Hawksley laid his fingers on the strings and drew the bow with a

powerful flourishing sweep. The rich, sonorous tones vibrated after the

bow had passed. Then followed the tricks by which an artist seeks

to discover flaws or wolf notes. A beatific expression settled upon

Hawksley face. He nestled the violin comfortably under his chin and

began to play softly. Cutty, the nurse, and the dealer became images.

Minors; a bit of a dance; more minors; nothing really begun, nothing

really finished--sketches, with a melancholy note running through them

all. While that pouring into his ears enchained his body it stirred

recollections in Cutty's mind: The fair at Novgorod; the fiddling

mountebanks; Russian.

Perhaps the dealer's astonishment was greatest. An Englishman! Who ever

heard of an Englishman playing a violin like that?

"I will buy it," said Hawksley, sinking back.

"Sir," began the dealer, "I am horribly embarrassed. I cannot sell

that violin because it isn't mine. It is an Amati worth ten thousand

dollars."

"I will give you twelve."

"But, sir--"

"Name a price," interrupted Hawksley, rather imperiously. "I want it."

Cutty understood that he was witnessing a flash of the ancient blood. To

want anything was to have it.

"I repeat, sir, I cannot sell it. It belongs to a Hungarian who is now

in Hungary. I loaned him fifteen hundred and took the Amati as security.

Until I learn if he is dead I cannot dispose of the violin. I am sorry.

But because you are a real artist, sir, I will loan it to you if you

will make a deposit of ten thousand against any possible accident, and

that upon demand you will return the instrument to me."

"That's fair enough," interposed Cutty.

"I beg pardon," said Hawksley. "I agree. I want it, but not at the price

of any one's dishonesty."

He turned his head toward Cutty, "You're a thoroughbred, sir. This will

do more to bring me round than all the doctors in the world."

"But what the deuce is the difference?" Cutty demanded with a gesture

toward the rejected violins.

The dealer and Hawksley exchanged smiles. Said the latter: "The other

violins are pretty wooden boxes with tolerable tunes in their insides.

This has a soul." He put the violin against his cheek again.

Massenet's "Elegie," Moszkowski's "Serenata," a transcription, and then

the aria from Lucia. Not compositions professional violinists would have

selected. Cutty felt his spine grow cold as this aria poured goldenly

toward heaven. He understood. Hawksley was telling him that the shade

of his glorious mother was in this room. The boy was right. Some fiddles

had souls. An odd depression bore down upon him. Perhaps this surprising

music, topping his great emotions of the morning, was a straw too much.

There were certain exaltations that could not be sustained.




readonlinefreebook.com Copyright 2016 - 2024