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[Illustration]
TALES FROM THE OPERAS.
EDITED BY
GEORGE FREDERICK PARDON.
AUTHOR OF “THE FACES IN THE FIRE, ETC., ETC., ETC.”
[Illustration: colophon]
NEW YORK.
_CARLETON, PUBLISHER, 413 BROADWAY._
LONDON: JAMES BLACKWOOD.
M DCCC LXIV.
TO
MAX MARETZEK,
THIS
AMERICAN EDITION OF AN ENGLISH WORK
IS
INSCRIBED.
PREFACE.
The want of a book, which, while preserving all the force and spirit of
the original Operas, attempts the relation of the several narratives in
a graphic and pleasing style, has often, probably, been felt by the
patrons of the lyric drama. To supply such a want, and to provide all
classes of readers with an accurate and succinct knowledge of the
incidents on which are founded our most celebrated Operas, is the object
of the following pages. Whether the experiment has been successfully
carried out, the public, and the critics, must decide. Few who have
listened to the tragic story of Lucrezia; few who have wept with Norma
or laughed with Figaro, but will, it is believed, welcome their old
favorites of the theatre in their new literary costume. As it was
manifestly impossible to unravel the plots of _all_ the famous Operas in
one little book, only such of them have been detailed as are intimately
known to American audiences.
It is but right to add that these tales have had their origin, mainly in
the published Books of the Operas, aided always by a familiar
acquaintance with the Operas themselves, as they have been placed on the
boards of European and American theatres.
CONTENTS.
Page.
LUCREZIA BORGIA (_Donizetti_) 9
DON GIOVANNI (_Mozart_) 82
LA TRAVIATA (_Verdi_) 51
DON PASQUALE (_Donizetti_) 69
LA SOMNAMBULA (_Bellini_) 89
L’ELISIR D’AMORE (_Donizetti_) 100
IL BARBIERE DI SIVIGLIA (_Rossini_) 117
RIGOLETTO (_Verdi_) 138
I PURITANI (_Bellini_) 152
LA FIGLIA DEL REGGIMENTO (_Donizetti_) 166
NORMA (_Bellini_) 183
ROBERTO IL DIAVOLO (_Meyerbeer_) 195
IL TROVATORE (_Verdi_) 216
ERNANI (_Verdi_) 233
MARTHA (_Flotow_) 249
TALES FROM THE OPERAS.
LUCREZIA BORGIA. (DONIZETTI.)
CHAPTER I.
When Satan fell, some of the essence of the god-head pityingly
clung about him--hence those of men whose faces turn towards the
darkness have ever something of the god within them, which raises
them above the poor animals who eat and die.--_Montaigne._
The Venice of nearly four hundred years ago was a great, splendid, gay,
and powerful city. Gold was every day showered into the coffers of its
merchants from all parts of the earth, and every night there was
feasting, laughing, and dancing in Venice, the richest and the gayest
city in the world.
On the night when our story opens was being held at the Palazzo
Barberigo a masqued ball. All Venice, masqued, was there. The lamps
hanging in the trees, laughed at the water as it threw back the gay
colored rays of light which kissed it, in tremulous softness and beauty.
And there below on the still canal, the Giudecca, glided the silent
black gondolas, bearing gaily dressed cavaliers and dames to and from
the fête.
So silently the gondolas passed, that not a soul upon the shore knew a
boat had gone by, a boat, perhaps, from which peered out a jealous eye.
The gardens of the palace were large, and ever when the music ceased,
there were seen in all parts of it gay masquers, courting, talking,
singing, flirting, or watching.
Among the guests was Gennaro, young and beautiful as the nights of
Italy. With him was one of the great Orsini, even younger than himself,
and far gayer. Nay, he was but a boy. These two were ever together, in
peace or on the battle-field, at fêtes, or quietly at home.
So now amidst the group wherever walked Orsini, Gennaro had a place.
These two as they sauntered along with their friends, all either
carrying their masks in their hands, or else tied to their belts, these
two were deploring, and being pitied, for they were to leave Venice on
the morrow.
“Alas!” said one, “You will never like Ferrara, as you like the poorest
street in Venice.”
“But, still,” cried another, “‘tis something to form part of an
ambassador’s suite.”
“Faith,” cried a third, “I would sooner be as I am and in Venice.”
“Let me tell you Signors,” said a fourth, who was called Gubetta, a
Spaniard, and not in good repute, “let me tell you the court of Alfonzo
is superb, and as for Lucrezia Borgia”--
“What!” cried one, “name _her_, here, at a fête?”
“Pray ye be silent,” cried another.
“The Borgia,” said a third, “I abhor her very name.”
“In faith,” added another, “‘twould not be saying much for thee to say
that thou lovdst her.”
“As for us,” said the Orsini, whom they called Maffio, “we should dread
her more than any of you, if the sorcerer spoke truly.”
“Again a tale, Maffio,” said Gennaro. “Leave the Borgia alone, who cares
to hear of her.”
“No, no, Gennaro, let us hear the tale. Go on Maffio.”
“Then I’ll fain go to sleep,” said Gennaro. “Faith I could fall asleep
standing, when Orsini begins his long tales.”
“Signors, ’tis a good tale, though my friend has heard it before. See,
now, he has flung himself down on that seat. Well,--well, ’tis but two
ears the less. In the fatal battle of Rimini I was wounded; and while
lying on the ground, and dying as I thought, Gennaro found me, helped me
to horse, and bore me in safety from the field. In the shelter of a
wood he was dressing my wounds, and we had both sworn to live and die
together, when an aged man, clad in a dress falling to his feet, stood
before us. ‘Youths,’ said he, ‘shun the Borgia, go not near Lucrezia,
she is death.’ Then he was gone, gone. And the wind thrice whispered the
hated name. There--what think you of my tale? See you, Gennaro would not
listen to it, because he loveth not to be praised.
“A good tale but it does not prove thou shouldst shun the Borgia.”
“Whereof in proof, we go to Ferrara to-morrow. Bah! what Venetian need
fear the Borgia, while the dreaded lion of Venice can roar? Yet still,
sometimes, Signors, I fancy there may be some truth in the prophecy.”
“Let us wake Gennaro, let us ask him if he believes in the solemn
warning.”
“Oh, let him sleep. If he would rather dream than hear my tales, let him
dream.”
Here the swelling dance music reaching their ears, they gaily sauntered
to the palace, and soon the only person in the garden was Gennaro,
peacefully sleeping on a marble bench, his head resting on his arm, and
his face as tranquil as a little child’s.
There is a ripple o’er the dark canal--the reflexions of the colored
lamps are all broken up and scattered. ’Tis a gondola, silent and
sombre, which, in a little seething of water, stops just below the
terrace stairs.
Then from it steps a woman all clothed in heavy black; a black mask on
her face, a black fan in her hand. Nay, the very cross upon her neck is
jet.
The gondola from which she has stepped glides silently away, and leaves
her standing hesitatingly in the garden. Then she starts as she sees the
sleeping face turned towards the moonlight.
She moves towards the sleeper, darkly, noiselessly, her shoulders drawn
together; she is so desirous she may not be heard, that she might be
about to murder him as he sleeps. At last, close to him, she bends over
his sleeping face. Her hand is on his forehead. Lower and lower bends
her head. Awake, awake! But there is no fear. She has but kissed him. A
soft, noiseless kiss.
As she moves a few steps from him, her eyes still on his face, her arm
is touched.
“Signora!”
“Thou, Gubetta!”
“I fear for thee. Venice may guard thy life, but she cannot save thee
from insult.”
What does this mysterious woman think as her head droops? Truly she
should be insulted, all breathing men and women, and small children
even, abhor her name. Yet she was not born to such a fate. But the past,
the past, who shall recall the past. And then the vision of an aged man,
clad in a robe falling to the ground in heavy folds, comes before her,
and she trembles. As she looks on the sleeper, she asks herself how long
was it since she had slept so peacefully?
“Thou gazest upon the youth, Signora. Vainly have I sought to learn the
reason of thy secret journey from Ferrara here to Venice--perhaps this
youth.”
“Thou seek to read my acts--thou! Leave me.”
The man--a fair-looking man enough--bowed, and with quiet, measured
steps withdrew.
Then she came back to the sleeping man.
“How beautiful he is,” she thought. Never in her dreams had she imagined
him so beautiful. She almost cried with rapture as she looked on him.
Was this love? Yes. Guilty love? Nay; wait and read. Should she wake
him? No.
She removed her mask to wipe away her tears (fallen to good purpose--as
nearly all tears fall), and in those few moments her face was seen--not
by the youth upon the marble seat, but by the scowling eyes of a tall,
haughty-looking man, glaring from a treacherous gondola, which had
quietly stolen up, under cover of the night, and there lay still below
the terrace. Beside him stood a mean-looking creature whom he called
Rustighello. “It is she!”
“Truly, Signor.”
“And the youth, who is he?”
“A poor adventurer, without parents or country; people say he is brave.”
“What will not people say, good Rustighello? Try every art to lure him
to Ferrara, and to me--”
“There is no need for art. By chance, he will set out with Gruirani for
Ferrara.”
Slowly the gondola stole away with its watching secret.
“Sleep, sleep, poor youth, and good dreams wait on you. For me are
naught but sleepless nights and bitter watching.” She stooped again to
kiss him. He woke.
“Heavens! whom do I see?”
“I pray thee let me go!”
“Nay, nay, fair lady. On my faith--”
“Again I do implore thee, let me pass.”
“Nay, but a moment to admire thee, for I feel thou’rt beautiful. Oh! be
not afraid, I will not harm thee.”
“Surely not, Gennaro.”
“What! thou knowest me?”
“And thou couldst love me!”
“Who could not love the owner of so sweet a voice?”
“And thou couldst love me, Gennaro?”
“Surely, but not so dearly as I love one other I could name.”
“And she--and she?”
“Is my mother.”
“Thy mother! Oh my Gennaro, thou dost love her?” And she trembles
greatly, this unknown woman.
“I love her as I love my life.”
“And thinkst thou she loves thee?”
“Alas! I never saw her.”
“And yet thou lovest her?”
“It is a wretched tale which I do hide from all; but ah! to thee it
seems that I must tell it; for in thy face I read thou hast a noble
soul.”
“A noble soul!”
“I thought myself the son of a poor fisherman, with whom I spent my
early years. But one day came a noble stranger; he gave me money, a
splendid steed, bright arms, and, best of all, a paper. It was my
mother--it was my mother who had written it. The victim of a mighty man,
she feared for both our lives, and so would hide herself from me. She
bade me never seek her name; and to this hour never have I sought to
learn it.”
“And this paper!”
“See here!” and he took it from the bosom of his dress; “it never
leaveth me.”
“Perchance, Gennaro, she wept when she wrote it!”
“And have not _I_ wept, too, my mother--O my mother! But methinks I see
tears on thy face, lady.”
“Ah! yes, I weep for thee--for her.”
“For me! for her! Indeed, I think already that I love thee dearly.”
“Oh! ever love thy mother, youth; cling to her with all thy soul. Never
think ill of her when thou dost doubt most strongly; think ever how she
loves thee, and pity her, and hope that she may one day press thee to
her heart.”
“Ah! lady, no need hast thou to teach me this! I see her near me
always--gentle, loving, pure; she is my guardian angel. When I would do
ill, she comes upon me in my dreams, and smiles a welcome to me.”
“I hear footsteps, I must leave thee.”
“Why shouldst thou tremble?”
’Twas Orsini and the friends coming to seek for Gennaro. The youth
Maffio, seeing a lady near his friend, ran gaily forward to them; but
within a few paces, and just as the lady was rising her mask to her
face, he saw her--saw her, to start and turn pale, brave as he was; saw
her, to call on Heaven, and ask himself her name.
He ran back to his companions, uttered but two words, and each man was
amazed. One laid his hand upon the spot where his dagger would have
been, but that at fêtes all arms were rendered at the door. Another
placed his hand upon his mouth and gazed in horror.
“Gennaro,” whispered the unknown lady, “I must leave thee.”
“Yet deign to tell who thou art?”
“One whose life is loving thee.”
“Thy name!”
“I will reveal it,” cried Orsini, coming forward, and speaking savagely,
unmercifully.
As the woman heard these words, and recognized the voice, she flinched,
and strove to run from the place.
But they stopped her; each way she made a step, on each side stood a
stern, unyielding man. They stood about her, yet not near her.
“Gennaro, Gennaro; help!”
“Signors!” cried the youth, “what wouldst thou? This lady I protect; he
that insults her is my friend no longer.”
“We would wish to tell the lady who we are, and tell thee who she is,”
cried they earnestly, and yet with something of mockery in their tones,
“then she may go; we shall have no wish to keep her with us.”
“I, for one, am that Maffio Orsini, whose brother you murdered as he
slept.”
“And I, I am that man whose aged uncle you destroyed on his threshold.”
“While I, fair lady, am the nephew of one who died quaffing your wine.”
“I, Petruci, O lady, am cousin to him whose dominions you stole.”
“And I was the friend of the man, who sleeps, by your will, beneath the
Tiber.”
Hopeless all her appeals, hopeless that she falls on her knees before
them. Each strikes the air with his arm as he addresses her; not one
feels pity.
“Who, then, is this woman?” said Gennaro; “dare I hear?”
“Gennaro, do not believe them; they mistake me.”
“Oh! no mistake, lady,” cried out Orsini; “remove thy mask. She is the
woman who hath shamed all women; she is the woman whom all ages shall
abhor; whose breath is poison, whose look is death, whom Heaven pities
too much to destroy.”
“Spare me! spare me!”
“As thou hast spared.”
“Be merciful; there is yet time. Gennaro, see, I cling to thee; forbid
them. Be merciful, signors! spare me!”
“As thou hast spared.”
Then the Orsini tore the mask from her face.
“BEHOLD HER--LUCREZIA BORGIA.”
What! is this the gentle face that wept over the sleeping youth? Look on
it! like a demon’s as she springs from her knees--defiant, fearless, no
longer suppliant; degraded, but not shamed. “Beware!” she cries, as the
gentlemen shun her, turning away from her--as Gennaro turns from her.
“Beware, you who have shown no mercy! beware!”
CHAPTER II.
IN FERRARA. No longer in the city of waters, and palaces, and gay
feastings. In Ferrara, where the Borgias reign. Where the cruel Duke
Alfonzo reigns, where also his cruel wife is Duchess, the terrible
Lucrezia Borgia.
See, in this grand square, there is the palace of the duke. Mark his
arms carved over the gateway, the awful name Borgia swelling from the
stone beneath.
The new Venetian ambassador with his suite had arrived.
It is night-time, and plot and murder are awake.
Look! is not this the figure of the tall, proud-looking man who watched
the Borgia from a gondola in Venice. And the man with him, ’tis he who
told of Gennaro.
They are walking slowly across the square.
“So, then, he has arrived in the ambassador’s suite.”
“Surely; I have been his shadow. That house is his abode.”
“Ah, she would fain have him near the palace.”
“And in it, Signor, if Gubetta speaks the truth.”
“It shall be his tomb.”
“The Signor hears that music, ’tis from _his_ house. The youth makes
merry with his friends. ’Tis just the same each night, they only sleep
at dawn.”
“Let him take a long farewell of them, ’tis the last time they shall
carouse with him.”
With angry strides he went up to the ducal house. No need to knock. Too
secret-loving was this man for that. Slowly a small door opened, and he
and his companion entered.
Far different from these two gloomy men were the half dozen laughing
youths who now came trooping away from Gennaro’s wine cups. He came from
the house with them, willing as host to show he did not love to part
with them.
“Good bye, good bye, dear friends.”
“Good bye Gennaro,” cried the others; and Orsini added, “Thou hast the
gravest face amongst us, thou art ever sad.”
“No, no.” But, truth to tell, his thoughts were ever with his unknown
mother.
“Now I tell thee that this night thou shalt be gay. The Princess Negroni
gives a ball to-night, where a thousand beauties shall be found, and
thou must come, Gennaro. And if any one of you be not invited, let him
speak. He will speak well, for on my word, I keep the ball-room door.”
Said they, one after the other.--“I am bidden, and I, and I.”
“And I also, Signors,” said a fresh voice.
“What, Signor Bevarana!”
“Or Gubetta,” said Orsini.
“That man seems every where; indeed, I do begin to doubt him,” said
Gennaro, softly to Orsini.
“Oh, fear not,” said the other, carelessly. “He is a man of pleasure,
like ourselves, and fain not be alone if he can find him company. Thou
art still sad, Gennaro.”
“Oh,” cried one laughingly. “Perchance the Borgia has enchanted him.”
“That woman’s name again. I swear, Signors, I hate the sound of it.”
“Ha! ha!” laughed another. “How darst thou speak thus so near her
palace?”
“Her palace. I would I could brand her forehead, as I can and will the
wall that bears her name.”
As they wondered what he meant, he unbuckled his sword, took hold of it
as it was sheathed by the point, and running to the palace door,
clambered from boss to boss of the carved stone work till he got near
the name “Borgia,” jutting from the face of the doorway. Then he raised
the sword, beat its hilt down upon the “B” commencing the name, and in a
few moments the letter, splintered to fragments, lay upon the ground.
So those who stood below read on the proud door, and beneath the proud
arms of the Borgias, the meaning word “Orgia.”
“Great heaven, Gennaro!” Even the brave Orsini was frightened, and the
others looked at each other in terrible inquiry, as they read the
terrible truth--“Orgia.”
Said Gubetta, whom they had insolently called Beverana, “In faith, that
jest may cost thee dear.”
“In faith, I can pay my debts, Signor.”
“See, Gennaro, there are eyes watching us,” said Orsini; not meaning
Gubetta, but two men, dressed in the flowing black cloaks of the time,
like shrouds for sin, who met some little distance off in the square,
and seemed to defy each other.
The youth Gennaro made no reply to the warning, but gaily saying “good
bye, good bye;” turned to his house, and entered it, while the
roysterers dispersed in different directions.
The men of the cloaks still seemed to defy each other furtively; still
remained; not standing quiet, and yet not walking with a purpose. The
sounds of the tripping footsteps dying away, these two men approached
each other, each with his arms wrapped in his cloak, and, perhaps, each
with his right hand on his sword.
“Why does the Signor wait here?”
“The Signor is waiting for thy going. And Signor himself?”--
“Is waiting to see thee leave this square.”
“Prythee, why art thou here?”
“Perhaps the young Venetian who lives here, and for whom _thou_ art
waiting!”
“I?”
“Yes, where goest thou with him?”
“Stand back, in the name of the _duchess_.”
“Stand back thyself, in the name of the DUKE.”
“The duchess is powerful!”
“The duke is death.”
“Now who shall conquer?”
“We will see.”
A sharp, yet low whistle, from the lips of this last speaker, who stood
beside the duke, when he watched his duchess away there in Venice, and
watched her from a gondola. Barely had the whistle whispered through
the air, than a score of soft-footed men, each like each, enveloped in a
shroud-like cloak, surrounded him who had spoken by the duchess.
“Beware--the duchess.”
“Be silent, and depart. This youth hath offended the duke. Be silent,
and fear not.”
They carried him away with them, and in the wide square only stood the
duke’s servant, watching Gennaro’s house.
CHAPTER III.
Go we now to the grand palace, where the husband and wife watched each
other ceaselessly, each ever fearing death at the hands of the other. A
happy palace, truly.
See, standing there, in that splendid royal room, are the duke and
Rustighello, who had stood watching Gennaro’s house.
“Well?”
“All is done, sire. The prisoner is now within the palace.”
Keeping his eyes fixed upon the other’s face, the duke drew from his
waist a small golden key. “‘Tis to unlock the hidden door of a hidden
staircase, to be crept up, till a little chamber is reached. Then there
are two vases, one of gold, and one of silver, each filled with wine, to
be brought down, carried to the next room, and there be ready. Let not
the golden vase tempt him, for it holds the wine of the Borgias. Then,
if he be called, let him bring the vases; but if there be no call, then,
good Rustighello, thy sword.”
Then this mighty duke starts as a servant at the door announces “the
Duchess.”
Forward she comes, sparkling with rage and diamonds; no longer dressed
in heavy black, but in rich rustling brocade, a sweeping coronet of
jewels round her head.
“The duchess seems unquiet.”
“Enraged. I come here to call for justice. A shameful crime hath been
committed, the name of thy duchess has been degraded.”
“Softly, duchess, I know it.”
“And thou dost not punish the offender; doth he still live?”
“Live? Yes. That thou mayest destroy him, duchess. Nay, he will be
before thee in another minute.”
“Let him be whom he may, I demand his life, and in my presence, duke.
Thou wilt give me thy word for this, my lord?”
“I do, most heartily, dear duchess. I give thee my sacred word.”
Then, to a page, who has entered after the duchess:
“Let the prisoner be brought forward.”
“Duchess, thou tremblest, thou dost know this man.”
This man is Gennaro, brought in before the angry duke and duchess, and
standing fearlessly.
“I--I do not know him.”
“Pray, may I ask the duke why I am here--why I have been torn from my
house? May I dare to ask the meaning of such rigor?”
“Good captain--draw near. Some coward wretch has dared to touch the
noble name of Borgia written on this palace door, nay, to destroy the
name. The duchess, even as I speak, trembles with anger at the act. We
seek the guilty one; perhaps thou knowest him?”
“It was not he--my lord--it was not he,” cried Lucrezia.
“Ah! duchess--duchess--how shouldst _thou_ know?”
“He! he was elsewhere when it was done. ’Twas some of his companions
dared----”
“No--no--that is not true.”
“Thou hearest, duchess. Now tell me, captain, and sincerely--art thou
not he who dared to do this act.”
“I’m not much used to hesitate, therefore I say _I_ am the man.”
Slowly he turned to the miserable duchess. “Thou dost mark his words”
(how lowly the duke spoke!) “Thou dost mark his words, and I gave thee
my sacred promise.”
“Alfonzo, Alfonzo, I would speak with thee alone.”
“Oh! surely. A moment, captain, but a moment. Well! duchess mine, we are
alone. What wouldst thou ask?”
“The life of this poor youth.”
“Do I hear rightly? And but now such anger as thou didst show!”
“I pity him. ’Twas but a passing anger. I acted but in jest; he is too
young to think of consequences. Again, to what good his death? Pardon
him. Have pity on him. Let him live.”
“No, no, dear lady mine, my word is pledged. I never break my word.”
“Nay, dear duke, but _I_ insist. And why, thou seemest to ask? ’Twere
ungenerous to refuse thy consort a poor favor such as this. What is the
youth to me? Pardon him. Have pity on him. Let him live.”
“No, no. What! pardon him who hath insulted _thee_! No, thou didst ask
his death. And if _I_ could pardon him,--nor could I--for thy dear sake
I would not.”
“Let us both pardon, and be clement, duke, for clemency is glorious in
us all, and most of all in kings.”
“No king am I, but a poor duke. I cannot spare him, duchess.”
“Why shouldst thou be so angry with this same Gennaro?”
“Dost thou not know?”
“I?”
“Dost thou not LOVE him? Ah! thou dost start, Lucrezia. Even now I read
in that face of thine thy crime.”
“Don Alfonzo!”
“Nay, do not speak--”
“If I swear?”
“It were useless. What! shall I _never_ be revenged on thee? If I may
not strike thee openly, shall I let pass this hope of wounding thee?”
“Pardon, Don Alfonzo.”
“Pardon!”
“For pity’s sake.”
“What, canst _thou_ speak of pity--thou, Lucrezia?”
“Don Alfonzo, dear husband.” On her knees to him, clinging to him, her
eyes dilated, her lips dry and white.
But he stands immovable. Looks down on her unyieldingly. Why, her very
humiliation enrages him. For does not this poor unknown wretch, this
Venetian, beat down her pride as he, duke and powerful, hath never,
never beaten it down yet!
“Thou dost not answer. BEWARE!”
Once more she is the terrible duchess, and if the duke wear opal, let it
warn him.
“I know thee, duchess. I have known thee long, Lucrezia. But forget not
I am duke, and in Ferrara. Thou art in my power. Ah! well, I’m not
unreasonable. I grant thee somewhat. Thou shalt choose the manner of his
death. Or poison, or sword. Pray now choose!”
“I--I cannot.”
“Let him then be--stabbed.”
“No, no.”
“Stabbed--stabbed.”
“No, not blood, not blood.”
“The poison. _Thou_ dost choose his death. Pray be seated.--Enter
captain, enter. The duchess is all-powerful with me. Why, I cannot tell,
but she pardons thy crime, and bids thee go in peace. Italy would grieve
to lose so handsome a son.”
“The duke pardons me. Ah! well, now that I can speak without the look of
cowardice and hope of mercy, I may tell the duke that his clemency has
fallen on a man who doth deserve it. For thy father, surrounded by the
enemy, would have died but for the arm of a poor adventurer.”
“The adventurer, good captain, was--”
“My very self.”
“Duke, duke,” lowly, and pulling his dress, “he saved thy father’s
life--spare him.”
“The duchess speaks to me, but so lowly that I scarce can hear her. So
thou didst save my father’s life--wilt follow his son’s standard?”
“Pardon me, I’m bound by oath to Venice, and oaths are binding.”
“Surely. Oaths are binding--is it not so, duchess? Well, well, good
captain, take a golden present.”
“No, I am not rich, yet rich enough.”
“Thou art hard to please, fair captain. At least a draught of wine
thou’lt drink with me. At last thou dost agree. The duchess, here, for
once, will e’en turn cup-bearer. Nay, nay, nay, duchess, do not leave
us; generous-minded thou hast been to him, and now be more so.
Rustighello, bring us wine.” He almost towered higher than his actual
stature, as he looked upon the suffering woman. “Place the cups
there--for me the silver one--the golden to the captain. Now, duchess,
pour, pour. Nay, nay, duchess, the golden vase and golden cup do go
together, and silver to the silver. Now, mark, good captain, the duchess
will bear the cup to thee herself.”
Slowly she takes the cup, slowly she carries it to the captain. And thus
he holds it, wondering at the kindness of these people, whom he has
always thought so harsh and full of hate.
“Lady, I did not dream of pardon, and, methinks, my mother, whom I know
doth pray for me, hath by her dearest prayers inclined thee and the duke
to gracious mercy. I drink to the duke and duchess.”
Courteously the duke relieves the captain of the emptied goblet, lightly
places it upon the table, then slowly creeping, like a reptile, he goes
up to the duchess and says, softly, “Thou hast perchance somewhat to say
to him. Permit me to retire.”
Why does a hopeful flush rush over her face? Why does she touch her
bosom with a trembling hand? Why again does her countenance express so
much emotion?
The young captain sees her accompany the duke to the doors. The duke
bows to him profoundly, and then his back is turned. What next? She
stands listening for a moment or so, then rushes madly towards the
youth, who looks alarmedly about the room in which are present only
their two selves.
As she runs to him she takes her hand from her breast. “Gennaro, thou
art poisoned; do not move; quickly take this phial, and begone. A single
drop will save thee.”
She stands a little away from him, and draws her dress on one side as
she gives him the phial, so that it may hide her hand. When he has it,
she presses his hand round it, so that it cannot be seen, and then she
stands away from him.
What does he think as he stands there, now full of terror? Death faced
on the battle field or on the scaffold may be met calmly; but to die
poisoned, treacherously destroyed by a lie, it would make a god tremble.
Fool, that for a moment he had trusted the court of Ferrara; and this
antidote, perchance ’twas death; perchance the wine had _not_ been
poisoned! He had insulted _her_ more deeply than he had the duke.
Distrustful and terror-stricken, he stands hesitatingly.
“Drink, drink, he deemed thee his rival.”
As he looks on her face his heart turns towards her--he knows not why,
but he believes her--he seems to think she wills that he shall believe
her, he sees in the proud face nothing but love for him, not a guilty
love. No, she looks, this terrible woman, as his mother might look upon
him.
“Drink, save thyself--for--_for thy mother’s sake_.”
Ah! it has decided him, he raises the little bottle to his lips, and he
is saved.
She knows now he will obey her.
She runs quickly to a secret door--for such a palace must have secret
doors--and slides it open; by a gesture she bids him enter, presses his
long hanging sleeve to her breast as he passes her--and he is gone.
Then, as she closes the door, she is a lioness guarding her young. She
folds her arms and stands there waiting. The gentleness of face which
bade the soldier drink the antidote is gone. She stands there--awful,
terrible, alone. No one now--no one now beyond the known and hated
LUCREZIA BORGIA.
CHAPTER IV.
The night was come, and the Princess Negroni’s palace was a blaze of
light. The grand ball spoken of by Orsini, was taking place, and all
Ferrara was there. At one table, drinking and singing, were Orsini,
Gennaro, and most of the young lords who were present at the unmasking
of the Borgia at Venice. They were chiefly in the suite of the Venetian
ambassador, and now, as on the night at Venice, they were all together,
as friends should be.
“Would you believe it, Signors,” said the Orsini, gaily, “you see
Captain Gennaro here by the merest chance. He was furiously preparing to
fly us, when I came upon him. To Venice; would you believe it, he was
departing for Venice. ‘What,’ said I, ‘did we not swear to live and die
together? and now dost thou leave me?’ ’True,’ said he, ‘yet--’ But,
Signoras, I would not let him go. ‘No, no,’ said I, ‘come thou to the
fête with us, and I promise I will start with thee at dawn.’ So, behold,
we are both here.”
Applause, followed by discussion of wines. One was for Madeira, another
for Rhenish; but all were of one opinion, that every kind of wine was
good.
The hours crept on, the guests departed, yet was the table of the
Venetians occupied by the Venetians themselves, and by many ladies,
amongst them the Princess.
Gubetta was there, and kept his watchful eye upon them all.
“I am tired already, and will go.”
“‘Tis he again,” cried Orsini; “‘tis Gennaro who spoke. Gennaro, hear my
new ballad.”
“Ah, ah.”
“Who dareth to laugh at me?”
“I, Gubetta, and the rest of us. Thou art an eminent poet, truly.”
“An insult, Signors.”
“If laughing is insulting thee, I do; ah, ah.”
“Castilian renegade!”
“Roman bully!”
In a moment the place was in confusion. The women fled, the seats were
overturned, and the Orsini and his enemy had armed themselves with
knives from the table, for it was the wise custom to deliver arms at the
door where feasts and rejoicings were held.
“Respect the Princess,” said one, holding back the Orsini.
“The guard will break open the doors,” said a second, restraining the
Spaniard.
“To-morrow, Signors, to-morrow.”
“When you may fight with swords.”
“And not with knives like highwaymen.”
“Signors,” said the spy, Gubetta, now that his ruse for removing the
women had succeeded. “Signors, I was wrong.”
“Truly; and to prove it, Orsini shall sing us his song.”
“Orsini _will_.”
“Wine, wine.”
“Truly, Signors, wine.” Thus Gubetta. “There, cup-bearer. My faith,
Signors, this is Siracusa, the noblest drink. Let me pour for you.” And
he took the tankard, no one wondering where the bearer of it sprung
from. Nay, they took each a cup, and crowded round the Spanish spy, each
calling laughingly for a share of the Siracusa.
“Nay, nay, Signors--there is enough for all.”
“Thou hast poured all out, Gubetta. Thou hast none--now drink with me,
Orsini, from the same cup. ’Twill drown our quarrel.”
“Nay, Signor Orsini, as a punishment on me, drink thou the whole draught
thyself.”
“Obedience is good-will. Behold--the cup is empty.”
“Orsini! Orsini! the song.”
“Here ’tis.”
“‘Oh, I’ll teach you the secret I’ve taught me,
I mean the sure way to be glad,
’Tis--or cloudy--or freezing--or sunshine,
Oh! never, oh! never be SAD.
“Oh!--oh--sing, drink, and laugh at the madmen
Who give to the future a thought;
Let to-morrow look after to-morrow,
For double is trouble when sought.”
Hark--as the last note dies away, there is a slow chanting without.
“THE JOY OF THE PROFANE IS A PASSING SMOKE.”
As the solemn sound reaches them, the very light seems to pass away. For
it is late, and the lights are dying out.
“What voices are these?”
“‘Tis a jest.”
“Bah--another verse.”
“Oh--’tis ready.”
“Let us smile on the youth that smiles on us,
For youth of all joys is the crown;
While if death for a moment draw nigh us,
And he should ungraciously frown.
“Oh!--oh--sing, drink, and laugh at that madman
Who gives to the future a thought;
Let to-morrow look after to-morrow,
For double is trouble when sought.”
“THE JOY OF THE PROFANE IS BUT A PASSING SMOKE.”
“Again those sounds!”
“See--see, how the lights are going out.”
“Gennaro, I can barely see thee.”
“Orsini, Orsini, here.”
“Methinks this is no jest,” cried another.
And the six came close together. Amongst them was no Gubetta.
A moment or two of bated breath, still the lights are fading. Another
moment, and the room is almost dark as midnight.
“Let us fly.”
They drew to the great door, sped rapidly up the steps, and then the
whole six stood motionless, their hands pressing against the unyielding
doors.
They came down from the steps, but the next moment the doors swung open,
and as they turned towards them, thinking, perhaps, for a moment, that
it _was_ a jest--behold there stood Lucrezia Borgia, looking down on
them, proud, triumphant--a demon. Behind her were men-at-arms, ready to
do her utmost will.
“Lost!--lost!--lost!”
“Yes, Signors. Lost. You gave me a ball at Venice. In return I give you
a supper here in Ferrara. For you, my guests, I have prepared five
shrouds, which shall enwrap you when the poison now coursing through
your blood, hath diligently done its duty.”
“Five did’st thou say? But here are six of us!”
“Oh heavens, Gennaro!”
Then rapidly she turned to the guard behind her; almost by a gesture she
bade them remove the destroyed gentlemen, and coming down the steps,
called to Gennaro to remain.
Helpless--lost--they showed no spirit. Hope had utterly left them. They
embraced their friend Gennaro one after the other, and went mournfully
from the hall. Gennaro alone remaining, she ran swiftly to the doors,
bidding one close them, and ordering that whatever happened, no one
should enter the room.
“Thou wert here, Gennaro, thou wert here.”
“Near my friends, lady.”
“Again thou art poisoned.”
“And my friends, lady?”
Suddenly her face lit up. “The antidote, the antidote I gave thee.”
Love of life is strong--so he felt for the little bottle, and he held it
before her.
“Drink it.”
“No--with my friends I either live or die.”
She took the little bottle, looked at it agonizingly, and then said,
“There is barely enough for thee. Holy virgin, he has cast it to the
ground.”
“But if I must die, thou demon--if I, my friend, my dear Orsini, if we
all die, shalt thou live--thou? Ah! thou also hast reached death; none
will come to help thee; hast thou not closed the door thyself. Prepare
thee, thou shalt die!”
See how the knife glitters in the pale moonlight as it sweeps high up
into the air.
“Gennaro! Gennaro! wouldst thou kill me?”
“On thy knees. I grant thee that mercy, die on thy knees.”
“I forbid thee!”
“Thou forbid me, thou who hast destroyed me. To thy knees! To thy
knees!”
He forces her to her knees. Again the avenging steel is high in the air.
Another moment and he shall thrust it downwards through the air--down,
down, into her wicked heart. But she speaks five words--and see! The
steel has fallen from his hand, and is lying harmless on the floor, his
hands are clasped upon his head, and she may kill him without fear and
so save herself. What is it then she has said? The words were:--
“Hold--thou art a Borgia.”
Hark to what he whispers. “I--I a Borgia?”
“Thy ancestors were mine. Thou durst not shed the blood of thy people.”
“I--I a Borgia?”
“What have I said? have I forbidden thee to kill me? Rather I should bid
thee kill me, for each day I die a thousand deaths. And thou, oh live,
live, Gennaro. If thou canst save thyself, and if thou wilt not, thou
dost destroy thyself. See, see, the phial is not broken. Thou canst yet
be saved. Ah! thou takest it from my hand. Drink! drink!”
“I--I a Borgia?”
“Drink. No, do not hear that sound, ’tis nothing--’tis but the wind.”
“Oh Maffio, ’tis thy voice, the poison kills thy youth the first. Good
bye, good bye.”
“They shall live, if thou wilt save thyself. For thy mother’s sake.”
“How darest thou name my mother?”
“And who may name her, if not I?”
“Perchance, thou didst destroy her also.”
“Ah, no! she lives.”
“She lives, she lives, and I shall never see her.”
Here the quick poison struck him so that he reeled against a high Gothic
pillar to save himself from falling, and as his hands lay on his breast,
he leaned his head slowly backward, and still he cried “Mother, mother,
that I could die in her arms. Back, back, woman, do not touch me. Oh,
mother! mother!”
“A woman, guilty, yet penitent, quailing and kneeling at the feet of him
whom she has slain, who lowers her head as I do mine, and fearingly doth
shut out sight by covering her eyes with both her hands, as I do,
Gennaro. This woman is thy mother.”
As she spoke, he was sustaining himself against the Gothic pillar, like
a brave man as he was, willing to meet death standing--rocking round the
pillar from right to left, and clinging to it with weak hands.
But the last words stay him. Rigid he stands for a moment, then as she
flinches away from him, yet stretching out her arms, he falls down, and
to her breast.
“In my mother’s arms. At last in my mother’s arms, I die.”--And as her
arms crept round him he was dead.
* * * * *
As he lay there, she looking on him, the doors were opened,
notwithstanding her orders, and there at the head of the steps stood the
duke and many ladies. No fear now had she of him, her Gennaro was dead.
He might come and scorn, upbraid, insult her now. No matter, she did not
care.
Hark! she speaks.
“He was my son, my hope, my comfort. He would have saved me. Where now
is hope? All lost. All lost. Heaven hath turned from me.”
Her head fell and her cheek lay against her child’s.
They went to lift her. And then they learnt that she was dead.
So, destroyed by the only godlike evidence she ever had, the love she
bore her child, lay Lucrezia Borgia, cold upon the palace floor.
[NOTE.--The general notion of Lucrezia Borgia seems to partake of
the nature of a popular error. Though the sister to the great
Cesare was not, perhaps, the most discreet lady in the world, and
though drama, opera, and tale have represented her as “the great
poisoner of the fifteenth century,” no authentic account of a crime
of this nature has yet appeared. It is true that she married
thrice, and that tradition gives her a hand in the deaths of two of
her husbands, but no criminal charge has been really substantiated
against her. It is well that the truth be told of so famous a
historical personage, even though a whole library of fine fiction
be thereby destroyed. She lived in a profligate court, and was
doubtless witness to many flagitious scenes, but that is all that
can be said against her. On the other side of the picture we have
her charities, her beauty, her wisdom, and her devotion, in the
latter years of her life, to virtue and religion.--ED.]
DON GIOVANNI. (MOZART.)
(DON JUAN.)
CHAPTER I.
A tale whispered and told to children all Spain through. And why should
not a statue have power to speak?
Don Juan lived in a city of Castille, lived a godless, reckless life;
and as for that matter so did his factotum Leporello. If the don climbed
a ladder, Leporello held it; if the don had to be thrashed, Leporello
often caught the blows. He might have had a better service, and he
frequently complained of the don’s, but he did not leave it till the don
had no further need of a factotum.
One night he was watching as usual, and grumbling as usual, “what a life
was his, to be harassed day and night, blown by the wind, cut at by the
rain, robbed of sleep, and all for what? no wages paid, and half
starvation.” For the thousandth time he had resolved to get him a new
master, when the noise of footsteps made him discreetly retire.
Next moment where he had been standing, was a woman striving to detain a
cavalier, and calling all the time for help.
“Let me go, I say, for thine own sake, let me go.”
“Help, help.”
A quick, heavy step, and a third person was there, an old man, his white
hair streaming in the moonlight.
The lady let go her hold, as the new comer ran forward, his sword
bravely out before him.
Yet he did not at once fall on this thief coming in the night time. He
called on him to defend himself.
Said the other, placing himself, so that the golden braid about him
glistened in the moonlight, “Begone, my sword is not crossed with such
as yours.”
“Defend yourself, I say.”
“Ah! dotard, if thou bravest me.”
A little sawing of the swords, a click or two, and the white hair is
touching the dust.
“Dead, by the rood!” exclaimed the cavalier, wiping his sword. “Here,
Leporello, here!”
“Sinner that I am--behold me, master. Thou art not killed--then the old
man is?”
“Surely, the old can better be spared than the young.”
“Rare, rare, my master, to break into the chamber of the daughter, and
to kill the father, both in one night. Rare, oh! rare.”
“By my faith, he thrust himself upon my sword. Come, let us go. See,
torches are flickering near.”
And without fear or hurry, the young don moved away, not swaggeringly,
yet audaciously, followed by the trembling Leporello.
Another moment, and the light of torches was gleaming on the face of the
dead. The old man’s daughter, Donna Anna, had hastened away for
assistance, and returned with it but to find her father slain, the warm
blood gurgling out from his heart on to the cold and thirsty ground.
With her was the Don Ottavio, her betrothed, but he was nothing to her
in her grief, as she leant over her dead father.
Then came the solitary procession, bearing one dead into his house, who
but a little while agone was hale and strong, even in his age.
Meanwhile, the don was forgetting the tragedy.
Even the next evening he was in the streets with Leporello, seeking some
new adventures.
“Well, Leporello, and pray what is it thou hast to tell me?”
“It is important--it is grave.”
“Better and better.”
“Now good master, promise not to be wrath.”
“So that it doth not relate to Don Pedro.”
“Unless thou art Don Pedro, it doth not relate to him.”
“Speak out!”
“Verily, thy life is infamous!”
“Rapscallion.”
“And thy promise, good master, thy promise.”
“What! thou darst to suppose _I_ keep promises.”
“To _me_, yes, of a verity, I’m dumb, I’m dumb.”
“The way to friendship. Now, why am I here?”
“An affair. The name of the damsel, for my list, good master, for the
perfectioning of my list.”
“Write her down Venus, for she hath her form. I shall whisper her at the
Casino; but tarry a little, here cometh one--whom--”
“In truth my master hath a good eye.”
“At a glance, I see she is handsome.”
“And also she hath a brave eye!”
“Let us retire a little.”
“He hath fired already. O rare.”
Into the shadow they crept (the don dealt largely in shadows.)
’Twas a Spanish beauty, and a pensive beauty, who came slowly along.
“Lepo, ’tis a damsel who hath need of condolement.”
“He hath condoled with many of them, this master of mine.”
“Senorita, Senorita. Heaven!”
“Ha! ’tis Donna Elvira; O rare--rare.”
“‘Tis you, Don Juan--monster, robber!”
“‘Tis an old acquaintance, as one shall read by the tongue.”
“Donna! quiet, quiet (what misfortune); if thou wilt not believe me,
thou’lt believe this worthy gentleman.”
“In faith! that’s Leporello--”
“He’ll tell thee all; I pray thee turn to him.”
And the lady doing so, the don took advantage of the shadow, and was off
anywhere.
“Well, villain, speak!”
“In faith, good lady, it may be declared, seeing the world we live in,
that a square is ne’er a round, or equally a round a square; and yet--”
“Cease, scrub; and thou, Don Juan--gone! The monster hath gone! Which
way?”
“Ah! marry, which way! though wherefore shouldst thou care; he is not
worth the kindness of so considerable a lady.”
“Ah, he leaves me!”
“By your leave, lady, ’tis not the first lady he hath fled from. Have I
not here a book, which hath weight in it, I warrant thee; and if it be
not filled with the names of the ladies he hath fled from, with the
particulars of their birth, parentage, and residences, the evil one hath
played false with my handwriting, or some good angel hath, in pity to my
master, wiped out the faithful record. See now, in Italy he flies me six
hundred and forty; in Germany, he hath ruined two hundred and
thirty-one; one hundred in France; thou shalt repeat me that number for
Turkey; but here in Spain he hath destroyed the peace of one thousand
and three.”
Here the serving man dutifully followed his master into shadow, and
scudded away harder and harder when he heard the pattering of little
feet behind him.