St. Paul daily globe. [volume] (Saint Paul, Minn.) 1884-1896, 1890-03-03
A Soulful Rhapsody.

Surely an artiSt-or stay, perchanca
poet-thought |, noting the tout ensem-
bic of tall, dark stranger as he stood
alone in corner of the almost deserted
rotunda of the Ryan. Never have |
seen face more infinitely sad, more in
tenSely expressive; seldom eyes so
fraught with the trOuhlOus burden of a
nature at once passionate and impul-
SiVe. Italy alone. thought |. can claim
you, dark-haired, gentle stranger, for
her son; and muSing thus. with the pro-
fessional instinct for investigation
strong within me, drew slowly nigh
the object of my thoughts. He smiled
upon me as addressed him in Italian.
and marvellous was the change. A
smile it was that chased from about
his handsome mouth the somber
lines-a smile as bright as the
first early days of Venetian sun driv-
ing before them the shadows of night,
and casting about the ancient forts
halo Of mOulten glory. Yes" he SAID.
speaking the musical tongue of the
country which gave him birth. ~ am
Venetian. Sig. AlZarrO they call me
there-AlZa.To the violinist. | am alone
and lonely. stranger in a city most
strange to me. Shall play for you? |
~
would care to hear"
From out dlngy case he drew vio-
lin, ancient in design, bereft of external
beauty, but one of the few left as a leg
acy by the maker, with whom the secret
of their construction died and was for
ever lost.
"You are not Catholic?" queried my
entertainer, as he fondled the keys of
his loved companion. al know not
what you will most DESIRE"
With start | turned. and then, fear
full that the fainteSt sound might mar
the exquisite beauty of the strains which
came signing forth from the strings of
that wOrm-eaten instrument. | stood as
though bound with chains of melody.
Ask me not what he played; / think it
was the "Neni Creator ilituS," that
beautiful hymn of the Roman breviary;
but it matters not. have heard famous
violinists, have wept tears of sympathy.
tributes to their genius. | have heard
these l say, but AlZarrO | had never
heard. | understood now the ever
restless changefulneSs of that patrician
face. | watched it as he played and
saw it abIaze with animation and eXcita-
ton as the music, rising from a
murmur akin to the sigh of a
dying saint, rose to joyful strains over
flowing with ectasy, and / saw the
shadows again usurp the brow of the
Venetian as the exquisite air died to
tender whisper and faded into silence,
leaving me Speechless with the power
full emotions wrought by the wondrous
beauty of the Interpretation. Aud still
he played on, now filling the corridors
with the infectious gaiety of a pro-
vincial song. and again. with airs so
sad, so solemn, yet so intensely sweet,as
to hold enthralled all those who heard,
and draw from each a sigh of regret
til it was over. as the last dying strain
faded gently into silence.
think he had forgotten my presence,
so absorbed had be become, for sud
denly looking up he stopped playing,
abruptly, and in response to my plea
for just another such air as the last
would vouchsafe only the reply, ITO
morrow, some other time, not now"
Again he was the somber-faced man
] had just pronounced him. Evidently
he wished to be alone, and fearing to
imperil my new-found friendship with
the wonderful vlolinist, left him alone.
RoNDE RAMBLIN'.