It was the evening of the fourteenth. In front of the Academy a
strong-lunged and insistent tribe of gentry, known as ticket
speculators, were reaping a rich harvest. They represented a beacon
light of hope to many tardy patrons of the evening's entertainment,
especially to the man who had forgotten his wife's injunction "to be
sure to buy the tickets on the way down town, dear, and get them in
the family circle, not too far back." This man's intentions were
sincere, but his newspaper was unusually interesting that morning. He
was deeply engrossed in an article on the causes leading to
matrimonial infelicities when his 'bus passed the Academy box-office.
He was six blocks farther down town when he finished the article, only
to find that it was a carefully worded advertisement for a new patent
medicine, and of course he had not time to return. "Oh, well," said
he, "I'll get them when I go up town to-night."
But he did not. So with fear in his heart and a red-faced woman on his
arm he approached the box-office. "Not a seat left," sounded to his
hen-pecked ears like the concluding words of the black-robed judge:
"and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul." But a reprieve came, for
one of the aforesaid beacon lights of hope rushed forward, saying: "I
have two good seats, not far back, and only ten apiece." And the
gentleman with fear in his heart and the red-faced woman on his arm
passed in.
They saw the largest crowd in the history of the Academy. Every seat
was occupied, every foot of standing room taken. Chairs were placed in
the side aisles. The programs announced that it was the second
appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowned Tuscan violinist.
The orchestra had perfunctorily ground out the overture to "Der
Freischuetz," the baritone had stentorianly emitted "Dio Possente,"
the soprano was working her way through the closing measures of the
mad scene from "Lucia," and Diotti was number four on the program. The
conductor stood beside his platform, ready to ascend as Diotti
appeared.
The audience, ever ready to act when those on the stage cease that
occupation, gave a splendid imitation of the historic last scene at
the Tower of Babel. Having accomplished this to its evident
satisfaction, the audience proceeded, like the closing phrase of the
"Goetterdaemmerung" Dead March, to become exceedingly quiet--then
expectant.
This expectancy lasted fully three minutes. Then there were some
impatient handclappings. A few persons whispered: "Why is he late?"
"Why doesn't he come?" "I wonder where Diotti is," and then came
unmistakable signs of impatience. At its height Perkins appeared,
hesitatingly. Nervous and jerky he walked to the center of the stage,
and raised his hand begging silence. The audience was stilled.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he falteringly said, "Signor Diotti left his
hotel at seven o'clock and was driven to the Academy. The call-boy
rapped at his dressing-room, and not receiving a reply, opened the
door to find the room empty. We have despatched searchers in every
direction and have sent out a police alarm. We fear some accident has
befallen the Signor. We ask your indulgence for the keen
disappointment, and beg to say that your money will be refunded at the
box-office."
Diotti had disappeared as completely as though the earth had swallowed
him.
V
My dearest sister: You doubtless were exceedingly mystified and
troubled over the report that was flashed to Europe regarding my
sudden disappearance on the eve of my second concert in New York.
Fearing, sweet Francesca, that you might mourn me as dead, I sent the
cablegram you received some weeks since, telling you to be of good
heart and await my letter. To make my action thoroughly understood I
must give you a record of what happened to me from the first day I
arrived 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 Florence
the winter of 18--, immediately after I reached New York arranged a
reception for me, which was elegant in the extreme. But from that
night dates my misery.
You ask her name?--Mildred Wallace. Tell me what she is like, I hear
you say. Of graceful height, willowy and exquisitely molded, not over
twenty-four, with the face of a Madonna; wondrous eyes of darkest
blue, hair indescribable in its maze of tawny color--in a word, the
perfection of womanhood. In half an hour I was her abject slave, and
proud in my serfdom. When I returned to the hotel that evening I could
not sleep. Her image ever was before me, elusive and shadowy. And yet
we seemed to grow farther and farther apart--she nearer heaven, I
nearer earth.
The next evening I gave my first and what I fear may prove my last
concert in America. The vision of my dreams was there, radiant in
rarest beauty. Singularly enough, she was in the direct line of my
vision while I played. I saw only her, played but for her, and cast my
soul at her feet. She sat indifferent and silent. "Cold?" you say. No!
No! Francesca, not cold; superior to my poor efforts. I realized my
limitations. I questioned my genius. When I returned to bow my
acknowledgments for the most generous applause I have ever received,
there was no sign on her part that I had interested her, either
through my talent or by appeal to her curiosity. I hoped against hope
that some word might come from her, but I was doomed to
disappointment. The critics were fulsome in their praise and the
public was lavish with its plaudits, but I was abjectly miserable.
Another sleepless night and I was determined to see her. She received
me most graciously, although I fear she thought my visit one of
vanity--wounded vanity--and me petulant 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 dying
within me.
Hesitatingly, and like a clumsy yokel, I blurted: "I have been
wondering 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," she
replied calmly.
"And," I urged desperately, "you were not affected in the least?"
Very coldly she answered, "Not in the least;" and then fearlessly,
like a princess in the Palace of Truth: "If ever a man comes who can
awaken my heart, frankly and honestly I will confess it."
"Perhaps such a one lives," I said, "but has yet to reach the height
to win you--your--"
"Speak it," she said, "to win my love!"
"Yes," I cried, startled at her candor, "to win your love." Hope
slowly rekindled within my breast, and then with half-closed eyes, and
wooingly, she said:
"No drooping Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikes
the chord that is responsive in my soul."
Her emotion must have surprised her, but immediately she regained her
placidity and reverted no more to the subject.
I went out into the gathering gloom. Her words haunted me. A strange
feeling 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 the
mysteries of my art, and I pray God each hour that He may place within
my grasp the wondrous music His blessed angels sing, for the soul of
her I love is attuned to the harmonies of heaven.
Your affectionate brother,
ANGELO.
ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January 2.