But it was not Gemma’s voice—it was herself Sanin was admiring. He was sitting a little behind and on one side of her, and kept thinking to himself that no palm-tree, even in the poems of Benediktov—the poet in fashion in those days—could rival the slender grace of her figure. When, at the most emotional passages, she raised her eyes upwards—it seemed to him no heaven could fail to open at such a look! Even the old man, Pantaleone, who with his shoulder propped against the doorpost, and his chin and mouth tucked into his capacious cravat, was listening solemnly with the air of a connoisseur—even he was admiring the girl’s lovely face and marvelling at it, though one would have thought he must have been used to it! When she had finished the duet with her daughter, Frau Lenore observed that Emilio had a fine voice, like a silver bell, but that now he was at the age when the voice changes—he did, in fact, talk in a sort of bass constantly falling into falsetto—and that he was therefore forbidden to sing; but that Pantaleone now really might try his skill of old days in honour of their guest! Pantaleone promptly put on a displeased air, frowned, ruffled up his hair, and declared that he had given it all up long ago, though he could certainly in his youth hold his own, and indeed had belonged to that great period, when there were real classical singers, not to be compared to the squeaking performers of to-day! and a real school of singing; that he, Pantaleone Cippatola of Varese, had once been brought a laurel wreath from Modena, and that on that occasion some white doves had positively been let fly in the theatre; that among others a Russian prince Tarbusky—“_il principe Tarbusski_”—with whom he had been on the most friendly terms, had after supper persistently invited him to Russia, promising him mountains of gold, mountains!… but that he had been unwilling to leave Italy, the land of Dante—_il paese del Dante!_ Afterward, to be sure, there came … unfortunate circumstances, he had himself been imprudent…. At this point the old man broke off, sighed deeply twice, looked dejected, and began again talking of the classical period of singing, of the celebrated tenor Garcia, for whom he cherished a devout, unbounded veneration. “He was a man!” he exclaimed. “Never had the great Garcia (_il gran Garcia_) demeaned himself by singing falsetto like the paltry tenors of to-day—_tenoracci_; always from the chest, from the chest, _voce di petto, si!_” and the old man aimed a vigorous blow with his little shrivelled fist at his own shirt-front! “And what an actor! A volcano, _signori miei_, a volcano, _un Vesuvio_! I had the honour and the happiness of singing with him in the _opera dell’ illustrissimo maestro_ Rossini—in Otello! Garcia was Otello,—I was Iago—and when he rendered the phrase”:—here Pantaleone threw himself into an attitude and began singing in a hoarse and shaky, but still moving voice: