章节正文
admiration of many; some women do not
hesitate to show you their preference. To
a woman like Mildred that would be torture;
she could not and would not separate
the professional artist from the lover
or husband.''
And Diotti, remembering Mildred's
words, could not refute the old man's
statements.
``If you had known her mother as I
did,'' continued the old man, realizing
his argument was making an impression
on the violinist, ``you would see the
agony in store for the daughter if she
married a man such as you, a public servant,
a public favorite.''
``I would live my life not to excite her
suspicions or jealousy,'' said the artist,
with boyishenthusiasm and simplicity.
``Foolish fellow,'' retorted Sanders,
skeptically; ``women imagine, they don't
reason. A scented note unopened on
the dressing table can cause more
unhappiness to your wife than the loss of
his country to a king. My advice to you
is: do not marry; but if you must, choose
one who is more interested in your
gastronomic felicity than in your marital
constancy.''
Diotti was silent. He was pondering
the words of his host. Instead of seeing
in Mildred a possibly jealous woman,
causing mentalmisery, she appeared a
vision of single-hearted devotion. He
felt: ``To be loved by such a one is
bliss beyond the dreams of this world.''
XII
A tipsy man is never interesting,
and Sanders in that condition
was no exception. The old man arose
with some effort, walked toward the
window and, shading his eyes, looked
out. The snow was drifting, swept
hither and thither by the cutting wind
that came through the streets in great
gusts. Turning to the violinist, he said,
``It's an awful night; better remain here
until morning. You'll not find a cab; in
fact, I will not let you go while this
storm continues,'' and the old man
raised the window, thrusting his head
out for an instant. As he did so the icy
blast that came in settled any doubt in
the young man's mind and he concluded
to stop over night.
It was nearly two o'clock; Sanders
showed him to his room and then
returned down stairs to see that everything
was snug and secure. After changing
his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers
and wrapping a dressing gown around
him, the old man stretched his legs
toward the fire and sipped his toddy.
``He isn't a bad sort for a violinist,''
mused the old man; ``if he were worth
a million, I believe I'd advise Wallace to
let him marry her. A fiddler! A million!
Sounds funny,'' and he laughed
shrilly.
He turned his head and his eyes
caught sight of Diotti's violin case resting
on the center table. He staggered
from the chair and went toward it; opening
the lid softly, he lifted the silken
coverlet placed over the instrument and
examined the strings intently. ``I am
right,'' he said; ``it is wrapped with
hair, and no doubt from a woman's head.
Eureka!'' and the old man, happy in the
discovery that his surmises were correct,
returned to his chair and his toddy.
He sat looking into the fire. The
violin had brought back memories of the
past and its dead. He mumbled, as if
to the fire, ``she loved me; she loved
my violin. I was a devil; my violin
was a devil,'' and the shadows on the
wall swayed like accusing spirits. He
buried his face in his hands and cried
piteously, ``I was so young; too young
to know.'' He spoke as if he would
conciliate the ghastly shades that moved
restlessly up and down, when suddenly
--``Sanders, don't be a fool!''
He ambled toward the table again.
``I wonder who made the violin? He
would not tell me when I asked him to-
night; thank you for your pains, but I
will find out myself,'' and he took the
violin from the case. Holding it with
the light slanting over it, he peered
inside, but found no inscription. ``No
maker's name--strange,'' he said. He
tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and
listened intently; ``he must be asleep; he
won't hear me,'' and noiselessly he
closed the door. ``I guess if I play a
tune on it he won't know.''
He took the bow from its place in the
case and tightened it. He listened
again. ``He is fast asleep,'' he whispered.
``I'll play the song I always
played for her--until,'' and the old man
repeated the words of the refrain:
``Fair as a lily, joyous and free,
Light of the prairie home was she;
Every one who knew her felt the gentle power
Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower.''
He sat again in the arm-chair and
placed the violin under his chin.
Tremulously he drew the bow across the
middle string, his bloodless fingers moving
slowly up and down.
The theme he played was the melody
to the verse he had just repeated, but the
expression was remorse.
***
Diotti sat upright in bed. ``I am
positive I heard a violin!'' he said, holding
one hand toward his head in an attitude
of listening. He was wide awake. The
drifting snow beat against the window
panes and the wind without shrieked like
a thousand demons of the night. He
could sleep no more. He arose and
hastily dressed. The room was bitterly
cold; he was shivering. He thought of
the crackling logs in the fire-place below.
He groped his way along the darkened
staircase. As he opened the door leading
into the sitting-room the fitful gleam
of the dying embers cast a ghastly light
over the face of a corpse.
Diotti stood a moment, his eyes
transfixed with horror. The violin and bow
still in the hands of the dead man told
him plainer than words what had happened.
He went toward the chair, took
the instrument from old Sanders' hands
and laid it on the table. Then he knelt
beside the body, and placing his ear
close over the heart, listened for some
sign of life, but the old man was beyond
human aid.
He wheeled the chair to the side of
the room and moved the body to the
sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe.
The awfulness of the situation forced
itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed
himself. The terrible power of the
instrument dawned upon him in all its
force. Often he had played on the strings
telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but
now, for the first time, he realized what
that fifth string meant.
``I must give it back to its owner.''
``If you do you can never regain it,''
whispered a voice within.
``I do not need it,'' said the violinist,
almost audibly.
``Perhaps not,'' said the voice, ``but
if her love should wane how would you
rekindle it? Without the violin you
would be helpless.''
``Is it not possible that, in this old man's death,
all its fatal power has been expended?''
He went to the table and took the
instrument from its place. ``You won her
for me; you have brought happiness
and sunshine into my life. No! No!
I can not, will not give you up,'' then
placing the violin and bow in its case he
locked it.
The day was breaking. In an hour
the baker's boy came. Diotti went to
the door, gave him a note addressed to
Mr. Wallace and asked him to deliver it
at once. The boy consented and drove
rapidly away.
Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived;
Diotti told the story of the night. After
the undertaker had taken charge of the
body he found on the dead man's neck,
just to the left of the chin, a dullish,
black bruise which might have been
caused by the pressing of some blunt
instrument, or by a man's thumb. Considering
it of much importance, he notified
the coroner, who ordered an inquest.
At six o'clock that evening a jury was
impaneled, and two hours later its
hesitate to show you their preference. To
a woman like Mildred that would be torture;
she could not and would not separate
the professional artist from the lover
or husband.''
And Diotti, remembering Mildred's
words, could not refute the old man's
statements.
``If you had known her mother as I
did,'' continued the old man, realizing
his argument was making an impression
on the violinist, ``you would see the
agony in store for the daughter if she
married a man such as you, a public servant,
a public favorite.''
``I would live my life not to excite her
suspicions or jealousy,'' said the artist,
with boyishenthusiasm and simplicity.
``Foolish fellow,'' retorted Sanders,
skeptically; ``women imagine, they don't
reason. A scented note unopened on
the dressing table can cause more
unhappiness to your wife than the loss of
his country to a king. My advice to you
is: do not marry; but if you must, choose
one who is more interested in your
gastronomic felicity than in your marital
constancy.''
Diotti was silent. He was pondering
the words of his host. Instead of seeing
in Mildred a possibly jealous woman,
causing mentalmisery, she appeared a
vision of single-hearted devotion. He
felt: ``To be loved by such a one is
bliss beyond the dreams of this world.''
XII
A tipsy man is never interesting,
and Sanders in that condition
was no exception. The old man arose
with some effort, walked toward the
window and, shading his eyes, looked
out. The snow was drifting, swept
hither and thither by the cutting wind
that came through the streets in great
gusts. Turning to the violinist, he said,
``It's an awful night; better remain here
until morning. You'll not find a cab; in
fact, I will not let you go while this
storm continues,'' and the old man
raised the window, thrusting his head
out for an instant. As he did so the icy
blast that came in settled any doubt in
the young man's mind and he concluded
to stop over night.
It was nearly two o'clock; Sanders
showed him to his room and then
returned down stairs to see that everything
was snug and secure. After changing
his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers
and wrapping a dressing gown around
him, the old man stretched his legs
toward the fire and sipped his toddy.
``He isn't a bad sort for a violinist,''
mused the old man; ``if he were worth
a million, I believe I'd advise Wallace to
let him marry her. A fiddler! A million!
Sounds funny,'' and he laughed
shrilly.
He turned his head and his eyes
caught sight of Diotti's violin case resting
on the center table. He staggered
from the chair and went toward it; opening
the lid softly, he lifted the silken
coverlet placed over the instrument and
examined the strings intently. ``I am
right,'' he said; ``it is wrapped with
hair, and no doubt from a woman's head.
Eureka!'' and the old man, happy in the
discovery that his surmises were correct,
returned to his chair and his toddy.
He sat looking into the fire. The
violin had brought back memories of the
past and its dead. He mumbled, as if
to the fire, ``she loved me; she loved
my violin. I was a devil; my violin
was a devil,'' and the shadows on the
wall swayed like accusing spirits. He
buried his face in his hands and cried
piteously, ``I was so young; too young
to know.'' He spoke as if he would
conciliate the ghastly shades that moved
restlessly up and down, when suddenly
--``Sanders, don't be a fool!''
He ambled toward the table again.
``I wonder who made the violin? He
would not tell me when I asked him to-
night; thank you for your pains, but I
will find out myself,'' and he took the
violin from the case. Holding it with
the light slanting over it, he peered
inside, but found no inscription. ``No
maker's name--strange,'' he said. He
tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and
listened intently; ``he must be asleep; he
won't hear me,'' and noiselessly he
closed the door. ``I guess if I play a
tune on it he won't know.''
He took the bow from its place in the
case and tightened it. He listened
again. ``He is fast asleep,'' he whispered.
``I'll play the song I always
played for her--until,'' and the old man
repeated the words of the refrain:
``Fair as a lily, joyous and free,
Light of the prairie home was she;
Every one who knew her felt the gentle power
Of Rosalie, the Prairie Flower.''
He sat again in the arm-chair and
placed the violin under his chin.
Tremulously he drew the bow across the
middle string, his bloodless fingers moving
slowly up and down.
The theme he played was the melody
to the verse he had just repeated, but the
expression was remorse.
***
Diotti sat upright in bed. ``I am
positive I heard a violin!'' he said, holding
one hand toward his head in an attitude
of listening. He was wide awake. The
drifting snow beat against the window
panes and the wind without shrieked like
a thousand demons of the night. He
could sleep no more. He arose and
hastily dressed. The room was bitterly
cold; he was shivering. He thought of
the crackling logs in the fire-place below.
He groped his way along the darkened
staircase. As he opened the door leading
into the sitting-room the fitful gleam
of the dying embers cast a ghastly light
over the face of a corpse.
Diotti stood a moment, his eyes
transfixed with horror. The violin and bow
still in the hands of the dead man told
him plainer than words what had happened.
He went toward the chair, took
the instrument from old Sanders' hands
and laid it on the table. Then he knelt
beside the body, and placing his ear
close over the heart, listened for some
sign of life, but the old man was beyond
human aid.
He wheeled the chair to the side of
the room and moved the body to the
sofa. Gently he covered it with a robe.
The awfulness of the situation forced
itself upon him, and bitterly he blamed
himself. The terrible power of the
instrument dawned upon him in all its
force. Often he had played on the strings
telling of pity, hope, love and joy, but
now, for the first time, he realized what
that fifth string meant.
``I must give it back to its owner.''
``If you do you can never regain it,''
whispered a voice within.
``I do not need it,'' said the violinist,
almost audibly.
``Perhaps not,'' said the voice, ``but
if her love should wane how would you
rekindle it? Without the violin you
would be helpless.''
``Is it not possible that, in this old man's death,
all its fatal power has been expended?''
He went to the table and took the
instrument from its place. ``You won her
for me; you have brought happiness
and sunshine into my life. No! No!
I can not, will not give you up,'' then
placing the violin and bow in its case he
locked it.
The day was breaking. In an hour
the baker's boy came. Diotti went to
the door, gave him a note addressed to
Mr. Wallace and asked him to deliver it
at once. The boy consented and drove
rapidly away.
Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived;
Diotti told the story of the night. After
the undertaker had taken charge of the
body he found on the dead man's neck,
just to the left of the chin, a dullish,
black bruise which might have been
caused by the pressing of some blunt
instrument, or by a man's thumb. Considering
it of much importance, he notified
the coroner, who ordered an inquest.
At six o'clock that evening a jury was
impaneled, and two hours later its
- admiration [,ædmə´reiʃən]
n.赞赏，钦佩 (初中英语单词) - professional [prə´feʃənəl] a.职业的 n.自由职业 (初中英语单词)
- argument [´ɑ:gjumənt] n.辩论；争论；论证 (初中英语单词)
- excite [ik´sait] vt.激动；引起，招惹 (初中英语单词)
- enthusiasm [in´θju:ziæzəm] n.热心；狂热；爱好 (初中英语单词)
- jealous [´dʒeləs] a.妒忌的 (初中英语单词)
- mental [´mentl] a.精神的；心理的 (初中英语单词)
- misery [´mizəri] n.痛苦；悲惨；穷困 (初中英语单词)
- devotion [di´vəuʃən] n.献身；忠诚；热爱 (初中英语单词)
- exception [ik´sepʃən] n.例外；反对，异议 (初中英语单词)
- thither [´ðiðə] ad.到那里 a.那边的 (初中英语单词)
- instant [´instənt] a.立即的 n.紧迫；瞬间 (初中英语单词)
- advise [əd´vaiz] vt.忠告；建议；通知 (初中英语单词)
- softly [´sɔftli] ad.软化地；柔和地 (初中英语单词)
- instrument [´instrumənt] n.仪器；手段；乐器 (初中英语单词)
- prairie [´preəri] n.大草原 (初中英语单词)
- horror [´hɔrə] n.恐怖；战栗 (初中英语单词)
- gently [´dʒentli] ad.温和地；静静地 (初中英语单词)
- bitterly [´bitəli] ad.悲痛地；憎恨地 (初中英语单词)
- sunshine [´sʌnʃain] n.日光，阳光 (初中英语单词)
- charge [tʃɑ:dʒ] v.收费；冲锋 n.费用 (初中英语单词)
- preference [´prefərəns] n.优先选择；偏爱(物) (高中英语单词)
- ghastly [´gɑ:stli] a.苍白的；可怕的 (高中英语单词)
- inscription [in´skripʃən] n.题名；题字；碑文 (高中英语单词)
- joyous [´dʒɔiəs] a.充满快乐的 (高中英语单词)
- repeated [ri´pi:tid] a.反复的；重复的 (高中英语单词)
- upright [´ʌprait] a.直立的 ad.直立地 (高中英语单词)
- regain [ri´gein] vt.收回；恢复 (高中英语单词)
- bruise [bru:z] n.伤痕 v.打(碰)伤 (高中英语单词)
- boyish [´bɔiiʃ] a.少年的；幼稚的 (英语四级单词)
- violin [,vaiə´lin] n.(小)提琴 (英语四级单词)
- intently [in´tentli] ad.专心地 (英语四级单词)
- noiselessly [´nɔizlisli] ad.静静地，轻轻地 (英语四级单词)
- felicity [fi´lisiti] n.幸福；(措词)适当 (英语六级单词)
- wrapping [´ræpiŋ] n.包装材料 (英语六级单词)
- holding [´həuldiŋ] n.保持，固定，存储 (英语六级单词)
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章节正文
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