Yes, that was it; the strings were covered with dust, the sounding board was dried up, the felt worn away.
A heavy sigh echoed through the room, heavy as if it came from a hollow chest, and then silence fell.
“But all the same, it is strange,” the husband said suddenly, “that the glorious prologue is missing in this arrangement. I remember distinctly that there was a prologue with an accompaniment of harps and a chorus which went like this.”
He softly hummed the tune, which bubbled up like a stream in a mountain glen; note succeeded note, his face cleared, his lips smiled, the lines disappeared, his fingers touched the keys, and drew from them melodies, powerful, caressing and full of eternal youth, while with a strong and ringing voice he sang the part of the bass.
His wife started from her melancholy reverie and listened with tears in her eyes.
“What are you singing?” she asked, full of amazement.
“Romeo and Julia! Our Romeo and our Julia!”
He jumped up from the music stool and pushed the music towards his astonished wife.
“Look! This was the Romeo of our uncles and aunts, this was—read it—Bellini! Oh! We are not old, after all!”
The wife looked at the thick, glossy hair of her husband, his smooth brow and flashing eyes, with joy.