at it as one does at a
cluster of gems, he
added, ``the
adjustment of the strings.''
``That will do,'' interrupted Satan,
taking the
violin from the little man,
who bowed low and ceremoniously
took his
departure. Then the devil,
pointing to the
instrument, asked: ``Isn't
it a beauty?''
The
musician, eying it keenly,
replied: ``Yes, it is, but not the kind of
violin I play on.''
``Oh, I see,''
carelessly observed the
other, ``you refer to that extra string.''
``Yes,'' answered the puzzled
violinist,
examining it closely.
``Allow me to explain the peculiar
characteristics of this
magnificentinstrument,''
said his satanic
majesty. ``This
string,'' pointing to the G, ``is the
string of pity; this one,'' referring to the
third, ``is the string of hope; this,''
plunking the A, ``is attuned to love,
while this one, the E string, gives forth
sounds of joy.
``You will observe,'' went on the
visitor, noting the
intense interest displayed
by the
violinist, ``that the position
of the strings is the same as on any
other
violin, and
therefore will require
no
additional study on your part.''
``But that extra string?'' interrupted
Diotti, designating the middle one on
the
violin, a vague foreboding rising
within him.
``That,'' said Mephistopheles,
solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry,
``is the string of death, and he who
plays upon it dies at once.''
``The--string--of--death!'' repeated
the
violinist almost inaudibly.
``Yes, the string of death,'' Satan
repeated, ``and he who plays upon it dies
at once. But,'' he added cheerfully,
``that need not worry you. I noticed a
marvelous
facility in your arm work.
Your staccato and spiccato are wonderful.
Every form of bowing appears
child's play to you. It will be easy for
you to avoid
touching the string.''
``Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?''
``Ah, that's the rub. If you
examine the
violin closely you will find
that the string of death is made up of
the extra lengths of the other four
strings. To cut it off would destroy the
others, and then pity, hope, love and joy
would cease to exist in the soul of the
violin.''
``How like life itself,'' Diotti
reflected, ``pity, hope, love, joy end in
death, and through death they are born
again.''
``That's the idea, precisely,'' said
Satan,
evidently relieved by Diotti's
logic and quick perception.
The
violinist examined the
instrumentwith the practised eye of an
expert, and
turning to Satan said: ``The four
strings are
beautifully white and transparent,
but this one is black and odd
looking.
``What is it wrapped with?'' eagerly
inquired Diotti, examining the death
string with
microscopic care.
``The fifth string was added after an
unfortunate
episode in the Garden of
Eden, in which I was somewhat
concerned,'' said Satan,
soberly. ``It is
wrapped with strands of hair from the
first mother of man.'' Impressively then
he offered the
violin to Diotti.
``I dare not take it,'' said the
perplexed
musician; ``it's from--''
``Yes, it is directly from there, but I
brought it from heaven when I--I left,''
said the fallen angel, with
remorse in
his voice. ``It was my
constantcompanion there. But no one in my
domain--not I, myself--can play upon it
now, for it will
respond neither to our
longing for pity, hope, love, joy, nor
even death,'' and sadly and retrospectively
Satan gazed into
vacancy; then,
after a long pause: ``Try the
instrument!''
Diotti placed the
violin in position
and drew the bow across the string of
joy, improvising on it. Almost instantly
the birds of the forest darted
hither and
t
hither, caroling forth in gladsome
strains. The devil alone was sad, and
with
emotion said:
``It is many, many years since I
have heard that string.''
Next the artist changed to the string
of pity, and thoughts of the world's
sorrows came over him like a pall.
``Wonderful, most wonderful!'' said
the mystified
violinist; ``with this
instrument I can
conquer the world!''
``Aye, more to you than the world,''
said the tempter, ``a woman's love.''
A woman's love--to the despairing
suitor there was one and only one in this
wide, wide world, and her words, burning
their way into his heart, had made
this
temptation possible: ``No droop-
ing Clytie could be more
constant than
I to him who strikes the chord that is
responsive in my soul.''
Holding the
violin aloft, he cried
exultingly: ``Henceforth thou art mine,
though death and
oblivion lurk ever
near thee!''
VII
Perkins, seated in his office,
threw the morning paper aside.
``It's no use,'' he said, turning to the
office boy, ``I don't believe they ever
will find him, dead or alive. Whoever
put up the job on Diotti was a past
grand master at that sort of thing. The
silent
assassin that lurks in the shadow
of the
midnight moon is an
explosion of
dynamite compared to the party that
made way with Diotti. You ask, why
should they kill him? My boy, you
don't know the world. They were
jealous of his
enormous hit, of our
dazzling success. Jealousy did it.''
The ``they'' of Perkins comprised
rival managers, rival artists, newspaper
critics and everybody at large
who would not
concede that the
attractions managed by Perkins were the
``greatest on earth.''
``We'll never see his like again--
come in!'' this last in answer to a knock.
Diotti appeared at the open door.
Perkins jumped like one shot from a
catapult, and rushing toward the silent
figure in the
doorway exclaimed: ``Bless
my soul, are you a ghost?''
``A
substantial one,'' said Diotti with
a smile.
``Are you really here?'' continued
the astonished impresario, using Diotti's
arm as a pump handle and pinching
him at the same time.
When they were seated Perkins plied
Diotti with all manner of questions;
``How did it happen?'' ``How did you
escape?'' and the like, all of which Diotti
parried with monosyllabic replies, finally
saying: ``I was
dissatisfied with my
playing and went away to study.''
``Do you know that the
failure to fulfill
your contract has cost me at least ten
thousand dollars?'' said the shrewd
manager, the
commercial side of his
nature asserting itself.
``All of which I will pay,'' quietly
replied the artist. ``Besides I am ready
to play now, and you can announce a
concert within a week if you like.''
``If I like?'' cried the hustling Perkins.
``Here, James,''
calling his office
boy, ``run down to the printer's
and give him this,'' making a note of
the various sizes of ``paper'' he desired,
``and tell Mr. Tompkins that Diotti is
back and will give a concert next Tuesday.
Tell Smith to prepare the newspaper
`ads' and notices immediately.''
In an hour Perkins had the entire
machinery of his office in motion.
Within twenty-four hours New York
had several versions of the disappearance
and return, all leading to one
common point--that Diotti would give
a concert the coming Tuesday evening.
The
announcement of the reappearance
of the Tuscan contained a line
to the effect that the
violinist would play
for the first time his new suite--a
meditation on the
emotions.
He had not seen Mildred.
As he came upon the stage that night
the lights were turned low, and naught
but the
shadowy outlines of
player and
violin were seen. His
reception by the
audience was not
enthusiastic. They