The Lost Stradivarius | Page 3

thick paper and remaining long shut; and it was with difficulty that
he could read what he was playing. But he felt the strange impulse of
the old-world music urging him forward, and did not even pause to
light the candles which stood ready in their sconces on either side of
the desk. The Coranto was followed by a Sarabanda, and the
Sarabanda by a Gagliarda. My brother stood playing, with his face
turned to the window, with the room and the large wicker chair of
which I have spoken behind him. The Gagliarda began with a bold and
lively air, and as he played the opening bars, he heard behind him a
creaking of the wicker chair. The sound was a perfectly familiar
one--as of some person placing a hand on either arm of the chair
preparatory to lowering himself into it, followed by another as of the
same person being leisurely seated. But for the tones of the violin, all
was silent, and the creaking of the chair was strangely distinct. The
illusion was so complete that my brother stopped playing suddenly, and

turned round expecting that some late friend of his had slipped in
unawares, being attracted by the sound of the violin, or that Mr.
Gaskell himself had returned. With the cessation of the music an
absolute stillness fell upon all; the light of the single candle scarcely
reached the darker corners of the room, but fell directly on the wicker
chair and showed it to be perfectly empty. Half amused, half vexed
with himself at having without reason interrupted his music, my brother
returned to the Gagliarda; but some impulse induced him to light the
candles in the sconces, which gave an illumination more adequate to
the occasion. The Gagliarda and the last movement, a Minuetto, were
finished, and John closed the book, intending, as it was now late, to
seek his bed. As he shut the pages a creaking of the wicker chair again
attracted his attention, and he heard distinctly sounds such as would be
made by a person raising himself from a sitting posture. This time,
being less surprised, he could more aptly consider the probable causes
of such a circumstance, and easily arrived at the conclusion that there
must be in the wicker chair osiers responsive to certain notes of the
violin, as panes of glass in church windows are observed to vibrate in
sympathy with certain tones of the organ. But while this argument
approved itself to his reason, his imagination was but half convinced;
and he could not but be impressed with the fact that the second
creaking of the chair had been coincident with his shutting the
music-book; and, unconsciously, pictured to himself some strange
visitor waiting until the termination of the music, and then taking his
departure.
His conjectures did not, however, either rob him of sleep or even
disturb it with dreams, and he woke the next morning with a cooler
mind and one less inclined to fantastic imagination. If the strange
episode of the previous evening had not entirely vanished from his
mind, it seemed at least fully accounted for by the acoustic explanation
to which I have alluded above. Although he saw Mr. Gaskell in the
course of the morning, he did not think it necessary to mention to him
so trivial a circumstance, but made with him an appointment to sup
together in his own rooms that evening, and to amuse themselves
afterwards by essaying some of the Italian music.

It was shortly after nine that night when, supper being finished, Mr.
Gaskell seated himself at the piano and John tuned his violin. The
evening was closing in; there had been heavy thunder-rain in the
afternoon, and the moist air hung now heavy and steaming, while
across it there throbbed the distant vibrations of the tenor bell at Christ
Church. It was tolling the customary 101 strokes, which are rung every
night in term-time as a signal for closing the college gates. The two
young men enjoyed themselves for some while, playing first a suite by
Cesti, and then two early sonatas by Buononcini. Both of them were
sufficiently expert musicians to make reading at sight a pleasure rather
than an effort; and Mr. Gaskell especially was well versed in the theory
of music, and in the correct rendering of the basso continuo. After the
Buononcini Mr. Gaskell took up the oblong copy of Graziani, and
turning over its leaves, proposed that they should play the same suite
which John had performed by himself the previous evening. His
selection was apparently perfectly fortuitous, as my brother had
purposely refrained from directing his attention in any way to that piece
of music. They played the Coranto and the Sarabanda, and in the
singular fascination of the