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I remember another similar though far less boisterous feast, on the occasion of a visit paid us by the famous violinist Vieux- temps, an old schoolfellow of Kietz's.
"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."
He was seven years old when Mozart died, and before Haydn had departed from this life Spohr had already begun to acquire a name as a violinist and composer. He lived to be the friend of Mendelssohn, Meyerbeer, Liszt, and Wagner. Everywhere he was held in veneration, even by those who did not fully sympathize with his musical works, for his career had been one of great fecundity in art.
That's all very well, but what about, if I marry so soon, starting my public career, which was to have begun this next winter? Kloster says impatiently. Oh marry, and get done with it, and that then | I'll be sensible again and able to arrange my debut as a violinist with the calm, I gather he thinks, of the disillusioned. "I'm perfectly sensible," I said. "You are not. You are in love.
The rhythmic and tonal nuances in a quartet cannot be marked too perfectly in order to secure a beautiful and finished performance. And such a violinist as the one mentioned, in spite of his tone and technic, was never meant for an ensemble player. "I have never believed in a quartet getting together and 'reading' a new work as a preparation for study.
Fiorsen stopped to listen. Poor devil! "Pagliacci!" Going up to the man dark, lame, very shabby, he took out some silver, and put his other hand on the man's shoulder. "Brother," he said, "lend me your fiddle. Here's money for you. Come; lend it to me. I am a great violinist." "Vraiment, monsieur!" "Ah! Vraiment! Voyons! Donnez un instant vous verrez."
If you can turn a pedestrian into a cyclist, and a cyclist into a pianist or violinist, without the intervention of Circumstantial Selection, you can turn an amoeba into a man, or a man into a superman, without it.
Every one of us, down to the Youngster, had fixed ideas, deep-set theories, and convictions as different as our characters, our lives, our callings, and our faiths. We were all Cosmopolitan Americans, but ready to spread the Eagle, if necessary, and all of us, except the Violinist, of New England extraction, which means really of English blood, and that will show when the screws are put on.
No one laughed. Then the Journalist, always ready to leap into a breach, gasped: "Horrible!" "Getting to be a pet word of yours," said the Lawyer. The Violinist tried to save the situation by saying gently: "Well, I don't know. It is the commonest of all situations in a melodrama. So why fuss?" The Trained Nurse shrugged her shoulders. "I know that story," she said.
The man, he says, the man as well was an infatuation, because he talks like a Dictionary Cheap Jack, and may have had an education and dropped into vagrancy, owing to indiscretions. Lord Fleetwood ran about in Germany repeating his remarks. But the man is really an accomplished violinist, we hear. She dances the tambourine business. A sister of the man, perhaps, if we must be charitable.
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