“Any difference? Heavens above! Why, listen!” And the old gentleman drew the bow slowly over double strings, till the air of the room seemed to palpitate with the rich harmony. “Did you ever hear anything like that?” exclaimed he, with flushing face; and he drew the bow again and again. There were exclamations of admiration—real or affected—all around the room.
The Don alone was silent.
I remember looking towards him with a natural curiosity to see what he—the only stranger present—appeared to think of the instrument; but he gave no sign,—none, at least, that I could interpret. He was gazing fixedly at my grandfather with a sort of rapt look,—his head bowed, his lips firmly compressed, but twitching a little. His eyes had a certain glitter about them, strongly contrasting with their usual expression of unobtrusive endurance. I looked towards Charley, but his eyes did not meet mine; for he had turned his chair away from the fire, and was scrutinizing the stranger’s face with a quiet but searching look.
“It is a little hoarse from long disuse,” said Mr. Whacker, drawing the bow slowly as before.
“Give us a tune, Uncle Tom?”
“Yes, yes!” joined in a chorus. “Give us a tune!”
“Pshaw!” said the old gentleman, “it would be a profanation to play a ‘tune’ on this instrument.”
“There is where I don’t agree with you, Mr. Whacker,” put in the fat and jolly middle-aged gentleman. “The last time I was in Richmond I went to hear Ole Bull; and such stuff as he played I wish never to hear again,—nothing but running up and down the strings, with de’il a bit of tune that I could see.”
“That’s precisely my opinion,” said another. “Confound their science, say I.”
“Why, yes,” continued the jolly fat middle-aged gentleman, encouraged. “The fact is, it spoils a fiddler to teach him his notes. Music should come from the heart. Why, I don’t wish to flatter our friend Billy here, but, so far as I am concerned, I would rather hear him than all the Ole Bulls and Paganinis that ever drew a bow.”