“Bravo!” cried Arthur, as the last notes thrilled and died away; “I see you understand how to play the fiddle.”
“Yes, sir, and so I should, for I have played first violin at Her Majesty’s Opera before now. Name what you like, and I will play it you. Or, if you like it better, you shall hear the water running in a brook, the wind passing through the trees, or the waves falling on the beach. Only say the word.”
Arthur thought for a moment.
“It is a beautiful day, let us have a contrast—give us the music of a storm.”
The old man considered a while.
“I understand, but you set a difficult subject even for me,” and taking up his bow he made several attempts at beginning. “I can’t do it,” he said, “set something else.”
“No, no, try again, that or nothing.”
Again he started, and this time his genius took possession of him. The notes fell very softly at first, but with an ominous sound, then rose and wailed like the rising of the wind. Next the music came in gusts, the rain pattered, and the thunder roared, till at length the tempest seemed to spend its force and pass slowly away into the distance.
“There, sir, what do you say to that—have I fulfilled your expectations?”
“Write it down and it will be one of the finest pieces of violin music in the country.”