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Updated: May 14, 2025
Sarasate had appeared to play the last piece set down for him, a composition of his own, entitled "Zigeunerweisen."
He listened, the rich, round notes thundered through the stillness with forceful and majestic harmony; anon, wierd tones, like the passionate lament of Sarasate's "Zigeunerweisen" floated around and above him: then, a silvery chorus of young voices broke forth in solemn unison: "Kyrie Eleison! Christe Eleison! Kyrie Eleison!"
How was it, he wondered dimly, that he saw her thus distinctly NOW, now, when the violin-music wept its wildest tears now when love, love, love, seemed to clamor in a tempestuous agony of appeal from the low, pulsating melody of the marvellous "Zigeunerweisen," a melody which, despite its name, had revealed to one listener, at any rate, nothing concerning the wanderings of gypsies over forest and moorland, but on the contrary had built up all these sublime cathedral arches, this lustrous light, this exquisite face, whose loveliness was his life!
Moving on slowly further toward the altar, he was suddenly seized by an overpowering impression, a memory that rushed upon him with a sort of shock, albeit it was only the memory of a tune! a wild melody, haunting and passionate, rang in his eras, the melody that Sarasate, the Orpheus of Spain, had evoked from the heart of his speaking violin, the sobbing love-lament of the "Zigeunerweisen" the weird minor-music that had so forcibly suggested What?
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