his
manner I spent several years, without receiving any salary. When my turn
for promotion came, my father voted for another candidate at the meeting
of the board, and the other members voted with him out of deference.

"About this time--well, well," he interrupted himself, "this is turning
out to be a story after all. I shall continue the story. About this time
two events occurred, the saddest and the happiest of my life, namely my
leaving home and my return to the gentle art of music, to my violin,
which has remained faithful to me to this day.

"In my father's house, where I was ignored by the other members of the
family, I occupied a rear room looking out upon our neighbor's yard. At
first I took my meals with the family, though no one spoke a word to me.
But when my brothers received appointments in other cities and my father
was invited out to dinner almost daily--my mother had been dead for many
years--it was found inconvenient to keep house for me. The servants were
given money for their meals. So was I; only I didn't receive mine in
cash: it was paid monthly to the restaurant. Consequently I spent little
time in my room, with the exception of the evening hours; for my father
insisted that I should be at home within half an hour after the closing
of the office, at the latest. Then I sat there in the darkness on
account of my eyes, which were weak even at that time. I used to think
of one thing and another, and was neither happy nor unhappy.

"When I sat thus I used to hear some one in the neighbor's yard singing
a song--really several songs, one of which, however, pleased me
particularly. It was so simple, so touching, and the musical expression
was so perfect, that it was not necessary to hear the words. Personally
I believe that words spoil the music anyway." Now he opened his lips and
uttered a few hoarse, rough tones. "I have no voice," he said, and took
up his violin. He played, and this time with proper expression, the
melody of a pleasing, but by no means remarkable song, his fingers
trembling on the strings and some tears finally rolling down his cheeks.

"That was the song," he said, laying down his violin. "I heard it with
ever-growing pleasure. However vivid it was in my memory, I never
succeeded in getting even two notes right with my voice, and I became
almost impatient from listening. Then my eyes fell upon my violin which,
like an old armor, had been hanging unused on the wall since my boyhood.