and spread it on the table, for we were
beginning to be richer. I saw my father take out his violin. He put it on
the cloth and looked at it. Then he took it up, and laid his chin on it
like a man full of love, and drew the bow across just once. He whirled
away the bow, and knocked down our candle, and in the darkness I heard
something snap and break with a hollow sound. When I could see, he had
broken it, the neck from the body--the dear old violin! I could cry
still. I--I was too late to save it. I saw it broken, and the empty
belly, and the loose strings! It was murdering a spirit--that was! My
father sat in a corner one whole week, moping like such an old man! I was
nearly dead with my mother's voice. By-and-by we were all silent, for
there was nothing to eat. So I said to my mother, "I will earn money." My
mother cried. I proposed to take a lodging for myself, all by myself; go
there in the morning and return at night, and give lessons, and get money
for them. My landlady's good son gave me the brass-plate again. Emilia
Alessandra Belloni! I was glad to see my name. I got two pupils very
quickly one, an old lady, and one, a young one. The old lady--I mean, she
was not grey--wanted a gentleman to marry her, and the landlady told
me--I mean my pupil--it makes me laugh--asked him what he thought of her
voice: for I had been singing. I earned a great deal of money: two pounds
ten shillings a week. I could afford to pay for lessons myself, I
thought. What an expense! I had to pay ten shillings for one lesson! Some
have to pay twenty; but I would pay it to learn from the best
masters;--and I had to make my father and mother live on potatoes, and
myself too, of course. If you buy potatoes carefully, they are extremely
cheap things to live upon, and make you forget your hunger more than
anything else.

"I suppose," added Emilia, "you have never lived upon potatoes entirely?
Oh, no!"

Wilfrid gave a quiet negative.

"But I was pining to learn, and was obliged to keep them low. I could
pitch any notes, and I was clear but I was always ornamenting, and what I
want is to be an accurate singer. My music-master was a German--not an
Austrian--oh, no!--I'm sure he was not. At least, I don't think so, for I
liked him. He was harsh with me, but sometimes he did stretch his fingers
on my head, and turn it round, and say words that I pretended not to
think of, though they sent me home burning. I began to compose, and this
gentlema