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18 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 every 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 —