the fifth string-第9节
按键盘上方向键 ← 或 → 可快速上下翻页，按键盘上的 Enter 键可回到本书目录页，按键盘上方向键 ↑ 可回到本页顶部！
————未阅读完？加入书签已便下次继续阅读！
‘‘Try that；'' handing a glass of the
toddy to Diotti； ‘‘you will find it all
right；'' and the old man drew an arm…
chair toward the fire…place； smacking his
lips in anticipation。
The violinist placed his chair closer to
the fire and sipped the drink。
‘‘Your country is noted for its beautiful women？''
‘‘We have exquisite types of femininity
in Tuscany；'' said the young man；
with patriotic ardor。
‘‘Any as fine looking asasaswell；
say the young lady we dined with to…night？''
‘‘Miss Wallace？'' queried the Tuscan。
‘‘Yes； Miss Wallace；'' this rather impatiently。
‘‘She is very beautiful；'' said Diotti；
with solemn admiration。
‘‘Have you ever seen any one prettier？''
questioned the old man； after a
second prolonged sip。
‘‘I have no desire to see any one
more beautiful；'' said the violinist； feeling
that the other was trying to draw
him out； and determined not to yield。
‘‘You will pardon the inquisitiveness
of an old man； but are not you musicians
a most impressionable lot？''
‘‘We are human；'' answered the violinist。
‘‘I imagined you were like sailors and
had a sweetheart in every port。''
‘‘That would be a delightful prospect
to one having polygamous aspirations；
but for myself； one sweetheart is enough；''
laughingly said the musician。
‘‘Only one！ Well； here's to her！
With this nectar fit for the gods and
goddesses of Olympus； let us drink to her；''
said old Sanders； with convivial dignity；
his glass raised on high。 ‘‘Here's wishing
health and happiness to the dreamy…
eyed Tuscan beauty； whom you love and
who loves you。''
‘‘Stop！'' said Diotti； ‘‘we will drink
to the first part of that toast；'' and holding
his glass against that of his bibulous
host； continued： ‘‘To the dreamy…eyed
women of my country； exacting of
their lovers； obedient to their parents
and loyal to their husbands；'' and his
voice rose in sonorous rhythm with the
words。
‘‘Now for the rest of the toast； to the
one you love and who loves you；'' came
from Sanders。
‘‘To the one I love and who loves me；
God bless her！'' fervently cried the guest。
‘‘Is she a Tuscan？'' asked old Sanders slyly。
‘‘She is an angel！'' impetuously answered
the violinist。
‘‘Then she is an American！'' said the
old man gallantly。
‘‘She is an American；'' repeated
Diotti； forgetting himself for the instant。
‘‘Let me see if I can guess her
name；'' said old Sanders。 ‘‘It'sit's
Mildred Wallace！'' and his manner
suggested a child solving a riddle。
The violinist； about to speak； checked
himself and remained silent。
‘‘I sincerely pity Mildred if ever she
falls in love；'' abstractedly continued
the host while filling another glass。
‘‘Pray why？'' was anxiously asked。
The old man shifted his position and
assumed a confidential tone and attitude：
‘‘Signor Diotti； jealousy is a more
universal passion than love itself。
Environment may develop our character；
influence our tastes and even soften our
features； but heredity determines the
intensity of the two leading passions； love
and jealousy。 Mildred's mother was a
beautiful woman； but consumed with an
overpowering jealousy of her husband。
It was because she loved him。 The
body…guard of jealousyenvy； malice
and hatredwere not in her composition。
When Mildred was a child of
twelve I have seen her mother suffer
the keenest anguish because Mr。 Wallace
fondled the child。 She thought the
child had robbed her of her husband's
love。''
‘‘Such a woman as Miss Wallace
would command the entire love and
admiration of her husband at all times；''
said the artist。
‘‘If she should marry a man she
simply likes； her chances for happiness
would be normal。''
‘‘In what manner？'' asked the lover。
‘‘Because she would be little
concerned about him or his actions。''
‘‘Then you believe；'' said the
musician； ‘‘that the man who loves her and
whom she loves should give her up
because her chances of happiness would be
greater away from him than with him？''
‘‘That would be an unselfish love；''
said the elder。
‘‘Suppose they have declared their
passion？'' asked Diotti。
‘‘A parting before doubt and jealousy
had entered her mind would let the image
of her sacrificing lover live within
her soul as a tender and lasting memory；
he always would be her ideal；'' and the
accent old Sanders placed on ALWAYS left
no doubt of his belief。
‘‘Why should doubt and jealousy enter
her life？'' said the violinist； falling
into the personal character of the discussion
despite himself。
‘‘My dear sir； from what I observed
to…night； she loves you。 You are a dan…
gerous man for a jealous woman to love。
You are not a cloistered monk； you are
a man before the public； you win the
admiration of many； some women do not
hesitate to show you their preference。 To
a woman like Mildred that would be torture；
she could not and would not separate
the professional artist from the lover
or husband。''
And Diotti； remembering Mildred's
words； could not refute the old man's
statements。
‘‘If you had known her mother as I
did；'' continued the old man； realizing
his argument was making an impression
on the violinist； ‘‘you would see the
agony in store for the daughter if she
married a man such as you； a public servant；
a public favorite。''
‘‘I would live my life not to excite her
suspicions or jealousy；'' said the artist；
with boyish enthusiasm and simplicity。
‘‘Foolish fellow；'' retorted Sanders；
skeptically； ‘‘women imagine； they don't
reason。 A scented note unopened on
the dressing table can cause more
unhappiness to your wife than the loss of
his country to a king。 My advice to you
is： do not marry； but if you must； choose
one who is more interested in your
gastronomic felicity than in your marital
constancy。''
Diotti was silent。 He was pondering
the words of his host。 Instead of seeing
in Mildred a possibly jealous woman；
causing mental misery； she appeared a
vision of single…hearted devotion。 He
felt： ‘‘To be loved by such a one is
bliss beyond the dreams of this world。''
XII
A tipsy man is never interesting；
and Sanders in that condition
was no exception。 The old man arose
with some effort； walked toward the
window and； shading his eyes； looked
out。 The snow was drifting； swept
hither and thither by the cutting wind
that came through the streets in great
gusts。 Turning to the violinist； he said；
‘‘It's an awful night； better remain here
until morning。 You'll not find a cab； in
fact； I will not let you go while this
storm continues；'' and the old man
raised the window； thrusting his head
out for an instant。 As he did so the icy
blast that came in settled any doubt in
the young man's mind and he concluded
to stop over night。
It was nearly two o'clock； Sanders
showed him to his room and then
returned down stairs to see that everything
was snug and secure。 After changing
his heavy shoes for a pair of old slippers
and wrapping a dressing gown around
him； the old man stretched his legs
toward the fire and sipped his toddy。
‘‘He isn't a bad sort for a violinist；''
mused the old man； ‘‘if he were worth
a million； I believe I'd advise Wallace to
let him marry her。 A fiddler！ A million！
Sounds funny；'' and he laughed
shrilly。
He turned his head and his eyes
caught sight of Diotti's violin case resting
on the center table。 He staggered
from the chair and went toward it； opening
the lid softly； he lifted the silken
coverlet placed over the instrument and
examined the strings intently。 ‘‘I am
right；'' he said； ‘‘it is wrapped with
hair； and no doubt from a woman's head。
Eureka！'' and the old man； happy in the
discovery that his surmises were correct；
returned to his chair and his toddy。
He sat looking into the fire。 The
violin had brought back memories of the
past and its dead。 He mumbled； as if
to the fire； ‘‘she loved me； she loved
my violin。 I was a devil； my violin
was a devil；'' and the shadows on the
wall swayed like accusing spirits。 He
buried his face in his hands and cried
piteously； ‘‘I was so young； too young
to know。'' He spoke as if he would
conciliate the ghastly shades that moved
restlessly up and down； when suddenly
‘‘Sanders； don't be a fool！''
He ambled toward the table again。
‘‘I wonder who made the violin？ He
would not tell me when I asked him to…
night； thank you for your pains； but I
will find out myself；'' and he took the
violin from the case。 Holding it with
the light slanting over it； he peered
inside； but found no inscription。 ‘‘No
maker's namestrange；'' he said。 He
tiptoed to the foot of the stairs and
listened intently； ‘‘he must be asleep； he
