage.</p> + +<p>The two men took off their overcoats +and went into the sitting-room. A pile +of logs burned brightly in the fire-place. +The old man threw another on the burning +heap, filled the kettle with water and +hung it over the fire. Next he went to +the sideboard and brought forth the various +ingredients for the toddy.</p> + +<p>“How do you like America?” said +the elder, with commonplace indifference, +as he crunched a lump of sugar in +the bottom of the glass, dissolving the +particles with a few drops of water.</p> + +<p>“Very much, indeed,” said the Tuscan, +with the air of a man who had answered +the question before.</p> + +<p>“Great country for girls!” said Sanders, +pouring a liberal quantity of Old +Tom gin in the glass and placing it +where it gradually would get warm. +<a class="pagenum" id="page96" title="96"> </a> +“And for men!” responded Diotti, +enthusiastically.</p> + +<p>“Men don’t amount to much here, +women run everything,” retorted the elder, +while he repeated the process of +preparing the sugar and gin in the second +glass. The kettle began to sing.</p> + +<p>“That’s music for you,” chuckled the +old man, raising the lid to see if the water +had boiled sufficiently. “Do you +know I think a dinner horn and a singing +kettle beat a symphony all hollow +for real down-right melody,” and he +lifted the kettle from the fire-place.</p> + +<p>Diotti smiled.</p> + +<p>With mathematical accuracy the old +man filled the two tumblers with boiling +water.</p> + +<p>“Try that,” handing a glass of the +toddy to Diotti; “you will find it all +right,” and the old man drew an armchair +<a class="pagenum" id="page97" title="97"> </a>toward the fire-place, smacking his +lips in anticipation.</p> + +<p>The violinist placed his chair closer to +the fire and sipped the drink.</p> + +<p>“Your country is noted for its beautiful +women?”</p> + +<p>“We have exquisite types of femininity +in Tuscany,” said the young man, +with patriotic ardor.</p> + +<p>“Any as fine looking as—as—as—well, +say the young lady we dined with +to-night?”</p> + +<p>“Miss Wallace?” queried the Tuscan.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Miss Wallace,” this rather impatiently.</p> + +<p>“She is very beautiful,” said Diotti, +with solemn admiration.</p> + +<p>“Have you ever seen any one prettier?” +questioned the old man, after a +second prolonged sip. +<a class="pagenum" id="page98" title="98"> </a> +“I have no desire to see any one +more beautiful,” said the violinist, feeling +that the other was trying to draw +him out, and determined not to yield.</p> + +<p>“You will pardon the inquisitiveness +of an old man, but are not you musicians +a most impressionable lot?”</p> + +<p>“We are human,” answered the +violinist.</p> + +<p>“I imagined you were like sailors and +had a sweetheart in every port.”</p> + +<p>“That would be a delightful prospect +to one having polygamous aspirations, +but for myself, one sweetheart is enough,” +laughingly said the musician.</p> + +<p>“Only one! Well, here’s to her! +With this nectar fit for the gods and goddesses +of Olympus, let us drink to her,” +said old Sanders, with convivial dignity, +his glass raised on high. “Here’s wishing +health and happiness to the dreamy-eyed +<a class="pagenum" id="page99" title="99"> </a>Tuscan beauty, whom you love and +who loves you.”</p> + +<p>“Stop!” said Diotti; “we will drink +to the first part of that toast,” and holding +his glass against that of his bibulous +host, continued: “To the dreamy-eyed +women of my country, exacting of +their lovers; obedient to their parents +and loyal to their husbands,” and his +voice rose in sonorous rhythm with the +words.</p> + +<p>“Now for the rest of the toast, to the +one you love and who loves you,” came +from Sanders.</p> + +<p>“To the one I love and who loves +me, God bless her!” fervently cried the +guest.</p> + +<p>“Is she a Tuscan?” asked old Sanders +slyly.</p> + +<p>“She is an angel!” impetuously answered +the violinist. +<a class="pagenum" id="page100" title="100"> </a> +“Then she is an American!” said the +old man gallantly.</p> + +<p>“She is an American,” repeated +Diotti, forgetting himself for the instant.</p> + +<p>“Let me see if I can guess her +name,” said old Sanders. “It’s—it’s +Mildred Wallace!” and his manner suggested +a child solving a riddle.</p> + +<p>The violinist, about to speak, checked +himself and remained silent.</p> + +<p>“I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she +falls in love,” abstractedly continued +the host while filling another glass.</p> + +<p>“Pray why?” was anxiously asked.</p> + +<p>The old man shifted his position and +assumed a confidential tone and attitude: +“Signor Diotti, jealousy is a more +universal passion than love itself. Environment +may develop our character, +influence our tastes and even soften our +features, but heredity determines the intensity +of the two leading passions, love +<a class="pagenum" id="page101" title="101"> </a>and jealousy. Mildred’s mother was a +beautiful woman, but consumed with an +overpowering jealousy of her husband. +It was because she loved him. The +body-guard of jealousy—envy, malice +and hatred—were not in her composition. +When Mildred was a child of +twelve I have seen her mother suffer +the keenest anguish because Mr. Wallace +fondled the child. She thought the +child had robbed her of her husband’s +love.”</p> + +<p>“Such a woman as Miss Wallace +would command the entire love and admiration +of her husband at all times,” +said the artist.</p> + +<p>“If she should marry a man she +simply likes, her chances for happiness +would be normal.”</p> + +<p>“In what manner?” asked the lover.</p> + +<p>“Because she would be little concerned +about him or his actions.” +<a class="pagenum" id="page102" title="102"> </a> +“Then you believe,” said the musician, +“that the man who loves her and +whom she loves should give her up because +her chances of happiness would be +greater away from him than with him?”</p> + +<p>“That would be an unselfish love,” +said the elder.</p> + +<p>“Suppose they have declared their +passion?” asked Diotti.</p> + +<p>“A parting before doubt and jealousy +had entered her mind would let the image +of her sacrificing lover live within +her soul as a tender and lasting memory; +he always would be her ideal,” and the +accent old Sanders placed on <em>always</em> left +no doubt of his belief.</p> + +<p>“Why should doubt and jealousy enter +her life?” said the violinist, falling +into the personal character of the discussion +despite himself.</p> + +<p>“My dear sir, from what I observed +to-night, she loves you. You are a dangerous +<a class="pagenum" id="page103" title="103"> </a>man for a jealous woman to love. +You are not a cloistered monk, you are +a man before the public; you win the +admiration of many; some women do not +hesitate to show you their preference. To +a woman like Mildred that would be torture; +she could not and would not separate +the professional artist from the lover +or husband.”</p> + +<p>And Diotti, remembering Mildred’s +words, could not refute the old man’s +statements.</p> + +<p>“If you had known her mother as I +did,” continued the old man, realizing +his argument was making an impression +on the violinist, “you would see the agony +in store for the daughter if she married +a man such as you, a public servant, +a public favorite.”</p> + +<p>“I would live my life not to excite her +suspicions or jealousy,” said the artist, +with boyish enthusiasm and simplicity.</p> + +<p><a class="pagenum" id="page104" title="104"> </a>“Foolish fellow,” retorted Sanders, +skeptically; “women imagine, they don’t +reason. A scented note unopened on +the dressing table can cause more unhappiness +to your wife than the loss of +his country to a king. My advice to you +is: do not marry; but if you must, choose +one who is more interested in your gastronomic +felicity than in your marital constancy.”</p> + +<p>Diotti was silent. He was pondering +the words of his host. Instead of seeing +in Mildred a possibly jealous woman, +causing mental misery, she appeared a +vision of single-hearted devotion. He +felt: “To be loved by such a one is +bliss beyond the dreams of this world.”</p> +</div> +<div id="chapter_12" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page105" title="105"> </a> +<h2>XII</h2> + +<p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">A tipsy man</span> is never interesting, +and Sanders in that condition +was no exception. The old man arose +with some effort, walked toward the +window and, shading his eyes, looked +out. The snow was drifting, swept +hither and thither by the cutting wind +that came through the streets in great +gusts. Turning to the violinist, he said, +“It’s an awful night; better remain here +until morning. You’ll not find a cab; in +fact, I will not let you go while this +storm continues,” and the old man +raised the window, thrusting his head +out for an instant. As he did so the icy +<a class="pagenum" id="page106" title="106"> </a>blast that came in settled any doubt in +the young man’s mind and he concluded +to stop over night.</p> + +<p>It was nearly two o’clock; Sanders +showed him to his room and then returned +down stairs to see that everything +was snug and secure. After changing +his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers +and wrapping a dressing gown around +him, the old man stretched his legs toward +the fire and sipped his toddy.</p> + +<p>“He isn’t a bad sort for a violinist,” +mused the old man; “if he were worth +a million, I believe I’d advise Wallace to +let him marry her. A fiddler! A million! +Sounds funny,” and he laughed +shrilly.</p> + +<p>He turned his head and his eyes +caught sight of Diotti’s violin case resting +on the center table. He staggered +from the chair and went toward it; opening +the lid softly, he lifted the silken +<a class="pagenum" id="page107" title="107"> </a>coverlet placed over the instrument and +examined the strings intently. “I am +right,” he said; “it is wrapped with +hair, and no doubt from a woman’s +head. Eureka!” and the old man, happy +in the discovery that his surmises were +correct, returned to his chair and his +toddy.</p> + +<p>He sat looking into the fire. The +violin had brought back memories of the +past and its dead. He mumbled, as if +to the fire, “she loved me; she loved +my violin. I was a devil; my violin +was a devil,” and the shadows on the +wall swayed like accusing spirits. He +buried his face in his hands and cried +piteously, “I was so young; too young +to know.” He spoke as if he would +conciliate the ghastly shades that moved +restlessly up and down, when suddenly—“Sanders, +don’t be a fool!”</p> + +<p>He ambled toward the table again. +<a class="pagenum" id="page108" title="108"> </a>“I wonder who made the violin? He +would not tell me when I asked him to-night; +thank you for your pains, but I +will find out myself,” and he took the +violin from the case. Holding it with +the light slanting over it, he peered inside, +but found no inscription. “No +maker’s name—strange,” he said. He +tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and listened +intently; “he must be asleep; he +won’t hear me,” and noiselessly he +closed the door. “I guess if I play a +tune on it he won’t know.”</p> + +<p>He took the bow from its place in the +case and tightened it. He listened +again. “He is fast asleep,” he whispered. +“I’ll play the song I always +played for her—until,” and the old man +repeated the words of the refrain:</p> + +<div class="poem"> + <p>“Fair as a lily, joyous and free,</p> + <p>Light of the prairie home was she;</p> + <p><a class="pagenum" id="page109" title="109"> </a>Every one who knew her felt the gentle power</p> + <p>Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower.”</p> +</div> + +<p>He sat again in the arm-chair and +placed the violin under his chin. Tremulously +he drew the bow across the middle +string, his bloodless fingers moving +slowly up and down.</p> + +<p>The theme he played was the melody +to the verse he had just repeated, but the +expression was remorse.</p> + +<hr class="thoughtbreak" /> + +<p>Diotti sat upright in bed. “I am positive +I heard a violin!” he said, holding +one hand toward his head in an attitude +of listening. He was wide awake. The +drifting snow beat against the window +panes and the wind without shrieked like +a thousand demons of the night. He +could sleep no more. He arose and +hastily dressed. The room was bitterly cold; +he was shivering. He thought of +<a class="pagenum" id="page110" title="110"> </a>the crackling logs in the fire-place below. +He groped his way along the darkened +staircase. As he opened the door leading +into the sitting-room the fitful gleam +of the dying embers cast a ghastly light +over the face of a corpse.</p> + +<p>Diotti stood a moment, his eyes transfixed +with horror. The violin and bow +still in the hands of the dead man told +him plainer than words what had happened. +He went toward the chair, took +the instrument from old Sanders’ hands +and laid it on the table. Then he knelt +beside the body, and placing his ear +close over the heart, listened for some +sign of life, but the old man was beyond +human aid.</p> + +<p>He wheeled the chair to the side of +the room and moved the body to the +sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe. +The awfulness of the situation forced +itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed +<a class="pagenum" id="page111" title="111"> </a>himself. The terrible power of the instrument +dawned upon him in all its +force. Often he had played on the strings +telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but +now, for the first time, he realized what +that fifth string meant.</p> + +<p>“I must give it back to its owner.”</p> + +<p>“If you do you can never regain it,” +whispered a voice within.</p> + +<p>“I do not need it,” said the violinist, +almost audibly.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps not,” said the voice, “but +if her love should wane how would you +rekindle it? Without the violin you +would be helpless.”</p> + +<p>“Is it not possible that, in this old +man’s death, all its fatal power has been +expended?”</p> + +<p>He went to the table and took the instrument +from its place. “You won her +for me; you have brought happiness +and sunshine into my life. No! No! +<a class="pagenum" id="page112" title="112"> </a>I can not, will not give you up,” then +placing the violin and bow in its case he +locked it.</p> + +<p>The day was breaking. In an hour +the baker’s boy came. Diotti went to +the door, gave him a note addressed to +Mr. Wallace and asked him to deliver it +at once. The boy consented and drove +rapidly away.</p> + +<p>Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived; +Diotti told the story of the night. After +the undertaker had taken charge of the +body he found on the dead man’s neck, +just to the left of the chin, a dullish, +black bruise which might have been +caused by the pressing of some blunt instrument, +or by a man’s thumb. Considering +it of much importance, he notified +the coroner, who ordered an inquest.</p> + +<p>At six o’clock that evening a jury was +impaneled, and two hours later its verdict +was reported.</p> +</div> +<div id="chapter_13" class="chapter"><a class="pagenum" id="page113" title="113"> </a> + <h2>XIII</h2> + + <p class="first_paragraph"><span class="first_word">On</span> leaving the house of the dead man + Diotti walked wearily to his hotel. + In flaring type at every street corner he + saw the announcement for Thursday + evening, March thirty-first, of Angelo + Diotti’s last appearance: “To-night I + play for the last time,” he murmured in + a voice filled with deepest regret.</p> + + <p>The feeling of exultation so common + to artists who finally reach the goal of + their ambition was wanting in Diotti this + morning. He could not rid himself of + the memory of Sanders’ tragic death. + The figure of the old man clutching the + <a class="pagenum" id="page114" title="114"> </a>violin and staring with glassy eyes into + the dying fire would not away.</p> + + <p>When he reached the hotel he tried to + rest, but his excited brain banished + every thought of slumber. Restlessly + he moved about the room, and finally + dressing, he left the hotel for his daily + call on Mildred. It was after five o’clock + when he arrived. She received him coldly + and without any mark of affection.</p> + + <p>She had heard of Mr. Sanders’ death; + her father had sent word. “It shocked + me greatly,” she said; “but perhaps the + old man is happier in a world far from + strife and care. When we realize all the + misery there is in this world we often + wonder why we should care to live.” + Her tone was despondent, her face was + drawn and blanched, and her eyes gave + evidence of weeping.</p> + + <p>Diotti divined that something beyond + <a class="pagenum" id="page115" title="115"> </a>sympathy for old Sanders’ sudden death + racked her soul. He went toward her + and lovingly taking her hands, bent low + and pressed his lips to them; they were + cold as marble.</p> + + <p>“Darling,” he said; “something has + made you unhappy. What is it?”</p> + + <p>“Tell me, Angelo, and truly; is your + violin like other violins?”</p> + + <p>This unexpected question came so suddenly + he could not control his agitation.</p> + + <p>“Why do you ask?” he said.</p> + + <p>“You must answer me directly!”</p> + + <p>“No, Mildred; my violin is different + from any other I have ever seen,” this + hesitatingly and with great effort at composure.</p> + + <p>“In what way is it different?” she + almost demanded.</p> + + <p>“It is peculiarly constructed; it has + an extra string. But why this sudden + <a class="pagenum" id="page116" title="116"> </a>interest in the violin? Let us talk of + you, of me, of both, of our future,” said + he with enforced cheerfulness.</p> + + <p>“No, we will talk of the violin. Of + what use is the extra string?”</p> + + <p>“None whatever,” was the quick reply.</p> + + <p>“Then why not cut it off?”</p> + + <p>“No, no, Mildred; you do not understand,” + he cried; “I can not do + that.”</p> + + <p>“You can not do it when I ask it?” + she exclaimed.</p> + + <p>“Oh Mildred, do not ask me; I can + not, can not do it,” and the face of the + affrighted musician told plainer than + words of the turmoil raging in his soul.</p> + + <p>“You made me believe that I was the + only one you loved,” passionately she + cried; “the only one; that your happiness + was incomplete without me. You led + me into the region of light only to make + <a class="pagenum" id="page117" title="117"> </a>the darkness greater when I descended + to earth again. I ask you to do a simple + thing and you refuse; you refuse because + another has commanded you.”</p> + + <p>“Mildred, Mildred; if you love me do + not speak thus!”</p> + + <p>And she, with imagination greater than + reasoning power, at once saw a Tuscan + beauty and Diotti mutually pledging their + love with their lives.</p> + + <p>“Go,” she said, pointing to the door, + “go to the one who owns you, body and + soul; then say that a foolish woman threw + her heart at your feet and that you + scorned it!” She sank to the sofa.</p> + + <p>He went toward the door, and in a + voice that sounded like the echo of despair, + protested: “Mildred, I love you; + love you a thousand times more than I + do my life. If I should destroy the + string, as you ask, love and hope would + leave me forevermore. Death would + <a class="pagenum" id="page118" title="118"> </a>not be robbed of its terror!” and with + bowed head he went forth into the twilight.</p> + + <p>She ran to the window and watched + his retreating figure as he vanished. + “Uncle Sanders was right; he loves another + woman, and that string binds them + together. He belongs to her!” Long + and silently she stood by the window, + gazing at the shadowing curtain of the + coming night. At last her face softened. + “Perhaps he does not love her now, but + fears her vengeance. No, no; he is not + a coward! I should have approached + him differently; he is proud, and maybe + he resented my imperative manner,” + and a thousand reasons why he should + or should not have removed that string + flashed through her mind.</p> + + <p>“I will go early to the concert to-night + and see him before he plays. + Uncle Sanders said he did not touch that + <a class="pagenum" id="page119" title="119"> </a>string when he played. Of course he + will play on it for me, even if he will not + cut it off, and then if he says he loves + me, and only me, I will believe him. I + want to believe him; I want to believe + him,” all this in a semi-hysterical way + addressed to the violinist’s portrait on + the piano.</p> + + <p>When she entered her carriage an hour + later, telling the coachman to drive direct + to the stage-door of the Academy, she + appeared more fascinating than ever before.</p> + + <p>She was sitting in his dressing-room + waiting for him when he arrived. He + had aged years in a day. His step was + uncertain, his eyes were sunken and his + hand trembled. His face brightened as + she arose, and Mildred met him in the + center of the room. He lifted her hand + and pressed a kiss upon it.</p> + + <p>“Angelo, dear,” she said in repentant + <a class="pagenum" id="page120" title="120"> </a>tone; “I am sorry I pained you this afternoon; + but I am jealous, so jealous of + you.”</p> + + <p>“Jealous?” he said smilingly; “there + is no need of jealousy in our lives; we + love each other truly and only.”</p> + + <p>“That is just what I think, we will + never doubt each other again, will we?”</p> + + <p>“Never!” he said solemnly.</p> + + <p>He had placed his violin case on the + table in the room. She went to it and + tapped the top playfully; then suddenly + said: “I am going to look at your violin, + Angelo,” and before he could interfere, + she had taken the silken coverlet off and + was examining the instrument closely. + “Sure enough, it has five strings; the + middle one stands higher than the rest + and is of glossy blackness. Uncle Sanders + was right; it is a woman’s hair!</p> + + <p>“Why is that string made of hair?” + she asked, controlling her emotion. + <a class="pagenum" id="page121" title="121"> </a> + “Only a fancy,” he said, feigning indifference.</p> + + <p>“Though you would not remove it at + my wish this afternoon, Angelo; I know + you will not refuse to play on it for me + now.”</p> + + <p>He raised his hands in supplication. + “Mildred! Mildred! Stop! do not ask + it!”</p> + + <p>“You refuse after I have come repentant, + and confessing my doubts and + fears? Uncle Sanders said you would + not play upon it for me; he told me it + was wrapped with a woman’s hair, the + hair of the woman you love.”</p> + + <p>“I swear to you, Mildred, that I love + but you!”</p> + + <p>“Love me? Bah! And another woman’s + tresses sacred to you? Another + woman’s pledge sacred to you? I asked + you to remove the string; you refused. + I ask you now to play upon it; you refuse,” + <a class="pagenum" id="page122" title="122"> </a>and she paced the room like a + caged tigress.</p> + + <p>“I will watch to-night when you + play,” she flashed. “If you do not use + that string we part forever.”</p> + + <p>He stood before her and attempted to + take her hand; she repulsed him savagely.</p> + + <p>Sadly then he asked: “And if I do + play upon it?”</p> + + <p>“I am yours forever—yours through + life—through eternity,” she cried passionately.</p> + + <p>The call-boy announced Diotti’s turn; + the violinist led Mildred to a seat at the + entrance of the stage. His appearance + was the signal for prolonged and enthusiastic + greeting from the enormous audience + present. He clearly was the idol + of the metropolis.</p> + + <div id="illo7" class="illo"> + <a href="images/illo7.jpg"><img src="images/illo7-th.jpg" width="364" height="524" alt="A woman in evening dress lays her hand on the shoulder of a man holding a violin under his arm." /></a> + <p class="caption">If you do not play upon it we separate forever</p> + </div> + + <p>The lights were lowered, a single calcium + playing with its soft and silvery + <a class="pagenum" id="page123" title="123"> </a>rays upon his face and shoulders. The + expectant audience scarcely breathed as + he began his theme. It was pity—pity + molded into a concord of beautiful + sounds, and when he began the second + movement it was but a continuation of + the first; his fingers sought but one + string, that of pity. Again he played, + and once more pity stole from the violin.</p> + + <p>When he left the stage Mildred rushed + to him. “You did not touch that string; + you refuse my wish?” and the sounds + of mighty applause without drowned his + pleading voice.</p> + + <p>“I told you if you refused me I was + lost to you forever! Do you understand?”</p> + + <p>Diotti returned slowly to the center of + the stage and remained motionless until + the audience subsided. Facing Mildred, + whose color was heightened by the intensity + <a class="pagenum" id="page124" title="124"> </a>of her emotion, he began softly + to play. His fingers sought the string + of Death. The audience listened with + breathless interest. The composition + was weirdly and strangely fascinating.</p> + + <p>The player told with wondrous power + of despair,—of hope, of faith; sunshine + crept into the hearts of all as he pictured + the promise of an eternal day; higher + and higher, softer and softer grew the + theme until it echoed as if it were afar in + the realms of light and floating o’er the + waves of a golden sea.</p> + + <p>Suddenly the audience was startled by + the snapping of a string; the violin and + bow dropped from the nerveless hands + of the player. He fell helpless to the + stage.</p> + + <p>Mildred rushed to him, crying, “Angelo, + Angelo, what is it? What has + happened?” Bending over him she + gently raised his head and showered unrestrained + <a class="pagenum" id="page125" title="125"> </a>kisses upon his lips, oblivious + of all save her lover.</p> + + <p>“Speak! Speak!” she implored.</p> + + <p>A faint smile illumined his face; he + gazed with ineffable tenderness into her + weeping eyes, then slowly closed his own + as if in slumber.</p> +</div> + +<hr class="full" /> +<div class="pg"> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FIFTH STRING***<br /> </p> +<p>******* This file should be named 29481-h.txt or 29481-h.zip *******<br /> </p> +<p>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /> +<a href="http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/2/9/4/8/29481">http://www.gutenberg.org/2/9/4/8/29481</a><br /> </p> +<p>Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed.<br /> </p> + +<p>Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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