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‘You are to come with me,’ he said, authoritatively, speaking in French, but with an English accent. I followed him, my heart beating with excitement, through the big door, into a large, handsome hall and up a broad staircase, thinking that in all my life I had never seen such a beautiful house.

He led me into a large and luxurious salon, which seemed to my astonished eyes like a wonderful museum. The walls were crowded with pictures, a charming composition by Gustave Moreau was lying on the grand piano, waiting until a nook could be found for it to hang. Renaissance bronzes and the work of eighteenth century silversmiths jostled one another on brackets, and on a table lay a handsome violin-case. The pale blinds were drawn down, and there was a delicious smell of flowers diffused everywhere. A lady was lying on a sofa near the window, a handsome woman of about thirty, whose dress was a miracle of lace and flimsiness.

The young man led me towards her, and she placed two delicate, jewelled hands on my shoulders, looking me steadily in the face.

‘Where did you learn to play like that, my boy?’ she asked.

‘I cannot remember when I could not fiddle, Madame,’ I answered, and that was true.

‘The boy is a born musician, Felix,’ said Lady Greville. ‘Look at his hands.’

And she held up mine to the young man’s notice; he glanced at them carelessly.

‘Yes, Miladi,’ said the young man, ‘they are real violin hands. What were you playing just now, my lad?’

‘I don’t know, sir,’ I said. ‘I play just what comes into my head.’

Lady Greville looked at her nephew with a glance of triumph.

‘What did I tell you?’ she cried. ‘The boy is a genius, Felix. I shall have him educated.’

‘All your geese are swans, Auntie,’ said the young man in English.

Lady Greville, however, ignored this thrust.

‘Will you play for me now, my dear,’ she said, ‘as you did before–just what comes into your head?’

I nodded, and was getting my fiddle to my chin, when she stopped me.

‘Not that thing,’ bestowing a glance of contempt at my instrument. ‘Felix, the Stradivarius.’

The young man went to the other side of the room, and returned with the case which I had noticed. He put it in my hand, with the injunction to handle it gently. I had never heard of Cremona violins, nor of my namesake Stradivarius; but at the sight of the dark seasoned wood, reposing on its blue velvet, I could not restrain a cry of admiration.

I have that same instrument in my room now, and I would not trust it in the hands of another for a million.

I lifted the violin tenderly from its case, and ran my bow up the gamut.

I felt almost intoxicated at the mellow sounds it uttered. I could have kissed the dark wood, that looked to me stained through and through with melody.

I began to play. My improvisation was a song of triumph and delight; the music, at first rapid and joyous, became slower and more solemn, as the inspiration seized on me, until at last, in spite of myself, it grew into a wild and indescribable dirge, fading away in a long wail of unutterable sadness and regret. When it was over I felt exhausted and unstrung, as though virtue had gone out from me. I had played as I had never played before. The young man had turned away, and was looking out of the window. The lady on the sofa was transfigured. The languor had altogether left her, and the tears were streaming down her face, to the great detriment of the powder and enamel which composed her complexion.

She pulled me towards her, and kissed me.

‘It is beautiful, terrible!’ she said; ‘I have never heard such strange music in my life. You must stay with me now and have masters. If you can play like that now, without culture and education, in time, when you have been taught, you will be the greatest violinist that ever lived.’