Satan, wincing at this uncomplimentary allusion to himself, replied rather warmly: ``My dear sir, were it not for the fact that I feel in particularly good spirits this morning, I should resent your ill-timed remarks and leave you to end your miserable existence with rope or pistol,'' and Satan pantomimed both suicidal contingencies.
``Do you want the violin or not?''
``I might look at it,'' said Diotti, resolving mentally that he could go so far without harm.
``Very well,'' said Satan. He gave a long whistle.
An old man, bearing a violin case, came within the room. He bowed to the wondering Diotti, and proceeded to open the case. Taking the instrument out the old man fondled it with loving and tender solicitude, pointing out its many beauties--the exquisite blending of the curves, the evenness of the grain, the peculiar coloring, the lovely contour of the neck, the graceful outlines of the body, the scroll, rivaling the creations of the ancient sculptors, the solidity of the bridge and its elegantly carved heart, and, waxing exceedingly enthusiastic, holding up the instrument and looking at it as one does at a cluster of gems, he added, ``the adjustment of the strings.''
``That will do,'' interrupted Satan, taking the violin from the little man, who bowed low and ceremoniously took his departure. Then the devil, pointing to the instrument, asked: ``Isn't it a beauty?''
The musician, eying it keenly, replied: ``Yes, it is, but not the kind of violin I play on.''
``Oh, I see,'' carelessly observed the other, ``you refer to that extra string.''
``Yes,'' answered the puzzled violinist, examining it closely.
``Allow me to explain the peculiar characteristics of this magnificent instrument,'' said his satanic majesty. ``This string,'' pointing to the G, ``is the string of pity; this one,'' referring to the third, ``is the string of hope; this,'' plunking the A, ``is attuned to love, while this one, the E string, gives forth sounds of joy.
``You will observe,'' went on the visitor, noting the intense interest displayed by the violinist, ``that the position of the strings is the same as on any other violin, and therefore will require no additional study on your part.''
``But that extra string?'' interrupted Diotti, designating the middle one on the violin, a vague foreboding rising within him.
``That,'' said Mephistopheles, solemnly, and with no pretense of sophistry, ``is the string of death, and he who plays upon it dies at once.''
``The--string--of--death!'' repeated the violinist almost inaudibly.
``Yes, the string of death,'' Satan repeated, ``and he who plays upon it dies at once. But,'' he added cheerfully, ``that need not worry you. I noticed a marvelous facility in your arm work.
Your staccato and spiccato are wonderful.
Every form of bowing appears child's play to you. It will be easy for you to avoid touching the string.''
``Why avoid it? Can it not be cut off?''
``Ah, that's the rub. If you examine the violin closely you will find that the string of death is made up of the extra lengths of the other four strings. To cut it off would destroy the others, and then pity, hope, love and joy would cease to exist in the soul of the violin.''
``How like life itself,'' Diotti reflected, ``pity, hope, love, joy end in death, and through death they are born again.''
``That's the idea, precisely,'' said Satan, evidently relieved by Diotti's logic and quick perception.
The violinist examined the instrument with the practised eye of an expert, and turning to Satan said: ``The four strings are beautifully white and transparent, but this one is black and odd looking.
``What is it wrapped with?'' eagerly inquired Diotti, examining the death string with microscopic care.
``The fifth string was added after an unfortunate episode in the Garden of Eden, in which I was somewhat concerned,'' said Satan, soberly. ``It is wrapped with strands of hair from the first mother of man.'' Impressively then he offered the violin to Diotti.
``I dare not take it,'' said the perplexed musician; ``it's from--''
``Yes, it is directly from there, but I brought it from heaven when I--I left,'' said the fallen angel, with remorse in his voice. ``It was my constant companion there. But no one in my domain--not I, myself--can play upon it now, for it will respond neither to our longing for pity, hope, love, joy, nor even death,'' and sadly and retrospectively Satan gazed into vacancy; then, after a long pause: ``Try the instrument!''
Diotti placed the violin in position and drew the bow across the string of joy, improvising on it. Almost instantly the birds of the forest darted hither and thither, caroling forth in gladsome strains. The devil alone was sad, and with emotion said:
``It is many, many years since I have heard that string.''
Next the artist changed to the string of pity, and thoughts of the world's sorrows came over him like a pall.
``Wonderful, most wonderful!'' said the mystified violinist; ``with this instrument I can conquer the world!''
``Aye, more to you than the world,'' said the tempter, ``a woman's love.''
A woman's love--to the despairing suitor there was one and only one in this wide, wide world, and her words, burning their way into his heart, had made this temptation possible: ``No droop-ing Clytie could be more constant than I to him who strikes the chord that is responsive in my soul.''
Holding the violin aloft, he cried exultingly: ``Henceforth thou art mine, though death and oblivion lurk ever near thee!''
