But it was not Gemma’s voice—it was herself Sanin was admiring. He was
sitting a little behind and on one side of her, and kept thinking to
himself that no palm-tree, even in the poems of Benediktov—the poet in
fashion in those days—could rival the slender grace of her figure.
When, at the most emotional passages, she raised her eyes upwards—it
seemed to him no heaven could fail to open at such a look! Even the old
man, Pantaleone, who with his shoulder propped against the doorpost,
and his chin and mouth tucked into his capacious cravat, was listening
solemnly with the air of a connoisseur—even he was admiring the girl’s
lovely face and marvelling at it, though one would have thought he must
have been used to it! When she had finished the duet with her daughter,
Frau Lenore observed that Emilio had a fine voice, like a silver bell,
but that now he was at the age when the voice changes—he did, in fact,
talk in a sort of bass constantly falling into falsetto—and that he was
therefore forbidden to sing; but that Pantaleone now really might try
his skill of old days in honour of their guest! Pantaleone promptly put
on a displeased air, frowned, ruffled up his hair, and declared that he
had given it all up long ago, though he could certainly in his youth
hold his own, and indeed had belonged to that great period, when there
were real classical singers, not to be compared to the squeaking
performers of to-day! and a real school of singing; that he, Pantaleone
Cippatola of Varese, had once been brought a laurel wreath from Modena,
and that on that occasion some white doves had positively been let fly
in the theatre; that among others a Russian prince Tarbusky—“_il
principe Tarbusski_”—with whom he had been on the most friendly terms,
had after supper persistently invited him to Russia, promising him
mountains of gold, mountains!… but that he had been unwilling to leave
Italy, the land of Dante—_il paese del Dante!_ Afterward, to be sure,
there came … unfortunate circumstances, he had himself been imprudent….
At this point the old man broke off, sighed deeply twice, looked
dejected, and began again talking of the classical period of singing,
of the celebrated tenor Garcia, for whom he cherished a devout,
unbounded veneration. “He was a man!” he exclaimed. “Never had the
great Garcia (_il gran Garcia_) demeaned himself by singing falsetto
like the paltry tenors of to-day—_tenoracci_; always from the chest,
from the chest, _voce di petto, si!_” and the old man aimed a vigorous
blow with his little shrivelled fist at his own shirt-front! “And what
an actor! A volcano, _signori miei_, a volcano, _un Vesuvio_! I had the
honour and the happiness of singing with him in the _opera dell’
illustrissimo maestro_ Rossini—in Otello! Garcia was Otello,—I was
Iago—and when he rendered the phrase”:—here Pantaleone threw himself
into an attitude and began singing in a hoarse and shaky, but still
moving voice:
“L’i … ra daver … so daver … so il fato
lo più no … no … no … non temerò!”
The theatre was all a-quiver, _signori miei_! though I too did not fall
short, I too after him.
“L’i ra daver … so daver … so il fato
Temèr più non davro!”
And all of a sudden, he crashed like lightning, like a tiger: _Morro!…
ma vendicato …_ Again when he was singing … when he was singing that
celebrated air from “_Matrimonio segreto_,” _Pria che spunti_ … then
he, _il gran Garcia_, after the words, “_I cavalli di galoppo_”—at the
words, “_Senza posa cacciera_,”—listen, how stupendous, _come è
stupendo_! At that point he made …” The old man began a sort of
extraordinary flourish, and at the tenth note broke down, cleared his
throat, and with a wave of his arm turned away, muttering, “Why do you
torment me?” Gemma jumped up at once and clapping loudly and shouting,
bravo!… bravo!… she ran to the poor old super-annuated Iago and with
both hands patted him affectionately on the shoulders. Only Emil
laughed ruthlessly. _Cet âge est sans pitié_—that age knows no
mercy—Lafontaine has said already.
Sanin tried to soothe the aged singer and began talking to him in
Italian—(he had picked up a smattering during his last tour
there)—began talking of “_paese del Dante, dove il si suona_.” This
phrase, together with “_Lasciate ogni speranza_,” made up the whole
stock of poetic Italian of the young tourist; but Pantaleone was not
won over by his blandishments. Tucking his chin deeper than ever into
his cravat and sullenly rolling his eyes, he was once more like a bird,
an angry one too,—a crow or a kite. Then Emil, with a faint momentary
blush, such as one so often sees in spoilt children, addressing his
sister, said if she wanted to entertain their guest, she could do
nothing better than read him one of those little comedies of Malz, that
she read so nicely. Gemma laughed, slapped her brother on the arm,
exclaimed that he “always had such ideas!” She went promptly, however,
to her room, and returning thence with a small book in her hand, seated
herself at the table before the lamp, looked round, lifted one finger
as much as to say, “hush!”—a typically Italian gesture—and began
reading.