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 off again, I saw him, as he stood behind the screen, gazing directly over our heads, suddenly raise his violin to his ear and slowly draw the bow across the strings.

Almost before we could realize what had happened, he crossed the stage, stepped to his stand, and drew his bow downward.

The applause died sharply on the crest of a crescendo, and left the air trembling.  There was a sudden hush.  A few sank back in their seats, but most of them remained standing where they were, just as we behind him were suddenly fixed in our positions.

I have since heard a deal of argument as to the use and power of music as the voice of thought.  I was not then—­and I am not now—­of that school which holds music to be a medium to transmit anything but musical ideas.  So, of the effect of Rodriguez’s music on my mind, or the possibility that, for some occult reason, I was for the moment en rapport with him, as after events forced me to believe, I shall enter into no discussion.  I am merely going to record, to the best of my ability, my thoughts, as I remember them.  I no more presume to explain why they came to me, than I do to analyse my trust in immortality.

As he drew his bow downward, as the first chord filled my ears, everything else faded away.

There was the merest prelude, and then the theme, which appeared, disappeared and re-appeared again and again to be woven about every emotion, at once developed and dominated me.

I seemed at first to hear its melody in the fresh morning air, where it soared upward above the gentle breezes, mingling in harmony with the matins of the birds and the softly rustling trees.  Hopeful as youth, careless as the wind, it sang in gladness and in trust.  Then I heard the same melody throb under the noonday glow of summer.  Its tone was broadened and sweetened, but still brave and pure, when all else in Nature, save its clear voice, seemed sensuous.  I saw gardens in a riot of color; felt love at its passionate consummation, ere the light seemed to fade slowly toward the sunset hour.  The world was still pulsing with color, but the grey of twilight was slowly enwrapping it.  Then the simple melody soared above the day’s peacefullest hour, firm in promise on the hushed air.  In the mystery of night which followed, when black clouds snuffed out the torches of heaven, when the silence had something of terror even for the brave, that same steadfast loving hopeful theme moved on, consoling as trust in immortality.  Through youth to maturity, and on to age, it sang with the same reiterant, subduing, infallible loyalty—­the crystallized melody of all that is spiritual in love, in adoration, in passion.