The Fifth String | Page 7

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 mani- fested 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
at. tuned to the harmonies of heaven.
Your affectionate brother, ANGELO. ISLAND OF BAHAMA, January
2.

VI
When Diotti left New York so precipitately he took passage on a coast
line steamer sailing for the Bahama Islands. Once there, he leased a
small cay, one of a group off the main land, and lived alone and
unattended, save for the weekly visits of an old fisherman and his son,
who brought supplies of provisions from the town miles away. His
dwelling-place, surrounded with palmetto trees, was little more than a