g her.

One evening Krespel was in an uncommonly good humour; he had been
taking an old Cremona violin to pieces, and had discovered that the
sound-post was fixed half a line more obliquely than usual--an
important discovery! one of incalculable advantage in the practical
work of making violins! I succeeded in setting him off at full speed on
his hobby of the true art of violin-playing. Mention of the way in
which the old masters picked up their dexterity in execution from
really great singers (which was what Krespel happened just then to be
expatiating upon), naturally paved the way for the remark that now the
practice was the exact opposite of this, the vocal score erroneously
following the affected and abrupt transitions and rapid scaling of the
instrumentalists. "What is more nonsensical," I cried, leaping from my
chair, running to the piano, and opening it quickly, "what is more
nonsensical than such an execrable style as this, which, far from being
music, is much more like the noise of peas rolling across the floor?"
At the same time I sang several of the modern _fermatas_, which rush up
and down and hum like a well-spun peg-top, striking a few villanous
chords by way of accompaniment Krespel laughed outrageously and
screamed, "Ha! ha! methinks I hear our German-Italians or our
Italian-Germans struggling with an aria from Pucitta,[5] or
Portogallo,[6] or some other _Maestro di capella_, or rather _schiavo
d'un primo uomo_."[7] Now, thought I, now's the time; so turning to
Antonia, I remarked, "Antonia knows nothing of such singing as that, I
believe?" At the same time I struck up one of old Leonardo Leo's[8]
beautiful soul-stirring songs. Then Antonia's cheeks glowed; heavenly
radiance sparkled in her eyes, which grew full of reawakened
inspiration; she hastened to the piano; she opened her lips; but at
that very moment Krespel pushed her away, grasped me by the shoulders,
and with a shriek that rose up to a tenor pitch, cried, "My son--my
son--my son!" And then he immediately went on, singing very softly, and
grasping my hand with a bow that was the pink of politeness, "In very
truth, my esteemed and honourable student-friend, in very truth it
would be a violation of the codes of social intercourse, as well as of
all good manners, were I to express aloud and in a stirring way my wish
that here, on this very spot, the devil from hell would softly break
your neck with his burning claws, and so in a sense make short