'_Non lo conosco._'
A certain fear comes into her eyes. She is schoolmistress, and has a
mortal dread of being wrong.
'_Si_,' she cries, wavering, appealing, '_una dramma inglese_.'
'English!' I repeated.
'Yes, an English drama.'
'How do you write it?'
Anxiously, she gets a pencil from her reticule, and, with black-gloved
scrupulousness, writes _Amleto_.
'_Hamlet_!' I exclaim wonderingly.
'_Ecco, Amleto!_' cries the maestra, her eyes aflame with thankful
justification.
Then I knew that Signore Enrico Persevalli was looking to me for an
audience. His Evening of Honour would be a bitter occasion to him if the
English were not there to see his performance.
I hurried to get ready, I ran through the rain. I knew he would take it
badly that it rained on his Evening of Honour. He counted himself a man
who had fate against him.
'_Sono un disgraziato, io._'
I was late. The First Act was nearly over. The play was not yet alive,
neither in the bosoms of the actors nor in the audience. I closed the
door of the box softly, and came forward. The rolling Italian eyes of
Hamlet glanced up at me.
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