The 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.
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 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.
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!"
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 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."
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."
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:
"And not long since
I 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 seen
The 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 glow
That 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. She assumed absolute proprietorship in him. She gloried in
her possession.
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.
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 we stand at the altar, we never should
be separated?"
"We will be together always," said he, holding her face between his
palms, and looking with tender expression into her inquiring eyes.
"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.
"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.
"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.'"
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."
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.
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 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.
"That is Angelo Diotti, the famous violinist," she said, but she could
not add another word.
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 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 appearance in New York there were to be two
more concerts. One was to be given 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 for played or talked for an idle and
unthinking public.
So it was with the thought of a wasted evening that he accompanied
Mildred to the concert.
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."
"That is entirely unnecessary," he replied.
"It is my desire," and the girl led the unwilling parent back of the
scenes and into Diotti's dressing-room.
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.
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."
"What do you object to in him?" she asked.
"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 the earth for precious metals? Do they sow the seed and
harvest the grain? No, no; they are drones--the barnacles of society."
"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.
The lights were turned low when father and daughter went into the
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.
"He has visited you?"
"Yes, father."
"Often?"
"Yes, father," spoken calmly.
"Often?" louder and more imperiously repeated the father, as if there
must 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 her father, 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 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."
"Thirty-two!" said the father, rising angrily and pacing the floor.
"Yes, thirty-two. I remember all of them distinctly."
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."
"There is, father," out it came, "he loves me and I love him."
"What!" shouted Mr. Wallace, and then severely, "this must cease
immediately."
She rose quietly and led her father over to the mantel. Placing a hand
on each of his shoulders she said:
"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."