portrait, at the entrance to the gallery, in a superb frame, which stood
out a little from the wall, and seemed to command a long file of
ancestors, each darker and more venerable than the last, who receded, in
chronological order, into the obscure depths of that vast room. Torquato
Aldini was dressed in the latest fashion of his time, with a shirt-frill
of Flanders lace and a morning coat of apple-green cloth with bright red
frogs. He was beautifully frizzled and powdered. But, despite the
elegance of that pastoral undress, I could not look at him without
lowering my eyes; for there was upon his yellowish-brown face, in his
blazing black eye, on his sneering and disdainful mouth, in his
impassive attitude, and even in the dictatorial gesture of his long,
thin, diamond-laden hand, such an expression of overbearing arrogance
and inflexible harshness as I had never met with under the roof of that
palace. It was a beautiful portrait, and the portrait of a handsome
young man. He died at twenty-five, from wounds received in a duel with
a Foscari, who dared to say that he was of a better family. He had left
behind him a great reputation for courage and decision of character, but
it was whispered that he had made his wife very unhappy, and the
servants did not seem to regret him. He had kept them in such a state of
dread that they never passed that picture after dark, startlingly true
to life as it was, without uncovering as they would have done before
their former master in person.
His hardness of heart must have caused the signora much suffering, and
have disgusted her with the married state, for she refused to enter into
a new contract, and rejected the best _partis_ in the Republic. And yet
she evidently had a yearning for love, for she tolerated Count
Lanfranchi's assiduous attentions and seemed to deny him none of the
joys of marriage except the indissoluble oath. After a year, the count,
abandoning all hope of inspiring in her the necessary confidence for
such an engagement as he desired, sought fortune elsewhere, and
confessed to her that a certain wealthy heiress gave him more reason to
hope. The signora generously gave him his liberty at once. She seemed
depressed and ill for a few days, but at the end of a month the Prince
of Montalegri took the place in the gondola left vacant by the
ungrateful Lanfranchi, and for another year Mandola and I rowed that
amiable and seemingly fortunate couple about the lagoons.
I was very deeply attached to the signora. I could imagine nothing on
earth lovelier and better than she was. When she turned her sweet,
almost motherly glance upon me, when she smilingly said a pleasant word
to me--no others could come from her lovely lips--I was so proud and
happy that, to afford her a moment's pleasure, I would have thrown
myself under the _Bucentaur's_ sharp keel. When she gave me an order, I
flew; when she leaned on me, my heart beat fast for joy; when, to call
the Prince of Montalegri's attention to my fine hair, she gently placed
her snow-white hand on my head, I flushed with pride. And yet I was not
jealous as I plied my oar with the prince seated beside her. I replied
gayly to the kindly jests which the gentlemen of Venice love to exchange
with the gondoliers, to test their wit and gift of repartee; and,
despite the extraordinary liberty accorded to the challenged boatman
under such circumstances, I had never felt the slightest inclination to
make a bitter retort to the prince. He was an excellent young man; I was
grateful to him for consoling the signora for Signor Lanfranchi's
desertion. I had not that ridiculous humility which grovels before the
privileges of high rank. We hardly recognize those privileges in this
country, in the matter of love, and we recognized them even less in
those days. There was not so much difference in age between the signora
and myself that I might not fall in love with her. The fact is that I
should be sorely embarrassed to-day to give a name to my feeling for her
at that time. It was love, perhaps, but love as pure as my age; and
tranquil love, because I was neither ambitious nor covetous.
In addition to my youth, my zeal in her service, and my mild and
cheerful disposition, my love for music had pleased the signora
particularly: it delighted her to see my emotion at the sound of her
beautiful voice, and whenever she sang she sent for me. In her affable,
unceremonious way, she would bid me come into her cabinet and permit me
to sit beside Salomé. It seemed to me that she would have liked to see
that inflexible task-mistress lay aside a little of her habitual
austerity with me. But Salomé was to me a much more awe-inspiring
person than the signora, and I was never tempted to be bold when she was
present.
One day the signora asked me if I had any voice. I answered that I used
to have, but that I had lost it. She wished me to try it before her. I
objected, but she insisted upon it, and I had no choice but to yield. I
was in dire distress, and convinced that it would be impossible for me
to utter a sound, for it was fully a year since I had thought of such a
thing. I was then seventeen years old. My voice had come back, but I had
no suspicion of it. I put my head between my hands and tried to remember
a passage from the _Jerusalem_. By a mere chance I hit upon the passage
which describes Olinde's love for Sophronia, and ends with this line:
_Brama assai, poco spera, nulla chiede_. Thereupon, summoning courage,
and yelling with all my strength, as if I were in mid-ocean, I made the
thunderstruck hangings resound with that plaintive, sonorous lament, to
which we sing on the lagoons of the exploits of Roland and the loves of
Herminie. I had no suspicion of the effect I should produce. Expecting
to hear the hoarse squeak which my throat produced when I last made the
experiment, I nearly fell over backward when the organ which I
unknowingly concealed within me manifested its power. The pictures
hanging on the wall trembled, the signora smiled, and the strings of the
harp replied to that resounding voice with a long vibration.
"_Santo Dio_!" cried Salomé, dropping her work and putting her hands
over her ears, "the lion of St. Mark's would roar no louder!"
The little Aldini, who was playing on the floor, was so terrified that
she began to shriek and weep.
I cannot say what the signora did. I only know that she and the child
and Salomé and the harp and the cabinet all disappeared, and that I ran
at full speed through the streets, having no idea what demon urged me
on, until I reached _Quinta-Valle_. There I jumped into a boat and rowed
to the great plain which is now called the Field of Mars, and is still
the most deserted spot in the city. As soon as I was alone and free, I
began to sing with all the strength of my lungs. Miraculous! I had a
voice of more power and range than any of the _cupids_ I used to admire
at Chioggia. Hitherto I had supposed that I had not power enough, and I
really had too much. It overflowed--it overwhelmed me. I threw myself
face downward in the long grass, and, yielding to a paroxysm of
delirious joy, burst into tears. O the first tears of the artist! They
only can be compared in sweetness, or in bitterness, with the first
tears of the lover.
Then I began to sing again, and repeated a hundred times in succession
the scattered fragments I had remembered. As I sang on, the
ear-splitting harshness of my voice wore off, and I felt that it became
more flexible and tractable every moment. I felt no fatigue, the more I
practised, the easier my respiration seemed. Then I ventured to try some
of the operatic arias and romanzas which I had heard the signora sing in
the past two years. In those two years I had worked hard and learned a
great deal without suspecting it. Method had found its way into my head,
by virtue and by instinct, and musical feeling into my heart by
intuition and sympathy. I have very great respect for study, but I must
admit that no singer ever studied less than myself. I was blessed with a
marvellous readiness and memory. If I had once heard a passage, I could
repeat it instantly and accurately. I tried that experiment that very
day, and succeeded in singing from beginning to end the most difficult
pieces in Signora Aldini's repertory.
The approach of night warned me to allow my excitement to subside. Then
for the first time I realized that I had absented myself from my duties
for a whole day, and I returned to the palace, embarrassed and repenting
bitterly of my fault. It was the first of that sort I had committed, and
I dreaded nothing so much as a rebuke from the signora, however mild it
might be. She was at supper, and I crept timidly behind her chair. I
never waited on her at table, for I had retained the pride of a true
Chioggian, and had surrendered none of the exemptions attached to my
privileged post. But, seeking to repair my fault by an act of humility,
I took from Salomé's hands the porcelain dish she was about to offer
her, and put out my hand awkwardly enough. Signora Aldini pretended at
first not to notice, and allowed me to serve her thus for several
minutes; then, as she stealthily looked up and met my piteous glance,
she suddenly burst out laughing, and threw herself back in her chair.
"Your ladyship is spoiling him," said the stern Salomé, repressing an
imperceptible desire to share her mistress's merriment.
"Why should I scold him?" replied the signora. "He frightened himself
this morning, and ran away to punish himself, poor boy! I will bet that
he has eaten nothing to-day. Go to your supper, Nellino. I forgive you
on condition that you will sing no more."
This kindly sarcasm seemed very bitter to me. It was the first one I had
ever noticed; for, despite all the opportunities offered for the
development of my vanity, that was a sentiment with which I was not as
yet acquainted. But pride awoke in me with power, and by making sport of
my voice, she seemed to deny my heart and to attack my very life.
From that day the lessons which the signora unconsciously gave me, by
practising in my presence, became more and more profitable to me. Every
evening, as soon as my duties were at an end, I went to the Field of
Mars to practise, and I knew that I was making progress. Soon the
signora's lessons were no longer sufficient for me. She sang for her own
pleasure, displaying a superb indifference for study, and making no
effort to perfect herself. I had a most immoderate longing to go to the
theatre; but, during the whole time of the performance, it was my lot to
watch the gondola, as Mandola enjoyed the privilege of taking a seat in
the pit or listening in the corridors. At last, however, I induced him
to let me take his place during a single act of the opera at La Fenice.
The opera was the _Secret Marriage_. I will not attempt to describe my
feelings: I nearly went mad, and, breaking the promise I had made my
companion, I allowed him to cool his heels in the gondola, and never
thought of going out until I found that the hall was empty and in
darkness.
After that I felt an irresistible, imperious craving to go to the
theatre every night. I dared not ask Signora Aldini's permission; I was
afraid that she would again make fun of my unfortunate passion--as she
called it--for music. However, I must go to La Fenice or die. I had the
reprehensible thought of leaving the signora's service and earning my
living as a _facchino_ during the day, so that I might have both time
and means to go to the theatre. I calculated that with the small sum I
had saved at the Aldini Palace, and by reducing my expenditure for food
and clothing to what was absolutely necessary, I might be able to
gratify my passion. I also thought of entering the employ of the theatre
as a scene-shifter, supernumerary, or lamp-lighter; the most humble post
would have seemed delightful to me, provided that I could listen to
music every day. At last I determined to open my heart to the
good-humored Montalegri. He had heard of my musical misadventure. He
began by laughing; then, as I boldly persisted, he demanded, as a
condition of his assistance, that I should let him hear my voice. I
hesitated a long while; I was afraid that he would discourage me by his
jests, and although I had no definite plans for the future, I felt that
to deprive me of the hope of being able to sing some day would be like
tearing out my life. However, I submitted to the inevitable: I sang in a
trembling voice a fragment of one of the airs which I had heard a single
time at the theatre. My emotion won the prince's heart; I saw in his
eyes that he took pleasure in listening to me; I took courage and sang
better and better. He raised his hands two or three times to applaud,
but checked himself for fear of interrupting me; then I sang really
well, and when I had finished, the prince, who was a genuine dilettante,
almost kissed me, and praised me in the warmest terms. He took me to the
signora and presented my petition, which was granted on the spot. But
she too wanted me to sing, and I would not consent. My proud persistence
in refusing astonished Signora Aldini without irritating her. She
thought that she would overcome it later, but she did not easily
succeed. The more I attended the theatre, and the more I practised and
improved, the more conscious I became of all that I still lacked, and
the more I dreaded to allow others to hear me and judge me before I was
sure of myself. At last one superb moonlight night, on the Lido, as the
signora, by lengthening her usual row, had made me miss the theatre and
my hour of solitary practice, I was suddenly seized with a longing to
sing, and I yielded to the inspiration. The signora and her lover
listened to me in silence; and, when I had finished, they did not
address a word to me, either of praise or blame. Mandola alone, having
the keen taste for music of a true Lombard, cried several times when he
heard my youthful tenor: "_Corpo del diavolo! che buon basso_!"
I was a little hurt by my mistress's heedlessness or indifference. I
knew that I had sung well enough to deserve a word of praise from her
mouth. Nor did I understand the prince's coldness after the praise he
had lavished on me two months earlier. I learned afterward that my
mistress was amazed by my talent and my powers, but that she had
determined to seem unmoved by my first attempt, to punish me for making
her beg so long.
I took the lesson to heart, and a few days later, when she called on me
to sing while she was in the gondola, I complied with a good grace. She
was alone, lying on the cushions of the gondola, and seemed to be in a
melancholy frame of mind, which was by no means usual with her. She did
not speak a word to me during the row; but when we returned and I
offered my arm to assist her up the steps of the palace, she said these
words to me, which left me in a strangely excited state:
"Nello, you have done me a vast deal of good. I thank you."
On the days following, I myself offered to sing. She seemed to accept my
offer with gratitude. The heat was most intense and the theatres were
closed; the signora said that she was ill; but what made the most
impression on me was the fact that the prince, who was usually so
assiduous in his attendance, had ceased to come with her oftener than
once in two or three or even four evenings, I thought that he too was
beginning to be unfaithful and I grieved for my poor mistress. I could
not understand her obstinacy in refusing to marry; it seemed most unfair
to me that Montalegri, who seemed to be so kind and gentle, should be
sacrificed to the sins of the late Torquato Aldini. On the other hand, I
could not understand why so sweet and lovely a woman should have for
lovers only base speculators who were more covetous of her fortune than
attached to her person, and sickened of the latter as soon as they
despaired of obtaining the former.
These thoughts engrossed me so completely for several days that,
notwithstanding my profound respect for my mistress, I could not refrain
from communicating my ideas to Mandola.
"Don't make that mistake," he replied; "what has happened this time is
just the opposite of what happened with Lanfranchi. The signora is sick
of the prince and invents every day some new excuse to prevent his
coming with her. What is the reason? That I cannot guess, for we see her
all the time and know that she is alone, that she has no rendezvous with
anyone. Perhaps she is turning religious altogether, and means to cut
loose from society."
That same evening I started to sing to the signora a hymn to the Virgin;
but she interrupted me instantly, saying that she had no desire to
sleep, and asked for the loves of Armide and Renaud.
"He made a mistake," said Mandola, who had a certain shrewdness of his
own, pretending to apologize for me. I changed my selection, and was
listened to with attention.
I soon discovered that by singing in the open air and while the gondola
was in motion, I tired myself a good deal, and that my voice was
suffering. I consulted a teacher of music who came to the palace to give
lessons to little Alezia Aldini, then six years old. He told me that, if
I continued to sing out-of-doors, I should ruin my voice before the end
of the year. That threat frightened me so that I resolved to sing no
more under those conditions. But on the next day the signora asked me,
with such a melancholy air, with such a sweet glance and such pale
cheeks, to sing the barcarole from _La Biondina_, that I had not the
heart to deny her the only pleasure that she had seemed capable of
enjoying for some time past.
It was evident that she was growing thin and losing her bloom; she kept
the prince more and more at a distance. She passed her life in the
gondola, and even neglected the poor a little. She seemed to be giving
way to a profound depression the cause of which we sought in vain.
There was one week when she apparently tried to divert her thoughts. She
surrounded herself with company, and in the evening her gondola was
attended by several others in which she placed her friends and the
musicians hired to sing for them. Once she asked me to sing. I declined,
alleging my unfitness to perform in the presence of professional
musicians and numerous _dilettanti_. She insisted, gently at first, then
with some irritation; I continued to refuse, and at last she ordered me,
in a most imperative tone, to obey her. It was the first time in her
life that she had lost her temper. And I, instead of reflecting that it
was her illness which had changed her disposition thus, and humoring
her, yielded to the suggestion of invincible pride, and declared that I
was not her slave, that I had hired myself to her to row her gondola and
not to entertain her guests; and, in a word, that I had nearly ruined my
voice for her amusement, and that she rewarded me so ill for my
self-sacrifice that I would sing no more for her or anyone else. She
made no reply; the friends who accompanied her, amazed at my audacity,
held their peace. A few minutes later, Salomé uttered a sharp
exclamation and seized little Alezia, who, having fallen asleep in her
mother's arms, nearly fell into the water. The signora had fainted some
moments before, and no one had noticed it.
I dropped my oar; I talked at random; I went to the signora's side; I
should have done some insane thing or other, if the prudent Salomé had
not imperiously sent me back to my post. The signora came to herself and
we made haste back to the palace. But the company was surprised and
shocked, the music was all awry; and, for my own part, I was in such
despair and terror, that my trembling hands could not hold the oar. I
lost my wits, I ran into all the other gondolas. Mandola swore at me;
but I, deaf to his warnings, turned every moment to look at Signora
Aldini, whose pale face seemed, in the moonlight, to bear the stamp of
death.
She passed a bad night; the next day she was feverish and kept her bed.
Salomé refused to admit me. In spite of her refusal I stole into the
bedroom and dropped on my knees beside the signora, weeping bitterly.
She held out her hand, which I covered with kisses, and told me that I
had done right to resist her.
"I have been exacting, capricious and cruel for some time past," she
added with an angelic sweetness. "You must forgive me, Nello; I am ill,
and I feel that I cannot control my temper as usual. I forget that you
are not destined to remain a gondolier, and that a brilliant future is
in store for you. Forgive me for this too; my friendship for you is so
great that I had a selfish desire to keep you with me, and to bury your
talent in this humble and obscure position which is ruining your
prospects. You defended your independence and your dignity and you did
well. Henceforth you shall be free, you shall study music; I will spare
no pains to keep your voice unharmed and to develop your talent; you
shall perform no other service for me than such as is dictated by
affection and gratitude."
I swore that I would serve her all my life; that I would rather die than
leave her; and, in truth, my attachment to her was so deep and so pure
that I did not consider that I was taking a rash oath.
She was better after that, and insisted on my taking my first lessons in
singing. She was present, and seemed to take the keenest interest. In
the intervals between the lessons, she made me study and recite to her
the elementary principles of music, of which I had not the slightest
idea, although I had instinctively conformed to them when I sang
naturally.
My progress was rapid. I ceased to do hard work of any kind. The signora
pretended that the double movement caused by the two oars in alternation
tired her, and Mandola's wages were doubled so that he might not
complain of having to do all the work alone. As for myself, I was always
in the gondola, but I sat in the bow, occupied solely in looking into my
mistress's eyes to divine what I should do to please her. Her lovely
eyes were very sad--very pensive. Her health improved at times, then
became worse again. That was my only sorrow, but it was very keen.
She lost her strength more and more, and the assistance of our arms was
no longer sufficient when she went upstairs. It became Mandola's duty to
carry her like a child, as I carried little Alezia. That young lady grew
more beautiful every day; but her style of beauty and her temperament
made her the exact opposite of her mother. Alezia was as dark as her
mother was fair. Her hair already fell to her knees in two heavy ebony
braids; her little, soft, round arms stood forth like those of a young
Moor against her silk clothing, always white as snow; for she was
consecrated to the Virgin. As for her temperament, it was very strange
for one of her years. I have never seen a child so grave and distrustful
and silent. She seemed to have inherited the haughty nature of Signor
Torquato. She was never on familiar terms with anyone; she never used
the familiar words of address with any of us. A caress from Salomé she
seemed to consider an insult, and the very utmost I could obtain, by
dint of carrying her, waiting upon her and flattering her, was
permission to kiss once a week the tips of her little pink fingers, of
which she was already as careful as the most coquettish woman could have
been. She was very cold to her mother, and passed long hours seated by
her side in the gondola, with her eyes fixed on the water, silent,
apparently insensible to everything, and as dreamy as a statue. But if
the signora ventured to reprove her ever so mildly, or if she went to
bed because of an attack of fever, the little one would fly into one of
those paroxysms of frantic despair which aroused fears for her life or
her reason.
One day she fainted in my arms because Mandola, who was carrying her
mother, slipped on one of the steps and fell with her. The signora was
slightly hurt, and from that day was unwilling to trust the skill of the
Lombard giant. She asked me if I were strong enough to take his place. I
was then at the height of my muscular development, and I told her that I
could carry four women like herself and eight children like hers. After
that I always carried her, for her strength did not return up to the
time that I left her.