he talked a good deal and vehemently; at one time his thoughts kept leaping, as it were, from one subject to another (this was most conspicuous during dinner); at another, he was unable to have done with an idea; seizing upon it again and again, he gave it all sorts of wonderful twists and turns, and couldn’t get back into the ordinary track until something else took hold of his fancy.  Sometimes his voice was rough and harsh and screeching, and sometimes it was low and drawling and singing; but at no time did it harmonize with what he was about.  Music was the subject of conversation; the praises of a new composer were being sung, when Krespel, smiling, said in his low, singing tones, “I wish the devil with his pitchfork would hurl that atrocious garbler of music millions of fathoms down to the bottomless pit of hell!” Then he burst out passionately and wildly, “She is an angel of heaven, nothing but pure God-given music!—­the paragon and queen of song!”—­ and tears stood in his eyes.  To understand this, we had to go back to a celebrated artiste, who had been the subject of conversation an hour before.

Just at this time a roast hare was on the table; I noticed that Krespel carefully removed every particle of meat from the bones on his plate, and was most particular in his inquiries after the hare’s feet; these the Professor’s little five-year-old daughter now brought to him with a very pretty smile.  Besides, the children had cast many friendly glances towards Krespel during dinner; now they rose and drew nearer to him, but not without signs of timorous awe.  What’s the meaning of that? thought I to myself.  Dessert was brought in; then the Councillor took a little box from his pocket, in which he had a miniature lathe of steel.  This he immediately screwed fast to the table, and turning the bones with incredible skill and rapidity, he made all sorts of little fancy boxes and balls, which the children received with cries of delight.  Just as we were rising from table, the Professor’s niece asked, “And what is our Antonia doing?” Krespel’s face was like that of one who has bitten of a sour orange and wants to look as if it were a sweet one; but this expression soon changed into the likeness of a hideous mask, whilst he laughed behind it with downright, bitter, fierce, and, as it seemed to me, satanic scorn.  “Our Antonia? our dear Antonia?” he asked in his drawling, disagreeable singing way.  The Professor hastened to intervene; in the reproving glance which he gave his niece I read that she had touched a point likely to stir up unpleasant memories in Krespel’s heart.  “How are you getting on with your violins?” interposed the Professor in a jovial manner, taking the Councillor by both hands.  Then Krespel’s countenance cleared up, and with a firm voice he replied, “Capitally, Professor; you recollect my telling you of the lucky chance which threw that splendid Amati [Footnote:  The Amati were a celebrated family of violin-makers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, belonging