“I thought that I was a musician until I heard Pugnani,” said the son. “Hearing him showed me that I had not even crossed the threshold of the temple. Shall I ever forget that day? I was sent by my master with a message to his house on that hill where the olive-trees mingle with the oranges and the vines. I remember how the red beams of the sun at its setting swept across the Arno, and crept among the olives, and blazed upon the oranges till they seemed like so many lamps half hidden among the glossy foliage.”
“Would that I had been with you!” said Betsy in a twilight voice.
“Ah, if you had but been with me, you would have learned more of music in half an hour than you could acquire elsewhere in a lifetime,” said her brother.
“He played for you?” said the father.
“Yes, he played. The words are easily said. The villa is a lovely one, and when I reached the entrance, walking through the orange-grove, the sun had sunk, and from a solitary oleander a nightingale had begun to sing in the blue twilight. I stood listening to it, and feeling how truly Handel had interpreted the bird’s song.”
“Betsy shall sing you the aria ‘Sweet Bird’ when you have told us your story,” said Mr. Linley.
“I entered during the first pause, for there was no bell to ring—my master had told me not to look for a bell or to call for a servant; the Maestro does not live as other men. The hall was empty; but I had received my instructions to wait there, and I waited until a man strolled in after me from the garden. He wore the common blouse of the Italian peasant, and carried a pruning-knife in one hand and a huge bunch of grapes in the other. I took him for a gardener, and the low bow which he made to me confirmed this impression. In replying to his courteous ‘Buona sera, signore,’ I told him that if he should chance to find Signore Pugnani in the villa, I would thank him greatly if he would let him know that I brought a message from Maestro Grassi. ‘Signore Pugnani will be here presently,’ said he. I thanked him, and, wishing to be civil, I said: ‘His garden does you great credit—you are, I venture to think, his gardener?’ ‘Alas! sir,’ said he, smiling,‘I am a much humbler person than his gardener. I have, it is true, dared to cut a bunch of grapes, but I am even now trembling at my boldness. I shall have to face the gardener before night, for he is sure to miss it. You are one of Maestro Grassi’s pupils, sir?’ he added; and when I assented, ‘I, too, am learning to play the violin,’ he said. ‘It is very creditable to you to wish to master the instrument,’ said I. ‘You must have many opportunities in this household of hearing good music. Your master is, I believe, one of the greatest composers. I am overcome with admiration of his night piece—La Voce della Notte, he has called it.’ ‘I have heard him play it,’ said he—‘at least I think I recollect it. I fancy I should recall it fully if you were to play a few bars of the prelude.’ He picked up a violin which, with its bow, was lying on a cushion on the settee of the hall, and began tuning it. When he had satisfied himself that the instrument was in tune, he handed it to me. ‘Have you memory sufficient to play a few bars of the Andante?’ he inquired. ‘Oh, I can play the thing throughout,’ said I eagerly. I prided myself on having mastered the Andante, and I did not hesitate to play it. In the dimness of that twilight in the hall, through which the scents of the orange-trees floated—I can perceive the delicate perfume of that Italian evening still—I played the Andante.”
The narrator paused, and then, lying back in his chair, he laughed heartily. His father smiled; his sister was grave.
“You played it creditably, I hope? You were in the presence of the composer, I begin to see,” said Mr. Linley.