come when the new name must be
inscribed in the Libro d'Oro,--the Golden Book set apart to the children
of Art and Song. Yes, but in what character?--to whose genius is she
to give embodiment and form? Ah, there is the secret! Rumours go abroad
that the inexhaustible Paisiello, charmed with her performance of his
"Nel cor piu non me sento," and his "Io son Lindoro," will produce some
new masterpiece to introduce the debutante. Others insist upon it that
her forte is the comic, and that Cimarosa is hard at work at another
"Matrimonia Segreto." But in the meanwhile there is a check in the
diplomacy somewhere. The Cardinal is observed to be out of humour. He
has said publicly,--and the words are portentous,--"The silly girl is
as mad as her father; what she asks is preposterous!" Conference follows
conference; the Cardinal talks to the poor child very solemnly in
his closet,--all in vain. Naples is distracted with curiosity and
conjecture. The lecture ends in a quarrel, and Viola comes home sullen
and pouting: she will not act,--she has renounced the engagement.
Pisani, too inexperienced to be aware of all the dangers of the stage,
had been pleased at the notion that one, at least, of his name would add
celebrity to his art. The girl's perverseness displeased him. However,
he said nothing,--he never scolded in words, but he took up the faithful
barbiton. Oh, faithful barbiton, how horribly thou didst scold! It
screeched, it gabbled, it moaned, it growled. And Viola's eyes filled
with tears, for she understood that language. She stole to her mother,
and whispered in her ear; and when Pisani turned from his employment,
lo! both mother and daughter were weeping. He looked at them with a
wondering stare; and then, as if he felt he had been harsh, he flew
again to his Familiar. And now you thought you heard the lullaby which a
fairy might sing to some fretful changeling it had adopted and sought to
soothe. Liquid, low, silvery, streamed the tones beneath the enchanted
bow. The most stubborn grief would have paused to hear; and withal,
at times, out came a wild, merry, ringing note, like a laugh, but not
mortal laughter. It was one of his most successful airs from his beloved
opera,--the Siren in the act of charming the waves and the winds to
sleep. Heaven knows what next would have come, but his arm was arrested.
Viola had thrown herself on his breast, and kissed him, with happy
eyes that smiled through her sunny hair. At that
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