"A girl," answered the young mother, in English.
"Then I suppose you called it Roma," I said.
"No," said Buffalo Bill. "It is the custom among the Indians to give to the baby the name of the first thing the mother sees after its birth."
"Then they must have named it Tent," I said.
Buffalo Bill laughed. "No, you must guess again. It was called Saint Peter's."
"Poor little girl!" said the kind-hearted Duke, and put a gold piece in the ready and delighted hand of the mother.
Dear ----,--Signor Sonsogni, the promoter of music and art, gave several librettos of operas to different composers in Italy, and promised a large reward to the victorious competitor.
Signor Crispi kindly offered me his _loge_, thinking that it would interest me to be present at one of the performances. There had been many of these before, but nothing remarkable had so far been produced.
We arrived in the theater while they were playing a short opera of two acts, which was unfavorably received and quickly condemned with contempt and hisses.
The judges looked bored to death and discouraged, and the audience seemed ready to growl and grumble at anything.
Mugnoni led the orchestra in his usual excitable manner. If any of the operas had been good for anything they would have shown at their best under his masterful baton.
Already when the overture was played the audience was enchanted, and as it progressed the enthusiasm became greater and greater, the excited audience called for the _autore_ (author).
Mascagni, urged and pushed forward from the sidewings, evidently against his will, appeared, looking very shabby in an old gray suit with trousers turned up, as if he had just come in from the street. His hair was long and unkempt, his face haggard and thin--evidently he had been starved and unwashed for weeks. This really was the case.
He bowed modestly and with a _naïf_ awkwardness which was very pathetic. The Italian public, just as wild in its enthusiasm as it is merciless in its disapproval, rose as one man with a bound and cheered vociferously. But when the Intermezzo was played there was a burst of thundering applause, clapping of hands, and shouts of enthusiasm. I never heard anything like it.
Mascagni was called at least twenty times before the curtain. Any other composer would have beamed all over with joy and pride at such an ovation, but Mascagni only looked shy and bewildered. The tears rolled down my cheeks as I looked at the poor young fellow (he is only twenty years old), who probably that very morning was wondering how he could provide food for his wife and baby. Fancy what his emotions must have been to wake up so unexpectedly to glory and success!
