A Roman Singer | Page 9

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 cosi,--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--"