The Piccinino, Volume 2 (of 2); The last of Aldinis

by George Sand

After that I felt an irresistible, imperious craving to go to the theatre every night. I dared not ask Signora Aldini's permission; I was afraid that she would again make fun of my unfortunate passion—as she called it—for music. However, I must go to La Fenice or die. I had the reprehensible thought of leaving the signora's service and earning my living as a facchino during the day, so that I might have both time and means to go to the theatre. I calculated that with the small sum I had saved at the Aldini Palace, and by reducing my expenditure for food and clothing to what was absolutely necessary, I might be able to gratify my passion. I also thought of entering the employ of the theatre as a scene-shifter, supernumerary, or lamp-lighter; the most humble post would have seemed delightful to me, provided that I could listen to music every day. At last I determined to open my heart to the good-humored Montalegri. He had heard of my musical misadventure. He began by laughing; then, as I boldly persisted, he demanded, as a condition of his assistance, that I should let him hear my voice. I hesitated a long while; I was afraid that he would discourage me by his jests, and although I had no definite plans for the future, I felt that to deprive me of the hope of being able to sing some day would be like tearing out my life. However, I submitted to the inevitable: I sang in a trembling voice a fragment of one of the airs which I had heard a single time at the theatre. My emotion won the prince's heart; I saw in his eyes that he took pleasure in listening to me; I took courage and sang better and better. He raised his hands two or three times to applaud, but checked himself for fear of interrupting me; then I sang really well, and when I had finished, the prince, who was a genuine dilettante, almost kissed me, and praised me in the warmest terms. He took me to the signora and presented my petition, which was granted on the spot. But she too wanted me to sing, and I would not consent. My proud persistence in refusing astonished Signora Aldini without irritating her. She thought that she would overcome it later, but she did not easily succeed. The more I attended the theatre, and the more I practised and improved, the more conscious I became of all that I still lacked, and the more I dreaded to allow others to hear me and judge me before I was sure of myself. At last one superb moonlight night, on the Lido, as the signora, by lengthening her usual row, had made me miss the theatre and my hour of solitary practice, I was suddenly seized with a longing to sing, and I yielded to the inspiration. The signora and her lover listened to me in silence; and, when I had finished, they did not address a word to me, either of praise or blame. Mandola alone, having the keen taste for music of a true Lombard, cried several times when he heard my youthful tenor: "Corpo del diavolo! che buon basso!"

I was a little hurt by my mistress's heedlessness or indifference. I knew that I had sung well enough to deserve a word of praise from her mouth. Nor did I understand the prince's coldness after the praise he had lavished on me two months earlier. I learned afterward that my mistress was amazed by my talent and my powers, but that she had determined to seem unmoved by my first attempt, to punish me for making her beg so long.

I took the lesson to heart, and a few days later, when she called on me to sing while she was in the gondola, I complied with a good grace. She was alone, lying on the cushions of the gondola, and seemed to be in a melancholy frame of mind, which was by no means usual with her. She did not speak a word to me during the row; but when we returned and I offered my arm to assist her up the steps of the palace, she said these words to me, which left me in a strangely excited state:

"Nello, you have done me a vast deal of good. I thank you."

On the days following, I myself offered to sing. She seemed to accept my offer with gratitude. The heat was most intense and the theatres were closed; the signora said that she was ill; but what made the most impression on me was the fact that the prince, who was usually so assiduous in his attendance, had ceased to come with her oftener than once in two or three or even four evenings, I thought that he too was beginning to be unfaithful and I grieved for my poor mistress. I could not understand her obstinacy in refusing to marry; it seemed most unfair to me that Montalegri, who seemed to be so kind and gentle, should be sacrificed to the sins of the late Torquato Aldini. On the other hand, I could not understand why so sweet and lovely a woman should have for lovers only base speculators who were more covetous of her fortune than attached to her person, and sickened of the latter as soon as they despaired of obtaining the former.

These thoughts engrossed me so completely for several days that, notwithstanding my profound respect for my mistress, I could not refrain from communicating my ideas to Mandola.

"Don't make that mistake," he replied; "what has happened this time is just the opposite of what happened with Lanfranchi. The signora is sick of the prince and invents every day some new excuse to prevent his coming with her. What is the reason? That I cannot guess, for we see her all the time and know that she is alone, that she has no rendezvous with anyone. Perhaps she is turning religious altogether, and means to cut loose from society."

That same evening I started to sing to the signora a hymn to the Virgin; but she interrupted me instantly, saying that she had no desire to sleep, and asked for the loves of Armide and Renaud.

"He made a mistake," said Mandola, who had a certain shrewdness of his own, pretending to apologize for me. I changed my selection, and was listened to with attention.

I soon discovered that by singing in the open air and while the gondola was in motion, I tired myself a good deal, and that my voice was suffering. I consulted a teacher of music who came to the palace to give lessons to little Alezia Aldini, then six years old. He told me that, if I continued to sing out-of-doors, I should ruin my voice before the end of the year. That threat frightened me so that I resolved to sing no more under those conditions. But on the next day the signora asked me, with such a melancholy air, with such a sweet glance and such pale cheeks, to sing the barcarole from La Biondina, that I had not the heart to deny her the only pleasure that she had seemed capable of enjoying for some time past.