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
