"You play correctly, madam," said the spinster; "but your music--what
stuff! Such things are null. They vex the ear a little, but they never
reach the mind."
Ashmead was wroth, and could hardly contain himself; but the Klosking was
amused, and rather pleased. "Mademoiselle has positive tastes in music,"
said she; "all the better."
"Yes," said the spinster, "most music is mere noise. I hate and despise
forty-nine compositions out of fifty; but the fiftieth I adore. Give me
something simple, with a little soul in it--if you can."
Ina Klosking looked at her, and observed her age and her dress, the
latter old-fashioned. She said, quietly, "Will mademoiselle do me the
honor to stand before me? I will sing her a trifle my mother taught me."
The spinster complied, and stood erect and stiff, with her arms folded.
Ina fixed her deep eyes on her, playing a liquid prelude all the time,
then swelled her chest and sung the old Venetian cauzonet, "Il pescatore
de'll' onda." It is a small thing, but there is no limit to the genius of
song. The Klosking sung this trifle with a voice so grand, sonorous, and
sweet, and, above all, with such feeling, taste, and purity, that somehow
she transported her hearers to Venetian waters, moonlit, and thrilled
them to the heart, while the great glass chandelier kept ringing very
audibly, so true, massive, and vibrating were her tones in that large,
empty room.
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