“Oh, my dear Agnes,” cried Clare, “if you had ever been one of a class of vocalists in Italy you would not talk about a little incident such as this is, as an equivalent to the lethal chamber. I wonder if there are any other employments that have such an effect upon the--the--well, let us say the nerves, as the art of singing. My experience is that a singing class is a forcing house of the affections. I only found out after I had been with the maestro for two years, that it was his fun to throw all of us together so that our wits might be sharpened--that was how he put it. What he meant was that we all sang best when we were in love with one another. Heaven! the scenes that I have witnessed! A _tenore robusto_ used to sharpen his knife on the stone steps so as to be ready to cut the heart out of the _basso profundo_, who was unfortunate enough to fancy himself in love with the _mezzo-soprano_.” “What an interesting experience! But what a shocking old man your master must have been!” laughed Agnes. “Oh, he cared about nothing but to advance us in our knowledge of the art of expressing the emotions by singing. How could we know how to interpret a passion which we had never felt, he used to ask.” “So he encouraged the tenor to put a fine edge on his knife, hoping that he would have a better idea of interpreting his revenge when he had cut the heart out of the bosom of his brother artist? Yes, I'm afraid that though an estimable exponent of the art of vocalism, your maestro was lacking in some of the finer principles of the moralist.” “He took nothing into consideration except his art,” said Clare. “He admitted to me that he liked to see his pupils miserable, for only then could they be depended on to do justice to themselves. He made mischief between young people only that he might study them when blazing with revenge. He has reproduced for me an entire scena founded on a lover's quarrel that he himself brought about.” “So cold-blooded an old wretch could not be imagined!” cried Agnes. “And yet he could compose so transcendent a theme as the 'Nightingale'! Oh, my dear Clare, one feels that this art is a terrible thing after all.” “I feel that I have wasted my time with Signor Marini,” said Clare. “What would I not give now to have studied drawing as I studied singing!” “You are still afraid of attacking those illustrations? I wonder how the maestro would treat your mood in his music?”