tiful
she was at that moment I can not hope to make you understand. Then she
began to play. What the work was I did not then know, but I have since
discovered that it was her own. It opened with a movement in the
minor--low and infinitely sad. There was a note of unappeasable yearning
in it, a cry that might well have been wrung from a heart that was
breaking beneath the weight of a deadly sin; a weird, unearthly
supplication for mercy from a soul that was beyond redemption or the
reach of hope. None but a great musician could have imagined such a
theme, and then only under the influence of a supreme despair. While it
lasted her audience sat spell-bound. There was scarcely one among them
who was not a lover of music, and many were world-famous for their
talent. This, however, was such playing as none of us had ever heard
before, or, indeed, had even dreamed of. Then by imperceptible
gradations the music reached its height and died slowly down, growing
fainter and fainter until it expired in a long-drawn sob. Absolute
silence greeted its termination. Not a hand was raised; not a word was
uttered. If proof were wanting of the effect she had produced, it was to
be found in this. The violinist bowed, a trifle disdainfully, I thought,
and, having placed her instrument on the table once more, returned to
Lady Medenham's side. Then a young German singer and his accompanist
crossed the room and took their places at the piano. The famous pianist,
who had first played, followed the singer, and when he had resumed his
seat the violinist rose and once more took up her instrument.

This time there was no pause. With an abruptness that was startling, she
burst into a wild barbaric dance. The notes danced and leaped upon each
other in joyous confusion, creating an enthusiasm that was as
instantaneous as it was remarkable. It was a tarantella of the wildest
description--nay, I should rather say a dance of Satyrs. The player's
eyes flashed above the instrument, her lithe, exquisite figure rocked
and swayed beneath the spell of the emotion she was conjuring up.
Faster and faster her bow swept across the strings, and as before,
though now for a very different reason, her audience sat fascinated
before her. The first work had been the outcome of despair, this was the
music of unqualified happiness, of the peculiar joy of living--nay, of
the very essence and existence of life itself. Then it ceased as
suddenly as it had begun, and once more