The clarion. [volume] (Jackson, Miss.) 1883-1888, 1885-05-27

neIpless IN ms surprise ar seeing ner,
and then, with grand air of calm po-
hteneSs, handing her to one Of the crazy
chairs that furnished his poor room.
waits. with cold face. to learn the OH
lect OF her visit. Then the wOman-0r
the music-pleads in pathetic strains
Tor pardon and forgiveness-pleads the
pressure put upon her by friends-pIeaGs
her utter helpleSSnesS in their hands,
Yet tells hlm, even with the wedding
Ilng waiting 70 encircle her finger. that
ne alone, the exiled, poverty-stricken
fIehehnan, owns the love her heart
can give And as the tears fall from
net eyes, the man waves his arm round
the sQuaIld room, and showing hy that
gesture MS utter poverty and hopeless
ness. eommendS. with bitter snesr. fIls4
course she has taken. or been cnmnell,sfg
to take, and asks how be could expaef.
the daughter of a noble English family
to share such home and such a lof a,
ms. | see the girl hesitate. falter. and
Jremble. and as she rises, the man. with
calm air and forced cOmposure opeus
the door. Weeping bitterly she leaves
him; and as he closes the rickety door
upon her. a wall of music. more mourn-
ful than words can describe. fingers in
the air. and brings the tears to my ewes.
while the man kneelS down and kisses
the very boards on which her feet had
rested.
With the mirthless smile upon his
face, he sits down thinking. thinking.
and the music, PLAYING ever. gives ma
his thoughts. As | read them | shud-
der, knowing how every fresh departure
tends ever and only 10 the same end
what has he 10 do with life any longer2
he, the last descendant of a noble
French family, his sovereign an exile.
his lands and possessions contiscated or
squandered, and now he lies starving.
or soon To be starving, in a London
attic. Even the fame that he once hoped
to win as musician Is far of; and, il
ever To be won, IS il worth struggling
for: The past. To him. is full of aCo-
niZlng recOllections of relatives and
friends whose blood has slaked the
guillotine's thirst. The present is mis-
cry. The future, now that the dream
of love he had dared for a while 10
dream Is diSpelled, hopeleSS-what, in
deed, has he to do with life anv lnnwerP
II he knows not how 10 live, at least no
knows how to die.
Ever with the same dreary thoughts
In his mind, | see him take the bulky
score-the result of months it may ha
years, of labor-and deliberately tear
sheet after sheet to pieces. until tha
floor is Uttered with the Fragments
And as his action tells me he renounces
hope, love, and fame, know l am fate.l
to see an awful sight, but am powerleSs
TO move my eyes from the scene. For
still the melancholy notes sound; and
know that until Luigi's hands are at
rest | am fettered by the spell the music
weaves. l watch the man, or the phan-
tom. with concentrated interest. The
last page of the score falls in tatters to
the ground. and, still seated in the chair
which he had placed for the girl, he
stretches out his hand, seeking for
something among the papers on the
table. Wen | know the object he seeks
"a small knife, with an elabOrately
chased silver handle-a relic, doubtless,
of former riches. Tomorrow even
that would have been sold TO provide
the bare necessaries of thelife he ceases
to care for. He opens il, passes his fiu-
gers across the keen edge, and remoy-
ing his coat, turns up his Shirt-sleeve
to the shoulder, and deliberately sewers
a large vein or artery in his arm. Oh,
that maddening musicl-encouraging
tempting, even applauding his crime
of self-deStructionl | see, and sicken
at the sight, the first red rush of blood
from his white arm; and then. drip,
drip, drip, follow the large quiek-falling
drops. So real, so horrible is thevision,
that / can even note the crimson pool
ing the floor. VIII the fatal music never
end? Minutes are hours as | watch the
face grow whittier and yet whittier, as the
man sits bleeding to death. Now while
| long to faint and lose the dreadful
sight, he rises. and, with tottering steps,
walks across the room and takes up the
violin. With the life-blood streaming
from his left arm, once more, and the
last time, he makes the instrument
L.. II Al,.. -
comes from him, and not from Luigi.
AS he plays, even while wait for what
must follow, | know that such rare
music was never heard on earth as the
strain to which | listen-fancying the
while | can see the eager wings of Death
lowering around the player. To what
can / compare it? a poet would term
it the death-song Of the swan. 1t is the
death-song of a genius-One whom the
world never knew-whose own rash act
has extinguished the sacred flame.
Strong and wild and wonderful rises
the music for a while. Now it sinks
lower, and lower, and lower. Now it is
so soft | can scarcely hear it; it is ebb-
ing to silence, even as the heart 's-bl0od
is ebbing to death. The face grows
ghastly; the head sinks upon the breast;
the eyes flicker like the dying flame OF
a candle; the violin drops from the red
dened hand, and the man falls sideways
from his chair to the ground, even az
Luigi's violin completes the bar his fall
had broken off in the middle; and as it
sums up the tragedy in one long-sus-
tanned passage of hopeless grief. l see
the bloOdless white face of the man.
now dead, or soon to be dead, lying on
the ruddy floor; while the left arm, mo-
tiOnless now. rests as il had fallen across
the violin, which those nerveless fingers
had al. last hnpfa faiu fO drpn
The music stOpped-the spell was
ended. SO powerfully was | wrought
upon by the last vision / had seen. that
the moment my limbs resumed their
freedom, 1 rushed forward and fell
fainting on the very spot on which IL
seemed TO me the man had died. When
l recovered consciousness, / found
Luigi bending over me, and spOnging
my face with cold water. He was pale
and agitated. and seemed from physical
exhaustion scarcely able TO stand. /
rose, and with a shudder looked toward
that part of the room where the phan-
tasmagoria had appeared. Nothing was
there now to move me. The familiar
wallpaper, the pictures | had so often
scanned, alone met my eye. As gazed
round, Luigi, in a whisper, asked:
You saw it all. then, as | did?"
Il saw it all; could it have been a
dream?"
He shook his head. IF so, three times
have ! dreamed it. and each time alike
in every detail. The first time / said,
1t must be a dream:' the second time,
IL may be fancy But what can say
now, when another sees it alsol"
could give him no answer-I could
| offer no eXplanation-only ] asked:
"Why did you not cease playing, and
spare me that last sight?"
| Il could not. 1t was your impulse to
| play ON that violin. when first you saw
| il, that led me to think its strange pow
| er would act on another besides myself,
| and induced me to go through it all
once more. But it will tell its story TO
no one else"
l turned inquiringly, and seeing on
| the carpet mass of small splinteTs OF
wood. mixed with tangled strings and,
| pegs, knew what he meant. This, the&
| was the end of the masterpiece OF StraM-
varius.
~And you mean to say you had no
power to cease when. once you begant-
| were compelled to play through the
whole tragedy"
Il had no power to stop. Some force
| irresistibly compelled me. | was but
an instrument; and absurd as it seems.
/ believe that you. with no knowledge
of the art, would have played just as L
| did"
/ But the music?" l asked. ~The won
! derful muster"
/ That to me-" replied Luigi, sis the
strangest thing of all. Neither you nor
| can recall a single bar of it. Even
those two or three melodies which, as
we heard them, we thought would haunt
us, have vanished"
And it was so. Try how L would. |
could fashion no tune at all like them.
1T bears out what told you,' said
Luigi. in conclusion. Il was simply an