"I can believe you," he said, "and, furthermore, I am sure there is but one man on earth who can be your mysterious prisoner. I heard him myself fifteen years ago. I was in Genoa, and going home late one evening, when I heard a violin played in a manner that filled me with surprise. The music was enchanting. At length I discovered the performer to be a youth hardly grown out of boyhood. He stood on a garden wall, and was looking up toward a window, while he drew from the instrument sounds which revealed mysteries in music of which I had never dreamed before. I stood in the shadow and listened. The moon came out from behind a cloud, and shone full on the boy's face and form; he was like what you have described.
"When he ceased playing, the window was softly opened, and the face of a young girl appeared. The next moment I heard a harsh voice exclaim: 'Traditore! pel diavolo!' The boy sprang from the wall into the street, plunged into a dark alley, and disappeared. A head peered over the wall, and oaths and menaces were profusely poured forth. The light in the window had been quickly extinguished. Some love affair, of course! After waiting some time, I went on, and as I passed by the wall trod upon something. It was a violin bow, no doubt dropped by the lad as he leaped from the wall. I kept the bow in hopes of finding the owner. It was marked with a P. But I could not trace him; I had to leave Genoa, and have heard nothing of him since. But to him I owe the improvements I have introduced into my performance, for I never lost the impression of his music. I call it a revelation: I owe to it the best part of my fame!"
I listened to the great artist with astonishment. Then I told him of the strange, fitful resemblances I had found in his playing to that of the stranger. Both of us cherish the hope that we shall yet discover him. So mighty a genius must one day sway the world.
III.
Berlin, March 30, 1829.
After my long residence in the north, I returned here yesterday. It was half-past eight when I had changed my travelling dress and dined. I asked the butler if there was anything new at the theatre. "Nothing, mein Herr," he replied. "But the concert is an attraction. There is a violin player—"
"I have had enough of violin players."
"This one, sir, is called a wonder. See, in the paper, here, what the critic—Rellstab—says of him."
"Never mind, I care little for the critic's praise. What is the name of this wonderful performer?"
"His name? I will tell you directly. Strange—it has just gone out of my head! He is an Italian—"
"An Italian?" I exclaimed, starting up.