II.
Paris, 13th April, 1814.
I received from M. —— the following note:—
“Your story of the musician in the dungeon, and your longing to hear him again, form a pretty romance; but, like other romances, it savors strongly of imagination. I told it to Lafont to-day; he laughed, and said, ‘I pledge myself to cure this feverish enthusiasm: I must give him a violin concert.’ I have taken him at his word. This evening his promise is to be fulfilled; and, to put you down completely, Baillot, Kreuzer and Rode are also invited! Can you desire more? I shall expect you this evening.”
I cannot describe what I felt at this invitation. For the last four years I had heard all the violin players in the different cities where I had been, yet nothing in the smallest degree approached what I remembered. Now I was to hear the four most famous masters the world knew. I trembled for my ideal.
With a beating heart, I found myself in the brilliantly lighted saloon. Ah, the splendor of the scene, the elegant dresses of the ladies, were displeasing to me; I thought of my dungeon in Milan, and the melody that seemed wafted from another sphere.
The concert began. Lafont played first. The most perfect polish, a tone of silvery clearness—in andante, as in allegro, grace itself—were his; but it was as a finely wrought miniature beside the nameless charm of that glorious picture before my mind’s vision.
Next I heard Kreuzer. Brilliant as a string of diamonds were his passages, full and clear were his tones, and of surpassing boldness and strength; but his was the brilliancy of pure metal, or of jewels—not the living beam that penetrates the soul.
Baillot now came forward. The full, energetic harmony he drew from the instrument, roused memory in my breast. A noble fire glowed in his work; he ruled like a monarch over the realm of sound. But my prisoner ruled like a god!
At last appeared Rode. His noble, expressive features, his air of graceful, manly dignity, influenced me in his favor. He began. I started involuntarily; he brought back to me powerfully the recollection of the player who had so deeply moved my heart. His representation appeared like the sculptured image that pictures forth the very form of a loved being. The same fervor breathed in his music, the same fire, restrained by kindred power. At the moment, I almost fancied he equaled the mysterious stranger; but as he proceeded, I felt that what seemed in him so wonderful, so finished an effort, would have been accomplished at once and with ease by my prisoner. His chainless spirit would have soared upward and onward still, seeking more distant heights, more fathomless depths;—him the bounds of earth could never have contained. He swept the empyrean towards the confines of other worlds, and the harmonies heard there he gave back to men in tones of unrivaled melody.
Thus I felt during the remainder of the concert. After it was over, M. —— introduced me to the celebrated artists. Courtesy required that I should praise their performance—and who would not have praised it? Of my prisoner I was silent; but Lafont, to whom M. —— had told the story, began himself to question me. I endeavored to avoid speaking on the subject, in vain; at last I related the occurrence. All except Rode smiled; and when I mentioned and described some peculiar difficulties which I had heard overcome in a wonderful manner, Lafont exclaimed, “Oh, you are joking with us!” In short, it was plain they did not believe me. I was vexed, and soon after took my leave. Hardly was I out of the door when I perceived some one following me hastily; it was Rode.
“Sir,” said he, “your narration has deeply affected me. Is it true—upon your honor?”
I assured him it was.
“Yes,” he answered, “I believe you; but I am convinced there lives only one man on earth who can be your mysterious prisoner. Fifteen years since, when I was a young man, I chanced to be in Genoa. Going home late one evening, I heard the sound of a violin. The playing filled me with astonishment. At first I could not perceive whence came this enchanting music; but I soon discovered the performer to be a youth hardly grown out of boyhood, who stood on a garden wall not very high, and, looking towards a dimly-lighted window, drew from his instrument those heavenly sounds. I stood rooted to the ground. At that time I was myself a performer; but never had I dreamed of such mysteries in music as were here revealed to me. Hidden in the shadow, I remained listening. The moon came from behind a cloud, and shone full on the figure of the youthful player. His features were like those you have described, but softened, probably, from his extreme youth.
“He ended his playing; the window opened, and a female figure appeared and threw something down. An instant after, a harsh voice cried, ‘Traditore, pel diavolo!’ At this outcry, the boy sprang down from the wall into the street, plunged into a side alley, and disappeared before I could recover from my surprise. At the same time I perceived a head peering over the wall, and oaths and menaces were poured forth without stint. The light in the window was extinguished. Evidently it was some love affair. After some minutes, I came out from my concealment, and as I passed along the wall, I trod upon something which proved a violin bow. The lad must have lost it as he leaped from the wall. I have this bow yet: it is marked with a P. I hoped by means of it to discover the young musician, but the troubled state of the times compelled me in a day or two to leave the city. Since then I have heard nothing of my unknown artist. But I owe him much. The impression his magical performance left with me was deeper than I could express; by it I have modeled and improved my own. Yes, I am indebted to this strange appearance—this revelation, I might call it—for perhaps the greatest part of my fame!”
I heard this relation of the great artist with astonishment. Then I owned to him that I had found in his playing some resemblance to that of the unfortunate stranger. It seemed as if Rode had apprehended and followed the first flights of that wild spirit.
We parted. I have hope still so mighty a genius must one day sway the world. If tyrant fate have not already crushed him, that spirit must one day be crowned sovereign over all hearts!