“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 début 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.
CHAPTER IV
IN A SUNNY room overlooking the great courtyard of the Palazzo Carmandola, Nino sat down to give Hedwig von Lira her first lesson in Italian literature. He had not the remotest idea what the lesson would be like, for in spite of the tolerably wide acquaintance with the subject which he owed to my care and my efforts to make a scholar of him, he knew nothing about teaching. Nevertheless, as his pupil spoke the language fluently, though with the occasional use of words of low origin, like all foreigners who have grown up in Rome and have learned to speak from their servants, he anticipated little difficulty. He felt quite sure of being able to interpret the hard places, and he had learned from me to know the best and finest passages in a number of authors.
But imagine the feelings of a boy of twenty, perfectly in love, without having the smallest right to be, suddenly placed by the side of the object of his adoration, and told to teach her all he knows — with her father in the next room and the door open between! I have always thought it was a proof of Nino’s determined character, that he should have got over this first lesson without accident.
Hedwig von Lira, the contessina, as we always call her, is just Nino’s age, but she seemed much younger, as the children of the North always do. I have told you what she was like to look at, and you will not wonder that I called her a statue. She looked as cold as a statue, just as I said, and so I should hardly describe her as beautiful. But then I am not a sculptor, nor do I know anything about those arts, though I can tell a good work when I see it. I do not wish to appear prejudiced, and so I will not say anything more about it. I like life in living things, and sculptors may, if it please them, adore straight noses, and level brows, and mouths that no one could possibly eat with. I do not care in the least, and if you say that I once thought differently, I answer that I do not wish to change your opinion, but that I will change my own as often as I please. Moreover, if you say that the contessina did not act like a statue in the sequel, I will argue that if you put marble in the fire it will take longer to heat and longer to cool than clay; only clay is made to be put into the fire, and marble is not. Is not that a cunning answer?
The contessina is a foreigner in every way, although she was born under our sun. They have all sorts of talents, these people, but so little ingenuity in using them that they never accomplish anything. It seems to amuse them to learn to do a great many things, although they must know from the beginning that they can never excel in any one of them. I dare say the contessina plays on the piano very creditably, for even Nino says she plays well; but is it of any use to her?
Nino very soon found out that she meant to read literature very seriously, and, what is more, she meant to read it in her own way. She was as different from her father as possible in everything else, but in a despotic determination to do exactly as she liked, she resembled him. Nino was glad that he was not called upon to use his own judgment, and there he sat, content to look at her, twisting his hands together below the table to concentrate his attention and master himself; and he read just what she told him to read, expounding the words and phrases she could not understand. I dare say that with his hair well brushed, and his best coat, and his eyes on the book, he looked as proper as you please. But if the high-born young lady had returned the glances he could not refrain from bending
upon her now and then, she would have seen a lover, if she could see at all.
She did not see. The haughty Prussian damsel hardly noticed the man, for she was absorbed by the professor. Her small ears were all attention, and her slender fingers made notes with a common pencil, so that Nino wondered at the contrast between the dazzling white hand and the smooth, black, varnished instrument of writing. He took no account of time that day, and was startled by the sound of the mid-day gun and the angry clashing of the bells. The contessina looked up suddenly and met his eyes, but it was the boy that blushed.
“Would you mind finishing the canto?” she asked. “There are only ten lines more—” Mind! Nino flushed with pleasure.
“Anzi — by all means,” he cried. “My time is yours, signorina.”
When they had done he rose, and his face was sad and pale again. He hated to go, but he was only a teacher, and at his first lesson, too. She also rose, and waited for him to leave the room. He could not hold his tongue.
“Signorina—” he stammered, and checked himself. She looked at him, to listen, but his heart smote him when he had thus arrested her attention. What could he say as he stood bowing? It was sufficiently stupid, what he said.
“I shall have the honour of returning to-morrow, the day after to-morrow, I would say.”
“Yes,” said she, “I believe that is the arrangement. Good-morning, Signor Professore.” The title of professor rang strangely in his ear. Was there the slightest tinge of irony in her voice? Was she laughing at his boyish looks? Ugh! the thought tingled. He bowed himself out.
That was the first lesson, and the second was like it, I suppose, and a great many others about which I knew nothing, for I was always occupied in the middle of the day, and did not ask where he went. It seemed to me that he was becoming a great dandy, but as he never asked me for any money from the day he learnt to copy music I never put any questions. He certainly had a new coat before Christmas, and gloves, and very nice boots, that made me smile when I thought of the day when he arrived, with only one shoe — and it had a hole in it as big as half his foot. But now he grew to be so careful of his appearance that Mariuccia began to call him the “signorino.” De Pretis said he was making great progress, and so I was contented, though I always thought it was a sacrifice for him to be a singer.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 87