Nino had judged more rightly than I when he supposed that his beard and moustaches would disguise him from Hedwig during the first two acts. She recognised the wondrous voice, and she saw the strong resemblance he had spoken of. Once or twice as he looked toward her, it seemed indeed that the eyes must be his, with their deep circles and serious gaze. But it was absurd to suppose it anything more than a resemblance. As the opera advanced, it became evident that Nino was making a success. Then in the second act it was clear that the success was growing to be an ovation, and the ovation a furore, in which the house became entirely demoralised, and vouchsafed to listen only so long as Nino was singing — screaming with delight before he had finished what he had to sing in each scene. People sent their servants away in hot haste to buy flowers wherever they could, and he came back to his dressing-room, from the second act, carrying bouquets by the dozen, small bunches and big, such as people had been able to get or had brought with them. His eyes shone like the coals in Mariuccia’s scaldino, as he entered, and he was pale through his paint. He could hardly speak for joy; but, as old habits return unconsciously at great moments in a man’s life, he took the cat on his knee and pulled its tail.
“Sing thou also, little beast,” he said, gravely; and he pulled the tail till the cat squeaked a little, and he was satisfied.
“Bene!” he cried; “and now for the tonsure and the frock.” So Mariuccia was turned out into the passage while he changed his dress. De Pretis came back a moment later and tried to help him, but he was so much overcome that he could only shed tears and give a last word of advice for the next act.
“You must not sing it too loud, Nino mio,” he said.
“Diavolo!” said Nino. “I should think not!”
“But you must not squeak it out in a little wee false voice, as small as this”; the maestro held up his thumb and finger, with a pinch of snuff between them.
“Bah? Sor Ercole, do you take me for a soprano?” cried the boy, laughing, as he washed off the paint and the gum where the beard had stuck. Presently he got into his frock, which, as I told you, was a real one, provided by Ercole’s brother, the Franciscan — quite quietly, of course, for it would seem a dreadful thing to use a real monk’s frock in an opera. Then we fastened the rope round his waist, and smoothed his curly hair a little to give him a more pious aspect. He looked as white as a pillow when the paint was gone.
“Tell me a little, my father,” said old Mariuccia, mocking him, “do you fast on Sundays, that you look so pale?” Whereat Nino struck an attitude, and began singing a love song to the ancient woman. Indeed, she was joking about the fast, for she had expended my substance of late in fattening Nino, as she called it, for his appearance, and there was to be broiled chickens for supper that very night. He was only pale because he was in love. As for me, I made up my mind to stand in the slides, so that I could see the contessina; for Nino had whispered to me that she had not yet recognised him, though she stared hard across the footlights. Therefore I took up a good position on the left of the stage, facing the Lira box, which was on the right.
The curtain went up, and Nino stood there, looking like a real monk, with a book in his hand and his eyes cast down, as he began to walk slowly along. I saw Hedwig von Lira’s gaze rest on his square, pale face at least one whole minute. Then she gave a strange little cry, so that many people in the house looked towards her; and she leaned far back in the shadow of the deep box, while the reflected glare of the footlights just shone faintly on her features, making them look more like marble than ever. The baroness was smiling to herself, amused at her companion’s surprise, and the old count stared stolidly for a moment or two, and then turned suddenly to his daughter.
“Very curious is it,” he was probably saying, “that this tenor should so much your Italian professor resemble.” I could almost see his gray eyes sparkle angrily across the theatre. But as I looked, a sound rose on the heated air, the like of which I have never known. To tell the truth, I had not heard the first two acts, for I did not suppose there was any great difference between Nino’s singing on the stage and his singing at home, and I still wished he might have chosen some other profession. But when I heard this I yielded, at least for the time, and I am not sure that my eyes were as clear as usual.
“Spirto gentil dei sogni miei” — the long sweet notes sighed themselves to death on his lips, falling and rising magically like a mystic angel song, and swaying their melody out into the world of lights and listeners; so pathetic, so heart-breaking, so laden with death and with love, that it was as though all the sorrowing souls in our poor Rome breathed in one soft sigh together. Only a poor monk dying of love in a monastery, tenderly and truly loving to the bitter end. Dio mio! there are perhaps many such. But a monk like this, with a face like a conqueror, set square in its whiteness, and yet so wretched to see in his poor patched frock and his bare feet; a monk, too, not acting love, but really and truly ready to die for a beautiful woman not thirty feet from him in the house; above all, a monk with a voice that speaks like the clarion call of the day of judgment in its wrath, and murmurs more plaintively and sadly in sorrow than ever the poor Peri sighed at the gates of Paradise — such a monk, what could he not make people feel?
The great crowd of men and women sat utterly stilled and intent till he had sung the very last note. Not a sound was heard to offend the sorrow that spoke from the boy’s lips. Then all those people seemed to draw three long breaths of wonder — a pause, a thrilling tremor in the air, and then there burst to the roof such a roar of cries, such a huge thunder of hands and voices, that the whole house seemed to rock with it, and even in the street outside they say the noise was deafening.
Alone on the stage stood Nino, his eyes fixed on Hedwig von Lira in her box. I think that she alone of all that multitude made no sound, but only gripped the edge of the balcony hard in her white hands, and leaned far forward with straining eyes and beating heart to satisfy her wonder. She knew well enough, now, that there was no mistake. The humble little Professor Cardegna, who had patiently explained Dante and Leopardi to her for months, bowing to the ground in her presence, and apologising when he corrected her mistakes, as though his whole life was to be devoted to teaching foreigners his language; the decently clad young man, who was always pale, and sometimes pathetic when he spoke of himself, was no other than Giovanni Cardegna the tenor, singing aloud to earth and heaven with his glorious great voice — a man on the threshold of a European fame, such as falls only to the lot of a singer or a conqueror. More, he was the singer of her dreams, who had for months filled her thoughts with music and her heart with a strange longing, being until now a voice Only. There he stood looking straight at her, — she was not mistaken, — as though to say, “I have done it for you, and for you only.” A woman must be more than marble to feel no pride in the intimate knowledge that a great public triumph has been gained solely for her sake. She must be colder than ice if she cannot see her power when a conqueror loves her.
The marble had felt the fire, and the ice was in the flame at last. Nino, with his determination to be loved, had put his statue into a very fiery furnace, and in the young innocence of his heart had prepared such a surprise for his lady as might have turned the head of a hardened woman of the world, let alone an imaginative German girl, with a taste for romance — or without; it matters little. All Germans are full of imagination, and that is the reason they know so much. For they not only know all that is known by other people, but also all that they themselves imagine, which nobody else can possibly know. And if you do not believe this, you had better read the works of one Fichte, a philosopher.
I need not tell you any more about Nino’s first appearance. It was one of those really phenomenal successes that seem to cling to certain people through life. He was very happy and very silent when it was over; and we were the last to leave the theatre, for we feared the enthusiasm of the crowd. So we waited till everyone had gone, and then marched home together, for it was a fine night.
I walked on one side of Nino and De Pretis on the other, all of us carrying as many flowers as we could; Mariuccia came behind, with the cat under her shawl. I did not discover until we reached home why she had brought the beast. Then she explained that, as there was so much food in the kitchen in anticipation of our supper, she had been afraid to leave the cat alone in the house, lest we should find nothing left to eat when we returned. This was sufficiently prudent for a scatter-brained old spendthrift like Mariuccia.
That was a merry supper, and De Pretis became highly dramatic when we got to the second flask.
CHAPTER VII
ON THE DAY following Nino’s début, Maestro Ercole de Pretis found himself in hot water, and the choristers at St. Peter’s noticed that his skull-cap was awry, and that he sang out of tune; and once he tried to take a pinch of snuff when there was only three bars’ rest in the music, so that instead of singing C sharp he sneezed very loud. Then all the other singers giggled, and said, “Salute!” — which we always say to a person who sneezes — quite audibly.
It was not that Ercole had heard anything from the Graf von Lira as yet; but he expected to hear, and did not relish the prospect. Indeed, how could the Prussian gentleman fail to resent what the maestro had done in introducing to him a singer disguised as a teacher? It chanced, also, that the contessina took a singing lesson that very day in the afternoon, and it was clear that the reaping of his evil deeds was not far off. His conscience did not trouble him at all, it is true, for I have told you that he has liberal ideas about the right of marriage; but his vanity was sorely afflicted at the idea of abandoning such a very noble and creditable pupil as the Contessina di Lira. He applauded himself for furthering Nino’s wild schemes, and he blamed himself for being so reckless about his own interests. Every moment he expected a formal notice from the count to discontinue the lessons. But still it did not come, and at the appointed hour Ercole’s wife helped him to put on his thick winter coat, and wrapped his comforter about his neck, and pulled his big hat over his eyes — for the weather was threatening, and sent him trudging off to the Palazzo Carmandola.
Though Ercole is stout of heart, and has broad shoulders to bear such burdens as fall to his lot, he lingered long on the way, for his presentiments were gloomy; and at the great door of the Palazzo he even stopped to inquire of the porter whether the contessina had been seen to go out yet, half hoping that she would thus save him the mortification of an interview. But it turned out otherwise: the contessina was at home, and De Pretis was expected, as usual, to give the lesson. Slowly he climbed the great staircase, and was admitted.
“Good-day, Sor Maestro,” said the liveried footman, who knew him well. “The Signor Conte desires to speak with you to-day before you go to the signorina.”
The maestro’s heart sank, and he gripped hard the roll of music in his hand as he followed the servant to the count’s cabinet. There was to be a scene of explanation after all.
The count was seated in his great arm-chair, in a cloud of tobacco smoke, reading a Prussian military journal. His stick leaned against the table by his side, in painful contrast with the glittering cavalry sabres crossed upon the dark red wall opposite. The tall windows looked out on the piazza, and it was raining, or just beginning to rain. The great inkstand on the table was made to represent a howitzer, and the count looked as though he were ready to fire it point blank at any intruder. There was an air of disciplined luxury in the room that spoke of a rich old soldier who fed his fancy with tit-bits from a stirring past. De Pretis felt very uncomfortable, but the nobleman rose to greet him, as he rose to greet everything above the rank of a servant, making himself steady with his stick. When De Pretis was seated he sat down also. The rain pattered against the window.
“Signor De Pretis,” began the count, in tones as hard as chilled steel, “you are an honourable man.” There was something interrogative in his voice.
“I hope so,” answered the maestro modestly; “like other Christians, I have a soul—”
“You will your soul take care of in your leisure moments,” interrupted the count. “At present you have no leisure.”
“As you command, Signor Conte.”
“I was yesterday evening at the theatre. The professor you recommended for my daughter is with the new tenor one person.” De Pretis spread out his hands and bowed, as if to deprecate any share in the transaction. The count continued, “You are of the profession, Signor De Pretis. Evidently, you of this were aware.”
“It is true,” assented Ercole, not knowing what to say.
“Of course it is true. I am therefore to hear your explanation disposed.” His grey eyes fastened sternly on the maestro. But the latter was prepared, for he had long foreseen that the count would one day be disposed to hear an explanation, as he expressed it.
“It is quite true,” repeated De Pretis. “The young man was very poor, and desired to support himself while he was studying music. He was well fitted to teach our literature, and I recommended him. I hope that, in consideration of his poverty, and because he turned out a very good teacher, you will forgive me, Signor Conte.”
“This talented singer I greatly applaud,” answered the count stiffly. “As a with-the-capacity-and-learning-requisite-for-teaching-endowed young man deserves he also some commendation. Also will I remember his laudable-and-not-lacking independence character. Nevertheless, unfitting would it be should I pay the first tenor of the opera five francs an hour to teach my daughter Italian literature.” De Pretis breathed more freely.
“Then you will forgive me, Signor Conte, for endeavouring to promote the efforts of this worthy young man in supporting himself?”
“Signor De Pretis,” said the count, with a certain quaint geniality, “I have my precautions observed. I examined Signor Cardegna in Italian literature in my own person, and him proficient found. Had I found him to be ignorant, and had I his talents as an operatic singer later discovered, I would you out of that window have projected.” De Pretis was alarmed, for the old count looked as though he would have carried out the threat. “As it is,” he concluded, “you are an honourable man, and I wish you good-morning. Lady Hedwig awaits you as usual.” He rose courteously, leaning on his stick, and De Pretis bowed himself out.
He expected that the contessina would immediately begin talking of Nino, but he was mistaken; she never once referred to the opera or the singer, and except that she looked pale and transparent, and sang with a trifle less interest in her music than usual, there was nothing noticeable in her manner. Indeed, she had every reason to be silent.
Early that morning Nino received by messenger a pretty little note, written in execrable Italian, begging him to come and breakfast with the baroness at twelve, as she much desired to speak with him after his stupendous triumph of the previous night.
Nino is a very good boy, but he is mortal, and after the excitement of the evening he thought nothing could be pleasanter than to spend a few hours in that scented boudoir, among the palms and the beautiful objects and the perfumes, talking with a woman who professed herself ready to help him in his love affair. We have no perfumes or cushions or pretty things at number twenty-seven Santa Catarina dei Funari, though everything is very bright and neat and most proper, and the cat is kept in the kitchen, for the most part. So it is no wonder that he should have preferred to spend the morning with the baroness.
She was half lying, half sitting, in a deep arm-chair, when Nino entered; and she was reading a book. When she saw him she dropped the volume on her knee, and looked up at him from under her lids, without speaking. She must have been a bewitching figure. Nino advanced toward her, bowing low, so that his dark curling hair shaded his face.
“Good-day, signora,” said he softly, as though fearing to hurt the quiet air. “I trust I do not interrupt you?”
“You never interrupt me, Nino,” she said, “except — except when you go away.”
“You are very good, signora.”
“For heaven’s sake, no pr
etty speeches,” said she, with a little laugh.
“It seems to me,” said Nino, seating himself, “that it was you who made the pretty speech, and I who thanked you for it.” There was a pause.
“How do you feel!” asked the baroness at last, turning her head to him.
“Grazie — I am well,” he answered, smiling.
“Oh, I do not mean that, — you are always well. But how do you enjoy your first triumph?”
“I think,” said Nino, “that a real artist ought to have the capacity to enjoy a success at the moment, and the good sense to blame his vanity for enjoying it after it is passed.”
“How old are you, Nino?”
“Did I never tell you?” he asked innocently. “I shall be twenty-one soon.”
“You talk as though you were forty, at least.”
“Heaven save us!” quoth Nino.
“But really, are you not immensely flattered at the reception you had?”
“Yes.”
“You did not look at all interested in the public at the time,” said she, “and that Roman nose of yours very nearly turned up in disdain of the applause, I thought. I wonder what you were thinking of all the while.”
“Can you wonder, baronessa?” She knew what he meant, and there was a little look of annoyance in her face when she answered.
“Ah, well, of course not, since she was there.” Her ladyship rose, and taking a stick of Eastern pastil from a majolica dish in a corner made Nino light it from a wax taper.
“I want the smell of the sandal-wood this morning,” said she; “I have a headache.” She was enchanting to look at as she bent her softly-shaded face over the flame to watch the burning perfume. She looked like a beautiful lithe sorceress making a love spell, — perhaps for her own use. Nino turned from her. He did not like to allow the one image he loved to be even for a moment disturbed by the one he loved not, however beautiful. She moved away, leaving the pastil on the dish. Suddenly she paused, and turned back to look at him.
Complete Works of F Marion Crawford Page 91