Now I ought to tell you that many
things in this story were only told me quite lately,
for at first I would not help Nino at all, thinking
it was but a foolish fancy of his boy’s heart
and would soon pass. I have tried to gather and
to order all the different incidents into one harmonious
whole, so that you can follow the story; and you must
not wonder that I can describe some things that I
did not see, and that I know how some of the people
felt; for Nino and I have talked over the whole matter
very often, and the baroness came here and told me
her share, though I wonder how she could talk so plainly
of what must have given her so much pain. But
it was very kind of her to come; and she sat over
there in the old green arm-chair by the glass case
that has the artificial flowers under it, and the
sugar lamb that the padre curato gave Nino
when he made his first communion at Easter. However,
it is not time to speak of the baroness yet, but I
cannot forget her.
Nino was very amusing when he began
to love the young countess, and the very first morning the
day after we had been to St. Peter’s he
went out at half-past six, though it was only just
sunrise, for we were in October. I knew very
well that he was going for his extra lesson with De
Pretis, but I had nothing to say about it, and I only
recommended him to cover himself well, for the sirocco
had passed and it was a bright morning, with a clear
tramontana wind blowing fresh from the north.
I can always tell when it is a tramontana wind
before I open my window, for Mariuccia makes such
a clattering with the coffee-pot in the kitchen, and
the goldfinch in the sitting-room sings very loud;
which he never does if it is cloudy. Nino, then,
went off to Maestro Ercole’s house for his singing,
and this is what happened there.
De Pretis knew perfectly well that
Nino had only asked for the extra lesson in order
to get a chance of talking about the Contessina di
Lira, and so, to tease him, as soon as he appeared,
the maestro made a great bustle about singing scales,
and insisted on beginning at once. Moreover,
he pretended to be in a bad humour; and that is always
pretence with him.
“Ah, my little tenor,”
he began; “you want a lesson at seven in the
morning, do you? That is the time when all the
washerwomen sing at the fountain! Well, you shall
have a lesson, and by the body of Bacchus it shall
be a real lesson! Now, then! Andiamo Do-o-o!”
and he roared out a great note that made the room
shake, and a man who was selling cabbage in the street
stopped his hand-cart and mimicked him for five minutes.
“But I am out of breath, maestro,”
protested Nino, who wanted to talk.
“Out of breath? A singer
is never out of breath. Absurd! What would
you do if you got out of breath, say, in the last act
of Lucia, so Bell’alma ado ??
Then your breath ends, eh? Will you stay with
the ‘adored soul’ between your teeth?
A fine singer you will make! Andiamo!
Do-o-o!”
Nino saw he must begin, and he set
up a shout, much against his will, so that the cabbage-vendor
chimed in, making so much noise that the old woman
who lives opposite opened her window and emptied a
great dustpan full of potato peelings and refuse leaves
of lettuce right on his head. And then there
was a great noise. But the maestro paid no attention,
and went on with the scale, hardly giving Nino time
to breathe. Nino, who stood behind De Pretis
while he sang, saw the copy of Bordogni’s solfeggi
lying on a chair, and managed to slip it under a pile
of music near by, singing so lustily all the while
that the maestro never looked round.
When he got to the end of the scale
Ercole began hunting for the music, and as he could
not find it, Nino asked him questions.
“Can she sing, this
contessina of yours, maestro?” De Pretis was
overturning everything in his search.
“An apoplexy on those solfeggi
and on the man who made them!” he cried.
“Sing, did you say? Yes, a great deal better
than you ever will. Why can you not look for
your music, instead of chattering?” Nino began
to look where he knew it was not.
“By the by, do you give her
lessons every day?” asked the boy.
“Every day? Am I crazy,
to ruin people’s voices like that?”
“Caro maestro, what is the matter
with you this morning? You have forgotten to
say your prayers!”
“You are a donkey, Nino; here
he is, this blessed Bordogni, now come.”
“Sor Ercole mio,”
said Nino in despair, “I must really know something
about this angel, before I sing at all.”
Ercole sat down on the piano stool, and puffed up
his cheeks, and heaved a tremendous sigh, to show
how utterly bored he was by his pupil. Then he
took a large pinch of snuff, and sighed again.
“What demon have you got into
your head?” he asked, at length.
“What angel, you mean,”
answered Nino, delighted at having forced the maestro
to a parley. “I am in love with her crazy
about her,” he cried, running his fingers through
his curly hair, “and you must help me to see
her. You can easily take me to her house to sing
duets as part of her lesson. I tell you I have
not slept a wink all night for thinking of her, and
unless I see her I shall never sleep again as long
as I live. Ah!” he cried, putting his hands
on Ercole’s shoulders, “you do not know
what it is to be in love! How everything one
touches is fire, and the sky is like lead, and one
minute you are cold and one minute you are hot, and
you may turn and turn on your pillow all night and
never sleep, and you want to curse everybody you see,
or to embrace them, it makes no difference anything
to express the ”
“Devil! and may he carry you
off!” interrupted Ercole, laughing. But
his manner changed. “Poor fellow,”
he said presently, “it appears to me you are
in love.”
“It appears to you, does it?
’Appears’ a beautiful word,
in faith. I can tell you it appears to me so,
too. Ah! it ‘appears’ to you very
good indeed!” And Nino waxed wroth.
“I will give you some advice,
Ninetto mio. Do not fall in love with anyone.
It always ends badly.”
“You come late with your counsel,
Sor Ercole. In truth, a very good piece of advice
when a man is fifty, and married, and wears a skull-cap.
When I wear a skull-cap and take snuff I will follow
your instructions.” He walked up and down
the room, grinding his teeth, and clapping his hands
together. Ercole rose and stopped him.
“Let us talk seriously,” he said.
“With all my heart; as seriously as you please.”
“You have only seen this signorina once.”
“Once!” cried Nino, “as
if once were not ”
“Diavolo; let me speak.
You have only seen her once. She is noble, an
heiress, a great lady worse than all, a
foreigner; as beautiful as a statue, if you please,
but twice as cold. She has a father who knows
the proprieties, a piece of iron, I tell you, who would
kill you just as he would drink a glass of wine, with
the greatest indifference, if he suspected you lifted
your eyes to his daughter.”
“I do not believe your calumnies,”
said Nino still hotly, “She is not cold, and
if I can see her she will listen to me. I am sure
of it.”
“We will speak of that by and
by. You what are you? Nothing
but a singer, who has not even appeared before the
public, without a baiocco in the world or anything
else but your voice. You are not even handsome.”
“What difference does that make
to a woman of heart?” retorted Nino angrily.
“Let me only speak to her ”
“A thousand devils!” exclaimed
De Pretis impatiently; “what good will you do
by speaking to her? Are you Dante, or Petrarca,
or a preacher what are you? Do you
think you can have a great lady’s hand for the
asking? Do you flatter yourself that you are so
eloquent that nobody can withstand you?”
“Yes,” said Nino, boldly.
“If I could only speak to her ”
“Then in heaven’s name,
go and speak to her. Get a new hat and a pair
of lavender gloves, and walk about the Villa Borghese
until you meet her, and then throw yourself on your
knees and kiss her feet, and the dust from her shoes;
and say you are dying for her, and will she be good
enough to walk as far as Santa Maria del Popolo
and be married to you! That is all; you see it
is nothing you ask a mere politeness on
her part oh, nothing, nothing.”
And De Pretis rubbed his hands and smiled, and seeing
that Nino did not answer, he blew his nose with his
great blue cotton handkerchief.
“You have no heart at all, maestro,”
said Nino at last. “Let us sing.”
They worked hard at Bordogni for half
an hour, and Nino did not open his mouth except to
produce the notes. But as his blood was up from
the preceding interview he took great pains, and Ercole,
who makes him sing all the solfeggi he can from a
sense of duty, himself wearied of the ridiculous old-fashioned
runs and intervals.
“Bene,” he said; “let
us sing a piece now, and then you will have done enough.”
He put an opera on the piano, and Nino lifted up his
voice and sang, only too glad to give his heart passage
to his lips. Ercole screwed up his eyes with
a queer smile he has when he is pleased.
“Capperi!” he ejaculated, when Nino had
done.
“What has happened?” asked the latter.
“I cannot tell you what has
happened,” said Ercole, “but I will tell
you that you had better always sing like that, and
you will be applauded. Why have you never sung
that piece in that way before?”
“I do not know. Perhaps it is because I
am unhappy.”
“Very well, never dare to be
happy again, if you mean to succeed. You can
make a statue shed tears if you please.”
Ercole took a pinch of snuff, and turned round to
look out of the window. Nino leaned on the piano,
drumming with his fingers and looking at the back of
the maestro’s head. The first rays of the
sun just fell into the room and gilded the red brick
floor.
“Then instead of buying lavender
kid gloves,” said Nino at last, his face relaxing
a little, “and going to the Villa Borghese, you
advise me to borrow a guitar and sing to my statue?
Is that it?”
“Che Diana! I did not say
that!” said Ercole, still facing the window
and finishing his pinch of snuff with a certain satisfaction.
“But if you want the guitar, take it there
it lies. I will not answer for what you do with
it.” His voice sounded kindly, for he was
so much pleased. Then he made Nino sing again,
a little love song of Tosti, who writes for the heart
and sings so much better without a voice than all
your stage tenors put together. And the maestro
looked long at Nino when he had done, but he did not
say anything. Nino put on his hat gloomily enough,
and prepared to go.
“I will take the guitar, if
you will lend it to me,” he said.
“Yes, if you like, and I will
give you a handkerchief to wrap it up with,”
said De Pretis, absently, but he did not get up from
his seat. He was watching Nino, and he seemed
to be thinking. Just as the boy was going with
the instrument under his arm he called him back.
“Ebbene?” said Nino, with
his hand on the lock of the door.
“I will make you a song to sing
to your guitar,” said Ercole.
“You?”
“Yes but without
music. Look here, Nino sit down.
What a hurry you are in. I was young myself,
once upon time.”
“Once upon a time! Fairy
stories once upon a time there was a king,
and so on.” Nino was not to be easily pacified.
“Well, perhaps it is a fairy
tale, but it is in the future. I have an idea.”
“Oh, is that all? But it
is the first time. I understand.”
Listen. Have you read Dante?”
“I know the Vita Nuova
by heart, and some of the Commedia. But
how the diavolo does Dante enter into this question?”
“And Silvio Pellico, and
a little literature?” continued Ercole, not
heeding the comment.
“Yes, after a fashion. And you? Do
you know them?”
“Che c’entro
io?” cried Ercole, impatiently; “what
do I want to know such things for? But I have
heard of them.”
“I congratulate you,” replied Nino, ironically.
“Have patience. You are
no longer an artist. You are a professor of literature.”
“I a professor of
literature? What nonsense are you talking?”
“You are a great stupid donkey,
Nino. Supposing I obtain for you an engagement
to read literature with the Contessina di Lira,
will you not be a professor? If you prefer singing ”
But Nino comprehended in a flash the whole scope of
the proposal, and threw his arm round Ercole’s
neck and embraced him.
“What a mind! Oh,
maestro mio, I will die for you! Command
me, and I will do anything for you; I will run errands
for you, black your boots, anything ”
he cried in the ecstasy of delight that overmastered
him.
“Piano, piano,” objected
the maestro, disengaging himself from his pupil’s
embrace. “It is not done yet. There
is much, much to think of first.” Nino
retreated, a little disconcerted at not finding his
enthusiasm returned, but radiant still.
“Calm yourself,” said
Ercole, smiling. “If you do this thing you
must act a part. You must manage to conceal your
occupation entirely. You must look as solemn
as an undertaker and be a real professor. They
will ultimately find you out, and throw you out of
the window, and dismiss me for recommending you.
But that is nothing.”
“No,” said Nino, “that
is of no importance.” And he ran his fingers
through his hair, and looked delighted.
“You shall know all about it
this evening, or to-morrow ”
“This evening, Sor Ercole, this
evening, or I shall die. Stay, let me go to the
house with you, when you give your lesson, and wait
for you at the door.”
“Pumpkin-head! I will have
nothing to do with you,” said De Pretis.
“Ah, I will be as quiet as you
please. I will be like a lamb, and wait until
this evening.”
“If you will really be quiet,
I will do what you wish. Come to me this evening
about the Ave Maria or a little earlier.
Yes, come at twenty-three hours. In October that
is about five o’clock, by French time.
“And I may take the guitar?”
said Nino, as he rose to go.
“With all my heart. But
do not spoil everything by singing to her, and betraying
yourself.”
So Nino thanked the maestro enthusiastically
and went away, humming a tune, as he now and again
struck the strings of the guitar that he carried under
his arm, to be sure it was there.
Do not think that because De Pretis
suddenly changed his mind, and even proposed to Nino
a plan for making the acquaintance of the young countess,
he is a man to veer about like a weather-cock, nor
yet a bad man, willing to help a boy to do mischief.
That is not at all like Ercole de Pretis. He
has since told me he was much astonished at the way
Nino sang the love song at his lesson; and he was instantly
convinced that in order to be a great artist Nino must
be in love always. Besides, the maestro is as
liberal in his views of life as he is conservative
in his ideas about government. Nino is everything
the most straight-laced father could wish him to be,
and as he was then within a few months of making his
first appearance on the stage, De Pretis, who understands
those things, could very well foresee the success
he has had. Now De Pretis is essentially a man
of the people, and I am not; therefore he saw no objection
in the way of a match between a great singer and a
noble damigelia. But had I known what was going
on, I would have stopped the whole affair at that point,
for I am not so weak as Mariuccia seems to think.
I do not mean now that everything is settled I would
wish it undone. Heaven forbid! But I would
have stopped it then, for it is a most incongruous
thing, a peasant boy making love to a countess.
Nino, however, has one great fault,
and that is his reticence. It is true, he never
does anything he would not like me, or all the world,
to know. But I would like to know, all the same.
It is a habit I have fallen into, from having to watch
that old woman, for fear she should be too extravagant.
All that time he never said anything, and I supposed
he had forgotten all about the contessina, for I did
not chance to see De Pretis; and when I did he talked
of nothing but Nino’s debut and the arrangements
that were to be made. So that I knew nothing
about it, though I was pleased to see him reading so
much. He took a sudden fancy for literature, and
read when he was not singing, and even made me borrow
Ambrosoli, in several volumes, from a friend.
He read every word of it, and talked very intelligently
about it too. I never thought there was any reason.
But De Pretis thinks differently.
He believes that a man may be the son of a ciociaro a
fellow who ties his legs up in rags and thongs, and
lives on goats’ milk in the mountains and
that if he has brains enough, or talent enough, he
may marry any woman he likes without ever thinking
whether she is noble or not. De Pretis must be
old-fashioned, for I am sure I do not think in that
way, and I know a hundred times as much as he a
hundred times.
I suppose it must have been the very
day when Nino had been to De Pretis in the morning
that he had instructions to go to the house of Count
von Lira on the morrow; for I remember very well that
Nino acted strangely in the evening, singing and making
a noise for a few minutes, and then burying himself
in a book. However that may be, it was very soon
afterwards that he went to the Palazzo Carmandola,
dressed in his best clothes, he tells me, in order
to make a favourable impression on the count.
The latter had spoken to De Pretis about the lessons
in literature, to which he attached great importance,
and the maestro had turned the idea to account for
his pupil. But Nino did not expect to see the
young contessa on this first day, or at least
he did not hope he would be able to speak to her.
And so it turned out.
The footman, who had a red waistcoat,
and opened the door with authority, as if ready to
close it again on the smallest provocation, did not
frighten Nino at all, though he eyed him suspiciously
enough, and after ascertaining his business departed
to announce him to the count. Meanwhile, Nino,
who was very much excited at the idea of being under
the same roof with the object of his adoration, set
himself down on one of the carved chests that surrounded
the hall. The green baize door at the other end
swung noiselessly on its hinges, closing itself behind
the servant, and the boy was left alone. He might
well be frightened, if not at the imposing appearance
of the footman, at least at the task he had undertaken.
But a boy like Nino is afraid of nothing when he is
in love, and he simply looked about him, realising
that he was without doubt in the house of a gran’
signor, and from time to time brushing a particle
of dust from his clothes, or trying to smooth his
curly black hair, which he had caused to be clipped
a little for the occasion; a very needless expense,
for he looks better with his hair long.
Before many moments the servant returned,
and with some condescension said that the count awaited
him. Nino would rather have faced the mayor,
or the king himself, than Graf von Lira, though he
was not at all frightened he was only very
much excited, and he strove to calm himself, as he
was ushered through the apartments to the small sitting-room
where he was expected.
Graf von Lira, as I have already told
you, is a foreigner of rank, who had been a Prussian
colonel, and was wounded in the war of 1866. He
is very tall, very thin, and very grey, with wooden
features and a huge moustache that stands out like
the beaks on the colonna rostrata. His
eyes are small and very far apart, and fix themselves
with terrible severity when he speaks, even if he
is only saying “good-morning.” His
nails are very long and most carefully kept, and though
he is so lame that he could not move a step without
the help of his stick, he is still an upright and
military figure. I remember well how he looked,
for he came to see me under peculiar circumstances,
many months after the time of which I am now speaking;
and, besides, I had stood next to him for an hour
in the chapel of the choir in St. Peter’s.
He speaks Italian intelligibly, but
with the strangest German constructions, and he rolls
the letter r curiously in his throat.
But he is an intelligent man for a soldier, though
he thinks talent is a matter of education, and education
a matter of drill. He is the most ceremonious
man I ever saw; and Nino says he rose from his chair
to meet him, and would not sit down again until Nino
was seated.
“The signore is the professor
of Italian literature recommended to me by Signor
De Pretis?” inquired the colonel in iron tones,
as he scrutinised Nino.
“Yes, Signor Conte,” was the answer.
“You are a singularly young
man to be a professor.” Nino trembled.
“And how have you the education obtained in order
the obligations and not-to-be-avoided responsibilities
of this worthy-of-all-honour career to meet?”
“I went to school here, Signor
Conte, and the Professor Grandi, in whose house I
always have lived, has taught me everything else I
know.”
“What do you know?” inquired
the count, so suddenly that Nino was taken off his
guard. He did not know what to answer. The
count looked very stern and pulled his moustaches.
“You have not here come,” he continued,
seeing that Nino made no answer, “without knowing
something. Evident is it, that, although a man
young be, if he nothing knows, he cannot a professor
be.”
“You speak justly, Signor Conte,”
Nino answered at last, “and I do know some things.
I know the Commedia of Alighieri, and Petrarca,
and I have read the Gerusalemme Liberata with
Professor Grandi, and I can repeat all of the Vita
Nuova by heart, and some of the ”
“For the present that is enough,”
said the count. “If you nothing better
to do have, will you so kind be as to begin?”
“Begin?” said Nino, not understanding.
“Yes, signore; it would unsuitable
be if I my daughter to the hands of a man committed
unacquainted with the matter he to teach her proposes.
I desire to be satisfied that you all these things
really know.”
“Do I understand, Signor Conte,
that you wish me to repeat to you some of the things
I know by heart?”
“You have me understood,”
said the count severely, “I have all the books
bought of which you speak. You will repeat, and
I will in the book follow. Then shall we know
each other much better.”
Nino was not a little astonished at
this mode of procedure, and wondered how far his memory
would serve him in such an unexpected examination.
“It will take a long time to
ascertain in this way ” he began.
“This,” said the count
coldly, as he opened a volume of Dante, “is the
celestial play by Signor Alighieri.
If you anything know, you will it repeat.”
Nino resigned himself and began repeating
the first canto of the “Inferno.”
When he had finished it he paused.
“Forwards,” said the count,
without any change of manner.
“More?” inquired Nino.
“March!” said the old
gentleman in military tone, and the boy went on with
the second canto.
“Apparently know you the beginning.”
The count opened the book at random in another place.
“The thirtieth canto of ‘Purgatory.’
You will now it repeat.”
“Ah!” cried Nino, “that is where
Dante meets Beatrice.”
“My hitherto not-by-any-means-extensive,
but always from-the-conscience-undertaken reading,
reaches not so far. You will it repeat. So
shall we know.” Nino passed his hand inside
his collar as though to free his throat, and began
again, losing all consciousness of his tormentor in
his own enjoyment of the verse.
“When was the Signor Alighieri
born?” inquired Graf von Lira, very suddenly,
as though to catch him.
“May 1265, in Florence,” answered the
other, as quickly.
“I said when, not where.
I know he was in Florence born. When and
where died he?” The question was asked fiercely.
“Fourteenth of September 1321, at Ravenna.”
“I think really you something
of Signor Alighieri know,” said the
count, and shut up the volume of the poet and the dictionary
of dates he had been obliged to consult to verify
Nino’s answers. “We will proceed.”
Nino is fortunately one of those people
whose faculties serve them best at their utmost need,
and during the three hours three blessed
hours that Graf von Lira kept him under
his eye, asking questions and forcing him to repeat
all manner of things, he acquitted himself fairly
well.
“I have now myself satisfied
that you something know,” said the count, in
his snappish military fashion, and he shut the last
book, and never from that day referred in any manner
to Nino’s extent of knowledge, taking it for
granted that he had made an exhaustive investigation.
“And now,” he continued, “I desire
you to engage for the reading of literature with my
daughter, upon the usual terms.” Nino was
so much pleased that he almost lost his self-control,
but a moment restored his reflection.
“I am honoured ” he began.
“You are not honoured at all,”
interrupted the count, coldly. “What are
the usual terms?”
“Three or four francs a lesson,” suggested
Nino.
“Three or four francs are not
the usual terms. I have inquiries made.
Five francs are the usual terms. Three times in
the week, at eleven. You will on the morrow begin.
Allow me to offer you some cigars.” And
he ended the interview.