“I am afraid I am very stupid, Peppino, but I don’t seem to get hold of it. Who is the plumber?”
“I meet him at Margate; also his lady, his wife; they invite me to their house; I accept their invitation.”
“But Margate is not Hampton Court.”
“No, they inhabit Hampton Court; they go to Margate for the villeggiatura, for the—how do you say?—for the baths of the sea.”
“Oh, now I understand. You met them at Margate and they invited you to call on them at their house at Hampton Court.”
“Of course, yes. And when I arrive, the husband, the plumber, he went away with his tools for his work in a sack, and his lady she says to me, ‘Please sit down.’ And we talk together. She was a very kind lady. And presently—she was on the sofa by the window and I was in a chair by the fire—presently her husband return. I was like a fish not in his water, but oh! it was my salvation. Why must he be leaving us together? She was a very kind lady. And then to be returning without noise, so soon and so sudden. Do you think—?”
I did not know. It looked rather like it, but the psychology of the Hampton Court plumber resembles the Italian music of the early part of last century in that it is but little studied among us. So I congratulated him on his escape, and inquired whether any of Alfio’s compositions had been published.
“Alfio don’t be writing no compositions.”
“He told me he was composing music.”
“Alfio never compose something. Too busy. Look here, the student that shall be always making the exercise he don’t be never composing the music.”