Breath of Scandal.
Imperishable zephyr! Dispenser of delight to all:--save those it
touches. Floating in playful sport around the globe, it does little
harm to callous sinners. But it blights, with a special and vociferous
joy, superior persons.
The higher and more immaculate the victim the greater the general
mirth. In the wake of pleasure it may have, at times, a comic side; at
other times it kills--and with agonies that are not for publication.
In a certain month of May it loitered up the eastern shore of the
Adriatic, lingering briefly at Rovigno, just long enough to nip the
budding romance of an interesting widow. At Orsera it electrified the
leading citizens by linking, in a gentle whisper, the name of a lady
of spotless reputation with a Platonic Friend. It spared Parenzo. But
at Cittanuova it fanned into flame a general curiosity regarding the
relations of a Captain of Cavalry with the wife of a certain careless
husband. At S. Lorenzo it merely put two lovers on their guard.
Then onward for Trieste. In this search for savory victims it
overlooked a villa high up a hillside. Here, indeed, the Breath of
Scandal might have entered and rejoiced! But the villa, as if guarding
against this very visitor, had drawn before its face a screen of trees
and vines and flowers. As wise old Bumble takes his morning nectar from
the choicest flowers, so here might this fateful zephyr have drunk his
fill.
There was mystery about this villa.
Natives, whose business brought them in the vicinity, were enchanted by
the beauty of a woman's voice. In melody and in power it was, to them,
a revelation. Two middle-aged gentlemen--one of them the Curé of S.
Pietro in Selve--both lovers of music and who attended operas at Milan
and other cities heard the celestial voice one day when passing near
the villa. They were charmed. Both knew it was no ordinary singer. But
the singer's identity was not discovered.
On this particular morning a young man was sitting alone in the
Loggia of the villa. Westward, through one of the open arches, he
gazed upon the deep, blue waters of the Adriatic, far down below.
Small boats, with sails of various colors, floated here and there,
like lazy butterflies. The man was reclining in an easy chair like an
invalid--which he was. Bandages encased his throat. A bullet through
his neck, two months ago, would explain these bandages. It was the
price he paid for striking an Austrian officer across the mouth. The
Austrian officer had made an offensive remark concerning the Diva. The
young American was a good shot and in the duel, three days later, he
sent a bullet through his adversary's chest. It so happened that the
Austrian, being also a good shot, sent a corresponding missile through
the young American's neck. Then the Diva and her defender had fled
to this villa; not together, but separately, to escape the Breath of
Scandal. Here, in this ideal nest, they found peace and privacy. Not
under their own names. Ah, no! If the lady's identity were suspected
the thrilling news would have circled the globe. One cannot be an opera
singer of world-wide fame and suddenly become obscure. The Diva's
Italian friends and the public believed that she was rusticating
somewhere, with relatives. The American's friends in Paris had heard
about the duel, but knew nothing of his whereabouts. So, alone and
happy, here on this Istrian hillside, they laughed at Mrs. Grundy,
and lived and loved at leisure. And what sweeter victory than looking
down from a perch of safety upon the world below where the Breath of
Scandal spared neither the guilty nor the innocent? Kind providence
had so managed that the Diva's immediate family was not inquisitive.
It consisted solely of her father, a famous scientist, whose portrait,
with its high forehead, shaggy hair and drowsy eyes was a familiar
face to Italian students. So absorbed he was in study and experiment
that the adventures of his yet more famous daughter caused him no
uneasiness. Had the Breath of Scandal entered his laboratory, it would
have been ignored--or ejected as a liar. The Diva's husband--known as
"The Calamity" by her friends--a handsome gentleman of noble family,
had long since become immune to the Breath of Scandal--so well encased
in his disrepute that he could sink no further. He and the Breath of
Scandal were boon companions. At present he held a government position
in Siam. Three years he had been there, and might remain for ten years
more. So, at the cozy Istrian villa were no jealous eyes to disturb a
lover's dream.
On this May morning, too warm, perhaps, in the sunshine, but perfect
in the shade, the American, in his reclining chair, was listening
to a singing voice. It came to him from an inner room of the villa.
Dreamily he listened, with half closed eyes, and smiling mouth. It had
been rather a handsome face before the duel. Now the features were too
sharp, and the eyes showed lack of sleep. This old Hungarian song--a
mother's prayer, now coming from the Diva's lips, and heart--was her
lover's favorite, and her own. It was given with the depth of feeling
and the art of a great singer, herself soon to be a mother. There are
things in music, often the simplest songs, that stir the imagination
and reach the secret chamber of the soul beyond all others. This
Hungarian prayer was one. It had become, to these two people, a hymn of
hope, with its love and fears, its yearnings and its joy. And into it
the Diva gave her very soul.
The song ended. Then, with eyes still moist, the Diva walked out into
the loggia.
A pleasant thing to look upon, this goddess of the ravishing voice.
There seemed bewitchment in her figure, in her carriage, in her head
and neck, in the low, wide brow with its blackest of black hair.
Beneath the heavy lashes of the midnight eyes lurked tragedy. Their
mysterious depths disturbed the hearts of men. Yet her lips told more
of mirth. Certain critics maintained that her greatest triumphs were
in comedy. But as nearly all grand opera is for tragedy she rarely
appeared in lighter rôles. This morning, as she stepped out into
the loggia, she could have passed for almost any heroine--either of
tragedy or comedy. Her robe, a thing of light material, might be any
shade or color; perhaps a delicate purple ground with a smiling yellow
pattern--or vice versa; so artfully designed that the outlines of her
figure became elusive.
She bent over, kissed the invalid, and pressed a cheek against his
face. Then she straightened up and stood beside him, looking down with
a smile that was more than friendly. The invalid returned the smile. It
was an easy thing to do. For what is easier than returning the smile of
a singing goddess vainly sought by other men, when she descends from
pinnacles of glory--and freely, joyfully surrenders herself, and all
from an overpowering love? In the smile that lingered between them were
things whose utterance is not in words of any language:--things that
true lovers, and they alone, can ever know. Close beside him she drew
a wicker chair, and she sat in silence for a moment, studying his face.
Earnestly she looked into his eyes as if searching his secret thoughts.
Flowers may be the language of love, but in this case it was also
French. The Diva was Italian and her French was more than good. And
Dr. Alton's French, for an American, was not so very bad. But since
the leaden messenger had entered his neck three months ago, he had
spoken no word, of French, nor of any other language. It was still a
question whether he would regain his voice or be forever mute. And in
those three months of ceaseless devotion there had come to the Diva an
amazing gift. So intense had been her desire to know his thoughts, so
persistent her efforts to know what his silent lips would utter, that
at last the wish was granted. A mysterious power had come: a power that
transferred to her own brain--or soul--the thoughts his lips could not
express.
The conversation to an eavesdropper would have seemed a monologue by
the lady, with long pauses. In these pauses she was reading her lover's
thoughts. The young man's pleasure in these gazings was even greater
than the Diva's. Within her eyes, themselves an entrancement, he found
love and infinite devotion. Under their spell he asked no greater joy
than opening wide the secret chambers of his soul.
"Did the little blond hero happen to notice how I finished the prayer
song this morning?"
The little blond hero--who was some inches taller than the Diva when on
his feet--nodded. He nodded slowly and carefully in consideration of
the bandaged throat.
"And that it was a little different from the way I usually sing it?"
Again the answer was a careful nod.
"How did he like it? Is it better that way?"
This time, after the faint, affirmative sign, she gazed longer into the
adoring eyes, waiting a less simple answer. She found it, and with no
aid from his lips.
"Yes, that was my idea precisely. More strength in the final passages;
the deeper feeling of a mother's appeal." Then, with closed eyes and
clasped hands: "May the prayer be answered, for my whole soul is in it!"
On the clasped hands the invalid laid one of his own, with a gentle
pressure, telling of sympathy, hope and confidence. She opened her eyes
and returned his smile. "Yes, yes. We must be cheerful; always cheerful
and full of hope. It will be better for the child."
After a silence, in which both looked thoughtfully over the tree tops,
toward the distant coast of Italy, beyond the butterfly sails far below
moving here and there on the shimmering surface of the Adriatic, she
turned, in response to another pressure of the hand, and again looked
deep into the patient's eyes.
"No, Dr. Cervini says there's no harm in my singing unless I fatigue
myself. And I never do that."
But his face was anxious. So with an air of cheerful confidence she
exclaimed:
"I have decided on a boy. Yes, a boy! Smile again. I love to see you
smile. Why a boy? Because boys are stronger and bigger than girls; more
reasoning; more honest. What? Not so lovable as girls. Oh, nonsense!"
Here a pause.
"I don't quite understand. Think that again.--Oh, well I shouldn't
mind if he was. I love bad boys. Of course we don't want a cowardly,
mean-spirited, stingy, cold-blooded, deceitful kind of badness."
Here, after another pause, she laughed. "Yes, I suppose that is just
what I do mean--a bad boy who is good."
Another silence, and another laugh. "No, never!" "But tell me, Defender
of Women, why do you wish for a girl? Because what? She might be a
perfect copy of myself? Oh, honey-mouthed humbug!"
She rose, stooped over, kissed him, and sat down again.
"Well, I shall be happy, very happy, whatever the Bon Dieu gives us."
The next silence was longer.
"Yes, that is all very true. Heredity counts. There's no doubt of that.
Half Italian, half American--there are worse combinations. But I am
doubtful about the American half." Here she frowned and slowly shook
her head. "I have a torturing suspicion that all Americans--with one
heavenly exception--are ignoble things."
The blond hero smiled and closed his eyes.
"Not an opera singer in the whole country," she went on. "No music, no
art, no Roman ruins; just a race of handsome, reckless, blood-thirsty
young doctors. And the whole miserable wilderness, the whole continent
itself, was discovered by an Italian! Think of that! Think of how much
we owe Columbus, you and I! Were it not for him we should never have
met--for you would not exist. You owe everything to Italy. Still, we
love each other just as much. That is the important thing. Nothing else
really matters." But she frowned and shook a finger. "Nevertheless,
if it's a boy I shall name him Columbus Michael Angelo Dante Victor
Emanuel Alton, just to hide the dishonor of his father's nationality."
The invalid clasped the finger, and held it. For a moment two pairs of
eyes looked deep into each other. Then the Diva laughed. "What ideas
you have! The Good God gave you a sunny heart, my beloved. And you
know--Oh, you know well--that whatever----"
At the sound of a distant door bell she stopped abruptly. Into her face
came a look of mild alarm. Both knew that no visitor was welcome. Who
could enter this bower unless shadowed by the Breath of Scandal? The
next moment, however, her face brightened. "Oh--of course! It's the
good Dr. Cervini. I had forgotten he was to come early to-day."
The man who entered kissed the tips of the Diva's fingers. Then he
shook hands with the American.
Tall, thin, of brown and leathery skin, with a prominent Roman nose,
fierce mustaches and pointed iron gray beard, he could easily have
passed for Don Quixote. But the fierce mustaches failed to hide the
lines of mirth about the mouth. And from two calm eyes beneath the
threatening eyebrows gleamed sympathy and benevolence. It was generally
believed that Dr. Cervini had ushered into the world more princes and
princesses, more grand dukes and duchesses, more future kings and
queens than any man in Europe. In those cases where there might be a
question as to the propriety of the little one's arrival, he was more
than trustworthy. In such affairs the Silence of the Tomb, compared
with Dr. Cervini, was noisy gossip.
After various questions concerning the patient's progress he exclaimed:
"What patience, what godlike self-control are exhibited by Dr. Alton!
Younger and more up-to-date than I, with a perfect knowledge of the
human throat, yet he submits to my advice and antiquated treatment!
Medals should be his!"
Dr. Alton, of course, protested, in silence, and the silent protest
was put in words by the Diva. So ran the conversation for a time, Dr.
Cervini watching the Diva with deepest interest.
"Do you realize, Signora," he said at last, "that you have developed a
most extraordinary faculty?"
"Is it so very remarkable?"
"It is, indeed! In all my experience, and you know it covers many
years, I have seen nothing quite like it. Hypnotism, mental telepathy
and the old familiar tricks are very different matters. In your case
a sound mind in a sound body merges itself in closest communication
with another mind, equally sound and normal. I am wondering if you
could still read the doctor's thoughts if there was no common language
between you. Or is it his unspoken words that you read?"
The Diva reflected. "No, it is not his words. I feel sure I should know
his wishes even if there were no such things as words." Then, turning
to her lover: "Tell me, wicked one, do you have to think in words when
we talk together?--No, he says not."
"An amazing faculty!" murmured Dr. Cervini. "I have never seen nor
heard of such a case. You two, as I understand, can carry on an endless
conversation, and without a word from him."
"Yes, except, sometimes, names of people or of places. Then, if I don't
know them, he writes them for me."
"Could you read the thoughts of another person, do you think? Of
others, beside our invalid, here?"
"Oh, I am sure I don't know! I never tried. It's a terrible thought.
Could anything be more frightful than to know, at times, what people
really thought of you? No, no, Heaven forbid!"
Dr. Cervini laughed. "Oh, you would have little to fear on that score!"
Then, tapping the hand of the invalid, "But you and I, Doctor, we
professional sinners!--well--that would indeed be humiliating! Our
crosses would be heavy!"
The invalid smiled, then looked at the Diva. And the Diva laughed,
blushed and shook her head.
"What does he say?"
"It's too foolish to repeat. He's a silly boy."
"I insist upon knowing."
"He says----. No, no. I couldn't repeat it! His brain is affected. His
blond wits are wandering."
Dr. Cervini frowned and looked his fiercest. "What manners! Secret
messages in the very presence of a guest!"
"Well--he says the unspoken thoughts of a grateful world might
intoxicate me, and he doesn't enjoy drunkards."
Dr. Cervini laughed. "No, you are mistaken, Doctor. She has already
survived that test. No living conqueror has sailed in triumph on such
seas of glory. No other queen or goddess has achieved her victory
without losing something of the simplicity, the freshness and the charm
of youth. The hearts of men are hers. To entrance the world, to----"
"Stop! Stop!" Again the color came to her cheeks. "If you said it too
often, I might believe it, and then--adieu to all simplicity."
The two men protested--each in his own manner--against all denials of
their sincerity.
More serious conversation followed. Dr. Cervini, after final
instructions for the patient, departed, the Diva going with him to the
outer door. As usual at these partings, she pressed him for an honest
opinion of the patient's condition. And, as usual, it was favorable.
She laid a hand on his arm. "You are telling me the truth, aren't you,
old friend?"
"Yes. On my honor. In a fortnight he shall eat and drink and talk in
comfort. Believe me. Now, now! No tears! I know what a strain it is.
You have been simply magnificent all through these weary weeks. Don't
weaken now. The worst is over."
"Yes, I will be brave. But the hardest of all is to see him suffer. He
never complains. He tries so hard, so hard, to be cheerful! It seems,
at moments, as if I could bear it no longer."
"Go away for a week or two. I can bring an excellent nurse."
"No, no! Never that!"
"Then remember the child. It must not come into the world with the face
of a tragic mask; with weeping eyes and wrinkled brow."
She smiled and promised. But, after bidding him a cheerful good-by,
and when the door had closed, she dropped into a chair and pressed
both hands against her face. It was a determined effort to keep back
the tears. They came, however; but the luxury was brief. With an air
of somewhat fierce resolve she arose, stood just long enough before a
mirror to dry her eyes, then, humming the gayest of airs from a comic
opera, she went out into the loggia and rejoined the sufferer.
Meanwhile, Dr. Cervini descended the driveway of the villa to the
postroad. There he stopped, leaned upon the parapet and looked down
upon the scene below him; the little town at the foot of the hill, and
the sky-blue Adriatic.
At the sound of an approaching carriage he turned. The approaching
equipage was obviously patrician. It pertained to a lady of the High
Nobility. Save the two men in livery on the box and the Breath of
Scandal, this Countess was traveling alone. She and the Breath of
Scandal were boon companions. This intimacy bore no resemblance to the
corresponding intimacy among common people where purity is defiled,
homes ruined and good names besmeared. With the Countess the Breath of
Scandal became a sweet perfume--wafting around her person an intriguing
atmosphere of mystery, romance and patrician vice.
Friendly greetings passed between the lady and the doctor. Then the
lady asked for information. She suspected from something she had heard
that the Diva was in this vicinity.
"Now, tell me, Doctor. Where is she?"
"She? In this vicinity?"
"Come now, I am not to be deceived. You may as well tell me at once.
Where is she? You are one of her intimates and I saw you come down that
avenue. As the only truthful man in Austria, you may as well confess
that she lives at the end of it."
The truthful man raised his Mephistophelean eyebrows, smiled and slowly
shook his head. "Alas, I wish, indeed, she were there! There is a
villa, Countess, but no Diva in it."