MY UNREHEARSED EFFECT AND ITS MIDNIGHT SEQUEL
I do not know whether any other man in the world has been so unfortunate
as I in making resolutions and finding opportunities to break them, but
I am persuaded none can have made more abundant use of his occasions. My
only consolation is that my performances have been exemplary, since
punishment has ever followed hot-foot upon the offence.
Let it be observed that on the eve of my public appearance upon the
scene in Siena with the rest of the company, I was resolved, and had
fortified myself with a solemn vow to the Madonna of Provenzano, to
return to Virginia's side and act, if I did not feel, the part of her
faithful and assiduous husband. Never mind whether I believed this to be
due to Aurelia, and that it was the strongest testimony I could give her
of my love--this did not, in my opinion, make me disloyal to my wife,
because the very act of pleasing her involved the putting out of mind
that dear mistress of my heart. My resolution was indeed my final
offering at the shrine of mystical love; it was to be an act comparable
with Dante's--who, loving Beatrice, married Germma Donati, and proved
the reality of his tie by making her the mother of many children. It
will readily be believed, I suppose, that so fine a proposition made me
enthusiastic, that I was impatient for the moment when I could put it
into practice, recover Virginia, press her to my bosom and cherish her
as so beautiful and loving a girl deserved to be cherished; but it must
be almost incredible to every reader of my book that in one moment I
could not only quench my own fire, but make it impossible to light it
again. This, however, is the plain state of the case.
In honour of the Grand Duke's birthday a great many festivities were
preparing in Siena. The city was full of visitors, for a Palio was to be
run in the Campo, the Cardinal Archbishop of Florence was to celebrate
pontifically in the cathedral, and our company of actors--not because it
was the best, but as being the only one available--was commanded to
perform in the theatre before the Podesta, the Gonfalonier and Senate,
and all the representatives of Government, of the university, and of the
garrison. The whole of the boxes was bespoken, and our manager was given
to understand that his expenses for this night were guaranteed. As we
had so far had very indifferent houses, it may be gathered that he
looked upon this as the occasion of his lifetime. We were put into
vigorous rehearsal, and worked most of the day, besides playing at
night. We were to give the Artaserse, a tragedy of extreme length and
magniloquence, and conclude with the Donne Furlane.
The night arrived; the theatre was full from parterre to gallery; the
boxes presented a truly brilliant spectacle. The curtain went up, and
the play began.
I shall only say of Artaserse that La Panormita was the Aspasia of the
piece, and Belviso the Berenice, her foster-sister and companion. My
role was that of the Messenger, and only gave me one long speech,
recounting the miraculous preservation of Artaspe and Spiridate, sons of
King Artaserse and lovers of the two ladies; the treachery, discovery,
and violent end of Dario--in fact, the untying of the knot firmly
twisted in the third act. The audience paid visits, talked, laughed,
played faro, so far as I could learn, throughout the play. Nor do I
wonder at it, for not the finest acting in the world could have
galvanised into life any one link of its dreary chain. When the curtain
was raised; however, upon the second piece, there was a perceptible
settling down to listen, behold, and be amused. Tragedy was the fashion,
and must be endured, but all the Italians loved the masks.
The Donne Furlane was the piece, a comedy of art as they call it here--
or, as we say, a comedy of masks--wherein the stock characters of
Harlequin, Columbine, Brighella and Pantalone are given a rag of a plot,
and are expected to embroider that with follies, drolleries and
obscenities according as their humour of the moment may dictate. The
persons who give the title to this particular farce--the Donne Furlane--
are the lowest class of Venetian women, and their ceremonious name
implies what we in England imply when we speak of the nymphs of Drury
Lane or the sirens of Radcliffe Highway, calling them, in fact, exactly
what they are not. According to the plot of the play, Pantalone is an
old merchant of Rimini who arrives in Venice with his family. Colombina
is his daughter, and was played, of course, by Belviso; Arlecchino and
Brighella are his simpleton sons--they were the manager and myself. Il
Nanno was Punchinello, his Neapolitan servant, Il Dottore his travelling
physician. They come ashore in the quarter of the Furlani, and all the
zest of the play lies in the equivoque which contrasts the knavery of
the inhabitants with the naivete of the visitors. Pantalone's family is
fair game. A bully called Truffaldino poses as a marchese and wins the
affections of Colombina; Brighella is entrapped by a Donna Furlana into
a promise of marriage; the Dottore finds himself engaged to cure half a
dozen of the same sort of ladies of the maladies incident to their
career; finally, Pantalone is claimed as their long-lost uncle, who was
supposed to have abandoned them in their days of infant orphanage. Such
promise of diversion as this imbroglio had, it was rendered still more
to the taste of the audience by the license which the actors allowed
themselves. Belviso was perfection as the simple country girl; one could
hardly credit a lad of his age with such niceness of observation, such
humorous yet whimsical representation of an honest, foolish young woman
flattered by the attention of a villain. His "La la," his "Sissioria,"
and "'Lustrissimo, si!" which marked so well the growth of self-esteem;
his finger in the mouth, his twisting apron-corner, which betrayed
embarrassment when the siege was too vigorous; his "Io non so gniente,"
when sheepishness was the only defence--here was the highest art of the
stage. I, as Brighella his brother, aped him as well as I could. I was a
clown, tickled by, yet pondering, the hardy advances of a baggage, who,
in the expert person of Pamfilo, was only too well performed. If it was
my business to look a fool, God knows I played better than any. The
audience stormed us with delight, and I do believe I was having my share
of the triumph, and might have been emboldened by success to have
deserved it, had not all my sham tremors been shent--in one moment--by a
shaft most real and memorable, whose fatal delivery I must now relate.
We had reached a point in our absurdity where, by the direction of Il
Nanno, who had a sure dramatic sense, a little touch of tragic meaning
was to be brought into the action. The play was suddenly to deepen into
seriousness; the masqueraders were to be discovered--momentarily--for
men and women, with hearts to be broke and souls to be tortured. I
believe it was I who gave him the hint; for he had said to me one day at
rehearsal, "Don Francis, you have tragedy in your face, a mouth of pure
sorrow. That is a valuable asset for our business." May be that he had
thought to use me at my best when he suffered this little shiver of
serious surmise to be blown across the painted scene. The worthy little
monster was pardonably proud of his conception, and explained it to me
point by point. Touchy as his infirmities had left him, his vanity of
author made him as tender as a green wound. He set all his hopes upon
his invention; rightly rendered, he said, the whole theatre would be
moved by it. It should be received with a moment of absolute silence, a
sixty-seconds' silence; then, with one consent, the audience would rise
en masse and cheer the actor--myself--and the poet--himself. Admiring
the thought, feeling the force of it, I promised him that he might
depend upon me.
His point was this. At a certain stage in the play, Brighella, the
country clown, observes his pretended inamorata, the sham contessa, in
the embrace of the pretended marchese, Truffaldino, who by his lies and
flatteries has ensnared the heart of Colombina. Now Colombina is the
beloved sister of Brighella; and the doubt is to dawn upon him that
possibly his wonderful contessa and his sister's imposing marchese are
no better than they should be. Why is she in the arms of the marchese?
Are these perhaps the customs of the world of fashion? Punchinello, the
family servant, suggests that the marchese and contessa may be brother
and sister. "O Dio, no!" cries poor Brighella. "I know what brothers and
sisters do. I love Colombina and she me, but we don't kiss and hug in a
corner. That is what the contessa taught me to do--I thought it very
beautiful. It was our secret, do you see? But she seems to have taught
the marchese--and it is a secret no more, and not beautiful at all." He
begins to wonder to himself, and grows suddenly homesick under
disenchantment. He has many artless, touching things to say concerning
his happiness with his sister in his own country, there far away on the
lonely Adriatic shore.
I was doing my best with the part; Il Nanno, as Punchinello, was at my
side watching and moving every turn of the dialogue; in the back of the
scene were Truffaldino and the Furlana at their kissing. The audience,
quick to feel the pathos, was very quiet, and gave me courage.
"Go to your mistress, Brighella," says Punchinello; "reproach her, pull
her away."
"No, no," say I, "that would not be honourable. That would show that I
doubted her. That would be an insult to her ladyship, and no comfort to
me."
There was a murmur of applause, low but audible, and that stir which I
know is more enheartening to the player than all the bravas in the
world; but just then, as if directed by some inward motion, my eyes
wandered about the auditorium, and (as happens but rarely), I saw faces
there. In a box on the grand tier I saw Aurelia herself in a yellow silk
gown and a hood of the same, half fallen from her dark hair. There she
sat, as if absorbing the light--Aurelia, and no other, in a gallant
company. She was smiling, interested, eager. Her lips were parted; I saw
her little teeth; I saw the rise and fall of her white breast. Starting
violently, a sharp intense pain pierced my heart. I shut my eyes and
tried to recall myself, while the theatre was hushed, like death. I felt
myself swaying about, and to save myself from falling, stretched out my
hand for some support. Unfortunately I found it; for I caught and held
the bony ridge of the nose of Il Nanno, which was just on the level of
my elbow, and drove my fingers into it until he yelled with pain. Risu
solvuntur! The audience rose at us in wild delight--but I, in my horror
and concern, knew nothing but that here was I, a poor fool in motley,
and there, at some few paces from me, radiant as a star in the
firmament, was the adorable being under whose maddening rays I had
fallen, as struck by the sun. I gave one short cry, and fell on my
knees. "Pardon, pardon, queen of my soul!" I began, when Il Nanno,
beside himself with mortification, sprang at me like a wild beast and
gripped my throat. Had not the contessa and Truffaldino pulled him off
me, I should have been strangled. The audience hushed, the curtain fell.
I knew no more until I found myself lying on my strand paillasse at the
inn and saw Belviso, yet in his skirt and spangles, leaning over me with
vinegar in a sponge.
Refusing me leave to talk, he told me that he had done his best to
pacify the dwarf, and hoped he had succeeded. The audience had been
entirely misled. They had believed this ending to have been devised for
their entertainment, and had completely approved of it. Our manager had
been sent for by the Syndic, congratulated and rewarded by a handsome
present. The piece was to be repeated next evening, and, for the sake of
that, it was even promised that the public would sit through the
Artaserse again. Higher testimony, said Belviso, could not have been
given to Aristarcho as author, or to me as his exponent. Far from being
in disgrace, I was the hero of Siena. The Piazza, the cafes were alive
with my performance, my stage name of Francesco de' Pazzi was in
everybody's mouth. I murmured the name of Aurelia, but Belviso had no
notion of that part of my story, and begged me to sleep. So, after a
time, I think I did--and he also.
At some later hour of the night, which must have been near the edge of
dawn, Belviso woke me by springing off his bed and going to the door.
Presently I heard voices downstairs, stern, short, official voices, and
the hasty whispers of two or three answering at once. What was this?
Steps resounded on the stair, a chink in the door revealed a light
growing in brightness. We were broken in upon where we crouched in
alarm; and I saw a Corporal of the Guard, two or three troopers, the
scared faces of some of our companions.
The corporal held up his candle to look at me. Our colloquy was very
brief.
"You are Francis Strelley, an Englishman?"
"I am."
"You killed a Capuchin in Florence and fled to Lucca?"
"I did."
"You were chastised, and expelled the Republic?"
"I was."
"You are my prisoner, in the Grand Duke's name. Get up, dress yourself
and follow me."
Il Nanno had betrayed me, or some other more inveterate enemy. I rose,
put on my shoes and a cloak, and told the officer I was ready. As I was
tying my shoe, Belviso whispered in my ear, "Courage, I follow." He bade
me a mock farewell, with tears and embraces, and I went out a prisoner.
I understood that I was to be taken at once to the Fortress of Volterra.
Now, indeed, this famous, infamous prison was to have me and bury me
alive.