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of the soil; a still stranger boy he had become, until finally he had blossomed into manhood, without one
single characteristic of youth. Never had a fair face attracted his attention; not for one moment had his
thoughts turned from his solitary studies to a life beyond that of a mystic Bohemian. Content with his own
company, he had thus passed the best years of his youth and manhood with his violin for his chief idol, and
with the Gods and Goddesses of old Greece for his audience, in perfect ignorance of practical life. His whole
existence had been one long day of dreams, of melody and sunlight, and he had never felt any other
aspirations.
How useless, but oh, how glorious those dreams! how vivid! and why should he desire any better fate? Was
he not all that he wanted to be, transformed in a second of thought into one or another hero; from Orpheus,
who held all nature breathless, to the urchin who piped away under the plane tree to the naiads of Calirrhoe's
crystal fountain? Did not the swift-footed nymphs frolic at his beck and call to the sound of the magic flute
of the Arcadian shepherd -- who was himself? Behold, the Goddess of Love and Beauty herself descending
from on high, attracted by the sweet-voiced notes of his violin! . . . Yet there came a time when he preferred
Syrinx to Aphrodite -- not as the fair nymph pursued by Pan, but after her transformation by the merciful
Gods into the reed out of which the frustrated God of the Shepherds had made his magic pipe. For also, with
time, ambition grows and is rarely satisfied. When he tried to emulate on his violin the enchanting sounds
that resounded in his mind, the whole of Parnassus kept silent under the spell, or joined in heavenly chorus;
but the audience he finally craved was composed of more than the Gods sung by Hesiod, verily of the most
appreciative melomanes of European capitals. He felt jealous of the magic pipe, and would fain have had it at
his command.
"Oh! that I could allure a nymph into my beloved violin!" -- he often cried, after awakening from one of his
day-dreams. "Oh, that I could only span in spirit flight the abyss of Time! Oh, that I could find myself for
one short day a partaker of the secret arts of the Gods, a God myself, in the sight and hearing of enraptured
humanity; and, having learned the mystery of the lyre of Orpheus, or secured within my violin a siren,
thereby benefit mortals to my own glory!"
Thus, having for long years dreamed in the company of the Gods of his fancy, he now took to dreaming of
the transitory glories of fame upon this earth. But at this time he was suddenly called home by his widowed
THE ENSOULED VIOLIN 62
Nightmare Tales
mother from one of the German universities where he had lived for the last year or two. This was an event
which brought his plans to an end, at least so far as the immediate future was concerned, for he had hitherto
drawn upon her alone for his meagre pittance, and his means were not sufficient for an independent life
outside his native place.
His return had a very unexpected result. His mother, whose only love he was on earth, died soon after she had
welcomed her Benjamin back; and the good wives of the burg exercised their swift tongues for many a month
after as to the real causes of that death.
Frau Stenio, before Franz's return, was a healthy, buxom, middle-aged body, strong and hearty. She was a
pious and a God-fearing soul too, who had never failed in saying her prayers, nor had missed an early mass
for years during his absence. On the first Sunday after her son had settled at home -- a day that she had been
longing for and had anticipated for months in joyous visions, in which she saw him kneeling by her side in
the little church on the hill -- she called him from the foot of the stairs. The hour had come when her pious
dream was to be realized, and she was waiting for him, carefully wiping the dust from the prayer-book he
had used in his boyhood. But instead of Franz, it was his violin that responded to her call, mixing its sonorous
voice with the rather cracked tones of the peal of the merry Sunday bells. The fond mother was somewhat
shocked at hearing the prayer-inspiring sounds drowned by the weird, fantastic notes of the "Dance of the
Witches"; they seemed to her so unearthly and mocking. But she almost fainted upon hearing the definite
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