It was really not so long ago ­only one year.  The sirocco was blowing up and down the streets, and about the corners, with its sickening blast, making us all feel like dead people, and hiding away the sun from us.  It is no use trying to do anything when it blows sirocco, at least for us who are born here.  But I had been persuaded to go with Nino to the house of Sor Ercole to hear my boy sing the opera he had last studied, and so I put my cloak over my shoulders, and wrapped its folds over my breast, and covered my mouth, and we went out.  For it was a cold sirocco, bringing showers of tepid rain from the south, and the drops seemed to chill themselves as they fell.  One moment you are in danger of being too cold, and the next minute the perspiration stands on your forehead, and you are oppressed with a moist heat.  Like the prophet, when it blows a real sirocco you feel as if you were poured out like water, and all your bones were out of joint.  Foreigners do not feel it until they have lived with us a few years, but Romans are like dead men when the wind is in that quarter.

I went to the maestro’s house and sat for two hours listening to the singing.  Nino sang very creditably, I thought, but I allow that I was not as attentive as I might have been, for I was chilled and uncomfortable.  Nevertheless, I tried to be very appreciative, and I complimented the boy on the great progress he had made.  When I thought of it, it struck me that I had never heard anybody sing like that before; but still there was something lacking; I thought it sounded a little unreal, and I said to myself that he would get admiration, but never any sympathy.  So clear, so true, so rich it was, but wanting a ring to it, the little thrill that goes to the heart.  He sings very differently now.

Maestro Ercole De Pretis lives in the Via Paola, close to the Ponte Sant’ Angelo, in a most decent little house ­that is, of course, on a floor of a house, as we all do.  But De Pretis is well-to-do, and he has a marble door plate, engraved in black with his name, and two sitting-rooms.  They are not very large rooms, it is true, but in one of them he gives his lessons, and the grand piano fills it up entirely, so that you can only sit on the little black horsehair sofa at the end, and it is very hard to get past the piano on either side.  Ercole is as broad as he is long, and takes snuff when he is not smoking.  But it never hurts his voice.

It was Sunday, I remember, for he had to sing in St. Peter’s in the afternoon; and it was so near, we walked over with him.  Nino had never lost his love for church music, though he had made up his mind that it was a much finer thing to be a primo tenore assoluto at the Apollo Theatre than to sing in the Pope’s choir for thirty scudi a month.  We walked along over the bridge, and through the Borgo Nuovo, and across the Piazza Rusticucci, and then we skirted the colonnade on the left, and entered the church by the sacristy, leaving De Pretis there to put on his purple cassock and his white cotta.  Then we went into the Capella del Coro to wait for the vespers.

All sorts of people go to St. Peter’s on Sunday afternoon, but they are mostly foreigners, and bring strange little folding chairs, and arrange themselves to listen to the music as though it were a concert.  Now and then one of the young gentlemen-in-waiting from the Vatican strolls in and says his prayers, and there is an old woman, very ragged and miserable, who has haunted the chapel of the choir for many years, and sits with perfect unconcern, telling her beads at the foot of the great reading-desk that stands out in the middle and is never used.  Great ladies crowd in through the gate when Raimondi’s hymn is to be sung, and disreputable artists make sketches surreptitiously during the benediction, without the slightest pretence at any devotion that I can see.  The lights shine out more brightly as the day wanes, and the incense curls up as the little boys swing the censers, and the priests and canons chant, and the choir answers from the organ loft; and the crowd looks on, some saying their prayers, some pretending to, and some looking about for the friend or lover they have come to meet.

That evening when we went over together I found myself pushed against a tall man with an immense gray moustache standing out across his face like the horns of a beetle.  He looked down on me from time to time, and when I apologised for crowding him his face flushed a little, and he tried to bow as well as he could in the press, and said something with a German accent which seemed to be courteous.  But I was separated from Nino by him.  Maestro Ercole sang, and all the others, turn and turn about, and so at last it came to the benediction.  The tall old foreigner stood erect and unbending, but most of the people around him kneeled.  As the crowd sank down I saw that on the other side of him sat a lady on a small folding stool, her feet crossed one over the other, and her hands folded on her knees.  She was dressed entirely in black, and her fair face stood out wonderfully clear and bright against the darkness.  Truly she looked more like an angel than a woman, though perhaps you will think she is not so beautiful after all, for she is so unlike our Roman ladies.  She has a delicate nose, full of sentiment, and pointed a little downward for pride; she has deep blue eyes, wide apart and dreamy, and a little shaded by brows that are quite level and even, with a straight pencilling over them, that looks really as if it were painted.  Her lips are very red and gentle, and her face is very white, so that the little ringlet that has escaped control looks like a gold tracery on a white marble ground.

And there she sat with the last light from the tall windows and the first from the great wax candles shining on her, while all around seemed dark by contrast.  She looked like an angel; and quite as cold, perhaps most of you would say.  Diamonds are cold things, too, but they shine in the dark; whereas a bit of glass just lets the light through it, even if it is coloured red and green and put in a church window, and looks ever so much warmer than the diamond.

But though I saw her beauty and the light of her face, all in a moment, as though it had been a dream, I saw.  Nino, too; for I had missed him, and had supposed he had gone to the organ loft with De Pretis.  But now, as the people kneeled to the benediction, imagine a little what he did; he just dropped on his knees with his face to the white lady, and his back to the procession; it was really disgraceful, and if it had been lighter I am sure everyone would have noticed it.  At all events, there he knelt, not three feet from the lady, looking at her as if his heart would break.  But I do not believe she saw him, for she never looked his way.  Afterwards everybody got up again, and we hurried to get out of the Chapel; but I noticed that the tall old foreigner gave his arm to the beautiful lady, and when they had pushed their way through the gate that leads into the body of the church, they did not go away but stood aside for the crowd to pass.  Nino said he would wait for De Pretis, and immediately turned his whole attention to the foreign girl, hiding himself in the shadow and never taking his eyes from her.

I never saw Nino look at a woman before as though she interested him in the least, or I would not have been surprised now to see him lost in admiration of the fair girl.  I was close to him and could see his face, and it had a new expression on it that I did not know.  The people were almost gone and the lights were being extinguished when De Pretis came round the corner, looking for us.  But I was astonished to see him bow low to the foreigner and the young lady, and then stop and enter into conversation with them.  They spoke quite audibly, and it was about a lesson that the young lady had missed.  She spoke like a Roman, but the old gentleman made himself understood in a series of stiff phrases, which he fired out of his mouth like discharges of musketry.

“Who are they?” whispered Nino to me, breathless with excitement and trembling from head to foot.  “Who are they, and how does the maestro know them?”

“Eh, caro mio, what am I to know?” I answered indifferently.  “They are some foreigners, some pupil of De Pretis, and her father.  How should I know?”

“She is a Roman,” said Nino between his teeth.  “I have heard foreigners talk.  The old man is a foreigner, but she ­she is Roman,” he repeated with certainty.

“Eh,” said I, “for my part she may be Chinese.  The stars will not fall on that account.”  You see, I thought he had seen her before, and I wanted to exasperate him by my indifference so that he should tell me; but he would not, and indeed I found out afterwards that he had really never seen her before.

Presently the lady and gentleman went away, and we called De Pretis, for he could not see us in the gloom.  Nino became very confidential and linked an arm in his as we went away.

“Who are they, caro maestro, these enchanting people?” inquired the boy when they had gone a few steps, and I was walking by Nino’s side, and we were all three nearing the door.

“Foreigners ­my foreigners,” returned the singer proudly, as he took a colossal pinch of snuff.  He seemed to say that he in his profession was constantly thrown with people like that, whereas I ­oh, I, of course, was always occupied with students and poor devils who had no voice, nothing but brains.

“But she,” objected Nino, ­“she is Roman, I am sure of it.”

“Eh,” said Ercole, “you know how it is.  These foreigners marry and come here and live, and their children are born here; and they grow up and call themselves Romans, as proudly as you please.  But they are not really Italians, any more than the Shah of Persia.”  The maestro smiled a pitying smile.  He is a Roman of Rome, and his great nose scorns pretenders.  In his view Piedmontese, Tuscans, and Neapolitans are as much foreigners as the Germans or the English.  More so, for he likes the Germans and tolerates the English, but he can call an enemy by no worse name than “Napoletano” or “Piemontese.”

“Then they live here?” cried Nino in delight.

“Surely.”

“In fine, maestro mio, who are they?”

“What a diavolo of a boy!  Dio mio!” and Ercole laughed under his big moustache, which is black still.  But he is bald, all the same, and wears a skull-cap.

“Diavolo as much as you please, but I will know,” said Nino sullenly.

“Oh bene!  Now do not disquiet yourself, Nino ­I will tell you all about them.  She is a pupil of mine, and I go to their house in the Corso and give her lessons.”

“And then?” asked Nino impatiently.

“Who goes slowly goes surely,” said the maestro sententiously; and he stopped to light a cigar as black and twisted as his moustache.  Then he continued, standing still in the middle of the piazza to talk at his ease, for it had stopped raining and the air was moist and sultry, “They are Prussians, you must know.  The old man is a colonel, retired, pensioned, everything you like, wounded at Koeniggratz by the Austrians.  His wife was delicate, and he brought her to live here long before he left the service, and the signorina was born here.  He has told me about it, and he taught me to pronounce the name Koeniggratz, so ­Conigherazzo,” said the maestro proudly, “and that is how I know.”

“Capperi!  What a mouthful,” said I.

“You may well say that, Sor Conte, but singing teaches us all languages.  You would have found it of great use in your studies.”  I pictured to myself a quarter of an hour of Schopenhauer, with a piano accompaniment and some one beating time.

“But their name, their name I want to know,” objected Nino, as he stepped aside and flattened himself against the pillar to let a carriage pass.  As luck would have it, the old officer and his daughter were in that very cab, and Nino could just make them out by the evening twilight.  He took off his hat, of course, but I am quite sure they did not see him.

“Well, their name is prettier than Conigherazzo,” said Ercole.  “It is Lira ­Erre Gheraffe fonne Lira.” (Herr Graf von Lira, I suppose he meant.  And he has the impudence to assert that singing has taught him to pronounce German.) “And that means,” he continued, “Il Conte di Lira, as we should say.”

“Ah! what a divine appellation!” exclaimed Nino enthusiastically, pulling his hat over his eyes to meditate upon the name at his leisure.

“And her name is Edvigia,” volunteered the maestro.  That is the Italian for Hedwig, or Hadwig, you know.  But we should shorten it and call her Gigia just as though she were Luisa.  Nino does not think it so pretty.  Nino was silent.  Perhaps he was always shy of repeating the familiar name of the first woman he had ever loved.  Imagine!  At twenty he had never been in love!  It is incredible to me, ­and one of our own people, too, born at Serveti.

Meanwhile the maestro’s cigar had gone out, and he lit it with a blazing sulphur match before he continued; and we all walked on again.  I remember it all very distinctly, because it was the beginning of Nino’s madness.  Especially I call to mind his expression of indifference when Ercole began to descant upon the worldly possessions of the Lira household.  It seemed to me that if Nino so seriously cast his eyes on the Contessina Edvigia, he might at least have looked pleased to hear she was so rich; or he might have looked disappointed, if he thought that her position was an obstacle in his way.  But he did not care about it at all, and walked straight on, humming a little tune through his nose with his mouth shut, for he does everything to a tune.

“They are certainly gran’ signor,” Ercole said.  “They live on the first floor of the Palazzo Carmandola, ­you know, in the Corso ­and they have a carriage, and keep two men in livery, just like a Roman prince.  Besides, the count once sent me a bottle of wine at Christmas.  It was as weak as water, and tasted like the solfatara of Tivoli, but it came from his own vineyard in Germany, and was at least fifty years old.  If he has a vineyard, he has a castello, of course.  And if he has a castello, he is a gran’ signor, ­eh? what do you think, Sor Conte?  You know about such things.”

“I did once, maestro mio.  It is very likely.”

“And as for the wine being sour, it was because it was so old.  I am sure the Germans cannot make wine well.  They are not used to drinking it good, or they would not drink so much when they come here.”  We were crossing the bridge, and nearing Ercole’s house.

“Maestro,” said Nino, suddenly.  He had not spoken for some time, and he had finished his tune.

“Well?”

“Is not to-morrow our day for studying?”

“Diavolo!  I gave you two hours to-day.  Have you forgotten?”

“Ah, ­it is true.  But give me a lesson to-morrow, like a good maestro as you are.  I will sing like an angel if you will give me a lesson to-morrow.”

“Well, if you like to come at seven in the morning, and if you promise to sing nothing but solfeggi of Bordogni for an hour, and not to strain your voice, or put too much vinegar in your salad at supper, I will think about it.  Does that please you?  Conte, don’t let him eat too much vinegar.”

“I will do all that if I may come,” said Nino readily, though he would rather not sing at all, at most times, than sing Bordogni, De Pretis tells me.

“Meglio così, ­so much the better.  Good-night, Sor Conte.  Good-night, Nino.”  And so he turned down the Via Paola, and Nino and I went our way.  I stopped to buy a cigar at the little tobacco shop just opposite the Tordinona Theatre.  They used to be only a baiocco apiece, and I could get one at a time.  But now they are two for three baiocchi; and so I have to get two always, because there are no half baiocchi any more ­nothing but centimes.  That is one of the sources of my extravagance.  Mariuccia says I am miserly; she was born poor, and never had to learn the principles of economy.

“Nino mio,” I said, as we went along, “you really make me laugh.”

“Which is to say ­” He was humming a tune again, and was cross because I interrupted him.

“You are in love.  Do not deny it.  You are already planning how you can make the acquaintance of the foreign contessa.  You are a fool.  Go home, and get Mariuccia to give you some syrup of tamarind to cool your blood.”

“Well?  Now tell me, were you never in love with anyone yourself?” he asked, by way of answer; and I could see the fierce look come into his eyes in the dark as he said it.

“Altro, ­that is why I laugh at you.  When I was your age I had been in love twenty times.  But I never fell in love at first sight ­and with a doll; really a wax doll, you know, like the Madonna in the presepio that they set up at the Ara Coeli, at Epiphany.”

“A doll!” he cried.  “Who is a doll, if you please?” We stopped at the corner of the street to argue it out.

“Do you think she is really alive?” I asked, laughing.  Nino disdained to answer me, but he looked savagely from under the brim of his hat.  “Look here,” I continued, “women like that are only made to be looked at.  They never love, for they have no hearts.  It is lucky if they have souls, like Christians.”

“I will tell you what I think,” said he stoutly; “she is an angel.”

“Oh! is that all?  Did you ever hear of an angel being married?”

“You shall hear of it, Sor Cornelio, and before long.  I swear to you, here, that I will marry the Contessina di Lira ­if that is her name ­before two years are out.  Ah, you do not believe me.  Very well.  I have nothing more to say.”

“My dear son,” said I, ­for he is a son to me, ­“you are talking nonsense.  How can anybody in your position hope to marry a great lady, who is an heiress?  Is it not true that it is all stuff and nonsense?”

“No, it is not true,” cried Nino, setting his square jaw like a bit and speaking through his teeth.  “I am ugly, you say; I am dark, and I have no position, or wealth, or anything of the kind.  I am the son of a peasant and of a peasant’s wife.  I am anything you please, but I will marry her if I say I will.  Do you think it is for nothing that you have taught me the language of Dante, of Petrarca, of Silvio Pellico?  Do you think it is for nothing that Heaven has given me my voice?  Do not the angels love music, and cannot I make as good songs as they?  Or do you think that because I am bred a singer my hand is not as strong as a fine gentleman’s ­contadino as I am?  I will ­I will and I will, Basta!”

I never saw him look like that before.  He had folded his arms, and he nodded his head a little at each repetition of the word, looking at me so hard, as we stood under the gas lamp in the street, that I was obliged to turn my eyes away.  He stared me out of countenance ­he, a peasant boy!  Then we walked on.

“And as for her being a wax doll, as you call her,” he continued after a little time, “that is nonsense, if you want the word to be used.  Truly, a doll!  And the next minute you compare her to the Madonna!  I am sure she has a heart as big as this,” and he stretched out his hands into the air.  “I can see it in her eyes.  Ah, what eyes!”

I saw it was no use arguing on that tack, and I felt quite sure that he would forget all about it, though he looked so determined, and talked so grandly about his will.

“Nino,” I said, “I am older than you.”  I said this to impress him, of course, for I am not really so very old.

“Diamini!” he cried impertinently, “I believe it!”

“Well, well, do not be impatient.  I have seen something in my time, and I tell you those foreign women are not like ours, a whit.  I fell in love, once, with a northern fairy, ­she was not German, but she came from Lombardy, you see, ­and that is the reason why I lost Serveti and all the rest.”

“But I have no Serveti to lose,” objected Nino.

“You have a career as a musician to lose.  It is not much of a career to be stamping about with a lot of figuranti and scene-shifters, and screaming yourself hoarse every night.”  I was angry because he laughed at my age.  “But it is a career, after all, that you have chosen for yourself.  If you get mixed up in an intrigue now, you may ruin yourself.  I hope you will.”

“Grazie!  And then?”

“Eh, it might not be such a bad thing after all.  For if you could be induced to give up the stage ­”

“I ­I give up singing?” he cried, indignantly.

“Oh, such things happen, you know.  If you were to give it up, as I was saying, you might then possibly use your mind.  A mind is a much better thing than a throat, after all.”

“Ebbene! talk as much as you please, for, of course, you have the right, for you have brought me up, and you have certainly opposed my singing enough to quiet your conscience.  But, dear professor, I will do all that I say, and if you will give me a little help in this matter, you will not repent it.”

“Help?  Dio mio!  What do you take me for?  As if I could help you, or would!  I suppose you want money to make yourself a dandy, a piano, to go and stand at the corner of the Piazza Colonna and ogle her as she goes by!  In truth!  You have fine projects.”

“No,” said Nino quietly, “I do not want any money or anything else at present, thank you.  And do not be angry, but come into the caffè and drink some lemonade; and I will invite you to it, for I have been paid for my last copying that I sent in yesterday.”  He put his arm in mine, and we went in.  There is no resisting Nino when he is affectionate.  But I would not let him pay for the lemonade.  I paid for it myself.  What extravagance!