ignor 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.

Then came the "Cavalleria Rusticana."

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 _naif_ 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!

[Illustration:
FRANCESCO CRISPI
Prime Minister of Italy. From a photograph taken in 1887.]

Mascagni, his wife, and his baby lived in a garret, and had not money
enough to buy even a candle. The only instrument he had when he wrote
the opera was an accordion. His little wife is nineteen, and the baby
is one year old.

Italy thought it possessed another Verdi. The next day after his
tri