the corpse. With trembling hand, the violinist tore open the envelope,
and read the following:
MY BELOVED SON, FRANZ,
When you read this, I shall have made the greatest sacrifice that
your best and only friend and teacher could have accomplished for
your fame. He, who loved you most, is now but an inanimate lump
of clay. Of your old teacher there now remains but a clod of cold
organic matter. I need not prompt you as to what you have to do
with it. Fear not stupid prejudices. It is for your future fame
that I have made an offering of my body, and you would be guilty
of the blackest ingratitude were you now to render useless this
sacrifice. When you shall have replaced the chords upon your
violin, and these chords a portion of my own self, under your
touch it will acquire the power of that accursed sorcerer, all the
magic voices of Paganini’s instrument. You will find therein my
voice, my sighs and groans, my song of welcome, the prayerful sobs
of my infinite and sorrowful sympathy, my love for you. And now,
my Franz, fear nobody! Take your instrument with you, and dog the
steps of him who filled our lives with bitterness and despair!...
Appear in every arena, where, hitherto, he has reigned without a
rival, and bravely throw the gauntlet of defiance in his face.
O Franz! then only wilt thou hear with what a magic power the
full notes of unselfish love will issue forth from thy violin.
Perchance, with a last caressing touch of its chords, thou wilt
remember that they once formed a portion of thine old teacher, who
now embraces and blesses thee for the last time.
SAMUEL
Two burning tears sparkled in the eyes of Franz, but they dried up
instantly. Under the fiery rush of passionate hope and pride, the two
orbs of the future magician-artist, riveted to the ghastly face of the
dead man, shone like the eyes of a demon.
Our pen refuses to describe that which took place on that day, after
the legal inquiry was over. As another note, written with the view
of satisfying the authorities, had been prudently provided by the
loving care of the old teacher, the verdict was, “Suicide from causes
unknown;” after this the coroner and the police retired, leaving the
bereaved heir alone in the death-room, with the remains of that which
had once been a living man.
* * * * *
Scarcely a fortnight had elapsed from that day, ere the violin had been
dusted, and four new, stout strings had been stretched upon it. Franz
dared not look at them. He tried to play, but the bow trembled in his
hand like a dagger in the grasp of a novice-brigand. He then determined
not to try again, until the portentous night should arrive, when he
should have a chance of rivaling, nay, of surpassing, Paganini.
The famous violinist had meanwhile left Paris, and was giving a series
of triumphant concerts at an old Flemish town in Belgium.
V
One night, as Paganini, surrounded by a crowd of admirers, was sitting
in the dining-room of the hotel at which he was staying, a visiting
card, with a few words written on it in pencil, was handed to him by a
young man with wild and staring eyes.
Fixing upon the intruder a look which few persons could bear, but
receiving back a glance as calm and determined as his own, Paganini
slightly bowed, and then dryly said:
“Sir, it shall be as you desire. Name the night. I am at your service.”
On the following morning the whole town was startled by the appearance
of bills posted at the corner of every street, and bearing the strange
notice:
On the night of ... at the Grand Theater of ... and for the
first time, will appear before the public, Franz Stenio, a German
violinist, arrived purposely to throw down the gauntlet to the
world-famous Paganini and to challenge him to a duel—upon their
violins. He purposes to compete with the great “virtuoso” in the
execution of the most difficult of his compositions. The famous
Paganini has accepted the challenge. Franz Stenio will play, in
competition with the unrivaled violinist, the celebrated “Fantaisie
Caprice” of the latter, known as “The Witches.”
The effect of the notice was magical. Paganini, who, amid his greatest
triumphs, never lost sight of a profitable speculation, doubled the
usual price of admission, but still the theater could not hold the
crowds that flocked to secure tickets for that memorable performance.
* * * * *
At last the morning of the concert day dawned, and the “duel” was in
everyone’s mouth. Franz Stenio, who, instead of sleeping, had passed
the whole long hours of the preceding midnight in walking up and
down his room like an encaged panther, had, toward morning, fallen
on his bed from mere physical exhaustion. Gradually he passed into a
death-like and dreamless slumber. At the gloomy winter dawn he awoke,
but finding it too early to rise he fell to sleep again. And then he
had a vivid dream—so vivid indeed, so life-like, that from its terrible
realism he felt sure that it was a vision rather than a dream.
He had left his violin on a table by his bedside, locked in its case,
the key of which never left him. Since he had strung it with those
terrible chords he never let it out of his sight for a moment. In
accordance with his resolution he had not touched it since his first
trial, and his bow had never but once touched the human strings,
for he had since always practised on another instrument. But now in
his sleep he saw himself looking at the locked case. Something in
it was attracting his attention, and he found himself incapable of
detaching his eyes from it. Suddenly he saw the upper part of the case
slowly rising, and, within the chink thus produced, he perceived two
small, phosphorescent green eyes—eyes but too familiar to him—fixing
themselves on his, lovingly, almost beseechingly. Then a thin, shrill
voice, as if issuing from these ghastly orbs—the voice and orbs of
Samuel Klaus himself—resounded in Stenio’s horrified ear, and he heard
it say:
“Franz, my beloved boy.... Franz, I cannot, no, _I cannot_ separate
myself from ... _them_!”
And “they” twanged piteously inside the case.
Franz stood speechless, horror-bound. He felt his blood actually
freezing, and his hair moving and standing erect on his head....
“It’s but a dream, an empty dream!” he attempted to formulate in his
mind.
“I have tried my best, Franzchen.... I have tried my best to sever
myself from these accursed strings, without pulling them to pieces
...” pleaded the same shrill, familiar voice. “Wilt thou help me to do
so?...”
Another twang, still more prolonged and dismal, resounded within the
case, now dragged about the table in every direction, by some interior
power, like some living wriggling thing, the twangs becoming sharper
and more jerky with every new pull.
It was not for the first time that Stenio heard those sounds. He had
often remarked them before—indeed, ever since he had used his master’s
viscera as a footstool for his own ambition. But on every occasion a
feeling of creeping horror had prevented him from investigating their
cause, and he had tried to assure himself that the sounds were only a
hallucination.
But now he stood face to face with the terrible fact, whether in dream
or in reality he knew not, nor did he care, since the hallucination—if
hallucination it were—was far more real and vivid than any reality.
He tried to speak, to take a step forward; but, as often happens in
nightmares, he could neither utter a word nor move a finger.... He felt
hopelessly paralyzed.
The pulls and jerks were becoming more desperate with each moment, and
at last something inside the case snapped violently. The vision of his
Stradivarius, devoid of its magical strings, flashed before his eyes,
throwing him into a cold sweat of mute and unspeakable terror.
He made a superhuman effort to rid himself of the incubus that held
him spell-bound. But as the last supplicating whisper of the invisible
Presence repeated:
“Do, oh, do ... help me to cut myself off——”
Franz sprang to the case with one bound, like an enraged tiger
defending its prey, and with one frantic effort breaking the spell.
“Leave the violin alone, you old fiend from hell!” he cried, in hoarse
and trembling tones.
He violently shut down the self-raising lid, and while firmly pressing
his left hand on it, he seized with the right a piece of rosin from
the table and he drew on the leathered-covered top the sign of the
six-pointed star—the seal used by King Solomon to bottle up the
rebellious djins inside their prisons.
A wail, like the howl of a she-wolf moaning over her dead little ones,
came out of the violin-case:
“Thou art ungrateful ... very ungrateful, my Franz!” sobbed the
blubbering “spirit-voice.” “But I forgive ... for I still love thee
well. Yet thou canst not shut me in ... boy. Behold!”
[Illustration: “HE VIOLENTLY SHUT DOWN THE SELF-RAISING LID AND DREW ON
THE LEATHER-COVERED TOP THE SIGN OF THE SIX-POINTED STAR, THE SEAL OF
KING SOLOMON.”]
And instantly a grayish mist spread over and covered case and table,
and rising upward formed itself first into an indistinct shape. Then it
began growing, and as it grew, Franz felt himself gradually enfolded in
cold and damp coils, slimy as those of a huge snake. He gave a terrible
cry and—awoke; but, strangely enough, not on his bed, but near the
table, just as he had dreamed, pressing the violin-case desperately
with both his hands.
“It was but a dream, ... after all,” he muttered, still terrified, but
relieved of the load on his heaving breast.
With a tremendous effort he composed himself, and unlocked the case to
inspect the violin. He found it covered with dust, but otherwise sound
and in order, and he suddenly felt himself as cool and determined as
ever. Having dusted the instrument he carefully rosined the bow,
tightened the strings and tuned them. He even went so far as to try
upon it the first notes of the “Witches”; first cautiously and timidly,
then using his bow boldly and with full force.
The sound of that loud, solitary note—defiant as the war trumpet of a
conqueror, sweet and majestic as the touch of a seraph on his golden
harp in the fancy of the faithful—thrilled through the very soul of
Franz. It revealed to him a hitherto unsuspected potency in his bow,
which ran on in strains that filled the room with the richest swell
of melody, unheard by the artist until that night. Commencing in
uninterrupted _legato_ tones, his bow sang to him of sun-bright hope
and beauty, of moonlit nights, when the soft and balmy stillness
endowed every blade of grass and all things animate and inanimate with
a voice and a song of love. For a few brief moments it was a torrent of
melody, the harmony of which, “tuned to soft woe,” was calculated to
make mountains weep, had there been any in the room, and to soothe
... even th’ inexorable powers of hell,
the presence of which was undeniably felt in this modest hotel room.
Suddenly, the solemn _legato_ chant, contrary to all laws of harmony,
quivered, became _arpeggios_, and ended in shrill _staccatos_, like the
notes of a hyena laugh. The same creeping sensation of terror, as he
had before felt, came over him, and Franz threw the bow away. He had
recognized the familiar laugh, and would have no more of it. Dressing,
he locked the bedeviled violin securely in its case, and, taking it
with him to the dining-room, determined to await quietly the hour of
trial.
VI
The terrible hour of the struggle had come, and Stenio was at his
post—calm, resolute, almost smiling.
The theater was crowded to suffocation, and there was not even standing
room to be got for any amount of hard cash or favoritism. The singular
challenge had reached every quarter to which the post could carry it,
and gold flowed freely into Paganini’s unfathomable pockets, to an
extent almost satisfying even to his insatiate and venal soul.
It was arranged that Paganini should begin. When he appeared upon
the stage, the thick walls of the theater shook to their foundations
with the applause that greeted him. He began and ended his famous
composition “The Witches” amid a storm of cheers. The shouts of public
enthusiasm lasted so long that Franz began to think his turn would
never come. When, at last, Paganini, amid the roaring applause of a
frantic public, was allowed to retire behind the scenes, his eye fell
upon Stenio, who was tuning his violin, and he felt amazed at the
serene calmness, the air of assurance, of the unknown German artist.
When Franz approached the footlights, he was received with icy
coldness. But for all that, he did not feel in the least disconcerted.
He looked very pale, but his thin white lips wore a scornful smile as
response to this dumb unwelcome. He was sure of his triumph.
At the first notes of the prelude of “The Witches” a thrill of
astonishment passed over the audience. It was Paganini’s touch, and—it
was something more. Some—and they were the majority—thought that never,
in his best moments of inspiration, had the Italian artist himself,
in executing that diabolical composition of his, exhibited such an
extraordinary diabolical power. Under the pressure of the long muscular
fingers of Franz, the chords shivered like the palpitating intestines
of a disemboweled victim under the vivisector’s knife. They moaned
melodiously, like a dying child. The large blue eye of the artist,
fixed with a satanic expression upon the sounding-board, seemed to
summon forth Orpheus himself from the infernal regions, rather than the
musical notes supposed to be generated in the depths of the violin.
Sounds seemed to transform themselves into objective shapes, thickly
and precipitately gathering as at the evocation of a mighty magician,
and to be whirling around him, like a host of fantastic, infernal
figures, dancing the witches’ “goat dance.” In the empty depths of
the shadowy background of the stage, behind the artist, a nameless
phantasmogoria, produced by the concussion of unearthly vibrations,
seemed to form pictures of shameless orgies, of the voluptuous hymens
of a real witches’ Sabbat.... A collective hallucination took hold
of the public. Panting for breath, ghastly, and trickling with the
icy perspiration of an inexpressible horror, they sat spell-bound,
and unable to break the spell of the music by the slightest motion.
They experienced all the illicit enervating delights of the paradise
of Mahommed, that come into the disordered fancy of an opium-eating
Mussulman, and felt at the same time the abject terror, the agony of
one who struggles against an attack of _delirium tremens_.... Many
ladies shrieked aloud, others fainted, and strong men gnashed their
teeth in a state of utter helplessness.
* * * * *
Then came the _finale_. Thundering uninterrupted applause delayed its
beginning, expanding the momentary pause to a duration of almost a
quarter of an hour. The bravos were furious, almost hysterical. At
last, when after a profound and last bow, Stenio, whose smile was as
sardonic as it was triumphant, lifted his bow to attack the famous
_finale_, his eye fell upon Paganini, who, calmly seated in the
manager’s box, had been behind none in zealous applause. The small
and piercing black eyes of the Genoese artist were riveted to the
Stradivarius in the hands of Franz, but otherwise he seemed quite cool
and unconcerned. His rival’s face troubled him for one short instant,
but he regained his self-possession and, lifting once more his bow,
drew the first note.
Then the public enthusiasm reached its acme, and soon knew no bounds.
The listeners heard and saw indeed. The witches’ voices resounded in
the air, and beyond all the other voices, one voice was heard—
Discordant, and unlike to human sounds;
It seem’d of dogs the bark, of wolves the howl;
The doleful screechings of the midnight owl;
The hiss of snakes, the hungry lion’s roar;
The sounds of billows beating on the shore;
The groan of winds among the leafy wood,
And burst of thunder from the rending cloud;—
’Twas these, all these in one....
The magic bow was drawing forth its last quivering sounds—famous among
prodigious musical feats—imitating the precipitate flight of the
witches before bright dawn; of the unholy women saturated with the
fumes of their nocturnal Saturnalia, when—a strange thing came to pass
on the stage. Without the slightest transition, the notes suddenly
changed. In their aerial flight of ascension and descent, their melody
was unexpectedly altered in character. The sounds became confused,
scattered, disconnected ... and then—it seemed from the sounding-board
of the violin—came out squeaking, jarring tones, like those of a street
Punch, screaming at the top of a senile voice:
“Art thou satisfied, Franz, my boy?... Have not I gloriously kept my
promise, eh?”
The spell was broken. Though still unable to realize the whole
situation, those who heard the voice and the _Punchinello_-like tones,
were freed, as by enchantment, from the terrible charm under which
they had been held. Loud roars of laughter, mocking exclamations of
half-anger and half-irritation were now heard from every corner of the
vast theater. The musicians in the orchestra, with faces still blanched
from weird emotion, were now seen shaking with laughter, and the whole
audience rose, like one man, from their seats, unable yet to solve the
enigma; they felt, nevertheless, too disgusted, too disposed to laugh
to remain one moment longer in the building.
But suddenly the sea of moving heads in the stalls and the pit
became once more motionless, and stood petrified as though struck by
lightning. What all saw was terrible enough—the handsome though wild
face of the young artist suddenly aged, and his graceful, erect figure
bent down, as though under the weight of years; but this was nothing
to that which some of the most sensitive clearly perceived. Franz
Stenio’s person was now entirely enveloped in a semi-transparent mist,
cloud-like, creeping with serpentine motion, and gradually tightening
round the living form, as though ready to engulf him. And there were
those also who discerned in this tall and ominous pillar of smoke a
clearly-defined figure, a form showing the unmistakable outlines of
a grotesque and grinning, but terribly awful-looking old man, whose
viscera were protruding and the ends of the intestines stretched on the
violin.
Within this hazy, quivering veil, the violinist was then seen, driving
his bow furiously across the human chords, with the contortions of a
demoniac, as we see them represented on medieval cathedral paintings!
An indescribable panic swept over the audience, and breaking now,
for the last time, through the spell which had again bound them
motionless, every living creature in the theater made one mad rush
towards the door. It was like the sudden outburst of a dam, a human
torrent, roaring amid a shower of discordant notes, idiotic squeakings,
prolonged and whining moans, cacophonous cries of frenzy, above which,
like the detonations of pistol shots, was heard the consecutive
bursting of the four strings stretched upon the sound-board of that
bewitched violin.
* * * * *
When the theater was emptied of the last man of the audience, the
terrified manager rushed on the stage in search of the unfortunate
performer. He was found dead and already stiff, behind the footlights,
twisted up into the most unnatural of postures, with the “catguts”
wound curiously around his neck, and his violin shattered into a
thousand fragments....
When it became publicly known that the unfortunate would-be rival of
Niccolo Paganini had not left a cent to pay for his funeral or his
hotel-bill, the Genoese, his proverbial meanness notwithstanding,
settled the hotel-bill and had poor Stenio buried at his own expense.
He claimed, however, in exchange, the fragments of the Stradivarius—as
a momento of the strange event.
THE END
_There is no Religion Higher than Truth_
THE
UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD
AND
THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY
_Established for the benefit of the people of the earth & all creatures_
OBJECTS
This BROTHERHOOD is part of a great and universal movement which has
been active in all ages.
This Organization declares that Brotherhood is a fact. Its principal
purpose is to teach Brotherhood, demonstrate that it is a fact in
nature and make it a living power in the life of humanity.
Its subsidiary purpose is to study ancient and modern religions,
science, philosophy and art; to investigate the laws of nature and the
divine powers in man.
* *
THE UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD AND THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY, founded by H. P.
Blavatsky in New York, 1875, continued after her death under the
leadership of the co-founder, William Q. Judge, and now under the
leadership of their successor, Katherine Tingley, has its Headquarters
at the International Theosophical Center, Point Loma, California.
This Organization is not in any way connected with nor does it endorse
any other societies using the name of Theosophy.
* *
THE UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD AND THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY welcomes to
membership all who truly love their fellow men and desire the
eradication of the evils caused by the barriers of race, creed, caste
or color, which have so long impeded human progress; to all sincere
lovers of truth and to all who aspire to higher and better things than
the mere pleasures and interests of a worldly life, and are prepared to
do all in their power to make Brotherhood a living power in the life of
humanity, its various departments offer unlimited opportunities.
The whole work of the Organization is under the direction of the Leader
and Official Head, Katherine Tingley, as outlined in the Constitution.
* * * * *
Do Not Fail to Profit by the Following
It is a regrettable fact that many people use the name of Theosophy and
of our Organization for self-interest, as also that of H. P. Blavatsky,
the Foundress, to attract attention to themselves and to gain public
support. This they do in private and public speech and in publications,
also by lecturing throughout the country. Without being in any way
connected with THE UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD AND THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY, in
many cases they permit it to be inferred that they are, thus misleading
the public, and many honest inquirers are hence led away from the
truths of Theosophy as presented by H. P. Blavatsky and her successors,
William Q. Judge and Katherine Tingley, and practically exemplified in
their Theosophical work for the uplifting of humanity.
The International Brotherhood League
(Founded in 1897 by Katherine Tingley)
ITS OBJECTS ARE:
1. To help men and women to realize the nobility of their calling and
their true position in life.
2. To educate children of all nations on the broadest lines of
Universal Brotherhood; and to prepare destitute and homeless children
to become workers for humanity.
3. To ameliorate the condition of unfortunate women, and assist them to
a higher life.
4. To assist those who are, or have been in prisons, to establish
themselves in honorable positions in life.
5. To abolish capital punishment.
6. To bring about a better understanding between so-called savage
and civilized races, by promoting a closer and more sympathetic
relationship between them.
7. To relieve human suffering resulting from flood, famine, war, and
other calamities; and, generally, to extend aid, help and comfort to
suffering humanity throughout the world.
For further information regarding the above Notices, address
KATHERINE TINGLEY
INTERNATIONAL THEOSOPHICAL HEADQUARTERS,
POINT LOMA, CALIFORNIA
Books Recommended to Inquirers
For _complete_ BOOK LIST write to THE THEOSOPHICAL PUBLISHING CO.,
Point Loma, California
=Bhagavad Gita=; (W. Q. Judge, Am. Edition) pocket size,
Morocco, gilt edges $1.00
Red leather .75
_The pearl of the scriptures of the East._
=Echoes from the Orient=; (W. Q. Judge) cloth .50
Paper .25
_21 valued articles, giving a broad outline of
the Theosophical doctrines, written for the
newspaper-reading public._
=Epitome of Theosophical Teachings, An=
(W. Q. Judge), 40 pages .15
=Yoga Aphorisms= (translated by W. Q. Judge), pocket
size, leather .75
=Isis Unveiled=, by H. P. Blavatsky. 2 vols, royal 8vo,
about 1400 pages; cloth; with portrait of the author.
_New Point Loma Edition with a preface._ Postpaid $7.00