The Secret of the Stradivarius

My friend Luigi is reckoned one of the finest violin. players of the
day. His wonderful skill has made him famous, and he is well known and
honoured for his talent in every capital in Europe.

If in these pages I call him by another name than the one he has made
famous, it is solely on account of a promise he exacted from me, in
case I should ever feel tempted to make the following strange
experiences, we shared together, public property. I am afraid,
nevertheless, that too many will readily identify the man himself with
the portrait I am obliged to draw.

Luigi--leaving his professional greatness out of the question--would
have been a noticeable man in any company, a man that people would
look at and ask not only, "Who is he?" but "What has he done in the
world?" knowing that men of his stamp are seldom sent upon this scene
to live an ordinary everyday life. In person he was very tall,
standing over six feet. His figure was graceful, and might even be
called slight, but had breadth of shoulder enough to tell it was the
figure of a strong man; a face with a pale but clear complexion; dark
deep-set eyes, with a sort of far-away expression in them; black hair,
worn long, after the manner of geniuses of his kind; a high but rugged
forehead; a well shaped nose; a drooping moustache; a hand whose long
and delicate fingers seemed constructed for their particular mission--
violin-playing. Picture all these, and if you enjoy the acquaintance
of the musical world, or even if you have been in the habit of
attending concerts where stars of the first magnitude condescend to
shine, I fear, in spite of my promise of concealing his name, you will
too easily recognize my friend.

Luigi's manner in ordinary life was very quiet, gentlemanly, and
reposed. He was, in his dreamy sort of way, highly courteous and
polite to strangers. Although, when alone with me or other friends he
loved, he had plenty to say for himself--and his broken English was
pleasant to listen to--in general company he spoke but little. But let
his left hand close round the neck of a fiddle, let his right hand
grasp the bow, and one knew directly for what purpose Luigi came into
the world. Then the man lived and revelled, as it were, in a life of
his own making. The notes his craft drew forth were like bracing air
to him; he seemed actually to respire the music, and his dreamy eyes
awoke and shone with fire. He did that rare thing--rare indeed, but
lacking which no performer can rise to fame--threw his whole soul into
his playing. His manner, his very attitude as he commenced, was a
complete study. Drawing himself up to every inch of his height, he
placed the violin--nestling it, I may say--under his chin, and then
taking a long breath of what appeared to be anticipatory pleasure,
swept his magician's wand over the sleeping strings, and waking them
with the charmed touch, wove his wonderful spell of music. The moment
the horse-hair came in contact with the gut, the listener knew he was
in the presence of a master.

Luigi had come to London for the season, having, after much
negotiation and persuasion, accepted an engagement at a long series of
some of the best, if cheapest and most popular, concerts held in
London. It was his first visit to England: he had ever disliked the
country, and believed very little in the national love for good music,
or in the power of appreciating it when heard. He disliked, also, the
trumpeting with which the promoters of the concerts heralded his
appearance. Although his fame was great already throughout the
Continent, he dreaded the effect of playing to an unsympathetic
audience. His fears were, however, groundless. Whether the people
liked and understood his music and style of playing or not, they at
least appeared to do so; and the newspapers, one and all, unable to do
things by halves, went into raptures over him. They compared him with
Paganini, Ole Bull, and other bygone masters, and their comparisons
were very flattering. Altogether, Luigi was a great success.