The Fifth String By John Philip Sousa

The Fifth StringBy John Philip Sousa I The coming of Diotti to Americahad awakened more than usualinterest in the man and his work. His marvelous success as violinist in theleading capitals of Europe, together with many brilliant contributions to theliterature of his instrument, had long been favorably commented on by the criticsof the old world. Many stories of his struggles and his triumphs had foundtheir way across the ocean and had been read and re-read with interest. Therefore, when Mr. Henry Perkins,the well-known impresario, announced with an air of conscious pride andpardonable enthusiasm that he had secured Diotti for a “limited” number ofconcerts, Perkins’ friends assured that wide-awake gentleman that his foresightamounted to positive genius, andthey predicted an unparalleled success for his star. On account of his wonderful ability as player, Diotti was afavorite at half the courts of Europe, and the astute Perkins enlarged upon thisfact without regard for the feelings of the courts or the violinist. On the night preceding Diotti’s debut in New York, he was the center ofattraction at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader, and a devoted patron of the arts. The violinist madea deep impression on those fortunate enough to be near him during the even-ing. He won the respect of the menby his observations on matters ofinternational interest, and the admiration of the gentler sex by his chivalric estimate of woman’s influence in the world’sprogress, on which subject he talked with rarest good humor and delicatelyimplied gallantry. During one of those sudden andunexplainable lulls that always occur in general drawing-room conversations, Diotti turned to Mrs. Llewellyn and whispered:“Who is the charming youngwoman just entering?” “The beauty in white?” “Yes, the beauty in white,” softlyechoing Mrs. Llewellyn’s query. Heleaned forward and with eager eyesgazed in admiration at the new-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision,which moved slowly from between the blue-tinted portieres and stood for theinstant, a perfect embodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against thesilken drapery. “That is Miss Wallace, Miss MildredWallace, only child of one of NewYork’s prominent bankers.” “She is beautiful–a queen by divine right,” cried he, and then with a mingling of impetuosity and importunity,entreated his hostess to present him. And thus they met. Mrs. Llewellyn’s entertainments werecelebrated, and justly so. At her receptions one always heard the best singersand 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 transitionfrom Tschaikowsky to terrapin, from Beethoven to burgundy with heartsaflame with anticipatory joy–and Mrs. Llewellyn’s dining-room was crowded. Miss Wallace and Diotti hadwandered into the conservatory. “A desire for happiness is our common heritage,” he was saying in hisrichly melodious voice. “But to define what constituteshappiness is very difficult,” she replied. “Not necessarily,” he went on; “if the motive is clearly within our grasp,the attainment is possible.” “For example?” she asked. “The miser is happy when he hoardshis gold; the philanthropist when he distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are antipodal.” “Then one possessing sufficientmotives could be happy without end?” she suggested doubtingly. “That is my theory. The Niobe ofold had happiness within her power.” “The gods thought not,” said she;“in their very pity they changed her into stone, and with streaming eyes sheever tells the story of her sorrow.” “But are her children weeping?”he asked. “I think not. Happinesscan bloom from the seeds of deepest woe,” and in a tone almost reverential, he continued: “I remember a picture inone of our Italian galleries that always impressed me as the ideal image ofmaternal happiness. It is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the bodyof the Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dress of grayish hue, nun-like in its simplicity, seemed more than royalrobe. Her face, illumined as with a light from heaven, seemed inspired with thisthought: They have killed Him–they have killed my son! Oh, God, I thankThee that His suffering is at an end!’ And as I gazed at the holy face, an-other light seemed to change it bydegrees from saddened motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: Heis not dead, He but sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best belovedof the Father!’ ” “Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony,” she replied, after a pause. “Not while life is here and eternity beyond,” he said, reassuringly. “What if a soul lies dormant andwill not arouse?” she asked. “There are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but only highenough for heaven,” he said, with evident intention, looking almost directlyat her. “Then one must come who speaksin nature’s tongue,” she continued. “And the soul will then awake,” headded earnestly. “But is there such a one?” sheasked. “Perhaps,” he almost whispered, his thought father to the wish. “I am afraid not,” she sighed. “Istudied drawing, worked diligently and, I hope, intelligently, and yet I wasquickly convinced that a counterfeit presentment of nature was puny andinsignificant. I painted Niagara. My friends praised my effort. I sawNiagara again–I destroyed the picture.” “But you must be prepared toaccept the limitations of man and his work,” said the philosophical violinist “Annihilation of one’s own identityin the moment is possible in nature’s domain–never in man’s. The resistless,never-ending rush of the waters,madly churning, pitilessly dashingagainst the rocks below; the mighty roar of the loosened giant; that wasNiagara. My picture seemed but asmear of paint.” “Still, man has won the admirationof man by his achievements,” he said. “Alas, for me,” she sighed, “I have not felt it.” “Surely you have been stirred by the wonders man has accomplished inmusic’s realm?” Diotti ventured. “I never have been.” She spokesadly and reflectively. “But does not the passion-laden theme of a master, or the marvelous feeling of a player awaken your emotions?” persisted he. She stood leaning lightly against apillar by the fountain. “I never hear a pianist, however great and famous, butI see the little cream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and downlike acrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for theartist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demand thatthese little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, and weary from hisefforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause. “When I listen to a great singer,”continued this world-defying skeptic, “trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see a clumsy lot of ah, ah, ahs, awkwardly, uncertainly ambling upthe gamut, saying, were it not for us she could not sing thus–give us ourmeed of praise.’ ” Slowly he replied: “Masters havewritten in wondrous language and masters have played with wondrous power.” “And I so long to hear,” she said,almost plaintively. “I marvel at the invention of the composer and the skillof the player, but there I cease.” He looked at her intently. She wasstanding before him, not a block of chiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his arm andtogether they made their way to the drawing-room. “Perhaps, some day, one will comewho can sing a song of perfect love in perfect tones, and your soul will beattuned to his melody.” “Perhaps–and good-night,” shesoftly said, leaving his arm and joining her friends, who accompanied her to thecarriage. II The intangible something that placesthe stamp of popular approval onone musical enterprise, while another equally artistic and as cleverly managed languishes in a condition of unendorsedgreatness, remains one of the unsolved mysteries. When a worker in the vineyard ofmusic or the drama offers his choicest tokay to the public, that fickle coquette may turn to the more ordinary and lesssucculent concord. And the workerand the public itself know not why. It is true, Diotti’s fame had preceded him, but fame has preceded others andhas not always been proof against financial disaster. All this preliminary,–andit is but necessary to recall that on the evening of December the twelfth Diottimade his initial bow in New York, to an audience that completely filled every available space in the Academy ofMusic–a representative audience,distinguished alike for beauty, wealth and discernment. When the violinist appeared for hissolo, he quietly acknowledged the cordial reception of the audience, andimmediately proceeded with the business of the evening. At a slight nod fromhim the conductor rapped attention, then launched the orchestra into theintroduction of the concerto, Diotti’s favorite, selected for the first number. As the violinist turned to theconductor he faced slightly to the left and in a direct line with the second proscenium box. His poise was admirable. He washandsome, with the olive-tinted warmth of his southern home–fairly tall, straight- limbed and lithe–a picture of poeticgrace. His was the face of a man who trusted without reserve, the manner ofone who believed implicitly, feeling that good was universal and evil accidental. As the music grew louder and theorchestra approached the peroration of the preface of the coming solo, theviolinist raised his head slowly. Suddenly his eyes met the gaze of the solitaryoccupant of the second proscenium box. His face flushed. He looked inquiringly, almost appealingly, at her. She satimmovable and serene, a lace-framed vision in white. It was she who, since he had mether, only the night before, held his very soul in thraldom. He lifted his bow, tenderly placing it on the strings. Faintly came the firstmeasures 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 ofthe first movement was dying away, the audience, awakening from its delicioustrance, broke forth into spontaneous bravos. Mildred Wallace, scrutinizing theprogram, 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 mostexacting virtuoso. Diotti unquestionably had scored the greatest triumph ofhis career. But the lady in the box had remained silent and unaffected throughout. The poor fellow had seen only her dur- ing the time he played, and the mightycheers that came from floor and galleries struck upon his ear like the echoesof mocking demons. Leaving the stage he hurried to his dressing-room andsank into a chair. He had persuaded himself she should not be insensible tohis 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 ambut a man; her consort should be a god. Her soul, untouched by human passionor human skill, demands the power of god-like genius to arouse it.” Music lovers crowded into his dressing- room, enthusiastic in their praises.Cards conveying delicate compliments written in delicate chirography pouredin upon him, but in vain he looked for some sign, some word from her. Quickly he left the theater and sought his hotel. A menacing cloud obscured the wintrymoon. A clock sounded the midnight hour. He threw himself upon the bed andalmost sobbed his thoughts, and their burden was: “I am not great enough for her. Iam but a man. I am but a man!” III Perkins called in the morning.Perkins was happy–Perkins waspositively joyous, and Perkins was self- satisfied. The violinist had made agreat hit. But Perkins, confiding in the white-coated dispenser whoconcocted his matin Martini, very dry, an hour before, said he regarded the success due as much to the management asto the artist. And Perkins believed it. Perkins usually took all the credit for a success, and with charming consistencyplaced all responsibility for failure on the shoulders of the hapless artist. When Perkins entered Diotti’s roomhe found the violinist heavy-eyed and dejected. “My dear Signor,” he began,showing a large envelope bulging with newspaper clippings, “I have broughtthe notices. They are quite the limit, I assure you. Nothing like them everheard before–all tuned in the same key, as you musical fellows would say,” and Perkins cocked his eye. Perkins enjoyed a glorious reputation with himself for bright sayings, whichhe always accompanied with a cock of the eye. The musician not showing anyvisible appreciation of the manager’s metaphor, Perkins immediatelyproceeded to uncock his eye. “Passed the box-office coming up,”continued this voluble enlightener; “nothing left but a few seats in the top gallery. We’ll stand them on theirheads to-morrow night–see if wedon’t.” Then he handed the bursting envelope of notices to Diotti, wholistlessly put them on the table at his side. “Too tired to read, eh?” saidPerkins, and then with the advance-agent instinct strong within him he selected a clipping, and touching the violinist onthe shoulder: “Let me read this one to you. It is by Herr Totenkellar. Heis a hard nut to crack, but he did himself proud this time. Great critic whenhe wants to be.” Perkins cleared his throat and began: “Diotti combines tremendous feelingwith equally tremendous technique.The entire audience was under thewitchery 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 deepat the fountain of exquisite melody, we saw sparkling within the waters thelights of Paradise. New York neverhas heard his equal. He stands alone, pre-eminent, an artistic giant.” “Now, that’s what I call great,” said the impresario, dramatically; “whenyou hit Totenkellar that way you are good for all kinds of money.” Perkins took his hat and cane andmoved toward the door. The violinist arose and extended his hand wearily.“Good-day” came simultaneously;then “I’m off. We’ll turn ’emaway to-morrow; see if we don’t!”Whereupon Perkins left Diotti alone in his misery. IV It was the evening of the fourteenth, In front of the Academy a strong-lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented abeacon 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 sureto buy the tickets on the way downtown, dear, and get them in the family circle, not too far back.” This man’sintentions were sincere, but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning.He was deeply engrossed in anarticle on the causes leading to matrimonial infelicities when his ‘bus passedthe Academy box-office. He was six blocks farther down townwhen he finished the article, only to find that it was a carefully wordedadvertisement for a new patent medicine, and of course he had not time toreturn. “Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll get them when I go up town to-night.” But he did not. So with fear in hisheart and a red-faced woman on hisarm he approached the box-office.“Not a seat left,” sounded to his hen- pecked ears like the concluding wordsof the black-robed judge: “and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.” Buta 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.” Andthe gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his armpassed in. They saw the largest crowd in thehistory of the Academy. Every seat was occupied, every foot of standing roomtaken. Chairs were placed in the side aisles. The programs announced thatit was the second appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowed Tuscanviolinist. The orchestra had perfunctorilyground out the overture to “DerFreischuetz,” the baritone had stentorianly emitted “Dio Possente,” the sopranowas working her way through the closing measures of the mad scene from “Lucia,” and Diotti was number four onthe program. The conductor stoodbeside his platform, ready to ascend as Diotti appeared. The audience, ever ready to act whenthose on the stage cease that occupation, gave a splendid imitation of the historic last scene at the Tower of Babel.Having accomplished this to its evident satisfaction, the audience proceeded, like the closing phrase of the“Goetterdaemmerung” Dead March, to become exceedingly quiet–then expectant. This expectancy lasted fully threeminutes. Then there were some impatient handclappings. A few personswhispered: “Why is he late?” “Why doesn’t he come?” “I wonder whereDiotti is,” and then came unmistakable signs of impatience. At its heightPerkins appeared, hesitatingly. Nervous and jerky he walked to the center ofthe stage, and raised his hand begging silence. The audience was stilled. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he falteringly said, “Signor Diotti left his hotelat seven o’clock and was driven to the Academy. The call-boy rapped at hisdressing-room, and not receiving a reply, opened the door to find the roomempty. We have despatched searchers in every direction and have sent out apolice alarm. We fear some accident has befallen the Signor. We ask yourindulgence for the keen disappointment, and beg to say that your money will berefunded at the box-office.” Diotti had disappeared as completelyas though the earth had swallowed him. V My Dearest Sister: Youdoubtless were exceedingly mystified and troubled over the report thatwas flashed to Europe regarding mysudden disappearance on the eve of my second concert in New York. Fearing, sweet Francesca, that youmight mourn me as dead, I sent thecablegram you received some weekssince, telling you to be of good heart and await my letter. To make my actionthoroughly understood I must giveyou a record of what happened to me from the first day I arrived inAmerica. I found a great interest mani- fested in my premiere, and sociallyeverything was done to make me happy. Mrs. James Llewellyn, whom, youno doubt remember, we met in Florence the winter of 18–, immediately after Ireached New York arranged a reception for me, which was elegant in theextreme. But from that night datesmy misery. You ask her name?–Mildred Wallace.Tell me what she is like, I hearyou 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 abjectslave, and proud in my serfdom.When I returned to the hotel that evening I could not sleep. Her image everwas before me, elusive and shadowy. And yet we seemed to grow farther andfarther apart–she nearer heaven, I nearer earth. The next evening I gave my first andwhat I fear may prove my last concert in America. The vision of my dreamswas 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 mylimitations. I questioned my genius. When I returned to bow my acknowledgmentsfor the most generous applause I have ever received, there was no sign on herpart that I had interested her, either through my talent or by appeal to hercuriosity. I hoped against hope that some word might come from her, but Iwas doomed to disappointment. Thecritics were fulsome in their praise and the public was lavish with its plaudits, but I was abjectly miserable. Anothersleepless night and I was determined to see her. She received me mostgraciously, although I fear she thought my visit one of vanity–wounded vanity–and me petulant because of her lack of appreciation. Oh, sister mine, I knew better. Iknew my heart craved one word, however matter-of-fact, that would rekindlethe hope that was dying within me. Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel, I blurted: “I have been wonderingwhether you cared for the performance I gave?” “It certainly ought to make littledifference to you,” she replied; “the public was enthusiastic enough in itsendorsement.” “But I want your opinion,” I pleaded. “My opinion would not at all affectthe almost unanimous verdict, “she replied calmly. “And,” I urged desperately, “youwere not affected in the least?” Very coldly she answered, “Not inthe least;” and then fearlessly, like a princess in the Palace of Truth: “Ifever a man comes who can awaken myheart, frankly and honestly I willconfess it.” “Perhaps such a one lives,” I said, but has yet to reach the height to win you–your–” “Speak it,” she said, “to win mylove!” “Yes,” I cried, startled at hercandor, “to win your love.” Hope slowly rekindled within my breast, and thenwith half-closed eyes, and wooingly, she said: “No drooping Clytie could be moreconstant than I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul.” Her emotion must have surprised her,but immediately she regained her placidity and reverted no more to the subject. I went out into the gathering gloom.Her words haunted me. A strangefeeling 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 thewarm western wind to the harp, maybring life to her soul.” I fled, and I am here. I am delvingdeeper and deeper into the mysteries of my art, and I pray God each hour thatHe may place within my grasp thewondrous music His blessed angelssing, for the soul of her I love is at. tuned to the harmonies of heaven. Your affectionate brother,ANGELO.ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January 2. VI When Diotti left New York soprecipitately he took passageon a coast line steamer sailing for the Bahama Islands. Once there, he leaseda small cay, one of a group off the main land, and lived alone and unattended,save for the weekly visits of an old fisherman and his son, who broughtsupplies of provisions from the town miles away. His dwelling-place,surrounded with palmetto trees, was little more than a rough shelter. Diotti aroseat daylight, and after a simple repast, betook himself to practise. Hour afterhour he would let his muse run riot with his fingers. Lovingly he wooedthe strings with plaintive song, then conquering and triumphant would behis theme. But neither satisfied him. The vague dream of a melody morebeautiful than ever man had hearddwelt hauntingly on the borders of his imagination, but was no nearer realization than when he began. As the day’swork closed, he wearily placed theviolin within its case, murmuring,“Not yet, not yet; I have not found it.” Days passed, weeks crept slowlyon; still he worked, but alwayswith the same result. One day,feverish and excited, he played onin monotone almost listless. His tired, over-wrought brain denied a furtherthought. His arm and fingers refused response to his will. With an uncontrollable outburst of grief and anger hedashed the violin to the floor, where it lay a hopeless wreck. Extending hisarms he cried, in the agony of despair: “It is of no use! If the God of heavenwill not aid me, I ask the prince of darkness to come.” A tall, rather spare, but well-madeand handsome man appeared at thedoor of the hut. His manner was that of one evidently conversant with the usages of good society. “I beg pardon,” said the musician,surprised and visibly nettled at the intrusion, and then with forced politeness he asked: “To whom am I indebtedfor this unexpected visit?” “Allow me,” said the stranger taking a card from his case and handingit to the musician, who read: “Satan,” and, in the lower left-hand corner“Prince of Darkness.” “I am the Prince,” said the stranger, bowing low. There was no hint of the pavement-made ruler in the information he gave, but rather of the desire of one gentleman to set another right at the beginning.The musician assumed a positionof open-mouthed wonder, gazingsteadily at the visitor. “Satan?” he whispered hoarsely. “You need help and advice,” saidthe visitor, his voice sounding like that of a disciple of the healing art, andimplying that he had thoroughly diagnosed the case. “No, no,” cried the shudderingviolinist; “go away. I do not need you.” “I regret I can not accept thatstatement as gospel truth,” said Satan, sarcastically, “for if ever a man needed help, you are that man.” “But not from you,” replied Diotti. “That statement is discredited alsoby your outburst of a few moments ago when you called upon me.” “I do not need you,” reiterated the musician. “I will have none of you!”and he waved his arm toward the door, as if he desired the interview to end. “I came at your behest, actuatedentirely by kindness of heart,” said Satan. Diotti laughed derisively, and Satan, showing just the slightest feeling atDiotti’s behavior, said reprovingly: “If you will listen a moment, and not be sorude to an utter stranger, we may reach some conclusion to your benefit.” “Get thee behind–” “I know exactly what you were aboutto say. Have no fears on that score. I have no demands to make and noimpossible compacts to insist upon.” “I have heard of you before,” know- ingly spoke the violinist nodding hishead sadly. “No doubt you have,” smilingly.“My reputation, which has suffered at the hands of irresponsible people, is not of the best, and places me at times inawkward positions. But I am beginning to live it down.” The strangerlooked contrition itself. “To prove my sincerity I desire to help you win herlove,” emphasizing her. “How can you help me?” “Very easily. You have been wastingtime, energy and health in a wilddesire to play better. The trouble lies not with you.” “Not with me?” interrupted theviolinist, now thoroughly interested. “The trouble lies not with you,”repeated the visitor, “but with the miserable violin you have been using and havejust destroyed,” and he pointed to the shattered instrument. Tears welled from the poor violinist’s eyes as he gazed on the fragments of his beloved violin, the pieces lying scattered about as the result of his unfortunateanger. “It was a Stradivarius,” said Diotti, sadly. “Had it been a Stradivarius, an Amati or a Guarnerius, or a host of others rolled into one, you would not have found init the melody to win the heart of the woman you love. Get a better andmore suitable instrument.” “Where is one?” earnestly interrogated Diotti, vaguely realizing thatSatan knew. “In my possession,” Satan replied. “She would hate me if she knew Ihad recourse to the powers of darkness to gain her love,” bitterly interposedDiotti. Satan, wincing at this uncomplimentary allusion to himself, replied ratherwarmly: “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 endyour miserable existence with rope or pistol,” and Satan pantomimed bothsuicidal contingencies. “Do you want the violin or not?” “I might look at it,” said Diotti,resolving mentally that he could go so far without harm. “Very well,” said Satan. He gavea long whistle. An old man, bearing a violin case,came within the room. He bowed tothe wondering Diotti, and proceeded to open the case. Taking the instrumentout the old man fondled it with loving and tender solicitude, pointing out itsmany beauties–the exquisite blending of the curves, the evenness of the grain, the peculiar coloring, the lovely contour of the neck, the graceful outlines of the body, the scroll, rivaling the creations of the ancient sculptors, the solidity of the bridge and its elegantly carved heart, and, waxing exceedingly enthusiastic,holding up the instrument and looking at it as one does at a cluster of gems, he added, “the adjustment of the strings.” “That will do,” interrupted Satan,taking the violin from the little man, who bowed low and ceremoniouslytook his departure. Then the devil, pointing to the instrument, asked: “Isn’t it a beauty?” The musician, eying it keenly,replied: “Yes, it is, but not the kind of violin I play on.” “Oh, I see,” carelessly observed the other, “you refer to that extra string.” “Yes,” answered the puzzled violinist, examining it closely. “Allow me to explain the peculiarcharacteristics of this magnificent instrument,” said his satanic majesty. “Thisstring,” pointing to the G, “is the string of pity; this one,” referring to the third, “is the string of hope; this,”plunking the A, “is attuned to love, while this one, the E string, gives forth sounds of joy. “You will observe,” went on thevisitor, noting the intense interest displayed by the violinist, “that the positionof the strings is the same as on any other violin, and therefore will require no additional study on your part.” “But that extra string?” interrupted Diotti, designating the middle one onthe violin, a vague foreboding rising within him. “That,” said Mephistopheles,solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry, “is the string of death, and he whoplays upon it dies at once.” “The–string–of–death!” repeatedthe violinist almost inaudibly. “Yes, the string of death,” Satanrepeated, “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 appearschild’s play to you. It will be easy for you to avoid touching the string.” “Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?” “Ah, that’s the rub. If youexamine the violin closely you will find that the string of death is made up ofthe 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 theviolin.” “How like life itself,” Diottireflected, “pity, hope, love, joy end in death, and through death they are bornagain.” “That’s the idea, precisely,” saidSatan, evidently relieved by Diotti’s logic and quick perception. The violinist examined the instrument with the practised eye of an expert, and turning to Satan said: “The fourstrings are beautifully white and transparent, but this one is black and oddlooking. “What is it wrapped with?” eagerlyinquired Diotti, examining the death string with microscopic care. “The fifth string was added after an unfortunate episode in the Garden ofEden, in which I was somewhatconcerned,” said Satan, soberly. “It is wrapped with strands of hair from thefirst mother of man.” Impressively then he offered the violin to Diotti. “I dare not take it,” said theperplexed musician; “it’s from–” “Yes, it is directly from there, but I brought it from heaven when I–I left,” said the fallen angel, with remorse inhis voice. “It was my constantcompanion there. But no one in mydomain–not I, myself–can play upon it now, for it will respond neither to ourlonging for pity, hope, love, joy, nor even death,” and sadly and retrospectively Satan gazed into vacancy; then,after a long pause: “Try the instrument!” Diotti placed the violin in positionand 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 gladsomestrains. The devil alone was sad, and with emotion said: “It is many, many years since Ihave heard that string.” Next the artist changed to the string of pity, and thoughts of the world’ssorrows came over him like a pall. “Wonderful, most wonderful!” saidthe mystified violinist; “with this instrument I can conquer the world!” “Aye, more to you than the world,”said the tempter, “a woman’s love.” A woman’s love–to the despairingsuitor there was one and only one in this wide, wide world, and her words, burning their way into his heart, had madethis temptation possible: “No droop- ing Clytie could be more constant thanI to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul.” Holding the violin aloft, he criedexultingly: “Henceforth thou art mine, though death and oblivion lurk evernear thee!” VII Perkins, seated in his office,threw the morning paper aside.“It’s no use,” he said, turning to the office boy, “I don’t believe they everwill find him, dead or alive. Whoever put up the job on Diotti was a pastgrand master at that sort of thing. The silent assassin that lurks in the shadow of the midnight moon is an explosion ofdynamite compared to the party that made way with Diotti. You ask, whyshould they kill him? My boy, youdon’t know the world. They werejealous of his enormous hit, of our dazzling success. Jealousy did it.” The “they” of Perkins comprisedrival managers, rival artists, newspaper critics and everybody at largewho would not concede that theattractions managed by Perkins were the “greatest on earth.” “We’ll never see his like again–come in!” this last in answer to a knock. Diotti appeared at the open door.Perkins jumped like one shot from a catapult, and rushing toward the silentfigure in the doorway exclaimed: “Bless my soul, are you a ghost?” “A substantial one,” said Diotti with a smile. “Are you really here?” continuedthe astonished impresario, using Diotti’s arm as a pump handle and pinchinghim at the same time. When they were seated Perkins pliedDiotti with all manner of questions; “How did it happen?” “How did youescape?” and the like, all of which Diotti parried with monosyllabic replies, finally saying: “I was dissatisfied with myplaying and went away to study.” “Do you know that the failure to fulfill your contract has cost me at least tenthousand dollars?” said the shrewd manager, the commercial side of hisnature asserting itself. “All of which I will pay,” quietlyreplied the artist. “Besides I am ready to play now, and you can announce aconcert within a week if you like.” “If I like?” cried the hustling Perkins. “Here, James,” calling his officeboy, “run down to the printer’sand give him this,” making a note of the various sizes of “paper” he desired, “and tell Mr. Tompkins that Diotti isback and will give a concert next Tuesday. Tell Smith to prepare the newspaperads’ and notices immediately.” In an hour Perkins had the entiremachinery of his office in motion.Within twenty-four hours New Yorkhad several versions of the disappearance and return, all leading to onecommon point–that Diotti would give a concert the coming Tuesday evening. The announcement of the reappearanceof the Tuscan contained a lineto the effect that the violinist would play for the first time his new suite–ameditation on the emotions. He had not seen Mildred. As he came upon the stage that nightthe lights were turned low, and naught but the shadowy outlines of player andviolin were seen. His reception by the audience was not enthusiastic. Theyevidently remembered the disappointment caused by his unexpected disappearance,but this unfriendly attitudesoon gave way to evidences of kindlier feelings. Mildred was there, more beautifulthan ever, and to gain her love Diotti would have bartered his soul that moment. The first movement of the suite wasentitled “Pity,” and the music flowed like melodious tears. A subdued sobrose and fell with the sadness of the theme. Mildred’s eyes were moistened asshe fixed them on the lone figure of the player. Now the theme of pity changed tohope, and hearts grew brighter under the spell. The next movement depicted joy.As the virtuoso’s fingers darted here and there, his music seemed the very laughter of fairy voices, the earth looked rosesand sunshine, and Mildred, relaxing her position and leaning forward in the box, with lips slightly parted, was the picture of eager happiness. The final movement came. Its subjectwas love. The introduction depicted the Arcadian beauty of thetrysting place, love-lit eyes sought each other intuitively and a great peacebrooded over the hearts of all. Then followed the song of the Passionate Pilgrim: “If music and sweet poetry agree,As they must needs, the sister and the brother, When must the love be great ‘twixt thee and me Because thou lov’st the one, and I the other.

Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phoebus’ lute (the queen of music) makes; And I in deep delight, am chiefly drown’d When as himself to singing he betakes.One god is god of both, as poetsOne knight loves both, and both in thee remain.” Grander and grander the melodyrose, voicing love’s triumph with wondrous sweetness and palpitating rhythm.Mildred, her face flushed with excitement, a heavenly fire in her eyes and inan attitude of supplication, reveled in the glory of a new found emotion. As the violinist concluded hisperformance an oppressive silence pervaded the house, then the audience, wild withexcitement, burst into thunders ofapplause. In his dressing-room Diotti was besieged by hosts of people,congratulating him in extravagant terms. Mildred Wallace came, extending herhands. He took them almost reverently. She looked into his eyes, andhe knew he had struck the chord responsive in her soul. VIII The sun was high in the heavenswhen the violinist awoke. A greatweight had been lifted from his heart; he had passed from darkness into dawn. A messenger brought him this note: My Dear Signor Diotti–I am at home this afternoon, and shall be delighted to see you and return my thanks for the exquisite pleasure you gave me last evening. Music, such as yours, is indeed the voice of heaven. Sincerely, Mildred Wallace. The messenger returned with this reply: My Dear Miss Wallace–I will call at three to-day. Gratefully,Angelo Diotti. He watched the hour drag from elevento twelve, then counted the minutes to one, and from that time until he left the hotel each second was tabulated in hismind. Arriving at her residence, he was ushered into the drawing-room. Itwas fragrant with the perfume of violets, and he stood gazing at her portraitexpectant of her coming. Dressed in simple white, entrancingin her youthful freshness, she entered, her face glowing with happiness, hereyes languorous and expressive. She hastened to him, offering both hands.He held them in a loving, tender grasp, and for a moment neither spoke. Thenshe, gazing clearly and fearlessly into his eyes, said: “My heart has found its melody!” He, kneeling like Sir Gareth of old:“The song and the singer are yours forever. ” She, bidding him arise: “And I forever yours.” And wondering at herboldness, she added, “I know and feel that you love me–your eyes confirmedyour love before you spoke.” Then, convincingly and ingenuously, “I knewyou loved me the moment we first met. Then I did not understand what thatmeant to you, now I do.” He drew her gently to him, and themotive of their happiness was defined in sweet confessions: “My love, mylife–My life, my love.” The magic of his music had changedher very being, the breath of love was in her soul, the vision of love was dancing in her eyes. The child of marble,like the statue of old, had come to life: “And not long sinceI was a cold, dull stone! I recollect That by some means I knew that I was stone; That was the first dull gleam of consciousness; I became conscious of a chilly self,A cold, immovable identity.I knew that I was stone, and knew no more! Then, by an imperceptible advance,Came the dim evidence of outer things, Seen–darkly and imperfectly–yet seenThe walls surrounding me, and I, alone. That pedestal–that curtain–then a voice That called on Galatea! At that word,Which seemed to shake my marble to the core, That which was dim before, came evident. Sounds, that had hummed around me, indistinct, Vague, meaningless–seemed to resolve themselves Into a language I could understand;I felt my frame pervaded by a glowThat seemed to thaw my marble into flesh; Its cold, hard substance throbbed with active life, My limbs grew supple, and I moved–I lived! Lived in the ecstasy of a new-born life! Lived in the love of him that fashioned me! Lived in a thousand tangled thoughts of hope.” Day after day he came; they told their love, their hopes, their ambitions. Sheassumed absolute proprietorship in him. She gloried in her possession. He was born into the world, nurturedin infancy, trained in childhood and matured into manhood, for one expresspurpose–to be hers alone. Herownership ranged from absolute despotism to humble slavery, and he was happythrough it all. One day she said: “Angelo, is it your purpose to follow your profession always?” “Necessarily, it is my livelihood,” he replied. “But do you not think that after westand at the altar, we never should be separated?” “We will be together always,” saidhe, holding her face between his palms, and looking with tender expression intoher inquiring eyes. “But I notice that women clusteraround you after your concerts–and shake your hand longer than theyshould–and talk to you longer than they should–and go away looking self-satisfied!” she replied brokenly, much as a little girl tells of the theft of her doll. “Nonsense,” he said, smiling, “that is all part of my profession; it is notme they care for, it is the music I give that makes them happy. If, in myplaying, I achieve results out of the common, they admire me!” and he kissedaway the unwelcome tears. “I know,” she continued, “butlately, since we have loved each other, I can not bear to see a woman nearyou. In my dreams again and againan indefinable shadow mockingly comes; and cries to me, he is not to be yours, he is to be mine.’ ” Diotti flushed and drew her to him“Darling,” his voice carrying conviction, “I am yours, you are mine, all inall, in life here and beyond!” And as she sat dreaming after he had gone, shemurmured petulantly, “I wish there were no other women in the world.” Her father was expected from Europeon the succeeding day’s steamer. Mr. Wallace was a busy man. The variousgigantic enterprises he served as president or director occupied most of histime. He had been absent in Europefor several months, and Mildred was anxiously awaiting his return to tell him of her love. When Mr. Wallace came to his residence the next morning, his daughtermet him with a fond display of filial affection; they walked into the drawing- room, hand in hand; he saw a pictureof the violinist on the piano. “Who’s the handsome young fellow?” he asked,looking at the portrait with the satisfaction a man feels when he sees a splendidtype of his own sex. “That is Angelo Diotti, the famousviolinist,” she said, but she could not add another word. As they strolled through the roomshe noticed no less than three likenesses of the Tuscan. And as they passed herroom he saw still another on the chiffonnier. “Seems to me the house is running wild with photographs of that fiddler,” he said. For the first time in her life she was self-conscious: “I will wait for a more opportune time to tell him,” she thought. In the scheme of Diotti’s appearancein New York there were to be twomore concerts. One was to be giventhat evening. Mildred coaxed herfather to accompany her to hear the violinist. Mr. Wallace was not fondof music; “it had been knocked out of him on the farm up in Vermont, whenhe was a boy,” he would apologetically explain, and besides he had the oldpuritanical abhorrence of stage people– putting them all in one class–as puppets who danced for played or talked for anidle and unthinking public. So it was with the thought of awasted evening that he accompaniedMildred to the concert. The entertainment was a repetitionof the others Diotti had given, and at its end, Mildred said to her father:“Come, I want to congratulate Signor Diotti in person.” “That is entirely unnecessary,” hereplied. “It is my desire,” and the girl led the unwilling parent back of the scenesand into Diotti’s dressing-room. Mildred introduced Diotti to herfather, who after a few commonplaces lapsed into silence. The daughter’senthusiastic interest in Diotti’s performance and her tender solicitude for hisweariness after the efforts of the evening, quickly attracted the attention ofMr. Wallace and irritated him exceedingly. When father and daughter wereseated in their carriage and were hurriedly driving home, he said: “Mildred,I prefer that you have as little to say to that man as possible.” “What do you object to in him?”she asked. “Everything. Of what use is a manwho dawdles away his time on a fiddle; of what benefit is he to mankind? Dofiddlers build cities? Do they delve into the earth for precious metals? Do theysow the seed and harvest the grain? No, no; they are drones–the barnaclesof society.” “Father, how can you advance suchan argument? Music’s votaries offer no apologies for their art. The husbandmanplaces the grain within the breastof Mother Earth for man’s materialwelfare; God places music in the heart of man for his spiritual development. Inman’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 thehappiness of the world. Diotti is a great genius. His art brings rest andtranquillity to the wearied and despairing,” and she did not speak again untilthey had reached the house. The lights were turned low whenfather and daughter went into thedrawing-room. Mr. Wallace felt that he had failed to convince Mildred of the utter worthlessness of fiddlers, big orlittle, and as one dissatisfied with the outcome of a contest, re-entered thelists. “He has visited you?” “Yes, father.” “Often?” “Yes, father,” spoken calmly. “Often?” louder and more imperiously repeated the father, as if theremust be some mistake. “Quite often,” and she sat down,knowing the catechizing would be likely to continue for some minutes. “How many times, do you think?” She rose, walked into the hallway;took the card basket from the table, returned and seated herself beside herfather, emptying its contents into her lap. She picked up a card. It read“Angelo Diotti,” and she called the name aloud. She took up another andagain her lips voiced the beloved name. “Angelo Diotti,” she continued, repeating at intervals for a minute. Thenlooking at her father: “He has called thirty-two times; there are thirty-onecards here and on one occasion he forgot his card-case.” “Thirty-two!” said the father, rising angrily and pacing the floor. “Yes, thirty-two. I remember allof them distinctly.” Her father came over to her, halfcoaxingly, half seriously. “Mildred, I wish his visits to cease; people willimagine there is a romantic attachment between you.” “There is, father,” out it came, “he loves me and I love him.” “What!” shouted Mr. Wallace, andthen severely, “this must cease immediately.” She rose quietly and led her fatherover to the mantel. Placing a hand on each of his shoulders she said: “Father, I will obey you implicitlyif you can name a reasonable objection to the man I love. But you can not.I love him with my whole soul. I love him for the nobility of his character,and because there is none other in the world for him, nor for me.” IX Old Sanders as boy and manhad been in the employ of thebanking and brokerage firm of Wallace Brothers for two generations. The firmgradually had advanced his position until now he was confidential adviser andgeneral manager, besides having aninterest in the profits of the business. He enjoyed the friendship of Mr.Wallace, and had been a constant visitor at his house from the first days ofthat gentleman’s married life. He himself was alone in the world, a confirmedbachelor. He had seen Mildred creep from babyhood into childhood, and budfrom girlhood to womanhood. To Mildred he was one of that numerous armyof brevet relations known as “gran- pop,” “pop,” or “uncle.” To her hewas Uncle Sanders. If the old man had one touch of human nature in him it was a solicitudefor Mildred’s future–an authority arrogated to himself–to see that she marriedthe right man; but even that wasdirected 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 anecessity for marital felicity, and would enforce his argument by quoting fromthe bard: “All lovers swear more performancethan they are able, and yet reserve an ability that they never perform; vowingmore than the perfection of ten, and discharging less than the tenth part of one.” “You can get at a man’s income,”he would say, “but not at his heart. Love without money won’t travel as faras money without love,” and manymarried people whose bills were overdue wondered if the old fellow wasnot right. He was cold-blooded and generallydisliked by the men under him. Themore evil-minded gossips in the bank said he was in league with “OldNick.” 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 elementamong the employees would not openly venture so far, but rather thought if his satanic majesty and old Sanders ran arace, the former would come in a bad second, if he were not distanced altogether. The old man always reached the office at nine. Mr. Wallace usually arrived ahalf hour later, seldom earlier, which was so well understood by Sanders that hewas greatly surprised when he walked into the president’s office, the morning after that gentleman had attendedDiotti’s concert, to find the head of the firm already there and apparently waiting for him. “Sanders,” said the banker, “Iwant your advice on a matter of great importance and concern to me.” Sanders came across the room andstood beside the desk. “Briefly as possible, I am muchexercised about my daughter.” The old man moved up a chair andburied himself in it. Pressing his elbows tightly against his sides, he drewhis neck in, and with the tips of his right hand fingers consorted andcoquetted with their like on the opposite hand; then he simply asked, “Who isthe man?” “He is the violinist who has created such a sensation here, Angelo Diotti.” “Yes, I’ve seen the name in print,” returned the old man. “He has bewitched Mildred. I neverhave seen her show the least interest in a man before. She never has appearedto me as an impressionable girl or one that could easily be won.” “That is very true,” ejaculatedSanders; “she always seemed tractable and open to reason in all questions of loveand courting. I can recall severalinstances where I have set her right by my estimation of men, and invariablyshe has accepted my views.” “And mine until now,” said thefather, and then he recounted hisexperience of the night before. “I had hoped she would not fall in love, butbe a prop and comfort to me now that I am alone. I am dismayed at theprospect before me.” Then the old man mused: “In thechrysalis 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 marryuntil she is twenty-six,’ says the fond parent. The man she marries will bethe one I approve of, and then she will live happy ever after,’ concludes thefond parent.” Deluded parent! false prophet! Theanarchist, Love, steps in and disdains all laws, rules and regulations. Whenfinally the father confronts the defying daughter, she calmly says, “Well,what are you going to do about it?” And then tears, forgiveness, completecapitulation, and, sometimes, she and her husband live happily ever afterwards. “We must find some means to endthis attachment. A union between amusician and my daughter would bemost mortifying to me. Some planmust be devised to separate them, but she must not know of it, for she isimpatient of restraint and will not brook opposition.” “Are you confident she really lovesthis violinist?” “She confessed as much to me,”said the perturbed banker. Old Sanders tapped with both handson his shining cranium and asked,“Are you confident he loves her?” “No. Even if he does not, he no doubt makes the pretense, and she believeshim. A man who fiddles for moneyis not likely to ignore an opportunity to angle for the same commodity,” andthe banker, with a look of scorn on his face, threw himself back into the chair. “Does she know that you do notapprove of this man?” “I told her that I desired themusician’s visits to cease.” “And her answer?” “She said she would obey me if Icould name one reasonable objection to the man, and then, with an air of absolute confidence in the impossibility ofsuch a contingency, added, `But you can not.’ ” “Yes, but you must,” said Sanders.“Mildred is strangely constituted. If she loves this man, her love can bemore deadly to the choice of her heart than her hate to one she abhors. Theimpatience of restraint you speak of and her very inability to brook oppositioncan be turned to good account now.” And old Sanders again tapped in therhythm of a dirge on his parchment- bound cranium. “Your plan?” eagerly asked thefather, whose confidence in his secretary was absolute. “I would like to study them together. Your position will be stronger withMildred if you show no open opposition to the man or his aspirations; bring ustogether at your house some evening, and if I can not enter a wedge ofdiscontent, then they are not as others.”

Mildred was delighted when herfather told her on his return in the evening that he was anxious to meetSignor Diotti, and suggested a dinner party within a few days. He said hewould invite Mr. Sanders, as thatgentleman, no doubt, would consider it a great privilege to meet the famousmusician. Mildred immediately sent an invitation to Diotti, adding a requestthat he bring his violin and play for Uncle Sanders, as the latter had foundit impossible to attend his concerts during the season, yet was fond of music,especially violin music. X The little dinner party passed offpleasantly, and as old Sanderslighted his cigar he confided to Diotti, with a braggart’s assurance, that whenhe was a youngster he was the best fiddler for twenty miles around. “I tellyou 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 Dreamthere wasn’t a girl in the country could keep from dancing, and `Rosalie, thePrairie Flower,’ brought them on their knees to me every time;” then after apause, “I don’t believe people fiddle as well nowadays as they did in the goodold times,” and he actually sighed in remembrance. Mildred smiled and whispered toDiotti. He took his violin from the case and began playing. It seemed to heras if from above showers of silvery merriment were falling to earth. The old man watched intently, and as the playerchanged from joy to pity, from love back to happiness, Sanders never withdrew his gaze. His bead-like eyes followedthe artist; he saw each individualfinger 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 atattoo on his cranium and closed his eyes, apparently deep in thought. As Diotti ceased playing, Sandersapplauded vociferously, and movingtoward the violinist, said: “Magnificent! I never have heard better playing!What is the make of your violin?” Diotti, startled at this question,hurriedly put the instrument in its case; “Oh, it is a famous make,” he drawled. “Will you let me examine it?” saidthe elder, placing his hand on the case. “I never allow any one to touch myviolin,” replied Diotti, closing the cover quickly. “Why; is there a magic charm aboutit, that you fear other hands maydiscover?” queried the old man. “I prefer that no one handle it,”said the virtuoso commandingly. “Very well,” sighed the old manresignedly, “there are violins and violins, and no doubt yours comes within thatcategory,” this half sneeringly. “Uncle,” interposed Mildred tactfully, “you must not be so persistent. SignorDiotti prizes his violin highly and will not allow any one to play upon it buthimself,” and the look of relief on Diotti’s face amply repaid her. Mr. Wallace came in at that moment,and with perfunctory interest in his guest, invited him to examine the splendid collection of revolutionary relics inhis study. “I value them highly,” said thebanker, “both for patriotic and ancestral reasons. The Wallaces fought anddied for their country, and helped to make this land what it is.” The father and the violinist went tothe study, leaving the daughter and old Sanders in the drawing-room. Theold man, seating himself in a large armchair, said: “Mildred, my dear, I donot wonder at the enormous success of this Diotti.” “He is a wonderful artist,” replied Mildred; “critics and public alike place him among the greatest of his profession.” “He is a good-looking young fellow,too,” said the old man. “I think he is the handsomest man Iever have seen,” replied the girl. “Where does he come from?”continued Sanders. “St. Casciano, a small town in Tuscany.” “Has he a family?” “Only a sister, whom he lovesdearly,” good-naturedly answered the girl. “And no one else?” continued theseemingly garrulous old man. “None that I have heard him speakof. No, certainly not,” rather impetuously replied Mildred.