THE ENSOULED
VIOLIN
by Mme.
Blavatsky
1892
I
In the year 1828, an old German, a music teacher, came
to Paris with his pupil and settled unostentatiously in
one of the quiet faubourgs of the metropolis. The first
rejoiced in the name of Samuel Klaus; the second answered
to the more poetical appellation of Franz Stenio. The
younger man was a violinist, gifted, as rumor went, with
extraordinary, almost miraculous talent. Yet as he was
poor and had not hitherto made a name for himself in
Europe, he remained for several years in the capital of
France--the heart and pulse of capricious continental
fashion--unknown and unappreciated. Franz was a Styrian
by birth, and, at the time of the event to be presently
described, he was a young man considerably under thirty.
A philosopher and a dreamer by nature, imbued with all
the mystic oddities of true genius, he reminded one of
some of the heroes in Hoffmann's Contes
Fantastiques. His earlier existence had been a
very unusual, in fact, quite an eccentric one, and its
history must be briefly told--for the better
understanding of the present story.
Born of very pious country people, in a
quiet burg among the Styrian Alps; nursed "by the
native gnomes who watched over his cradle"; growing
up in the weird atmosphere of the ghouls and vampires who
play such a prominent part in the household of every
Styrian and Slavonian in Southern Austria; educated
later, as a student, in the shadow of the old Rhenish
castles of Germany; Franz from his childhood had passed
through every emotional stage on the plane of the
so-called "supernatural." He had also studied
at one time the "occult arts" with an
enthusiastic disciple of Paracelsus and Khunrath; alchemy
had few theoretical secrets for him; and he had dabbled
in "ceremonial magic" and "sorcery"
with some Hungarian Tziganes. Yet he loved above all else
music, and above music--his violin.
At the age of twenty-two he suddenly gave
up his practical studies in the occult, and from that
day, though as devoted as ever in thought to the
beautiful Grecian Gods, he surrendered himself entirely
to his art. Of his classic studies he had retained only
that which related to the muses--Euterpe especially, at
whose altar he worshipped--and Orpheus whose magic lyre
he tried to emulate with his violin. Except his dreamy
belief in the nymphs and the sirens, on account probably
of the double relationship of the latter to the muses
through Calliope and Orpheus, he was interested but
little in the matters of this sublunary world. All his
aspirations mounted, like incense, with the wave of the
heavenly harmony that he drew from his instrument, to a
higher and nobler sphere. He dreamed awake, and lived a
real though an enchanted life only during those hours
when his magic bow carried him along the wave of sound to
the Pagan Olympus, to the feet of Euterpe. A strange
child he had ever been in his own home, where tales of
magic and witchcraft grow out of every inch of the soil;
a still stranger boy he had become, until finally he had
blossomed into manhood, without one single characteristic
of youth. Never had a fair face attracted his attention;
not for one moment had his thoughts turned from his
solitary studies to a life beyond that of a mystic
Bohemian. Content with his own company, he had thus
passed the best years of his youth and manhood with his
violin for his chief idol, and with the Gods and
Goddesses of old Greece for his audience, in perfect
ignorance of practical life. His whole existence had been
one long day of dreams, of melody and sunlight, and he
had never felt any other aspirations.
How useless, but oh, how glorious those
dreams! how vivid! and why should he desire any better
fate? Was he not all that he wanted to be, transformed in
a second of thought into one or another hero; from
Orpheus, who held all nature breathless, to the urchin
who piped away under the plane tree to the naiads of
Callirrhoë's crystal fountain? Did not the swift-footed
nymphs frolic at his beck and call to the sound 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 came a time when he preferred
Syrinx to Aphrodite--not as the fair nymph pursued by
Pan, but after her transformation by the merciful Gods
into the reed out of which the frustrated God of the
Shepherds had made his magic pipe. For also, with time,
ambition grows and is rarely satisfied. When he tried to
emulate on his violin the enchanting sounds that
resounded in his mind, the whole of Parnassus kept silent
under the spell, or joined in heavenly chorus; but the
audience he finally craved was composed of more than the
Gods sung by Hesiod, verily of the most appreciative mélomanes
of European capitals. He felt jealous of the magic pipe,
and would fain have had it at his command.
"Oh! that I could allure a nymph into
my beloved violin!"--he often cried, after awakening
from one of his day-dreams. "Oh, that I could only
span in spirit-flight the abyss of Time! Oh, that I could
find myself 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 my violin a
siren, thereby benefit mortals to my own glory!
Thus, having for long years dreamed in the
company of the Gods of his fancy, he now took to dreaming
of the transitory glories of fame upon this earth. But at
this time he was suddenly called home by his widowed
mother from one of the German universities where he had
lived for the last 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 had hitherto drawn
upon her alone for his meagre pittance, and his means
were not sufficient for an independent life outside his
native place.
His return had a very unexpected result.
His mother, whose only love he 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
a month after as to the real causes of that death.
Frau Stenio, before Franz's return, was a
healthy, buxom, middle-aged body, strong and hearty. She
was a pious and a God-fearing soul too, who had never
failed in saying her prayers, nor had missed an early
mass for years during his absence. On the first Sunday
after her son had settled at home--a day that she had
been longing for and had anticipated for months in joyous
visions, in which she saw him kneeling by her side in the
little church on the hill--she called him from the foot
of the stairs. The hour had come when her pious dream was
to be realized, and she was waiting for him, carefully
wiping the dust from 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 voice with the
rather cracked tones of the peal of the merry Sunday
bells. The fond mother was somewhat shocked at hearing
the prayer-inspiring sounds drowned by the weird,
fantastic notes of the "Dance of the Witches";
they seemed to her so unearthly and mocking. But she
almost fainted upon hearing the definite refusal of her
well-beloved son to go to church. He never went to
church, he coolly remarked. It was loss of time; besides
which, the loud peals of the old church organ jarred on
his nerves. Nothing should induce him to submit to the
torture of listening to that cracked organ. He was firm,
and nothing could move him. To her supplications and
remonstrances he put an end by offering to play for her a
"Hymn to the Sun" he had just composed.
From that memorable Sunday morning, Frau
Stenio lost her usual serenity of mind. She hastened to
lay her sorrows and seek for consolation at the foot of
the confessional; but that which she heard in response
from the stern priest filled her gentle and
unsophisticated soul with dismay and almost with despair.
A feeling of fear, a sense of profound terror which soon
became a chronic state with her, pursued her from that
moment; her nights became disturbed and sleepless, her
days passed in prayer and lamentations. In her maternal
anxiety for the salvation of her beloved son's soul, and
for his post-mortem welfare, she made a series of
rash vows. Finding that neither the Latin petition to the
Mother of God written for her by her spiritual adviser,
nor yet the humble supplications in German, addressed by
herself to every saint she had reason to believe was
residing in Paradise, worked the desired effect, she took
to pilgrimages to distant shrines. During one of these
journeys to a holy chapel situated high up in the
mountains, she caught cold, amidst the glaciers of the
Tyro, and redescended only to take to a sick bed, from
which she arose no more. Frau Stenio's vow had led her,
in one sense, to the desired result. The poor woman was
now given an opportunity of seeking out in propria
persona the saints she had believed 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 and confessional, and held the organ in such horror.
Franz sincerely lamented his mother's
death. Unaware of being the indirect cause of it, he felt
no remorse; but selling the modest household goods and
chattels, light in purse and heart, he resolved to travel
on foot for a year or two, before settling down to any
definite profession.
A hazy desire to see the great cities of
Europe, and to try his luck in France, lurked at the
bottom of this travelling project, but his Bohemian
habits of life were too strong to be abruptly abandoned.
He placed his small capital with a banker for a rainy
day, and started on his pedestrian journey via Germany
and Austria. His violin paid for his board and lodging in
the inns and farms on his way, and he passed 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
eyes open. During the three months of his pleasant
travels to and fro, he never descended for one moment
from Parnassus; but, as an alchemist transmutes lead into
gold, so he transformed everything on his way into a song
of Hesiod or Anacreon. Every evening, while fiddling for
his supper and bed, whether on a green lawn or in the
hall of a rustic inn, his fancy changed the whole scene
for him. Village swains and maidens became transfigured
into Arcadian shepherds and nymphs. The sand-covered
floor was now a green sward; the uncouth couples spinning
round in a measured waltz with the wild grace of tamed
bears became priests and priestesses of Terpsichore; the
bulky, cherry-cheeked and blue-eyed daughters of rural
Germany were the Hesperides circling around the trees
laden with the golden apples. Nor did the melodious
strains of the Arcadian demi-gods piping on their
syrinxes, and audible but to his own enchanted ear,
vanish with the dawn. For no sooner was the curtain of
sleep raised from his eyes than he would sally forth into
a new magic realm of day-dreams. On his way to some dark
and solemn pine forest, he played incessantly, to himself
and to everything else. He fiddled to the green hill, and
forthwith the mountain and the moss-covered rocks moved
forward to hear him the better, as they had done at the
sound of the Orphean lyre. He fiddled to the merry-voiced
brook, to the hurrying river, and both slackened their
speed and stopped their waves, and, becoming silent,
seemed to listen to him in an entranced rapture. Even the
long-legged stork who stood meditatively on one leg on
the thatched top of the rustic mill, gravely resolving
unto himself the problem of his too-long existence, sent
out after him a long and strident cry, screeching,
"Art thou Orpheus himself, O Stenio?" 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 horrors of eternal condemnation,
had left him unaffected, and the only vision her warning
evoked in him was that of Pluto. By a ready association
of ideas, he saw the lord of the dark nether kingdom
greeting him as he had greeted the husband of Eurydice
before him. Charmed with the magic sounds of his violin,
the wheel of Ixion was at a standstill once more, thus
affording relief to the wretched seducer of Juno, and
giving the lie to those who claim eternity for the
duration of the punishment of condemned sinners. He
perceived Tantalus forgetting his never-ceasing thirst,
and smacking his lips as he drank in the heaven-born
melody; the stone of Sisyphus becoming motionless, the
Furies themselves smiling on him, and the sovereign of
the gloomy regions delighted, and awarding preference to
his violin over the lyre of Orpheus. Taken au sérieux,
mythology thus seems a decided antidote to fear, in the
face of theological threats, especially when strengthened
with an insane and passionate love of music; with Franz,
Euterpe proved always victorious in every contest, aye,
even with Hell itself!
But there is an end to everything, and
very soon Franz had to give up uninterrupted dreaming. He
had reached the university town where dwelt his old
violin teacher, Samuel Klaus. When this antiquated
musician found that his beloved and favourite pupil,
Franz, had been left poor in purse and still poorer in
earthly affections, he felt his strong attachment to the
boy awaken with tenfold force. He took Franz to his
heart, and forthwith adopted him as his son.
The old teacher reminded people of one of
those grotesque figures which look as if they had just
stepped out of some mediæval panel. And yet Klaus, with
his fantastic allures of a night-goblin, had the
most loving heart, as tender as that of a woman, and the
self-sacrificing nature of an old Christian martyr. When
Franz had briefly narrated to him the history of his last
few years, the professor took him by the hand, and
leading him into his study simply said:
"Stop with me, and put an end to your
Bohemian life Make yourself famous. I am old and
childless and will be your father. Let us live together
and forget all save fame."
And forthwith he offered to proceed with
Franz to Paris, via several large German cities,
where they would stop to give concerts.
In a few days Klaus succeeded in making
Franz forget his vagrant life and its artistic
independence, and reawakened in his pupil his now dormant
ambition and desire for worldly fame. Hitherto, since his
mother's death, he had been content to receive applause
only from the Gods and Goddesses who inhabited his vivid
fancy; now he began to crave once more for the admiration
of mortals. Under the clever and careful training of old
Klaus his remarkable talent gained in strength and
powerful charm with every day, and his reputation grew
and expanded with every city and town wherein he made
himself heard. His ambition was being rapidly realized;
the presiding genii of various musical centres to whose
patronage his talent was submitted soon proclaimed him
the one violinist of the day, and the public
declared loudly that he stood unrivalled by any one whom
they had ever heard. These laudations very soon made both
master and pupil completely lose their heads. But Paris
was less ready with such appreciation. Paris makes
reputations for itself, and will take none on faith. They
had been living in it for almost three years, and were
still climbing with difficulty the artist's Calvary, when
an event occurred which put an end even to their most
modest expectations. The first arrival of Nicolo Paganini
was suddenly heralded, and threw Lutetia into a
convulsion of expectation. The unparallelled artist
arrived, and--all Paris fell at once at his feet.
II
Now it is a well-known fact that a
superstition born in the dark days of mediæval
superstition, and surviving almost to the middle of the
present century, attributed all such abnormal,
out-of-the-way talent as that of Paganini to
"supernatural" agency. Every great and
marvellous artist had been accused in his day of dealings
with the devil. A few instances will suffice to refresh
the reader's memory.
Tartini, the great composer and violinist
of the XVIIth 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 accusation was, of
course, due to the almost magical impression he produced
upon his audiences. His inspired performance on the
violin secured for him in his native country the title of
"Master of Nations." The Sonate du Diable,
also called "Tartini's Dream"--as every one who
has heard it will be ready to testify--is the most weird
melody ever heard or invented: hence, the marvellous
composition has become the source of endless legends Nor
were they entirely baseless, since it was he, himself;
who was shown to have originated them. Tartini confessed
to having written it on awakening from a dream, in which
he had heard his sonata performed by Satan, for his
benefit, and in consequence of a bargain made with his
infernal majesty.
Several famous singers, even, whose
exceptional voices struck the hearers with superstitious
admiration, have not escaped a like accusation. Pasta's
splendid voice was attributed in her day to the fact that
three months before her birth, the diva's mother was
carried during a trance to heaven, and there treated to a
vocal concert of seraphs. Malibran was indebted for her
voice to St. Cecilia, while others said she owed it to a
demon who watched over her cradle and sang the baby to
sleep. Finally, Paganini--the unrivalled performer, the
mean Italian, who like Dryden's Jubal striking on the
"chorded shell" forced the throngs that
followed him to worship the divine sounds produced, and
made people say that "less than a God could not
dwell within the hollow of his violin"--Paganini
left a legend too.
The almost supernatural art of the
greatest violin-player that the world has ever known was
often speculated upon, never understood. The effect
produced by him on his audience was literally marvellous,
overpowering. The great Rossini is said to have wept like
a sentimental German maiden on hearing him play for the
first time. The Princess Elisa of Lucca, a sister of the
great Napoleon, in whose service Paganini was, as
director of her private orchestra, for a long time was
unable to hear him play without fainting. In women he
produced nervous fits and hysterics at his will;
stout-hearted men he drove to frenzy. He changed cowards
into heroes and made the bravest soldiers feel like so
many nervous schoolgirls. Is it to be wondered at, then,
that hundreds of weird tales circulated for long years
about and around the mysterious Genoese, that modern
Orpheus of Europe? One of these was especially ghastly.
It was rumoured, and was believed by more people than
would probably like to confess it, that the strings of
his violin were made of human intestines, according
to all the rules and requirements of the Black Art.
Exaggerated as this idea may seem to some,
it has nothing impossible in it; and it is more than
probable that it was this legend that led to the
extraordinary events which we are about to narrate. Human
organs are often used by the Eastern Black Magician,
so-called, and it is an averred fact that some Bengâlî
Tântrikas (reciters of tantras, or
"invocations to the demon," as a reverend
writer has described them) use human corpses, and certain
internal and external organs pertaining to them, as
powerful magical agents for bad purposes.
However this may be, now that the magnetic
and mesmeric potencies of hypnotism are recognized as
facts by most physicians, it may be suggested with less
danger than heretofore that the extraordinary effects of
Paganini's violin-playing were not, perhaps, entirely due
to his talent and genius. The wonder and awe he so easily
excited were as much caused by his external appearance,
"which had something weird and demoniacal in
it," according to certain of his biographers, as by
the inexpressible charm of his execution and his
remarkable mechanical skill. The latter is demonstrated
by his perfect imitation of the flageolet, and his
performance of long and magnificent melodies on the G
string alone. In this performance, which many an artist
has tried to copy without success, he remains unrivalled
to this day.
It is owing to this remarkable appearance
of his--termed by his friends eccentric, and by his too
nervous victims, diabolical--that he experienced great
difficulties in refuting certain ugly rumours. These were
credited far more easily in his day than they would be
now. It was whispered throughout Italy, and even in his
own native town, that Paganini had murdered his wife,
and, later on, a mistress, both of whom he had loved
passionately, and both of whom he had not hesitated to
sacrifice to his fiendish ambition. He had made himself
proficient in magic arts, it was asserted, and had
succeeded thereby in imprisoning the souls of his two
victims in his violin--his famous Cremona.
It is maintained by the immediate friends
of Ernest T.W. Hoffmann, the celebrated author of Die
Elixire des Teufels, Meister Martin,
and other 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, into
which the voice and the soul of a famous diva, a woman
whom Crespel had loved and killed, had passed, and to
which was added the voice of his beloved daughter,
Antonia.
Nor was this superstition utterly
ungrounded, nor was Hoffmann to be blamed for adopting
it, after he had heard Paganini's playing. The
extraordinary facility with which the artist drew out of
his instrument, not only the most unearthly sounds, but
positively human voices, justified the suspicion. Such
effects might well have startled an audience and thrown
terror into many a nervous heart. Add to this the
impenetrable mystery connected with a certain period of
Paganini's youth, and the most wild tales about him must
be found in a measure justifiable, and even excusable;
especially among a nation whose ancestors knew the
Borgias and the Medicis of Black Art fame.
III
In those pre-telegraphic days, newspapers
were limited, and the wings of fame had a heavier flight
than they have now.
Franz had hardly heard of Paganini; and
when he did, he swore he would rival, if not eclipse, the
Genoese magician. Yes, he would either become the most
famous of all living violinists, or he would break his
instrument and put an end to his life at the same time.
Old Klaus rejoiced at such a
determination. He rubbed his hands in glee, and jumping
about on his lame leg like a crippled satyr, he flattered
and incensed his pupil, believing himself all the while
to be performing a sacred duty to the holy and majestic
cause of art.
Upon first setting foot in Paris, three
years before, Franz had all but failed. Musical critics
pronounced him a rising star, but had all agreed that he
required a few more years' practice, before he could hope
to carry his audiences by storm. Therefore, after a
desperate study of over two years and uninterrupted
preparations, the Styrian artist had finally made himself
ready for his first serious appearance in the great Opera
House where a public concert before the most exacting
critics of the old world was to be held; at this critical
moment Paganini's arrival in the European metropolis
placed an obstacle in the way of the realization of his
hopes, and the old German professor wisely postponed his
pupil's début. At first he had simply smiled at
the wild enthusiasm, the laudatory hymns sung about the
Genoese violinist, and the almost superstitious awe with
which his name was pronounced. But very soon Paganini's
name became a burning iron in the hearts of both the
artists. and a threatening phantom in the mind of Klaus.
A few days more, and they shuddered at the very mention
of their great rival, whose success became with every
night more unprecedented.
The first series of concerts was over, but
neither Klaus nor Franz had as yet had an opportunity of
hearing him and of judging for themselves. So great and
so beyond their means was the charge for admission, and
so small the hope of getting a free pass from a brother
artist 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 day came when neither master nor
pupil could control their impatience any longer; so they
pawned their watches, and with the proceeds bought two
modest seats.
Who can describe the enthusiasm, the
triumphs, of this famous and at the same time fatal
night! The audience was frantic; men wept and women
screamed and fainted; while both Klaus and Stenio sat
looking paler than two ghosts. At the first touch of
Paganini's magic bow, both Franz and Samuel felt as if
the icy hand of death had touched them. Carried away by
an irresistible enthusiasm, which turned into a violent,
unearthly mental torture, they dared neither look into
each other's faces, nor exchange one word during the
whole performance.
At midnight, while the chosen delegates of
the Musical Societies and the Conservatory of Paris
unhitched the horses, and dragged the carriage of the
grand artist home in triumph, the two Germans returned to
their modest lodging and it was a pitiful sight to see
them. Mournful and desperate, they placed themselves in
their usual seats at the fire corner, and neither for a
while opened his mouth
"Samuel!" at last exclaimed
Franz, pale as death itself. "Samuel--it remains 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 would ever rival . . . him!"
The name of Paganini stuck in his throat,
as in utter despair he fell into his arm chair.
The old professor's wrinkles suddenly
became purple. His little greenish eyes gleamed
phosphorescently as, bending toward his pupil, he
whispered to him in hoarse and broken tones:
"Nein, nein! Thou art wrong,
my Franz! I have taught thee, and thou hast learned all
of the great art that a simple mortal, and a Christian by
baptism, can learn from another simple mortal. Am I to
blame because these accursed Italians, in order to reign
unequalled in the domain of art, 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, to secure such a
power, he, too, would not scruple to sell himself, body
and soul, to the Evil One.
But he said not a word, and, turning his
eyes from his old master s face, he gazed dreamily at the
dying embers.
The same long-forgotten incoherent dreams,
which, after seeming such realities to him in his younger
days, had been given up entirely, and had gradually faded
from his mind, now crowded back into it with the same
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 there be, it is the hell
described by the old Greeks, not that of the modern
bigots--a locality full of conscious shadows, to whom
thou canst be a second Orpheus."
Franz felt that he was going mad, and,
turning instinctively, he looked his old master once more
right in the face. Then his bloodshot eye 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 to divert his
thoughts, must remain as hypothetical to the reader as it
is to the writer. Whatever may have been in his mind, the
German enthusiast went on, speaking with a feigned
calmness-**
"Franz, my dear boy, I tell you that
the art of the accursed Italian is not natural; that it
is due neither to study nor to genius. It never was
acquired in the usual, natural way. You need not stare at
me in that wild manner, for what I say is in the mouth of
millions of people. Listen to what I now tell you, and
try to understand. You have heard the strange tale
whispered about the famous Tartini? He died one fine
Sabbath night, strangled by his familiar demon, who had
taught him 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 did more. In order to endow his
instrument with the faculty of emitting human sounds,
such as sobs, despairing cries, supplications, moans of
love and fury--in short, the most heart-rending notes of
the human voice--Paganini became the murderer not only of
his wife and his mistress, but also of a friend, who was
more tenderly attached to him than any other being on
this earth. He then made the four chords of his magic
violin out of the intestines of his last victim. This is
the secret of his enchanting talent, of that overpowering
melody, that combination of sounds, which you will never
be able to master, unless . . ."
The old man could not finish the sentence.
He staggered back before the fiendish look of his pupil,
and covered his face with his hands.
Franz was breathing heavily, and his eyes
had an expression which reminded Klaus of those of a
hyena. His pallor was cadaverous. For some time he could
not speak, but only gasped for breath. At last he slowly
muttered:
"Are you in earnest?"
"I am, as I hope to help you.'`
"And . . . and do you really believe
that had I only the means of obtaining human intestines
for strings, I could rival Paganini?" asked Franz,
after a moment's pause, and casting down his eyes.
The old German unveiled his face, and,
with a strange look of determination upon it, softly
answered:
"Human intestines alone are not
sufficient for our purpose; they must have belonged to
some one who had loved us well, with an unselfish holy
love. Tartini endowed his violin with the life of a
virgin; but that virgin had died of unrequited love for
him. The fiendish artist had prepared beforehand a tube,
in which he managed to catch her last breath as she
expired, pronouncing his beloved name, and he then
transferred this breath to his violin. As to Paganini I
have just told you his tale. It was with the consent of
his victim, though, that he murdered him to get
possession of his intestines.
"Oh, for the power of the human
voice!" Samuel went on, after a brief pause.
"What can equal the eloquence, the magic spell of
the human voice? Do you think, my poor boy, I would not
have taught you this great, this final secret, were it
not that it throws one right into the clutches of him . .
. who must remain unnamed at night?" he added, with
a sudden return to the superstitions of his youth.
Franz did not answer; but with a calmness
awful to behold, he left his place, 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
them into the fire.
Samuel suppressed a cry of horror. The
chords were hissing upon the coals, where, among the
blazing logs, they wriggled and curled like so many
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 of Hell and Pluto himself, I now swear, in thy
presence, O Samuel, my master, never to touch a violin
again until I can string it with four human chords. May I
be accursed for ever and ever if I do!"
He fell senseless on the floor, with a
deep sob, that ended like a funeral wail; old Samuel
lifted him up as he would have lifted a child, and
carried 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, ill almost beyond recovery. The
physician declared him to be suffering from brain fever
and said that the worst was to be feared. For nine long
days the patient remained delirious; and Klaus, who was
nursing him night and day with the solicitude of the
tenderest mother, was horrified at the work of his own
hands. For the first time since their acquaintance began,
the old teacher, owing to the wild ravings of his pupil,
was able to penetrate into the darkest corners of that
weird, superstitious, cold, and, at the same time,
passionate nature; and--he trembled at what he
discovered. For he saw that which he had failed to
perceive before--Franz as he was in reality, and not as
he seemed to superficial observers. Music was the life of
the young man, and adulation was the air he breathed,
without which that life became a burden; from the chords
of his violin alone, Stenio drew his life and being, but
the applause of men and even of Gods was necessary to its
support. He saw unveiled before his eves 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 to
the ravings of that delirious and unhinged fancy Klaus
felt as if he were for the first time in his long life
exploring a marvellous and untravelled region, a human
nature not of this world but of some incomplete planet.
He saw all this, and shuddered. More than once he asked
himself whether it would not be doing a kindness to his
"boy" to let 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 felt as though their
two lives were inseparably linked together. That he could
thus feel was a revelation to the old man; so he decided
to save Franz, even at the expense of his own old, and,
as he thought, useless life.
The seventh day of the illness brought on
a most terrible crisis. For twenty-four hours the patient
never closed his eyes, nor remained for a moment silent;
he raved continuously during the whole time. His visions
were peculiar, and he minutely described each. Fantastic,
ghastly figures kept slowly swimming out of the penumbra
of his small, dark room, in regular and uninterrupted
procession, and he greeted each by name as he might greet
old acquaintances. He referred to himself as Prometheus,
bound to the rock by four bands made of human intestines.
At the foot of the Caucasian Mount the black waters of
the river Styx were running . . . They had deserted
Arcadia, and were now endeavouring to encircle within a
sevenfold embrace the rock upon which he was suffering .
. .
"Wouldst thou know the name of the
Promethean rock, old man?" he roared into his
adopted father's ear . . . "Listen then . . . its
name is . . . called . . . Samuel Klaus . . ."
"Yes, yes! . . ." the German
murmured disconsolately. "It is I who killed him,
while seeking to console. The news of Paganini's magic
arts struck his 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 Cremona violin! . . ."
Klaus shuddered, but said nothing. He only
bent over the poor maniac, and with a kiss upon his brow,
a caress as tender and as gentle as that of a doting
mother, he left the sickroom for a few instants, to seek
relief in his own garret. When he returned, the ravings
were following another channel. Franz was singing, trying
to imitate the sounds of a violin.
Toward the evening of that day, the
delirium of the sick man became perfectly 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 old master, and were preparing to rip him
open . . . him, "the only man on this earth who
loves me with an unselfish, holy love, and . . . whose
intestines can be of any good at all!" he went on
whispering, with glaring eyes and demon laugh . . .
By the next morning, however, the fever
had disappeared, and by the end of the ninth day Stenio
had left his bed, having no recollection of his illness,
and no suspicion that he had allowed Klaus to read his
inner thought. Nay; had he himself any knowledge that
such a horrible idea as the sacrifice of his old master
to his ambition had ever entered his mind? Hardly. The
only immediate result of his fatal illness was, that as,
by reason of his vow, his artistic passion could find no
issue, another passion awoke, which might avail to feed
his ambition and his insatiable fancy. He plunged
headlong into the study of the Occult Arts, of Alchemy
and of Magic. In the practice of Magic the young dreamer
sought to stifle the voice of his passionate longing for
his, as he thought, forever lost violin . . .
Weeks and months passed away, and the
conversation about Paganini was never resumed between the
master and the pupil. But a profound melancholy had taken
possession of Franz, the two hardly exchanged a word, the
violin hung mute, chordless, full of dust, in its
habitual place. It was as the presence of a soulless
corpse between them.
The young man had become gloomy and
sarcastic, even avoiding the mention of music. Once, as
his old professor, after long hesitation, took out his
own violin from its dust-covered case and prepared to
play, Franz gave a convulsive shudder, but said nothing.
At the first notes of the bow, however, he glared like a
madman, and rushing out of the house, remained for hours,
wandering in the streets. Then old Samuel in his turn
threw his instrument down, and locked himself up in his
room till the following morning.
One night as Franz sat, looking
particularly pale and gloomy, old Samuel suddenly jumped
from his seat, and after hopping about the room in a
magpie fashion, approached his pupil, imprinted a fond
kiss upon the 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 a dream:
"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 not to see his old teacher in
his usual place to greet him. But he had greatly altered
during the last few months, and he at first paid no
attention to his absence, unusual as it was. He dressed
and went into the adjoining room, a little parlour where
they had their meals, and which separated their two
bedrooms. The fire had not been lighted since the embers
had died out on the previous night, and no sign was
anywhere visible of the professor's busy hand in his
usual housekeeping duties. Greatly puzzled, but in no way
dismayed, Franz took his usual place at the corner of the
now cold fire-place, and fell into an aimless reverie. As
he stretched himself in his old arm-chair, raising both
his hands to clasp them behind his head in a favourite
posture of his, his hand came into contact with something
on a shelf at his back; he knocked against a case, and
brought it violently on the ground.
It was old Klaus' violin-case that came
down to the floor with such a sudden crash that the case
opened and the violin fell out of it, rolling to the feet
of Franz. And then the chords, striking against the brass
fender emitted a sound, prolonged, sad and mournful as
the sigh of an unrestful soul; it seemed to fill the
whole room, and reverberated in the head and the very
heart of the young man. The effect 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 called out, hastening to the
professor's little room, and throwing the door violently
open. No one answered, all was silent within.
He staggered back, frightened at the sound
of his own voice, so changed and hoarse it seemed to him
at this moment. No reply came in response to his call.
Naught followed but a dead silence . . . that stillness
which, in the domain of sounds, usually denotes death. In
the presence of a corpse, as in the lugubrious stillness
of a tomb, such silence acquires a mysterious power,
which strikes the sensitive soul with a nameless terror .
. . The little room was dark, and Franz hastened to open
the shutters.
Samuel was lying on his bed, cold, stiff,
and lifeless . . . At the sight of the corpse of him who
had loved him so well, and had been to him more than a
father, Franz experienced a dreadful revulsion of
feeling, a terrible shock. But the ambition of the
fanatical artist got the better of the despair of the
man, and smothered the feelings of the latter in a few
seconds.
A note bearing his own name was
conspicuously placed upon a table near the 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 up instantly. Under the fiery rush
of passionate hope and pride, the two orbs of the future
magician-artist, riveted to the ghastly face of the dead
man, shone like the eyes of a demon.
Our pen refuses to describe that which
took place on that day, after the legal inquiry was over.
As another note, written with the view of satisfying the
authorities, had been prudently provided by the loving
care of the old teacher, the verdict was, "Suicide
from causes unknown"; after this the coroner and the
police retired, leaving the bereaved heir alone in the
death room, with the remains of that which had once been
a living man.
Scarcely a fortnight had elapsed from that
day, ere the violin had been dusted, and four new, stout
strings had been stretched upon it. Franz dared not look
at them. He tried to play, but the bow trembled in his
hand like a dagger in the grasp of a novice-brigand. He
then determined not to try again, until the portentous
night should arrive, when he should have a chance of
rivalling, nay, of surpassing, Paganini.
The famous violinist had meanwhile left
Paris, and was giving a series of triumphant concerts at
an old Flemish town in Belgium.
V
One night, as Paganini, surrounded by a
crowd of admirers, was sitting in the dining-room of the
hotel at which he was staying, a visiting card, with a
few words written on it in pencil, was handed to him by a
young man with wild and staring eyes.
Fixing upon the intruder a look which few
persons could bear, but receiving back a glance as calm
and determined as his own, Paganini slightly 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 appearance of bills posted at the
corner of every street, and bearing the strange notice:
On the night of . . .,
at the Grand Theatre 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 unrivalled violinist, the
celebrated "Fantaisie Caprice" of the
latter, known as "The Witches."
The effect of the notice was magical.
Paganini, who, amid his greatest triumphs, never lost
sight of a profitable speculation, doubled the usual
price of admission, but still the theatre could not hold
the crowds that flocked to secure tickets for that
memorable performance.
At last the morning of the concert day
dawned, and the "duel" was in everyone's mouth.
Franz Stenio, who, instead of sleeping, had passed the
whole long hours of the preceding midnight in walking up
and down his room like an encaged panther, had, toward
morning, fallen on his bed from mere physical exhaustion.
Gradually he passed into a deathlike and dreamless
slumber. At the gloomy winter dawn he awoke, but finding
it too early to rise he fell asleep again. And then he
had a vivid dream--so vivid indeed, so lifelike, that
from its terrible realism 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 those terrible chords he
never let it out of his sight for a moment. In accordance
with his resolution he had not touched it since his first
trial, and his bow had never but once touched the human
strings, for he had since always practised on another
instrument. But now in his sleep he saw himself looking
at the locked case. Something in it was attracting his
attention, and he found himself incapable of detaching
his eyes from it. Suddenly he saw the upper part of the
case slowly rising, and, within the chink thus produced,
he perceived two small, phosphorescent green eyes--eyes
but too familiar to him--fixing themselves on his,
lovingly, almost beseechingly. Then a thin, shrill voice,
as if issuing from these ghastly orbs--the voice and orbs
of Samuel Klaus himself--resounded in Stenio's horrified
ear, and he heard it say:
"Franz, my beloved boy . . . Franz, I
cannot, no I cannot separate myself from . . . them!"
And "they" twanged piteously
inside the case.
Franz stood speechless, horror-bound. He
felt his blood actually freezing, and his hair moving and
standing erect on his head . . .
"It's but a dream, an empty
dream!" he attempted to formulate in his mind.
"I have tried my best, Franzchen . .
. I have tried my best to sever myself from these
accursed strings, without pulling them to pieces . .
." pleaded the same shrill, familiar voice.
"Wilt thou help me to do so? . . ."
Another twang, still more prolonged and
dismal, resounded within the case, now dragged about the
table in every direction, by some interior power, like
some living, wriggling thing, the twangs becoming sharper
and more Jerky with every new pull.
It was not for the first time that Stenio
heard those sounds. He had often remarked them
before--indeed, ever since he had used his master's
viscera as a footstool for his own ambition. But on every
occasion a feeling of creeping horror had prevented him
from investigating their cause, and he had tried to
assure himself that the sounds were only a hallucination.
But now he stood face to face with the
terrible fact whether in dream or in reality he knew not,
nor did he care, since the hallucination--if
hallucination it were--was far more real and vivid than
any reality. He tried to speak, to take a step forward;
but, as often happens in nightmares, he could neither
utter a word nor move a finger . . . He felt hopelessly
paralyzed.
The pulls and jerks were becoming more
desperate with each moment, and at last something inside
the case snapped violently. The vision of his
Stradivarius, 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 held him spell-bound. But as the last
supplicating whisper of the invisible Presence repeated:
"Do, oh, do . . . help me to cut
myself off--"
Franz sprang to the case with one bound,
like an enraged tiger defending its prey, and with one
frantic effort breaking the spell.
"Leave the violin alone, you old
fiend from hell!" he cried, in hoarse and trembling
tones.
He violently shut down the self-raising
lid, and while firmly pressing his left hand on it, he
seized with the right a piece of rosin from the table and
drew on the leather-covered top the sign of the
six-pointed star--the seal used by King Solomon to bottle
up the rebellious 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 the blubbering
"spirit-voice." "But I forgive . . . for I
still love thee well. Yet thou canst not shut me in . . .
boy. Behold!"
And instantly a grayish mist spread over
and covered case and table, and rising upward formed
itself first into an indistinct shape. Then it began
growing, and as it grew, Franz felt himself gradually
enfolded in cold and damp coils, slimy as those of a huge
snake. He gave a terrible cry and--awoke; but,.strangely
enough, not on his bed, but near the table, just as he
had dreamed, pressing the violin case desperately with
both his hands.
"It was but a dream . . . after
all," he muttered, still terrified, but relieved of
the load on his heaving breast.
With a tremendous effort he composed
himself, and unlocked the case to inspect the violin. He
found it covered with dust, but otherwise sound and in
order, and he suddenly felt himself as cool and as
determined as ever. Having dusted the instrument he
carefully rosined the bow, tightened the strings and
tuned them. He even went so far as to try upon 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 a conqueror, sweet
and majestic as the touch of a seraph on his golden harp
in the fancy of the faithful--thrilled through the very
soul of Franz. It revealed to him a hitherto unsuspected
potency in his bow, which ran on in strains that filled
the room with the richest swell of melody, unheard by the
artist until that night. Commencing in uninterrupted legato
tones, his bow sang to him of sun-bright hope and beauty,
of moonlit nights, when the soft and balmy stillness
endowed every blade of grass and all things animate and
inanimate with a voice and a song of love. For a few
brief moments it was a torrent of melody, the harmony of
which, "tuned to soft woe," was calculated to
make 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 the notes of a
hyena laugh. The same creeping sensation of terror, as he
had before felt, came over him, and Franz threw the bow
away. He had recognized the familiar laugh, and would
have no more of it. Dressing, he locked the bedevilled
violin securely in its case, and, taking it with him to
the dining-room, determined to await quietly the hour of
trial.
VI
The terrible hour of the struggle had
come, and Stenio was at his post--calm, resolute, almost
smiling.
The theatre was crowded to suffocation,
and there was not even standing room to be got for any
amount of hard cash or favouritism. The singular
challenge had reached every quarter to which the post
could carry it, and gold flowed freely into Paganini's
unfathomable pockets, to an extent almost satisfying even
to his insatiate and venal soul.
It was arranged that Paganini should
begin. When he appeared upon the stage, the thick walls
of the theatre shook to their foundations with the
applause that greeted him. He began and ended his famous
composition "The Witches" amid a storm of
cheers. The shouts of public enthusiasm lasted so long
that Franz began to think his turn would never come.
When, at last, Paganini, amid the roaring applause of a
frantic public, was allowed to retire behind the scenes,
his eye fell upon Stenio, who was tuning his violin, and
he felt amazed at the serene calmness, the air of
assurance, of the unknown German artist.
When Franz approached the footlights, he
was received with icy coldness. 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 as response
to this dumb unwelcome. He was sure of his triumph.
At the first notes of the prelude of
"The Witches" a thrill of astonishment passed
over the audience. It was Paganini's touch, and--it was
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 an extraordinary
diabolical power. Under the pressure of the long muscular
fingers of Franz, the chords shivered like the
palpitating intestines of a disembowelled victim under
the vivisector's knife. They moaned melodiously, like a
dying child. The large blue eye of the artist, fixed with
a satanic expression upon the sounding-board, seemed to
summon forth Orpheus himself from the infernal regions,
rather than the musical notes supposed to be generated in
the depths of the violin. Sounds seemed to transform
themselves into objective shapes, thickly and
precipitately gathering as at the evocation of a mighty
magician, and to be whirling around him, like a host of
fantastic, infernal figures, dancing the witches'
"goat dance." In the empty depths of the
shadowy background of the stage, behind the artist, a
nameless phantasmagoria, produced by the concussion of
unearthly vibrations, seemed to form pictures of
shameless orgies, of the voluptuous hymens of a real
witches' Sabbat . . . A collective hallucination took
hold of the public. Panting for breath, ghastly, and
trickling with the icy perspiration of an inexpressible
horror, they sat spellbound, and unable to break the
spell of the music by the slightest motion. They
experienced all the illicit enervating delights of the
paradise of Mahommed, that come into the disordered fancy
of an opium-eating Mussulman, and felt at the same time
the abject terror, the agony of one who struggles against
an attack of delirium tremens . . . Many ladies
shrieked aloud others fainted, and strong men gnashed
their teeth in a state of utter helplessness . . .
Then came the finale. Thundering
uninterrupted applause delayed its beginning, expanding
the momentary pause to a duration of almost a quarter of
an hour. The bravos were furious, almost hysterical. At
last, when after a profound and last bow, Stenio, whose
smile was as sardonic as it was triumphant, lifted his
bow to attack the famous finale his eye fell upon
Paganini, who, calmly seated in the manager's box, had
been behind none in zealous applause. The small and
piercing black eyes of the Genoese artist were riveted to
the Stradivarius in the hands of Franz, but otherwise he
seemed quite cool and 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 in the 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 among
prodigious musical feats--imitating the
precipitate flight of the witches before bright
dawn; of the unholy women saturated with the
fumes of their nocturnal Saturnalia, when--a
strange thing came to pass on the stage. Without
the slightest transition, the notes suddenly
changed. In their ærial flight of ascension and
descent, their melody was unexpectedly altered in
character. The sounds became confused, scattered,
disconnected . . . and then--it seemed from the
sounding-board of the violin--came out squeaking
jarring tones, like those of a street Punch,
screaming at the top of a senile voice:
"Art thou satisfied, Franz,
my boy? . . . Have not I gloriously kept my
promise, eh?"
The spell was broken. Though still
unable to realize the whole situation, those who
heard the voice and the Punchinello-like tones,
were freed, as by enchantment, from the terrible
charm under which they had been held. Loud roars
of laughter, mocking exclamations of half-anger
and half-irritation were now heard from every
corner of the vast theatre. The musicians in the
orchestra, with faces still blanched from weird
emotion, were now seen shaking with laughter, and
the whole audience rose, like one man, from their
seats, unable yet to solve the enigma; they felt,
nevertheless, too disgusted, too disposed to
laugh to remain one moment longer in the
building.
But suddenly the sea of moving
heads in the stalls and the pit became once more
motionless, and stood petrified as though struck
by lightning. What all saw was terrible
enough--the handsome though wild face of the
young artist suddenly aged, and his graceful,
erect figure bent down, as though under the
weight of years; but this was nothing to that
which some of the most sensitive clearly
perceived. Franz Stenio's person was now entirely
enveloped in a semi-transparent mist, cloudlike,
creeping with serpentine motion, and gradually
tightening round the living form, as though ready
to engulf him. And there were those also who
discerned in this tall and ominous pillar of
smoke a clearly-defined figure, a form showing
the unmistakable outlines of a grotesque and
grinning, but terribly awful-looking old man,
whose viscera were protruding and the ends of the
intestines stretched on the violin.
Within this hazy, quivering veil,
the violinist was then seen, driving his bow
furiously across the human chords, with the
contortions of a demoniac, as we see them
represented on mediæval cathedral paintings!
An indescribable panic swept over
the audience, and breaking now, for the last
time, through the spell which had again bound
them motionless, every living creature in the
theatre made one mad rush towards the door. It
was like the sudden outburst of a dam, a human
torrent, 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 consecutive bursting of the four strings
stretched upon the sound-board of that bewitched
violin.
When the theatre was emptied of
the last man of the audience, the terrified
manager rushed on the stage in search of the
unfortunate performer. 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 a thousand
fragments . . .
When it became publicly known that
the unfortunate would-be rival of Nicolo Paganini
had not left a cent to pay for his funeral or his
hotel 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--as a memento
of the strange event.
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