II.
Paris, April 13, 1814.
A distinguished musical amateur—an intimate friend, to whom I had told the story of my imprisoned violinist, and who thought it a romance highly colored by imagination—sent me a note to say that I was to be treated to a violin concert, by way of curing my enthusiasm. Lafont had promised to give it; my friend took him at his word. It was to come off that evening, and Baillot, Kreuzer, and Rode were invited to take part in the music.
During the last four years I had heard the best violin players in the different cities where I had sojourned, but none even approached the unknown performer. Now, my ideal was to be tested by hearing the four most celebrated masters in the world!
The saloon was brilliantly lighted, and filled with a crowd of the artistic and fashionable. The splendor was distasteful to me; I thought of the dungeon in Milan, and the melody that seemed wafted from heaven.
After the overture, Lafont opened the concert. He displayed the most finished grace in andante as in allegro; the most exquisite polish and silvery clearness of tone; but his playing—compared to my prisoner's—was like a delicate miniature beside a grand historical painting.
Kreuzer played next. His tones were full and clear, and rose into rare boldness and strength; many passages were brilliant as a string of diamonds; but it was the brilliancy of polished metal or jewels, not the living beam that penetrates the soul.
Next we heard Baillot. His performance glowed with a noble fire. He drew forth a full, energetic harmony that thrilled me; it was glorious! He ruled the realm of sound like a monarch. But my prisoner ruled it like a god!
Rode appeared last. His form was impressive in grace and dignity; his features were expressive and full of magnetic attraction. I started when he began to play; for he stirred memory to its depths. He seemed to embody the picture that had been floating before my fantasy. His music breathed the same fire and fervor, restrained by kindred power. At one moment, he rose to a height that seemed to equal the stranger's; but he could not sustain it. I felt the difference. In Rode it was a wonderful, a masterly effort— that which my prisoner accomplished with perfect ease. His chainless spirit would have soared upward and onward, seeking prouder heights, more fathomless depths. He swept the empyrean till nearing the confines of purer worlds, and gave back to men in unrivalled melodies the music heard from other spheres.
After the concert was over, my friend M—— introduced me to the celebrated artists, to whom I was bound to praise their admirable performances. I said nothing of my adventure in Milan; but Lafont, who had heard of it from M——, questioned me, and then I related the occurrence. They all laughed except Rode. I tried to describe the mysterious music, mentioning peculiar difficulties overcome in a wonderful manner by the prisoner. "Oh! you are jesting!" exclaimed Lafont. They did not believe me. I was not well pleased, and soon after took my leave. Some one followed me as I walked from the house. It was Rode.
He expressed himself deeply affected by what I had told them, and asked me if it was certainly true. I assured him it was.