And this day of the festival had finally come. With what joyful
impatience, with what anxious desire, had Natalie looked forward to
it--how had she importuned her friend, Count Paulo, with questions
about Cardinal Bernis, about the people she would meet there, about the
manners and usages with which she would have to conform!
“I am anxious and fearful,” said she, with amiable modesty; “they will
find occasion to laugh at me, and you will be compelled to blush for me,
Paulo. But you must tell these wise men and great ladies that it is my
very first appearance in society, and that they must have consideration
for the awkwardness and ineptitude of a poor child who knows nothing of
the world, its forms, or its laws.”
“For you no excuse will be necessary,” responded Paulo, pressing the
delicate tips of her fingers to his lips. “Only be quite yourself,
perfectly true and open, inoffensive and cheerful! Forget that you are
in an assemblage; imagine yourself to be in our garden, under the trees
and among the flowers, and speak to people as you speak to your trees
and flowers.”
“But will the people give me as true and cordial answers as my trees and
flowers?” asked Natalie, thoughtfully.
“They will say to you more beautiful and more flattering things,” said
Paulo, smiling. “But now, Natalie, it is time to be thinking of your
toilet. See, the sun is already sinking behind the pines, and the
sky begins to redden! The time to go will soon arrive, and your first
triumph awaits you!”
“Oh, it will not have long to wait,” said Natalie, laughing, and, light
and graceful as a gazelle, she tripped to the house.
Count Paulo gazed after her with a melancholy rapture. “And I am to
leave this angel,” thought he, “to lose the brightest and noblest jewel
of my life, and drive myself out of paradise. And wherefore all this?
Perhaps to chase a phantom that will never become a reality, to follow
a chimera which may be only a meteor that dances before me and dissolves
into mist when I think to reach it? No, no, the world is not worth
so much that one should sell himself and his soul’s happiness for its
splendor and its greatness. Natalie herself shall decide. Loves she me,
and is she satisfied with the quiet circumscribed existence that I
can henceforth only offer her, then away, ye vain dreams and ye proud
desires for greatness; then shall I be, if not the greatest, certainly
the happiest of human beings!”
It was a wonderfully brilliant festival that Cardinal Bernis had to-day
prepared for his guests--a festival hitherto unequalled in Rome. The
walls were decorated with garlands and festoons of flowers, the flaming
candelabras among which found their reflection in the tall Venetian
mirrors that rose in their golden frames from the floor to the ceilings;
and in the corners of the rooms were niches, here furnished with
orange-trees, and there with heavy silk curtains, behind which were
grottoes adorned with shells, in the midst of which were fountains where
splashed waters rendered fragrant by oil of roses and other essences.
And ever-new surprises, new grottoes and groves in those rich halls
offered themselves to the eyes of the beholders. Now one suddenly found
himself in a quiet boudoir lighted only by a solitary lamp, where the
most artistic engravings and the rarest drawings were spread out upon
a table; then again one entered a hall sparkling with a thousand lights
and resounding with music, where the gayly-dressed crowd undulated in
mazy waves; then again grottoes opened here and there, or one stepped
out through the open doors into the garden where one could enjoy the
balsamic coolness of the evening in walks brilliantly lighted with
colored lamps, or listen to the music of performers concealed in the
shrubbery, or, again, fleeing from the throng and the lights, seek a
resting-place upon some grassy bank or under some myrtle-bush, whether
for solitary musing or for encircling in sweet and silent familiarity
the waist of some chosen fair one who understanding the stolen glance,
had strayed here unnoticed.
But the central point of the festival was the monstrous gigantic hall
which the cardinal had caused to be erected in the centre of the garden
expressly for this occasion. The walls of muslin and flowers were held
together by more than a hundred gilded pillars, the girandoles attached
to each of which diffused a sea of light. Silken carpets covered
the floor, and the _plafond_ of this gigantic hall was formed by the
thousand-starred arch of heaven. Here, also, niches and grottoes
were everywhere to be found; in them one could, in the midst of the
constantly moving and noisy crowd, enjoy quiet and repose.
Only one of these niches was inaccessible, as it appears, to the
company, and yet it was precisely this which excited the curiosity of
all, and which all, whispering, approached, anxious to get a peep behind
the closed thick silken curtains, before which two richly gallooned
servants of the cardinal walked back and forth with solemn earnestness,
but respectfully requesting every one to comply with the cardinal’s
wishes and not approach the mysterious drapery, but await his own time
for the solution of the enigma! A few steps led up to this closed and
covered niche; these steps were strewed with roses, that was plainly
seen; but, to what did these steps lead, and what was thus carefully
concealed?
A precious surprise, certainly, for it was the forte of the cardinal
to prepare surprises for the agreeable entertainment of his guests. The
ladies and gentlemen, the cardinals and princes of the Church, crowded
around him begging for an explanation of the mystery, a disclosure of
the secret.
“I am myself uninitiated,” said Cardinal Bernis, laughing; “some
divinity may have taken a seat there, or perhaps it is a sphinx which
will from thence give us the solution of her enigma. But let us see what
belated guests are now coming to us.”
And the cardinal with zealous precipitation approached the principal
entrance to the hall, the _portieres_ of which had just been drawn
aside, and behind was seen Natalie at the hand of Paulo.
As if blinded by the sudden flood of light, she stood for a moment
still, a purple glow flushing her delicate cheeks, and clinging to
Paulo’s arms, she whispered: “Protect me, Paulo, I am so frightened by
this crowd!”
Just at that moment the doorkeeper cried with a loud voice: “Princess
Natalie Tartaroff and Count Paulo!”
At the sound of these strange names all glanced toward the door, and
all flaming, curious, prying eyes were fixed with astonishment and
admiration upon the young maiden.
But Natalie did not remark it. She glanced at Paulo with a glad smile,
and a proud happiness beamed from her features. She had, then, a name;
she was no longer an abandoned, nameless orphan. At length the enigma of
her birth was solved, and what she had so often prayed for, Count Paulo
had vouchsafed her as a surprise to-day.
He had at the same time announced her name to herself and the world, and
she not only had a name, but she was a princess; she took a rank in the
company, and Count Paulo and Carlo had no reason to be ashamed of her.
But where was Carlo? At the thought of him this feeling of effervescing
pride vanished from the young maiden’s heart; she even forgot that she
was a princess, to remember only that Carlo, her music-teacher, had
promised her to be present at this festival, and to wonder that she
could not discover him in this gay and confused assemblage.
She did not remark that, since her appearance, a deep stillness had
supervened in the hall, that all eyes were upon her, that people
secretly whispered to each other, and gave utterance to murmured
expressions of astonishment and delight; she saw not how the beauties
here and there turned pale and indignantly bit their proud lips; she saw
not how the eyes of the men glowed and flashed, and what eagerly lusting
glances the cardinals and princes of the Church cast upon her.
She was so unconstrained, this charming child, she knew not how handsome
she was. But she was to-day of a wonderfully touching beauty. Like a
white and delicate lily stood she there in the heavy white satin robe
that enveloped her graceful form, and the brilliants that adorned her
hair, neck, and arms, shone and sparkled like sun-lighted dew-drops in
the calyx of the flower. So beautiful was she that even Cardinal Bernis
stood speechless and as if blinded before her, finding no expression for
his joyful surprise and astonishment.
“Oh,” at length he smilingly said, with a low bow, “I shall have to
quarrel with Count Paulo! He promised us the presence of a mortal woman,
and now he leads into our circle a divinity who must look down upon us
poor human beings with a smile of contempt.”
Natalie smiled. “I know,” said she, with her clear, sweet, childish
voice--“I know that Cardinal Bernis is a poet, and therefore it will not
be very difficult for him to change a young maiden into a divinity. Nor
is this the first time he has done so! I remember a lovely poem of his,
the complaint of a shepherd, who considers the object of his love a
divinity because she is so beautiful, and at last she proves to be no
divinity, but on the contrary a regular little quarrelsome wrangler,
who has nothing beautiful about her but her hands and face. Take care,
cardinal, that it does not prove with you and me as with the shepherd in
your charming poem!”
She said that with such childish ingenuousness, and in so cheerful and
jesting a tone, that the cardinal listened to her as if intoxicated,
and with unconcealed admiration he looked into that delicate, childishly
pure face, over which no trace of sorrow nor any sign of care had ever
yet passed.
Without answering, he took her arm, and, beckoning Count Paulo to his
side, led the princess to the circle of ladies.
Behind those closed curtains that still concealed the mysterious niche
it had meanwhile become stirring. Busy servants hastened hither and
thither, lighting the lamps and arranging the festoons and draperies. It
seems they had here erected a little stage, and the large wall-picture
that formed the background of this stage bore the appearance of a
decoration. A side curtain, serving as a partition, formed a second
room, which seemed destined for a sort of greenroom, in the centre of
which was a large and well-lighted mirror, and before it stood a young
woman regarding herself with the greatest attention, here plucking
at her dress and there arranging her train or an ornament. She was
evidently the one who was to appear upon the stage; her costume betrayed
it. It was not the fashionable costume of the day, such as was worn by
the distinguished ladies of Roman society; it was an ideal Greek
dress that seemed to have been made for the purpose of displaying and
rendering yet more voluptuous and enticing the great beauty of the
wearer.
She was very beautiful, this woman, with her sparkling black eyes
and dark shining hair, which had been gathered into a Grecian knot
behind--beautiful, with the laurel-wreath resting upon her high
forehead--beautiful, in the transparent Grecian robe which only so far
concealed the luxuriant forms of her full figure as to allow them to be
divined--beautiful, with those full, round, and entirely uncovered arms,
with their jewelled bracelets--beautiful, with her graceful neck, her
fully exposed, naked shoulders, and her voluptuously swelling bosom.
She was, in her appearance, a Greek, only her face was not Grecian. It
was wanting in the noble forms, the still cheerfulness and repose of
Grecian beauty, modest even in its voluptuousness. It was only the face
of a sensual and passionate Roman woman, and no Lais would have ventured
such a smile as played upon the dark-red lips of this Roman woman, or
such glowing glances as she shot like arrows from her dark eyes.
Standing before the glass, she viewed herself, her lips murmuring low
words, occasionally turning her eyes from the mirror to the little table
standing near it, upon which lay several open books.
What murmured she, and what read she in those books? Singular! she
was uttering single, isolated, unconnected words, which had nothing in
common with each other but the sound of melody; they were rhymes, but
without connection or sense, without inward mental correlation.
“So,” she now said to herself, with a satisfied smile, “I am now
perfectly armed and prepared. All these rhymes ready for use, and I
have not to fear embarrassment in repeating any of them. Ah, they shall
admire me, these good Romans. I will animate and inflame them, and
excite all my enamored cardinals to such an ecstasy that they must
finally prevail upon the silly, obstinate old pope against his own will
to fulfil my only desire. I will attain my end, even if I am compelled
to pawn my honor and my salvation for it! Bah! honor; what can honor be
to a woman? Beauty is our honor, further nothing! And fair, it seems to
me, I yet am! And if I am fair,” she more glowingly continued, after
a pause, “how comes it that Carlo has ceased to love me? Ah, the false
one, to betray and desert me when I love him most!”
A dark flush of anger now overspread her cheeks, and threateningly
raising her hands, with compressed lips she continued: “And to desert me
for another woman--me, the pride and delight of all Rome; me, whom all
the princes and cardinals worship! Ah, while thousands lie at my feet,
imploring for a glance or a smile, this little, unknown singer dares to
scorn me and deride my love!”
“And why should he not dare it?” asked a voice behind her, and the face
of a young man became visible.
“Carlo!” she cried, hastening to meet him with outspread arms.
He almost ungently checked her. “You forget,” said he, “that this
little, insignificant, and unknown singer loves you no longer, Corilla!
Grant, then, henceforth to the thousands who languish at your feet a few
of your enticing smiles and glowing glances--I have nothing against it,
and am not at all jealous!”
“But you should be!” cried she, stamping her feet with rage. “I tell you
I will not suffer you to leave me; I will be loved by you, and no one
shall you dare to look at, and no one shall you dare to love, but me
alone.”
Carlo broke out into a scornful laugh, and then seriously and proudly
said: “I am a Neapolitan, and with us men do not allow themselves to be
constrained to love, and no woman there dares utter the command, ‘Thou
shalt love me!’--I will not, Signora Corilla!”
“You will not!” screamed she, gnashing her teeth. “Then woe to you and
to her!”
“I fear no serpents!” said Carlo, laughing, “and if an adder attempts to
sting me, I tread it under foot!”
“But fear at least for her you love!” she threateningly said. “Oh, you
think I shall not be able to discover this secret love of yours, and
not spy out this new divinity to whom you have consecrated your heart?
Tremble therefore now, for I know her! I know the garden in which she
lives, and there is a place in the wall just opposite her favorite seat;
whoever knows that place and possesses a steady hand and a sharp dagger
will know how to hurl it so as to pierce her bosom.”
Carlo felt a deadly terror, he felt his heart stand still, but he
collected himself and said, with a contemptuous smile: “Cardinal
Francesco Albani indeed possesses among his _bravi_ many such skilful
hands, and surely it will not require many of your highly-prized glances
to induce him to favor you with the loan of one of them.”
The signora slightly bit her lips. “You mock me,” she almost sadly
said, “and yet you should remember that it is only love that makes me
so savage and fills my heart with a thirst for vengeance! Carlo, I so
warmly love you!”
And the beautiful, glowing woman humbly and imploringly bent before her
beloved.
The latter laughingly said: “How well you know how to say that--with
what variations and modulations! I yesterday heard you say the same to
Cardinal Albani; to be sure, it sounded a little different, but not less
warm and glowing!”
“You know why I do that!” said she. “He is an enamored fool, whom I
would win with tender words that I may make him my instrument. You know
the object for which I strive, and which I must attain at any price! Ah,
Carlo, when once they have crowned me in the capitol, then, I am sure,
you will be compelled to love me again!”
“Never again!” he harshly and roughly said.
“Is that your last word?” shrieked she, with flashing eyes and the wild
rage of a tigress.
“It is my last word!”
She flew to him like a mad person, seized his hands and fixedly stared
him in the face.
“Ungrateful!” said she, gnashing her teeth. “Is it thus you reward my
love, is this your return for all I have done for you? Can you forget
that it was I who withdrew you from poverty and baseness? What were you
but a poor, unnoticed singer in the streets, on whom people bestowed
scanty alms? Was it not I who rescued you from that shame, and clothed
you and gave you a home? Was it not I who gave you a name and procured
you consideration and respect by making you my singer and companion, and
allowing you to play upon the harp at my improvisations? How has not
all Rome admired you when you sang the canzones I wrote for you, thereby
procuring you honor and respectability, and making you a popular man
from a low beggar? Go, you cannot leave me, for you are my creature, my
property!”
He wildly thrust her aside, and his eyes flashed with indignation.
“Signora,” said he, his lips tremulous with rage, “you have rent the
last band that bound me to you, and in twitting me of your benefits you
have annihilated them! We now have nothing in common with each other,
except perhaps mutual hatred, and that, I hope, will have a longer
duration than our love!”
And Carlo turned toward the door. Corilla rushed after him with an
exclamation of terror.
“You will leave me now!” cried she, with anguish, “now, in this hour
when you are so indispensable to me? now, when I am to celebrate a new
triumph before this notable assembly? when all eyes are expectantly
turned to the curtain behind which I am to appear? No, no, Carlo, from
compassion remain with me only one hour, only this evening!”
Carlo smiled contemptuously. “I will remain,” said he, “for I have
promised _her_ that she shall hear you!”
“She has therefore come?” cried Corilla, with an outburst of joy.
“She is now here,” he laconically said.
Corilla no longer listened to him, she walked back and forth with a
triumphant mien, a cruel, malicious smile playing upon her lips.
At this moment there was a slight knock at the door, which was opened,
and a man who appeared upon the threshold glanced into the room with a
grinning laugh.
Corilla gave him a sign, and at the same time pointed at Carlo, who,
having his back toward her, seemed to have no suspicion of what was
occurring behind him. But he saw it, nevertheless, in the tall mirror
that stood in the middle of the room; he saw Corilla make signs of
intelligence with that man who was in the livery of Cardinal Francesco
Albani; he saw the man make answer with his fingers, and then draw forth
a dagger, which he threateningly swung over his head.
Oh, Carlo had very well understood what that man said, as he also did
that language of the fingers, this much-used language of the Romans and
Neapolitans.
The man had said: “She is here, that beautiful lady! She can no longer
escape us!”
“You will strike her?” had Corilla asked.
The man had swung the dagger over his head and held up two fingers of
his right hand. That signified: “In two hours she will be dead.”
“Good! you shall be satisfied with me,” had been Corilla’s answer.
The door was again closed. Corilla turned smiling to Carlo, her former
rancor seemed to have vanished; she was in high spirits.
“Carlo,” said she, “how good you are not to leave me! Let us now begin.
I feel myself glowing with inspiration. Ah, I shall enrapture these good
Romans, I think!”
“How long will this improvisation last?” Carlo gruffly asked.
“Well, one or two hours, according to the delight we give our public.”
“If this farce continues longer than an hour and a half, I shall throw
down my harp and go away,” said Carlo, in a tone of severity. “I swear
it to you by the spirit of my mother! Remember it; I shall show you the
time every quarter of an hour.”
“You are a tyrant,” said she, laughing. “But I suppose I must submit.
Give, therefore, the signal that we are ready.”