Tales from Many Sources Part 35

The tears rose to Goneril's eyes. Was it so hard to grow old? This doubt made her voice loudest of all in the chorus of mutual praise and thanks which covered the song's abrupt finale.

And then there came a terrible ordeal. Miss Prunty, anxious to divert the current of her friend's ideas, suggested that the girl should sing.

Signor Graziano and madame insisted; they would take no refusal.

"Sing, sing, little bird!" cried the old lady.

"But, madame, how can one--after you?"

The homage in the young girl's voice made the little Diva more good-humouredly insistant than before, and Goneril was too well-bred to make a fuss. She stood by the piano wondering which to choose, the Handels that she always drawled, or the Pinsuti that she always galloped. Suddenly she came by an inspiration.

"Madame," she pleaded, "may I sing one of Angiolino's songs?"

"Whatever you like, cara mia."

And standing by the piano, her arms hanging loose, she began a chant such as the peasants use working under the olives. Her voice was small and deep, with a peculiar thick sweetness that suited the song, half-humorous, half-pathetic. These were the words she sang:--

Vorrei morir di morte piccinina, Morta la sera e viva la mattina.

Vorrei morire, e non vorrei morire, Vorrei veder, chi mi piange e chi lide; Vorrei morir, e star sulle finestre, Vorrei veder chi mi cuce la veste; Vorrei morir, e stare sulla scala, Vorrei veder chi mi porta la bara; Vorrei morir, e vorre' alzar la voce, Vorrei veder chi mi parta la croce.

"Very well chosen, my dear," said Miss Prunty, when the song was finished.

"And very well sung, my Gonerilla!" cried the old lady.

But the signorino went up to the piano and shook hands with her.

"Little Mees Goneril," he said, "you have the makings of an artist."

The two old ladies stared, for after all Goneril's performance had been very simple. You see they were better versed in music than in human nature.

CHAPTER III.

SI VIEILLESSE POUVAIT!

Signor Graziano's usual week of holiday pa.s.sed and lengthened into almost two months, and still he stayed on at the villa. The two old ladies were highly delighted.

"At last he has taken my advice!" cried Miss Prunty. "I always told him those premature grey hairs came from late hours and Roman air."

Madame Petrucci shook her head and gave a meaning smile. Her friends.h.i.+p with the signorino had begun when he was a lad and she a charming married woman; like many another friends.h.i.+p, it had begun with a flirtation, and perhaps (who knows?) she thought the flirtation had revived.

As for Goneril, she considered him the most charming old man she had ever known, and liked nothing so much as to go out a walk with him.

That, indeed, was one of the signorino's pleasures; he loved to take the young girl all over his gardens and vineyards, talking to her in the amiable, half-petting, half-mocking manner that he had adopted from the first. And twice a week he gave her a music lesson.

"She has a splendid organ!" he would say.

"Vous croyez?" fluted Madame Petrucci with the vilest accent and the most aggravating smile imaginable.

It was the one hobby of the signorino's that she regarded with disrespect.

Goneril, too, was a little bored by the music lesson; but, on the other hand, the walks delighted her.

One day Goneril was out with her friend.

"Are the peasants very much afraid of you, signore?" she asked.

"Am I such a tyrant?" counter-questioned the signorino.

"No; but they are always begging me to ask you things. Angiolino wants to know if he may go for three days to see his uncle at Fiesole."

"Of course"

"But why, then, don't they ask you themselves? Is it they think me so cheeky?"

"Perhaps they think I can refuse you nothing."

"Che! In that case they would ask Madame Petrucci."

Goneril ran on to pick some china roses. The signorino stopped confounded.

"It is impossible!" he cried; "she cannot think I am in love with Giulia! She cannot think I am so old as that!"

The idea seemed horrible to him. He walked on very quickly till he came to Goneril, who was busy plucking roses in a hedge.

"For whom are those flowers?" he asked.

"Some are for you, and some are for Madame Petrucci."

"She is a charming woman, Madame Petrucci."

"A dear old lady," murmured Goneril, much interested in her posy.

"Old do you call her?" said the signorino rather anxiously. "I should scarcely call her that, though of course she is a good deal older than either of us."

"Either of us!" Goneril looked up astounded. Could the signorino have suddenly gone mad?

He blushed a little under his brown skin, that had reminded her of a coffee-bean.

"She is a good ten years older than I am," he explained.

"Ah well, ten years isn't much."

"You don't think so?" he cried delighted. Who knows, she might not think even thirty too much.

"Not at that age," said Goneril blandly.

Signor Graziano could think of no reply.