WINTRY WEATHER.
"Come through the gloom of clouded skies,
The slow dim rain and fog athwart;
Through east winds keen with wrong and lies,
Come and lift up my hopeless heart.
Come through the sickness and the pain,
The sore unrest that tosses still;
Through aching dark that hides the gain,
Come and arouse my fainting will."
--_A Threefold Cord._
The autumn wore on, and the cold weather set in. Merlino's Company
had become pretty well accustomed, however, to wintry weather during
their American tour, and no one suffered much except Carlo, who,
having never left Italy before, found the English climate fearfully
trying. Unselfish as he was, he was by no means so devoid of
common-sense as Captain Britton thought him, and, knowing how much
depended on his health, he took all possible precautions. He was not
one of those short-sighted and aggravating people who seem to take
pleasure in prematurely wearing themselves out, and who give their
friends constant trouble just because their zeal outruns their
discretion. There was in his character a strong vein of that
matter-of-fact good sense which is to be found in most Italians,
though not in the popular English conception of them. Sardoni was
quite surprised when, one day after "Treasury," he consulted him as
to the best tailor in the place where they were staying, and then
went off promptly and ordered a fur-lined coat which must have cost
considerably more than a month's salary, and which proved the envy of
all the other men in the Company.
"You are the most inconsistent fellow I ever met," said Sardoni, when
the coat came home; "you go in for a luxurious thing like that, and
yet seem to be willing to go without most things that other men care
for."
"It's not a bad thing in coats," said Carlo, looking at the brown fur
with satisfaction; "and this is the first time I've felt warm for a
month. You see I really must get rid of this cough, or I shall soon
have a voice like a fog-horn."
"Well," said Sardoni, with a laugh, "I'm glad you're no ascetic, for
they are bad to live with, as I know to my cost. There's nothing
like it for driving a fellow the other way."
But, spite of the fur coat, Carlo's health did not improve; the
constant travelling, the draughts on the stage, the necessity of
turning out every night, ill or well, in rain or snow, and the
constant strain of physical hard work and mental excitement, all told
on him severely. Nor was it possible for a man of his temperament to
go through all the suffering and grief of the past few months without
paying for it. It was not only the change of physical climate which
told upon him, it was the change of moral climate.
To have lived always with such tender, devoted love as had been his
at home is in some ways a good preparation for after life, but it
inevitably makes the plunge into the loveless outer world much
harder--safer, perhaps, but more bitter. The world is the gainer,
insomuch as it receives a loving, unsullied nature into its midst,
but to the man himself the process is very painful; he is, as it
were, transported suddenly from the tropics to the arctic regions.
Even Carlo's great success, which in itself was enjoyable enough, had
many drawbacks, for it stirred up jealousy, or perhaps won him
admiration and small attentions with which he would thankfully have
dispensed. Already he had proved the truth of Enrico's remark--"The
men will trouble you with their jealousy, because of your success,
and the women with their love, because of your face."
There were endless little annoyances of this sort, which in good
health and spirits he could take lightly, but which began
increasingly to prey upon his mind, while every day it seemed to him
more difficult to put up with Merlino's rudeness, and with the petty
insults and hateful innuendoes with which Gomez delighted to try his
patience. Sardoni used to watch him curiously at such times; he
never got quite so far as not to show that he felt provoked, and this
no doubt, prompted Merlino and Gomez to persevere; for to badger an
obtuse man is no sport, but to worry a sensitive man and see how long
he will stand it is interesting to some people. Even Sardoni owned
to a kind of pleasurable feeling in watching these encounters; more
than once he surprised a look of vindictive anger on Carlo's face,
and always he could see that his color rose, and that the blood must
be tingling in his veins, for he was hot-tempered, though he had his
temper well in control. Curiously enough the only real outburst of
passion into which he was betrayed was due to Sardoni himself, not to
the cross-grained Impresario or the malicious Spaniard.
It arose in this way. Christmas was over, and Merlino's troupe had
wandered from big town to big town, sometimes meeting with unusual
success, sometimes performing to woefully empty houses, or at best to
houses which had been "filled with paper." Carlo had by this time
become well accustomed to the life; he was familiar with every face
in that little moving army, with its curiously assorted nationalities
and its several ranks and grades, its principles, its chorus-singers,
male and female, its leading instrumentalists, who had to supplement
the local orchestras, its stage carpenters, its baggage men, its
dressers. Most of them were individually known to him, many of them
were his friends, while some had been won over by Gomez into
champions of the departed Comerio.
Towards the middle of January Merlino had arranged to take one of the
London opera-houses, and give a series of twenty performances, a
project bold to rashness at that time of year. The Company betook
themselves to various dreary lodging-houses in the neighborhood of
the theatre, and Carlo, under very depressing circumstances, made his
first acquaintance with London and his first appearance on a London
stage.
It seemed as if everything conspired together against him at that
time; the weather was trying in the extreme, there were heavy
snow-storms, and then for days after the great piles of blackened
snow would lie on either side of the streets. The dense, yellow
fogs, and the utter absence of sun, made him so miserable that life
seemed hardly worth living; while to add to the physical discomforts,
his throat became so seriously affected by the climate that he often
hardly knew how to get through his work. Merlino was in a state of
nervous irritability natural enough and almost excusable to one who
was playing so risky a game; Mlle. de Caisne, who travelled under
Nita's chaperonage, had fallen hopelessly in love with the new
baritone, and was a constant thorn in his side; while Nita herself
was so tryingly foolish and unreasonable that it was all he could do
not to lose patience with her. Things were in this state when
suddenly a far worse trouble arose to threaten him. One morning,
sorely chafed by some dispute which had arisen, he as usual took
refuge in silence, and leaving Sardoni to continue the conversation
with Nita and Mlle. de Caisne, turned to the window and took up the
outside of the _Times_, glancing with no special purpose down the
columns in which concerts and matters connected with the musical
world are advertised. He had taken up the paper casually enough,
little thinking that instead of a distraction it would prove an
additional care, when, suddenly, and with a shock indescribable,--a
shock which for the time half paralyzed him, he read the words:
"Signor Comerio begs to announce his arrival in town. All
communications with regard to concerts or other engagements to be
addressed to Antico and Co."
For some minutes he stood still, dimly hearing the voices in the room
behind him,--dimly seeing the dreary street, with its grim, smutty
houses and iron railings; then, without a word, he folded the paper,
left the room, and with a craving to get away alone out of the reach
of all interruptions, made his way into St. James's Park.
Comerio had followed them? Comerio was in England--in London at that
very minute? What could possibly have induced him to come to London
at this time of year, save the one desire and intention of meeting
Anita? The news sent a sort of horrible flash of light across some
of the dark hints which Gomez had lately dropped. A miserable
feeling of utter hopelessness took possession of him; he had tried
and struggled, he had given up all for the sake of preventing this
evil, he had borne shame, and pain, and wretchedness indescribable,
and here were his plans defeated. How could he hope to overcome so
wily a foe as Comerio? How was it possible to save his sister when
she refused to be saved? He could not even feel that he had any
influence with her, it seemed to him that as time went on she only
treated him with a more contemptuous indifference, or at times even
with open dislike. Had he given up all for her sake only to be hated
by her in return? Had he lost all that was dearest to him only to
fail in this attempt?
Those brief lines in the _Times_ had fallen like a bomb-shell into
his life.
He had wandered miserably round the dreary-looking park. The fog was
not quite so dense as it had been on the previous day, he could see
through a misty haze the chill, gray-looking water, and the ducks
swimming about aimlessly, and here and there in the distance the
outlines of great houses. Presently he heard the Westminster chimes,
and he remembered how, long ago, Francesca had told him of the words
which belonged to them--
"Lord, through this hour,
Be Thou our guide,
So by Thy power
No foot shall slide."
But he was too hopeless to pray, and the next moment Big Ben warned
him that he must hurry back for a rehearsal of _Un Ballo in
Maschera_. He reached the theatre, feeling harassed and ill, and
made his way to the green-room, where he found Sardoni, looking more
cheerful than he had done for some time past, and with a mischievous
gleam about his eyes.
"You basely deserted me in the argument," he exclaimed, as Carlo
entered; "but I'll have my revenge on you! You're the most careless
fellow on earth, leaving diamonds straying about loose in a London
lodging-house!"
Carlo, glancing down quickly, saw that Francesca's ring, which he
always wore, was not on his hand.
"Where is it?" he said, hastily, feeling annoyed that he could have
forgotten it even for a moment.
"Ah! that is the question," said Sardoni, taking him by the shoulders
in teasing fashion, and meaning to have a little fun out of him
before he yielded the ring, which was on his own finger.
Unluckily the light at that moment happened to flash on the diamond,
and Carlo, in a sudden paroxysm of anger, wrenched himself away from
the teasing hold, and dashing at Sardoni, with all his force, took
him so completely by surprise that, before a bystander could have
uttered a word of remonstrance, the tenor had measured his length on
the floor, and the ring had been seized by its rightful owner.
Sardoni had gone over like a ninepin, being utterly unprepared for so
furious an onslaught; he was angry and astonished.
"What the devil are you after!" he exclaimed, as he picked himself up.
"Jack, Jack,--I didn't mean it!" exclaimed Carlo, his wrath spent in
that one lightning-like flash, and shame and regret overwhelming him
as he partly realized what he had done, and saw the look of grave
inquiry with which one of the officials belonging to the theatre
regarded them as he entered the green-room.
Sardoni was silent till they were once more alone. He could not keep
his anger in face of Carlo's shame and dismay.
"I didn't know there was anything particular about the ring. Gigi
brought it down from your washhand-stand; I only meant to chaff you a
little."
"It was the ring which belonged to my betrothed," said Carlo. "Not
that that is any excuse, indeed, I think it makes it rather worse."
He was evidently so unhappy about it that Sardoni quite lost all
feeling of offence.
"Well, you know, old fellow, I always wanted to poke up the devil in
you and see what you'd do."
Carlo turned away with a sigh.
"I can't think why I did it! I was beside myself. If I had done it
to Gomez, now, it might have been easier to understand; but to you,
Jack, you whom I'm really fond of! I can never forgive myself."
He was very quiet now, and sad and ashamed; in all his life he had
never been guilty of such an unreasoning fit of anger.
"Never mind, Val," said the Englishman, almost as much surprised by
the vehement regret as by the attack itself. "I declare I like you
the better for it, I do indeed. Why, to hear you talk one might
suppose you had meant to murder me!"
"I meant nothing, that's the horrible part of it to me," said Carlo.
"I wanted the ring and to be free from your teasing. There wasn't a
moment to think--it was all over in a flash. How am I to tell that I
mayn't murder some fellow one of these days by a like impulse?"
"My dear boy!" Sardoni laughed till he was almost convulsed, "you
who wouldn't hurt a fly!"
"Well, you laugh," said Carlo; "and it's good of you to take it
lightly; but I can't see that there's a pin to choose between me and
the man who murders in sudden anger. Anyhow, I know I can never be
hard on such a murderer again."
"That's like the story of the fellow who saw a man going to the
gallows, and exclaimed, 'There but for the grace of God goes----' I
forget the old buffer's name. However, Val, I don't think you need
be afraid, for you have plenty of that sort of thing and little
enough of the devil's help."
"That's what I can't understand about it," said Carlo, in the most
outspoken way. He hardly ever spoke of religion, but when he did
speak it was with the direct simplicity and naturalness hardly to be
ever met with in England save in children. "That's what puzzles me.
How can I say the Veni Creator one hour and know it is true, and the
next turn upon my friend like that? My blood was made hot just by
that trifle."
At that moment the call-boy appeared to summon them, but in the many
and wearisome delays, and repetitions, and scraps of rest, Carlo
apparently had time to think out his problem; for as he and Sardoni
walked home together he said, just as if no rehearsal had
intervened,--
"I see how it was, Jack. I was horribly anxious, and had lost faith;
then quickly into that vacant space steps the devil, and presto! I
am made to knock down my best friend."
Evidently the whole affair was so graphically before his own mind
that Sardoni suppressed his inclination to laugh.
"You are an old-fashioned fellow, Val," he said; "not at all up to
the modern lights, as I told you once before. A fellow that does
believe in the devil and doesn't believe in divorce! My dear boy,
you're an anachronism! But what made you so horribly anxious?
Anything gone wrong?"
"No, of course it's all right; but at first it took my breath away,
and I thought all was lost. Comerio is in London."
Sardoni gave a low whistle of surprise and dismay.
"Are you sure it is true! Who told you?"
"No one, I saw it in the _Times_ this morning."
"What! while I was finishing the argument? You had plenty of
self-control, then, for you betrayed nothing at all."
"_Il Diavolo_ had not then arrived on the scene; he joined me in St.
James's Park," said Carlo, with the utmost gravity.
"I hope he is not with us in Pall Mall," said Sardoni, mischievously.
"It makes me feel quite uncanny to hear you talk. Let us hope he has
left you."
"Why, certainly," said Carlo, with perfect good humor, and
unconsciously borrowing one of Gigi's Americanisms. "I couldn't do
with him at all on the stage. How could I have rehearsed Renato to
any purpose if I had been worrying over Comerio's arrival all the
time?"
"Oh!" said Sardoni, reflectively; "so you think that his province is
to make people worry."
"To seize on every one's vulnerable point," said Carlo. "I see now
that to worry oneself and be over anxious about others is a sin."
"One that most people consider a virtue and love to parade," said
Sardoni, with some recollection of his old home-life in his mind.
"Myself I never thought of it before, but it must be so," said Carlo.
"One needs a thing like this every now and then to make one think. I
hope you'll forgive me, Jack, for having been in such a fury with
you?"
Sardoni laughed away his apologies, declaring again that he liked him
the better for it; but it was not the passion which made him feel
this, it was the contrast between the sudden outburst and Carlo's
usual life; it was the thought, "this fellow is no weakly, amiable
character, he is strong enough to keep under this hot southern
nature. After all there's hope for me yet, if he, with such fire in
his veins, has managed to turn out what he is." He was far from
troubling himself to go into the matter in such detail, but this was
the real reason that he was so strongly drawn to his friend after
their quarrel.
Sardoni was not a little curious to know more about Carlo's love
affairs, but he could not make up his mind to speak to him about the
matter: instead, he threw out a casual remark that afternoon, when it
happened that he and Anita were practising a duet in the drawing-room
which they had to sing at night.
"Mlle. de Caisne is doing her best to captivate your brother, don't
you think?" he said, by way of leading up to the subject.
"Yes, the little goose," said Nita; "it makes me quite cross to watch
her."
"Our Valentino doesn't exactly enjoy it either, I fancy," said
Sardoni. "I understand from him that he was to have been married at
one time."
"Yes, he was betrothed to Miss Britton, an English girl who lived
near us. It was broken off when he went on the stage; in some ways
it is rather a pity, for she was well off, and he'll not find such a
pretty girl again in a hurry. But, after all, as I told him only the
other day, these marriages with foreigners seldom turn out really
well."
"What did he say to that?" asked Sardoni, marvelling at the
indifferent way in which she spoke of the sacrifice which she must
have known had been made for her sake.
"Oh, he said nothing at all! only blushed up like a girl, and looked
as he always does when I say what he doesn't like."
While she was speaking the door was thrown open, and the servant
announced "Signor Comerio." Sardoni, charmed to think how Comerio
would hate him for being in the way, greeted him in the friendliest
manner, and determined to stay and be hated to the bitter end: he
could see from Anita's manner that she was not wholly unprepared for
Comerio's sudden appearance.
"But I interrupt a _tête-à-tête_," said Comerio, in his soft,
flattering voice. "What did I hear from Madame Merlino's lips?
'When I say what he doesn't like!' Does our _prima donna_ ever say
anything distasteful to mankind?"
Nita laughed.
"We were talking of my brother," she said, taking her revenge on
Sardoni for not at once going away by saying what she knew would vex
him. "I was trying to persuade him the other day that it was just as
well his engagement with Miss Britton was broken off, and naturally
he didn't like it."
Sardoni bit his lip. He would have given much to have refrained from
introducing the subject, and he thought Madame Merlino showed very
bad taste in speaking of it before Comerio, while to make matters
worse, Carlo happened just then to come into the room.
Now, Comerio had his back to the door, but he could see all that was
passing in the mirror, and he was quick to seize the opportunity of
wounding his foe.
"Miss Britton, the beautiful English girl?" he exclaimed. "Yes, yes;
I saw her only the other day. She's quite the rage just now at
Naples."
Sardoni glanced from the cold, clever, cruel face of Comerio to the
face of his friend. The words evidently stung Carlo. He paused for
a minute with his hand on the door, but quickly regaining a composure
that under the circumstances was masterly, he came forward, greeted
Comerio in his ceremonious Italian way, and contrived to keep the
conversation pretty much in his own hands throughout the call.
Sardoni, in his careless easy fashion, helped him not a little by
making a running fire of jests and bad puns, while all the time he
was studying that strange trio who beneath his eyes were acting so
grave a drama--Nita, nervous and excited; Comerio, with his
contemptible hatred and contemptible love showing occasionally
through the thin veneer of ordinary politeness; and the Knight-Errant
himself, with his manly, alert-looking face, and his enviable way of
saying the right thing at the right minute.
Certainly, Comerio gained little that afternoon; but his pursuit had
unsettled Anita, and though Carlo could not make out that she saw him
except every now and then in the green-room when many others were
present, yet he knew that there had never been a time when his hopes
had so nearly been defeated.
It was some relief to get away from London, for in the provinces he
felt that the sword of Damocles was not so immediately above them.
In the mean time, however, his cough grew worse, and he began to look
very delicate--at least, so thought Gomez and Sardoni, the only two
people who really watched him.
It was one night at Birmingham that Gomez managed to give his enemy
the sharpest stab he had yet delivered. For some days Carlo had been
in wretched voice, and on this particular evening he was conscious
that his performance had been worse than usual. He came into the
green-room feeling worn-out and dispirited. Gomez, Sardoni, Nita,
and two or three others were grouped about the fire. Nita, in her
elder-sisterly fashion, began to upbraid him.
"You sang execrably, Carlo!" she said, thrusting her little
daintily-shod foot nearer the blaze, and looking far from pleasant as
she lifted her bright, cold eyes to his. "You put me out altogether
in that last scene. It's intolerable!"
"I am sorry I put you out," he said, with the pained look which he
seldom managed now to repress when Nita attacked him.
"Don't discourage him; that's not fair on a beginner!" said Gomez.
"See, Donati, there's a _critique_ on your 'Rigoletto' in the evening
paper."
And he handed it to him with a sarcastic little bow.
"Too bad! too bad!" exclaimed some of the others; but they laughed
nevertheless, for the new baritone had hitherto received nothing but
praise, and they thought a change of diet would be good for him,
while to them it was undoubtedly sweet.
Carlo took the paper without a word, and read the notice through,
knowing quite well that Gomez would not have drawn his attention to
it had the criticism been favorable. It was not his way to pretend
to be indifferent to the Press; he did care for the praise or blame
or suggestion, and never tried to disguise his feeling, though
nothing would have induced him to win favorable notices by any
efforts of his own. Criticism had, however, much to do with his
future, and on his success hinged all his plans for Nita's
protection; so that he fully recognized the fact so well put by
Macready, that "We cannot 'read our history in a nation's eyes,' but
we can in the daily papers."
"It is quite true," he said, throwing down the journal with a stifled
sigh. "I acted badly last night and sang worse. They have every
reason to pitch into me."
"The fact is, you're not fit to sing at all," said Gomez, affecting a
tone of friendly advice. "You are ill, and need a long rest."
"No, no," said Carlo, quickly; "it's nothing but this awful climate.
I shall be all right when it gets warmer. I mean to go in for an
Ammoniaphone, and see if manufactured Italian air won't work wonders."
"Well," said Gomez, "Comerio prophesies that he shall go to America
with us next September, and I believe his prophecy will come true."
Carlo glanced at his sister, and read in her face excitement--even,
he fancied, hope. He was deeply wounded, as Sardoni, who had been
idly looking on without taking any part in the talk, could see.
"Ladies and gentlemen for the last act!" announced the call-boy; and
the little group round the fire dispersed.
Carlo, whose part in the opera was over, left the green-room with
Anita, walking with her to the wings.
"I hope I shall be able to stay with you," he said, in a low voice,
feeling that he must win from her some word which would contradict
the look he feared he had seen in her face.
"Do you?" she said, coldly. "It is satisfactory to see how you like
the life. I should have thought, now your voice has gone off so
much, you would have been glad enough if Merlino chooses to end your
engagement in the summer. For my part, I wish he would!"
The tone of bitter dislike in which she spoke was more than he could
bear. He turned away, and shut himself into his dressing-room, where
presently Sardoni found him, with his arms on the mantelpiece, his
face hidden, and his whole frame shaken with sobs.
"Why, Val!" exclaimed his friend, "has that brute of a Spaniard vexed
you so much?"
"Go, go!" he exclaimed vehemently in Italian. "You can't understand!"
"I'll be hanged if I go!" said Sardoni, laying a hand on his
shoulder. "Bless your innocence! do you think no Englishman has ever
shed tears? I know what it was; it was not Gomez--it was something
Madame Merlino said to you just now."
Carlo raised his head, thrust both hands through his hair, and, still
keeping his face hidden, said in a voice which struggled in vain to
steady itself,--
"She hopes it will be as he said. She wishes me to go. It is all of
no use; I can do nothing for her--nothing!"
"Now, look here!" said Sardoni; "it's not a bit of good for you to
try to think rationally to-night. You are bothered by that
_critique_, and by your bad reception just now, and by that brute
Gomez--and by a hundred other things, likely enough. You just shelve
it all till to-morrow; and come and have some oysters with me, and
then go to bed like a Christian."
Carlo made an effort to recover himself, and before long was walking
home arm in arm with Sardoni, his hat pulled over his eyes.
"The fact is, old fellow, you're a long bit too sensitive for
knocking about with men of the calibre of Gomez and Comerio," said
Sardoni. "However, you would never act as you do if you weren't
sensitive, so it cuts both ways."
"For oneself it pays better to call it being thin-skinned," said
Carlo, regaining his matter-of-fact tone. "Once humor your emotional
side, and you are lost. I don't know how I came to break down just
now. This east wind plays the very devil with one. When do you
think it will change?"
"Oh, very soon now," said Sardoni, drawing on his imagination, for
they were not half through March.
"You don't think it is true what Gomez said--you don't think I am
really losing my voice?" said Carlo, longing for Sardoni to
contradict the conviction that was becoming a daily torment to his
mind.
"Not a bit of it!" said the Englishman, cheerfully; "nothing but the
climate. Keep up your heart, old boy! you'll soon be used to it, and
then you can snap your fingers at Comerio and the rest of them. You
may be quite sure that Merlino won't part with you in a hurry. Why
you are his ace of trumps!"
And all the time Sardoni knew that his friend was on the verge of a
breakdown; and Carlo himself suspected as much, yet found a sort of
comfort in having his fears reasoned away.
We have all of us been glad at one time or another to win through a
dreary bit of life by the help of illusions, even though we partly
guessed they were illusions all the time.