And then, as you all know, I never began at all.  I took up life in the middle, and am trying hard to twist a rope of which I never held the other end.  I feel sometimes as though it must be the life of another that I have taken, leaving my own unfinished, for I was never meant to be a professor.  That is the way of it; and if I am sad and inclined to melancholy humours, it is because I miss my old self, and he seems to have left me without even a kindly word at parting.  I was fond of my old self, but I did not respect him much.  And my present self I respect, without fondness.  Is that metaphysics?  Who knows?  It is vanity in either case, and the vanity of self-respect is perhaps a more dangerous thing than the vanity of self-love, though you may call it pride if you like, or give it any other high-sounding title.  But the heart of the vain man is lighter than the heart of the proud.  Probably Nino has always had much self-respect, but I doubt if it has made him very happy—­until lately.  True, he has genius, and does what he must by nature do or die, whereas I have not even talent, and I make myself do for a living what I can never do well.  What does it serve, to make comparisons?  I could never have been like Nino, though I believe half my pleasure of late has been in fancying how I should feel in his place, and living through his triumphs by my imagination.  Nino began at the very beginning, and when all his capital was one shoe and a ragged hat, and certainly not more than a third of a shirt, he said he would be a great singer; and he is, though he is scarcely of age yet.  I wish it had been something else than a singer, but since he is the first already, it was worth while.  He would have been great in anything, though, for he has such a square jaw, and he looks so fierce when anything needs to be overcome.  Our forefathers must have looked like that, with their broad eagle noses and iron mouths.  They began at the beginning, too, and they went to the very end.  I wish Nino had been a general, or a statesman, or a cardinal, or all three like Richelieu.

But you want to hear of Nino, and you can pass on your ways, all of you, without hearing my reflections and small-talk about goodness, and success, and the like.  Moreover, since I respect myself now, I must not find so much fault with my own doings, or you will say that I am in my dotage.  And, truly, Nino Cardegna is a better man, for all his peasant blood, than I ever was; a better lover, and perhaps a better hater.  There is his guitar, that he always leaves here, and it reminds me of him and his ways.  Fourteen years he lived here with me, from child to boy and from boy to man, and now he is gone, never to live here any more.  The end of it will be that I shall go and live with him, and Mariuccia will take her cat and her knitting, and her Lives of the Saints back to Serveti, to end her life in peace, where there are no professors and no singers.  For Mariuccia is older than I am, and she will die