At nine o'clock on the morning of the baroness' death, as Nino was busy
singing scales, there was a ring at the door, and presently Mariuccia
came running in as fast as her poor old legs could carry her, and
whiter than a pillow-case, to say that there was a man at the door
with two gendarmes, asking for Nino; and before I could question her
the three men walked unbidden into the room, demanding which was
Giovanni Cardegna, the singer. Nino started, and then said quietly
that he was the man. I have had dealings with these people, and I know
what is best to be done. They were inclined to be rough and very
peremptory. I confess I was frightened; but I think I am more cunning
when I am a little afraid.
"Mariuccia," I said, as she stood trembling in the door-way, waiting
to see what would happen, "fetch a flask of that old wine, and serve
these gentlemen,--and a few chestnuts, if you have some. Be seated,
signori," I said to them, "and take one of these cigars. My boy is a
singer, and you would not hurt his voice by taking him out so early on
this raw morning. Sit down, Nino, and ask these gentlemen what they
desire." They all sat down, somewhat sullenly, and the gendarmes'
sabres clanked on the brick floor.
"What do you wish from me?" asked Nino, who was not much moved after
the first surprise.
"We regret to say," answered the man in plain clothes, "that we are
here to arrest you."
"May I inquire on what charge?" I asked. "But first let me fill
your glasses. Dry throats make surly answers, as the proverb says."
They drank. It chanced that the wine was good, being from my own
vineyard,--my little vineyard that I bought outside of Porta
Salara,--and the men were cold and wet, for it was raining.
"Well," said the man who had spoken before,--he was clean-shaved and
fat, and he smacked his lips over the wine,--"It is not our way to
answer questions. But since you are so civil, I will tell you that you
are arrested on suspicion of having poisoned that Russian baroness,
with the long name, at whose house you have been so intimate."
"Poisoned? The baroness poisoned? Is she very ill, then?" asked Nino,
in great alarm.
"She is dead," said the fat mat, wiping his mouth and twisting the
empty glass in his hand.
"Dead!" cried Nino and I together.
"Dead--yes; as dead as St. Peter," he answered, irreverently. "Your
wine is good, Signor Professore. Yes, I will take another glass--and
my men, too. Yes, she was found dead this morning, lying in her bed.
You were there yesterday, Signor Cardegna, and her servant says he saw
you giving her something in a glass of water." He drank a long draught
from his glass. "You would have done better to give her some of this
wine, my friend. She would certainly be alive to-day." But Nino was
dark and thoughtful. He must have been pained and terribly shocked at
the sudden news, of course, but he did not admire her as I did.
"Of course this thing will soon be over," he said at last. "I am very
much grieved to hear of the lady's death, but it is absurd to suppose
that I was concerned in it, however it happened. She fainted suddenly
in the morning when I was there, and I gave her some water to drink,
but there was nothing in it." He clasped his hands on his knee, and
looked much distressed.
"It is quite possible that you poisoned her," remarked the fat man,
with annoying indifference. "The servant says he overheard high words
between you--"
"He overheard?" cried Nino, springing to his feet. "Cursed beast, to
listen at the door!" He began to walk about excitedly, "How long is
this affair to keep me?" he asked, suddenly; "I have to sing
to-night--and that poor lady lying there dead--oh, I cannot!"
"Perhaps you will not be detained more than a couple of hours," said
the fat man. "And perhaps you will be detained until the Day of
Judgment," he added, with a sly wink at the gendarmes, who laughed
obsequiously. "By this afternoon, the doctors will know of what she
died; and if there was no poison, and she died a natural death, you
can go to the theatre and sing, if you have the stomach. I would, I am
sure. You see, she is a great lady, and the people of her embassy are
causing everything to be done very quickly. If you had poisoned that
old lady who brought us this famous wine a minute ago, you might have
had to wait till next year, innocent or guilty." It struck me that the
wine was producing its effect.
"Very well," said Nino, resolutely; "let us go. You will see that I am
perfectly ready, although the news has shaken me much; and so you will
permit me to walk quietly with you, without attracting any attention?"
"Oh, we would not think of incommoding you," said the fat man. "The
orders were expressly to give you every convenience, and we have
a private carriage below. Signor Grandi, we thank you for your
civility. Good-morning--a thousand excuses." He bowed, and the
gendarmes rose to their feet, refreshed and ruddy with the good wine.
Of course I knew I could not accompany them, and I was too much
frightened to have been of any use. Poor Mariuccia was crying in the
kitchen.
"Send word to Jacovacci, the manager, if you do not hear by twelve
o'clock," Nino called back from the landing, and the door closed
behind them all. I was left alone, sad and frightened, and I felt very
old--much older than I am.
It was tragic. Mechanically I sank into the old green arm-chair, where
she had sat but yesterday evening--she whom I had seen but twice, once
in the theatre and once here, but of whom I had heard so much. And she
was dead, so soon. If Nino could only have heard her last words and
seen her last look he would have been more hurt when he heard of her
sudden death. But he is of stone, that man, save for his love and his
art. He seems to have no room left for sympathy with human ills, nor
even for fear on his own account. Fear!--how I hate the word! Nino
did not seem frightened at all when they took him away. But as for
me--well, it was not for myself this time, at least. That is some
comfort. I think one may be afraid for other people.
Mariuccia was so much disturbed that I was obliged to go myself to
get De Pretis, who gave up all his lessons that day and came to give
me his advice. He looked grave and spoke very little, but he is a
broad-shouldered, genial man, and very comforting. He insisted on
going himself at once to see Nino, to give him all the help he could.
He would not hear of my going, for he said I ought to be bled and have
some tea of mallows to calm me. And when I offered him a cigar from
the box of good ones Nino had given me he took six or seven, and put
them in his pocket without saying a word. But I did not grudge them to
him; for though he is very ridiculous, with his skull-cap and his
snuff-box, he is a leal man, as we say, who stands by his friends and
snaps his fingers at the devil.
I cannot describe to you the anxiety I felt through all that day. I
could not eat, nor drink, nor write. I could not smoke, and when I
tried to go to sleep that cat--an apoplexy on her!--climbed up on my
shoulder and clawed my hair, Mariuccia sat moaning in the kitchen and
could not cook at all, so that I was half starved.
At three o'clock De Pretis came back.
"Courage, conte mio!" he cried; and I knew it was all right. "Courage!
Nino is at liberty again, and says he will sing to-night to show them
he is not a clay doll, to be broken by a little knocking about. Ah,
what a glorious boy Nino is!"
"But where is he!" I asked, when I could find voice to speak, for I
was all trembling.
"He is gone for a good walk, to freshen his nerves, poverino. I wonder
he has any strength left. For Heaven's sake, give me a match that I
may light my cigar, and then I will tell you all about it. Thank you.
And I will sit down comfortably--so. Now you must know that the
baroness--_requiescat_!--was not poisoned by Nino, or by anyone else."
"Of course not! Go on."
"Piano--slow and sure. They had a terrific scene yesterday. You know?
Yes. Then she went out and tired herself, poor soul, so that when she
got home she had an attack of the nerves. Now these foreigners, who
are a pack of silly people, do not have themselves bled and drink
malva water as we do when we get a fit of anger. But they take opium;
that is, a thing they call chloral. God knows what it is made of, but
it puts them to sleep, like opium. When the doctors came to look at
the poor lady they saw at once what was the matter, and called the
maid. The maid said her mistress certainly had some green stuff in a
little bottle which she often used to take; and when they inquired
further they heard that the baroness had poured out much more than
usual the night before, while the maid was combing her hair, for she
seemed terribly excited and restless. So they got the bottle and found
it nearly empty. Then the doctors said, 'At what time was this young
man who is now arrested seen to give her the glass of water?' The
man-servant said it was about two in the afternoon. So the doctors
knew that if Nino had given her the chloral she could not have gone
out afterwards, and have been awake at eleven in the evening when her
maid was with her, and yet have been hurt by what he gave her. And so,
as Jacovacci was raising a thousand devils in every corner of Rome
because they had arrested his principal singer on false pretences, and
was threatening to bring suits against everybody, including the
Russian embassy, the doctors, and the Government, if Nino did not
appear in _Faust_ to-night, according to his agreement, the result was
that, half an hour ago, Nino was conducted out of the police precincts
with ten thousand apologies, and put into the arms of Jacovacci, who
wept for joy, and carried him off to a late breakfast at Morteo's. And
then I came here. But I made Nino promise to take a good walk for his
digestion, since the weather has changed. For a breakfast at three in
the afternoon may be called late, even in Rome. And that reminds me to
ask you for a drop of wine; for I am still fasting, and this talking
is worse for the throat than a dozen high masses."
Mariuccia had been listening at the door, as usual, and she
immediately began crying for joy; for she is a weak-minded old thing,
and dotes on Nino. I was very glad myself, I can tell you; but I
could not understand how Nino could have the heart to sing, or should
lack heart so much as to be fit for it. Before the evening he came
home, silent and thoughtful. I asked him whether he were not glad to
be free so easily.
"That is not a very intelligent question for a philosopher like you to
ask," he answered. "Of course I am glad of my liberty; any man would
be. But I feel that I am as much the cause of that poor lady's death
as though I had killed her with my own hands. I shall never forgive
myself."
"Diana!" I cried, "it is a horrible tragedy; but it seems to me that
you could not help it if she chose to love you."
"Hush!" said he, so sternly that he frightened me. "She is dead. God
give her soul rest. Let us not talk of what she did."
"But," I objected, "if you feel so strongly about it, how can you sing
at the opera to-night?"
"There are plenty of reasons why I should sing. In the first place, I
owe it to my engagement with Jacovacci. He has taken endless trouble
to have me cleared at once, and I will not disappoint him. Besides, I
have not lost my voice, and might be half ruined by breaking contract
so early. Then, the afternoon papers are full of the whole affair,
some right and some wrong, and I am bound to show the Contessina di
Lira that this unfortunate accident does not touch my heart, however
sorry I may be. If I did not appear all Rome would say it was because
I was heart-broken. If she does not go to the theatre, she will at
least hear of it. Therefore I will sing." It was very reasonable of
him to think so.
"Have any of the papers got hold of the story of your giving lessons?"
"No, I think not; and there is no mention of the Lira family."
"So much the better."
Hedwig did not go to the opera. Of course she was quite right. However
she might feel about the baroness, it would have been in the worst
possible taste to go to the opera the very day after her death. That
is the way society puts it. It is bad taste; they never say it is
heartless, or unkind, or brutal. It is simply bad taste. Nino sang, on
the whole, better than if she had been there, for he put his whole
soul in his art and won fresh laurels. When it was over he was
besieged by the agent of the London manager to come to some agreement.
"I cannot tell yet," he said. "I will tell you soon." He was not
willing to leave Rome--that was the truth of the matter. He thought of
nothing, day or night, but of how he might see Hedwig, and his heart
writhed in his breast when it seemed more and more impossible. He
dared not risk compromising her by another serenade, as he felt sure
that it had been some servant of the count who had betrayed him to the
baroness. At last he hit upon a plan. The funeral of the baroness was
to take place on the afternoon of the next day. He felt sure that the
Graf von Lira would go to it, and he was equally certain that Hedwig
would not. It chanced to be the hour at which De Pretis went to the
Palazzo to give her the singing lesson.
"I suppose it is a barbarous thing for me to do," he said to himself,
"but I cannot help it. Love first, and tragedy afterwards."
In the afternoon, therefore, he sallied out, and went boldly to the
Palazzo Carmandola. He inquired of the porter whether the Signor Conte
had gone out, and just as he had expected, so he found it. Old Lira
had left the house ten minutes earlier, to go to the funeral. Nino
ran up the stairs and rang the bell. The footman opened the door, and
Nino quickly slipped a five-franc note into his hand, which he had no
difficulty in finding. On asking if the signorina were at home, the
footman nodded, and added that Professor De Pretis was with her, but
she would doubtless see Professor Cardegna as well. And so it turned
out. He was ushered into the great drawing-room, where the piano was.
Hedwig came forward a few steps from where she had been standing
beside De Pretis, and Nino bowed low before her. She had on a long
dark dress, and no ornament whatever, save her beautiful bright hair,
so that her face was like a jewel set in gold and velvet. But, when I
think of it, such a combination would seem absurdly vulgar by the side
of Hedwig von Lira. She was so pale and exquisite and sad that Nino
could hardly look at her. He remembered that there were violets,
rarest of flowers in Rome in January, in her belt.
To tell the truth, Nino had expected to find her stern and cold,
whereas she was only very quiet and sorrowful.
"Will you forgive me, signorina, for this rashness?" he asked, in a
low voice.
"In that I receive you I forgive you, sir," she said. He glanced
toward De Pretis, who seemed absorbed in some music at the piano and
was playing over bits of an accompaniment. She understood, and moved
slowly to a window at the other end of the great room, standing among
the curtains. He placed himself in the embrasure. She looked at him
long and earnestly, as if finally reconciling the singer with the man
she had known so long. She found him changed, as I had, in a short
time. His face was sterner and thinner and whiter than before, and
there were traces of thought in the deep shadows beneath his eyes.
Quietly observing him, she saw how perfectly simple and exquisitely
careful was his dress, and how his hands bespoke that attention which
only a gentleman gives to the details of his person. She saw that, if
he were not handsome, he was in the last degree striking to the eye,
in spite of all his simplicity, and that he would not lose by being
contrasted with all the dandies and courtiers in Rome. As she looked,
she saw his lip quiver slightly, the only sign of emotion he ever
gives, unless he loses his head altogether, and storms, as he
sometimes does.
"Signorina," he began, "I have come to tell you a story; will you
listen to it?"
"Tell it me," said she, still looking in his face.
"There was once a solitary castle in the mountains, with battlement
and moat both high and broad. Far up in a lonely turret dwelt a rare
maiden, of such surpassing beauty and fairness that the peasants
thought she was not mortal, but an angel from heaven, resting in that
tower from the doing of good deeds. She had flowers up there in her
chamber, and the seeds of flowers; and as the seasons passed by, she
took from her store the dry germs, and planted them one after another
in a little earth on the window-sill. And the sun shone on them and
they grew, and she breathed upon them and they were sweet. But they
withered and bore no offspring, and fell away, so that year by year
her store became diminished. At last there was but one little paper
bag of seed left, and upon the cover was written in a strange
character, 'This is the Seed of the Thorn of the World.' But the
beautiful maiden was sad when she saw this, for she said 'All my
flowers have been sweet, and now I have but this thing left, which is
a thorn!' And she opened the paper and looked inside, and saw one poor
little seed all black and shrivelled. Through that day she pondered
what to do with it, and was very unhappy. At night she said to
herself, 'I will not plant this one; I will throw it away rather than
plant it.' And she went to the window, and tore the paper, and threw
out the little seed into the darkness."
"Poor little thing!" said Hedwig. She was listening intently.
"She threw it out, and as it fell, all the air was full of music, sad
and sweet, so that she wondered greatly. The next day she looked out
of the window, and saw, between the moat and the castle wall, a new
plant growing. It looked black and uninviting, but it had come up so
fast that it had already laid hold on the rough gray stones. At the
falling of the night it reached far up towards the turret, a great
sharp-pointed vine, with only here and there a miserable leaf on it.
'I am sorry I threw it out,' said the maiden. 'It is the Thorn of the
World, and the people who pass will think it defaces my castle.' But
when it was dark again the air was full of music. The maiden went to
the window, for she could not sleep, and she called out, asking who
it was that sang. Then a sweet, low voice came up to her from the
moat. 'I am the Thorn,' it said, 'I sing in the dark, for I am
growing.'--'Sing on, Thorn,' said she, 'and grow if you will.' But in
the morning when she awoke, her window was darkened, for the Thorn had
grown to be a mighty tree, and its topmost shoots were black against
the sky. She wondered whether this uncouth plant would bear anything
but music. So she spoke to it.
"'Thorn,' she said, 'why have you no flowers?'
"'I am the Thorn of the World,' it answered, 'and I can bear no
flowers until the hand that planted me has tended me, and pruned me,
and shaped me to be its own. If you had planted me like the rest, it
would have been easy for you. But you planted me unwillingly, down
below you by the moat, and I have had far to climb.'
"'But my hands are so delicate,' said the maiden. 'You will hurt me,
I am sure.'
"'Yours is the only hand in the world that I will not hurt,' said the
voice, so tenderly and softly and sadly that the gentle fingers went
out to touch the plant and see if it were real. And touching it they
clung there, for they had no harm of it. Would you know, my lady, what
happened then?"
"Yes, yes--tell me!" cried Hedwig, whose imagination was fascinated by
the tale.
"As her hands rested on the spiked branches, a gentle trembling went
through the Thorn, and in a moment there burst out such a blooming and
blossoming as the maiden had never seen. Every prick became a rose,
and they were so many that the light of the day was tinged with them,
and their sweetness was like the breath of paradise. But below her
window the Thorn was as black and forbidding as ever, for only the
maiden's presence could make its flowers bloom. But she smelled the
flowers, and pressed many of them to her cheek.
"'I thought you were only a Thorn,' she said, softly.
"'Nay, fairest maiden,' answered the glorious voice of the bursting
blossom, 'I am the Rose of the World for ever, since you have touched
me.'
"That is my story, signorina. Have I wearied you?"
Hedwig had unconsciously moved nearer to him as he was speaking, for
he never raised his voice, and she hung on his words. There was colour
in her face, and her breath came quickly through her parted lips. She
had never looked so beautiful.
"Wearied me, signore? Ah no; it is a gentle tale of yours."
"It is a true tale--in part," said he.
"In part? I do not understand--" But the colour was warmer in her
cheek, and she turned her face half away, as though looking out.
"I will tell you," he replied, coming closer, on the side from which
she turned. "Here is the window. You are the maiden. The thorn--it is
my love for you"; he dropped his voice to a whisper "You planted it
carelessly, far below you in the dark. In the dark it has grown and
sung to you, and grown again, until now it stands in your own castle
window. Will you not touch it and make its flowers bloom for you?" He
spoke fervently. She had turned her face quite from him now, and was
resting her forehead against one hand that leaned upon the heavy frame
of the casement. The other hand hung down by her side toward him, fair
as a lily against her dark gown. Nino touched it, then took it. He
could see the blush spread to her white throat, and fade again.
Between the half-falling curtain and the great window he bent his knee
and pressed her fingers to his lips. She made as though she would
withdraw her hand, and then left it in his. Her glance stole to him as
he kneeled there, and he felt it on him, so that he looked up. She
seemed to raise him with her fingers, and her eyes held his and drew
them; he stood up, and, still holding her hand, his face was near to
hers. Closer and closer yet, as by a spell, each gazing searchingly
into the other's glance, till their eyes could see no more for
closeness, and their lips met in life's first virgin kiss,--in the
glory and strength of a two-fold purity, each to each.
Far off at the other end of the room De Pretis struck a chord on the
piano. They started at the sound.
"When?" whispered Nino, hurriedly.
"At midnight, under my window," she answered, quickly, not thinking of
anything better in her haste. "I will tell you then. You must go; my
father will soon be here. No, not again," she protested. But he drew
her to him, and said good-bye in his own manner. She lingered an
instant, and tore herself away. De Pretis was playing loudly. Nino had
to pass near him to go out, and the maestro nodded carelessly as he
went by.
"Excuse me, maestro," said Hedwig, as Nino bowed himself out; "it was
a question of arranging certain lessons."
"Do not mention it," said he, indifferently; "my time is yours,
signorina. Shall we go through with this solfeggio once more?"
The good maestro did not seem greatly disturbed by the interruption.
Hedwig wondered, dreamily, whether he had understood. It all seemed
like a dream. The notes were upside down in her sight, and her voice
sought strange minor keys unconsciously, as she vainly tried to
concentrate her attention upon what she was doing.
"Signorina," said Ercole at last, "what you sing is very pretty, but
it is not exactly what is written here. I fear you are tired."
"Perhaps so," said she. "Let us not sing any more to-day." Ercole shut
up the music and rose. She gave him her hand, a thing she had never
done before; and it was unconscious now, as everything she did seemed
to be. There is a point when dreaming gets the mastery and appears
infinitely more real than the things we touch.
Nino, meanwhile, had descended the steps, expecting every moment to
meet the count. As he went down the street a closed carriage drove by
with the Lira liveries. The old count was in it, but Nino stepped into
the shadow of a doorway to let the equipage pass, and was not seen.
The wooden face of the old nobleman almost betrayed something akin to
emotion. He was returning from the funeral, and it had pained him;
for he had liked the wild baroness in a fatherly, reproving way. But
the sight of him sent a home thrust to Nino's heart.
"Her death is on my soul for ever," he muttered between his set teeth.
Poor innocent boy, it was not his fault if she had loved him so much.
Women have done things for great singers that they have not done for
martyrs or heroes. It seems so certain that the voice that sings so
tenderly is speaking to them individually. Music is such a fleeting,
passionate thing that a woman takes it all to herself; how could he
sing like that for anyone else? And yet there is always someone for
whom he does really pour out his heart, and all the rest are the dolls
of life, to be looked at and admired for their dress and complexion,
and to laugh at when the fancy takes him to laugh; but not to love.
At midnight Nino was at his post, but he waited long and patiently for
a sign. It was past two, and he was thinking it hopeless to wait
longer, when his quick ear caught the sound of a window moving on its
hinges, and a moment later something fell at his feet with a sharp,
metallic click. The night was dark and cloudy, so that the waning moon
gave little light. He picked up the thing and found a small pocket
handkerchief wrapped about a minute pair of scissors, apparently to
give it weight. He expected a letter, and groped on the damp pavement
with his hands. Then he struck a match, shaded it from the breeze with
his hand, and saw that the handkerchief was stained with ink, and that
the stains were letters, roughly printed to make them distinct. He
hurried away to the light of a street lamp to read the strange
missive.