she is not permitted to sing in his own house.  Antonia’s singing on that memorable night has, therefore, come to be regarded by the townspeople in the light of a tradition of some marvellous wonder that suffices to stir the heart and the fancy; and even those who did not hear it often exclaim, ever any other singer attempts to display her powers in the place, ’What sort of a wretched squeaking do you call that?  Nobody but Antonia knows how to sing.’”

Having a singular weakness for such like fantastic histories, I found it necessary, as may easily be imagined, to make Antonia’s acquaintance.  I had myself often enough heard the popular sayings about her singing, but had never imagined that that exquisite artiste was living in the place, held a captive in the bonds of this eccentric Krespel like the victim of a tyrannous sorcerer.  Naturally enough I heard in my dreams on the following night Antonia’s marvellous voice, and as she besought me in the most touching manner in a glorious adagio movement (very ridiculously it seemed to me, as if I had composed it myself) to save her—­I soon resolved, like a second Astolpho,[Footnote:  A reference to Ariosto’s Orlando Furioso.  Astolpho, an English cousin of Orlando, was a great boaster, but generous, courteous, gay, and remarkably handsome; he was carried to Alcina’s island on the back of a whale.] to penetrate into Krespel’s house, as if into another Alcina’s magic ca stle, and deliver the queen of song from her ignominious fetters.

It all came about in a different way from what I had expected; I had seen the Councillor scarcely more than two or three times, and eagerly discussed with him the best method of constructing violins, when he invited me to call and see him.  I did so; and he showed me his treasures of violins.  There were fully thirty of them hanging up in a closet; one amongst them bore conspicuously all the marks of great antiquity (a carved lion’s head, etc.), and, hung up higher than the rest, and surmounted by a crown of flowers, it seemed to exercise a queenly supremacy over them.  “This violin,” said Krespel, on my making some inquiry relative to it, “this violin is a very remarkable and curious specimen of the work of some unknown master, probably of Tartini’s [Footnote:  Giuseppe Tartini, born in 1692, died in 1770, was one of the most celebrated violinists of the eighteenth century, and the discoverer (in 1714) of “resultant tones,” or “Tartini’s tones,” as they are frequently called.  Most of his life was spent at Padua.  He did much to advance the art of the violinist, both by his compositions for that instrument, as well as by his treatise on its capabilities.] age.  I am perfectly convinced that there is something especially exceptional in its inner construction, and that, if I took it to pieces, a secret would be revealed to me which I have long been seeking to discover, but—­ laugh at me if you like—­this senseless thing which only gives signs of life and sound as I make it, often