“I am sorry to seem so ignorant,” said Nino, blushing, “but I do not know the name.  I perceive, however, that you are indeed a very great musician,—­the greatest I ever heard.”  The compliment was perfectly sincere, and Benoni’s face beamed with pleasure.  He evidently liked praise.

“It is not extraordinary,” he said smiling.  “In the course of a very long life it has been my only solace, and if I have some skill it is the result of constant study.  I began life very humbly.”

“So did I,” said Nino, thoughtfully, “and I am not far from the humbleness yet.”

“Tell me,” said Benoni, with a show of interest, “where you come from, and why you are a singer.”

“I was a peasant’s child, an orphan, and the good God gave me a voice.  That is all I know about it.  A kind-hearted gentleman, who once owned the estate where I was born, brought me up, and wanted to make a philosopher of me.  But I wanted to sing, and so I did.”

“Do you always do the things you want to do?” asked the other, “You look as though you might.  You look like Napoleon—­that man always interested me.  That is why I asked you to come and see me.  I have heard you sing, and you are a great artist—­an additional reason.  All artists should be brothers.  Do you not think so?”

“Indeed, I know very few good ones,” said Nino simply; “and even among them I would like to choose before claiming relationship—­personally.  But Art is a great mother, and we are all her children.”

“More especially we who began life so poorly, and love Art because she loves us.”  Benoni seated himself on the arm of one of the old chairs, and looked down across the worm-eaten table at the young singer.  “We,” he continued, “who have been wretchedly poor know better than others that Art is real, true, and enduring; medicine in sickness and food in famine; wings to the feet of youth and a staff for the steps of old age.  Do you think I exaggerate, or do you feel as I do?” He paused for an answer, and poured more wine into his goblet.

“Oh, you know I feel as you do!” cried Nino, with rising enthusiasm.

“Very good; you are a genuine artist.  What you have not felt yet you will feel hereafter.  You have not suffered yet.”

“You do not know about me,” said Nino in a low voice.  “I am suffering now.”

Benoni smiled.  “Do you call that suffering?  Well, it is perhaps very real to you, though I do not know what it is.  But Art will help you through it all, as it has helped me.”

“What were you?” asked Nino.  “You say you were poor.”

“Yes.  I was a shoemaker, and a poor one at that.  I have worn out more shoes than I ever made.  But I was brought up to it for many years.”

“You did not study music from a child, then?”

“No.  But I always loved it; and I used to play in the evenings when I had been cobbling all day long.”

“And one day you found out you were a great artist and became famous.  I see!  What a strange beginning!” cried Nino.