That is just the delightful
part of a conversation not on common subjects--to feel the same degree
of warmth animating the minds of all present. Only then do one's words
have the true ring of sincerity and give real pleasure, both to the
speaker and the hearer.
'Francesca's cousin is a most cultivated judge of music. He greatly
admires the masters of the eighteenth century, Domenico Scarlatti being
his special favourite. But his most ardent devotion is reserved for
Sebastian Bach. He does not care much for Chopin, and Beethoven affects
him too profoundly and perturbs his spirit.
'He listened to me with a singular expression, almost as if dazed or
distressed. I nearly always addressed myself to Francesca, but I felt
his eyes upon me with an insistence which embarrassed but did not offend
me. He must still be weak and ill and a prey to his nerves. Finally he
asked me--"Do you sing?" in the same tone in which he would have
said--"Do you love me?"
'I sang an air of Paisiello's and another by Salieri, and I played a
little eighteenth century music. I was in good voice and my touch on the
piano happy.
'He gave me no word of thanks or praise, but remained perfectly silent.
I wonder why?
'Delfina was in bed by that time. When I went upstairs afterwards to see
her, I found her asleep, but with her eyelashes wet as if with tears.
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