onging to
his grandmother, which was always wrapped up and must be handled
carefully, like a gouty member of the family, was not adapted to his
requirements. The organist's instrument, which had been thumped and
banged upon by two generations of hands, hardened by contact with the
pickaxe, now sent forth only a funny little nasal voice, which rose
above a faint tinkling, as of many tiny glasses standing too close
together. Franco was almost oblivious to this. As soon as he had placed
his hands upon the instrument his imagination would take fire; the
composer's enthusiasm would enter into him, and, in the heat of the
creative passion, a thread of sound sufficed to permeate him with the
spirit of music, and absolutely to intoxicate him. An Erard would have
embarrassed him, would have left less room for fancy, would, in a word,
have been less dear to him than his spinet.

Franco possessed too many talents, too many different inclinations, too
much impetuosity, too little vanity and perhaps also, too little
will-power to undertake that tiresome, methodical, manual labour, which
is indispensable in order to become a pianist. Nevertheless, Viscontini
was enthusiastic about the style of playing, and his fiancee Luisa,
though she did not entirely share his classical tastes, honestly admired
his touch. When, being pressed to do so, he would make the organ at
Cressogno roar and groan in the approved classic manner, the good
people, overwhelmed by the music and the honour, would stare at him with
open mouths and reverent eyes, as they would have stared at some
preacher, whose sermon they did not understand. But notwithstanding all
this, Franco could not have held his own in a city drawing-room, against
the majority of feeble amateurs, incapable even of understanding and
loving music. All, or almost all of them would have shown themselves his
superiors in agility and in precision, and would have gathered in more
applause, even though no one of them had succeeded in making the piano
sing as he made it sing, especially in the adagios of Bellini and of
Beethoven, playing with his soul in his throat, in his eyes, in the
muscles of his face, in the tendons of his hands, which seemed one with
the chords of the piano.

Another passion of his was for old pictures. The walls of his room held
several, most of which were daubs. Never having travelled he had little
experience. His fancy was quick to take fire, and, obliged as he was to
fit h