V
My Dearest Sister: You doubtless were exceedingly mystified andtroubled over the report that was flashed to Europe regarding my suddendisappearance on the eve of my second concert in New York.
Fearing, sweet Francesca, that you might mourn me as dead, I sent thecablegram you received some weeks since, telling you to be of goodheart and await my letter. To make my action thoroughly understood Imust give you a record of what happened to me from the first day Iarrived in America. I found a great interest manifested in my premiere,and socially everything was done to make me happy.
Mrs. James Llewellyn, whom, you no doubt remember, we met in Florencethe winter of 18--, immediately after I reached New York arranged areception for me, which was elegant in the extreme. But from that nightdates my misery.
You ask her name?--Mildred Wallace. Tell me what she is like, I hearyou say. Of graceful height, willowy and exquisitely molded, not overtwenty-four, with the face of a Madonna; wondrous eyes of darkest blue,hair indescribable in its maze of tawny color--in a word, theperfection of womanhood. In half an hour I was her abject slave, andproud in my serfdom. When I returned to the hotel that evening I couldnot sleep. Her image ever was before me, elusive and shadowy. And yetwe seemed to grow farther and farther apart--she nearer heaven, Inearer earth.
The next evening I gave my first and what I fear may prove my lastconcert in America. The vision of my dreams was there, radiant inrarest beauty. Singularly enough, she was in the direct line of myvision while I played. I saw only her, played but for her, and cast mysoul 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 myacknowledgments for the most generous applause I have ever received,there was no sign on her part that I had interested her, either throughmy talent or by appeal to her curiosity. I hoped against hope that someword might come from her, but I was doomed to disappointment. Thecritics were fulsome in their praise and the public was lavish with itsplaudits, but I was abjectly miserable. Another sleepless night and Iwas determined to see her. She received me most graciously, although Ifear she thought my visit one of vanity--wounded vanity--and mepetulant because of her lack of appreciation.
Oh, sister mine, I knew better. I knew my heart craved one word,however matter-of-fact, that would rekindle the hope that was dyingwithin me.
Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel, I blurted: "I have beenwondering whether you cared for the performance I gave?"
"It certainly ought to make little difference to you," she replied;"the public was enthusiastic enough in its endorsement."
"But I want your opinion," I pleaded.
"My opinion would not at all affect the almost unanimous verdict," shereplied calmly.
"And," I urged desperately, "you were not affected in the least?"
Very coldly she answered, "Not in the least;" and then fearlessly, likea princess in the Palace of Truth: "If ever a man comes who can awakenmy heart, frankly and honestly I will confess it."
"Perhaps such a one lives," I said, "but has yet to reach the height towin you--your--"
"Speak it," she said, "to win my love!"
"Yes," I cried, startled at her candor, "to win your love." Hope slowlyrekindled within my breast, and then with half-closed eyes, andwooingly, she said:
"No drooping Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikesthe chord that is responsive in my soul."
Her emotion must have surprised her, but immediately she regained herplacidity 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 the warm western wind to the harp, may bring life to her soul."
I fled, and I am here. I am delving deeper and deeper into themysteries of my art, and I pray God each hour that He may place withinmy grasp the wondrous music His blessed angels sing, for the soul ofher I love is attuned to the harmonies of heaven.
Your affectionate brother, ANGELO. ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January 2.
The Fifth String Page 5
