It was not alone the musically intelligent who felt this, for his playing had a universal appeal.  Thorough musicians marvelled at and envied him his mastery of the details of his art, but it seemed to me that those who knew least of its technique were equally open to his influence.

I don’t presume to explain this.  I merely record it.  There were those who analysed the fact, and explained it on the ground of animal magnetism.  For myself, I only know that, as the magic music which Hunold Singref played in the streets of Hamelin, whispered in the ears of little children words of promise, of happiness, of comfort that none others could hear, so, to the emotional heart, Rodriguez’s violin spoke a special message.

The man who sets the faces of the throng upward, and lights their eyes with the magic fire of hope, has surely not 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!