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Updated: May 31, 2025
I can not, will not give you up," then placing the violin and bow in its case he locked it. The day was breaking. In an hour the baker's boy came. Diotti went to the door, gave him a note addressed to Mr. Wallace and asked him to deliver it at once. The boy consented and drove rapidly away. Within an hour Mr. Wallace arrived; Diotti told the story of the night.
"She would hate me if she knew I had recourse to the powers of darkness to gain her love," bitterly interposed Diotti.
The programs announced that it was the second appearance in America of Angelo Diotti, the renowned Tuscan violinist. The orchestra had perfunctorily ground out the overture to "Der Freischuetz," the baritone had stentorianly emitted "Dio Possente," the soprano was working her way through the closing measures of the mad scene from "Lucia," and Diotti was number four on the program.
When they were seated Perkins plied Diotti with all manner of questions; "How did it happen?" "How did you escape?" and the like, all of which Diotti parried with monosyllabic replies, finally saying: "I was dissatisfied with my playing and went away to study."
"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.
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.
"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.
"Try that," handing a glass of the toddy to Diotti; "you will find it all right," and the old man drew an armchair 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.
"That is Angelo Diotti, the famous violinist," she said, but she could not add another word. As they strolled through the rooms he noticed no less than three likenesses of the Tuscan. And as they passed her room he saw still another on the chiffonnier. "Seems to me the house is running wild with photographs of that fiddler," he said.
"You will observe," went on the visitor, noting the intense interest displayed by the violinist, "that the position of the strings is the same as on any other violin, and therefore will require no additional study on your part." "But that extra string?" interrupted Diotti, designating the middle one on the violin, a vague foreboding rising within him.
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