THE ENSOULED VIOLIN
I
In the year 1828, an old German, a music teacher, came to Paris withhis pupil and settled unostentatiously in one of the quiet faubourgsof the metropolis. The first rejoiced in the name of Samuel Klaus; thesecond answered to the more poetical appellation of Franz Stenio. Theyounger man was a violinist, gifted, as rumor went, with extraordinary,almost miraculous talent. Yet as he was poor and had not hithertomade a name for himself in Europe, he remained for several years inthe capital of France--the heart and pulse of capricious continentalfashion--unknown and unappreciated. Franz was a Styrian by birth, and,at the time of the event to be presently described, he was a youngman considerably under thirty. A philosopher and a dreamer by nature,imbued with all the mystic oddities of true genius, he reminded one ofsome of the heroes in Hoffmann's _Contes Fantastiques_. His earlierexistence had been a very unusual, in fact, quite an eccentric one, andits history must be briefly told--for the better understanding of thepresent story.
Born of very pious country people, in a quiet burg among the StyrianAlps; nursed "by the native gnomes who watched over his cradle";growing up in the weird atmosphere of the ghouls and vampires who playsuch a prominent part in the household of every Styrian and Slavonianin Southern Austria; educated later, as a student, in the shadow ofthe old Rhenish castles of Germany; Franz from his childhood hadpassed through every emotional stage on the plane of the so-called"supernatural." He had also studied at one time the "occult arts" withan enthusiastic disciple of Paracelsus and Kunrath; alchemy had fewtheoretical secrets for him; and he had dabbled in "ceremonial magic"and "sorcery" with some Hungarian Tziganes. Yet he loved above all elsemusic, and above music--his violin.
At the age of twenty-two he suddenly gave up his practical studies inthe occult, and from that day, though as devoted as ever in thoughtto the beautiful Grecian Gods, he surrendered himself entirely to hisart. Of his classic studies he had retained only that which relatedto the muses--Euterpe especially, at whose altar he worshipped--andOrpheus whose magic lyre he tried to emulate with his violin. Excepthis dreamy belief in the nymphs and the sirens, on account probably ofthe double relationship of the latter to the muses through Calliope andOrpheus, he was interested but little in the matters of this sublunaryworld. All his aspirations mounted, like incense, with the wave of theheavenly harmony that he drew from his instrument, to a higher and anobler sphere. He dreamed awake, and lived a real though an enchantedlife only during those hours when his magic bow carried him along thewave of sound to the Pagan Olympus, to the feet of Euterpe. A strangechild he had ever been in his own home, where tales of magic andwitchcraft grow out of every inch of the soil; a still stranger boy hehad become, until finally he had blossomed into manhood, without onesingle characteristic of youth. Never had a fair face attracted hisattention; not for one moment had his thoughts turned from his solitarystudies to a life beyond that of a mystic Bohemian. Content with hisown company, he had thus passed the best years of his youth and manhoodwith his violin for his chief idol, and with the Gods and Goddesses ofold Greece for his audience, in perfect ignorance of practical life.His whole existence had been one long day of dreams, of melody andsunlight, and he had never felt any other aspirations.
How useless, but oh, how glorious those dreams! how vivid! and whyshould he desire any better fate? Was he not all that he wanted tobe, transformed in a second of thought into one or another hero; fromOrpheus, who held all nature breathless, to the urchin who piped awayunder the plane tree to the naiads of Callirrhoe's crystal fountain?Did not the swift-footed nymphs frolic at his beck and call to thesound of the magic flute of the Arcadian Shepherd--who was himself?Behold, the Goddess of Love and Beauty herself descending from on high,attracted by the sweet-voiced notes of his violin!... Yet there camea time when he preferred Syrinx to Aphrodite--not as the fair nymphpursued by Pan, but after her transformation by the merciful Gods intothe reed out of which the frustrated God of the Shepherds had madehis magic pipe. For also, with time, ambition grows and is rarelysatisfied. When he tried to emulate on his violin the enchanting soundsthat resounded in his mind, the whole of Parnassus kept silent underthe spell, or joined in heavenly chorus; but the audience he finallycraved was composed of more than the Gods sung by Hesiod, verily of themost appreciative _melomanes_ of European capitals. He felt jealous ofthe magic pipe, and would fain have had it at his command.
"Oh, that I could allure a nymph into my beloved violin!"--he oftencried, after awakening from one of his day-dreams. "Oh, that I couldonly span in spirit flight the abyss of Time! Oh, that I could findmyself for one short day a partaker of the secret arts of the Gods,a God myself, in the sight and hearing of enraptured humanity; and,having learned the mystery of the lyre of Orpheus, or secured within myviolin a siren, thereby benefit mortals to my own glory!"
Thus, having for long years dreamed in the company of the Gods of hisfancy, he now took to dreaming of the transitory glories of fame uponthis earth. But at this time he was suddenly called home by his widowedmother from one of the German universities where he had lived for thelast year or two. This was an event which brought his plans to an end,at least so far as the immediate future was concerned, for he hadhitherto drawn upon her alone for his meager pittance, and his meanswere not sufficient for an independent life outside his native place.
His return had a very unexpected result. His mother, whose only lovehe was on earth, died soon after she had welcomed her Benjamin back;and the good wives of the burg exercised their swift tongues for many amonth after as to the real causes of that death.
Frau Stenio, before Franz's return, was a healthy, buxom, middle-agedbody, strong and hearty. She was a pious and a God-fearing soultoo, who had never failed in saying her prayers, nor had missed anearly mass for years during his absence. On the first Sunday afterher son had settled at home--a day that she had been longing for andhad anticipated for months in joyous visions, in which she saw himkneeling by her side in the little church on the hill--she called himfrom the foot of the stairs. The hour had come when her pious dream wasto be realized, and she was waiting for him, carefully wiping the dustfrom the prayer-book he had used in his boyhood. But instead of Franz,it was his violin that responded to her call, mixing its sonorous voicewith the rather cracked tones of the peal of the merry Sunday bells.The fond mother was somewhat shocked at hearing the prayer-inspiringsounds drowned by the weird, fantastic notes of the "Dance of theWitches"; they seemed to her so unearthly and mocking. But she almostfainted upon hearing the definite refusal of her well-beloved son togo to church. He never went to church, he coolly remarked. It was lossof time; besides which, the loud peals of the old church organ jarredon his nerves. Nothing should induce him to submit to the torture oflistening to that cracked organ. He was firm and nothing could movehim. To her supplications and remonstrances he put an end by offeringto play for her a "Hymn to the Sun" he had just composed.
From that memorable Sunday morning, Frau Stenio lost her usual serenityof mind. She hastened to lay her sorrows and seek for consolation atthe foot of the confessional; but that which she heard in responsefrom the stern priest filled her gentle and unsophisticated soul withdismay and almost with despair. A feeling of fear, a sense of profoundterror, which soon became a chronic state with her, pursued her fromthat moment; her nights became disturbed and sleepless, her days passedin prayer and lamentations. In her maternal anxiety for the salvationof her beloved son's soul, and for his _post mortem_ welfare, she madea series of rash vows. Finding that neither the Latin petition to theMother of God written for her by her spiritual adviser, nor yet thehumble supplications in German, addressed by herself to every saintshe had reason to believe was residing in Paradise, worked the desiredeffect, she took to pilgrimages to distant shrines. During one of thesejourneys to a holy chapel situated high up in the mountains, she caughtcold, amidst the glaciers of the Tyrol, and redescended only to taketo a sick bed, from which she arose no more. Frau Stenio's vow had ledher, in one sense, to t
he desired result. The poor woman was now givenan opportunity of seeking out in _propria persona_ the saints she hadbelieved in so well, and of pleading face to face for the recreant son,who refused adherence to them and to the Church, scoffed at monk andconfessional, and held the organ in such horror.
Franz sincerely lamented his mother's death. Unaware of being theindirect cause of it, he felt no remorse; but selling the modesthousehold goods and chattels, light in purse and heart, he resolved totravel on foot for a year or two, before settling down to any definiteprofession.
A hazy desire to see the great cities of Europe, and to try his luckin France, lurked at the bottom of this traveling project, but hisBohemian habits of life were too strong to be abruptly abandoned. Heplaced his small capital with a banker for a rainy day, and startedon his pedestrian journey _via_ Germany and Austria. His violin paidfor his board and lodging in the inns and farms on his way, and hepassed his days in the green fields and in the solemn silent woods,face to face with Nature, dreaming all the time as usual with his eyesopen. During the three months of his pleasant travels to and fro, henever descended for one moment from Parnassus; but, as an alchemisttransmutes lead into gold, so he transformed everything on his wayinto a song of Hesiod or Anacreon. Every evening, while fiddling forhis supper and bed, whether on a green lawn or in the hall of a rusticinn, his fancy changed the whole scene for him. Village swains andmaidens became transfigured into Arcadian shepherds and nymphs. Thesand-covered floor was now a green sward; the uncouth couples spinninground in a measured waltz with the wild grace of tamed bears becamepriests and priestesses of Terpsichore; the bulky, cherry-cheeked andblue-eyed daughters of rural Germany were the Hesperides circlingaround the trees laden with the golden apples. Nor did the melodiousstrains of the Arcadian demi-gods piping on their syrinxes, and audiblebut to his own enchanted ear, vanish with the dawn. For no sooner wasthe curtain of sleep raised from his eyes than he would sally forthinto a new magic realm of day-dreams. On his way to some dark andsolemn pine-forest, he played incessantly, to himself and to everythingelse. He fiddled to the green hill, and forthwith the mountain and themoss-covered rocks moved forward to hear him the better, as they haddone at the sound of the Orphean lyre. He fiddled to the merry-voicedbrook, to the hurrying river, and both slackened their speed andstopped their waves, and, becoming silent, seemed to listen to him inan entranced rapture. Even the long-legged stork who stood meditativelyon one leg on the thatched top of the rustic mill, gravely resolvingunto himself the problem of his too-long existence, sent out afterhim a long and strident cry, screeching, "Art thou Orpheus himself, OStenio?"
It was a period of full bliss, of a daily and almost hourly exaltation.The last words of his dying mother, whispering to him of the horrorsof eternal condemnation, had left him unaffected, and the only visionher warning evoked in him was that of Pluto. By a ready association ofideas, he saw the lord of the dark nether kingdom greeting him as hehad greeted the husband of Eurydice before him. Charmed with the magicsounds of his violin, the wheel of Ixion was at a standstill once more,thus affording relief to the wretched seducer of Juno, and giving thelie to those who claim eternity for the duration of the punishment ofcondemned sinners. He perceived Tantalus forgetting his never-ceasingthirst, and smacking his lips as he drank in the heaven-born melody;the stone of Sisyphus becoming motionless, the Furies themselvessmiling on him, and the sovereign of the gloomy regions delighted, andawarding preference to his violin over the lyre of Orpheus. Taken _auserieux_, mythology thus seems a decided antidote to fear, in the faceof theological threats, especially when strengthened with an insane andpassionate love of music; with Franz, Euterpe proved always victoriousin every contest, aye, even with Hell itself!
But there is an end to everything, and very soon Franz had to give upuninterrupted dreaming. He had reached the university town where dwelthis old violin teacher, Samuel Klaus. When this antiquated musicianfound that his beloved and favorite pupil, Franz, had been left poorin purse and still poorer in earthly affections, he felt his strongattachment to the boy awaken with tenfold force. He took Franz to hisheart, and forthwith adopted him as his son.
The old teacher reminded people of one of those grotesque figures whichlook as if they had just stepped out of some medieval panel. And yetKlaus, with his fantastic _allures_ of a night-goblin, had the mostloving heart, as tender as that of a woman, and the self-sacrificingnature of an old Christian martyr. When Franz had briefly narrated tohim the history of his last few years, the professor took him by thehand, and leading him into his study simply said:
"Stop with me, and put an end to your Bohemian life. Make yourselffamous. I am old and childless and will be your father. Let us livetogether and forget all save fame."
And forthwith he offered to proceed with Franz to Paris, _via_ severallarge German cities, where they would stop to give concerts.
In a few days Klaus succeeded in making Franz forget his vagrant lifeand its artistic independence, and reawakened in his pupil his nowdormant ambition and desire for worldly fame. Hitherto, since hismother's death, he had been content to received applause only from theGods and Goddesses who inhabited his vivid fancy; now he began to craveonce more for the admiration of mortals. Under the clever and carefultraining of old Klaus his remarkable talent gained in strength andpowerful charm with every day, and his reputation grew and expandedwith every city and town wherein he made himself heard. His ambitionwas being rapidly realized; the presiding genii of various musicalcenters to whose patronage his talent was submitted soon proclaimed him_the one_ violinist of the day, and the public declared loudly that hestood unrivaled by any one whom they had ever heard. These laudationsvery soon made both master and pupil completely lose their heads.
But Paris was less ready with such appreciation. Paris makesreputations for itself, and will take none on faith. They had beenliving in it for almost three years, and were still climbing withdifficulty the artist's Calvary, when an event occurred which putan end even to their most modest expectations. The first arrival ofNiccolo Paganini was suddenly heralded, and threw Lutetia into aconvulsion of expectation. The unparalleled artist arrived, and--allParis fell at once at his feet.
II
Now it is a well known fact that a superstition born in the dark daysof medieval superstition, and surviving almost to the middle of thepresent century, attributed all such abnormal, out-of-the-way talent asthat of Paganini to "supernatural" agency. Every great and marvelousartist had been accused in his day of dealings with the devil. A fewinstances will suffice to refresh the reader's memory.
Tartini, the great composer and violinist of the seventeenth century,was denounced as one who got his best inspirations from the Evil One,with whom he was, it was said, in regular league. This accusationwas, of course, due to the almost magical impression he produced uponhis audiences. His inspired performance on the violin secured for himin his native country the title of "Master of Nations." The _Sonatedu Diable_, also called "Tartini's Dream"--as everyone who has heardit will be ready to testify--is the most weird melody ever heard orinvented: hence, the marvelous composition has become the source ofendless legends. Nor were they entirely baseless, since it was he,himself, who was shown to have originated them. Tartini confessed tohaving written it on awakening from a dream, in which he had heard hissonata performed by Satan, for his benefit, and in consequence of abargain made with his infernal majesty.
Several famous singers, even, whose exceptional voices struck thehearers with superstitious admiration, have not escaped a likeaccusation. Pasta's splendid voice was attributed in her day to thefact that, three months before her birth, the diva's mother was carriedduring a trance to heaven, and there treated to a vocal concert ofseraphs. Malibran was indebted for her voice to St. Cecelia, whileothers said she owed it to a demon who watched over her cradle and sungthe baby to sleep. Finally, Paganini--the unrivaled performer, the meanItalian, who like Dryden's Jubal striking on the "chorded shell" forcedthe throngs that followed him to worship
the divine sounds produced,and made people say that "less than a God could not dwell within thehollow of his violin"--Paganini left a legend too.
The almost supernatural art of the greatest violin player that theworld has ever known was often speculated upon, never understood.The effect produced by him on his audience was literally marvelous,overpowering. The great Rossini is said to have wept like a sentimentalGerman maiden on hearing him play for the first time. The PrincessElisa of Lucca, a sister of the great Napoleon, in whose servicePaganini was, as director of her private orchestra, for a long timewas unable to hear him play without fainting. In women he producednervous fits and hysterics at his will; stout-hearted men he drove tofrenzy. He changed cowards into heroes and made the bravest soldiersfeel like so many nervous school-girls. Is it to be wondered at, then,that hundreds of weird tales circulated for long years about andaround the mysterious Genoese, that modern Orpheus of Europe? One ofthese was especially ghastly. It was rumored, and was believed by morepeople than would probably like to confess it, that the strings of hisviolin were made of _human intestines, according to all the rules andrequirements of the Black Art_.
Exaggerated as this idea may seem to some, it has nothing impossible init; and it is more than probable that it was this legend that led tothe extraordinary events which we are about to narrate. Human organsare often used by the Eastern Black Magician, so-called, and it is anaverred fact that some Bengali Tantrikas (reciters of _tantras_, or"invocations to the demon," as a reverend writer has described them)use human corpses, and certain internal and external organs pertainingto them, as powerful magical agents for bad purposes.
However this may be, now that the magnetic and mesmeric potenciesof hypnotism are recognized as facts by most physicians, it may besuggested with less danger than heretofore that the extraordinaryeffects of Paganini's violin-playing were not, perhaps, entirely dueto his talent and genius. The wonder and awe he so easily excited wereas much caused by his external appearance, "which had something weirdand demoniacal in it," according to certain of his biographers, as bythe inexpressible charm of his execution and his remarkable mechanicalskill. The latter is demonstrated by his perfect imitation of theflageolet, and his performance of long and magnificent melodies on theG string alone. In this performance, which many an artist has tried tocopy without success, he remains unrivaled to this day.
It is owing to this remarkable appearance of his--termed by hisfriends eccentric, and by his too nervous victims, diabolical--thathe experienced great difficulties in refuting certain ugly rumors.These were credited far more easily in his day than they would benow. It was whispered throughout Italy, and even in his own nativetown, that Paganini had murdered his wife, and, later on, a mistress,both of whom he had loved passionately, and both of whom he had nothesitated to sacrifice to his fiendish ambition. He had made himselfproficient in magic arts, it was asserted, and had succeeded therebyin imprisoning the souls of his two victims in his violin--his famousCremona.
It is maintained by the immediate friends of Ernst T. W. Hoffmann, thecelebrated author of _Die Elixire des Teufels_, _Meister Martin_, andother charming and mystical tales, that Councillor Crespel, in the_Violin of Cremona_, was taken from the legend about Paganini. It is,as all who have read it know, the history of a celebrated violin, intowhich the voice and the soul of a famous diva, a woman whom Crespel hadloved and killed, had passed, and to which was added the voice of hisbeloved daughter, Antonia.
Nor was this superstition utterly ungrounded, nor was Hoffmann tobe blamed for adopting it, after he had heard Paganini's playing.The extraordinary facility with which the artist drew out of hisinstrument, not only the most unearthly sounds, but positively humanvoices, justified the suspicion. Such effects might well have startledan audience and thrown terror into many a nervous heart. Add to thisthe impenetrable mystery connected with a certain period of Paganini'syouth, and the most wild tales about him must be found in a measurejustifiable, and even excusable; especially among a nation whoseancestors knew the Borgias and the Medicis of Black Art fame.
III
In those pre-telegraphic days, newspapers were limited, and the wingsof fame had a heavier flight than they have now. Franz had hardly heardof Paganini; and when he did, he swore he would rival, if not eclipse,the Genoese magician. Yes, he would either become the most famous ofall living violinists, or he would break his instrument and put an endto his life at the same time.
Old Klaus rejoiced at such a determination. He rubbed his hands inglee, and jumping about on his lame leg like a crippled satyr, heflattered and incensed his pupil, believing himself all the while to beperforming a sacred duty to the holy and majestic cause of art.
Upon first setting foot in Paris, three years before, Franz hadall but failed. Musical critics pronounced him a rising star, buthad all agreed that he required a few more years' practice, beforehe could hope to carry his audiences by storm. Therefore, after adesperate study of over two years and uninterrupted preparations, theStyrian artist had finally made himself ready for his first seriousappearance in the great Opera House where a public concert beforethe most exacting critics of the old world was to be held; at thiscritical moment Paganini's arrival in the European metropolis placedan obstacle in the way of the realization of his hopes, and the oldGerman professor wisely postponed his pupil's _debut_. At first he hadsimply smiled at the wild enthusiasm, the laudatory hymns sung aboutthe Genoese violinist, and the almost superstitious awe with which hisname was pronounced. But very soon Paganini's name became a burningiron in the hearts of both the artists, and a threatening phantom inthe mind of Klaus. A few days more, and they shuddered at the verymention of their great rival, whose success became with every nightmore unprecedented.
The first series of concerts was over, but neither Klaus nor Franzhad as yet had an opportunity of hearing him and of judging forthemselves. So great and so beyond their means was the charge foradmission, and so small the hope of getting a free pass from a brotherartist justly regarded as the meanest of men in monetary transactions,that they had to wait for a chance, as did so many others. But the daycame when neither master nor pupil could control their impatience anylonger; so they pawned their watches, and with the proceeds bought twomodest seats.
Who can describe the enthusiasm, the triumphs, of this famous, and atthe same time fatal night! The audience was frantic; men wept and womenscreamed and fainted; while both Klaus and Stenio sat looking palerthan two ghosts. At the first touch of Paganini's magic bow, both Franzand Samuel felt as if the icy hand of death had touched them. Carriedaway by an irresistible enthusiasm, which turned into a violent,unearthly mental torture, they dared neither look into each other'sfaces, nor exchange one word during the whole performance.
At midnight, while the chosen delegates of the Musical Societiesand the Conservatory of Paris unhitched the horses, and dragged thecarriage of the grand artist home in triumph, the two Germans returnedto their modest lodging, and it was a pitiful sight to see them.Mournful and desperate, they placed themselves in their usual seats atthe fire-corner, and neither for a while opened his mouth.
"Samuel!" at last exclaimed Franz, pale as death itself. "Samuel--itremains for us now but to die!... Do you hear me?... We are worthless!We were two madmen to have ever hoped that any one in this world wouldever rival ... him."
The name of Paganini stuck in his throat, as in utter despair he fellinto his arm chair.
The old professor's wrinkles suddenly became purple. His littlegreenish eyes gleamed phosphorescently as, bending toward his pupil, hewhispered to him in hoarse and broken tones:
"_Nein, Nein!_ Thou art wrong, my Franz! I have taught thee, and thouhast learned all of the great art that a simple mortal, and a Christianby baptism, can learn from another simple mortal. Am I to blame becausethese accursed Italians, in order to reign unequaled in the domain ofart, have recourse to Satan and the diabolical effects of Black Magic?"
Franz turned his eyes upon his old master. There was a sinister light
burning in those glittering orbs; a light telling plainly that, tosecure such a power, he, too, would not scruple to sell himself, bodyand soul, to the Evil One.
But he said not a word, and, turning his eyes from his old master'sface, gazed dreamily at the dying embers.
The same long-forgotten incoherent dreams, which, after seeming suchrealities to him in his younger days, had been given up entirely, andhad gradually faded from his mind, now crowded back into it with thesame force and vividness as of old. The grimacing shades of Ixion,Sisyphus and Tantalus resurrected and stood before him, saying:
"What matters hell--in which thou believest not. And even if hell therebe, it is the hell described by the old Greeks, not that of the modernbigots--a locality full of conscious shadows, to whom thou canst be asecond Orpheus."
Franz felt that he was going mad, and, turning instinctively, helooked his old master once more right in the face. Then his bloodshoteye evaded the gaze of Klaus.
Whether Samuel understood the terrible state of mind of his pupil,or whether he wanted to draw him out, to make him speak, and thus todivert his thoughts, must remain as hypothetical to the reader asit is to the writer. Whatever may have been in his mind, the Germanenthusiast went on, speaking with a feigned calmness:
"Franz, my dear boy, I tell you that the art of the accursed Italianis not natural; that it is due neither to study nor to genius. Itnever was acquired in the usual, natural way. You need not stare atme in that wild manner, for what I say is in the mouth of millions ofpeople. Listen to what I now tell you, and try to understand. You haveheard the strange tale whispered about the famous Tartini? He died onefine Sabbath night strangled by his familiar demon, who had taughthim how to endow his violin with a human voice, by shutting up in it,by means of incantations, the soul of a young virgin. Paganini didmore. In order to endow his instrument with the faculty of emittinghuman sounds, such as sobs, despairing cries, supplications, moansof love and fury--in short, the most heart-rending notes of the humanvoice--Paganini became the murderer not only of his wife and hismistress, but also of a friend, who was more tenderly attached tohim than any other being on this earth. He then made the four chordsof his magic violin out of the intestines of his last victim. Thisis the secret of his enchanting talent of that overpowering melody,that combination of sounds, which you will never be able to masterunless...."
The old man could not finish his sentence. He staggered back before thefiendish look of his pupil, and covered his face with his hands.
Franz was breathing heavily, and his eyes had an expression whichreminded Klaus of those of a hyena. His pallor was cadaverous. For sometime he could not speak, but only gasp for breath. At last he slowlymuttered:
"Are you in earnest?"
"I am, as I hope to help you."
"And.... And do you really believe that had I only the means ofobtaining human intestines for strings, I could rival Paganini?" askedFranz, after a moment's pause, and casting down his eyes.
The old German unveiled his face, and, with a strange look ofdetermination upon it, softly answered:
"Human intestines alone are not sufficient for our purpose; they musthave belonged to some one who had loved us well, with an unselfish,holy love. Tartini endowed his violin with the life of a virgin; butthat virgin had died of unrequited love for him. The fiendish artisthad prepared beforehand a tube, in which he managed to catch her lastbreath as she expired, pronouncing his beloved name, and he thentransferred this breath to his violin. As to Paganini, I have just toldyou his tale. It was with the consent of his victim, though, that hemurdered him to get possession of his intestines.
"Oh, for the power of the human voice!" Samuel went on, after a briefpause. "What can equal the eloquence, the magic spell of the humanvoice? Do you think, my poor boy, I would not have taught you thisgreat, this final secret, were it not that it throws one right into theclutches of him ... who must remain unnamed at night?" he added, witha sudden return to the superstitions of his youth.
Franz did not answer; but with a calmness awful to behold, he left hisplace, took down his violin from the wall where it was hanging, and,with one powerful grasp of the chords, he tore them out and flung theminto the fire.
Samuel suppressed a cry of horror. The chords were hissing upon thecoals, where, among the blazing logs, they wriggled and curled like somany living snakes.
"By the witches of Thessaly and the dark arts of Circe!" he exclaimed,with foaming mouth and his eyes burning like coals; "by the Furies ofHell and Pluto himself, I now swear, in thy presence, O Samuel, mymaster, never to touch a violin again until I can string it with fourhuman chords. May I be accursed for ever and ever if I do!" He fellsenseless on the floor, with a deep sob, that ended like a funeralwail; old Samuel lifted him up as he would have lifted a child, andcarried him to his bed. Then he sallied forth in search of a physician.
IV
For several days after this painful scene Franz was very ill, illalmost beyond recovery. The physician declared him to be sufferingfrom brain fever and said that the worst was to be feared. For ninelong days the patient remained delirious; and Klaus, who was nursinghim night and day with the solicitude of the tenderest mother, washorrified at the work of his own hands. For the first time since theiracquaintance began, the old teacher, owing to the wild ravings of hispupil, was able to penetrate into the darkest corners of that weird,superstitious, cold, and, at the same time, passionate nature; and--hetrembled at what he discovered. For he saw that which he had failedto perceive before--Franz as he was in reality, and not as he seemedto superficial observers. Music was the life of the young man, andadulation was the air he breathed, without which that life became aburden; from the chords of his violin alone, Stenio drew his life andbeing, but the applause of men and even of Gods was necessary to itssupport. He saw unveiled before his eyes a genuine, artistic, _earthly_soul, with its divine counterpart totally absent, a son of the Muses,all fancy and brain poetry, but without a heart. While listening tothe ravings of that delirious and unhinged fancy Klaus felt as ifhe were for the first time in his long life exploring a marvelousand untraveled region, a human nature not of this world but of someincomplete planet. He saw all this, and shuddered. More than once heasked himself whether it would not be doing a kindness to his "boy" tolet him die before he returned to consciousness.
But he loved his pupil too well to dwell for long on such an idea.Franz had bewitched his truly artistic nature, and now old Klaus feltas though their two lives were inseparably linked together. That hecould thus feel was a revelation to the old man; so he decided to saveFranz, even at the expense of his own old and, as he thought, uselesslife.
The seventh day of the illness brought on a most terrible crisis. Fortwenty-four hours the patient never closed his eyes, nor remained for amoment silent; he raved continuously during the whole time. His visionswere peculiar, and he minutely described each. Fantastic, ghastlyfigures kept slowly swimming out of the penumbra of his small darkroom, in regular and uninterrupted procession, and he greeted each byname as he might greet old acquaintances. He referred to himself asPrometheus, bound to the rock by four bands made of human intestines.At the foot of the Caucasian Mount the black waters of the river Styxwere running.... They had deserted Arcadia, and were now endeavoringto encircle within a seven-fold embrace the rock upon which he wassuffering....
"Wouldst thou know the name of the Promethean rock, old man?" he roaredinto his adopted father's ear.... "Listen then, ... its name is ...called ... Samuel Klaus...."
"Yes, yes!..." the German murmured disconsolately. "It is I who killedhim, while seeking to console. The news of Paganini's magic arts struckhis fancy too vividly.... Oh, my poor, poor boy!"
"Ha, ha, ha, ha!" The patient broke into a loud and discordant laugh."Aye, poor old man, sayest thou?... So, so, thou art of poor stuff,anyhow, and wouldst look well only when stretched upon a fine Cremonaviolin!..."
Klaus shuddered, but said nothing. He only bent over the poor maniac,and with a kiss upo
n his brow, a caress as tender and as gentle as thatof a doting mother, he left the sick-room for a few instants, to seekrelief in his own garret. When he returned, the ravings were followinganother channel. Franz was singing, trying to imitate the sounds of aviolin.
Toward the evening of that day, the delirium of the sick man becameperfectly ghastly. He saw spirits of fire clutching at his violin.Their skeleton hands, from each finger of which grew a flaming claw,beckoned to old Samuel.... They approached and surrounded the oldmaster, and were preparing to rip him open ... him "the only man onthis earth who loves me with an unselfish, holy love, and ... whoseintestines can be of any good at all!" he went on whispering, withglaring eyes and demon laugh....
By the next morning, however, the fever had disappeared, and by the endof the ninth day Stenio had left his bed, having no recollection of hisillness, and no suspicion that he had allowed Klaus to read his innerthought. Nay; had he himself any knowledge that such a horrible idea asthe sacrifice of his old master to his ambition had ever entered hismind? Hardly. The only immediate result of his fatal illness was, thatas, by reason of his vow, his artistic passion could find no issue,another passion awoke, which might avail to feed his ambition and hisinsatiable fancy. He plunged headlong into the study of the OccultArts, of Alchemy and of Magic. In the practice of Magic the youngdreamer sought to stifle the voice of his passionate longing for his,as he thought, for ever lost violin....
Weeks and months passed away, and the conversation about Paganiniwas never resumed between the master and the pupil. But a profoundmelancholy had taken possession of Franz, the two hardly exchanged aword, the violin hung mute, chordless, full of dust, in its habitualplace. It was as the presence of a soulless corpse between them.
The young man had become gloomy and sarcastic, even avoiding themention of music. Once, as his old professor, after long hesitation,took out his own violin from its dust-covered case and prepared toplay, Franz gave a convulsive shudder, but said nothing. At the firstnotes of the bow, however, he glared like a madman, and rushing outof the house, remained for hours, wandering in the streets. Then oldSamuel in his turn threw his instrument down, and locked himself up inhis room till the following morning.
One night as Franz sat, looking particularly pale and gloomy, oldSamuel suddenly jumped from his seat, and after hopping about the roomin a magpie fashion, approached his pupil, imprinted a fond kiss uponthe young man's brow, and squeaked at the top of his shrill voice:
"Is it not time to put an end to all this?"...
Whereupon, starting from his usual lethargy, Franz echoed, as in adream:
"Yes, it is time to put an end to this."
Upon which the two separated, and went to bed.
On the following morning, when Franz awoke, he was astonished notto see his old teacher in his usual place to greet him. But he hadgreatly altered during the last few months, and he at first paid noattention to his absence, unusual as it was. He dressed and went intothe adjoining room, a little parlor where they had their meals, andwhich separated their two bedrooms. The fire had not been lighted sincethe embers had died out on the previous night, and no sign was anywherevisible of the professor's busy hand in his usual housekeeping duties.Greatly puzzled, but in no way dismayed, Franz took his usual placeat the corner of the now cold fire-place, and fell into an aimlessreverie. As he stretched himself in his old arm-chair, raising bothhis hands to clasp them behind his head in a favorite posture of his,his hand came into contact with something on a shelf at his back; heknocked against a case, and brought it violently on the ground.
It was old Klaus' violin-case that came down to the floor with sucha sudden crash that the case opened and the violin fell out of it,rolling to the feet of Franz. And then the chords, striking againstthe brass fender emitted a sound, prolonged, sad and mournful as thesigh of an unrestful soul; it seemed to fill the whole room, andreverberated in the head and the very heart of the young man. Theeffect of that broken violin-string was magical.
"Samuel!" cried Stenio, with his eyes starting from their sockets,and an unknown terror suddenly taking possession of his whole being."Samuel! what has happened?... My good, my dear old master!" he calledout, hastening to the professor's little room, and throwing the doorviolently open. No one answered, all was silent within.
He staggered back, frightened at the sound of his own voice, so changedand hoarse it seemed to him at this moment. No reply came in responseto his call. Naught followed but a dead silence ... that stillnesswhich, in the domain of sounds, usually denotes death. In the presenceof a corpse, as in the lugubrious stillness of a tomb, such silenceacquires a mysterious power, which strikes the sensitive soul with anameless terror.... The little room was dark, and Franz hastened toopen the shutters.
* * * * *
Samuel was lying on his bed, cold, stiff, and lifeless.... At the sightof the corpse of him who had loved him so well, and had been to himmore than a father, Franz experienced a dreadful revulsion of feeling,a terrible shock. But the ambition of the fanatical artist got thebetter of the despair of the man, and smothered the feelings of thelatter in a few seconds.
A note bearing his own name was conspicuously placed upon a table nearthe corpse. With trembling hand, the violinist tore open the envelope,and read the following:
MY BELOVED SON, FRANZ,
When you read this, I shall have made the greatest sacrifice that your best and only friend and teacher could have accomplished for your fame. He, who loved you most, is now but an inanimate lump of clay. Of your old teacher there now remains but a clod of cold organic matter. I need not prompt you as to what you have to do with it. Fear not stupid prejudices. It is for your future fame that I have made an offering of my body, and you would be guilty of the blackest ingratitude were you now to render useless this sacrifice. When you shall have replaced the chords upon your violin, and these chords a portion of my own self, under your touch it will acquire the power of that accursed sorcerer, all the magic voices of Paganini's instrument. You will find therein my voice, my sighs and groans, my song of welcome, the prayerful sobs of my infinite and sorrowful sympathy, my love for you. And now, my Franz, fear nobody! Take your instrument with you, and dog the steps of him who filled our lives with bitterness and despair!... Appear in every arena, where, hitherto, he has reigned without a rival, and bravely throw the gauntlet of defiance in his face. O Franz! then only wilt thou hear with what a magic power the full notes of unselfish love will issue forth from thy violin. Perchance, with a last caressing touch of its chords, thou wilt remember that they once formed a portion of thine old teacher, who now embraces and blesses thee for the last time.
SAMUEL
Two burning tears sparkled in the eyes of Franz, but they dried upinstantly. Under the fiery rush of passionate hope and pride, the twoorbs of the future magician-artist, riveted to the ghastly face of thedead man, shone like the eyes of a demon.
Our pen refuses to describe that which took place on that day, afterthe legal inquiry was over. As another note, written with the viewof satisfying the authorities, had been prudently provided by theloving care of the old teacher, the verdict was, "Suicide from causesunknown;" after this the coroner and the police retired, leaving thebereaved heir alone in the death-room, with the remains of that whichhad once been a living man.
* * * * *
Scarcely a fortnight had elapsed from that day, ere the violin had beendusted, and four new, stout strings had been stretched upon it. Franzdared not look at them. He tried to play, but the bow trembled in hishand like a dagger in the grasp of a novice-brigand. He then determinednot to try again, until the portentous night should arrive, when heshould have a chance of rivaling, nay, of surpassing, Paganini.
The famous violinist had meanwhile left Paris, and was giving a seriesof triumphant concerts at an old Flemish town in Belgium.
V
One night, as Paganini, surrounded by
a crowd of admirers, was sittingin the dining-room of the hotel at which he was staying, a visitingcard, with a few words written on it in pencil, was handed to him by ayoung man with wild and staring eyes.
Fixing upon the intruder a look which few persons could bear, butreceiving back a glance as calm and determined as his own, Paganinislightly bowed, and then dryly said:
"Sir, it shall be as you desire. Name the night. I am at your service."
On the following morning the whole town was startled by the appearanceof bills posted at the corner of every street, and bearing the strangenotice:
On the night of ... at the Grand Theater of ... and for the first time, will appear before the public, Franz Stenio, a German violinist, arrived purposely to throw down the gauntlet to the world-famous Paganini and to challenge him to a duel--upon their violins. He purposes to compete with the great "virtuoso" in the execution of the most difficult of his compositions. The famous Paganini has accepted the challenge. Franz Stenio will play, in competition with the unrivaled violinist, the celebrated "Fantaisie Caprice" of the latter, known as "The Witches."
The effect of the notice was magical. Paganini, who, amid his greatesttriumphs, never lost sight of a profitable speculation, doubled theusual price of admission, but still the theater could not hold thecrowds that flocked to secure tickets for that memorable performance.
* * * * *
At last the morning of the concert day dawned, and the "duel" was ineveryone's mouth. Franz Stenio, who, instead of sleeping, had passedthe whole long hours of the preceding midnight in walking up anddown his room like an encaged panther, had, toward morning, fallenon his bed from mere physical exhaustion. Gradually he passed into adeath-like and dreamless slumber. At the gloomy winter dawn he awoke,but finding it too early to rise he fell to sleep again. And then hehad a vivid dream--so vivid indeed, so life-like, that from its terriblerealism he felt sure that it was a vision rather than a dream.
He had left his violin on a table by his bedside, locked in its case,the key of which never left him. Since he had strung it with thoseterrible chords he never let it out of his sight for a moment. Inaccordance with his resolution he had not touched it since his firsttrial, and his bow had never but once touched the human strings,for he had since always practised on another instrument. But now inhis sleep he saw himself looking at the locked case. Something init was attracting his attention, and he found himself incapable ofdetaching his eyes from it. Suddenly he saw the upper part of the caseslowly rising, and, within the chink thus produced, he perceived twosmall, phosphorescent green eyes--eyes but too familiar to him--fixingthemselves on his, lovingly, almost beseechingly. Then a thin, shrillvoice, as if issuing from these ghastly orbs--the voice and orbs ofSamuel Klaus himself--resounded in Stenio's horrified ear, and he heardit say:
"Franz, my beloved boy.... Franz, I cannot, no, _I cannot_ separatemyself from ... _them_!"
And "they" twanged piteously inside the case.
Franz stood speechless, horror-bound. He felt his blood actuallyfreezing, and his hair moving and standing erect on his head....
"It's but a dream, an empty dream!" he attempted to formulate in hismind.
"I have tried my best, Franzchen.... I have tried my best to severmyself from these accursed strings, without pulling them to pieces..." pleaded the same shrill, familiar voice. "Wilt thou help me to doso?..."
Another twang, still more prolonged and dismal, resounded within thecase, now dragged about the table in every direction, by some interiorpower, like some living wriggling thing, the twangs becoming sharperand more jerky with every new pull.
It was not for the first time that Stenio heard those sounds. He hadoften remarked them before--indeed, ever since he had used his master'sviscera as a footstool for his own ambition. But on every occasion afeeling of creeping horror had prevented him from investigating theircause, and he had tried to assure himself that the sounds were only ahallucination.
But now he stood face to face with the terrible fact, whether in dreamor in reality he knew not, nor did he care, since the hallucination--ifhallucination it were--was far more real and vivid than any reality.He tried to speak, to take a step forward; but, as often happens innightmares, he could neither utter a word nor move a finger.... He felthopelessly paralyzed.
The pulls and jerks were becoming more desperate with each moment, andat last something inside the case snapped violently. The vision of hisStradivarius, devoid of its magical strings, flashed before his eyes,throwing him into a cold sweat of mute and unspeakable terror.
He made a superhuman effort to rid himself of the incubus that heldhim spell-bound. But as the last supplicating whisper of the invisiblePresence repeated:
"Do, oh, do ... help me to cut myself off----"
Franz sprang to the case with one bound, like an enraged tigerdefending its prey, and with one frantic effort breaking the spell.
"Leave the violin alone, you old fiend from hell!" he cried, in hoarseand trembling tones.
He violently shut down the self-raising lid, and while firmly pressinghis left hand on it, he seized with the right a piece of rosin fromthe table and he drew on the leathered-covered top the sign of thesix-pointed star--the seal used by King Solomon to bottle up therebellious djins inside their prisons.
A wail, like the howl of a she-wolf moaning over her dead little ones,came out of the violin-case:
"Thou art ungrateful ... very ungrateful, my Franz!" sobbed theblubbering "spirit-voice." "But I forgive ... for I still love theewell. Yet thou canst not shut me in ... boy. Behold!"
"HE VIOLENTLY SHUT DOWN THE SELF-RAISING LID AND DREW ONTHE LEATHER-COVERED TOP THE SIGN OF THE SIX-POINTED STAR, THE SEAL OFKING SOLOMON."]
And instantly a grayish mist spread over and covered case and table,and rising upward formed itself first into an indistinct shape. Then itbegan growing, and as it grew, Franz felt himself gradually enfolded incold and damp coils, slimy as those of a huge snake. He gave a terriblecry and--awoke; but, strangely enough, not on his bed, but near thetable, just as he had dreamed, pressing the violin-case desperatelywith both his hands.
"It was but a dream, ... after all," he muttered, still terrified, butrelieved of the load on his heaving breast.
With a tremendous effort he composed himself, and unlocked the case toinspect the violin. He found it covered with dust, but otherwise soundand in order, and he suddenly felt himself as cool and determined asever. Having dusted the instrument he carefully rosined the bow,tightened the strings and tuned them. He even went so far as to tryupon it the first notes of the "Witches"; first cautiously and timidly,then using his bow boldly and with full force.
The sound of that loud, solitary note--defiant as the war trumpet of aconqueror, sweet and majestic as the touch of a seraph on his goldenharp in the fancy of the faithful--thrilled through the very soul ofFranz. It revealed to him a hitherto unsuspected potency in his bow,which ran on in strains that filled the room with the richest swellof melody, unheard by the artist until that night. Commencing inuninterrupted _legato_ tones, his bow sang to him of sun-bright hopeand beauty, of moonlit nights, when the soft and balmy stillnessendowed every blade of grass and all things animate and inanimate witha voice and a song of love. For a few brief moments it was a torrent ofmelody, the harmony of which, "tuned to soft woe," was calculated tomake mountains weep, had there been any in the room, and to soothe
... even th' inexorable powers of hell,
the presence of which was undeniably felt in this modest hotel room.Suddenly, the solemn _legato_ chant, contrary to all laws of harmony,quivered, became _arpeggios_, and ended in shrill _staccatos_, like thenotes of a hyena laugh. The same creeping sensation of terror, as hehad before felt, came over him, and Franz threw the bow away. He hadrecognized the familiar laugh, and would have no more of it. Dressing,he locked the bedeviled violin securely in its case, and, taking itwith him to the dining-room, determined to await quietly the hour oftrial.<
br />
VI
The terrible hour of the struggle had come, and Stenio was at hispost--calm, resolute, almost smiling.
The theater was crowded to suffocation, and there was not even standingroom to be got for any amount of hard cash or favoritism. The singularchallenge had reached every quarter to which the post could carry it,and gold flowed freely into Paganini's unfathomable pockets, to anextent almost satisfying even to his insatiate and venal soul.
It was arranged that Paganini should begin. When he appeared uponthe stage, the thick walls of the theater shook to their foundationswith the applause that greeted him. He began and ended his famouscomposition "The Witches" amid a storm of cheers. The shouts of publicenthusiasm lasted so long that Franz began to think his turn wouldnever come. When, at last, Paganini, amid the roaring applause of afrantic public, was allowed to retire behind the scenes, his eye fellupon Stenio, who was tuning his violin, and he felt amazed at theserene calmness, the air of assurance, of the unknown German artist.
When Franz approached the footlights, he was received with icycoldness. But for all that, he did not feel in the least disconcerted.He looked very pale, but his thin white lips wore a scornful smile asresponse to this dumb unwelcome. He was sure of his triumph.
At the first notes of the prelude of "The Witches" a thrill ofastonishment passed over the audience. It was Paganini's touch, and--itwas something more. Some--and they were the majority--thought that never,in his best moments of inspiration, had the Italian artist himself,in executing that diabolical composition of his, exhibited such anextraordinary diabolical power. Under the pressure of the long muscularfingers of Franz, the chords shivered like the palpitating intestinesof a disemboweled victim under the vivisector's knife. They moanedmelodiously, like a dying child. The large blue eye of the artist,fixed with a satanic expression upon the sounding-board, seemed tosummon forth Orpheus himself from the infernal regions, rather than themusical notes supposed to be generated in the depths of the violin.Sounds seemed to transform themselves into objective shapes, thicklyand precipitately gathering as at the evocation of a mighty magician,and to be whirling around him, like a host of fantastic, infernalfigures, dancing the witches' "goat dance." In the empty depths ofthe shadowy background of the stage, behind the artist, a namelessphantasmogoria, produced by the concussion of unearthly vibrations,seemed to form pictures of shameless orgies, of the voluptuous hymensof a real witches' Sabbat.... A collective hallucination took holdof the public. Panting for breath, ghastly, and trickling with theicy perspiration of an inexpressible horror, they sat spell-bound,and unable to break the spell of the music by the slightest motion.They experienced all the illicit enervating delights of the paradiseof Mahommed, that come into the disordered fancy of an opium-eatingMussulman, and felt at the same time the abject terror, the agony ofone who struggles against an attack of _delirium tremens_.... Manyladies shrieked aloud, others fainted, and strong men gnashed theirteeth in a state of utter helplessness.
* * * * *
Then came the _finale_. Thundering uninterrupted applause delayed itsbeginning, expanding the momentary pause to a duration of almost aquarter of an hour. The bravos were furious, almost hysterical. Atlast, when after a profound and last bow, Stenio, whose smile was assardonic as it was triumphant, lifted his bow to attack the famous_finale_, his eye fell upon Paganini, who, calmly seated in themanager's box, had been behind none in zealous applause. The smalland piercing black eyes of the Genoese artist were riveted to theStradivarius in the hands of Franz, but otherwise he seemed quite cooland unconcerned. His rival's face troubled him for one short instant,but he regained his self-possession and, lifting once more his bow,drew the first note.
Then the public enthusiasm reached its acme, and soon knew no bounds.The listeners heard and saw indeed. The witches' voices resounded inthe air, and beyond all the other voices, one voice was heard--
Discordant, and unlike to human sounds; It seem'd of dogs the bark, of wolves the howl; The doleful screechings of the midnight owl; The hiss of snakes, the hungry lion's roar; The sounds of billows beating on the shore; The groan of winds among the leafy wood, And burst of thunder from the rending cloud;-- 'Twas these, all these in one....
The magic bow was drawing forth its last quivering sounds--famous amongprodigious musical feats--imitating the precipitate flight of thewitches before bright dawn; of the unholy women saturated with thefumes of their nocturnal Saturnalia, when--a strange thing came to passon the stage. Without the slightest transition, the notes suddenlychanged. In their aerial flight of ascension and descent, their melodywas unexpectedly altered in character. The sounds became confused,scattered, disconnected ... and then--it seemed from the sounding-boardof the violin--came out squeaking, jarring tones, like those of a streetPunch, screaming at the top of a senile voice:
"Art thou satisfied, Franz, my boy?... Have not I gloriously kept mypromise, eh?"
The spell was broken. Though still unable to realize the wholesituation, those who heard the voice and the _Punchinello_-like tones,were freed, as by enchantment, from the terrible charm under whichthey had been held. Loud roars of laughter, mocking exclamations ofhalf-anger and half-irritation were now heard from every corner of thevast theater. The musicians in the orchestra, with faces still blanchedfrom weird emotion, were now seen shaking with laughter, and the wholeaudience rose, like one man, from their seats, unable yet to solve theenigma; they felt, nevertheless, too disgusted, too disposed to laughto remain one moment longer in the building.
But suddenly the sea of moving heads in the stalls and the pitbecame once more motionless, and stood petrified as though struck bylightning. What all saw was terrible enough--the handsome though wildface of the young artist suddenly aged, and his graceful, erect figurebent down, as though under the weight of years; but this was nothingto that which some of the most sensitive clearly perceived. FranzStenio's person was now entirely enveloped in a semi-transparent mist,cloud-like, creeping with serpentine motion, and gradually tighteninground the living form, as though ready to engulf him. And there werethose also who discerned in this tall and ominous pillar of smoke aclearly-defined figure, a form showing the unmistakable outlines ofa grotesque and grinning, but terribly awful-looking old man, whoseviscera were protruding and the ends of the intestines stretched on theviolin.
Within this hazy, quivering veil, the violinist was then seen, drivinghis bow furiously across the human chords, with the contortions of ademoniac, as we see them represented on medieval cathedral paintings!
An indescribable panic swept over the audience, and breaking now,for the last time, through the spell which had again bound themmotionless, every living creature in the theater made one mad rushtowards the door. It was like the sudden outburst of a dam, a humantorrent, roaring amid a shower of discordant notes, idiotic squeakings,prolonged and whining moans, cacophonous cries of frenzy, above which,like the detonations of pistol shots, was heard the consecutivebursting of the four strings stretched upon the sound-board of thatbewitched violin.
* * * * *
When the theater was emptied of the last man of the audience, theterrified manager rushed on the stage in search of the unfortunateperformer. He was found dead and already stiff, behind the footlights,twisted up into the most unnatural of postures, with the "catguts"wound curiously around his neck, and his violin shattered into athousand fragments....
When it became publicly known that the unfortunate would-be rival ofNiccolo Paganini had not left a cent to pay for his funeral or hishotel-bill, the Genoese, his proverbial meanness notwithstanding,settled the hotel-bill and had poor Stenio buried at his own expense.
He claimed, however, in exchange, the fragments of the Stradivarius--asa momento of the strange event.
THE END
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