“Allow me to explain the peculiar characteristics of this magnificent instrument,” said his satanic majesty. “This string,” pointing to the G, “is the string of pity; this one,” referring to the third, “is the string of hope; this,” plunking the A, “is attuned to love, while this one, the E string, gives forth sounds of joy.
“You will observe,” went on the visitor, noting the intense interest displayed by the violinist, “that the position of the strings is the same as on any other violin, and therefore will require no additional study on your part.”
“But that extra string?” interrupted Diotti, designating the middle one on the violin, a vague foreboding rising within him.
“That,” said Mephistopheles, solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry, “is the string of death, and he who plays upon it dies at once.”
“The—string—of—death!” repeated the violinist almost inaudibly.
“Yes, the string of death,” Satan repeated, “and he who plays upon it dies at once. But,” he added cheerfully, “that need not worry you. I noticed a marvelous facility in your arm work. Your staccato and spiccato are wonderful. Every form of bowing appears child’s play to you. It will be easy for you to avoid touching the string.”
“Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?”
“Ah, that’s the rub. If you examine the violin closely you will find that the string of death is made up of the extra lengths of the other four strings. To cut it off would destroy the others, and then pity, hope, love and joy would cease to exist in the soul of the violin.”
“How like life itself,” Diotti reflected, “pity, hope, love, joy end in death, and through death they are born again.”
“That’s the idea, precisely,” said Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti’s logic and quick perception.