“By singing and playing,” said Fiddle-John.
“You won’t make much of a living by that in America; people won’t understand you, unless you sing in English,” remarked the American.
It had actually never before occurred to Fiddle-John that his songs would be unintelligible in America. He had supposed that music appealed equally to all nations and needed no interpreter. The remark of his new friend, therefore, was a positive shock to him, and it took him fully a minute to recover from its effect.
“I will sing to the President of America,” he said, in an injured tone. “Jens Skoug, there, says that the President will make me a great man when he hears my voice.”
It did not suit Skoug’s convenience to translate this remark correctly; and he observed instead, with a confidential air, that Fiddle-John was a harmless monomaniac who had got it into his head that he wanted to sing to the President. The American was evidently amused at this, and said, with a laugh, that he feared the President was not so great an authority in music as in affairs of state.
Fiddle-John was extremely puzzled and a little distressed at the jocose manner of the American gentleman; it could scarcely be possible that he was making fun of him. But American ways were probably different from Norwegian ways, and he would therefore not be hasty in taking offence.
“I know a great many songs,” he said, with a determination to appear amiable; “and what is more, I can make songs about anything you choose.”
“Aha, you are a sort of poet—an improvisatore, as the Italians say. Now I begin to understand. Perhaps you can make a song about me,” suggested the American.
“Indeed I can!” cried the Norseman.
“Well, let us have it!” urged the other.