The Fifth String | Page 7

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 rough shelter. Diotti arose at daylight, and after a simple repast, betook himself to practise. Hour after hour he would let his muse run riot with his fingers. Lovingly he wooed the strings with plaintive song, then conquering and triumphant would be his theme. But neither satisfied him. The vague dream of a melody more beautiful than ever man had heard dwelt hauntingly on the borders of his imagination, but was no nearer realization than when he began. As the day's work closed, he wearily placed the violin within its case, murmuring, ``Not yet, not yet; I have not found it.''
Days passed, weeks crept slowly on; still he worked, but always with the same result. One day, feverish and excited, he played on in monotone almost listless. His tired, over-wrought brain denied a further thought. His arm and fingers refused response to his will. With an uncontrollable outburst of grief and anger he dashed the violin to the floor, where it lay a hopeless