第13章

The affections of Pisani were little visible on the surface.He was not one of those fond, caressing fathers whose children are ever playing round their knees; his mind and soul were so thoroughly in his art that domestic life glided by him, seemingly as if THAT were a dream, and the heart the substantial form and body of existence.Persons much cultivating an abstract study are often thus; mathematicians proverbially so.When his servant ran to the celebrated French philosopher, shrieking, "The house is on fire, sir!" "Go and tell my wife then, fool!" said the wise man, settling back to his problems; "do _I_ ever meddle with domestic affairs?" But what are mathematics to music--music, that not only composes operas, but plays on the barbiton? Do you know what the illustrious Giardini said when the tyro asked how long it would take to learn to play on the violin? Hear, and despair, ye who would bend the bow to which that of Ulysses was a plaything, "Twelve hours a day for twenty years together!" Can a man, then, who plays the barbiton be always playing also with his little ones? No, Pisani; often, with the keen susceptibility of childhood, poor Viola had stolen from the room to weep at the thought that thou didst not love her.And yet, underneath this outward abstraction of the artist, the natural fondness flowed all the same; and as she grew up, the dreamer had understood the dreamer.And now, shut out from all fame himself; to be forbidden to hail even his daughter's fame!--and that daughter herself to be in the conspiracy against him! Sharper than the serpent's tooth was the ingratitude, and sharper than the serpent's tooth was the wail of the pitying barbiton!

The eventful hour is come.Viola is gone to the theatre,--her mother with her.The indignant musician remains at home.

Gionetta bursts into the room: my Lord Cardinal's carriage is at the door,--the Padrone is sent for.He must lay aside his violin; he must put on his brocade coat and his lace ruffles.

Here they are,--quick, quick! And quick rolls the gilded coach, and majestic sits the driver, and statelily prance the steeds.

Poor Pisani is lost in a mist of uncomfortable amaze.He arrives at the theatre; he descends at the great door; he turns round and round, and looks about him and about: he misses something,--where is the violin? Alas! his soul, his voice, his self of self, is left behind! It is but an automaton that the lackeys conduct up the stairs, through the tier, into the Cardinal's box.

But then, what bursts upon him! Does he dream? The first act is over (they did not send for him till success seemed no longer doubtful); the first act has decided all.He feels THAT by the electric sympathy which ever the one heart has at once with a vast audience.He feels it by the breathless stillness of that multitude; he feels it even by the lifted finger of the Cardinal.

He sees his Viola on the stage, radiant in her robes and gems,--he hears her voice thrilling through the single heart of the thousands! But the scene, the part, the music! It is his other child,--his immortal child; the spirit-infant of his soul; his darling of many years of patient obscurity and pining genius; his masterpiece; his opera of the Siren!

This, then, was the mystery that had so galled him,--this the cause of the quarrel with the Cardinal; this the secret not to be proclaimed till the success was won, and the daughter had united her father's triumph with her own!

And there she stands, as all souls bow before her,--fairer than the very Siren he had called from the deeps of melody.Oh, long and sweet recompense of toil! Where is on earth the rapture like that which is known to genius when at last it bursts from its hidden cavern into light and fame!

He did not speak, he did not move; he stood transfixed, breathless, the tears rolling down his cheeks; only from time to time his hands still wandered about,--mechanically they sought for the faithful instrument, why was it not there to share his triumph?

At last the curtain fell; but on such a storm and diapason of applause! Up rose the audience as one man, as with one voice that dear name was shouted.She came on, trembling, pale, and in the whole crowd saw but her father's face.The audience followed those moistened eyes; they recognised with a thrill the daughter's impulse and her meaning.The good old Cardinal drew him gently forward.Wild musician, thy daughter has given thee back more than the life thou gavest!

"My poor violin!" said he, wiping his eyes, "they will never hiss thee again now!"