A Roman Singer | Page 8

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 Königgratz 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 Königgratz, 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