saw out one long-drawn and lugubrious note
after another, from four o'clock in the afternoon until nearly the same
hour next morning, for his third of the total income of one dollar per
hour.

Before the feast has been five minutes under way, Tamoszius Kuszleika
has risen in his excitement; a minute or two more and you see that he is
beginning to edge over toward the tables. His nostrils are dilated and
his breath comes fast--his demons are driving him. He nods and shakes
his head at his companions, jerking at them with his violin, until at
last the long form of the second violinist also rises up. In the end
all three of them begin advancing, step by step, upon the banqueters,
Valentinavyczia, the cellist, bumping along with his instrument between
notes. Finally all three are gathered at the foot of the tables, and
there Tamoszius mounts upon a stool.

Now he is in his glory, dominating the scene. Some of the people are
eating, some are laughing and talking--but you will make a great mistake
if you think there is one of them who does not hear him. His notes
are never true, and his fiddle buzzes on the low ones and squeaks and
scratches on the high; but these things they heed no more than they heed
the dirt and noise and squalor about them--it is out of this material
that they have to build their lives, with it that they have to utter
their souls. And this is their utterance; merry and boisterous, or
mournful and wailing, or passionate and rebellious, this music is their
music, music of home. It stretches out its arms to them, they have
only to give themselves up. Chicago and its saloons and its slums fade
away--there are green meadows and sunlit rivers, mighty forests and
snow-clad hills. They behold home landscapes and childhood scenes
returning; old loves and friendships begin to waken, old joys and griefs
to laugh and weep. Some fall back and close their eyes, some beat upon
the table. Now and then one leaps up with a cry and calls for this song
or that; and then the fire leaps brighter in Tamoszius' eyes, and he
flings up his fiddle and shouts to his companions, and away they go in
mad career. The company takes up the choruses, and men and women cry out
like all possessed; some leap to their feet and stamp upon the floor,
lifting their glasses and pledging each other. Before long it occurs to
some one to demand an old wedding song, which celebrates the beauty of
the bride and the joys of love. In the excitement of