He found the object of his care seated by his table, on which he leaned in a melancholy reverie. His form was emaciated; his face so pale that the good monk, who had seen him but a few hours before, was even startled at the increased evidence of indisposition. His violin was thrown aside neglected—strongest possible proof of the malady of one who had worshipped music with an idolatry bordering on madness.
Boëmo laid his hand kindly on his pupil’s shoulder, and said, in a tone of mild reproof—“Giuseppe!”
The young man made no reply.
“This is not well, my brother!” continued the worthy organist. “The gifts of God are not to be thus slighted; we offend Him by our despondency, which, save abuse of power, is the worst ingratitude.”
“It is your fault!” said the youth, bitterly, and looking up.
“Mine—and how?”
Giuseppe hesitated.
“How am I to blame for this sinful melancholy you indulge?”
“Your lessons have given me knowledge.”
“And does knowledge bring sorrow?”