often while penning my "Memoirs," I have looked up and my eyes have caught yours. I have not forgotten you; I shall never forget you, dear master, dear Vitalis.
Here comes my mother leaning on my brother's arm, for it is now the son who supports the mother, for Arthur has grown big and strong. A few steps behind my mother comes an old woman dressed like a French peasant and carrying in her arms a little baby robed in a white pelisse. It is dear Mother Barberin, the little baby is my son Mattia.
Arthur brings me a copy of the Times and points to a correspondence from Vienna which states that Mattia, the great musician, has completed his series of concerts, and that, in spite of his tremendous success in Vienna, he is returning to England to keep an engagement which cannot be broken. I did not need to read the article for, although all the world now calls Mattia the Chopin of the violin, I have watched him develop and grow. When we were all three working together under the direction of our tutors, Mattia made little progress in Latin and Greek, but quickly outstripped his professors in music. Espinassous, the barber-musician of Mendes, had been right.
A footman brings me a telegram:
"Sea very rough! Alas! Have been very ill, but managed to stop on my way at Paris for Christina. Shall be with you at 4 o'clock. Send carriage to meet us. MATTIA."
