“‘The greatest singer in England.’ Yes, that is what I heard,” said Tom, patting Betsy’s hand, which he held affectionately in his own. He had made quite an art of fondling hands, having been for four years in Italy. The family had returned to the drawing-room after supper, but as Mr. Linley and his son had begun to talk about music, the younger members had escaped to another apartment, the better to push on a nursery quarrel as to the respective value of their presents. The novelty of a newly returned elder brother was beginning to decline; he had eaten of the pie just as they had eaten of it, and now he was beginning to talk quite easily of music, when they had fully expected him to tell them some thrilling stories of Italian brigands full of bloodshed.

“She has sung better than any singer in England,” said the father; “but that does not make her the greatest singer.”

“Pacchierotti is the best critic in the world, and he told a company in my hearing three months ago that there is no singer in England who can compare with Miss Linley,” said Tom. “Why, the great Agujari herself allowed that in oratorio she could never produce the same impression as our Miss Linnet.”

“She spoke the truth, then, though she is an Italian,” said Mr. Linley.

“Ah, let us talk about something else,” cried Betsy. “Why should we talk of music within the first hour of Tom’s return to us? Surely we might have one evening of pleasure.”

Tom ceased fondling her hand and looked seriously into her face. And now the expression in their eyes was not the same. The soft, beseeching look that she cast at him was very different from the serious glance—it had something of reproach in it—with which he regarded her.

“We talk of music because there is nothing else worth talking about in the world,” said he, and she saw with dismay the strange light that burned in the depths of his eyes, while his glance passed suddenly beyond her face—passed away from her face, from the room, from the world altogether. She knew what that light meant, and she shuddered. She had seen it in Mr. Garrick’s face when he was playing in Hamlet; she had seen it in Mr. Gainsborough’s face when he was painting the picture of her and her brother; she had seen it in the plain face of little Dr. Goldsmith when he had repeated in her hearing the opening lines of his sublime poem, “The Traveller”; she had seen it in the face of Mr. Burke when he was making a speech. She knew what it meant—she knew that that light was the light which men call genius, and she shuddered. She knew that to have genius is only to have a greater capacity for suffering than other men. What she did not know was that people saw the same light in her eyes when she was singing, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”

“What do you say?” cried the father, springing from his chair with a hand upraised. “What do you say, my son?”

“I say, sir, that we talk of music because there is nothing else in the world worth talking about,” said Tom stoutly.

With a cry of delight the father threw himself into his son’s arms.

“Thank God for that—thank God for that!” he murmured. “You have not worked in vain, my boy; I have not prayed in vain. The truth has been revealed to you. You are my son.”

“Can any one doubt that this is the truth?” said the boy.

Betsy saw that he was careful to avoid looking in her direction. That was why she felt that he was addressing her personally.

“No, no!” she said, catching his hand again. “No, no, dear Tom; no one in this house will doubt that music is the only subject worth a word, a thought. It is our life. Is there any better life? How we can gladden the hearts of all who come near us! Even at Oxford—I have sung a great deal at Oxford, you know—I have seen the tears upon the faces of those men—the most learned men in the world. Just think of a poor ignorant girl like myself being able to move a learned man to tears! Oh, there is nothing worth a thought in the world save only music. Let me sing to you now, Tom; you will be able to say if I have improved.”

Tom’s face glowed.

“We have wasted an hour over supper,” he said, and there was actually mournfulness in his voice. Happily his mother, the pie-maker, was not present; she had run from the room at the first mention of music. “I always think that eating is a huge waste of time. We might have been singing an hour ago. And what think you of this new instrument—the forte-piano—father? I have heard it affirmed that it will make even the harpsichord become obsolete. I laughed, having heard you play the harpsichord.”

“Burney talks much about the forte-piano,” said the father. “And Mr. Bach, who has been giving his concerts in the Thatched House in St. James’s Street, has surprised us all by his playing upon its keyboard; but, my son, ’tis less refined than my harpsichord.”

“No one will ever be able to invent any instrument that will speak to one as does your violin, Tom,” said Betsy. “You need have no fear that your occupation will soon be gone.”

Tom smiled.

“The violin is the only instrument that has got a soul,” said he. “Only God can create a soul. Doubtless God could make another instrument with a soul, to speak direct to the souls of men, but beyond doubt He has not done so yet.”

“And now you shall awaken all the soul which is in yours, and make it reveal its celestial mysteries to us,” said the father. “I am more than anxious to learn how you have progressed. I dare swear that you have not wasted your time in Italy?”

“Heaven only knows if I have done all that was in my power to do,” said the boy, after a curious pause.

He was staring at the furthest corner of the ceiling while he spoke. Then he got upon his feet and walked across the room and back again without speaking; then he threw himself down upon a sofa with a sigh.

“Now and again—only now and again—father, I think that I succeed in reaching the soul of the thing,” he said. “After long waiting and working and longing I sometimes hear its voice speaking to me, and then I feel that I am very near to God. Surely music is the voice of God speaking to the soul of man—speaking its message of infinite tenderness—gladness that is the gladness of heaven.... I think I have heard it, but not always—only at rare intervals. And I took up the violin when I was a child as if it were a simple thing—an ordinary instrument, and not a thing of mystery—a living thing!”

“You have learned the truth since those days!” cried the delighted father.

“The truth? Who is there alive that has learned the whole truth—the whole mystery of the violin?” said the boy. “I think that I have crept a little nearer to it during these years; that is all that I dare to say.”

“You are a musician,” said the father, and the tears of joy that were in his eyes were also in his voice. “The true musician is the one who fears to speak with assurance. He is never without his doubts, his fears, his hours of depression, as well as his moments of celestial joy. I thank heaven that I am the father of a musician.”

“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.

“Of course the stranger was Signore Pugnani, but I did not know it until he had taken the instrument from me,” said the son. “He was courteous in his compliments upon my performance. ‘I am but a pupil of that wonderful instrument,’ said he, ‘but I clearly perceive that you treat it with reverence. Would I tire you if I were to submit to your criticism my recollection of La Voce della Notte, sir?’ I replied, of course, that he should find in me an indulgent critic, and I made up my mind to be indulgent. And then—then—he held the bow for a long time over the string—I scarce knew when he began to make it speak. I scarce knew whence the sound came. All the mystery of night was in that single note; it was an impassioned cry for rest—the rest brought by night. While it sounded I seemed to hear the far-off cry of the whole creation that travaileth, yearning for the rest that is the consummation of God’s promises. Again he moved the bow, and that wailing note increased.... Ah, how can I express the magic of that playing?... I tell you that in a moment before my eyes the dim hall was crowded with figures. I sat in amazement watching them. They were laughing together in groups. Lovely girls in ravishing dishevelment flung roses up to the roof of the hall, and the blooms, breaking there, sent a shower of rosy perfumed petals quivering and dancing like butterflies downward. Children ran to catch the frail falling flakes, and clapped their hands. Men old and young sang in varying harmonies, and at intervals of singing quaffed sparkling wine from cups of glass. Suddenly, while all were in the act of drinking, the goblets fell with a crash upon the pavement, and the red wine flowed like blood over the mosaics of the floor. When the crash of the glasses had rung through the hall there was a moment of deathly silence, and then, far away, I heard once more the wailing of a great multitude. It drew closer and closer until men, women, and children in the hall joined in that chorus of ineffable sadness—that cry of the world for the rest which has been promised. They lay on the pavement before my eyes, wailing—wailing....

“Silence followed. The hall became dark in a moment; I could not have seen anything even if my eyes had been dry. They were not dry: that second wail had moved me as I had never before been moved. The darkness was stifling. I felt overwhelmed by it, but I could not stir. I remained bound to my seat by a spell that I could not break. But just as I felt myself struggling for breath, a long ray of moonlight slipped aslant the pavement of the hall, and the atmosphere became less dense. In a few moments the hall was filled with moonlight, and I saw that, just where the light streamed, there was growing a tree—a tree of golden fruit that shone in the moon’s rays. A little way off a fountain began to flash, and its sparkling drops fell musically into the basin beneath the fantastic jets. All at once a nightingale burst into rapturous song among the foliage. Ah, that song!—the soul of tranquillity, of a yearning satisfied! While I listened in delight I breathed the delicate dewy odours which seemed to come from the glossy leaves that hid the nightingale from sight.

“I do not know how long I listened—how long I tasted of the delight of that sensation of repose. I only know that I was on my feet straining to catch the last exquisite notes that seemed to dwindle away and become a part of the moonlight, when I heard a voice say:

“‘I find that my memory is trustworthy. I have played the whole of the Voce. I hope that I find in you a lenient critic, sir.’

“But I was on my knees at his feet, and unable to utter a word. Ah, it is the recollection of that playing which makes me feel that, even though I give up my life to the violin, I shall never pass beyond the threshold of the study.”

“Sir,” said the father, “you have told us of the effect produced upon your imagination by the playing of a great musician. But what you have proved to us is not that Signore Pugnani is a great musician, but that you are one. Give me your hand, my son; you are a great musician.”

Betsy wiped her eyes and sighed.