But
there! Are you quite comfortable?" And having seen to his guest's needs,
and placed spirits and cigars and an ash-tray within his reach, the Padre
sat himself comfortably in his chair to hear and expose the false
doctrine of Il Trovatore.
By midnight all of the opera that Gaston could recall had been played and
sung twice. The convert sat in his chair no longer, but stood singing by
the piano. The potent swing and flow of rhythms, the torrid, copious
inspiration of the South, mastered him. "Verdi has grown," he cried.
"Verdi is become a giant." And he swayed to the beat of the melodies, and
waved an enthusiastic arm. He demanded every note. Why did not Gaston
remember it all? But if the barkentine would arrive and bring the whole
music, then they would have it right! And he made Gaston teach him what
words he knew. "'Non ti scorder,'" he sang--"'non ti scordar di me.' That
is genius. But one sees how the world moves when one is out of it. 'A
nostri monti ritorneremo'; home to our mountains. Ah, yes, there is
genius again." And the exile sighed and his spirit voyaged to distant
places, while Gaston continued brilliantly with the music of the final
scene.
Then the host remembered his guest. "I am ashamed of my selfishness," he
said.
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