He played a cantabile accompaniment, like the flow of summer seas, and then a plaintive melody for two voices—following, answering, echoing each other with tearful emphasis—a broken phrase here and there, as if the singer were choked by a despairing sob.
“What is the name of the opera, aunt?” asked Mildred; “I never heard any of that music before.”
“He has been playing selections from different operas. That last melody is a duet in an opera called La Donna del Pittore.”
“By what composer? It sounded like Flotow.”
“It is not Flotow’s. That opera was written by Mr. Castellani’s father.”
“I remember he told me his father had written operas. It is a pity his music was never known in England.”
“You had better say it was a pity his music was never fashionable in Paris. Had it been recognised there, English connoisseurs would have speedily discovered its merits. We are not a musical nation, Mildred. We find new planets, but we never discover new musicians. We took up Weber only to neglect him and break his heart. We had not taste enough to understand Mendelssohn’s Melusine.”
“Mr. Castellani’s operas were popular in Italy, were they not?”
“For a time, yes; but the Italians are as capricious as we are dull. César tells me that his father’s operas have not held the stage.”
“Were they fashionable in your time, aunt, when you were studying music at Milan?”