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bland； unjealous Paisiello； Maestro di Capella； shook his gentle
head when the musician favoured him with a specimen of one of his
most thrilling scenas。 And yet； Paisiello； though that music
differs from all Durante taught thee to emulate； there maybut
patience； Gaetano Pisani！ bide thy time； and keep thy violin in
tune！
Strange as it may appear to the fairer reader； this grotesque
personage had yet formed those ties which ordinary mortals are
apt to consider their especial monopoly；he was married； and had
one child。 What is more strange yet； his wife was a daughter of
quiet； sober； unfantastic England： she was much younger than
himself； she was fair and gentle； with a sweet English face； she
had married him from choice； and （will you believe it？） she yet
loved him。 How she came to marry him； or how this shy； unsocial；
wayward creature ever ventured to propose； I can only explain by
asking you to look round and explain first to ME how half the
husbands and half the wives you meet ever found a mate！ Yet； on
reflection； this union was not so extraordinary after all。 The
girl was a natural child of parents too noble ever to own and
claim her。 She was brought into Italy to learn the art by which
she was to live； for she had taste and voice； she was a dependant
and harshly treated； and poor Pisani was her master； and his
voice the only one she had heard from her cradle that seemed
without one tone that could scorn or chide。 And sowell； is the
rest natural？ Natural or not； they married。 This young wife
loved her husband； and young and gentle as she was； she might
almost be said to be the protector of the two。 From how many
disgraces with the despots of San Carlo and the Conservatorio had
her unknown officious mediation saved him！ In how many ailments
for his frame was weakhad she nursed and tended him！ Often；
in the dark nights； she would wait at the theatre with her
lantern to light him and her steady arm to lean on； otherwise； in
his abstract reveries； who knows but the musician would have
walked after his 〃Siren〃 into the sea！ And then she would so
patiently； perhaps （for in true love there is not always the
finest taste） so DELIGHTEDLY； listen to those storms of eccentric
and fitful melody； and steal himwhispering praises all the way
from the unwholesome night…watch to rest and sleep！
I said his music was a part of the man； and this gentle creature
seemed a part of the music； it was； in fact； when she sat beside
him that whatever was tender or fairy…like in his motley fantasia
crept into the harmony as by stealth。 Doubtless her presence
acted on the music； and shaped and softened it； but； he； who
never examined how or what his inspiration； knew it not。 All
that he knew was； that he loved and blessed her。 He fancied he
told her so twenty times a day； but he never did； for he was not
of many words； even to his wife。 His language was his music；as
hers； her cares！ He was more communicative to his barbiton； as
the learned Mersennus teaches us to call all the varieties of the
great viol family。 Certainly barbiton sounds better than fiddle；
and barbiton let it be。 He would talk to THAT by the hour
together；praise it； scold it； coax it； nay （for such is man；
even the most guileless）； he had been known to swear at it； but
for that excess he was always penitentially remorseful。 And the
barbiton had a tongue of his own； could take his own part； and
when HE also scolded； had much the best of it。 He was a noble
fellow； this Violin！a Tyrolese； the handiwork of the
illustrious Steiner。 There was something mysterious in his great
age。 How many hands； now dust； had awakened his strings ere he
became the Robin Goodfellow and Familiar of Gaetano Pisani！ His
very case was venerable；beautifully painted； it was said； by
Caracci。 An English collector had offered more for the case than
Pisani had ever made by the violin。 But Pisani； who cared not if
he had inhabited a cabin himself； was proud of a palace for the
barbiton。 His barbiton； it was his elder child！ He had another
child； and now we must turn to her。
How shall I describe thee； Viola？ Certainly the music had
something to answer for in the advent of that young stranger。
For both in her form and her character you might have traced a
family likeness to that singular and spirit…like life of sound
which night after night threw itself in airy and goblin sport
over the starry seas。。。Beautiful she was； but of a very uncommon
beauty；a combination； a harmony of opposite attributes。 Her
hair of a gold richer and purer than that which is seen even in
the North； but the eyes； of all the dark； tender； subduing light
of more than Italianalmost of Orientalsplendour。 The
complexion exquisitely fair； but never the same；vivid in one
moment； pale the next。 And with the complexion； the expression
also varied； nothing now so sad； and nothing now so joyous。
I grieve to say that what we rightly entitle education was much
neglected for their daughter by this singular pair。 To be sure；
neither of them had much knowledge to bestow； and knowledge was
not then the fashion； as it is now。 But accident or nature
favoured young Viola。 She learned； as of course； her mother's
language with her father's。 And she contrived soon to read and
to write； and her mother； who； by the way； was a Roman Catholic；
taught her betimes to pray。 But then； to counteract all these
acquisitions； the strange habits of Pisani； and the incessant
watch and care which he required from his wife； often left the
child alone with an old nurse； who； to be sure； loved her dearly；
but who was in no way calculated to instruct her。
Dame Gionetta was every inch Italian and Neapolitan。 Her youth
had been all love； and her age was all superstition。 She was
garrulous； fond；a gossip。 Now she would prattle to the girl of
cavaliers and princes at her feet； and now she would freeze her
blood with tales and legends； perhaps as old as Greek or Etrurian
fable； of demon and vampire；of the dances round the great
walnut…tree at Benevento； and the haunting spell of the Evil Eye。
All this helped silently to weave charmed webs over Viola's
imagination that afterthought and later years might labour vainly
to dispel。 And all this especially fitted her to hang； with a
fearful joy； upon her father's music。 Those visionary strains；
ever struggling to translate into wild and broken sounds the
language of unearthly beings； breathed around her from her birth。
Thus you might have said that her whole mind was full of music；
associations； memories； sensations of pleasure or pain；all were
mixed up inexplicably with those sounds that now delighted and
now terrified； that greeted her when her eyes opened to the sun；
and woke her trembling on her lonely couch in the darkness of the
night。 The legends and tales of Gionetta only served to make the
child better understand the signification of those mysterious