AT THE TEATRO EZZELINO.
From my mother I had inherited one of those highly strung
organizations which are largely affected by their surroundings, and
which, like an Æolian harp, to the sighing wind vibrate with every
breath of passion that passes over them--organizations which take
their colour, their bias, their desires from the last event which
occurs, and which are entirely in sympathy with the predominating
feeling of the moment. In childhood this dangerous spirit of moods and
fancies had been fostered by an old Scottish nurse, who used to thrill
me with wild stories of Highland superstitions, and with weird ballads
of elfish fantasy; but since I had mixed in the world I had learned to
control and sway my imaginative faculty, and had thus acquired a
command over myself. But, as I said before, superstition is in every
one, and waxes or wanes according to their surroundings; so the
terrors of childish tales, which had been half-forgotten in the bustle
of worldly life, now came upon my soul with full force in this haunted
city of Verona. The burial-ground, the ghostly room, the accursed
palace, the phantoms of evil-seeming, all these peopled the chambers
of my brain, with their unreal horrors, until I became so nervous and
unstrung, that every sudden noise, every unexpected sound, and every
shadowy comer, made me thrill with supernatural fear as if I were
again a child listening to tales of devildom.
I knew this mood was a bad one, and would have sought cheerful society
to drive away the evil spirit had I known where to seek it. But there
were no English at my hotel, and, in the present state of affairs, the
Casa Angello was not particularly cheerful, so as I did not care about
spending a lonely evening, I methought myself of my intention to go to
the Teatro Ezzelino. On glancing at the paper I saw that the opera for
the night was "Lucrezia Borgia;" and this name gave me a renewed
sensation of horror. The lady of the sepulchre had taken in my
imagination the semblance of Ferrara's Duchess, and the memory of the
terrible daughter of Pope Alexander seemed never to leave me. She had
come from the graveyard, she had supped in the fatal chamber, she had
murdered her lover; and now, when she had vanished into thin air, I
was to see her represented on the stage in all her magnificent
wickedness. I had a good mind not to go, but seeing that there was a
ballet after the opera, I thought I would brave this phantom of the
brain, and find in the lightness of the dancing an antidote to the
gloomy terrors of the lyrical drama.
The cooking at my hotel was somewhat better than the usual run of
Italian culinary ideas, so I made an excellent dinner, drank some Asti
Spumati, an agreeable wine of an exhilarating nature, and felt much
better when I started for the Ezzelino.
It was one of those perfect Italian evenings such as one sees depicted
by the glowing brush of Turner, and there yet lingered in the quiet
evening sky a faint purple reflection of the sunset glories. No moon
as yet, but here and there a burning star throbbing in the deep heart
of the sky, and under the peaceful heavens the weather-worn red roofs
and grey walls of antique Verona mellowed to warm loveliness in the
twilight shadows. Beautiful as it was, however, with the memory of
that eerie night still on me, I had no desire to renew my moonlight
wanderings, so, without pausing to admire the enchanting scene, I
hastened on to the theatre to be in time for the first notes of
Donnizetti's opera.
The Teatro Ezzelino is a very charming opera-house, built in a light,
airy fashion, with plenty of ventilation, a thing to be grateful for
on hot summer nights. All the decorations are white and gold, so that
it has a delightfully cool appearance; nevertheless, what with the
warmth of the season without, and the glaring heat of the gas within,
I felt unpleasantly hot. The gallery and stalls were crowded, but as
it was only eight o'clock, most of the boxes were empty, and I knew
would not be filled until late in the evening by those who, tired of
the well-known music of "Lucrezia," wanted to see the new ballet.
Having glanced round the theatre, I bought a book of the words, hired
an opera-glass from an obsequious attendant, and settled myself
comfortably for the evening. The orchestra--a very excellent one,
directed by Maestro Feraldi, of Milan--played the prelude in a
sufficiently good style, and the pictured curtain arose on the
well-known Venetian scene which I had so often beheld. The chorus, in
their heterogeneous costumes of no known age, wandered about in their
usual aimless fashion, shouted their approval of smiling Venice in the
ordinary indifferent style; and a very good contralto who sang Orsini,
having delivered her first aria with great dramatic fervour, they all
vanished from the stage, leaving the sleeping Genaro to be
contemplated by Lucrezia Borgia.
I was disappointed with the Duchess when she arrived, and I must say
that my majestic evil lady of the sepulchre looked far more like the
regal sister of Cæsar Borgia than this diminutive singer with the big
voice, who raged round the stage like a spitfire, and gave one no idea
of the terrible Medusa of Ferrara, whose smile was death to all,
lovers and friends alike. The tenor was a long individual, and
Lucrezia being so small, their duets, in point of physical appearance,
were sufficiently ridiculous; but as they sang well together, their
rendering of the characters, artistically speaking, was enjoyable. The
chorus entered and discovered Lucrezia with Genaro; the prima-donna
defied them all with the look and ways of a cross child; there was the
usual dramatic chorus, and the curtain fell on the prologue with but
slight applause. I did not go out, as I felt very comfortable, so
amused myself with looking round the house, when, during the first act
of the opera, two officers entered the theatre and took their seats in
front of mine; They were two gay young men, who talked a great deal
about one thing and another in such raised voices that I could hear
all they said, some of which was not particularly edifying.
During the first act which succeeds the prologue they were
comparatively quiet, but when Lucrezia entered in the second to sing
the celebrated duet with Alfonso, they were loud in their expressions
of disapproval concerning her appearance. The music of this part of
the opera is particularly loud and noisy, but even through the crash
of the orchestra I could hear their expressions of disapproval.
"The voice is not bad, but the appearance--the acting--oime!"
"Eh, Teodoro, what would you? Donna Lucrezia is not on the stage."
"Not on the stage!" said Teodoro in an astonished tone. "Ebbene! where
is she?"
"Look at the box yonder!"
"Per Bacco! the Contessa Morone."
I started as I heard this name, and, looking in the same direction as
the young men, saw a woman seated far back in the shadow of a box, the
fourth or fifth from the stage. She was talking to three gentlemen,
and her face was turned away so that I could not see her features;
but, judging from the glimpse I caught of her head and bust, she
seemed to be a very majestic woman.
The Contessa Morone! She was then in Verona after all. This discovery
removed all my doubts concerning the identity of the ghoul. She was
the woman who had left the vault in the burial-ground. She was the
woman who had slain Guiseppe Pallanza in the secret chamber of the
deserted palace, and she was the woman seated in the shadow of the
box, talking idly as though she had no terrible crime to burden her
conscience. If I could only see her face I would then recognise her;
but, as if she had some presentiment of danger, she persistently
looked everywhere but in my direction. As I gazed she moved slightly,
the bright light of a lamp shone on her neck, and I saw a sudden
tongue of red flame flash through the semi-twilight of the box, which
at once reminded me of the necklace of rubies worn by that terrible
vampire of the graveyard.
Eager to know all about this woman, whom I felt sure was the murderess
of Pallanza, I listened breathlessly to the two officers who were
still talking about her.
"It is a year since Morone died," said Teodoro, lowering his
opera-glass, "and she has lived since at Rome, where I met her. Why
has she returned here?"
"Eh, who knows! Perhaps to reside again at the Palazzo Morone."
"That tomb. Diamine! She must become a ghost to live there."
"Ebbene, Teodoro! the ghost of Lucrezia Borgia! Why does she not marry
again?"
"Who knows! I wouldn't like to be her husband in spite of her money.
Corpo di Bacco! a woman who sees in the dark like a cat."
"The evil eye!"
"Yes! and everything else that's wicked. I do not like that Signora at
all."
"Che peccato! you might marry her."
"Or her money! Ecco!"
They both laughed, and, the act being ended, left their seats. I also
went out into the corridor for a smoke and a breath of fresh air,
feeling deeply sorry that this interesting conversation had been
interrupted. From what one of the officers had said she was evidently
a nyctalopyst, and could see in the dark, which accounted at once for
the unerring way in which she had threaded the dark streets, and was
also the reason that she now remained secluded in the shadow of her
box, preferring the darkness to the light. Puzzling over these things,
and wondering how I could get a glimpse of her face, I lighted a
cigarette and strolled about in the vestibule of the theatre with the
rest of the crowd.
There were a goodly number of civilians of all sizes, ages, and
complexions, while the military element was represented by a fair
sprinkling of officers in the picturesque uniforms of the Italian
army. The air was thick with tobacco-smoke there was a clatter of
vivacious voices, and the great doors of the theatre were thrown wide
open to admit the fresh night air into the overpoweringly hot
atmosphere. Being wrapt up in my ideas about the Contessa Morone and
her extraordinary behaviour, I leaned against a pillar and took no
notice of any one, when suddenly a tall officer stopped in front of me
and held out his hand.
"What! Is it you, Signor Hugo? Come sta!"
"Beltrami! You here! I am surprised!"
"Ma foi," replied Beltrami, who constantly introduced French words
into his conversation; "you are not so surprised as I am. I thought
you were in your foggy island, and behold you appear at Verona. How
did you come here? What are you doing? Eh! Hugo, tell me all."
I do not think I have mentioned Beltrami before, which is curious,
considering I have been talking so much about Italy and the Italians;
but the fact is, my friend the Marchese only now enters into this
curious story I am relating, so thus being introduced in due season I
will tell all I know about him.
During my narrative I fancy I have mentioned that I spoke and
understood Italian tolerably for an Englishman. Well, I did not learn
my Italian in Italy--no, indeed! Foggy London saw my maiden efforts to
acquire that soft bastard Latin which Byron talks of, and the Marchese
Luigi Beltrami gave me my first lessons in his melodious language. He
had come to England some years before with a card of introduction to
my father from a friend in Florence, and on being introduced to our
household we had taken a great fancy to one another. Even in those
days, perhaps as a premonitory symptom of my operatic leanings, I was
mad on all things Italian, and discoursed about art, raved of Cimabue
and Titian, and quoted Dante, Ariosto, and Alfieri until every one of
my friends were, I am sure, heartily wearied of my enthusiasm.
Beltrami appeared, and feeling flattered by my great admiration for
his country, advised me to learn Italian. I did so, and with his help
soon became no mean proficient in the tongue which the Marchese, being
a Florentine, spoke very purely. In return I taught him English; but
either I was a bad master, or Beltrami was an idle scholar, for all
the English he ever learned consisted of two sentences: "You are a
beautiful miss," and "I love you," but with these two he got along
comparatively well, particularly with woman.
English ladies at first were indignant at this outspoken admiration,
but Beltrami was so good-looking, and apparently so sincere in his use
of these two English sentences, that they usually ended by pardoning
him; nevertheless the Marchese found that if he wanted to get on in
society he would have to moderate his transports. Ultimately, if I
remember rightly, he took refuge in French, and said a great many
pretty things in that very pretty tongue.
My friend Beltrami and myself were the antithesis of one another in
character, as he had a great deal of the subtle craft of the old
Italian despot about him; yet somehow we got on capitally together,
perhaps by the law of contrast, and when he returned to Italy I was
sorry to see the last of him. I promised to some day visit him at his
palazzo in Florence, and fully intended to do so before leaving Italy;
but here was Verona, and here, by the intervention of chance, was the
Marchese, as suave, as subtle-faced, and as handsome as ever. He
appeared to be delighted to see me, and as I was a stranger in a
strange land, I was glad to find at least one familiar face.
In response to his request I told him about the death of my father, of
my determination to study singing, and the circumstances which had led
me to Verona, to all of which Beltrami listened attentively, and at
the conclusion of my story shook hands with me again.
"Ebbene! my friend Hugo, I am glad to see you in our Italy. As you
see, I serve the King and am stationed in his dismal palace, so while
you are here I will make things pleasant. Ecco!"
"No, no! my dear Marchese, I know what you mean by making things
pleasant. I have come here to work, not to play."
"Dame, mon ami! too much work is bad."
"Eh, Marchese, and too much play is worse; but tell me how have you
been since I saw you last?"
"Oh, just the same; I am as poor as ever, but soon I will be rich!"
"Bravo, Beltrami! Is your uncle, the Cardinal, dead?"
"My uncle, the Cardinal, is immortal," replied the Marchese cynically.
"No, he still lives in the hope to succeed to the Fisherman's Chair. I
am going to be married!"
"I congratulate you."
"Eh, Hugo, I think you will when you see the future Marchesa! She is
in the theatre to-night. I am engaged to marry her, and as she takes
my friends for her own, come with me and I will introduce you."
I drew back, as I wanted to watch the Contessa Morone, and if I went
to Beltrami's box I would perhaps lose sight of her.
"You must excuse me, Signor Luigi, because--because you see I am not
in evening dress."
It was the best excuse I could think of, but, being a very weak one,
Beltrami laughed, and, slipping his arm into mine, dragged me along
the corridor.
"Sapristi! you talk like a child. You are my friend. Signora Morone
will be delighted to see you. She adores the English."
"Madame Morone!" I exclaimed, thunderstruck.
"Yes, the Contessa! Do you know her by sight? Mon Dieu! is she not
beautiful? You shall speak the English to her. She loves your foggy
islanders."
I was so bewildered by the chance thrown in my way of finding out if
the Contessa Morone had anything to do with the burial-ground episode,
that I only replied to Beltrami's chatter by an uneasy laugh, and
suffered myself to be led unresistingly along.
The Marchese did not take me into the box itself, but into one of
those small ante-rooms, on the opposite side of the corridor, which
are used by Italian ladies as reception saloons for their friends when
at the theatre. I heard the loud chatter of many voices as Beltrami
opened the door, and there, standing under the glare of the gas-lamp,
with the wicked smile on her lips, the pearls in her hair, the ruby
necklace round her throat, I saw the woman who had come from the
vault, the woman who had poisoned Pallanza in the secret room, the
phantom of Lucrezia Borgia.