A Roman Singer. F. Marion Crawford

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 room and gilded the red brick floor.

      "Then instead of buying lavender kid gloves," said Nino at last, his face relaxing a little, "and going to the Villa Borghese, you advise me to borrow a guitar and sing to my statue? Is that it?"

      "Che Diana! I did not say that!" said Ercole, still facing the window and finishing his pinch of snuff with a certain satisfaction. "But if you want the guitar, take it—there it lies. I will not answer for what you do with it." His voice sounded kindly, for he was so much pleased. Then he made Nino sing again, a little love song of Tosti, who writes for the heart and sings so much better without a voice than all your stage tenors put together. And the maestro looked long at Nino when he had done, but he did not say anything. Nino put on his hat gloomily enough, and prepared to go.

      "I will take the guitar, if you will lend it to me," he said.

      "Yes, if you like, and I will give you a handkerchief to wrap it up with," said De Pretis, absently, but he did not get up from his seat. He was watching Nino, and he seemed to be thinking. Just as the boy was going with the instrument under his arm he called him back.

      "Ebbene?" said Nino, with his hand on the lock of the door.

      "I will make you a song to sing to your guitar," said Ercole.

      "You?"

      "Yes—but without music. Look here, Nino—sit down. What a hurry you are in. I was young myself, once upon time."

      "Once upon a time! Fairy stories—once upon a time there was a king, and so on." Nino was not to be easily pacified.

      "Well, perhaps it is a fairy tale, but it is in the future. I have an idea."

      "Oh, is that all? But it is the first time. I understand."

      Listen. Have you read Dante?"

      "I know the Vita Nuova by heart, and some of the Commedia. But how the diavolo does Dante enter into this question?"

      "And Silvio Pellico, and a little literature?" continued Ercole, not heeding the comment.

      "Yes, after a fashion. And you? Do you know them?"

      "Che c'entro io?" cried Ercole, impatiently; "what do I want to know such things for? But I have heard of them."

      "I congratulate you," replied Nino, ironically.

      "Have patience. You are no longer an artist. You are a professor of literature."

      "I—a professor of literature? What nonsense are you talking?"

      "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."