lived in vain, whatever
personal offerings he may have made on the altar of his genius to keep
alive the eternal spark. It cannot be denied that Art has fulfilled
some part of its mission on earth, if, but for one hour, thousands,
marshalled by its music, as the children of Israel by the pillar of
flame, have looked above the dull atmosphere where pain and loss and
sorrow are, to feel in themselves that divine longing which is
ecstasy, that soaring of the spirit which, in casting off fear and
rising above doubt, can cry out in joy, "Oh, blessed spark of
Hope--this soul which can so rise above sorrow, so mount above the
body, must be immortal. This which can so cast off care cannot die!"

All the great acts of life, and all the great arts, are purely
emotional. I know that modern cults deny this, and work to see
everything gauged by reason. But thus far musicians and painters,
preachers and orators all approach their goal by the road to the
emotions--if they hope to win the big world. Patriotism,
fidelity--love of country, like love of woman--are emotions, and it
would puzzle logicians, I am afraid, to be sure that these emotions,
at times sublime, might not be as sensual as some of Rodriguez's
critics found his music.

* * * * *

The series of concerts he gave was very exhausting to me, owing to the
novelty of some of his programs, and the constant rehearsals. The
final concert found me quite worn out.

During the latter part of the evening I had been too weary to even
raise my eyes to the balcony in front of me, where, from my position
among the first violins, I could see the fair face of my beloved.

The evening had been a great triumph, and when it was all over the
audience was quite mad with enthusiasm. It was one of Rodriguez's
inviolable rules to play a program exactly as announced, and never to
add to it. In the month he had been in town, the public had learned
how impossible it was to tempt him away from his rule. But Americans
are persistent!

Again and again he had mounted the steps to the platform, and calmly
bowed his thanks, while long drawn cheers surged through the noise of
hand-clapping, as strains on the brass buoy up the melody. I lost
count of the number of times he had ascended and descended the little
flight of steps which led, behind a screen, from the artist's room to
the stage, when, having turned in my seat to watch him, as he came up
and bowed, and walked