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Title: The Weird Violin
Author: Anonymous
* A Project Gutenberg of Australia eBook *
eBook No.: 0606791.txt
Language: English
Date first posted: August 2006
Date most recently updated: August 2006

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The Weird Violin
Anonymous


THE great Polish violinist, S--, was strolling aimlessly about the
town, on a sunny, but cold afternoon, in November of a certain year.
He was to play, at night, at one of the great concerts which made the
town so musically famous, and, according to his usual custom he was
observing passers-by, looking in shop windows, and thinking of
anything rather than the approaching ordeal. Not that he was nervous,
for none could be less so, but he came to his work all the fresher for
an hour or two of idle forgetfulness, and astonished his audiences the
more.

Turning out of the busiest street, he ambled into a comparatively
quiet thoroughfare, and, throwing away an inch of cigar-end, produced
a new havannah, lighting up with every sign of enjoyment. Now, it was
part of his rule, when out on these refreshing excursions, to avoid
music shops, and he had already passed half-a-dozen without doing more
than barely recognise them. It is therefore very remarkable that,
walking by a large music warehouse in this quiet thoroughfare, he
should suddenly stop, and, after remaining in doubt for a few moments,
go straight to the window and look in.

He had not seen anything when he first passed, and, indeed, he had
merely ascertained, out of the corner of his eye, that one of the
forbidden shops was near. Why, then, did he feel impelled to return?

The window was stocked, as all such windows are, with instruments,
music, and such appurtenances as resin, bows, chin-rests, mutes,
strings, bridges and pegs. An old Guanerius, valued at several hundred
guineas, lay alongside a shilling set of bones, and a flageolet, an
ocarina, and several mouth-organs were gracefully grouped upon a
gilt-edged copy of "Elijah."

Amongst the carefully-arranged violins was a curious old instrument
the like of which the virtuoso had never seen before, and at this he
now stared with all his eyes. It was an ugly, squat violin, of heavy
pattern, and ancient appearance. The maker, whoever he had been, had
displayed considerable eccentricity throughout its manufacture, but
more especially in the scroll, which, owing to some freak, he had
carved into the semblancc of a hideous, grinning face. There was
something horribly repulsive about this strange work of art, and yet
it also possessed a subtle fascination. The violinist, keeping his
eyes upon the face, which seemed to follow his movements with fiendish
persistency, slowly edged to the door, and entered the shop.

The attendant came forward, and recognising the well-known performer,
bowed low.

"That is a curious-looking fiddle in the window," began the artist, at
once, with a wave of his hand in the direction of the fiend.

"Which one, sir?" inquired the attendant. "Oh, the one with the
remarkable scroll, you mean. I'll get it for you." Drawing aside a
little curtain, he dived into the window-bay, and produced the
instrument, whose face seemed to be grinning more maliciously than
ever.

"A fair tone, sir," added the man, "but nothing to suit you, I'm
sure."

As soon as Herr S---- touched the neck of the violin he gripped it
convulsively, and raised the instrument to his chin. Then, for a few
moments, he stood, firm as a rock, his eyes fixed upon the awe-
stricken attendant, evidently without seeing him.

"A bow," said the musician, at length, in a low voice. He stretched
out his disengaged hand and took it, without moving his eyes. Then he
stopped four strings with his long fingers, and drew the horse-hair
smartly over them with one rapid sweep, producing a rich chord in a
minor key.

A slight shiver passed over his frame as the notes were struck, and
the look of concentration upon his face, changed to one of horror; but
he did not cease. Slowly dropping his gaze, the performer met the
gibing glance of the scroll-face, and though his own countenance
blanched, and his lips tightened, as if to suppress a cry, the bow was
raised again, and the violin spoke.

Did the demon whisper to those moving, nervous fingers? It almost
seemed to be doing so; and surely such a melody as came from the
instrument was born of no human mind. It was slow and measured, but no
solemnity was suggested; it thrilled the frame, but with terror, not
delight; it was a chain of sounds, which like a sick man's passing
fancy, slipped out of the memory as soon as it was evolved, and was
incapable of being recalled.

Slowly, when the last strains were lost, the great violinist dropped
both arms to his side, and stood for a few moments, grasping violin
and bow, without speaking. There were drops of perspiration on his
forehead, and he was pale and weary-looking; when he spoke, it was in
a faint voice, and he seemed to address himself to something
invisible.

"I cannot endure it now," he said. "I will play again to-night."

"Do you wish to play on the instrument at this evening's concert,
sir?" inquired the dealer, not without some astonishment at the
choice, much as the performance had affected him.

"Yes--yes, of course!" was the reply, given with some irritability,
the speaker having apparently roused himself from his semi-stupor.

As the dealer took back the fiddle, he chanced to turn it back
uppermost. It was a curiously marked piece of wood, a black patch
spreading over a large portion, and throwing an ugly blur upon the
otherwise exquisite purling.

"See!" gasped the artist, pointing a shaking finger at this blotch,
and clutching at the shopkeeper's shoulder. "Blood!"

"Good gracious!" ejaculated the other, shrinking back in alarm. "Are
you ill, sir?"

"Blood, blood!" repeated the half-demented musician, and he staggered
out of the shop.

It was night, and the concert-room was crowded to excess. The
performers upon the platform, accustomed as they were to such sights,
could not but gaze with interest at the restless sea of eager,
expectant faces which stretched before them.

That indescribable noise, a multitude of subdued murmurs, accompanied
by the discordant scraping of strings, and blowing of reeds, was at
its height; now and then a loud trombone would momentarily assert
itself, or an oboe's plaintive notes would rise above the tumult; and,
in short, the moment of intense excitement which immediately precedes
the entrance of the conductor was at hand.

Suddenly, the long-continued confusion ceased, and, for an
incalculably short space of time, silence reigned. Then a storm of
deafening applause burst forth; necks were craned, and eyes strained
in vain attempts to catch an early glimpse of the great violinist who
was to open the concert by playing a difficult Concerto of Spohr.

It was noticed, that as the virtuoso followed the grey-haired
conductor to the centre of the platform, he was unusually pale; and
those who were seated at no great distance from the orchestra,
observed also that he carried a curious violin, instead of the
Stradivarius upon which he was wont to perform.

A tap on the conductor's desk, a short, breathless silence, and the
sweet strains of the opening bars issued from the instruments of a
hundred able musicians.

The soloist, with a sinking at the heart which he could scarcely
account for, raised the violin to his shoulder, and saw, for the first
time, that it had been re-strung. As he invariably left stringing and
tuning to others, this would appear to have been a matter of no
moment, and yet it had a strange effect upon him. Again that shudder
passed through his body, and again he unwillingly met the glance of
those diabolical eyes upon the scroll. Horror of horrors! was the face
alive, or was he going mad?

The band, which had swelled out to a loud forte, now dropped to a
pianissimo. The moment had arrived. Herr S--raised his bow, and
commenced the lovely adagio.

What had come to him? Where were the concert room, the orchestra, the
anxious crowd of people? What sounds were these? This was not Spohr,
this sweet melody so like, and yet so unlike the weird music which he
had played in the dealer's shop. What subtle magic had so acted upon
those strains that their horror, their cruel mockery had entirely
vanished, and sweet, pure harmony alone remained?

It seemed to the player that he stood within a small, but comfortably
furnished room. Two figures were in the room, those of a beautiful
young girl, and of a dark, handsome, foreign-looking man.

There was something in the face of the latter which vividly recalled
the face upon the scroll, and, strange to say, a counterpart of the
violin itself rested under the man's chin.

The girl was seated at a harpsichord, and, as she played, her
companion accompanied her upon his strange instrument. From the
costume of both, the dreamer concluded that they were phantoms of a
hundred years ago.

"Ernestine," the man was saying, in a low voice, as he passed his bow
over the strings, "tell me to-night that you have not dismissed me for
ever. I can wait for your love."

"It is useless," replied the girl--"oh, it is quite useless! Why
importune me further? I could never love you, even if I were not
already promised to another."

A savage light gleamed in the man's eye, and more than ever he looked
like the face on the violin; but he did not immediately reply and the
music went on.

"You tell me it is useless," he said, at length, "and I tell you that
it is useless. Useless for you to think of him. Do you hear?" he
continued, lowering his violin, and leaning towards her. "You shall
never marry him; I swear it by my soul."

The girl shrank from him, and the music ceased. Though he did not know
it, the dreaming violinist had reached the conclusion of the adagio
movement. He did not hear the deafening plaudits which greeted the
fall of his bow; he knew nothing of the enthusiasm of the orchestra,
or the praise of the conductor; he heard no more music.

Look! what is this? The girl has seated herself upon a couch, and her
lover, his violin still in his left hand, is kneeling at her feet,
passionately imploring her to listen. She expostulates for awhile,
then repulses him and rises. A malignant fire darts from the furious
foreigner's eyes; something bright gleams in his hand; he rushes
forward, raises his arm to strike--

The presto movement had commenced, and an extraordinary circumstance
soon made itself apparent to the audience. The violinist was running
away with the band. Greatly to the horror of the conductor, the tempo
had to be increased until a prestissimo was reached. Still the
performer was not satisfied, there seemed no limit to his powers to-
night; his fingers literally flew up and down the fingerboard; his bow
shot to-and-fro with incredible swiftness; and yet the music grew
quicker, quicker, until the unhappy conductor, who with difficulty
pulled along the toiling band, felt that a fiasco was inevitable.

On, on rushed the fingers and the bow, faster, and faster still: a few
of the bandsmen fell off from sheer exhaustion, and stared, horror-
stricken, at the mad violinist. Some of the listeners rose in alarm,
and many were only detained, by extreme anxiety, from bursting into
loud and frantic applause.

Suddenly, with the loud snap of a string, the spell was broken. The
orchestra, unable now to proceed, stopped in utter confusion, and a
loud sigh of released suspense went up from thousands of throats. Then
the whole mass rose in sudden horror, as the violinist dropped his
instrument with a crash upon the platform, stared wildly around,
clasped a hand to his side, and, with a strange cry, fell to the
ground insensible.

For weeks the great violinist lay between life and death; then nature
reasserted herself, and he recovered. But it was long, very long, ere
he could again appear in public; whilst the weird and mysterious
violin never again sent forth its strange and mysterious influence. It
had been hopelessly shattered in that last night of its performance,
which had well-nigh proved fatal to the world-famed player.



THE END



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