Early in the morning after Nino's visit to Signor Benoni, De Pretis
came to my house, wringing his hands and making a great trouble and
noise. I had not yet seen Nino, who was sound asleep, though I could
not imagine why he did not wake. But De Pretis was in such a temper
that he shook the room and everything in it, as he stamped about the
brick floor. It was not long before he had told me the cause of his
trouble. He had just received a formal note from the Graf von Lira,
inclosing the amount due to him for lessons, and dispensing with his
services for the future.
Of course this was the result of the visit Nino had so rashly made; it
all came out afterwards, and I will not now go through the details
that De Pretis poured out, when we only half knew the truth. The
count's servant who admitted Nino had pocketed the five francs as
quietly as you please; and the moment the count returned he told him
how Nino had come and had stayed three-quarters of an hour just as if
it were an everyday affair. The count, being a proud old man, did not
encourage him to make further confidences, but sent him about his
business. He determined to make a prisoner of his daughter until he
could remove her from Rome. He accordingly confined her in the little
suite of apartments that were her own, and set an old soldier, whom he
had brought from Germany, as a body-servant, to keep watch at the
outer door. He did not condescend to explain even to Hedwig the cause
of his conduct, and she, poor girl, was as proud as he, and would not
ask why she was shut up, lest the answer should be a storm of abuse
against Nino. She cared not at all how her father had found out her
secret, so long as he knew it, and she guessed that submission would
be the best policy.
Meanwhile, active preparations were made for an immediate departure.
The count informed his friends that he was going to pass Lent in
Paris, on account of his daughter's health, which was very poor, and
in two days everything was ready. They would leave on the following
morning. In the evening the count entered his daughter's apartments,
after causing himself to be formally announced by a servant, and
briefly informed her that they would start for Paris on the following
morning. Her maid had been engaged in the meantime in packing her
effects, not knowing whither her mistress was going. Hedwig received
the announcement in silence, but her father saw that she was deadly
white and her eyes heavy from weeping. I have anticipated this much to
make things clearer. It was on the first morning of Hedwig's
confinement that De Pretis came to our house.
Nino was soon waked by the maestro's noise, and came to the door of
his chamber, which opens into the little sitting-room, to inquire what
the matter might be. Nino asked if the maestro were peddling cabbages,
that he should scream so loudly.
"Cabbages, indeed! cabbage yourself, silly boy!" cried Ercole, shaking
his fist at Nino's head, just visible through the crack of the door.
"A pretty mess you have made with your ridiculous love affair! Here am
I--"
"I see you are," retorted Nino; "and do not call any affair of mine
ridiculous, or I will throw you out of the window. Wait a moment!"
With that he slammed his door in the maestro's face, and went on with
his dressing. For a few minutes De Pretis raved at his ease, venting
his wrath on me. Then Nino came out.
"Now, then," said he, preparing for a tussle, "what is the matter, my
dear maestro?" but Ercole had expended most of his fury already.
"The matter!" he grumbled. "The matter is that I have lost an
excellent pupil through you. Count Lira says he does not require my
services any longer, and the man who brought the note says they are
going away."
"Diavolo!" said Nino, running his fingers through his curly black
hair, "it is indeed serious. Where are they going?"
"How should I know?" asked De Pretis angrily. "I care much more about
losing the lesson than about where they are going. I shall not follow
them, I promise you. I cannot take the basilica of St. Peter about
with me in my pocket, can I?"
And so he was angry at first, and at length he was pacified, and
finally he advised Nino to discover immediately where the count and
his daughter were going; and if it were to any great capital, to
endeavour to make a contract to sing there. Lent came early that year,
and Nino was free at the end of Carnival,--not many days longer to
wait. This was the plan that had instantly formed itself in Nino's
brain. De Pretis is really a most obliging man, but one cannot wonder
that he should be annoyed at the result of Nino's four months'
courtship under such great difficulties, when it seemed that all their
efforts had led only to the sudden departure of his lady-love. As for
me, I advised Nino to let the whole matter drop then and there. I told
him he would soon get over his foolish passion, and that a statue
like Hedwig could never suffer anything, since she could never feel.
But he glared at me, and did as he liked, just as he always has done.
The message on the handkerchief that Nino had received the night
before warned him to keep away from the Palazzo Carmandola. Nino
reflected that this warning was probably due to Hedwig's anxiety for
his personal safety, and he resolved to risk anything rather than
remain in ignorance of her destination. It must be a case of giving
some signal. But this evening he had to sing at the theatre, and,
therefore, without more ado, he left us, and went to bed again, where
he stayed until twelve o'clock. Then he went to rehearsal, arriving an
hour behind time, at least, a matter which he treated with the coolest
indifference. After that he got a pound of small shot, and amused
himself with throwing a few at a time at the kitchen window from the
little court at the back of our house, where the well is. It seemed a
strangely childish amusement for a great singer.
Having sung successfully through his opera that night, he had supper
with us, as usual, and then went out. Of course he told me afterwards
what he did. He went to his old post under the windows of the Palazzo
Carmandola, and as soon as all was dark he began to throw small shot
up at Hedwig's window. He now profited by his practice in the
afternoon, for he made the panes rattle with the little bits of lead,
several times. At last he was rewarded. Very slowly the window opened,
and Hedwig's voice spoke in a low tone:
"Is it you?"
"Ah, dear one! Can you ask?" began Nino.
"Hush! I am still locked up. We are going away,--I cannot tell where."
"When, dearest love?"
"I cannot tell. What _shall_ we do?" very tearfully. "I will follow
you immediately; only let me know when and where."
"If you do not hear by some other means, come here to-morrow night. I
hear steps. Go at once."
"Good-night, dearest," he murmured; but the window was already closed,
and the fresh breeze that springs up after one o'clock blew from the
air the remembrance of the loving speech that had passed upon it.
On the following night he was at his post, and again threw the shot
against the pane for a signal. After a long time Hedwig opened the
window very cautiously.
"Quick!" she whispered down to him, "go! They are all awake," and she
dropped something heavy and white. Perhaps she added some word, but
Nino would not tell me, and never would read me the letter. But it
contained the news that Hedwig and her father were to leave Rome for
Paris on the following morning; and ever since that night Nino has
worn upon his little finger a plain gold ring,--I cannot tell why, and
he says he found it.
The next day he ascertained from the porter of the Palazzo Carmandola
that the count and contessina, with their servants, had actually left
Rome that morning for Paris. From that moment he was sad as death, and
went about his business heavily, being possessed of but one idea,
namely, to sign an engagement to sing in Paris as soon as possible. In
that wicked city the opera continues through Lent, and after some
haggling, in which De Pretis insisted on obtaining for Nino the most
advantageous terms, the contract was made out and signed.
I see very well that unless I hurry myself I shall never reach the
most important part of this story, which is after all the only part
worth telling. I am sure I do not know how I can ever tell it so
quickly, but I will do my best, and you must have a little patience;
for though I am not old, I am not young, and Nino's departure for
Paris was a great shock to me, so that I do not like to remember it,
and the very thought of it sickens me. If you have ever had any
education, you must have seen an experiment in which a mouse is put in
a glass jar, and all the air is drawn away with a pump, so that the
poor little beast languishes and rolls pitifully on its side, gasping
and wheezing with its tiny lungs for the least whiff of air. That is
just how I felt when Nino went away. It seemed as though I could not
breathe in the house or in the streets, and the little rooms at home
were so quiet that one might hear a pin fall, and the cat purring
through the closed doors. Nino left at the beginning of the last ten
days of Carnival, when the opera closed, so that it was soon Lent; and
everything is quieter then.
But before he left us there was noise enough and bustle of
preparation, and I did not think I should miss him; for he always was
making music, or walking about, or doing something to disturb me just
at the very moment when I was most busy with my books. Mariuccia,
indeed, would ask me from time to time what I should do when Nino was
gone, as if she could foretell what I was to feel. I suppose she knew
I was used to him, after fourteen years of it, and would be inclined
to black humours for want of his voice. But she could not know just
what Nino is to me, nor how I look on him as my own boy. These
peasants are quick-witted and foolish; they guess a great many things
better than I could, and then reason on them like idiots.
Nino himself was glad to go. I could see his face grow brighter as the
time approached; and though he appeared to be more successful than
ever in his singing, I am sure that he cared nothing for the applause
he got, and thought only of singing as well as he could for the love
of it. But when it came to the parting we were left alone.
"Messer Cornelio," he said, looking at me affectionately, "I have
something to say to you to-night before I go away."
"Speak, then, my dear boy," I answered, "for no one hears us."
"You have been very good to me. A father could not have loved me
better, and such a father as I had could not have done a thousandth
part what you have done for me. I am going out into the world for a
time, but my home is here,--or rather, where my home is will always be
yours. You have been my father, and I will be your son; and it is time
you should give up your professorship. No, not that you are at all
old; I do not mean that."
"No, indeed," said I, "I should think not."
"It would be much more proper if you retired into an elegant leisure,
so that you might write as many books as you desire without wearing
yourself out in teaching those students every day. Would you not like
to go back to Serveti?"
"Serveti!--ah, beautiful, lost Serveti, with its castle and good
vine-lands!"
"You shall have it again before long, my father," he said. He had
never called me father before, the dear boy! I suppose it was because
he was going away. But Serveti again? The thing was impossible, and I
said so.
"It is not impossible," he answered, placidly. "Successful singers
make enough money in a year to buy Serveti. A year is soon passed. But
now let us go to the station, or I shall not be in time for the
train."
"God bless you, Nino mio," I said, as I saw him off. It seemed to me
that I saw two or three Ninos. But the train rolled away and took
them all from me,--the ragged little child who first came to me, the
strong-limbed, dark-eyed boy with his scales and trills and
enthusiasm, and the full-grown man with the face like the great
emperor, mightily triumphing in his art and daring in his love. They
were all gone in a moment, and I was left alone on the platform of the
station, a very sorrowful and weak old man. Well, I will not think
about that day.
The first I heard of Nino was by a letter he wrote me from Paris, a
fortnight after he had left me. It was characteristic of him, being
full of eager questions about home and De Pretis and Mariuccia and
Rome. Two things struck me in his writing. In the first place, he made
no mention of the count or Hedwig, which led me to suppose that he was
recovering from his passion, as boys do when they travel. And
secondly, he had so much to say about me that he forgot all about his
engagement, and never even mentioned the theatre. On looking carefully
through the letter again I found he had written across the top the
words, "Rehearsals satisfactory." That was all.
It was not long after the letter came, however, that I was very much
frightened by receiving a telegram, which must have cost several
francs to send all that distance. By this he told me that he had no
clue to the whereabouts of the Liras, and he implored me to make
inquiries and discover where they had gone. He added that he had
appeared in _Faust_ successfully. Of course he would succeed. If a
singer can please the Romans, he can please anybody. But it seemed to
me that if he had received a very especially flattering reception he
would have said so. I went to see De Pretis, whom I found at home over
his dinner. We put our heads together and debated how we might
discover the Paris address of the Graf von Lira. In a great city like
that it was no wonder Nino could not find them; but De Pretis hoped
that some of his pupils might be in correspondence with the
contessina, and would be willing to give the requisite directions for
reaching her. But days passed, and a letter came from Nino written
immediately after sending the telegram, and still we had accomplished
nothing. The letter merely amplified the telegraphic message.
"It is no use," I said to De Pretis. "And besides, it is much better
that he should forget all about it."
"You do not know that boy," said the maestro, taking snuff. And he was
quite right, as it turned out.
Suddenly Nino wrote from London. He had made an arrangement, he said,
by which he was allowed to sing there for three nights only. The two
managers had settled it between them, being friends. He wrote very
despondently, saying that although he had been far more fortunate in
his appearances than he had expected, he was in despair at not having
found the contessina, and had accepted the arrangement which took him
to London because he had hopes of finding her there. On the day which
brought me this letter I had a visitor. Nino had been gone nearly a
month. It was in the afternoon, towards sunset, and I was sitting in
the old green arm-chair watching the goldfinch in his cage, and
thinking sadly of the poor dear baroness, and of my boy, and of many
things. The bell rang and Mariuccia brought me a card in her thick
fingers which were black from peeling potatoes, so that the mark of
her thumb came off on the white pasteboard. The name on the card was
"Baron Ahasuerus Benoni," and there was no address. I told her to show
the signore into the sitting-room, and he was not long in coming. I
immediately recognised the man Nino had described, with his unearthly
freshness of complexion, his eagle nose, and his snow-white hair. I
rose to greet him.
"Signor Grandi," he said, "I trust you will pardon my intrusion. I am
much interested in your boy, the great tenor."
"Sir," I replied, "the visit of a gentleman is never an intrusion.
Permit me to offer you a chair." He sat down, and crossed one thin leg
over the other. He was dressed in the height of the fashion; he wore
patent-leather shoes, and carried a light ebony cane with a silver
head. His hat was perfectly new, and so smoothly brushed that it
reflected a circular image of the objects in the room. But he had a
certain dignity that saved his foppery from seeming ridiculous.
"You are very kind," he answered. "Perhaps you would like to hear some
news of Signor Cardegna,--your boy, for he is nothing else."
"Indeed" I said, "I should be very glad. Has he written to you,
baron?"
"Oh, no! We are not intimate enough for that. But I ran on to Paris
the other day, and heard him three or four times, and had him to
supper at Bignon's. He is a great genius, your boy, and has won all
hearts."
"That is a compliment of weight from so distinguished a musician as
yourself," I answered; for, as you know, Nino had told me all about
his playing. Indeed, the description was his, which is the reason why
it is so enthusiastic.
"Yes," said Benoni, "I am a great traveller, and often go to Paris for
a day or two. I know everyone there. Cardegna had a perfect ovation.
All the women sent him flowers, and all the men asked him to dinner."
"Pardon my curiosity," I interrupted, "but as you know everyone in
Paris, could you inform me whether Count von Lira and his daughter are
there at present? He is a retired Prussian officer." Benoni stretched
out one of his long arms and ran his fingers along the keys of the
piano without striking them. He could just reach so far from where he
sat. He gave no sign of intelligence, and I felt sure that Nino had
not questioned him.
"I know them very well," he said, presently, "but I thought they were
here."
"No, they left suddenly for Paris a month ago."
"I can very easily find out for you," said Benoni, his bright eyes
turning on me with a searching look. "I can find out from Lira's
banker, who is probably also mine. What is the matter with that young
man? He is as sad as Don Quixote."
"Nino? He is probably in love," I said, rather indiscreetly.
"In love? Then of course he is in love with Mademoiselle de Lira, and
has gone to Paris to find her, and cannot. That is why you ask me." I
was so much astonished at the quickness of his guesswork that I
stared, open-mouthed.
"He must have told you!" I exclaimed at last.
"Nothing of the kind. In the course of a long life I have learned to
put two and two together, that is all. He is in love, he is your boy,
and you are looking for a certain young lady. It is as clear as day."
But in reality he had guessed the secret long before.
"Very well," said I, humbly, but doubting him, all the same, "I can
only admire your perspicacity. But I would be greatly obliged if you
would find out where they are, those good people. You seem to be a
friend of my boy's, baron. Help him, and he will be grateful to you.
It is not such a very terrible thing that a great artist should love a
noble's daughter, after all, though I used to think so." Benoni
laughed, that strange laugh which Nino had described,--a laugh that
seemed to belong to another age.
"You amuse me with your prejudices about nobility," he said, and his
brown eyes flashed and twinkled again. "The idea of talking about
nobility in this age! You might as well talk of the domestic economy
of the Garden of Eden."
"But you are yourself a noble--a baron," I objected.
"Oh, I am anything you please," said Benoni. "Some idiot made a baron
of me the other day because I lent him money and he could not pay it.
But I have some right to it, after all, for I am a Jew. The only real
nobles are Welshmen and Jews. You cannot call anything so ridiculously
recent as the European upper classes a nobility. Now I go straight
back to the creation of the world, like all my countrymen. The
Hibernians get a factitious reputation for antiquity by saying that
Eve married an Irishman after Adam died, and that is about as much
claim as your European nobles have to respectability. Bah! I know
their beginnings, very small indeed."
"You also seem to have strong prejudices on the subject," said I, not
wishing to contradict a guest in my house.
"So strong that it amounts to having no prejudices at all. Your boy
wants to marry a noble damosel. In Heaven's name let him do it. Let us
manage it amongst us. Love is a grand thing. I have loved several
women all their lives. Do not look surprised. I am a very old man;
they have all died, and at present I am not in love with anybody. I
suppose it cannot last long, however. I loved a woman once on a
time"--Benoni paused. He seemed to be on the verge of a soliloquy, and
his strange, bright face, which seemed illuminated always with a
deathless vitality, became dreamy and looked older. But he
recollected himself and rose to go. His eye caught sight of the guitar
that hung on the wall.
"Ah," he cried suddenly, "music is better than love, for it lasts; let
us make music." He dropped his hat and stick and seized the
instrument. In an instant it was tuned and he began to perform the
most extraordinary feats of agility with his fingers that I ever
beheld. Some of it was very beautiful, and some of it very sad and
wild, but I understood Nino's enthusiasm. I could have listened to the
old guitar in his hands for hours together,--I, who care little for
music; and I watched his face. He stalked about the room with the
thing in his hands, in a sort of wild frenzy of execution. His
features grew ashy pale, and his smooth white hair stood out wildly
from his head. He looked, then, more than a hundred years old, and
there was a sadness and a horror about him that would have made the
stones cry aloud for pity. I could not believe he was the same man. At
last he was tired, and stopped.
"You are a great artist, baron," I said. "Your music seems to affect
you much."
"Ah, yes, it makes me feel like other men for the time," said he, in a
low voice. "Did you know that Paganini always practised on the guitar?
It is true. Well, I will find out about the Liras for you in a day or
two, before I leave Rome again."
I thanked him and he took his leave.