Holding the ill-used instrument towards Luigi, I said, “This one seems particularly to want your attention. Is it a valuable one?”
Luigi, who was engrossed by the delicate operation of shifting the sounding-post of one of his pet weapons, some infinitesimal part of an inch to the left or to the right, turned as I spoke, still holding his ends of string in each hand. As soon as he saw the violin I had taken up, he let fall the one he held between his knees, and, to my great surprise, said hastily—
“Put it down—put it down, my friend. I beseech you not to handle that violin.”
Rather annoyed at the testy way in which my usually amiable friend spoke, I laid it down, saying, “Is it so precious, then, that you are afraid of my clumsy hands damaging it?”
“Ah, it is not that,” answered Luigi, “it is something altogether different. I did not know my man had brought that fiddle in. I never intended it should have left Italy.”
“It looks an old one. Who is it by?”
“That is a real old Stradivarius; the acme of mortal skill; the one thing human hands have made in this world perfect—perfect as a flower, perfect as the sea. A Stradivarius is the only thing that cannot be altered—cannot be improved upon.”
“Why do you never use it?”
“I cannot tell you—you would not believe me. There is a something about that fiddle I cannot explain. I believe it to be the finest in the world. It may be even that Manfredi played upon it to Boccherini’s ’cello. It may be Kruger led with it when the mighty applause rang through the Kärntnerthor, shaking it from floor to floor to roof-tree, but which he, the grand deaf genius, Beethoven, could not even hear. Who can tell what hands have used it? and yet, alas! I dare not play upon it again.”
Rendered very curious by Luigi’s enigmatical words and excited manner, I ventured to take the violin in my hands again, and examined it with interest. I looked carefully at the belly and back, noting the beautiful red but translucent varnish known alone to Stradivarius, with which the latter was coated. I peeped through the f f’s, to ascertain if any maker’s name appeared inside. If one had ever been there it was completely obliterated by a dark stain, covering the greater portion of the inside of the back. Luigi offered no remonstrance as I took the fiddle for the second time, but sat silent, watching me with apparent interest.
And now a strange thing occurred to me—let who can explain it. After holding that fiddle a few minutes, I felt a wish—an impulse—growing stronger and stronger each moment, till it became almost irresistible, to play upon it. It was not a musician’s natural itching to try a fine old violin, as I am no musician, although fond of listening to music, and at times venturing to criticize; neither have I learnt nor attempted to learn the art of performing on any instrument, from the Jew’s-harp to the organ. And yet, I say, as my fingers were round the neck—as soft as silk it was—of that old violin, not only did I feel a positive yearning to pass the bow across it, but somehow I was filled with the conviction, odd as it was that all at once I was possessed of the power of bringing rare music forth. So strong, so intense was this feeling, that, heedless of the ridicule I should expose myself to from my companion—heedless, indeed, of his presence—I cuddled the fiddle under my chin, and took up one of the several bows lying on the table. My left fingers fell instinctively into their proper position on the strings, or rather where the strings should have been; and then I remembered the ruined state they were in, and with all my new-born skill, knew that no miraculous inspiration, even if it produced a fiddler. could bring forth music from wood alone. Yet the impulse was on me stronger than ever; and absurd as it may seem, I turned to Luigi with the request on my lips that he would re-string the useless instrument.
Luigi had been watching me attentively; no doubt he had studied every motion, every vagary of mine since I commenced handling the fiddle again. Seeing me turn towards him, he sprang from his seat, and before I could speak, snatched the fiddle from my hands, replacing it at once in its case; then closing the cover, he heaved a deep sigh of relief. I had no time to entreat, remonstrate, or resist; but as he took the fiddle from me, all wish to distinguish myself in a line that was not my own left me, and I almost laughed aloud at the folly and presumption of which I had been mentally guilty. Yet it was strange—very strange.
“Ah,” said Luigi, as he placed the fiddle out of sight under the table, “so you felt it also, my friend?”
“Felt what?”
“The—I don’t know what to call it—the power, the sorcery of it.”
“I felt—don’t laugh at me—had the strings been there, I who never played a fiddle in my life, could have drawn exquisite music from that one. What does it mean?”
Luigi returned no answer to my inquiry, but said, as if thinking aloud—
“So it was no dream of mine. He, the cool, collected Englishman—he felt it also. He could not resist the impulse. It was no dream—no creation of my fancy; would he see it, I wonder?”
“See what?” I asked, curious to know what his wandering sentences meant.
“I cannot tell you. You would not believe me.”
“But what do you mean by the sorcery of the fiddle?”
“Did I say sorcery?—Well, I know no other word that can describe it. Although I tell you I believe that fiddle is the finest in the world, I have only played upon it twice; and the second time I drew my knife across the strings, that I might never again be tempted to play upon it without due consideration.”
“What is its history, then? Where did you get it?” I asked, by this time thinking my friend was suffering from some eccentricity that genius occasionally exhibits.
“It was sent me originally from London. When I found out its secret, I begged my agent in England to ascertain its history. After some trouble, he traced it to a house, where, for many years, it had lain unnoticed in a garret. That house had once been a lodging-house; so doubtless the fiddle had belonged to someone who had sojourned there for a time. I could learn no more about it, save what it told me in its music.”
I saw Luigi was far away from any wish to jest, so paused before I asked him the meaning of his last sentence. He anticipated me, and said—
“You wonder at my words. Did you notice nothing else strange about it?”
“Only a dark stain inside: as if wine had been spilt into it.”
“Ah!” cried Luigi, excitedly, “that is it! that is the secret—the meaning of the power it holds. If it were not for the varnish that fiddle would be stained outside and inside. That stain is from a man’s heart’s blood, and that fiddle can tell you why he died.”
“I do not understand you.”
“I do not expect you to—or believe me—why should you? What have you, an unimaginative Anglo-Saxon, to do with marvels? How, in the centre of a great, cruel, material city, with the ceaseless sound of traffic outside our windows should you expect anything supernatural? It may be I only dreamt it. Perhaps you would not see it. And yet, one night when I feel strong enough, we will take the fiddle from its case, and I will play it to you—I who have not laid a finger on it for five years until tonight. And then, if its music moves you as it moved me, I dreamt no dream. If not, I will say it was a dream, and I may at last be able to use this masterpiece of Stradivarius.”
I begged him to name an early day for the curious performance, but he would make no promise; so we parted for the night.
A month passed by: Luigi’s London engagement terminated, and he was now going to win fresh laurels at Berlin. I had seen him two or three times every week, but he had never referred to the conversation which had taken place upon the night I drew the strange violin from its case, nor I had he offered to redeem his promise on that occasion. I had ceased to think about it, or indeed only remembered it as a jest, laughing at the idea of a superstitious man not being able to play on any particular fiddle. Two days before he left England he wrote me asking me to dine with him that night; adding, “I think I may keep my promise of playing upon the S
tradivarius.”
We dined at a well-known restaurant, and about ten o’clock went to Luigi’s rooms to finish the night. The first thing I saw, upon entering, was the fiddle-case lying on the table—Luigi’s favourite bow and several coils of strings beside it. We sat down and talked on various topics for about an hour, and then I said—
“I see you have made preparations for the performance. When do you intend to begin?”
Luigi drew a deep breath. “My friend,” he said, “you will not blame me if my playing agitates you; and remember, when I once commence I must continue to the end. It is no pleasure to me—it is rather deadly pain. But I am curious, and would satisfy my doubts.”
He was so much in earnest that I checked the laugh his solemn manner called up, and merely nodded acquiescence. He then rose, and saying, “We must not be interrupted,” called his servant, and after giving him the necessary instructions locked the door, placing the key in his pocket. He then opened the mysterious case, and with tender hands drew forth the violin. His nimble fingers soon detached the severed strings, knotted on the new ones, and in the course of about a quarter of an hour the instrument was ready, and tuned to his satisfaction. I felt, as I watched him, I should like to take the violin in my hands once more, to see if the strange desire I had before experienced would again come over me—but hardly liked to ask him to permit me to do so. And now all was ready—Luigi’s critical ear satisfied with the sound of the strings, and he seemed about to strike his favourite attitude. Yet I noticed his pale face was paler than usual, and the hand poising the bow seemed tremulous; and as I looked at him, a sympathetic feeling of fear—a dread of something, I knew not what—crept-over me. It seemed too absurd, however, to be disturbed by an excitable Italian playing a violin in a room with all the appliances of modern every day life around me; so I laughed away the feeling, placed myself in my favourite attitude for listening to the master’s performances—at full length on the sofa—and was prepared to give my undivided attention to the music.
And yet, for a while Luigi did not commence, although he saw I had resigned myself to my fate. He had placed the violin under his chin; his left-hand fingers were on the strings, but for some minutes he contented himself with beating a sort of time, or rhythmical measure, with the bow. One would have said he was endeavouring to recall something he had heard once, and only imperfectly remembered.
“What theme are you going to play to me?” I asked.
On hearing my voice he looked at me vacantly, and only upon my repeating the question did he seem aware of my presence. Then with an effort he said, ceasing not to beat time the while—
“Ah, that I do not know. I am no longer my own master; I cannot choose. Let me beg of you not to interrupt me again, my friend.”
I said no more, but watched him with anxious eyes. The left-hand fingers slipped, slid, and danced in dumb show up and down the strings, the bow for ever beating time. A sort of shiver passed over him; then, drawing himself up, he swept the bow across the strings, and the fiddle, silent for so many years, found tongue at last.
A weird strain, commanding the listener’s attention at once—a strain I knew I had never heard before. So curious the opening bars sounded, that, had I dared, I should have said several well-established rules of harmony were outraged. And yet, in spite of its peculiarity, I knew that he who created that music was a master in the art. It was not Wagner, I was sure, although somewhat of his remarkable power of expression, and of moving the mind without the aid of melody, was present. The first thirty bars, or so, appeared to me to be of the nature of an overture, heralding the performance to follow. In snatches of mystic music the violin spoke of joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, love and hate, hope and fear; and as my own thoughts responded to the varied emotions, I lay and wondered who could have written the music, affecting me so; and thought how fortunate the unknown composer was to have such an exponent of his ideas as Luigi. Yet, as I looked at the latter, it struck me his style of playing tonight was different from usual. Faultless though the execution was—marvellous as were the strains those facile fingers drew forth—the whole manner of the man seemed to be mechanical, utterly at variance with the fire and dash that ever characterized his performances. The skill was there, but, for once, the soul was wanting. With the exception of his hands and arms, he stood so still he might have been a statue. He played as one in a trance, and his eyes with a fixed look were ever directed towards the end of the apartment. Swifter and swifter his arm flew backwards and forwards—more strange, eccentric, and weird the music became—stronger in its expression, plainer in its eloquence, more thrilling in its intensity, and ever exercising its powerful spell on the hearer. At last, with a sort of impulse, I turned my eyes from the player and looked in the direction he looked. Suddenly the music changed. There was no lack of melody now. A soft, soothing, haunting measure began—a sort of dreamy far-away tune; and as its gentle cadences fell on my ear, hitherto kept in a state of irritating, if not unpleasing, expectation, my thoughts began to wander to old and half-forgotten scenes—distant events came to my mind—recollections of vanished faces, once familiar, flocked around me—all things seemed growing misty and indistinct, and I felt as one sinking into sleep—the sort of sleep that one can almost realize and enjoy.
It was not to be, however. A few harsh notes from the fiddle, sounding like a warning or admonition, recalled me to wakefulness; and as my straying thoughts collected themselves, that lulling song began again.
And yet, if fully awake and conscious, where was I? The scene was entirely changed; and although I knew I was still lying where I had at first placed myself—although I could hear within a few feet of me the unceasing melody of Luigi’s violin—I was now looking into a strange apartment, even as one looks into the representation of a room on the stage; and I knew I was dreaming no dream. It could be none; for, as I gazed, I felt a feeling of utter astonishment—and that feeling is always absent from a dream, however marvellous its features may be. Yet, lying there, and in as full possession of my faculties as I am at the moment of writing these words, I saw, opened as it were before me, a strange room, and one I could in no way connect with any chamber I was in the habit of entering. It appeared to be a large, lofty apartment and if I was looking at a vision, neither the room I nor its belongings presented any appearance of unreality. The latter, indeed, gave the idea of wealth and comfort. The furniture was after the fashion of the early part of this century. The chairs were covered with costly old brocade; and a short, square pianoforte—then the highest type of the maker’s art—stood open against one wall. And as, with the sound of the violin ever near me, I noted these things and waited for what was to come, I knew—although I did not attempt it—I was utterly powerless to turn my eyes from the phantom scene before me, even to ascertain whether it could be that Luigi saw the things I saw.
Another change in the wonder-working music. A long rippling legato passage, sweeping into a tender, passionate, pleading strain—the eloquent notes speaking of joy and fear mingled. As my heart followed and understood the inspiration of the musician, I whispered to myself, “This is love.” As if in answer to my thoughts, the door of the phantom room opened, and two figures entered—a lady and a gentleman. Both wore the dresses of that period to which I have assigned the date of the furniture, and both were young. Like the objects around them, there was nothing in their appearance ghost-like or supernatural. Their limbs looked as firm and round as my own. It was some little time before I could take my eyes from the girl. She was supremely beautiful—tall and fair, with a delicate, refined face; and the robe she wore plainly showed the exquisite proportions of her figure. Her companion was handsome, and his features wore an expression of melancholy pride. I noticed he carried under his left arm a violin, and something told me he was a Frenchman. With great courtesy he led the girl to a seat, and, as if in obedience to a request of hers, commenced playing the instrument. Still the same sweet strain fell on my ears; but a stranger thing th
an any I had yet noticed was that, as he played, the sound seemed to come from his violin, and Luigi’s was dumb. And as he played, the girl looked up at him with admiring eyes. He ceased at last, and Luigi’s fiddle immediately resumed the melody, without a moment’s break. Then I saw the phantom place the violin and bow in the girl’s hands, instructing her how to hold them; and I knew that during the lesson, his voice as well as his eyes made avowal of his passionate love. I saw his fingers linger on hers as he placed them on the strings; I saw the blush deepen upon her cheek, the lashes droop over her downcast eyes, and then I saw him lean over and press his lips to the fair white hand holding the bow; whilst the music near me, sinking almost to silence, and tremulous as if a man’s future lay on those vibrating strings, told me he sought his fate at her lips. He threw himself at her feet, and I saw the girl bend over him, and placing her arms around his neck, kiss his forehead, whilst high and loud rose the song of sweet triumph from those impassioned chords, doubtful of her love no longer.
Again the strain changed—a song of love no longer: a few notes of warning, melting into a strain that foretold and spoke of sorrow. Again I saw the door of the apartment open, and, with a hasty step, another man entered. He, too, was young and powerfully built, with an intensely English face. Yet I could trace in his harder features a resemblance, such as a brother might bear, to the girl before me. As he entered, the lovers sprang to their feet; then, covering her face with her hands, the girl sank upon a chair, whilst her companion faced the new-comer with an air as haughty as his own, and words of scorning, of contempt, of shaming, of defiance, were hurled from man to man. True, I heard them not—all the phantasmagoria came before me in dumb show; but the varied tones of the violin told me all that passed between the two men as truly as though their voices smote upon my ear; and, as the wild music culminated in a fierce crescendo of thrilling power, the two men grappled in their rage, and the girl sprang to her feet and ran wildly to the door. For a moment all grew misty, and the phantom actors of my vision were hidden from my sight. When they re-appeared, I saw the young Frenchman quitting the room, with blood trickling down his pale cheek, and as, with a look of undying hate on his face, he closed the door behind him, the room and all faded from my sight.
The Second Macabre Megapack Page 30
