rtake of the food
before us. This life is a wonderful spectacle. If you saw an episode
like that in a drama, at the theatre, you would all cheer like mad."
We knew he was right.
But the Youngster could not help adding, "That's twice--two days
running, that the Doctor has told a story out of his turn, and both
times he outraged the consign, for both times it was a war story."
That seemed to break the ice. We talked more or less war during
dinner, but this time there were no disputes. Still I think we were
glad when the cook trotted in with the trays, and with our elbows on
the table, we turned toward the Violinist, who leaned against the high
back of his chair, and with his long white hands resting on the carved
arms, and his eyes on the ceiling--an attitude that he did not change
during the narrative, began:
* * * * *
It was in the early eighties that I returned from Germany to my native
land, and settled myself and my violin in the city of my birth.
I was not rich as my countrymen judge wealth, but, in my own
estimation, I was well to do. I had enough to live without labor, and
was, therefore, able to devote myself to my art without considering
too closely the recompense.
In addition to that, I was still young.
I had more love for my chosen mistress--Music--than the Goddess had
for me, for, while she accepted my worship with indulgence, she wasted
fewer gifts on me than fell to the lot of many a less faithful
follower.
Still, I was happy and content in my love for her, and only needed her
to keep me so until, a year after my return, I met one woman, loved
her, and begged her to share with my music, my heart, and its
adoration.
That satisfied her, since, in her own love for the same art, she used
to assure me that she possessed, by proxy, that other half of myself
which I still dedicated to the Muse.
Perhaps it was the vibrant spirit of this woman which seemed musical
to me, and which I so ardently loved, for she appeared to have a
veritable violin soul. Her face was often the medium through which I
saw the spirit of the music I was playing, as it sang in gladness,
sobbed in sadness, thrilled in passion along the strings of my Amati.
I knew that I never played so well as when her face was before me. I
felt that if ever I approached my dreams in achievement, it would be
her soul that inspired me. So like was she, in my fancy, to a musical
instrument, that I used
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