The Arkansaw traveler., 1888-02-18

The history of my life is very much the history of my art. I have always been an art-concentated man-self- concentrated, my friend Felix Leo- minister tells me frankly-and since I was boy nothing has ever troubled the serene repose of my egotism.
 It is strange, considering the way people rant about the passionate sympathy" of my playing, the "enor- nous potentiality of suffering" re- vealed in my music, how singularly free from passion and disturbance my life has been.
 have never let myself be troubled by what is commonly called "love." To be frank with you, 1 do not much believe in it. Of the two principal elements of which it is composed, van- ity and egoism, have too little of the former, too much of the latter, too much coldness, withal, in my charac- ter to suffer from it. My lite has been notoriously irreproachable. I figure in polemical literature as an instance of a man who has lived in contact with the demoralizing influence of the stage and will yet go to heaven. 4 td 60nne heure'
 Iam coming to the end of my souv- enirs and my cigar at the same time. l must convey a coin somehow to that dreary person outside, who is grinding now halfway down the street.
 On consideration, decide emphat- ically against opening the window and presenting it that way. If the fog once gets in, it will utterly spoil me for any work this evening. I feel myself in travail also of two charm ing little Lieder that all this thinking about Ninette has suggested How would "Chansons dc Canine" do for a title? I think it best, on second thoughts, to ring for Giacomo, my man, and send him out with the half crown l propose to sacrifice on the altar of sentiment. Doubtless the musician is country woman of his, and if he pockets the coin, that is his lookout.
 Now, if was writing romance, what chance have got! should tell you how my organ grinder turned out to be no other than Ninette. Of course she would not be spoiled or changed by the years-just the same Ninette. Then what scope for pathetic scene of reconciliation and forgiveness-th whole to conclude with peal of marriage bells, two people living to- gether "happy ever after" But l am not writing romance, and l am a musician, not poet.
 Sometimes, however, it strikes me that I should like to see Ninette again, and find myself seeking traces of her in childish faces in the street.
 The absurdity of such an expecta- tion strikes me very forcibly after wards, when look at my reflection in the glass and tell myself that I must be careful in the disposition of my parting.
 Ninette, too, was my contemporary. Still l cannot conceive of her as wo- man. To me she is always a child. Ninette grown up, with a draggled dress and squalling babies, is an in- congruous thing that shocks my sense of artistic fitness. My fiddle is my only mistress, and, while can sum- mon it's consolation at command, l may not be troubled by the pettiness of mere human love. But once, when down with Roman fever and tossed on hotel bed all the long, hot night, while Giacomo drowsed in corner over "Il Diavolo Rosa," I seemed to miss Ninette.
 Remembering that time, some- times fancy that when the inevitable hour strikes, and this hand is too weak to raise the soul of melody out of Stradivarius-when, my brief dream of life and music over, go down into the dark land, where there is no more music, and no Ninette, into the sleep from which there comes no awakening-I should like to see her again-not the woman, but the child. I should like to look into the wonder ful eyes of the old Ninette, to feel the soft cheek laid against mine, to hold the little brown hands, as in the old gamin days.
 It is foolish thought, because I lam not forty yet, and with the moderate life lead may live to play Stradiva- rius for another thirty years.
 There is always the hope, too, that it, when it comes, may seize me sum- denly. To see it coming-that is the horrible part. should like to be struck by lightning, with you in my arms, Stradivarius, oh, my beloved to die playing.
 The literary gentleman over his head is stamping viciously about his room. What would his language be if he knew how I had rewarded his tor mentress-he, whose principles are SO fricf that he would hear inc an0nv