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.
Of course, as he went three times a week to the Palazzo Carmandola, he
began to be used to the society of the contessina. I never understood
how he succeeded in keeping up the comedy of being a professor. A real
Roman would have discovered him in a week. But foreigners are
different. If they are satisfied they pay their money and ask no
questions. Besides, he studied all the time, saying that if he ever
lost his voice he would turn man of letters; which sounded so prudent
that I had nothing to say. Once, we were walking in the Corso, and the
contessina with her father passed in the carriage. Nino raised his
hat, but they did not see him, for there is always a crowd in the
Corso.
"Tell me," he cried, excitedly, as they went by, "is it not true that
she is beautiful?"
"A piece of marble, my son," said I, suspecting nothing; and I turned
into a tobacconist's to buy a cigar.
One day--Nino says it was in November--the contessina began asking him
questions about the Pantheon, it was in the middle of the lesson, and
he wondered at her stopping to talk. But you may imagine whether he
was glad or not to have an opportunity of speaking about something
besides Dante.
"Yes, signorina," he answered, "Professor Grandi says it was built for
public baths; but, of course, we all think it was a temple."
"Were you ever there at night?" asked she, indifferently, and the sun
through the window so played with her golden hair that Nino wondered
how she could ever think of night at all.
"At night, signorina? No indeed! What should I go there at night to
do, in the dark! I was never there at night."
"I will go there at night," she said briefly.
"Ah--you would have it lit up with torches, as they do the Coliseum?"
"No. Is there no moon in Italy, professore?"
"The moon, there is. But there is such a little hole in the top of the
Rotonda"--that is our Roman name for the Pantheon--"that it would be
very dark."
"Precisely," said she. "I will go there at night, and see the moon
shining through the hole in the dome."
"Eh," cried Nino laughing, "you will see the moon better outside in
the piazza. Why should you go inside, where you can see so little of
it?"
"I will go," replied the contessina. "The Italians have no sense of
the beautiful--the mysterious." Her eyes grew dreamy as she tried to
call up the picture she had never seen.
"Perhaps," said Nino humbly. "But," he added, suddenly brightening at
the thought, "it is very easy, if you would like to go. I will arrange
it. Will you allow me?"
"Yes, arrange it. Let us go on with our lesson."
I would like to tell you all about it; how Nino saw the sacristan
of the Pantheon that evening, and ascertained from his little
almanac--which has all kinds of wonderful astrological predictions, as
well as the calendar--when it would be full moon. And perhaps what
Nino said to the sacristan, and what the sacristan said to Nino, might
be amusing. I am very fond of these little things, and fond of talking
too. For since it is talking that distinguishes us from other animals,
I do not see why I should not make the most of it. But you who are
listening to me have seen very little of the Contessina Hedwig as yet,
and unless I quickly tell you more, you will wonder how all the
curious things that happened to her could possibly have grown out of
the attempt of a little singer like Nino to make her acquaintance.
Well, Nino is a great singer now, of course, but he was little once;
and when he palmed himself off on the old count for an Italian master
without my knowledge, nobody had ever heard of him at all.
Therefore since I must satisfy your curiosity before anything else,
and not dwell too long on the details--the dear, commonplace
details--I will simply say that Nino succeeded without difficulty in
arranging with the sacristan of the Pantheon to allow a party of
foreigners to visit the building at the full moon, at midnight. I have
no doubt he even expended a franc with the little man, who is very old
and dirty, and keeps chickens in the vestibule--but no details!
Oh the appointed night Nino, wrapped in that old cloak of mine (which
is very warm, though it is threadbare), accompanied the party to the
temple, or church, or whatever you like to call it. The party were
simply the count and his daughter, an Austrian gentleman of their
acquaintance, and the dear baroness--that sympathetic woman who broke
so many hearts and cared not at all for the chatter of the people.
Everyone has seen her, with her slim, graceful ways, and her face that
was like a mulatto peach for darkness and fineness, and her dark eyes
and tiger-lily look. They say she lived entirely on sweetmeats and
coffee, and it is no wonder she was so sweet and so dark. She called
me "count"--which is very foolish now, but if I were going to fall in
love, I would have loved her. I would not love a statue. As for the
Austrian gentleman, it is not of any importance to describe him.
These four people Nino conducted to the little entrance at the back of
the Pantheon, and the sacristan struck a light to show them the way to
the door of the church. Then he put out his taper, and let them do as
they pleased.
Conceive if you can the darkness of Egypt, the darkness that can be
felt, impaled and stabbed through its whole thickness by one mighty
moonbeam, clear and clean and cold, from the top to the bottom. All
around, in the circle of the outer black, lie the great dead in their
tombs, whispering to each other of deeds that shook the world;
whispering in a language all their own as yet--the language of the
life to come--the language of a stillness so dread and deep that the
very silence clashes against it, and makes dull, muffled beatings
in ears that strain to catch the dead men's talk: the shadow of
immortality falling through the shadow of death, and bursting back
upon its heavenward course from the depth of the abyss; climbing
again upon its silver self to the sky above, leaving behind the horror
of the deep.
So in that lonely place at midnight falls the moon upon the floor, and
through the mystic shaft of rays ascend and descend the souls of the
dead. Hedwig stood out alone upon the white circle on the pavement
beneath the dome, and looked up as though she could see the angels
coming and going. And, as she looked, the heavy lace veil that covered
her head fell back softly, as though a spirit wooed her and would fain
look on something fairer than he, and purer. The whiteness clung to
her face, and each separate wave of hair was like spun silver. And she
looked steadfastly up. For a moment she stood, and the hushed air
trembled about her. Then the silence caught the tremor, and quivered,
and a thrill of sound hovered and spread its wings, and sailed forth
from the night.
"Spirto gentil dei sogni miei--"
Ah, Signorina Edvigia, you know that voice now, but you did not know
it then. How your heart stopped, and beat, and stopped again, when you
first heard that man sing out his whole heartful--you in the light and
he in the dark! And his soul shot out to you upon the sounds, and
died fitfully, as the magic notes dashed their soft wings against
the vaulted roof above you, and took new life again and throbbed
heavenward in broad, passionate waves, till your breath came thick and
your blood ran fiercely--ay, even your cold northern blood--in very
triumph that a voice could so move you. A voice in the dark. For a
full minute after it ceased you stood there, and the others, wherever
they might be in the shadow, scarcely breathed.
That was how Hedwig first heard Nino sing. When at last she recovered
herself enough to ask aloud the name of the singer, Nino had moved
quite close to her.
"It is a relation of mine, signorina, a young fellow who is going to
be an artist. I asked him as a favour to come here and sing to you
to-night. I thought it might please you."
"A relation of yours!" exclaimed the contessina. And the others
approached so that they all made a group in the disc of moonlight.
"Just think, my dear baroness, this wonderful voice is a relation of
Signor Cardegna, my excellent Italian master!" There was a little
murmur of admiration; then the old count spoke.
"Signore," said he, rolling in his gutturals, "it is my duty to very
much thank you. You will now, if you please, me the honour do, me to
your all-the-talents-possible-possessing relation to present." Nino
had foreseen the contingency and disappeared into the dark. Presently
he returned.
"I am so sorry, Signor Conte," he said. "The sacristan tells me that
when my cousin had finished he hurried away, saying he was afraid of
taking some ill if he remained here where it is so damp. I will tell
him how much you appreciated him."
"Curious is it," remarked the count. "I heard him not going off."
"He stood in the doorway of the sacristy, by the high altar, Signor
Conte."
"In that case is it different."
"I am sorry," said Nino. "The signorina was so unkind as to say,
lately, that we Italians have no sense of the beautiful, the
mysterious--"
"I take it back," said Hedwig, gravely, still standing in the
moonlight. "Your cousin has a very great power over the beautiful."
"And the mysterious," added the baroness, who had not spoken, "for his
departure without showing himself has left me the impression of a
sweet dream. Give me your arm, Professore Cardegna. I will not stay
here any longer, now that the dream is over." Nino sprang to her side
politely, though, to tell the truth, she did not attract him at first
sight. He freed one arm from the old cloak, and reflected that she
could not tell in the dark how very shabby it was.
"You give lessons to the Signora von Lira?" she asked, leading him
quickly away from the party.
"Yes--in Italian literature, signora."
"Ah--she tells me great things of you. Could you not spare me an hour
or two in the week, professore?"
Here was a new complication. Nino had certainly not contemplated
setting up for an Italian teacher to all the world when he undertook
to give lessons to Hedwig.
"Signora--" he began, in a protesting voice.
"You will do it to oblige me, I am sure," she said, eagerly, and her
slight hand just pressed upon his arm a little. Nino had found time to
reflect that this lady was intimate with Hedwig, and that he might
possibly gain an opportunity of seeing the girl he loved if he
accepted the offer.
"Whenever it pleases you, signora," he said at length.
"Can you come to me to-morrow at eleven?" she asked.
"At twelve, if you please, signora, or half past. Eleven is the
contessina's hour to-morrow."
"At half-past twelve, then, to-morrow," said she, and she gave him her
address, as they went out into the street. "Stop," she added, "where
do you live?"
"Number twenty-seven Santa Catarina dei Funari," he answered,
wondering why she asked. The rest of the party came out, and Nino
bowed to the ground, as he bid the contessina good-night.
He was glad to be free of that pressure on his arm, and he was glad to
be alone, to wander through the streets under the moonlight, and to
think over what he had done.
"There is no risk of my being discovered," he said to himself,
confidently. "The story of the near relation was well imagined, and
besides, it is true. Am I not my own nearest relation? I certainly
have no others that I know of. And this baroness--what can she want of
me? She speaks Italian like a Spanish cow, and indeed she needs a
professor badly enough. But why should she take a fancy for me as a
teacher. Ah! those eyes! Not the baroness'. Edvigia--Edvigia di
Lira--Edvigia Ca--Cardegna! Why not?" He stopped to think, and looked
long at the moonbeams playing on the waters of the fountain. "Why not?
But the baroness--may the diavolo fly away with her! What should I
do--I indeed! with a pack of baronesses? I will go to bed and
dream--not of a baroness! Macchè, never a baroness in my dreams, with
eyes like a snake, and who cannot speak three words properly in the
only language under the sun worth speaking! Not I--I will dream of
Edvigia di Lira--she is the spirit of my dreams. Spirto gentil--" and
away he went, humming the air from the "Favorita" in the top of his
head, as is his wont.
The next day the contessina could talk of nothing during her lesson
but the unknown singer who had made the night so beautiful for her,
and Nino flushed red under his dark skin and ran his fingers wildly
through his curly hair, with pleasure. But he set his square jaw, that
means so much, and explained to his pupil how hard it would be for her
to hear him again. For his friend, he said, was soon to make his
appearance on the stage, and of course he could not be heard singing
before that. And as the young lady insisted, Nino grew silent, and
remarked that the lesson was not progressing. Thereupon Hedwig
blushed--the first time he had ever seen her blush--and did not
approach the subject again.
After that he went to the house of the baroness, where he was
evidently expected, for the servant asked his name and immediately
ushered him into her presence. She was one of those lithe, dark women
of good race, that are to be met with all over the world, and she has
broken many a heart. But she was not like a snake at all, as Nino had
thought at first. She was simply a very fine lady who did exactly what
she pleased, and if she did not always act rightly, yet I think she
rarely acted unkindly. After all, the buon Dio has not made us all
paragons of domestic virtue. Men break their hearts for so very
little, and, unless they are ruined, they melt the pieces at the next
flame and join them together again like bits of sealing wax.
The baroness sat before a piano in a boudoir, where there was not very
much light. Every part of the room was crowded with fans, ferns,
palms, Oriental carpets and cushions, books, porcelain, majolica, and
pictures. You could hardly move without touching some ornament, and
the heavy curtains softened the sunshine, and a small open fire of
wood helped the warmth. There was also an odour of Russian tobacco.
The baroness smiled and turned on the piano seat.
"Ah, professore! You come just in time," said she. "I am trying to
sing such a pretty song to myself, and I cannot pronounce the words.
Come and teach me." Nino contrasted the whole air of this luxurious
retreat with the prim, soldierly order that reigned in the count's
establishment.
"Indeed, signora, I come to teach you whatever I can. Here I am. I
cannot sing, but I will stand beside you and prompt the words."
Nino is not a shy boy at all, and he assumed the duties required of
him immediately. He stood by her side, and she just nodded and began
to sing a little song that stood on the desk of the piano. She did not
sing out of tune, but she made wrong notes and pronounced horribly.
"Pronounce the words for me," she repeated every now and then.
"But pronouncing in singing is different from speaking," he objected
at last, and, fairly forgetting himself and losing patience, he began
softly to sing the words over. Little by little, as the song pleased
him, he lost all memory of where he was, and stood beside her singing
just as he would have done to De Pretis, from the sheet, with all
the accuracy and skill that were in him. At the end, he suddenly
remembered how foolish he was. But, after all, he had not sung to the
power of his voice, and she might not recognise in him the singer of
last night. The baroness looked up with a light laugh.
"I have found you out," she cried, clapping her hands. "I have found
you out!"
"What, signora?"
"You are the tenor of the Pantheon--that is all. I knew it. Are you
so sorry that I have found you out?" she asked, for Nino turned very
white, and his eyes flashed at the thought of the folly he had
committed.