of three, filled our hearts with inward happiness.  I still continued to derive exquisite enjoyment from the Councillor’s strange crotchets and oddities; but it was of course Antonia’s irresistible charms alone which attracted me, and led me to put up with a good deal which I should otherwise, in the frame of mind in which I then was, have impatiently shunned.  For it only too often happened that in the Councillor’s characteristic extravagance there was mingled much that was dull and tiresome; and it was in a special degree irritating to me that, as often as I turned the conversation upon music, and particularly upon singing, he was sure to interrupt me, with that sardonic smile upon his face and those repulsive singing tones of his, by some remark of a quite opposite tendency, very often of a commonplace character.  From the great distress which at such times Antonia’s glances betrayed, I perceived that he only did it to deprive me of a pretext for calling upon her for a song.  But I didn’t relinquish my design.  The hindrances which the Councillor threw in my way only strengthened my resolution to overcome them; I must hear Antonia sing if I was not to pine away in reveries and dim aspirations for want of hearing her.

One evening Krespel was in an uncommonly good humor; he had been taking an old Cremona violin to pieces, and had discovered that the sound-post was fixed half a line more obliquely than usual—­an important discovery!—­one of incalculable advantage in the practical work of making violins!  I succeeded in setting him off at full speed on his hobby of the true art of violin-playing.  Mention of the way in which the old masters picked up their dexterity in execution from really great singers (which was what Krespel happened just then to be expatiating upon) naturally paved the way for the remark that now the practice was the exact opposite of this, the vocal score erroneously following the affected and abrupt transitions and rapid scaling of the instrumentalists.  “What is more nonsensical,” I cried, leaping from my chair, running to the piano, and opening it quickly—­“what is more nonsensical than such an execrable style as this, which, far from being music, is much more like the noise of peas rolling across the floor?” At the same time I sang several of the modern fermatas, which rush up and down and hum like a well-spun peg-top, striking a few villainous chords by way of accompaniment.

Krespel laughed outrageously and screamed:  “Ha! ha! methinks I hear our German-Italians or our Italian-Germans struggling with an aria from Pucitta, [Footnote:  Vincenzo Pucitta (1778-1861) was an Italian opera composer, whose music “shows great facility, but no invention.”  He also wrote several songs.] or Portogallo, [Footnote:  Il Portogallo was the Italian sobriquet of a Portuguese musician named Mark Anthony Simao (1763-1829).  He lived alternately in Italy and Portugal, and wrote several operas.] or some other Maestro di capella, or rather