knew more than Lauretta, and I thought she had
more feeling for German music.

"'When we were in a certain little town in the south of Germany, we met
with an Italian tenor on his way from Milan to Vienna. My ladies were
charmed to meet with a fellow-countryman. He was continually with them.
Teresina was the one whom he chiefly devoted himself to, and, to my no
small disgust, I found myself quite playing second fiddle. One morning,
as I was just going into their room, with a score under my arm, I heard
an animated conversation going on between my ladies and the tenor. My
own name struck my ear, and I listened with might and main. I knew
enough Italian to catch every word that was said. Lauretta was relating
the terrible story of the concert when I cut her out of her shake by
striking my chord too soon.

"'"_Asino tedesco!_" cried the tenor. I felt inclined to go and chuck
the vapouring stage-hero out of the window; but I restrained myself.
Lauretta went on to say that she would have got rid of me on the spot,
but that I had implored her to let me stay, and she had done so, out of
compassion, as I was going to take singing-lessons from her. Teresina
confirmed this, to my no small amazement. "He is a nice boy, enough,"
she added. "He is in love with _me_ just now, and writes all his solos
for the contralto. There is a certain amount of talent in him, if he
could get rid of the stiffness and awkwardness which all Germans have.
I am in hopes I may make a composer of him who may write some good
things for the contralto: there is so little written for it that is
worth very much. He is dreadfully wearisome with his everlasting
sighings and devotion, and torments me fearfully with his compositions,
which are poor enough as yet."

"'"Thank goodness, I am quit of him," cried Lauretta, "You know,
Teresina, how he used to torture me with his _arias_ and _duettos_,"
and she began a duet of mine, which she had highly praised formerly.
Teresina took the second voice, and they both caricatured me most
unmercifully. The tenor laughed till the room re-echoed. I felt a
stream of icy water running down my back, my mind was thoroughly made
up. I slipped back to my own room as quietly as I could. Its windows
looked out into the side-street--the post-office was just over the
way, and the Bamberg coach was drawing up to take in the mail-bags.
The passengers were collecting at the gate, but I had still the best
part of an hour before me. I