A NEW PROPOSAL.
"Choose well; your choice is
Brief and yet endless."--GOETHE.
"Two gentlemen to see you, sir," announced the servant, advancing
with a visiting-card on the salver.
Carlo having just given out that he had no belongings in the world,
wondered who could possibly have arrived at this time in the evening
to see him, and while the footman crossed the schoolroom had had time
to wonder whether Merlino and Sardoni might, for some reason, need
him; whether it could be a plot of Comerio's, whether Uncle Guido had
at last relented and come to seek him out and make up their quarrel.
To his utter astonishment he read on the card the name of "Piale."
"Now, of all extraordinary things, that the dear old Maestro should
come here just as I was speaking of him!" he exclaimed. "And the
other? He sent in no card? Is he young, light-haired,
German-looking?"
"No, sir," replied the servant, "middle-aged and looked like an
English gentleman. He gave no card, sir."
Carlo's hope that possibly Enrico might have come over with Piale
faded away, and asking Clare to excuse him he went down quickly to
the drawing-room, where with one swift glance he perceived a
stranger, tall, thin, business-like, evidently English, and dear old
Piale himself, with his thick bush of grizzled hair, his
parchment-like skin, and his eager, fiery eyes.
The warmth of the greeting between master and pupil must have amused
the stranger; but perhaps he was well used to demonstrative
foreigners, for the business-like air never forsook him for an
instant as he watched the face and figure of the young Italian. By
the time he had thoroughly scrutinized him, had taken in his various
merits and defects, had glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece and
at the open piano, the two friends remembered his presence, and
Piale, with pride and emotion, said, as he turned towards him,--
"There, sir! now let me introduce to you my best pupil--not looking
so much the worse for his illness as I had feared!"
"I had the pleasure of hearing Signor Donati several times in town
last winter," said the Englishman, pleasantly; "and I am glad to make
his acquaintance."
"And your voice, my son?" said Piale, eagerly--"it has really not
suffered, you think?"
"It seems all the better for the rest," said Carlo; "and I hope to be
at work again in a week's time."
"Let me hear you!" said Piale. "Come! what will you sing to me?
'_Il balen?_' '_Largo al factotum?_' What have we here?
'_Carmen!_' Are you studying that?"
"Yes; we are to give it in America this autumn."
"Let me hear what you make of the Toreador's song!" said the Maestro,
seating himself at the piano.
"But you are tired with your journey," suggested Carlo. "You say you
have travelled night and day. Let me come over to-morrow to
Ashborough and sing to you there."
"Bah!" exclaimed Piale, with a snort of contempt. "Am I to find more
refreshment in eating or drinking or sleeping than in music, my
friend?"
And with an expression of intense satisfaction he thundered out the
introduction to the song, while Carlo obediently braced himself up to
sing, anxious as ever to please the autocratic old man, but a little
nervous about attempting this particular song, which he had only
studied by himself, and slightly troubled by speculations as to the
English stranger and Piale's hurried journey. Once before the
Maestro had plotted against him, and he could not help fancying that
the stranger had something to do with a possible engagement.
All this faded, however, the instant he began to sing. Piale's
accompaniment was exhilarating. For the first time he began to feel
that he was Escamillo, and his rendering of the song brought a look
of perfect serenity over the Maestro's face, and drew forth hearty
exclamations of "Bravo! bravo!" from the business-like Englishman.
He had hardly returned to himself and ceased to be the Toreador, when
both visitors beset him, Piale with an impetuous gust of words, the
stranger with more eagerness of manner than might have been expected
of an Englishman. He listened half bewildered to the proposal, only
taking in by degrees that the stranger was a well-known London
manager, that he was offering him an immediate engagement, precisely
the engagement which would most advance his professional
career,--that the terms were higher than anything he had ever dreamed
of attaining to, that they made his weekly pittance in Merlino's
Company seem more than ever scanty and insufficient. As in a dream,
he listened to the praises heaped on him--to the assurances that he
would be the lion of the London season, that already his appearance
was eagerly awaited, since, even in the unsuccessful winter
performances, and with health, and weather, and surroundings against
him, he had made his mark in the musical world. For a minute he was
dazzled by the brilliant prospects held out before him. Fame, a
rapid and striking success, wealth and ease, thoroughly competent
fellow-artistes, the London world at his feet, and his future
assured,--what wonder if such a glowing possibility should for a
minute attract him! And attract him it did. He longed for it as a
few hours before he could not have believed it possible that he
should have longed for anything having no connection with Francesca.
It seemed to him impossible to turn from this bright future to the
dismal drudgery in the provinces with Merlino, the poverty, and hard
work, and scant sympathy. He was young, and longed for happiness--an
artist, and longed to bring his art to its highest perfection under
the best conditions--a human being, and appreciation was cheering,
and lack of recognition depressing.
But, for all that, above the eager representations of Piale and the
London manager, and above his own personal craving for this new life,
he could distinctly hear the inner voice, which had never failed him,
repeating again and again, "Remember Anita! She has no one but you!
Be faithful!"
Long before he had ended the struggle, came the necessity of making
some sort of reply to the offer, but no one ever passed through a
temptation and found all the time he desired for preparation. Every
inch of the ground had to be contested, and even in his courteous
thanks there was an unusual amount of hesitation, which the London
manager put down to diffidence and inexperience. Piale, however,
knowing him better, began to fear that it boded a refusal.
"You are not strong enough for the drudgery of a travelling Company,"
he exclaimed. "Everything points to your accepting this offer."
Carlo looked at him a trifle reproachfully, and his manner became
less diffident and his words more to the point.
"The offer is indeed a very tempting one," he said; "but I fear I
must refuse it. You see, sir, Merlino is my brother-in-law, and my
engagement with him--though it may be ended next month, if either of
us wishes it to be ended----"
The manager interrupted him.
"But the mere fact that the Impresario is your brother-in-law is
surely in your favor. He would be interested in your success--would
wish you to seize on this opportunity, which may be turned to very
good account, I assure you."
Carlo gave Piale a glance which said as plainly as words, "See what a
difficulty you have landed me in!"
The Maestro responded to it by a suggestion which relieved his
conscience, and proved of some use to Carlo.
"Take a few hours to think it all over," he suggested. "I will come
and see you again about it to-morrow."
"That is not a bad idea," said the manager. "But I must beg for a
final answer to-morrow morning, for Metasti has failed me suddenly,
and we are in great need of a baritone. If you refuse--but you'll
not refuse, I hope. Signor Piale, you must talk him over!"
And after a little friendly banter, and a few skilfully-framed
compliments, the manager rose to go, shaking hands cordially with
Carlo.
"And I shall hope soon to number you in my Company!" were his parting
words.
"Don't on any account come to the door!" said Piale, excitedly. "The
damp night--your throat!--for Heaven's sake take care of your throat!
And to-morrow I shall come over to receive your definite
acceptance--nothing less, mind--a definite acceptance--or, _diavolo!_
I shall think you have gone clean demented!"
For the greater part of that night Carlo fought the terrible craving
that had seized him to accept the London offer. He was ashamed to
find how ardently he longed for all that the manager had suggested;
while Piale's assurance that he was not strong enough for the hard
work in Merlino's Company had in it a truth which made it doubly
dangerous. It was to be a case of kill or cure--the doctor had told
him as much; and though at first the idea had not in the least shaken
his purpose, yet now that he was alone, with all around him dark and
still, he began to consider the two possibilities.
There was that glowing picture of life and success which the London
manager had painted. In imagination he lived through the inspiriting
reception, the artistic triumph; he thought of Piale's delight; he
began even to fancy that, to crown all, it would prove indeed that
"nothing succeeds like success," and that Captain Britton would at
last be won over, would join in the general homage, and see that
after all a son-in-law on the operatic stage was not a man to be
despised. He was human and very young, and for a while he revelled
in this thought.
Then, in sharp contrast, he saw another picture.
He was back in Merlino's Company, toiling through the familiar round
of operas, overworked, underpaid--doing, as Sardoni put it, the
"dirty work" of the troupe; his voice gradually failing, till he had
sunk below the level even of Fasola, and had to content himself with
the minor parts; and so on through a weary indefinite time; till at
last, left behind by his companions in some far-away American hotel
or hospital, he died alone among strangers, with no one near him who
could even understand his native tongue.
To be killed by his work! When looked at in this fashion--when seen
in detail--it was no attractive prospect! At four-and-twenty no
healthy man can contemplate death without a strong natural
repugnance; the mere "lust of finishing" chains him to this world
where his work has but just begun. The old whose work seems ended,
or the young whose bodies are worn out by disease, may naturally long
to die: but Carlo was not worn out either mentally or physically; he
was at the threshold of life; and notwithstanding all he had been
through, life looked beautiful and desirable, and death dark and
unattractive. Whether right or wrong, these were his feelings, and
he could not alter them in order to fit in with the ideas of the
religious world.
And yet, without direct disobedience to his orders, he must choose
the hard course and refuse the easy one. Tossing miserably to and
fro, he wondered whether his whole life was to be like this; wondered
whether every one had this hard wrestling with temptation; wondered
how it was that most men seemed to drift along so comfortably. Did
they all the time wage an unseen warfare like this? Or was he
naturally more selfish and indolent? Or had the devil a special
spite against him?
Then, in the midst of his questionings, there floated back to him the
familiar words, "Men are not more willing to live the life of the
Crucified."
Willing to live the life, indeed! Why, he had forgotten all about
it! Had been thinking of a life of ease, and glory, and pleasure;
had had his own interests in view, not the interests of other people;
had consulted his own will, not the will of the All-Father. Slowly
the ruling power of his life resumed its sway over him; and then,
tired out with all he had gone through, he fell asleep from very
exhaustion.
When he woke the night was over, the sun was shining, the thrushes
and blackbirds were singing, the rooks were cawing, and by the light
of the early morning he could see the familiar picture of the
Constant Shepherd. The night of temptation was over, too, the
darkness had passed, and what he had to do was as clear as day to
him; moreover, he knew that he could do it.
He must definitely decline the London offer. He must not, as he was
half tempted to do, mention it to Merlino, by way of inducing him to
renew his engagement at once or to raise his salary. If he did this
Merlino's suspicions might be roused; his brother-in-law would
certainly wonder what prompted him to refuse so good an offer. Then,
when Piale came over that day, he must beg him to mention Comerio to
the London manager; he must move heaven and earth to procure for his
rival the offer which he had declined. To say that he liked doing
this would be untrue. It was undeniably bitter to him, but he saw
that it would safely dispose of Comerio during the summer; and,
moreover, he wished to be just, even to his enemy, and since he had
been the means of ending one engagement for Comerio, it seemed but
fair that he should do his best to help him when opportunity offered.
He found, however, that Piale hardly understood this view of the
case, and his interview with the Maestro was stormy. In the end,
however, Piale had to submit to the inevitable; and with a sigh and a
shrug of the shoulders, owned that he could not stand against the
folly of a man who had no eye to his own interests, and who
deliberately threw away the very ticket which would have brought him
a prize in the world's lottery.
He stayed to lunch at Merlebank, and diverted the Brittons very much
by the mingled fondness and ferocity with which he seemed to regard
his pupil. He tried to win them over to sympathize with his
disappointment; and it transpired that the instant he had heard of
Metasti's illness, he had hurried to London to see if he could not
obtain the engagement for his pupil.
"But, you see, he is bent on his own destruction," concluded the old
man, with a gesture of impatience. "One might as well try to argue
with a mule! However, my son, since you are set on going to America,
let me give you one piece of advice--beware of damp beds; take my
advice, and always sleep between the blankets."
Carlo made a gesture of horror.
"Now, dear Maestro, you really expect me to be too self-denying!"
"Self-denying, indeed! why, yes, the life of an opera-singer is one
eternal practice of self-denial!" said Piale, gesticulating with his
knife and fork.
Carlo laughed lightly.
"And I do my best to be your very good pupil, but at hotel blankets I
draw the line!"
Francesca and Clare did all they could to talk the old man into a
good humor, and to console him under his disappointment; and when
Carlo parted with him at the Ashborough station, he was not at all
sure that it was not emotion which made his answers so curt and his
voice so gruff.
"You will not forget about Comerio?" he pleaded, at the very last
moment.
Piale replied only by a grunt. But there was nothing but affection
in his parting glance; and apparently he must have conciliated the
London manager, and spoken in high terms of Comerio, for in three
days' time Carlo received the following letter from Sardoni:--
"DEAR VAL,
"Our worthy Comerio has fallen on his feet, and has obtained the
height of his ambition--an engagement for the London season. Lucky
is he who deserveth nothing! By what rule of philosophy or religion
do you explain such an event? However, it is an ill wind that blows
nobody good. We shall be quit of him, and--Heaven be praised!--this
is the last week I shall have to keep an eye on him by day and share
dressing-rooms with him by night. Your costumes are already being
taken in and up; Comerio growled not a little at the nuisance of
having them all refitted when he first came back. He remains in
Merlino's good books, and has been fishing hard for America in the
autumn; but when anything goes wrong it scores one to you, for the
Impresario always swears that it would never have happened had you
been in the Company. We go to Brighton on Whit-Sunday, and open the
next day with _Faust_. It is supposed that the Whitsuntide holidays
may make the thing a success; I have my doubts. However, with you as
Valentino it may be. Write and tell me whether you come back on the
Sunday or Monday, and I will meet you at the station. Monday will be
all right, if you don't want to call a special rehearsal after the
pleurisy; but as I'm sure you could do Valentino in your sleep, I
don't see that we need be bothered with that. If you are at the
Vicarage, you might mention that we sail in September, and that I
could spare a few days in August if they would like it. Gigi sends
affectionate messages by the yard. He talks of little else but your
return.
"Ever yours,
"SARDONI."
Once again Carlo and Francesca kept their Whitsuntide together. It
had fallen earlier than on the previous year, and it was no small
comfort to Carlo that his last day at Merlebank should have chanced
to be that quiet Sunday, when he was able to walk through the sunny
grounds to church with Francesca, and later in the day to have a long
quiet talk with her as to the future. Of Mr. Kavanagh's kill-or-cure
verdict he would not allow her to hear a word; she was quite anxious
enough about him already, and Clare agreed with him that there was no
need to mention it. But the doctor's verdict troubled kind-hearted
Mr. Britton; and when on the Monday morning the carriage was
announced and all the family met together in the hall to wish Carlo
good-bye, he watched with deep sympathy the silent handshake that
passed between the lovers. They both tried so bravely to keep up
appearances, that Mr. Britton was touched with compassion and drew
Francesca aside into his study. If the work should indeed prove too
much for Carlo, Francesca would never see him again. He would at
least give them the comfort of a less public farewell; the Captain
might possibly be vexed, but Mr. Britton was willing to risk
something for the niece who was almost as dear to him as his own
children.
"Donati," he said, "just come in here one minute, will you?" then,
closing the door after Carlo, he gave him a little push on the
shoulder, indicating that he should go across to Francesca.
Carlo did not speak, but he gave his host a grateful look, and Mr.
Britton kindly turned his back on them and began to make hay in the
papers on his table, to unlock a drawer with a most unusual rattling
of his keys, and to behave as a kind-hearted uncle should behave
under the circumstances. Presently, crossing the room, he opened the
French window, signed to Francesca that she might beat a retreat into
the garden and avoid the assembled family, then pioneered Carlo
through the hall to the carriage, talking to him as if they were just
ending the discussion of some business matter. There were manifold
hand-shakings, good wishes, regrets, and entreaties from Flo that he
would come again; but at last the ordeal was over, Carlo was shut
into the carriage with Mr. Britton and was driven rapidly along the
dusty road to Ashborough. He was quite silent, and sat gazing out at
the green hedgerows, seeing nothing, however, but the inward vision
of the woman he loved. Not till they had reached the town did he
dare to trust his voice, but a sudden perception that the time left
to him was short roused his native courtesy, and he tried to thank
his host for all the great kindness shown to him during his illness.
"My dear fellow," said Mr. Britton, "I can only say it has been a
great pleasure to have you. I look on you as my prospective nephew,
you know, though for the present we must keep that hope to ourselves."
Carlo grasped his hand, those kindly words of hope seemed to put new
life into him, and all through that dark day they rang in his ears.
Travelling to Brighton, among the hosts of holiday excursionists, he
could not help remembering the drive back from Pompeii on that last
Whit-Monday. It was less than a year ago, and yet how endless the
time seemed to him! How should he ever get through a whole lifetime
when eleven months had seemed so long and weary? But, fortunately,
he had long ago discovered that by trying to take in the idea of life
as a whole we only give ourselves mental indigestion, and that a day
at a time is as much as a man can healthily swallow. He turned quite
away from both past and future, and taking out his copy of _Ernani_,
began to study the part of Don Carlos with the close attention and
imaginative power which made his impersonations so great a contrast
to the average attainments of an operatic singer.
Sardoni was waiting for him at the Brighton station, and though the
thought of returning to the old life had been distasteful, yet
somehow he fell back into his old place very naturally, and talked
cheerfully enough as they drove through the crowded streets to the
Merlinos' lodgings.
"Merlino has engaged a room for you," explained Sardoni; "they are
staying close to the theatre, and I thought you would rather be with
them. Marioni and I are down by the sea."
"And Comerio has gone?"
"Thank Heaven, yes! He came to see us off at Victoria last night.
That London engagement came in the very nick of time. If it hadn't
been for that I believe he would have managed to prevent your coming
back. These are your quarters, and look! there is Gigi on the
balcony."
On catching sight of them the little fellow beat a hasty retreat, and
came rushing headlong down the stairs, where, with a cry of joy, he
flung himself into Carlo's arms, and clung with all the strength of a
child's eager love round his neck.
"Mamma is upstairs," panted Gigi. "Come and see her."
Carlo, still carrying the little brown-faced fellow in his arms, went
up to the sitting-room, looking anxiously towards the pretty, slim
figure standing in the bow-window. The brother and sister had been
long enough apart to see each other with something of the freshness
of observation which comes to relations after they have been
separated for some time.
Nita thought she had never before noticed what a beautiful face he
had; Carlo perceived, as he had never perceived before, the worn,
unsatisfied expression which was now so plainly visible about her
mouth and in her eyes. "If I could only comfort her," he
thought,--"if I could only get the least bit nearer to her!" But
more than ever he felt that she kept him wilfully at a distance, and
that her love for Comerio was an impassable barrier which must make
her cold and distant to the man who had taken his place.
This was the hardest part of all, that he loved her, and yet could
not win her love; that he had lost all to help her, and that she
would not be helped; that he tried ceaselessly to break down the
barrier between them, and that she as persistently tried to build it
up again.
There was nothing for him to do but to go on patiently, never
despairing; but it was hard work, and his heart sank within him at
the prospect, even while he talked cheerfully to Merlino and dined
composedly, and answered Gigi's questions about Merlebank. He
lingered behind the others to see the last of the little boy, then
made his way along the colonnade to the stage-door of the theatre.
The door-keeper looked up from his newspaper and gave him a friendly
greeting, for Merlino's Company had had a very successful week at
Brighton in November, and Carlo invariably won the hearts of all the
officials by his pleasant manner and unwillingness to give any
trouble.
"Hope you're better, sir," said the man. "I have a letter for you
here."
He handed him an envelope; Carlo thanked him and passed on to his
dressing-room, where, not without a certain repugnance, he perceived
the crimson velvet costume, worn last Monday by Comerio, laid out for
him. Then he looked again at the handwriting of his letter, and,
failing to recognize it, began to wonder whether it would prove to be
an unwelcome love-letter or a forgotten bill. It was late, however,
and he dressed before satisfying his curiosity; then making his way
to the green-room, opened it and glanced at the contents.
The letter was neither addressed nor signed, but he had not lived
through all these months of public life without receiving sundry
anonymous communications, some of them kindly, some of them grossly
insulting.
This particular missive consisted solely of an Italian
proverb:--"_Aspetta tempo e luogo a far tua vendetta, che la non si
fa mai ben in fretta:_"--Wait time and place to act thy revenge, for
it is never well done in a hurry.
There was a vagueness about this which puzzled him. Was it from some
outsider who would warn him that his haste in getting rid of Comerio
had been impolitic? Or was it from Comerio himself, and did it imply
that, although he might not at once revenge himself, yet Carlo was
not to think that he had forgotten--that vengeance would most
certainly follow him.
While he waited for his first entrance he showed the note to Sardoni,
who at once solved the mystery by recognizing Comerio's handwriting.
"That is from our friend the Corsican," he remarked; "I should know
his writing anywhere."
"Is Comerio a Corsican? I never knew that. Then such a message is
doubly significant."
"Why?" asked Sardoni.
"Because a Corsican never forgives. A Neapolitan may kill his man in
sudden passion, but a Corsican will wait for years, and strike at
last with the cool premeditation of a devil."
Sardoni looked grave, he could believe anything of such a man as
Comerio, and he resolved to keep a sharp watch and play the part of
detective in the interests of his friend. It was not a very cheerful
missive to receive just before going on the stage; but though Carlo
candidly owned that the thought of a stealthy vengeance dogging his
steps sent an occasional cold chill through his veins, yet he
reminded himself that one can grow accustomed to almost anything, and
that, after all, his enemy's vengeance was powerless to shorten the
life that had been marked out for him by a single hour. And perhaps
his own private troubles helped him to give a yet more powerful
rendering of the duel scene and the death of Valentino.
"It frightens me to act with you," was Nita's comment; "you make it
all too horribly real, you die so dreadfully."
"Yet he is not so violent as Comerio," remarked old Bauer. "He does
not push you away, for instance, but dies like a Christian, kissing
the cross and forgiving you."
"The difference is," said Marioni, "that Comerio dies like an angry
blusterer and Donati like a heart-broken hero. His voice seems
better than ever after the rest."
The next morning Carlo felt a not unnatural reaction after the strain
of the previous day; the long rest had, as Marioni remarked,
strengthened his voice, but he felt ludicrously stiff after his two
falls in the duel scene, and quite perceived that though being out of
practice might not affect his acting at the time, yet it told
severely on him afterwards, and made the work, to which in course of
time he would become inured, a hard and wearing toil. After
breakfast he strolled with Gigi through the Pavilion gardens; then,
remembering that he had asked that letters from Merlebank might be
directed to him at the General Post-office, he went to inquire if any
had arrived, not exactly expecting any, but with a lover's restless
hope for the improbable. His heart beat quickly when an envelope in
Clare's writing was handed to him, but it only enclosed a letter from
Enrico Ritter, which had arrived just after he had left Merlebank.
Now that Francesca was in England Enrico's letters meant much less to
him, and he sauntered down Ship Street, and yielded to Gigi's
entreaties to go on the beach before he began to read it. The letter
was unusually short and abrupt, and had evidently been written in
great haste.
"Prepare your mind for bad news, _amico mio_," it began. "Your uncle
has died suddenly of an apoplexy, and I have just learnt the
conditions of his will. He has kept to his word, and has
disinherited you, leaving every penny he possesses to the Little
Sisters of the Poor. We are all, as you may imagine, in a fine state
of indignation, and find it beyond human nature not to speak evil of
the dead. I must warn you, too, that you have a living enemy, who is
doing his best to rob you, not of money but of your reputation. Some
person or persons unknown have set on foot a scandal about you and
Mlle. Borelli, and it is all over the place. Something of the sort
was suggested last autumn; the first I heard of it was a mere
surmise, half jestingly made at a ball; Miss Britton also overheard
the words, and for her sake I made as light of them as possible, and,
indeed, they were, I believe, lightly meant. Now it is possible, of
course, that these words started the current slander, but I think it
very probable that Comerio may have had a hand in the affair, and
thought it best to tell you plainly the truth that you and Mlle.
Borelli are the talk of Naples. You can now take whatever steps you
think fit, and, of course, can count on us to fight your battles."
Carlo looked up from this ill-fated letter with a dazzled, confused
feeling that all the world was against him. The calm, blue sea, and
the pleasure-boats, and the merry children playing on the shore,
contrasted painfully enough with his troubled life. His uncle was
dead, and had never forgiven him! The thought was a real grief, for
he had loved the autocratic old man, and had hoped that some day all
might be made right between them. Then there was that vile, that
extraordinary slander. Burning wrath consumed him as he pictured to
himself Domenica Borelli, of all women on earth, singled out to be
the victim of such hateful gossip. And what could be done? How
could such a slander be stamped out? It might be met with
authoritative denial, but what would Neapolitan gossips care for
that? Though very possibly Comerio might have circulated the story,
yet it could not definitely be traced home to him; no one had heard
him publicly make such a statement, and a prosecution was out of the
question, even if he had been rich enough to afford it. No, he could
do nothing but endure as patiently as might be; but he realized only
too painfully that slander, however false, however actively
contradicted, does in this world leave a slur, and that the purest
life and the highest motives are no protection against those whose
work consists of
"Peddling in the devil's hardware,
Gossip and innuendo."
And, alas! how little he had as yet gained. How far from satisfied
could he as yet feel about Anita. For a mere hope he had lost
everything: the love of poor old Uncle Guido, the inheritance that
was his by right, the home and country which he loved, the wife who
should have been his, and now either deliberate malice, or mere
careless and baleful talk, had robbed him of the last thing left to
him,--his fair and stainless reputation.
He was very young, and when the first hot indignation had died away,
he could only wonder, with a sort of blank astonishment, how that
particular charge could possibly have been brought up against him.
People might justly have reproached him with his hasty temper, his
impatience, his love of ease and pleasure, with a hundred other
faults of which he was perfectly conscious; but to fasten upon him
that particular accusation, to charge him with the very sin from
which he was trying at all costs to save another, that seemed to him
hard measure, it wounded him as nothing else could have wounded him.
Those who know life well, and have bought their experience, and have
gained that long-sighted vision which belongs to the full-grown, can,
even in the first pain of a personal attack, "rejoice and be
exceeding glad," and realize that the devil thinks their work worth
molesting. But the young have always a feeling that the devil is not
so black as he is painted and that the world is, after all, kindly
disposed, and so their first experience of injustice comes like a
crushing blow; it amazes them, and they learn with a shudder that the
world will always impute low motives, and that they must learn to
expect this and bear it with composure.
The news in the letter which would have most painfully affected
many--the account of the lost inheritance--was the last point which
occurred to Carlo. Still he did not regard money with absolute
indifference, or consider that there was any particular merit in
poverty, and it was not in nature that a man of four-and-twenty
should lose a fortune and feel no pang of regret. Money was a power,
there was no denying that, and he was living now from hand to
mouth--a process less pleasant in practice than in theory. In the
reaction from inordinate love of riches there is nowadays a good deal
of cant, about "holy poverty" and "contemptible wealth;" but Carlo,
being a very practical and simple-natured man, did not affect to look
on the loss of his inheritance from any superior height of
other-worldliness. It chafed him sorely to owe money to Herr Ritter
and to see no immediate prospect of paying back the principal; it had
cost him much to ask his doctor whether he would allow him to pay by
instalments for the constant attendance through the weeks at
Merlebank; it had pained him to have to calculate the cost of his
journey to Brighton, and to find that his donations to the servants
who had been so good to him must be of the smallest. For money in
itself he cared not at all, but being in the true sense of the word a
gentleman, he had a horror of being in debt, and found the constant
care necessary to make both ends of his scanty income meet a most
irksome duty. Such matters cannot be looked at in a vague,
impersonal way; and though the ideal hero of sentimental romance is
always above such contemptible considerations, yet a straightforward,
honorable man is bound to care for the possession of such money as
will enable him to pay his way honestly in the world. Carlo thought
with a sigh of the thousands of pounds which he had been led to
expect as his inheritance, and then of the constant struggle to live
on his small salary. Comerio had received six guineas a-week, but he
as a novice had consented to take only half that amount, and Piale,
thinking that he would never continue in a travelling company after
the first year, had been fairly well satisfied with the arrangement,
and indeed, would have consented to anything so long as his wish of
inducing his pupil to go on the stage had been gratified. Carlo had
no intention, however, of accepting better offers at the end of the
first year, so he saw before him an indefinite time of hard work and
small pay, for he could not afford to bargain with Merlino or quarrel
with him as any other novice might have done.
As Carlyle remarks, "No beautifulest poet is a bird of paradise,
living on perfumes, sleeping in the ether with outstretched wings.
The heroic, _independent_ of bed and board, is found in Drury Lane
Theatre only."
Out of his three guineas a-week he must somehow manage to pay for
board, lodging, and clothes, must give the conventional gratuities to
his dresser, must provide certain parts of his stage wardrobe--to
wit, shoes, tights, wigs, and feathers,--must pay the interest on the
loan from Herr Ritter, and try to put by as much as might be towards
Mr. Kavanagh's account. He knew, of course, that many a clerk, many
an English curate, had to count himself lucky if he got as large a
salary, but then it was less possible for him to economize.
Lodgings, hastily sought in a foreign country, often proved dear as
well as comfortless; bills, even at third-rate hotels, seemed to
mount up with frightful rapidity; while to play any pranks with his
diet was out of the question, since his voice was dependent on
regular and suitable food. He longed impatiently to be free from
this grinding poverty which was so foreign to his nature, nor did it
comfort him much to reflect that he was better off than many members
of travelling companies, since, at any rate, Merlino always paid his
way, was a man with capital, and was not forever trembling on the
brink of bankruptcy. It only made him feel very sorry for his
brother artistes, and slightly curious to know how they managed to
live at all.
He had reached this point in his reflections when Gigi came running
up to him.
"I do so dreadfully want a spade and pail, _zio caro_!" he said,
looking up at him with his wistful brown eyes.
"There are many things, my Gigi, which we do so dreadfully want, but
can't have," he replied, laughing a little, and stroking the child's
brown cheek. "You and I, Gigi, must learn to go without, and must do
what we can to amuse each other."
And forgetting poverty, and slander, and even poor old Uncle Guido,
he transformed himself into so delightful a sea-monster that Gigi
rushed in blissful terror and excitement to the shelter of the
nearest boat, and by the time the chase was over, and he had been
devoured and resuscitated in the conventional manner, all thought of
spades and pails had vanished from his mind, and he had fallen back
to his old refrain of "I do love you so!"