Life — June 12, 1884 — page 6: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

*LIFE: A ROAMING SINGER. BY F., MARRY'EM CRAWFISH. I. CORNMEALIO BRANDI, who tell you these things, have y atale of my own about Mimo, of whom a few of you have undoubtedly heard. To begin with, I was not always as old as I am, but I have always been candid and frank in the extreme. You will find that out as you go along. I acknowledge that I am garrulous and cowardly, but Iam more vain than either, and, above all, I am mean. Yes, I am stingy; there is no doubt about it. But Marianna (an apoplexy seize upon her !), she is extravagant ; she eats a whole soda biscuit for tea! I love my cigar and Mimo—my dear boy, Mimo! If you will listen patiently I will tell you a story about him. It is an improbable story, and so I will omit the details, Details are hard to manage when the plot is unnatural, and then—Corpo di Bacco !—I have no time to waste. I have to write three more stories this year! Mimo is not my own son, and this is how he came to me: The carrier brought him ; and a dirtier little boy you never saw. All he had on was one shoe and a battered hat, and he was always singing at the top of his voice, upsetting his soup, and throwing his bread down the well. In a word, he was not well-bred. Moreover, he was an ugly child, with great black eyes with ink- saucers under them. He is just the same now, only his eyes are bigger and’ the saucers are almost dinner-plates. But he was always as ugly as his voice was beautiful. Dio Mio! How that boy could sing! : HE OPENED HIS MOUTH AND SANG. ‘'DO-0-0-0!” One Sunday (I remember it was Sunday, because Marianna gave me two sardines for supper), while Mimo was still little, Signor Charcole de Pronis, the great musician, came to see me. Mimo had learned several songs, but his voice had cracked some months before, ‘Come here to the piano and sing,” said the Maestro, and he went through several airs himself; but Mimo hung back and said it was too late in the evening. “See, we will try a scale.” De Pronis struck a chord. “Now, open your mouth—so. Do-o-o-o!” He uttered a long, loud note. Mimo could not resist it. He opened his mouth and sang. “‘Do-o-0-0” (as he heard the sound of his own voice, he gained confidence and forgot himself) “ Do-o-on’t you make a noise or else you'll wake the ba— ” “Diavolo !” cried the musician. ‘‘ A pest upon the boy! He sings like a nightingale. His fortune is made. He can be the first tenor of the age. He can sing with Patti and go to London and Boston, and be a great man.” ““No, no,” I said. “I will make a philosopher of him, like myself.” . “*Diamini !” the Maestro ejaculated. ‘* You are mad! His lower register is superb, and with the aid of the Buon Dio and the man who plays the flageolet he can sing the highest note ever heard behind the foot-lights! Leave him to me. I will give him lessons and train him for nothing.” So it was settled. Mimo was to be a singer. Il. T was really not so long ago—only one year. Up and down the streets the sirocco was blowing, hats were flying, and men were calling on the Diavolo to take the wind. Mimo and I went to St. Peter’s to hear Signor Charcole sing. It was very crowded inside, as a great many had come in to get warm, and I found myself pushed against a tall man, who wore a fierce gray mustache—yellowish it was, almost ash color. When the people sank down for the prayer, I saw that on the other side of him sat a young lady. She was dressed all in black, and her features stood out wonderfully clear and bright against the darkness. Her face looked as if it was made of ice-cream, it was so cold. Her complexion was vanilla and strawberry mixed, while her eyes were large and blue,and her hair was red. Then I caught sight of Mimo. He had one hand over his eyes, but was looking at her between his fingers as if he would devour her. When the service was over we waited for de Pronis to come down from the organ-loft, and while the foreigners were standing at one side near a pillar, we saw the maestro stop and speak to them. Ina moment he joined us. “Who are they? What are their names? Where do they live?” asked Mimo of him, ‘*Salvini !” ejaculated de Pronis. ‘‘I believe you love her! She is a contessina and the old party’s daughter. He isa Prus- sian and acount. Hisnameisvon Fira. And she? Hername is Redvigia—Redwig, the Germans call it—and she is a pupil of mine.” “Redwig von Fira,” murmured the boy. beautiful! I am determined to marry her.” ‘* Body of Diana! You marry her! You are a donkey.” I could call him this truly because he was in love, “We will see. El siembro tomato vermicelli strong, honest Italian. I believed him. says. By the next day he had devised a plan for making her acquaint- ance. He determined to disguise himself as a professor of Italian literature and if possible give her lessons. The disguise was easy. By dropping a few spots on his coat, crushing in his hat a little and scenting himself with one of my most villainous cigars, he was sufficiently disreputable. He sought the count’s apart- ments. Ascending the steps of the palazzo, he crossed the pi- “Ah, but she is ” he said, in our Mimo means what he comicbooks.com