The Remarkable Tale of a "Haunted Violin"
The Phantom Violinist
Very few of us, I suppose, have not been enthralled by tales from Arabian Nights, or thrilled to the goose-flesh state by stories of "ha'nts," as told by the old-fashioned southern Mammy.
To me the sole merit of those old mystery or ghost stories lies in the fact that nowhere within them is the reader or hearer made to feel that a hoax has been perpetrated upon him. They are honest-to-goodness ghost stories and are not cluttered up at the close with weakening explanations that the conventional stories of that type have.
At the risk of being regarded unconventional, therefore, I wish to assure you that I have no explanation of the tale I am going to tell. I give it exactly as I got it from the lips of one of the principal actors. It may be that, in this day of psychic research, some explanation has been discovered, but, I repeat, I have none.
Late one night in February, 1920, I was called up by the night editor of the little paper, for which I was acting in the humble capacity of reporter, to investigate a strange occurrence that had taken place at the Auditorium earlier in the evening.
From those whom I interviewed I learned that the entertainment was composed of several numbers by a rising young violinist, touring the state as a member of a prominent Lyceum. Nothing out of the ordinary happened during the first part of his program, the young violinist responding to the usual encores in the customary manner of artists.
But after the following interval, which was prolonged, owing to the shifting of the audience and late arrivals, he came upon the stage in a noticeably constrained manner. His accompanist played the opening bar, paused, looked over his shoulder, and began again. Still the violinist did not move, and the audience suffered all the pains of witnessing a case of stage-fright. Again the opening bar was played, and again the pause.
Then the violinist began, but not the air familiar to the accompanist; for, after a few feeble efforts to follow, he soon desisted, while seemingly from the soul of the violin there throbbed into the ears of the audience a low haunting melody. Slowly, at first, and in mournful cadence the violin sobbed out a tale of loneliness.
To the audience, frozen in their seats, it ceased to be a thing of wood and strings. It was an immortal soul finding at last a sympathetic ear. More and more rapid became the measure as, from loneliness the tale progressed to one of privation and suffering-suffering, growing ever more and more acute and mingling with despair. Abruptly, then, from the wail of despair, which sank fitfully lower and lower, the air changed to a soft pizzicati, as from spiritland.
All space seemed filled with airy creatures that flitted and danced, mowed and gibbered, beckoned and menaced till the blood ran cold. Again the air changed. Low and weird, it rose in ever increasing crescendo till, with the dread certainty of the Dies Irae, it broke in one awful shriek. As if in echo to the voice of the violin, right in the midst of the audience, an answering shriek rang out. Many in the audience sprang to their feet, but were almost instantly calmed by the raised hand of the violinist, who had come to the front of the stage. Pointing his finger at the trembling culprit, who had not resumed his seat, he said:
"Gentlemen, there stands the murderer of Joel Dalziel. Take him!"
This was the strange occurrence regarding which I was charged to secure an interview from the violinist. Consequently, not more than a quarter of an hour after I was called, I was shown into the private sitting-room of the artist.
He did not keep me waiting and soon appeared habited as on the stage except for lounging-robe and bedroom slippers. I rose with an apology for the call at so late an hour, but he raised his hand deprecatingly.
"Naturally I could not sleep, under the circumstances," he said, "and I'd as soon talk. I presume you came regarding the affair at the Auditorium, Mr.--er" (Here he referred to my card.)
"Wright." We said it together.
"Yes," I continued, "the people will want to know all about it. I presume you know the man made a confession of the crime?"
"No, I came directly to my rooms, since I had been under a great strain, and heard nothing. But, of course, his guilty actions were, in themselves, a confession. It was but another case of 'the cranes of Ibycus'."
"I understand that your wonderful improvisation brought it about. The public would like to have an explanation of that."
The violinist smiled, and, selecting a cigarette for himself, he pushed the pack across the table to me. Settling himself comfortably in his chair, he told me the following tale which I now give to the public for the first time:
"You have asked me to explain how my improvisation, as you call it, brought about a confession of murder. In the first place, I am not sure that I have an explanation to offer-not, at any rate, one to satisfy you or that you would. care to give to the public-but it is all I have to offer. In the second place, the explanation, such as it is, will have to be in the form of a story. But before I begin it, I myself have one or two confessions to make. First, my real name is Joel Dalziel. I know what you are thinking; but the murdered man was my uncle after whom I was named. Second, what you were pleased to call my improvisation is not mine but my uncle's, and never in my life have I heard all of it till tonight.
"Strange, you think? Stranger still, if you know that not I, but the Phantom Violinist- played that last number! But to my story:
"As you probably have already surmised, I come from a musical family. Not only my uncle, but my grandfather and great-grandfather, were all violinists of no small fame. In fact, it is known in our family that wherever there was a Dalziel, however remote the kinship, there would be found a violin. I
