And how well the sensuous Italian strains accord with such an hour and
scene! They were playing, if I remember rightly, the ever-popular Aida;
other items followed later--more ambitious ones; a Hungarian rhapsody,
Berlioz, a selection from Wagner.

"_Musica filosofica"_ said my neighbour, alluding to the German
composer. He was a spare man of about sixty; a sunburnt, military
countenance, seamed by lines of suffering. "_Non va in Sicilia--_it
won't do in this country. Not that we fail to appreciate your great
thinkers," he added. "We read and admire your Schopenhauer, your
Spencer. They give passable representations of Wagner in Naples. But----"

"The climate?"

"Precisely. I have travelled, sir; and knowing your Berlin, and London,
and Boston, have been able to observe how ill our Italian architecture
looks under your grey skies, how ill our music sounds among the complex
appliances of your artificial life. It has made you earnest, this
climate of yours, and prone to take earnestly your very pastimes.
Music, for us, has remained what it was in the Golden Age--an
unburdening of the soul on a summer's night. They play well, these
fellows. Palermo, too, has a respectable band--Oh! a little too fast,
that _recitativo!"_

"The Signore is a musician?"

"A _proprietario._ But I delight in music, and I beguiled myself with
the fiddle as a youngster. Nowadays--look here!" And he extended his
hand; it was crippled. "Rheumatism. I have it here, and here"--pointing
to various regions of his body--"_and_ here! Ah, these doctors! The