The Master's Violin

As the entertainment progressed, Lynn’s admiration of Iris increased. She seemed equally at home in Miss Field’s stately mansion and in the tiny bird-house on the brink of a precipice, where everything appeared to be made out of something else. She was in high spirits and kept them all laughing. Yet, in spite of her merry chatter, there was an undertone of tender wistfulness that set his heart to beating.

The Master, too, was at his best. Usually, he was reserved and quiet, but to-night the barriers were down. He told them stories of his student days in Germany, wonderful adventures by land and sea, and conjured up glimpses of the kings and queens of the Old World. “Life,” he sighed, “is very strange. One begins within an hour’s walk of the Imperial Palace, where sometimes one may see the Kaiser and the Kaiserin, and one ends – here!”

“Wherever one may be, that is the best place,” said the Fräulein. “The dear God knows. Yet sometimes I, too, must think of mine Germany and wish for it.”

“Fredrika!” cried the Master, “are you not happy here?”

“Indeed, yes, Franz, always.” Her harsh voice was softened and her piercing eyes were misty. One saw that, however carefully hidden, there was great love between these two.

Iris helped the Fräulein with the dishes, in spite of her protests. “One does not ask one’s guests to help with the work,” she said.

“But just suppose,” answered Iris, laughing, “that one’s guests have washed dishes hundreds of times at home!”

In the parlour, meanwhile, the Master talked to Lynn. He told him of great violinists he had heard and of famous old violins he had seen – but there was never a word about the Cremona.

“Mine friend, the Doctor,” said the Master, “do you perchance know him?”

“Yes,” answered Lynn, “I have that pleasure. He’s all right, isn’t he?”

“So he thinks,” returned the Master, missing the point of the phrase. “In an argument, one can never convince him. He thinks it is for me to go out on one grand tour and give many concerts and secure much fame, but why should I go, I ask him, when I am happy here? So many people know what should make one happy a thousand times better than the happy one knows. Life,” he said again, “is very strange.”

It was a long time before he spoke again. “I have had mine fame,” he said. “I have played to great houses both here and abroad, and women have thrown red roses at me and mine violin. There has been much in the papers, and I have had many large sums, which, of course, I have always given to the poor. One should use one’s art to do good with and not to become rich. I have mine house, mine clothes, all that is good for me to eat, mine sister and mine – ” he hesitated for an instant, and Lynn knew he was thinking of the Cremona. “Mine violins,” he concluded, “mine little shop where I make them, and best of all, mine dreams.”

Iris came back and Fräulein Fredrika followed her. “If you will give me all the little shells,” she was saying, “I will stick them together with glue and make mineself one little house to sit on the parlour table. It will be most kind.” Her voice was caressing and her face fairly shone with joy.

“I will light the lamp,” she went on. “It is dark here now.” Suiting the action to the word, she pulled down the lamp that hung by heavy chains in the centre of the room, and the gilded potato-masher swung back and forth violently.

“No, no, Fredrika,” said the Master. “It is not a necessity to light the lamp.”

“Herr Irving,” she began, “would you not like the lamp to see by?”

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