A Roman Singer | Page 9

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--" 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