The Lost Stradivarius | Page 4

music John had entirely forgotten the
episode of the previous evening, when, as the bold air of the Gagliarda
commenced, he suddenly became aware of the same strange creaking
of the wicker chair that he had noticed on the first occasion. The sound
was identical, and so exact was its resemblance to that of a person
sitting down that he stared at the chair, almost wondering that it still
appeared empty. Beyond turning his head sharply for a moment to look
round, Mr. Gaskell took no notice of the sound; and my brother,
ashamed to betray any foolish interest or excitement, continued the
Gagliarda, with its repeat. At its conclusion Mr. Gaskell stopped
before proceeding to the minuet, and turning the stool on which he was
sitting round towards the room, observed, "How very strange,
Johnnie,"--for these young men were on terms of sufficient intimacy to
address each other in a familiar style,--"How very strange! I thought I
heard some one sit down in that chair when we began the Gagliarda. I
looked round quite expecting to see some one had come in. Did you
hear nothing?"
"It was only the chair creaking," my brother answered, feigning an

indifference which he scarcely felt. "Certain parts of the wicker-work
seem to be in accord with musical notes and respond to them; let us
continue with the Minuetto."
Thus they finished the suite, Mr. Gaskell demanding a repetition of the
Gagliarda, with the air of which he was much pleased. As the clocks
had already struck eleven, they determined not to play more that night;
and Mr. Gaskell rose, blew out the sconces, shut the piano, and put the
music aside. My brother has often assured me that he was quite
prepared for what followed, and had been almost expecting it; for as the
books were put away, a creaking of the wicker chair was audible,
exactly similar to that which he had heard when he stopped playing on
the previous night. There was a moment's silence; the young men
looked involuntarily at one another, and then Mr. Gaskell said, "I
cannot understand the creaking of that chair; it has never done so
before, with all the music we have played. I am perhaps imaginative
and excited with the fine airs we have heard to-night, but I have an
impression that I cannot dispel that something has been sitting listening
to us all this time, and that now when the concert is ended it has got up
and gone." There was a spirit of raillery in his words, but his tone was
not so light as it would ordinarily have been, and he was evidently ill at
ease.
"Let us try the Gagliarda again," said my brother; "it is the vibration of
the opening notes which affects the wicker-work, and we shall see if
the noise is repeated." But Mr. Gaskell excused himself from trying the
experiment, and after some desultory conversation, to which it was
evident that neither was giving any serious attention, he took his leave
and returned to New College.
CHAPTER II
I shall not weary you, my dear Edward, by recounting similar
experiences which occurred on nearly every occasion that the young
men met in the evenings for music. The repetition of the phenomenon
had accustomed them to expect it. Both professed to be quite satisfied
that it was to be attributed to acoustical affinities of vibration between

the wicker-work and certain of the piano wires, and indeed this seemed
the only explanation possible. But, at the same time, the resemblance of
the noises to those caused by a person sitting down in or rising from a
chair was so marked, that even their frequent recurrence never failed to
make a strange impression on them. They felt a reluctance to mention
the matter to their friends, partly from a fear of being themselves
laughed at, and partly to spare from ridicule a circumstance to which
each perhaps, in spite of himself, attached some degree of importance.
Experience soon convinced them that the first noise as of one sitting
down never occurred unless the Gagliarda of the "Areopagita" was
played, and that this noise being once heard, the second only followed
it when they ceased playing for the evening. They met every night,
sitting later with the lengthening summer evenings, and every night, as
by some tacit understanding, played the "Areopagita" suite before
parting. At the opening bars of the Gagliarda the creaking of the chair
occurred spontaneously with the utmost regularity. They seldom spoke
even to one another of the subject; but one night, when John was
putting away his violin after a long evening's music without having
played the "Areopagita," Mr. Gaskell, who had risen from the
pianoforte, sat down again as by a sudden impulse and said--
"Johnnie,