I
The coming of Diotti to America had awakened more than usual interest
in the man and his work. His marvelous success as violinist in the
leading capitals of Europe, together with many brilliant contributions
to the literature of his instrument, had long been favorably commented
on by the critics of the old world. Many stories of his struggles and
his triumphs had found their way across the ocean and had been read and
re-read with interest.
Therefore, when Mr. Henry Perkins, the well-known impresario, announced
with an air of conscious pride and pardonable enthusiasm that he had
secured Diotti for a "limited" number of concerts, Perkins' friends
assured that wide-awake gentleman that his foresight amounted to
positive genius, and they predicted an unparalleled success for his
star. On account of his wonderful ability as player, Diotti was a
favorite at half the courts of Europe, and the astute Perkins enlarged
upon this fact without regard for the feelings of the courts or the
violinist.
On the night preceding Diotti's debut in New York, he was the center of
attraction at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader, and
a devoted patron of the arts. The violinist made a deep impression on
those fortunate enough to be near him during the evening. He won the
respect of the men by his observations on matters of international
interest, and the admiration of the gentler sex by his chivalric
estimate of woman's influence in the world's progress, on which subject
he talked with rarest good humor and delicately implied gallantry.
During one of those sudden and unexplainable lulls that always occur in
general drawing-room conversations, Diotti turned to Mrs. Llewellyn and
whispered: "Who is the charming young woman just entering?"
"The beauty in white?"
"Yes, the beauty in white," softly echoing Mrs. Llewellyn's query. He
leaned forward and with eager eyes gazed in admiration at the
new-comer. He seemed hypnotized by the vision, which moved slowly from
between the blue-tinted portieres and stood for the instant, a perfect
embodiment of radiant womanhood, silhouetted against the silken drapery.
"That is Miss Wallace, Miss Mildred Wallace, only child of one of New
York's prominent bankers."
"She is beautiful--a queen by divine right," cried he, and then with a
mingling of impetuosity and importunity, entreated his hostess to
present him.
And thus they met.
Mrs. Llewellyn's entertainments were celebrated, and justly so. At her
receptions one always heard the best singers and players of the season,
and Epicurus' soul could rest in peace, for her chef had an
international reputation. Oh, remember, you music-fed ascetic, many,
aye, very many, regard the transition from Tschaikowsky to terrapin,
from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts aflame with anticipatory
joy--and Mrs. Llewellyn's dining-room was crowded.
Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered into the conservatory.
"A desire for happiness is our common heritage," he was saying in his
richly melodious voice.
"But to define what constitutes happiness is very difficult," she
replied.
"Not necessarily," he went on; "if the motive is clearly within our
grasp, the attainment is possible."
"For example?" she asked.
"The miser is happy when he hoards his gold; the philanthropist when he
distributes his. The attainment is identical, but the motives are
antipodal."
"Then one possessing sufficient motives could be happy without end?"
she suggested doubtingly.
"That is my theory. The Niobe of old had happiness within her power."
"The gods thought not," said she; "in their very pity they changed her
into stone, and with streaming eyes she ever tells the story of her
sorrow."
"But are her children weeping?" he asked. "I think not. Happiness can
bloom from the seeds of deepest woe," and in a tone almost reverential,
he continued: "I remember a picture in one of our Italian galleries
that always impressed me as the ideal image of maternal happiness. It
is a painting of the Christ-mother standing by the body of the
Crucified. Beauty was still hers, and the dress of grayish hue,
nun-like in its simplicity, seemed more than royal robe. Her face,
illumined as with a light from heaven, seemed inspired with this
thought: 'They have killed Him--they have killed my son! Oh, God, I
thank Thee that His suffering is at an end!' And as I gazed at the holy
face, another light seemed to change it by degrees from saddened
motherhood to triumphant woman! Then came: 'He is not dead, He but
sleeps; He will rise again, for He is the best beloved of the Father!'"
"Still, fate can rob us of our patrimony," she replied, after a pause.
"Not while life is here and eternity beyond," he said, reassuringly.
"What if a soul lies dormant and will not arouse?" she asked.
"There are souls that have no motive low enough for earth, but only
high enough for heaven," he said, with evident intention, looking
almost directly at her.
"Then one must come who speaks in nature's tongue," she continued.
"And the soul will then awake," he added earnestly.
"But is there such a one?" she asked.
"Perhaps," he almost whispered, his thought father to the wish.
"I am afraid not," she sighed. "I studied drawing, worked diligently
and, I hope, intelligently, and yet I was quickly convinced that a
counterfeit presentment of nature was puny and insignificant. I painted
Niagara. My friends praised my effort. I saw Niagara again--I destroyed
the picture."
"But you must be prepared to accept the limitations of man and his
work," said the philosophical violinist.
"Annihilation of one's own identity in the moment is possible in
nature's domain--never in man's. The resistless, never-ending rush of
the waters, madly churning, pitilessly dashing against the rocks below;
the mighty roar of the loosened giant; that was Niagara. My picture
seemed but a smear of paint."
"Still, man has won the admiration of man by his achievements," he said.
"Alas, for me," she sighed, "I have not felt it."
"Surely you have been stirred by the wonders man has accomplished in
music's realm?" Diotti ventured.
"I never have been." She spoke sadly and reflectively.
"But does not the passion-laden theme of a master, or the marvelous
feeling of a player awaken your emotions?" persisted he.
She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain. "I never
hear a pianist, however great and famous, but I see the little
cream-colored hammers within the piano bobbing up and down like
acrobatic brownies. I never hear the plaudits of the crowd for the
artist and watch him return to bow his thanks, but I mentally demand
that these little acrobats, each resting on an individual pedestal, and
weary from his efforts, shall appear to receive a share of the applause.
"When I listen to a great singer," continued this world-defying
skeptic, "trilling like a thrush, scampering over the scales, I see a
clumsy lot of ah, ah, ahs, awkwardly, uncertainly ambling up the gamut,
saying, 'were it not for us she could not sing thus--give us our meed
of praise.'"
Slowly he replied: "Masters have written in wondrous language and
masters have played with wondrous power."
"And I so long to hear," she said, almost plaintively. "I marvel at the
invention of the composer and the skill of the player, but there I
cease."
He looked at her intently. She was standing before him, not a block of
chiseled ice, but a beautiful, breathing woman. He offered her his arm
and together they made their way to the drawing-room.
"Perhaps, some day, one will come who can sing a song of perfect love
in perfect tones, and your soul will be attuned to his melody."
"Perhaps--and good-night," she softly said, leaving his arm and joining
her friends, who accompanied her to the carriage.