AN INTERRUPTED HONEYMOON.
Well, at last I was back in Milan, much to my satisfaction, as after
the strange adventures I had met with in Verona that city became
positively hateful to me. Two months had elapsed since the affair of
the Palazzo Morone had come to an end, and during that time two
marriages in connection therewith had been celebrated--that of
Beltrami with the Contessa Morone, at Rome; and that of Guiseppe
Pallanza with Signorina Bianca, at Milan. True to his promise,
Guiseppe had forfeited his engagement at the Ezzelino, much to the
wrath of the impresario, and had rested quietly since at Milan,
passing most of his time with Bianca, who was now in a state of high
glee preparing for her marriage.
It took place at the church of St. Stefano, in Milan, and out of
consideration for the great age of the Maestro it was a very quiet
affair, I being the only one present beyond the Angello household, but
that was at the urgent request of both Bianca and her husband, who
never forgot the services I had rendered them at Verona.
Thanks to my dexterity, Bianca never discovered the truth, and fully
believed that Guiseppe had been kept a prisoner at the Palazzo Morone
by some enemy who had lured him thither, by means of the letter
purporting to come from a dying friend. At first, considering the weak
way in which Guiseppe had acted, I did not consider that he deserved
his good fortune in marrying such a charming girl as the Signorina,
but during the time that preceded the marriage he was so devoted to
her in every way, and apparently so remorseful for his amorous folly,
that I quite forgave him his momentary infidelity. It was a very
pretty wedding, the bride and bridegroom making a handsome couple, and
when the ceremony was ended Signor and Signora Pallanza went to spend
the honeymoon of a few days at Monza, and I was left alone in Milan.
Guiseppe had obtained an engagement at the Madrid Opera House, and on
their return from Monza the young couple were to start almost
immediately for Spain, leaving the Maestro under the tender care of
Petronella. The old man's health had been failing sadly of late, and I
doubted very much whether Bianca would find him alive on her return to
Italy, seeing how frail he was in every respect.
Now that he was deprived of his right hand by the marriage of his
granddaughter, the Maestro decided to give up teaching, at which
decision I was profoundly sorry, as only having been with him a year I
had still many things to learn in the art of vocalisation. There was,
unfortunately, no one else with whom I could study the same system,
for Paolo Angello taught the old, pure Italian method, of which he
was the last exponent; and I infinitely preferred the round sonorous
notes which his training produced to the shouting, colourless style of
present-day singing, which curses the voice with a perpetual tremolo.
The elaborate fioriture school of Pasta, Grisi, Ronconi, and Malibran
has almost entirely passed away, and in its place what have we in
Italy?--nothing but the present abominable fortissimo singing, without
grace, sweetness, steadiness, or colour. The old Italian operas were
composed not so much as stage performances as to show off the beauty,
execution and brilliancy of the voice, while this new school of
music-drama; designed principally for dramatic effect, is interpreted
by singers who rely but little on the perfection of the vocal organ,
and pride themselves not so much on the individual colouring of a
single number as on the general broad effect of the whole. Fortunately,
however, by incessant work during my one year under Angello, I had
acquired a pretty good idea of his system of vocalisation, and hoped,
by cautious industry in following out his hard and fast rules, to
perfect my singing in accordance with his severely pure method.
Of the Marchese Beltrami and his wife I heard but little, save through
the medium of the papers, as except one letter announcing his marriage
with the Contessa, and thanking me for my attention to his interests,
this ungrateful Luigi had not written to me. I consoled myself with
philosophical reflections on the hollowness of friendship, when one
day, towards the end of July, I was astonished to receive a visit from
the Marchese.
Pallanza and his wife had returned to Milan, and were making
preparations for their departure, which was now near at hand. I had
just come back from a visit to the Maestro with whom they were
staying, and was writing letters in my bedroom, when Beltrami's card
was brought to me, upon which I ordered him to be shown into the room
in which I was scribbling, so as to secure perfect privacy during our
conversation.
In those days of poverty I lived like a cat on the tiles, up four
flights of stairs just under the roof, and my one room served me for
everything,--that is, as dining-room, reception-salon, and sleeping
chamber. I took my meals at a sufficiently good restaurant near at
hand, but otherwise the whole of my indoor life was bounded by the
four walls of that small apartment, which contained an ingenious bed
made to look like a sofa during the day, a wardrobe, a wash-stand, and
a diminutive piano of German manufacture hired by myself. Yet, as
Beranger sings, "One is happy in a garret at twenty years of age," and
I think the days spent in that dingy Milanese eyry were among the
most delightful of my life. I was young, enthusiastic, not badly off
for a poor man, and devoted to my art, so I used to strum chords on
that small piano while I practised my voice, act operatic scenes in
front of the looking glass, and dream impossible dreams of applausive
multitudes, of recklessly-generous impresarios, and of a career like
that of the kings of song.
Then I had a view--a delightful view--of the red-roofed houses of
Milan, seen from the window, with here and there a tall factory
chimney, the slender tower of a church from whence sounded the
jangling bells which used to irritate me, at least, every quarter of
an hour, and just a glimpse of the white miracle of the great Duomo,
rising like a fairy creation of milky lacework against the deeply blue
sky. Even a vision of green trees I obtained by craning my head round
the corner of the window, and when it was fine weather I looked at my
roof-top view while enjoying a pipe, but when it rained--oh! heavens,
Milan was as dreary as London in a fog, and the blue skies of Italy
became a fable of inventive minds. The intense heat changed to humid
cold, and then I used to shut out this deceptive city of the Visconti
by closing my window, and, retreating to the piano, practise exercises
with a voice rendered, I am afraid, rather gruff by the chill
terra-cotta floor and the damp atmosphere.
It was in this poor but honest abode, as the novelists say, that I
received Beltrami, who entered gaily in civilian dress with
outstretched hands, looking exactly the same as when I had last seen
him at Verona. Marriage evidently had not changed him, as he had the
same subtle smile on his dark face, talked in the same vein of
cynicism, and interlarded his conversation with his usual number of
French ejaculations.
"Eh! Hugo, mon ami," shaking both my hands heartily, "you are
astonished to see me!"
"Considering you have never written me a line since your marriage,
Beltrami, I certainly am."
I suppose I spoke with a certain bitterness, for the Marchese shrugged
his shoulders, with a slight flush reddening his cheeks, and sat down
on the bed--I mean, seeing it was daytime--the sofa.
"Ma foi! I am a newly-married man, Hugo!" he said, in an apologetic
tone, "I have forgotten everything in the delightful society of that
dear Contessa. But you are right to reproach me; I ought to have
written, only I am so terribly negligent."
"And fickle; don't forget that trait of your character, Luigi.
However, I'm glad to see you, fickle friend as you are."
"Dame! you don't spare me. I have called on you for a purpose!"
"That goes without saying. When one requires a friend one always knows
where to find him. Well, Marchese, and in what way can I assist you?"
"I will tell you! but I see you do not ask after my wife?"
"I trust Madame Beltrami is well!" I said stiffly, not feeling any
particularly warm feeling towards that lady.
"Yes! her health is good."
"And you are happy, Beltrami?"
"Tolerably! But tell me, how is Pallanza and his wife?"
"Oh, they live in Elysium, Marchese. At present they are in Milan, but
leave next week for Madrid, where Pallanza is going to sing."
"He'll have to go by himself, then!"
"What do you mean?"
"That Madame, my very good wife, is hunting through Milan for his
Elysium, with that famous bottle of poison in her pocket."
"Great heavens! Is she going to try and poison Pallanza again?"
"No! you remember the Latin maxim, 'Non bis in idem.' She is going to
try the effect of the poison on his wife."
"And yet you can sit there calmly without making an attempt to save
this innocent creature! Beltrami, it is infamous!"
I was walking up and down the room in a state of great excitement, for
it seemed horrible and incomprehensible to see the Marchese sitting
there so calm and composed, when he knew that a reckless, dangerous
woman like his wife was in Milan bent on murder.
"Eh! Hugo, keep cool," said Beltrami, quietly. "It is just this affair
I have come to see you about. Sit down, mon ami, and I'll tell you all
about it."
"But every moment is of value!"
"No doubt, but as it will take madame some time to find out where
Signor Pallanza is staying, I think we can safely talk for five
minutes."
"Go on, then! I am all impatience!"
"So I see! Ebbene! When I went to Rome I told the Contessa that I had
taken away Pallanza's body; but of course I did not say he was alive,
and swore that if she did not marry me I would tell everything to the
authorities. The sequel you know--she married me."
"A horrible contract," I muttered savagely, looking at the whole
affair from an English point of view.
"I-think we argued that matter before," said Beltrami, coolly, "and,
if I remember rightly, you did not agree with my reasons. However, it
is too late now to blame me, seeing I have been married for nearly
five weeks. We spent our honeymoon at Como--in fact, mon ami, we are
spending it there still, only a perusal of yesterday's Lombardia sent
my excellent wife off to this city in search of Signora Pallanza."
"I do not understand."
"No? Then I will enlighten you. Madame, my wife, thought this devil of
a tenor dead, and, as he has been keeping quiet all this time, she
never for a moment suspected the truth. I saw an announcement of his
marriage in the newspapers, but you may be sure I did not let the
Marchesa see it. Everything was going beautifully, and we were a model
couple--outwardly--when, as ill-luck would have it, this paragraph
appeared in the paper."
Beltrami handed me a copy of La Lombardia, and pointed to a paragraph,
which I read. It stated that Guiseppe Pallanza, the famous tenor, was
going to sing at the Grand Opera House, Madrid, and would be
accompanied to Spain by his wife, the granddaughter of Maestro
Angello, the celebrated teacher of singing.
"You can guess what a rage she was in," said Beltrami, when I had
finished reading this fatal information. "Diavolo! she has a temper;
but, as I told you, I am quite a match for Madame, and held my own
during this furious quarrel. She demanded an explanation, and I gave
her one."
"What? you told her----"
"Everything, mon ami. Your story, my story, Pallanza's story--all
about the antidote, the vault, the supper. Eh! Hugo, she now knows as
much as you or I. Mon Dieu, you should have seen her when I had
finished!"
"Why? what did she do?"
"She smiled, that was all; but it was the smile that alarmed me."
"For your own safety?"
"Ma foi, no! I told her she need not try the poison on me, as I had
the antidote. In reply, she gave one of those wicked laughs that
freeze your blood, and said that Signora Pallanza had not an antidote,
and it would be the worse for her."
"Then she intends to poison the poor girl?"
"I fancied so yesterday, and I was sure of it this morning, when I
heard from my servants that the Marchesa Beltrami had gone to Milan. I
knew what she was after, so followed by the next train, and came
straight to you."
"And what do you want me to do, Beltrami?"
"Come with me at once to the Casa Angello, to warn Signora Pallanza! I
suppose she is still staying with the Maestro Angello?"
"Yes, until she goes to Spain with her husband. Let us go at once,
Luigi. But, oh! Beltrami, if we are too late!"
"Do not be alarmed! I have the antidote in my pocket."