‘PRECIOSA.’
EVE had lost something of her light-heartedness; in spite of herself
she was made to think, and grave alternatives were forced upon her
for decision. The careless girl was dragged in opposite directions by
two men, equally selfish and conceited, the one prosaic and clever,
the other æsthetic but ungifted; each actuated by the coarsest
self-seeking, neither regarding the happiness of the child. Martin had
a passionate fancy for her, and had formed some fantastic scheme of
turning her into a singer and an actress; and Mr. Coyshe thought of
pushing his way in town by the aid of her money.
Eve was without any strength of character, but she had obstinacy, and
where her pleasure was concerned she could be very obstinate. Hitherto
she had not been required to act with independence. She had submitted
in most things to the will of her father and sister, but then their
will had been to give her pleasure and save her annoyance. She had
learned always to get her own way by an exhibition of peevishness if
crossed.
Now she had completely set her heart on going to Plymouth. She was
desirous to know something about her mother, as her father might not be
questioned concerning her; and she burned with eagerness to see a play.
It would be hard to say which motive predominated. One alone might have
been beaten down by Barbara’s opposition, but two plaited in and out
together made so tough a string that it could not be broken. Barbara
did what she could, but her utmost was unavailing. Eve had sufficient
shrewdness to insist on her desire to see and converse with a friend of
her mother, and to say as little as possible about her other motive.
Barbara could appreciate one, she would see no force in the other.
Eve carried her point. Barbara consented to her going under the escort
of Jasper. They were to ride to Beer Ferris and thence take boat.
They were not to stay in Plymouth, but return the same way. The tide
was favourable; they would probably be home by three o’clock in the
morning, and Barbara would sit up for them. It was important that Mr.
Jordan should know nothing of the expedition, which would greatly
excite him. As for Martin, she would provide for him, though she could
not undertake to find him duck and green peas and crusted port every
day.
One further arrangement was made. Eve was engaged to Mr. Coyshe,
therefore the young doctor was to be invited to join Eve and Jasper at
Beer Alston, and accompany her to Plymouth. A note was despatched to
him to prepare him, and to ask him to have a boat in readiness, and to
allow of the horses being put in his stables.
Thus, everything was settled, if not absolutely in accordance with
Eve’s wishes—she objected to the company of the doctor—yet sufficiently
so to make her happy. Her happiness became greater as the time
approached for her departure, and when she left she was in as joyful a
mood as any in which Barbara had ever seen her.
Everything went well. The weather was fine, and the air and landscape
pleasant; not that Eve regarded either as she rode to Beer Alston.
There the tiresome surgeon joined her and Jasper, and insisted on
giving them refreshments. Eve was impatient to be on her way again, and
was hardly civil in her refusal; but the harness of self-conceit was
too dense over the doctor’s breast for him to receive a wound from her
light words.
In due course Plymouth was reached, and, as there was time to spare,
Eve, by her sister’s directions, went to a convent, where were some
nuns of their acquaintance, and stayed there till fetched by the two
young men to go with them to the theatre. Jasper had written before and
secured tickets.
At last Eve sat in a theatre—the ambition, the dream of her youth was
gratified. She occupied a stall between Jasper and Mr. Coyshe, a place
that commanded the house, but was also conspicuous.
Eve sat looking speechlessly about her, lost in astonishment at the
novelty of all that surrounded her; the decorations of white and gold,
the crimson curtains, the chandelier of glittering glass-drops, the
crowd of well-dressed ladies, the tuning of the instruments of the
orchestra, the glare of light, were to her an experience so novel that
she felt she would have been content to come all the way for that
alone. That she herself was an object of notice, that opera-glasses
were turned upon her, never occurred to her. Fond as she was of
admiration, she was too engrossed in admiring to think that she was
admired.
A hush. The conductor had taken his place and raised his wand. Eve was
startled by the sudden lull, and the lowering of the lights.
Then the wand fell, and the overture began. ‘Preciosa’ had been
performed in London the previous season for the first time, and now,
out of season, it was taken to the provinces. The house was very full.
A military orchestra played.
Eve knew the overture arranged for the piano, for Jasper had introduced
her to it; she had admired it; but what was a piano arrangement to a
full orchestra? Her eye sparkled, a brilliant colour rushed into her
cheek. This was something more beautiful than she could have conceived.
The girl’s soul was full of musical appreciation, and she had been kept
for seventeen years away from the proper element in which she could
live.
Then the curtain rose, and disclosed the garden of Don Carcamo at
Madrid. Eve could hardly repress an exclamation of astonishment. She
saw a terrace with marble statues, and a fountain of water playing, the
crystal drops sparkling as they fell. Umbrageous trees on both sides
threw their foliage overhead and met, forming a succession of bowery
arches. Roses and oleanders bloomed at the sides. Beyond the terrace
extended a distant landscape of rolling woodland and corn fields
threaded by a blue winding river. Far away in the remote distance rose
a range of snow-clad mountains.
Eve held up her hands, drew a long breath and sighed, not out of
sadness, but out of ecstasy of delight.
Don Fernando de Azevedo, in black velvet and lace, was taking leave of
Don Carcamo, and informing him that he would have left Madrid some days
ago had he not been induced to stay and see Preciosa, the gipsy girl
about whom the town was talking. Then entered Alonzo, the son of Don
Carcamo, enthusiastic over the beauty, talent, and virtue of the maiden.
Eve listened with eager eyes and ears, she lost not a word, she missed
not a motion. Everything she saw was real to her. This was true Spain,
yonder was the Sierra Nevada. For aught she considered, these were true
hidalgoes. She forgot she was in a theatre, she forgot everything, her
own existence, in her absorption. Only one thought obtruded itself on
her connecting the real with the fictitious. Martin ought to have stood
there as Alonzo, in that becoming costume.
Then the orchestra played softly, sweetly—she knew the air, drew
another deep inspiration, her flush deepened. Over the stage swept a
crowd of gentlemen and ladies, and a motley throng singing in chorus.
Then came in gipsies with tambourines and castanets, and through the
midst of them Preciosa in a crimson velvet bodice and saffron skirt,
wearing a necklace of gold chains and coins.
Eve put her hands over her mouth to check the cry of astonishment; the
dress—she knew it—it was that she had found in the chest. It was that,
or one most similar.
Eve hardly breathed as Preciosa told the fortunes of Don Carcamo and
Don Fernando. She saw the love of Alonzo kindled, and Alonzo she had
identified with Martin. She—she herself was Preciosa. Had she not worn
that dress, rattled that tambourine, danced the same steps? The curtain
fell; the first act was over, and the hum of voices rose. But Eve heard
nothing. Mr. Coyshe endeavoured to engage her in conversation, but in
vain. She was in a trance, lifted above the earth in ecstasy. She was
Preciosa, she lived under a Spanish sun. This was her world, this real
life. No other world was possible henceforth, no other life endurable.
She had passed out of a condition of surprise; nothing could surprise
her more, she had risen out of a sphere where surprise was possible
into one where music, light, colour, marvel were the proper atmosphere.
The most prodigious marvels occur in dreams and excite no astonishment.
Eve had passed into ecstatic dream.
The curtain rose, and the scene was forest, with rocks, and the full
moon shining out of the dark blue sky, silvering the trunks of the
trees and the mossy stones. A gipsy camp; the gipsies sang a chorus
with echo. The captain smote with hammer on a stone and bade his men
prepare for a journey to Valencia. The gipsies dispersed, and then
Preciosa appeared, entering from the far background, with the moonlight
falling on her, subduing to low tones her crimson and yellow, holding
a guitar in her hands. She seated herself on a rock, and the moonbeams
played about her as she sang and accompanied herself on her instrument.
Lone am I, yet am not lonely,
For I see thee, loved and true,
Round me flits thy form, thine only,
Moonlit gliding o’er the dew.
Wander where I may, or tarry,
Hangs my heart alone on thee,
Ever in my breast I carry
Thoughts that burn and torture me.
Unattainable and peerless
In my heaven a constant star,
Heart o’erflowing, eyes all tearless,
Gaze I on thee from afar.
The exquisite melody, the pathos of the scene, the poetry of the words,
were more than Eve could bear, and tears rolled down her cheeks. Mr.
Coyshe looked round in surprise; he heard her sob, and asked if she
were tired or unwell. No! she sobbed out of excess of happiness. The
combined beauty of scene and song oppressed her heart with pain, the
pain of delight greater than the heart could contain.
Eve saw Alonzo come, disguised as a hunter, having abandoned his
father, his rank, his prospects, for love of Preciosa. Was not this
like Martin?—Martin the heroic, the self-sacrificing man who rushed
into peril that he might be at her feet—Martin, now laid up with
rheumatism for her sake.
She saw the gipsies assemble, their tents were taken down, bales were
collected, all was prepared for departure. Alonzo was taken into the
band and fellowship was sworn.
The moon had set, but see—what is this? A red light smites betwixt
the trees and kindles the trunks orange and scarlet, the rocks are
also flushed, and simultaneously with a burst, joyous, triumphant, the
whole band sing the chorus of salutation to the rising sun. Preciosa is
exalted on a litter and is borne on the shoulders of the gipsies. The
light brightens, the red blaze pervades, transforms the entire scene,
bathes every actor in fire; the glorious song swells and thrills every
heart, and suddenly, when it seemed to Eve that she could bear no more,
the curtain fell. She sprang to her feet, unconscious of everything
but what she had seen and heard, and the whole house rose with her and
roared its applause and craved for more.
It is unnecessary for us to follow Eve’s emotions through the entire
drama, and to narrate the plot, to say how that the gipsies arrive
at the castle of Don Fernando where he is celebrating his silver
wedding, how his son Eugenio, by an impertinence offered to Preciosa,
exasperates the disguised Alonzo into striking him, and is arrested,
how Preciosa intercedes, and how it is discovered that she is the
daughter of Don Fernando, stolen seventeen years before. The reader may
possibly know the drama; if he does not, his loss is not much; it is a
drama of little merit and no originality, which would never have lived
had not Weber furnished it with a few scraps of incomparably beautiful
music.
The curtain fell, the orchestra departed, the boxes were emptying. All
those in the stalls around Eve were in movement. She gave a long sigh
and woke out of her dream, looked round at Jasper, then at Mr. Coyshe,
and smiled; her eyes were dazed, she was not fully awake.
‘Very decent performance,’ said the surgeon, ‘but we shall see
something better in London.’
‘Well, Eve,’ said Jasper, ‘are you ready? I will ask for the manager,
and then we must be pushing home.’
‘Home!’ repeated Eve, and repeated it questioningly.
‘Yes,’ answered Jasper, ‘have you forgotten the row up the river and
the ride before us?’
She put her hand to her head.
‘Oh, Jasper,’ she said, ‘I feel as if I were at home now—here, where I
ought always to have been, and was going again into banishment.’