'Not that thing,' bestowing a glance of contempt at my instrument. 'Felix,
the Stradivarius.'
The young man went to the other side of the room, and returned with the
case which I had noticed. He put it in my hand, with the injunction to
handle it gently. I had never heard of Cremona violins, nor of my namesake
Stradivarius; but at the sight of the dark seasoned wood, reposing on its
blue velvet, I could not restrain a cry of admiration.
I have that same instrument in my room now, and I would not trust it in the
hands of another for a million.
I lifted the violin tenderly from its case, and ran my bow up the gamut.
I felt almost intoxicated at the mellow sounds it uttered. I could have
kissed the dark wood, that looked to me stained through and through with
melody.
I began to play. My improvisation was a song of triumph and delight; the
music, at first rapid and joyous, became slower and more solemn, as the
inspiration seized on me, until at last, in spite of myself, it grew into
a wild and indescribable dirge, fading away in a long wail of unutterable
sadness and regret. When it was over I felt exhausted and unstrung, as
though virtue had gone out from me.
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