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 unravel5 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 fully6 determined7 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 contented8 frame of mind for the Casa Angello.
It was a dreary9 day, for there are dreary days even in Italy, and at intervals10 there fell heavy showers, which made me feel somewhat depressed11. Pedestrians12 were hurrying along with large umbrellas of the Gamp species, red being the prevailing13 colour; and what with the sloppy14 streets, the gloomy houses, and the absence of the chattering15 Italian populace, the whole place looked infinitely16 melancholy17, so in order to keep up my spirits I hummed the weird18 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 dismal19 little tunnel barred by an iron gate. The portinaia, who lived in a glass-fronted room as if she were a unique specimen20 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 tinkled21 in a most irritating manner, I was admitted into the dingy22 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 clogs23 which clattered24 noisily on the terra-cotta floor. Her plenteous hair was roughly twisted into a knot and stuck through with large brass25 pins, which gave her a spiky26 appearance about the head. This curious apparition27 saluted28 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 considerably29 over eighty years of age I thought this highly probable, but was about to condole30 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 mule31 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 pervade32 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 mere33 mummy, this old man who had been celebrated34 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 cultivation35, being the only one which had survived the wreck36 of his faculties37, and with the assistance of Bianca, he was still enabled to teach his wonderful system in an intelligible38 manner. Many of his pupils had been European, celebrities39 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 baton40 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 faltering41 voice, and, during the lesson, bore at least some semblance4 of life; but when all was finished, the baton fell from his withered42 hand as he relapsed into his former apathy43. 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 graceful44 white lily in appearance than anything else, so fragile, so delicate, so pallid45 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 smoothly46 round her small head. This portraiture47 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, curiously48 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 deterred49 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 mandarin50; "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 attain51 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 incessantly52 practising notes in a still, small voice hardly audible,--it was enough to discourage the most persevering53. 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 aggravating54 exercise.
Even now, when I am successful in my art, I often turn cold as I think of those apparently55 insurmountable obstacles which I had to overcome; but with these painful memories there is mixed at the same time a kindly56 thought of that noble old Maestro, so patient, so courteous57, so painstaking58, 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 random59 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.
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1
bruises
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| n.瘀伤，伤痕，擦伤( bruise的名词复数 ) | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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semblance
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| n.外貌，外表 | |
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unravel
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| v.弄清楚（秘密）；拆开，解开，松开 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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dreary
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| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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12
pedestrians
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| n.步行者( pedestrian的名词复数 ) | |
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13
prevailing
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| adj.盛行的；占优势的；主要的 | |
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sloppy
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| adj.邋遢的，不整洁的 | |
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15
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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16
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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18
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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19
dismal
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| adj.阴沉的，凄凉的，令人忧郁的，差劲的 | |
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20
specimen
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| n.样本，标本 | |
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21
tinkled
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| （使）发出丁当声，（使）发铃铃声( tinkle的过去式和过去分词 )； 叮当响着发出，铃铃响着报出 | |
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22
dingy
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| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
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23
clogs
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| 木屐； 木底鞋，木屐( clog的名词复数 ) | |
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24
clattered
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| 发出咔哒声（clatter的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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brass
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| n.黄铜；黄铜器，铜管乐器 | |
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spiky
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| adj.长而尖的，大钉似的 | |
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27
apparition
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| n.幽灵，神奇的现象 | |
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28
saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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29
considerably
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| adv.极大地；相当大地；在很大程度上 | |
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30
condole
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| v.同情；慰问 | |
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31
mule
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| n.骡子，杂种，执拗的人 | |
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32
pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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33
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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cultivation
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| n.耕作，培养，栽培（法），养成 | |
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36
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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37
faculties
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| n.能力( faculty的名词复数 )；全体教职员；技巧；院 | |
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38
intelligible
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| adj.可理解的，明白易懂的，清楚的 | |
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celebrities
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| n.（尤指娱乐界的）名人( celebrity的名词复数 )；名流；名声；名誉 | |
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40
baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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41
faltering
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| 犹豫的，支吾的，蹒跚的 | |
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42
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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43
apathy
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| n.漠不关心，无动于衷；冷淡 | |
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44
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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45
pallid
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| adj.苍白的，呆板的 | |
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46
smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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47
portraiture
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| n.肖像画法 | |
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48
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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49
deterred
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| v.阻止，制止( deter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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50
Mandarin
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| n.中国官话，国语，满清官吏；adj.华丽辞藻的 | |
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51
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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52
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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53
persevering
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| a.坚忍不拔的 | |
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54
aggravating
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| adj.恼人的，讨厌的 | |
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55
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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56
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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57
courteous
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| adj.彬彬有礼的，客气的 | |
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58
painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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59
random
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| adj.随机的；任意的；n.偶然的(或随便的)行动 | |
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