“CON AMORE”

Evening Star, Issue 19658, 10 September 1927, Page 13

“CON AMORE”

[Written by Tap, Johnston, for tho ‘ Evening Star.’] The uplifted hand of tho policeman on point duty halted the south-bound traffic. As the rumble of wheels and the roar of powerful engines died down, the air- was filled by the throbbing strains of a violin—a masterpiece among violins—played by a master of the instrument. He sat on a three-legged stool perched precariously upon the kerhing, 1 playing, with an air of complete detachment from his surroundings, a lilting piece of Bellini’s. A red-spotted, blue handkerchief spread at his .side was: sparsely scattered with coppers and an occasional silver coin, the carelessly thrown offerings of passers by. Flo was an bid man, poorly dressed, olive-skinned, and crowned by an unruly mop of black, grey-tinged curls which blow aside to reveal tiny earrings of gold whenever stray gusts of wind managed to find their way into the .street. '

A slim boy, some twelve years of age, emerged from the ornate door of an apartment house close at hand, made his way through tine crowds, and placed-his hand upon the old man’s shoulder The player rounded out the last few notes of an intricate cadenza, then, turning slowly in his seat with the deliberation of the sightless, smiled gently at tho eager boy. “It is you, little one,” he greeted. “It is too early for Teresa, and yours is the only other hand .with friendship in ! its touch. Some hands open to drop money beside me, _ but what is money without friendship? A bone thrown to a stray dog. Is it not so, little otic? ”

Tho boy thought for a moment, one hand clenched tightly over some precious. He smiled, slyly. “ Very small bones, Francesco, and not very many if tho dog is hungry.” With his neat shoe, ho shepherded a _ straying penny on to the handkerchief. “My father says that money’ll buy everything—just about.” The violinist’s face hardened strangely. “ Yes, he is right. It will buy everything—just about. For money men will blacken their souls; they will strangle everything that is good in themselves. Having it they will find, as your father says, that it will buy everything—just- about. They find that some things are valued above gold and they cannot buy them. Love can command some things that aro above gold, but love is good, and having killed all that is good in themselves they are helpless.” Francesco, surely money is not all bad.” Tho clenched hand went to his pocket. _ “If money is earned,” said the old man, slowly, “and earned fairly, it rests with the worker to make it good or bad when he uses it; if money is given it is good or bad as _tha > heart of. the giver. So it is said in my country.” “ Then money given with love is good money?” “Always, for the giver, and if he that receives loves also, then for him also it is good. But I ramble on, little man, and I have, not yet played to yon. What shall I play?” He tucked the violin carefully beneath his chin and took up the bow. “ Play me that one—with tho long name. Your own thoughts you told me it was.” “II Pcnseroso?” “ Yes, please, but just a minute Francesco.” Out of the pocket camo the clCncliod hand, which opened to reveal a half-sovereign, damp from the boy’s hand. Held it out to tho old man, forgetful of his blindness. “It is my birthday, Francesco, and mother has given me this. 1-1 want you to take it.” “ What is it, child?” “It’s only naif a sovereign and 1 get one every birthday,” tho hoy said eagerly, “and—and it’s good money when I give it, isn’t it?” The blind pinyerls -ears..-caught tho > note _of trembling anxiety in tho child’s voice. “ Given with love—con amore, ch? Cunning one, you have turned.my, own blade against me so that I cannot refuse. And gold!—why, ’tis coined fiom your own heart.”

As tho hoy tucked the bright coin into tlio tattered-_ pocket of tho old man’s coat, tho violin wailed out the first notes of tho player’s own composition-- 1 II Pcnscrrso’—the pensive man.

It spoke of sunlight, of tho lighthearted workers in the vineyards, and the whisper of evening breezes through the olive groves, rippled with, tho laughter of children on the sun-bathed slopes above tho town, whispered of moonlight on the- blue Tyrrhenian when lovers’ pleadings Wended with the quiet surf on white beaches, and through it all a .sob of pensive sadness as a worn old man breathed his innermost thoughts—‘ll Penseroso.’ Tho last note died away, but still the old man, sat motionless, his thoughts journeying into bygone years. A touch of the boy’s band on bis arm recalled him. “You like that?” lie asked. Neither had noticed a man who had been listening intently to the playing, but before the boy could reply tho stranger stepped forward. “Play that again, old mbn,” be demanded, throwing a coin into the handkerchief. The boy whirled round. “ Why, hollo, Diid. I didn’t see yon. Did yon like that piece? Francesco calls it ‘1! Pcnseroso.’ ”

Francesco had straightened np on bearing the man speak, and the habitual hard look had come into His face. Forty years is a long time, but lie remcTO'bered every tone of that voice. He made no movement towards playing again, but sat stiffly with his face turned away from tho boy’s father. “I will not play again, so take up the money you threw to me,” he said deliberately.

“ Please yourself,” he was told roughly. “ j thought to buy from yon rir publish the tiling—it caught my fancy—hut possibly you can afford to be independent. Conic away from the dd fool, boy.” The musician listened to tho departing footsteps, and smiled as his keen hearing told him that tho boy’s feet lagged Perhaps ho turned to wave, being tear overawed by bis father’s presence to call out. In a little while, ho knew, his daughter would come to lead him home before tho evening chib set in, so lie packed his violin in its old case and patiently waited * $ ■ * * Presently she came, folded the threelegged stool, gathered the little pile of coins into tho handkerchief, and guided him to the poorer quarter of tho town where they rented two rooms in a tenement. Teresa was sixteen, a most efficient housekeeper, and (he possessor of a voice that was at once the pride and despair of tho old man’s life. It was a voice far too good to go untrained, ho could nacr succeed in accumulating sufficient funds for the purpose. After their simple meal had been oaten and the dishes washed ho called the girl to him. “ Yon will find me some other place to play, Teresa.. 1 cannot go again to the old corner.” “The police she hazarded. Twice before he had been, shifted for some unknown reason, and Teresa thought_ that something -of the sort had again occurred. “No, child. I must jjiovo or he will come back and steal-my music.” lie hesitated a moment, then came to a decision. “Teresa, I will tell yon something that, until now,'l'have kept from you ; I wanted to keep your mind clear from Hate. It burns strongly in our blood. To-day I heard the voice of Giovanni Cagllostro. I had not hoard it for forty years, Jmt I remembered. He is the father of the little boy -who comes to listen to mo. Years ago, in Italy, there were two of us, Giovanni and myself, who out to make our fortunes. .We

choso music ior our caicers. 1 was a musician horn, Giovanni was not, but it was long before ho would become reconciled to the knowledge. Wc shared everything and had no secrets from, each other. For a long time I Lad been at work oil tho, score of an opera; and at .last it was ready io submit to the publishers. Then it was that Giovanni realised that ho would never succeed as a composer, nor make lir mark as a player. I awakened ono morning to iind_ that ray false friend had fled, and with him had gone the work of several years, I do not know how much he received for vny work, but apparently it was sufficient to set him up in business as a publisher; I gathered that that was his business when ho asked me to sell ‘II Pcnseroso.’ Since then I have not put anything on paper for fear of thieves; now that my_ sight has gone I am unable to do so if I wanted to.” The hastily told tale finished, Fran cesco reached for his, violin; iio was unwilling to dwell on an unpleasant subject, and refused to answer any questions about tho matter. “Do you find me some place wlieic I’ll-bo allowed to play, like a good girl,” he said. “ When you are a Uttle older and able to hold your own against the business people 1 will see about selling some of my - compositions so that you can have proper training for your voice, and enough money to keep you for a year or two.” Two or three days later tho street violinist appeared at a busy comer some distance from his old pitch. He played without interruption from the loan he hated; also he missed Lis small friend.

A week passed in this manner. Then one evening, when Francesco and his daughter rested after the evening meal, there camo a knock at tho door. Teresa answered it, opening the door to a man in livery who proffered a letter. “ I’ll_ wait for tli’ answer, miss,” he said, touching his cap. Teresa read the address on the envelope and gave a cry of surprise. “ A letter for you, father, I will read it for you.” He gave an impatient assent; ietteis were a rarity in that home, and he nas natually curious. The. letter itself .was addressed to “Francesco, the violin player.” and tho girl continued to read as follows: “ I am sending this letter by my chaffeur with instructions to obtain your address from the police station where your license was issued, and to bring you to the above address. I am sure yqu wdi not refuse when the life of a child o’epends on you. My sen, who used to listen to your playing oury day in Brock street, was greatly disappointed when you no longer came. To appease him his mother inquired for the location of your new stand. This morning the boy set out to see you. A motor skidcled on the wet; road and knocked him down. Ho was brought home suffering from severe shock and concussion. All.day he has been calling out for Francesco and for ‘ll Pcnseroso.’ Tho doctor says that to live, he must sleep, and the only way in which he can be quietened would bo for you to play for him. I am a rich man, and you can name your own price for your services. • but come at once.” Tho letter was signed “ George Carrington ” Francesco listened in silence until his daughter read out the signature. “George Carrington, eh?” he repeated, and his hand shook as ho reached out for the letter. “I will keep this to laugh at, Teresa, This man is Gagliostro, and still he docs not know to whom ho turns for help.” He turned to the waiting man. “ Tell your master that Francesco Bonadetti—.you will remember—Bonadetti—will not play for him.” Teresa turned to him appealingly. “But, father—the poor little boy; what has he done to liarm you?”

“ Tho children-must suffer for the sins of the parents; so ifc is written, nnd the fires of- vengeance have burnt long enough in my blood. His tears may quench them.” He turned from tho opened door, thrusting tho letter deep into his pocket. His fingers touched some unfamiliar object; he drew it out and a strange softening look replaced the hardness of his features as no remembered. <! J Tis the little piece of gold —con umore,” ho murmured, and turned abruptly to where his violin lay in its case. “I will come,” ho stated, and signed to Teresa to take ids arm. * * * * A darkened bedroom echoed with the softly modulated notes telling the melancholy thoughts of a pensive man ; and the feverish child who tossed restlessly in tho big bed grew calmer under the soothing magic. Jbe sad note cl the violin gave, plate to a song of site p. in flic next, room an anxious father pricked his ears and looked his wonderment as tho tunc stirred the depths of his memory, _ Tho doctor came from flic bedroom and smiled reassuringly. ” He sleeps,” he said. With an impulsive gesture the father turned to a small table, took from his pocket a cheque book and a fountain pen, and wrote in an amount which represented more than the old player could hope to earn in the streets in live years. He folded it across and met Francesco as he quietly dosed the bedroom door behind him. Without speaking he thrust the cheque into tho old man’s hand. “ What is this F ” be asked. “ For services rendered,” said the father, striving to speak lightly. Turning bis sightless eyes, on bis one-time friend, Francesco tore Dio slip of paper across with a contemptuous gesture. ” What I have done was for tho child, and for love—Giovanni Oagliostro,” he said, and held out his hand for Teresa

The father, who had heard his sou’s delirious wanderings, understood, and was silent as the man lie had wronged was led from the room. Going down to his study lie took from his safe a small, tattered notebook, spent some hours in calculation, thou jotted down some figures on a slip of paper. Once again the cheque hook was used; this time for a much larger sum. which, strangely enough, represented the earnings of a certain musical composition ; the one he had stolen years ago. In Italian, 1 1 0 wrote a short note, signing it “ Giovanni Cagliostro”: 'the cheque was signed George, Carrington, To the cheque he pinned a slip of paper on which ho printed the words, “Con nmoro.” The letter, sealed and addressed to Francesco Bonndotti, was handed to n servant to deliver in the morning, and iVlr Carrington, publisher of music, turned to his son’s bedroom to see that all was well.