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Updated: May 31, 2025
"Any as fine looking as as as well, 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.
"Surely you have been stirred by the wonders man has accomplished in music's realm?" Diotti ventured. "I never have been." She spoke sadly and reflectively. "But does not the passion-laden theme of a master, or the marvelous feeling of a player awaken your emotions?" persisted he. She stood leaning lightly against a pillar by the fountain.
On account of his wonderful ability as player, Diotti was a favorite at half the courts of Europe, and the astute Perkins enlarged upon this fact without regard for the feelings of the courts or the violinist. On the night preceding Diotti's debut in New York, he was the center of attraction at a reception given by Mrs. Llewellyn, a social leader, and a devoted patron of the arts.
He said he would invite Mr. Sanders, as that gentleman, no doubt, would consider it a great privilege to meet the famous musician. Mildred immediately sent an invitation to Diotti, adding a request that he bring his violin and play for Uncle Sanders, as the latter had found it impossible to attend his concerts during the season, yet was fond of music, especially violin music.
The husbandman places the grain within the breast of Mother Earth for man's material welfare; God places music in the heart of man for his spiritual development. In man's spring time, his bridal day, music means joy. In man's winter time, his burial day, music means comfort. The heaven-born muse has added to the happiness of the world. Diotti is a great genius.
She rose, walked into the hallway; took the card basket from the table, returned and seated herself beside her father, emptying its contents into her lap. She picked up a card. It read "Angelo Diotti," and she called the name aloud. She took up another and again her lips voiced the beloved name. "Angelo Diotti," she continued, repeating at intervals for a minute.
"Do you know I think a dinner horn and a singing kettle beat a symphony all hollow for real down-right melody," and he lifted the kettle from the fire-place. Diotti smiled. With mathematical accuracy the old man filled the two tumblers with boiling water.
As the violinist concluded his performance an oppressive silence pervaded the house, then the audience, wild with excitement, burst into thunders of applause. In his dressing-room Diotti was besieged by hosts of people, congratulating him in extravagant terms. Mildred Wallace came, extending her hands. He took them almost reverently.
Diotti laughed derisively, and Satan, showing just the slightest feeling at Diotti's behavior, said reprovingly: "If you will listen a moment, and not be so rude to an utter stranger, we may reach some conclusion to your benefit." "Get thee behind " "I know exactly what you were about to say. Have no fears on that score. I have no demands to make and no impossible compacts to insist upon."
Oh, remember, you music-fed ascetic, many, aye, very many, regard the transition from Tschaikowsky to terrapin, from Beethoven to burgundy with hearts aflame with anticipatory joy and Mrs. Llewellyn's dining-room was crowded. Miss Wallace and Diotti had wandered into the conservatory. "A desire for happiness is our common heritage," he was saying in his richly melodious voice.
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