I was quite right,--Tintefleck's _entrée_ was quite dramatic. She
tripped into the room with a short step, nor arrested her ran till she
came close to me, when, with a deep courtesy, she bent down very low,
and then, with a single spring backward, retreated almost to the door
again. She was very pretty,--dark enough to be a Moor, but with a
rich brilliancy of skin never seen amongst that race, for she was a
Calabrian; and as she stood there with her arms crossed before her, and
one leg firmly advanced, and with the foot--a very pretty foot--well
planted, she was like--all the Italian peasants one has seen in the
National Gallery for years back. There was the same look, half shy; the
same elevation of sentiment in the brow, and the same coarseness of the
mouth; plenty of energy, enough and to spare of daring; but no timidity,
no gentleness.
“What is she saying?” asked I of the old man, as I overheard a whisper
pass between them. “Tell me what she has just said to you.”
“It is nothing, your Excellency,--she is a fool.”
“That she may be, but I insist on hearing what it was she said.”
He seemed embarrassed and ashamed, and, instead of replying to me,
turned to address some words of reproach to the girl.
“I am waiting for your answer,” said I, peremptorily.
“It is the saucy way she has gotten, your Excellency, all from
over-flattery; and now that she sees that there is no audience here,
none but your Excellency, she is impatient to be off again. She'll never
do anything for us on the night of a thin house.”
“Is this the truth, Tintefleck?” asked I.
With a wild volubility, of which I could not gather a word, but
every accent of which indicated passion, if not anger, she poured out
something to the other, and then turned as if to leave the room. He
interposed quickly, and spoke to her, at first angrily, but at last in a
soothing and entreating tone, which seemed gradually to calm her.
“There is more in this than you have told, Vaterchen,” said I. “Let me
know at once why she is impatient to get away.”
“I would leave it to herself to tell your Excellency,” said he, with
much confusion, “but that you could not understand her mountain dialect.
The fact is,” added he, after a great struggle with himself,--“the fact
is, she is offended at your calling her 'Tintefleck.' She is satisfied
to be so named amongst ourselves, where we all have similar nicknames;
but that you, a great personage, high and rich and titled, should do so,
wounds her deeply. Had you said--”
Here he whispered me in my ear, and, almost inadvertently, I repeated
after him, “Catinka.”
“_Si, si_, Catinka,” said she, while her eyes sparkled with an
expression of wildest delight, and at the same instant she bounded
forward and kissed my hand twice over.
I was glad to have made my peace, and, placing a chair for her at the
table, I filled out a glass of wine and presented it. She only shook her
head in dissent, and pushed it away.
“She has odd ways in everything,” said the old man; “she never eats but
bread and water. It is her notion that if she were to taste other food
she 'd lose her gift of fortune-telling.”
“So, then, she reads destiny too?” said I, in astonishment.
Before I could inquire further, she swept her hands across the strings
of her guitar, and broke out into a little peasant song. It was very
monotonous, but pleasing. Of course, I knew nothing of the words nor
the meaning, but it seemed as though one thought kept ever and anon
recurring in the melody, and would continue to rise to the surface, like
the air-bubbles in a well. Satisfied, apparently, by the evidences of
my approval, she had no sooner finished than she began another. This was
somewhat more pretentious, and, from what I could gather, represented a
parting scene between a lover and his mistress. There was, at least, a
certain action in the song which intimated this. The fervent
earnestness of the lover, his entreaties, his prayers, and at last his
threatenings, were all given with effect, and there was actually good
acting in the stolid defiance she opposed to all; she rejected his vows,
refused his pledges, scorned his menaces; but when he had gone and left
her, when she saw herself alone and desolate, then came out a gush
of the most passionate sorrow, all the pent-up misery of a heart that
seemed to burst with its weight of agony.
[Illustration: 252]
If I was in a measure entranced while she was singing, such was the
tension of my nerves as I listened, that I was heartily glad when it
was over. As for her, she seemed so overcome by the emotion she had
parodied, that she bent her head down, covered her face with her hands,
and sobbed twice or thrice convulsively.
I turned towards Vaterchen to ask him some question, I forget what, but
the little fellow had made such good use of the decanter beside him,
while the music went on, that his cheeks were a bright crimson, and his
little round eyes shone like coals of fire.
“This young creature should never have fallen amongst such as you!”
said I, indignantly; “she has feeling and tenderness,--the powers of
expression she wields all evidence a great and gifted nature. She has,
so to say, noble qualities.'
“Noble, indeed!” croaked out the little wretch, with a voice hoarse from
the strong Burgundy.
“She might, with proper culture, adorn a very different sphere,” said
I, angrily. “Many have climbed the ladder of life with humbler
pretensions.”
“Ay, and stand on one leg on top of it, playing the tambourine all the
time,” hiccuped he, in reply.
I did not fancy the way he carried out my figure, but went on with my
reflections,--
“Some, but they are few, achieve greatness at a bound--”
“That's what she does,” broke he in. “Twelve hoops and a drum behind
them, at one spring; she comes through like a flying-fish.”
I don't know what angry rejoinder was on my lips to this speech, when
there came a tap at my door. I arose at once and opened it. It was
Francois, with a polite message from Mrs. Keats, to say how happy it
would make her “if I felt well enough to join her and Miss Herbert at
tea.” For a second or two I knew not what to reply. That I was “well
enough,” François was sure to report, and in my flushed condition I was,
perhaps, the picture of an exaggerated state of convalescence; so, after
a moment's hesitation, I muttered out a blundering excuse, on the plea
of having a couple of friends with me, “who had chanced to be just
passing through the town on their way to Italy.”
I did not think Francois had time to report my answer, when I heard him
again at the door. It was, with his mistress's compliments, to say, she
“would be charmed if I would induce my friends to accompany me.”
I had to hold my hand on my side with laughter as I heard this message,
so absurd was the proposition, and so ridiculous seemed the notion of
it. This, I say, was the first impression made upon my mind; and then,
almost as suddenly, there came another and very different one. “What is
the mission you have embraced, Potts?” asked I of myself. “If it have a
but or an object, is it not to overthrow the mean and unjust prejudices,
the miserable class distinctions, that separate the rich from the poor,
the great from the humble, the gifted from the ignorant? Have you ever
proposed to yourself a nobler conquest than over that vulgar tyranny
by which prosperity lords it over humble fortune? Have you imagined a
higher triumph than to make the man of purple and fine linen feel happy
in the companionship of him in smock-frock and high-lows? Could you ask
for a happier occasion to open the campaign than this? Mrs. Keats is an
admirable representative of her class; she has all the rigid prejudices
of her condition; her sympathies may rise, but they never fall; she can
feel for the sorrows of the well-born, she has no concern for vulgar
afflictions. How admirable the opportunity to show her that grace and
genius and beauty are of all ranks! And Miss Herbert, too, what a test
it will be of _her!_ If she really have greatness of soul, if there
be in her nature a spirit that rises above petty conventionalities and
miserable ceremonials, she will take this young creature to her heart
like a sister. I think I see them with arms entwined,--two lovely
flowers on one stalk,--the dark crimson rose and the pale hyacinth! Oh,
Potts! this would be a nobler victory to achieve than to rend battalions
with grape, or ride down squadrons with the crash of cavalry.”--“I
will come, Francois,” said I. “Tell Mrs. Keats that she may expect us
immediately.” I took especial care in my dialogue to keep this prying
fellow outside the room, and to interpose in every attempt that he made
to obtain a peep within. In this I perfectly succeeded, and dismissed
him, without his being able to report any one circumstance about my two
travelling friends.
My next task was to inform them of my intentions on their behalf; nor
was this so easy as might be imagined, for Vaterchen had indulged very
freely with the wine, and all the mountains of Calabria lay between
myself and Tinte-fleck. With a great exercise of ingenuity, and more of
patience, I did at last succeed in making known to the old fellow that a
lady of the highest station and her friend were curious to see them. He
only caught my meaning after some time; but when he had surmounted
the difficulty, as though to show mc how thoroughly he understood the
request, and how nicely he appreciated its object, he began a series of
face contortions of the most dreadful kind, being a sort of programme
of what he intended to exhibit to the distinguished company. I repressed
this firmly, severely. I explained that an artist in all the relations
of private life should be ever the gentleman; that the habits of the
stage were no more necessary to carry into the world than the costume.
I dilated upon the fact that John Kemble had been deemed fitting company
by the first gentleman of Europe; and that if his manner could have
exposed him to a criticism, it was in, perhaps, a slight tendency to an
over-reserve, a cold and almost stern dignity. I 'm not sure Vaterchen
followed me completely, nor understood the anecdotes I introduced about
Edmund Bean and Lord Byron; but I now addressed myself pictorially to
Tintefleck,--pictorially, I say, for words were hopeless. I signified
that a _très grande dame_ was about to receive her. I arose, with my
skirts expanded in both hands, made a reverent courtesy, throwing my
head well back, looking every inch a duchess. But, alas for my powers
of representation! she burst into a hearty laugh, and had at last to lay
her head on Vaterchen's shoulder out of pure exhaustion.
“Explain to her what I have told you, sir, and do not sit grinning at me
there, like a baboon,” said I, in a severe voice.
I cannot say how he acquitted himself, but I could gather that a very
lively altercation ensued, and it seemed to me as though she resolutely
refused to subject herself to any further ordeals of what academicians
call a “private view.” No; she was ready for the ring and the sawdust,
and the drolleries of the men with chalk on their faces, but she would
not accept high life on any terms. By degrees, and by arguments of his
own ingenious devising, however, he did succeed, and at last she arose
with a bound, and cried out, “Eccomi!”
“Remember,” said I to Vaterchen, as we left the room, “I am doing
that which few would have the courage to dare. It will depend upon the
dignity of your conduct, the grace of your manners, the well-bred ease
of your address, to make me feel proud of my intrepidity, or, sad
and painful possibility, retire covered with ineffable shame and
discomfiture. Do you comprehend me?”
“Perfectly,” said he, standing erect, and giving even in his attitude a
sort of bail bond for future dignity. “Lead on!”
This was more familiar than he had been yet; but I ascribed it to the
tension of nerves strung to a high purpose, and rendering him thus
inaccessible to other thoughts than of the enterprise before him.
As I neared the door of Mrs. Keats's apartment, I hesitated as to how
I should enter. Ought I to precede my friends, and present them as they
followed? Or would it seem more easy and more assured if I were to give
my arm to Tintefleck, leaving Vaterchen to bring up the rear? After much
deliberation, this appeared to be the better course, seeming to take
for granted that, although some peculiarities of costume might ask
for explanation later on, I was about to present a very eligible and
charming addition to the company.
I am scarcely able to say whether I was or was not reassured by the mode
in which she accepted the offer of my arm. At first, the proposition
appeared unintelligible, and she looked at me with one of those
wide-eyed stares, as though to say, “What new gymnastic is this? What
_tour de force_, of which I never heard before?” and then, with a sort
of jerk, she threw my arm up in the air and made a pirouette under it,
of some half-dozen whirls.
Half reprovingly I shook my head, and offered her my hand. This she
understood at once. She recognized such a mode of approach as legitimate
and proper, and with an artistic shake of her drapery with the other
hand, and a confident smile, she signified she was ready to go “on.”
I was once on a time thrown over a horse's head into a slate quarry; a
very considerable drop it was, and nearly fatal. On another occasion I
was carried in a small boat over the fall of a salmon weir, and hurried
along in the flood for almost three hundred yards. Each of these was a
situation of excitement and peril, and with considerable confusion as
the consequence; and yet I could deliberately recount you every
passing phase of my terror, from my first fright down to my complete
unconsciousness, with such small traits as would guarantee truthfulness;
while, of the scene upon which I now adventured, I preserve nothing
beyond the vaguest and most unconnected memory.
I remember my advance into the middle of the room. I have a recollection
of a large tea-urn, and beyond it a lady in a turban; another in long
ringlets there was. The urn made a noise like a small steamer, and there
was a confusion of voices--about what, I cannot tell--that increased the
uproar, and we were all standing up and all talking together; and there
was what seemed an angry discussion, and then the large turban and the
ringlets swept haughtily past me. The turban said, “This is too much,
sir!” and ringlets added, “Far too much, sir!” and as they reached the
door, there was Vaterchen on his head, with a branch of candles between
his feet to light them out, and Tintefleck, screaming with laughter,
threw herself into an arm-chair, and clapped a most riotous applause.
I stood a moment almost transfixed, then dashed out of the room, hurried
upstairs to my chamber, bolted the door, drew a great clothes-press
against it for further security, and then threw myself upon my bed
in one of those paroxysms of mad confusion, in which a man cannot say
whether he is on the verge of inevitable ruin, or has just been rescued
from a dreadful fate. I would not, if even I could, recount all that
I suffered that night There was not a scene of open shame and disgrace
that I did not picture to myself as incurring. I was everywhere in the
stocks or the pillory. I wore a wooden placard on my breast, inscribed,
“Potts the Impostor.” I was running at top speed before hooting and
yelling crowds. I was standing with a circle of protecting policemen
amidst a mob eager to tear me to pieces. I was sitting on a hard stool
while my hair was being cropped _à la_ Pentonville, and a gray suit lay
ready for me when it was done. But enough of such a dreary record. I
believe I cried myself to sleep at last, and so soundly, too, that it
was very late in the afternoon ere I awoke. It was the sight of the
barricade I had erected at my door gave me a clew to the past, and again
I buried my face in my hands, and wept bitterly.