I
| chevalier | poem | education | opera |
| conservatory | poetry | poverty | accord |
| applause | talent | composer | theater |
The Chevalier had found a lad who would be worthy of his care. To be sure he was but a peasant boy full of fun and laughter. The Chevalier himself had once been young and remembered how tempting the sunshine used to be and the fields and the ripe nuts of autumn. He had marked with pleasure this handsome lad, and watched with interest his changing face and dancing eye as he went on his merry way.
“I shall ask him to my house,” thought the Chevalier, “and see what he will say to my books.”
So Giochino went to the Chevalier’s house and listened eagerly while the Chevalier told him of the beautiful verses and stories which many of the books contained. Now and then the Chevalier would read a few lines from a poem.
The boy loved poetry. It was sweet in sound and had a movement like the gliding of boats on still water. It made him forget everything else,—even how he had teased his old music teacher, and that his mother was sometimes sad.
Perhaps he was a little lonesome, for his mother, whom he loved dearly, was often far off. She was working for her boy, saving every cent possible to give him the musical education for which she had longed. Here and there throughout Italy she went singing in one of the traveling opera companies so common in those days. In her younger years her voice had been full and strong, but now it was failing and she wondered what would happen to Giochino.
But the boy’s heart was too joyous to be cast down by poverty or trouble. The days were bright and sunny, why should he not be gay? His voice was clear, true, pure in tone, and almost of its own accord broke into song. Occasionally he, too, would earn a little money by singing at the theater.
After a time he was able to study music with a master and finally entered the conservatory at Bologna. Here he was taught some of the more difficult things about music.
It was not long before he discovered that he already knew enough to write operas. He was delighted. He would go to seek his fortune.
His teacher, realizing that he had extraordinary talent, wished him to continue his study further and even offered to instruct him in the stately music of the Church, if he would remain. But the youth did not heed his offer and started forth.
In his happy, aimless way he went from place to place. He sang, he accompanied, he directed and composed. He was always good-natured, always generous, and never without friends.
It was evening in Venice. The opera was just over. People were thronging from the door of the opera house. They were talking excitedly. Evidently they were much pleased. Giochino Rossini’s opera, “Tancred,” had been presented for the first time. It had been received with wild applause.
Rossini was surprised at this. “I fancied,” he said, “that, after hearing my opera, they would put me into the madhouse. But they are madder than I.”