d took
it up with the greatest eagerness. Utterly absorbed in her work, knowing
little or nothing of what was going on outside her lessons, she studied
and practiced day after day without a thought of anything else. The new
piece and the exercises took her whole time for the next two months.
That one "_air varie_" was in hand every day. She played it through
hundreds of times. Every phrase was studied. Hours were spent over one
note. A week on a single page was good progress. One little passage cost
her many a sorrowful hour. Somehow she could not get it right for a
long time. Once she played it over forty-seven times before her nervous
and irritable master would let her off. Other pupils were waiting. They
could wait. She was to play that measure just right if it took all day.
It was useless to cry. If she was obstinate and naughty about it she
should be punished. She must play it right. How her arms ached over that
passage. The tears dropped on the violin. It didn't do any good, and
only made the master still more angry. At last she did it right, played
it over several times, went home and never played it wrong again in her
life.

Such was the child's artist life for the first twelve months. Outside of
it the gossips fairly raged and warred with their nimble tongues.
Salvatore Urso's experiment with his little girl was much talked about.
Some could not say too hard things of him. Felix Simon was blamed, her
mother was blamed. It was all wrong. It was wicked to teach the child to
play. Others said no, let her try, if she failed they would be well
punished for their work. If she succeeded it would be a fine thing. It
was rumored that the girl had great talent and would in time do
wonderful things.

In such a dull, sleepy town as Nantes, where there is nothing in
particular going on, and where the people have little or nothing to talk
about outside their own petty lives, such an experiment as this was
naturally the subject of much talk. It was such a bold step, and,
really, there was nothing else to talk about. Imagine the excitement
when it was announced that the little Camilla would give a public
performance at the Hotel de Ville.

It came about in this way. The Bassoon in the orchestra died. That was
the curious way they expressed it. The instrument had not died, but the
man who played it. He left a widow and one child, and no money. Nobody
had ever heard of an orchestral player who had left much. The pay was
too