THE ANGELLO HOUSEHOLD.
The bruises I had received during my nocturnal adventure turned out to
be worse than I expected, especially one on the left knee-cap, which
quite incapacitated me from walking; therefore I was forced to remain
in the house all day. This was somewhat annoying, as I was anxious to
find out the Palazzo Morone, and see the chamber of Donna Renata
during daylight. I thought also that as the palace bore such an evil
reputation, my lady of the sepulchre would think herself safe in
leaving the dead body of the young man lying in the room, and if I
discovered the corpse I intended to give notice to the authorities of
the crime I had seen committed.
Unluckily, however, I had to remain in bed most of the day, and when
Peppino came in to say that his fiacre was at the door I was obliged
to send him away, much to his gratification, as he was by no means
anxious to guide me to the haunted palace. The curious resemblance
between my own experience and the legend related by Peppino had rather
startled me; but, being certain that I had to deal with the natural,
and not the supernatural, I was firmly resolved to unravel this
mystery before leaving Verona. To do this every moment was of value,
and I bitterly regretted that my stiff knee kept me confined to the
house. Everything, however, is for the best, and before I saw the
Palazzo Morone, fresh light was thrown upon the events of the night in
a most unexpected manner.
After my one day of enforced idleness I was fully determined to seek
the conclusion of my adventure the next, when on the following morning
I received a note from Maestro Angello, asking me to be sure and come
to my lesson. As the Maestro was always annoyed at the non-appearance
of a pupil, I judged it wise to go, and arranged with Peppino to
search for the Palazzo Morone in the afternoon. The lesson would only
last an hour, and I would thus have plenty of time to carry out my
intention, as Peppino, knowing the palazzo, would be able to take me
there direct.
I felt much better this second day after my adventure, as the pain had
quite left my knee, so having thus arranged my plans for the
afternoon, I started in a very contented frame of mind for the Casa
Angello.
It was a dreary day, for there are dreary days even in Italy, and at
intervals there fell heavy showers, which made me feel somewhat
depressed. Pedestrians were hurrying along with large umbrellas of the
Gamp species, red being the prevailing colour; and what with the
sloppy streets, the gloomy houses, and the absence of the chattering
Italian populace, the whole place looked infinitely melancholy, so in
order to keep up my spirits I hummed the weird air I had heard in the
Palazzo Morone.
Maestro Angello lived in a narrow street more like a drain than
anything else, and I entered into a damp courtyard through a dismal
little tunnel barred by an iron gate. The portinaia, who lived in a
glass-fronted room as if she were a unique specimen of the human race
preserved in a case, nodded her head to intimate that the Maestro was
at home, so I climbed up the evil-smelling stone stairs which went up
the side of the courtyard, and soon arrived at Angello's door. Ringing
a little bell which tinkled in a most irritating manner, I was
admitted into the dingy ante-chamber by Petronella, a short, fat,
good-natured woman who managed the whole household, and made a great
deal of noise over doing so. She was dressed in an untidy print gown,
with a bright red shawl over her shoulders, and wore wooden clogs
which clattered noisily on the terra-cotta floor. Her plenteous hair
was roughly twisted into a knot and stuck through with large brass
pins, which gave her a spiky appearance about the head. This curious
apparition saluted me with a jolly smile in a gruff voice, with the
usual familiarity of Italian servants,--
"Sta bene! Signore. Ah, the Maestro! povero Maestro!"
"What's the matter with him, Petronella?"
"Eh! Signore, he cannot live much longer."
As Angello was considerably over eighty years of age I thought this
highly probable, but was about to condole with Petronella over his
illness, when she saved me the trouble of a reply by bursting out into
a long speech delivered with much dramatic effect:--
"It is nothing but trouble, Signore. Such a fine young man, and the
piccola loved him so! It will surely place the Maestro among the
saints. Four masses for his soul, Signore; and those priests are such
thieves. I said 'No lesson,' but the Maestro is a mule for having his
own way. Let him teach, say I; it will divert his mind! There,
Signore, go in with you! But I always thought it would come; four
times I heard the cock crowing, a bad sign, as Saint Peter knew.
There, there! the Madonna aid us!"
Not understanding in the least what Petronella was talking about, I
allowed myself to be pushed mechanically into the inner room in a
state of bewilderment. The Maestro, seated in his usual chair, was
waiting for me, and his granddaughter, Bianca, who assisted him in his
lessons, was looking out of the window at the falling rain. An
atmosphere of sadness seemed to pervade the dull, grey room, and as
Bianca advanced to meet me I saw that her eyes were red with crying,
while old Angello stared at her in a listless, indifferent manner,
being so old as to be past all sympathetic feelings.
He was a mere mummy, this old man who had been celebrated as a teacher
of singing in the days of Pasta and Malibran; a faint shadow of his
former self, only kept alive by the mechanical exercise of his art.
Yet, in spite of his great age, his ear was wonderfully keen and true;
the sense of hearing, from continuous cultivation, being the only one
which had survived the wreck of his faculties, and with the assistance
of Bianca, he was still enabled to teach his wonderful system in an
intelligible manner. Many of his pupils had been European, celebrities
on the operatic stage during the past fifty years, and his rooms in
Milan were crowded with souvenirs of famous artists of undying fame.
His children, and, with the exception of Bianca, his grandchildren,
were all dead; his friends and acquaintances and the generation that
knew him had all passed away; but this Nestor of lyrical art still
survived, alone and sad, amid the ruins of his past. White-haired,
wrinkled, blear-eyed, silent, he sat daily in his great armchair,
taking but little notice of the life around him, save to ask childish
questions or talk about some dead-and-gone singer whose fame had once
filled the world; but place a baton in his hand, strike the piano,
lift the voice, and this apparent corpse awoke to life. He beat time,
he corrected the least false note, he explained the necessary
instructions in a faltering voice, and, during the lesson, bore at
least some semblance of life; but when all was finished, the baton
fell from his withered hand as he relapsed into his former apathy. One
would have thought that he would have been glad to rest in his old
age, but such was his love for his art that he insisted upon teaching
still, and it was this alone which kept him alive. His granddaughter,
Bianca, trained in the family traditions, was enabled to interpret his
words, and, as his system of singing was unique, in spite of his
apparent uselessness, he had many pupils.
Bianca herself was a charming Italian girl of twenty, more like a
graceful white lily in appearance than anything else, so fragile, so
delicate, so pallid did she seem. Her mournful eyes, dark and soft as
those of a gazelle, seemed too large for her pale, oval face; and her
figure, small and slender, always put me in mind of that of a fairy.
Indeed, in sport, I sometimes called her the Fairy of Midnight, after
some poet-fancy that haunted my brain, for all her strength seemed to
have gone into those glorious masses of raven-black hair, coiled so
smoothly round her small head. This portraiture seems to give the idea
that Bianca was a melancholy young person, yet such was not the case,
for I have seen her as gay as a bird on bright days, or when she
received a letter from her lover.
Yes! she had a lover to whom she was engaged to be married, but,
curiously enough, I knew nothing about this lover, not being intimate
enough with Bianca to be the confidant of her tender little secret.
This unknown lover was always away in other parts of Italy, and when
he did visit Bianca it was during my absence, so I used to joke with
the Signorina about this visionary being. But she, with one delicate
finger on her lip and an arch smile of glee, would tell me that
he--she never mentioned his name--that he had an actual existence, and
some day I would see him in person at Verona. Well, here was Verona,
here was Bianca, but the lover had not appeared, so I would have
jestingly asked this Fairy of Midnight the reasons of his absence, had
not the real grief expressed on her face deterred me.
"Signorina, are you in trouble?"
"Yes, yes! Signore, great trouble; but you cannot help me. No one can
help me."
"But perhaps I----"
"No, Signore, it is useless. Come, you must have the lesson at once.
The Maestro is dull to-day, he needs amusement; so come, the lesson."
"It is very cruel of you to make a joke of my lesson, Signorina."
Bianca made no reply to my jesting remark, but heaving a little sigh,
placed the ivory baton in the hand of the Maestro and sat down at the
piano. The mummy, finding his services required, woke up and had a
little conversation with me before beginning the lesson.
"Eh! Signor Inglése," he croaked--this being his name for me--"London
is dark!"
He had a fearful prejudice against London, which he had once visited
at a foggy season, and always made the above remark to his English
pupils, which no one ever thought of contradicting.
"Yes, yes!" he said, nodding his old head like a Chinese mandarin;
"London is always dark."
"Yes, Maestro."
"You've not been working?"
"Indeed I have, Maestro."
"Come then, Signor Inglése, we will see," and the lesson commenced.
Oh, those lessons! what agonies I suffered during them, trying to
attain the impossible! To how many fits of despair have I given
way in failing time after time to manage my breathing! It was all
breathing--a deep drawing in, a slow letting out--the exercise of
internal muscles of which I had never heard even the name--the
weariness of incessantly practising notes in a still, small voice
hardly audible,--it was enough to discourage the most persevering.
Some of the female pupils, I believe, cried with vexation when not
able to do what was required by the severe Maestro, who denied the
existence of the word "impossible" in connection with singing; but I,
not being a woman, was reduced to swearing, which certainly relieved
my feelings after a battle with a particularly aggravating exercise.
Even now, when I am successful in my art, I often turn cold as I think
of those apparently insurmountable obstacles which I had to overcome;
but with these painful memories there is mixed at the same time a
kindly thought of that noble old Maestro, so patient, so courteous, so
painstaking, whose devotion to his art was so great, who was so severe
on the least fault and so encouraging of the least success in
conquering a difficulty.
Well, the lesson went on slowly with frequent interruptions from the
Maestro, who was satisfied with nothing less than perfection, and I
breathed according to directions, sang "ah!" "eh," "ee's" in a tiny,
tiny voice, until at the end of the hour I was glad to sit down and
rest before departing. I felt tired out, I felt hungry, and, as the
weather was bad, I felt cross, but at the same time I felt curious to
know what was the matter with Bianca.
The Maestro, having remarked encouragingly that I had the voice of a
goose and would never sing in La Scala, relapsed into silence,
evidently thinking of his colezione which was being prepared in the
kitchen with some trouble, judging from the raised tones of
Petronella's voice; and as Bianca still sat at the piano, striking
random chords, there was nothing for me to do but to take my
departure. She was not prepared to tell me her trouble, and indeed she
had no reason to do so, but feeling anxious to aid the poor child if I
could, I ventured to speak to her on the subject.