A LAST WORD.
It was at the Paris Opera House that I last saw Beltrami, three years
after the death of that terrible woman. Things had gone exceedingly
well with me since my student life in Milan, and I can say without
vanity that Signor Hugo Urbino holds a very good position among
operatic artists of to-day. After leaving Angello I devoted another
year to hard study, and was finally pronounced fit to appear before an
Italian audience by my last Maestro. This, however, was only half the
battle, for now, having gained complete control of my vocal powers, I
had to take lessons in scena from Maestro Biagio, or, in other words,
I had to study the art of acting. I elected to make my débût in the
fine part of Renato in Verdi's opera, "Un Ballo in Maschera," and
having learned the music thoroughly, Biagio taught me how to render
the character, dramatically speaking. This took some time, as every
movement, every action, every gesture had to be studied; but with
perseverance I overcame all difficulties, and at length found myself
capable of rendering the character of Renato in a sufficiently good
style. In passing I may say that, as far as I have found, it is
ridiculous to think that acting comes instinctively. No doubt a
histrionic genius is able to give a gesture or strike an attitude
during the emotion engendered by the performance of a part, but he
must always hold himself well under control, and, broadly speaking,
act the character, as he studied it, in cold blood. Otherwise, carried
away by his powers, he would do things likely to upset the entire
mechanism of the scene. I have sung the part of Renato many times
since my first appearance, and the critics are pleased to consider it
a striking performance, but whatever touches on the spur of the moment
I have introduced, the broad rendering of the character always remains
precisely the same as taught to me by Maestro Biagio.
Being thus in a position to sing and act the part, my greatest
difficulties commenced, and I can safely say that I never met a more
unscrupulous set of scoundrels than these sixth-rate impresarios who
go about Milan, like degraded Satans, seeking whom they may devour.
English students, being popularly supposed to be made of money, are
their favourite victims, and they demand from these the sum of four or
five hundred francs as the price of a scrittura, _i.e_., an appearance
on the stage. In a playful, ironical fashion they call this sum a
present, I suppose after the fashion of Henry VIII.--I think it was
that king--who dubbed his taxes "Benevolences;" and if you do not make
the impresario "a present," you certainly will not get an appearance
in Italy. With this money they take a theatre in a small town and put
on the opera in which you desire to sing, but even then it is doubtful
whether the débût so dearly purchased will come off at all.
The first impresario with whom I had to deal was a dingy individual,
who, according to his own account, had brought out all the greatest
singers of Europe for the last twenty years, and, having made him "a
present" of two hundred francs--he was a modest man and asked no
more--it was arranged that I should make my débût at Como but on
arriving there for rehearsals I found that both the present and the
impresario had vanished, like Macbeth's witches, into thin air.
Considerably disheartened by this sample of Italian honesty, I yet had
sufficient faith to trust another gentleman in the same fashion, but
he must have been a brother of the first impresario, for he too
vanished. I now began to perceive that there were still brigands
in Italy, but that having become civilised, they were either
hotel-keepers or impresarios, and as my two unfortunate attempts to
get a scrittura had ended in disaster, I was not very anxious to make
any one a third "present."
However, it was no use turning back when within the sight of the goal,
so I consulted Maestro Biagio, who kindly interested himself on my
behalf, and introduced me to an honest impresario, who required the
necessary present, but nevertheless fulfilled his promise of
introducing me to the Italian public. I made my débût at Brescia with
great success, and at the conclusion of the season, for which, of
course, I did not receive a penny, I had plenty of offers from all
parts of the Continent. To make a long story short, I sang everywhere
I possibly could, and, having secured an excellent reputation, by an
unexpected stroke of good fortune I was engaged to sing at the Paris
Opera House two years after my débût. I think Dame Fortune was anxious
to make reparation to Hugo Urbino for the misfortunes of Hugh
Cranston, for, to my great delight, I was favourably received by the
critical Parisians, and before the season ended was overwhelmed with
offers of lucrative engagements.
What with my good fortune and the constant excitement of the life of
an artiste, I had almost forgotten the episode of Verona when I was
reminded of it by the unexpected appearance of Luigi Beltrami, who
came to my dressing-room one night at the conclusion of "Il Barbiere,"
in which I had been singing the part of Figaro.
He was changed, this cynical Marchese, since I had last seen him, and
changed for the better, as he had lost his former sinister air and
looked much happier and brighter than formerly. Since our parting in
Milan he had written me frequently, but of late his letters ceased, so
I was somewhat puzzled how to account for this new air of
cheerfulness. However, we shook hands heartily, being glad to see one
another, and Beltrami, lighting one of his eternal cigarettes, sat
down to wait until I was ready to leave the theatre.
"Eh! Hugo," he said, gaily blowing a cloud of smoke, "so things have
gone well with you, mon ami?"
"Exceedingly well, Beltrami, or you would not see me in this room."
"Bene! I congratulate you."
"Many thanks, Marchese; but you look as if life were agreeing with
you."
Beltrami laughed, not with his former sardonic merriment, but with a
hearty sense of enjoyment.
"Ma foi, yes! I am married again!"
"Oh! I hope I can congratulate you this time," I said with great
significance.
"The present Marchesa is an angel, mon ami. Dame! I had enough of
demons with the Contessa Morone."
"Well, she was punished for her sins."
"Eh! what would you? There is a God, mon ami, and He was wearied of
the crimes of that Lucrezia Borgia. But what about the poor girl she
tried to poison?"
"Signora Pallanza! Oh, I hear she is in America with her husband. He
has made a wonderful success in New York, and Bianca tells me they
have two children, a boy and a girl."
"A new Mario and Patti, I suppose. Diavolo! what a pity the old
Maestro is not alive to train the voices of his great-grandchildren!"
"Yes, he is dead, poor old man! I heard all about it in Vienna, and
Petronella has gone to America to look after her beloved piccola.
Well, Angello had a long life, but he was not immortal."
"Dame! perhaps his system is immortal. It ought to be if your singing
is an example."
"Ah, flatterer!"
"No; upon my word your Figaro was delightful. It is such a relief to
hear a voice without that awful tremolo. But come, are you ready? I
want you to sup with me."
"I will be delighted, Beltrami. Is the Marchesa in Paris?"
"Eh! no, not this time. I am here _en garçon_ for a few days. Madame
is in Florence, where you must come and visit us. We are wonderfully
happy. Dame! who wouldn't be with health, wealth, and an angel of a
wife? Ecco!"
"You inherited the wealth of Madame Morone?"
"Ma foi! yes. It was the only good turn she ever did me."
"Oh!" I cried, with a revulsion of feeling, "you are becoming cynical
again."
"I always become cynical when I think of that demon."
"Beltrami," I said after a pause, as we left the Opera House, "there
is a question I have often wished to ask you."
I felt the Marchese's arm tremble a little in mine, but he laughed in
a nonchalant manner.
"Eh! ask what you will, mon ami."
"Did you put your hand through the curtains and change the position of
those glasses?"
Beltrami stopped and looked at me steadily with a grave look in his
bright eyes.
"Hugo, mon ami," he said slowly, "I neither deny nor affirm, what you
say. Giulietta Morone was a demon who came into the world to work
evil, and God, wearied of her crimes, sent her back to the hell from
whence she came. I am not much given to religion, Hugo, as you know,
but I believe in a God; and whosoever He chose as an instrument to
destroy that which He permitted to exist, rest assured that such a one
will be held guiltless for executing the just decree of Heaven!"
He ceased speaking, and we walked on in silence through the crowded
streets under the dark-blue summer sky. I understood perfectly what he
meant, and whether it was right or wrong it is not for me to say,
still I firmly believe that this man obeyed his impulse at that
terrible time, not from any selfish motive, but because he saw clearly
that in removing this frightful creature from the world he was doing a
service to the humanity upon which she preyed.
All the same, I do not intend to visit the Marchese Beltrami at his
Florentine palazzo.
FINIS.