Theosophical Society,
NIGHTMARE
TALES
A
Compilation of Stories
By
H P Blavatsky
H P Blavatsky
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The Ensouled Violin
By
H P
Blavatsky
I
In
the year 1828, an old German, a music teacher, came to
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
rumour went, with extraordinary, almost miraculous
talent. Yet as he was poor and had not hitherto made a name for himself in
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
later, as a student in the shadow of the old Rhenish castles of
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 Kunrath; 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 a 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
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 Calirrhoe'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
"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 stem 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
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
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
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
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
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
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 slakened 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 serieux,
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 mediaeval 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
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
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
event occured which put an
end even to their most modest expectations. The first arrival of Niccolo Paganini was suddenly
heralded, and threw Lutetia into a
convulsion
of expectation. The unparallel artist arrived, and -- all
at once at his feet.
II
Now
it is a well-known fact that a superstition born in the dark days of
mediaeval
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 sung
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; stouthearted men he drove to frenzy. He changed
cowards into heroes and made the bravest soldiers feel like so many nervous
school-girls. 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
Magicians, so-called, and it is an averred 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
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 Ernst T. W. Hoffmann, the
celebrated
author of Die Elixire des Teufels,
Meister Martin, and other charming
and
mysterious 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 Geonese 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
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 debut. 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 towards 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, 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, desparing 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
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 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 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
.
"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
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 sick-room 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,
for ever 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 armchair, 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 a 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
triumphant concerts at an old Flemish town in
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
"Frantaisie 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
every one's mouth. Franz Stenio, who, instead of
sleeping, had passed the whole long hours of the preceding
Gradually
he passed into a death-like 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 life-like, 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
foot-stool
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 greyish mist spread over and covered case
and table, and rising
upward
formed itself 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 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
conquerer, 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 be-devilled 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 spell-bound, 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
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 aerial 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 swearing, 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, cloud-like, 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 mediaeval 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 round his neck and
his violin shattered into a thousand fragments. . . .
When
it became publicly known that the unfortunate would-be rival of Niccolo
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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