Hawksley laid his fingers on the strings and drew the bow with a
powerful flourishing sweep. The rich, sonorous tones vibrated after the
bow had passed. Then followed the tricks by which an artist seeks
to discover flaws or wolf notes. A beatific expression settled upon
Hawksley face. He nestled the violin comfortably under his chin and
began to play softly. Cutty, the nurse, and the dealer became images.
Minors; a bit of a dance; more minors; nothing really begun, nothing
really finished--sketches, with a melancholy note running through them
all. While that pouring into his ears enchained his body it stirred
recollections in Cutty's mind: The fair at Novgorod; the fiddling
mountebanks; Russian.
Perhaps the dealer's astonishment was greatest. An Englishman! Who ever
heard of an Englishman playing a violin like that?
"I will buy it," said Hawksley, sinking back.
"Sir," began the dealer, "I am horribly embarrassed. I cannot sell
that violin because it isn't mine. It is an Amati worth ten thousand
dollars."
"I will give you twelve."
"But, sir--"
"Name a price," interrupted Hawksley, rather imperiously. "I want it."
Cutty understood that he was witnessing a flash of the ancient blood. To
want anything was to have it.
"I repeat, sir, I cannot sell it. It belongs to a Hungarian who is now
in Hungary. I loaned him fifteen hundred and took the Amati as security.
Until I learn if he is dead I cannot dispose of the violin. I am sorry.
But because you are a real artist, sir, I will loan it to you if you
will make a deposit of ten thousand against any possible accident, and
that upon demand you will return the instrument to me."
"That's fair enough," interposed Cutty.
"I beg pardon," said Hawksley. "I agree. I want it, but not at the price
of any one's dishonesty."
He turned his head toward Cutty, "You're a thoroughbred, sir. This will
do more to bring me round than all the doctors in the world."
"But what the deuce is the difference?" Cutty demanded with a gesture
toward the rejected violins.
The dealer and Hawksley exchanged smiles. Said the latter: "The other
violins are pretty wooden boxes with tolerable tunes in their insides.
This has a soul." He put the violin against his cheek again.
Massenet's "Elegie," Moszkowski's "Serenata," a transcription, and then
the aria from Lucia. Not compositions professional violinists would have
selected. Cutty felt his spine grow cold as this aria poured goldenly
toward heaven. He understood. Hawksley was telling him that the shade
of his glorious mother was in this room. The boy was right. Some fiddles
had souls. An odd depression bore down upon him. Perhaps this surprising
music, topping his great emotions of the morning, was a straw too much.
There were certain exaltations that could not be sustained.