uld be a private repetition of the scene specially
for the young ladies and me; but it could not be that afternoon because
it would take time to prepare and we had the appointment to go to his
professor's house for his singing lesson, and that also would take time.
Before singing one does a few exercises, the effect of which is to warm
up the throat and awaken the voice, because the warmer the throat, the
better the quality of the voice, and this had to be got through before
anyone could be allowed to listen. At the proper moment I was taken to
the professor's house and introduced into the studio where the buffo, who
had taken off his collar to do the exercises, sang extracts from his
repertorio, which includes _Otello_, _Rigoletto_, _I Pagliacci_ and
_Cavalleria Rusticana_.

After he had sung one of his pieces, I made him my compliments and
congratulated his professor on the result of his teaching, whereupon they
made their excuses--I had come on an unfortunate day, the voice was
suffering from fatigue and the piano was out of tune. I had not observed
the fatigue, but they were right about the piano and I agreed with the
maestro, who said it was time to order a new one. Not only was it out of
tune enough to curdle the milk, but they had endeavoured to distract
attention from its defects by crowding its lid with rubbish till it
resembled the parlour chimney-piece in a suburban villa or the altar in a
second-rate church.

As some old harridan when bidden to the christening of her great-niece
fumbles among such ornaments of her gioventu tempestosa as have been
refused by the pawnbroker, and choosing the least suitable decks herself
out therein, thinking thus to honour the festa--even so on this piano
were accumulated artificial flowers, photographs in metal frames, a
sprinkling of glass vases in wire cages that jangled, a couple of
crockery pigs to bring good luck and a few statuettes and busts.

"Please, Buffo," I inquired, "who is that silver saint upon the piano?"

"It is not a saint," he replied, "it is only un musicista qualunque."

"It looks about the shape of Mozart," I said, wondering what he was doing
in that galley.

"I do not remember his name," said the buffo, "it is written on him in
front; it is not a reasonable name."

He brought me the bust and I, thinking that, to harmonise with the
musical atmosphere of the studio, it should have been Leoncavallo or
Mascagni, found that it was even more out of