The supper was laid, the don seated. He had forgotten his guest. He sat
lightly at table, leaning back in a great crimson chair, and chattering
gaily to his servant and friend.
“Leporello, I shall eat a supper as large as thy eyes when thou art
frightened.”
“Rare, master, rare.”
“This is a good dish, Leporello.”
“My faith, but I would e’en eat of it too. I would he would ask me.”
“Another plate, good Leporello. Pour out some wine, Leporello.”
“Verily, if I do not eat, I shall fail in my strength. Faith, I will
steal, ’tis not much more on my conscience.”
“Leporello, my friend, whistle.”
“He fain would stay my eating.”
“Marry, how doth a man whistle, master?”
“Not with his mouth full.”
“Master, lay it down that ’tis no fault of mine. The cook is too good;
he is a tempter.”
Here there sounded a terrible tramp which shook the mansion.
“Preserve us, saints; what is that my master?”
Again the awful sound broke over the house.
“‘Tis a wondrous uncouth noise, Leporello!”
Again the sound came, like the footsteps of an iron-shod giant.
“Go thou to the door.”
Yet once more the footsteps sounded. Nearer now.
The servant ran from the room and then came staggering back, shutting
the folding doors after him, as though for safety.
“Help, master! help! methinks I am dying!”
Yet once more the sound was heard. Then a summons at the door of the
room called the don’s attention.
“Leporello, some one knocketh--open.”
Still this man’s courage held good. Surely he was as courageous as
wicked.
“Open the door, I say.”
“Nay, master, I cannot move.”
“Then must I.”
And he went to the door, and opened it. There stood the white statue of
the murdered Don Pedro. Implacable, destructive.
“DON JUAN, THOU DIDST INVITE ME TO THY SUPPER; BEHOLD THY GUEST!”
Still mighty in his courage at least.
“I did not expect thee. Leporello, fresh dishes.”
“Master, master, we are lost!”
“MY PRESENCE HERE IS THAT I MAY SPEAK WITH THEE!”
“Thou art polite.”
“THOU HAST INVITED ME TO THY TABLE--WILT THOU BE MY GUEST?”
Here the first evidence of fear showed itself, in nervously tearing a
candle from its socket and quickly walking round the visitor. As he
ended that tour, he trembled, and the wax-light fell from his hand.
But he suddenly seemed to find fresh courage, and he flung himself
easily into a chair.
“WILT THOU BE MY GUEST?”
“By the rood, master, say thou we are engaged.”
“I will come with thee; I will be thy guest. I never yet feared; I never
will.”
“THEN THOU ACCEPTEST?”
“Good master, if you love me, say no. This master of mine will surely
destroy me.”
“I say I will be thy guest.”
“THY HAND UPON IT.”
“Behold it!”
Then he trembled again, for as he touched the hand the chill of death
crept through him.
“REPENT, AMEND THY LIFE, OR DIE!”
This was a threat, so it renewed all his fatal courage.
“I will not repent; I will not amend my life! Let me die, then!”
“REPENT, I SAY, AMEND THY LIFE, OR THOU SHALT SURELY DIE!”
“No, no, no!”
“THY TIME HAS PAST--’TIS TOO LATE TO HOPE--DIE!”
“What is this sudden fear which weighs me down? Lost, lost! I see the
flames rising to me. Lost, lost!”
SO, IF WE REPENT NOT WE SHALL SURELY DIE.
LA TRAVIATA. (VERDI.)
(THE LOST ONE.)
(“LA DAME AUX CAMELIAS.”)
CHAPTER I.
[The author makes no apology for laying before his readers the tale of
this popular opera, for never yet was fester cured by covering it up.
Whereby, he means to say that no social wrong will be remedied, if the
mention of it be ignored. But “La Dame aux Camelias” does not only rest
upon this justification, it has yet another, “morality” itself. Let any
unprejudiced man take the younger Alexandre Dumas’s play, (I do not say
the novel of the same name, which is terribly inferior,) and read it
through, and I think he will admit, if he has read thoughtfully, that it
is perhaps one of the best homilies he has ever perused. Let us now
consider the subject. The heroine was a notorious woman, rich, handsome,
courted. Seen going in her carriage to the opera, seen at balls, at
gardens, always courted, always fêted; did she not excite envy in the
heart of many a pretty girl, leaning on the arm of a not rich father?
Dead--her history before the world, on the stage--let this said pretty
girl see the real life of this woman, and her envy will change to pity;
surely, a better armor than envy to defend _her_ virtue! Let her look
into the depths of that life, with no hope, one brilliant blank,
surrounded by selfishness, and almost without a friend, and it will be
no worthless lesson. Observe that all through the play the heroine is
sad, and even in her poor yearnings after virtue, she does injury. And
setting aside this real character, however, the play is a magnificent
exposition of the heartlessness of sinful life, which may be read with
profit by us all.]
There were many present, great lords and gentlemen, and several women.
They were waiting for Marguerite’s return.
What Marguerite was, all knew. The reigning beauty and toast of Paris.
The woman for whom men fought duels, and before whom jewellers bowed
low. She had more diamonds than the richest lady at court. Her carriages
were perfection, her house as sumptuously furnished as a nobleman’s.
And yet how wretched was her life. Not a young mother toiling for her
children’s bread, but she envied; and though she had thousands of
diamonds, she had not a single friend. To be sure her maid liked her,
but she sighed for one nearer and dearer.
Rich men fêted her and named her with honor over their wine, but she
knew how little their friendship was worth; and so, amidst all her
admirers and female companions, she was as lonely as a land bird on a
rock at sea, and she as often sighed as would the wind about that same
barren rock.
Well, on this night her house was full of company, waiting her return
from the opera.
She soon came amongst them, radiant, splendidly dressed, and apparently
as joyous as any there. But now and then she coughed, for near her
always sat an unseen skeleton, holding an hour glass.
This evening, a gentleman named Armand was introduced to her, who, it
was declared, had loved her for a long time, but who was too timid to
tell her so.
Some one proposing to dance, Marguerite started up and began waltzing,
but soon her cough came upon her, and she was obliged to sit down
half-fainting.
The youth Armand ran to her, almost stranger as he was. “You suffer,
lady!”
“Oh! no, no! take no heed of me; leave me for a little, and I shall soon
be myself again.”
They left the room, laughing and chattering (so used were they to her
attacks); but the youth called Armand came gently back, as this poor
lady looked at herself in a glass, with affright.
“You are still pale--”
“Ah! ’tis you, Monsieur Armand! Thank you, I am better; besides, I have
grown accustomed to these attacks.”
“If I were your friend, your relation, I would say you are killing
yourself, and would prevent you from continuing this wretched life.”
“Bah! you could not prevent me; but tell me, why are you yourself so
pale?”
“I am sorry, perhaps, as I look upon you.”
“You are very gentle; you see the others take no notice of me--”
“Perhaps--perhaps they do not love you as I do, lady.”
“Ah! I forgot, this grand secret love of yours.”
“You are laughing at me, lady.”
“No, no--no, no--not laughing; I have heard the same declaration so
often that I do not laugh at it.”
“Ah! well, make some return for it, so take care of your health.”
“Take care of my health, my friend! If I did, I should die at once. Bah!
I can but live in this feverish life. Truly, good women, with families
and friends, may seek quiet and rest, not such as I. The moment we cease
to attract, we are alone, and our days then are _so_ long, _so_ long.
Did I not keep my bed two months? At the end of the third week my last
visitor came to see me!”
He again urged her to watch over her herself. She laughingly told him
his countenance was too long. When he asked if she had a heart, she said
’twas the only thing left to such as her to throw away.
He looked so sad at her jesting, that she grew grave herself, and she
said, “So, this passion is real?”
He told her he had followed her from place to place, and when she lay
ill, inquired each day after her health.
“Why did you not ask to see me?”
“What right had I to ask?”
“Right! Do men stand on ceremony with me? So, you say you love me? Now,
let me be your friend, and give you this advice--shake me by the hand,
and let us part good friends, and for ever.”
“As you will--as you will, good friend, and for ever.”
“Ah! you are so far gone as that, my friend! Many men have told me they
would not return, but have come back on the morrow.”
He was going towards the door, when she called him back. “See you, I
shall not have long to live, and ’tis but right I should live as I
choose through my short span. But I tell you, if I believed your
protestations, they would live even for a shorter time than I myself
shall. Well, well, perhaps you have a good heart--who knows? Not I. And
you seem sincere; perhaps you are for the moment. For this you should
have some reward; take this flower. You know they call me the Lady of
the Camelias, because I always carry a bouquet of those beautiful
flowers. Oh! I give it you that you may return it to me. When? When it
is faded.”
“And in how short a time will that be?”
“The time in which all flowers fade, the duration of an evening, or a
morning. Good bye, good bye.”
She fell into a reverie as the youth left her, but she was soon startled
from it by the cries from the other room.
The next moment they came running in, as he joined them, and was soon as
merry as the merriest among them.
Yet not for one mere moment was she really happy.
CHAPTER II.
Away from the hot, crowded city--away from the brilliantly lighted ball
room. Away to a peaceful cottage before which rippled a lake, while
round the trees whispered sorrowing peace through the livelong day.
Living at peace, but not happy. No, not for one moment happy. Always
before her flitting in the air, the menacing fatal future, always
treading on a flowery path resting on a volcano.
Again, want stepped in. These ladies always live up to the extent of
their means; so, if money suddenly fails them, they are quite poor. Not
actual want of bread, but want of luxuries, which are necessities to
them. Besides, she had debts: and when she deserted her gay life in
Paris, her creditors, who knew of her miserable health, noisily
demanded payment. She kept all this from the man whom she had grown to
honestly love. So first her carriage, then her diamonds, then her
cashmeres went to appease the raging creditors, and pay their daily
bills. The youth was poor, there was no income now. So they lived, and
she staved off debts by the sale of the presents of old admirers.
A wretched life truly, and useful only as a warning.
He learnt at last the sacrifices she was making, and grew ashamed of
himself. He had a small fortune of his own, and at least he was
honorable enough to make preparations to throw it into the common
vortex. He wrote to his lawyer, desiring him to dispose of his entire
property; and a few days after, telling her he had important business in
the city, and bidding her keep up her spirits, left the cottage, and
came to Paris, meaning to carry his poor fortune back to her, and bid
her place it in the common bank.
Gone. Marguerite sat dreaming of her past life and her present position:
who, she asked herself, would have thought that she, the gayest of the
gay, should ever love such a tranquillity as she now enjoyed--passing
days as happy as hers could be wholly with one whom, but three months
ago, she did not even know. She would sit for hours hearing him read,
and wonder when those hours had fled. At times she doubted whether she
was the same woman--pictured her other self, still living the old weary
life. And--and then she perhaps hoped that, away there in the hot
bustling city, they had forgotten her. She often pictured herself
gorgeously attired, the brilliant center of a ball-room crowd, and then
shuddering at the sight, she turned from it, and saw herself seated near
this new lover in their boat upon the lake and quietly gliding on the
peaceful moonlit waters. She asked herself, Who would take this to be
Marguerite?
She sat thinking, thinking for a long time, and at last she had a
glimpse of such a bright future that she feared she might never live to
reach it. She would sell all she possessed, all that could remind her of
the past, and then they would live quietly in a couple of little rooms,
and live as honest as they might. This was the first break of light in
her gloomy life. Nevertheless, a great storm was gathering about her. We
set up our little plans, we poor mortals, and the wind passes by and
blows them down as easily as a breath overthrows the houses of cards,
that children build on winters’ evenings.
The lawyer had, with great prudence, warned the young man’s father of
the proposed sale. Coming up to Paris, the old man learnt the whole
dismal truth. Portions of it had filtered home, indeed, and had done
harm there; terrible harm; but no idea had the father that his son
actually proposed to ruin himself for this lost woman.
Duval, the father, immediately took steps to discover his son’s
residence; and upon the very day that Armand left his quiet country
house for Paris, the father turned his face towards it.
Marguerite was still dreaming--now hopefully--when a servant came and
said that a gentleman wished to speak with her.
Given permission to enter, an old gentleman came in with a quick,
haughty step, and suddenly announced himself as the youth’s father.
Trembling, she answered that his son was not in the house.
“I know that, but ’tis with _you_ I would speak. I presume that you know
my son is degraded, and is ruining himself by remaining with you.”
“Pardon; I know that no one speaks of me, and that I have not ruined
your son. I have received not one piece of money from him.”
“By which you mean to say that my son is fallen so low as to dissipate
with you what you have received from others.”
“Pardon me again; I am a woman, and in my own house; two reasons which
demand your courtesy, and--and you will allow me to--to leave you.”
“Truly, as I look upon and hear you, madame, I can hardly believe the
scandals I have heard of you, you, who I have been told, are dangerous
company.”
“Dangerous to myself, perhaps.”
“But this lawyer’s letter, does it not prove my poor son’s ruin? does
it not show he is realizing all he is worth?”
She took the letter in her hand, and glanced hastily over its contents.
“I declare to you I know nothing of this act. I declare to you that your
son knows I would refuse to take money from him.”
“You have not always spoken so.”
“I have not always been the woman that I am.”
The unfortunate creature then burst into an incoherent declaration of
her passion for the youth, but the disbelieving gentleman merely
shrugged his shoulders.
She added she knew the oaths of such as she were not believed, yet she
could swear she knew nothing of Armand’s collecting his fortune into his
own hands; but M. Duval, still being in doubt, she nervously took from a
drawer a folded paper, and gave it into his hands.
It was a paper on which she had noted down what each of her valuables
would probably realize; and, as her visitor had come without warning, he
saw that she could not have prepared it in anticipation of his present
visit. Then, believing her words were true, he began to show a courtesy
to her which an hour before he would not have dreamed of using. Indeed,
he expressed himself sorry that he had entered so abruptly, and told her
that he thought, perhaps, she had a good heart after all. “And,” he
added, “perhaps so good that it will prompt you to make a sacrifice
greater than all you have yet made.”
She trembled violently; but strong in his duty, the old man went
mercilessly on.
Gradually as he proceeded, the place grew dark around her; gradually all
happiness drifted away, and she was left tossing about on a sea of
troubles quite alone, with no guide, no hope.
He began by saying he had more than one child--he had a daughter, whose
happiness rested on her brother’s will. She might be married, but on one
condition--that her brother led an honest life. As Marguerite covered
her mouth, that she might save herself from hearing her own cry of
terror, he added, that away in the provinces, they looked more severely
on sin than they did in large cities; and indeed he had that morning
received a letter from the father of his daughter’s proposed husband,
which peremptorily said that if Armand did not at once break off his
connexion with Marguerite, all intercourse between the families must
immediately cease. “See,” he continued, “refined as you may have become,
even in my eyes, by your affection for my son, the world will only look
on your past life, and will forever close its doors to you.”
She said she comprehended, and would obey him. She must leave his son
for a time--only for a time? And he might write to her?
He required more--she must leave his son altogether--for good.
She said, “Never, never!” And with pardonable selfishness she cried,
“that dying, as she was, having but a few years of life left she had
built upon these few years for peace and love near the man who had
reclaimed her. To leave him, it would kill her.”
“No, no my child, not kill you. Let us be calm and do not let us
exaggerate. You take for a mortal disease that which is but the fatigue
of a weary life; you will not die before that age when we are all
prepared to die, I hope. I may seem severe, but consider that you have
known my son but for three months, and I will believe that you love him;
but shall your love supplant ours? Shall your love destroy a whole
future, for in staying near my son, you do destroy _his_ future. And
again, are you sure this love will last? Are you sure of yourself? And
if now, a little later, you should dethrone him. And, pardon me--your
past justifies the supposition. Again, can _he_ be sure of himself? Can
you both, at your ages, be sure of yourselves--of your hearts. Consider
this--he who loves you so now, but a little time gone by poured out his
wealth of love on us at home. Hearts will change--does not a man love
his wife more than he loves his parents? Then his children more than his
wife? If nature gives prodigally, she extorts rigorously. I say, you may
be deceiving yourselves, both of you. This is a probability. Now will
you see realities--certainties, for you are listening to me, are you
not?”
She answered him but with a look; a long, terrible, miserable look.
“You are willing to sacrifice all to my son, and what equal sacrifice
can he offer to you? He shall bask in your best years, and later on,
when he is sated--and satiety will come--what shall happen? If he be
worldly, he will spread your past before you and leave you, saying, he
does but as others have done. And if he be an honest man, he will marry
you, or at least not desert you. And this marriage, or this life, not
based on virtue, nor supported by religion, this life, pardonable,
perhaps, in a young man, how shall it be named, when age is creeping on?
For this man, for my son, what ambition dare he breathe, what path is
open to him? What consolation shall this son then be to me--to me, who
have watched and tended him for twenty years? Your love for each
other--it is a passion, the most earthly and wholly human, it is born of
the caprice of one, and the imagination of the other. Your love is a
result, not a cause. What shall remain of it when you are both grown old
and weary? Who assures you that the first wrinkle on your forehead shall
not sweep the veil from his eyes? Who assures you his love shall not
pass away with your youth.”
“OH, THE TRUTH, THE TRUTH?”
“Then yours would be double age, doubly desolate, and doubly useless.
What retrospect would you have, what happiness to look back upon? Ah,
Marguerite, there are cruel necessities in this life, against which we
must fight, if we would not be dashed to death against them. You and my
son have different roads in life; chance has thrown you together for a
little while, but reason must separate you. In the life you have
entered, you saw not the end, and to your three months’ happiness no
more can be added. Keep the remembrance of this time, and let it
strengthen you always. I speak harshly, but consider that I plead where
I might command. It is a man of the world who speaks to you, a father
who implores you. So, Marguerite, courage, and show you love my son
truly, by leaving him to the care of those who have a family claim upon
his obedience.”
“So--she who falls shall never rise.” (She was speaking lowly to
herself.) “Heaven may pardon me, the world never. And truly, what right
have I to a place in this honest family? I love! What reason! And what
proofs can I give of this love? Who would believe them? What, poor
girl--thou to speak of heart, and future--these are new words to thee.
Look back on thy past, what man would call thee wife? What child would
call thee mother?”
Then turning to her visitor, she said: “Nearly all you have said I have
half asked myself--oh, how often, but never, never wholly. You are
right, you speak kindly, and you are very merciful. Ah well, I will obey
you, and one day you will say to the pure honest girl, your
daughter--once there lived a poor erring woman who had but one hope in
the world, and at the invocation of _thy_ name, this erring woman
renounced that hope, laid her hands heavily upon her breast, and so
died; for I shall die, I shall die. You say, ‘poor creature,’ you pity
me, sir, and methinks you even weep. Ah well, I tell you I will obey
you; command me.”
“Tell him that you love him no more.”
“He would not believe me.”
“Leave this place.”
“He would follow me. You hesitate? Sir, lay your hand upon my head as
you would upon your daughter’s head. And now I promise you that in eight
days he shall be with you, unhappy perhaps, but wholly cured, and I
promise you that he shall know nothing of this visit; oh, fear nothing,
he shall HATE me.”
Yet a little and the father was leaving the room. “And,” she murmured,
“when all is ended, and I am dead, I pray you tell him how I loved, and
proved my love. Good bye; we shall, perhaps, never see each other more.
I pray you may be happy.”
Left to herself, she sat down, miserably, and wrote a letter which was
to destroy his love for her. But it was still unfinished when he
arrived. She hid the paper, and trembled.
After a time she walked quickly from the room, saying she should soon
return.
* * * * *
And she was gone to return no more.
He waited as the night came on. Then, growing unaccountably frightened,
called for lights. No one answered. Running from the room to the
grounds, he shrieked out her name. No answer. He ran over the house; it
was deserted. She and her servants had left the place, and it was
silent, and lifeless.
And still, hoping against hope, he wandered about the house in search of
his lost love.
CHAPTER III.
Back into the dreadful life she had left. Away from the placid lake and
whispering trees. Again feasting, and heartlessness, and golden misery.
Armand soon learnt that she had abandoned him for another. He cursed her
very name; but she was wrong in thinking he would hate her; wrong in
thinking he would hasten to the home where he was born. He came to
Paris, and waited angrily for revenge.
Marguerite’s new protector was a man immensely fond of pleasure, and in
spite of her protestations, would drag her from theatre to ball room,
and from house to house.
She suffered horribly. Her old complaint burst out anew, her cough came
back again, and she was once more a poor ailing creature, whose great
beauty grew each day less and less.
One night, a month after her flight, the poor woman, quite against her
will, was present at a ball given by one of the reigning belles of
wicked Paris.
Entering the room, she shrank back, for there sat Armand. He had not
visited many of these gay places since she had left him, and his
entrance here had created some surprise amongst the guests. Many looked
to see how the old lovers would meet. As she entered he looked up from a
card table. She smiled timidly; he bowed to her coldly. She told her
companion that she would rather not remain; but he also, marking her old
lover, said he would not be laughed at, and insisted upon her keeping in
the room. She obeyed, and sat timidly down.
Armand played high, and some one remarking it, he said he was trying the
force of the old proverb, “Unlucky in love, lucky at cards.” “Oh, I mean
to make a fortune to-night, then spend it in the country. And not alone;
with some one who has lived in the country as well as I have--perhaps
when I am rich.”
Marguerite’s companion hearing the player’s menace, went up to the
table, and commenced playing. He lost, and every time he lost, the other
gained.
Soon afterwards, supper was called, and all the company made for the
table where it was laid, all except Marguerite, who remained seated,
depressed both in body and mind.
She had scarcely been alone a minute, before Armand came running to her.
He loved her as fervently as ever. As she perceived his ardor, she felt
almost tempted to tell him the whole truth of her flight, but the
promise to his father stayed her. At last, he prayed her to fly with him
again, saying he would forget the past. But no, she refused. Again and
again he implored, yet she was obdurate.
Then he grew enraged--mad; he rushed to the supper room, screamed to
them to see him do an act of justice; and, as they came streaming out
and round about, he took from his pocket all his winnings, and cried,
“You see that woman! well, do you know what she has done for me? She
sold her horses and her carriages, and her diamonds, that she might live
with me--so much did she love me. Was not that noble? And I--what did I
do? I, a mean wretch, accepted the sacrifice, and gave no payment. But
’tis not too late, and I would repair my shame. See you all, I pay this
Marguerite, and I owe her naught.”
As he spoke, he flung a heap of bank notes and gold at the feet of this
miserable woman, who fell heavily back upon a sofa, mercifully deprived
of sense. Down they rained upon her, the notes and gold; down they fell
crushing her as surely as though they had been jagged rocks.
CHAPTER IV.
Conquered, weak, and dying, she lay upon her bed in the joyous carnival
time. While all Paris was gay and merry, she was drawing her last
breath.
Misery, degradation, desertion, and consumption, had done their worst;
they had destroyed her, but not wholly killed her beauty. Far, far from
the brilliant creature who had ruled over so many but a short time
before, she was yet beautiful as she lay upon her bed, awake, and
heavily breathing through the dark hours of the night.
Now and then she would fall into a feverish sleep, but only to start
back into wakefulness, as a bevy of masques returned home from their
revels, singing as they went. What a contrast! the poor dying creature
lying there, and below in the streets the heedless revellers, shouting
their noisy songs, and dancing madly through the otherwise deserted
streets.
She knew that she had not many days to live, and yet she had one
glorious hope, possessing which she looked back upon her blank despair
with horror.
It was three months since the catastrophe at the ball. Her protector and
Armand had met and fought, and the former been slightly wounded. This
was the joy: he knew the whole truth or would know it. His father had
promised that when she died he should know all. But alas! after the duel
he had left Paris, and no one knew where he had hidden himself. To think
that he might know that her very love had bidden her leave him, and that
he himself was now the only cause of his ignorance. Yet there was plenty
of time, plenty of time; and before she died she should surely see him.
Many of her companions and friends had forgotten her by this time. But
when her waiting woman came in that morning, she had half-a-dozen new
year’s presents for the patient;--so she was not forgotten altogether.
The faithful doctor soon came, he who had so patiently tended her,
without fee or reward.
Asking her how she was, she replied that she was better and worse,
worse in body, better in mind. The night before, she said, she felt so
surely that she was dying that she sent for a priest. She welcomed him
heartily, she added smiling. How beautiful was religion, the minister
came to talk with her for an hour, and then leaving, he carried away
with him despair, terror, remorse. Then she said she fell asleep quite
peacefully. The doctor promised her health on the very first day in
spring.
Smiling again, she said it was his duty to say so; an untruth surely was
not a sin in a doctor, for he must speak one for every patient he saw.
For indeed she was much worse that day.
Moreover, want was tormenting her last hours. Her creditors were again
exacting, and almost every hour brought one of them to the door. Indeed,
the new year’s presents, jewels for the most part, were ordered to be
sold almost as soon as seen.
Left alone, she took from the bosom of her dress a letter. It was one
written by M. Duval, saying that his son would soon be with her to
entreat his pardon, and the writer’s own. It bade her be careful of her
health, and said that her courage promised a happy future. For six weeks
had she read this letter daily--for six weeks of days she had watched
for his return, and still she watched--sickening with despair one moment
only to glow with hope the next. If she could only have a letter from
him, if she could only live till the spring--why then? She got slowly up
from the soft chair to which she had been led, and eagerly searched her
wan face in a looking-glass. “How changed I am! yet the doctor has
promised to cure me. Oh! I must have patience. And yet, did he not tell
my waiting woman, Nannie, did I not hear him say I was much worse? Yet,
only _much worse_; there is, then, still some hope, still a few short
months to live, and if in that time he comes to me, I shall be saved--I
SHALL BE SAVED. This is now new year’s day, then surely I may hope.
And--and, besides, if I were really in danger, they all of them, the
doctor, Nannie, my old friends, could not come laughing to my bedside as
they do, nor would the doctor leave me.” Here she slowly wandered to the
window and looked from it. “Ah! what joy is there not in a family, how
beautiful now is that child playing with his toys--ah, I could die
loving that little one.”
Suddenly her maid ran quickly into the room, her face full of joy.
“Madame! madame!”
“Well! well!”
“You are strong to-day--you feel quite strong.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Pray be calm.”
“Yes, yes, but why?”
“I would prepare you--a sudden joy is so heavy to bear.”
“A joy? A joy for _me_? You have seen him--he--he is coming!”
With weak, rapid steps she staggered to the door, and called to him.
Then he stood before her, pale and trembling. She fell upon his neck,
and clung to him as though he were life. “No, no, it is not thee; not so
much clemency can be shown to such as I am.”
“‘Tis I, Marguerite, and so repentant, and ashamed, so guilty, that I
dared not to pass the threshold. I was afraid to enter; so I waited till
Nannie came to the door, and then I spoke to her. My father has told me
all. I fled, no one knew where, after that night; travelled night and
day, without sleep, without hope, ever pursued by vague presentiments.
If I had not found thee, I must have died, for should I not have been
the cause of thy death? Tell me that you pardon me, that you forgive,
too, my poor father.”
“_I_ pardon? _I_, the guilty one? And I did what I thought the best for
thy happiness, even at the expense of my own. But now, thy father will
not separate us again. Ah! look at me, I am not the creature that you
left, yet--yet, I am still young, and I shall grow beautiful now that I
am happy. We will forget the past and commence a new life from this good
day.”
“Never to leave thee again--never. We will quit the house. Quit Paris
for ever. We will be happy, for our future is our own.”
“Speak on, speak on, my soul burns at thy words, and each moment I
gather new strength. I said this morning thou couldst save me, and I was
right.”
Then she said they must go together, and kneel in the nearest church,
and pray, and be grateful; and as she spoke she staggered to her feet
again, and called to her maid to bring her a shawl and bonnet.
As the girl came forward, the youth had a good word for her.
“Oh,” continued the suffering woman, “Nannie and I talked of thee every
day, and she always said thou wouldst come back, and she was right. So
thou hast seen beautiful countries since that time. Ah! well, now we
will see them together.”
“Marguerite, thou hast turned quite pale, and thou art so cold!”
“Oh, nothing, ’tis nothing,” she said, hurriedly, and nervously drawing
a thick shawl about her. “The coming in of so much joy; why joy
sometimes is as hard to bear as grief itself.”
And then she dropped exhausted upon the nearest chair.
“Dear Marguerite! speak, speak to me.”
“Be not afraid, you know I was always subject to these sudden fits of
weakness, but they are gone almost directly. Watch me, thou seest I can
smile already. And again I feel strong. ’Twas only the hope of life
thrilling through me.”
Taking her thin hand he said, “how thou tremblest.”
“No, no. I _will_ go out. Nannie, give me a bonnet.”
He drew away from her for a moment in horror.
She again strove to stand, but could not. Then falling upon a seat, she
tore off the shawl and cried “I am dying, I am dying.”
As he flung himself down by her side, the serving girl ran from the
room, and sped away, crying out that she would go for the doctor.
“Yes, yes, bring him to me, tell him Armand is here--that I want to
live--that I WILL live. Why, if thy return doth not save me, nothing
can!”
“Oh, thou wilt live, dearest.”
“Sit down beside me, close to me, my husband, and hear me.” She spoke
very quietly, very faintly. “But a moment since I raged against death. I
am sorry for my fault. It is right that I should die, and I love death
now that it has spared me to see thee once again. Ah, if my death had
not been sure, thy father would never have bade thee come to me.”
“Marguerite, speak not of death. I shall go mad. Say no more that you
will die, say rather that you desire to live.”
“Ah, what is my will? If I were a good girl, if I were honest, perhaps I
should weep to leave the world, and leave _you_ behind, for then the
future would be full of hope; my past life would then let me hope.
Dying, thou wilt hold me in gentle remembrance; living, there would ever
be a gloom upon our love. Believe me, all is for the best; what is done,
is well done.”
In an agony of grief he clung about her.
“What then it is _I_ who must give _thee_ courage! Gently obey me. Open
that little drawer, you will find there my portrait, when they told me I
was pretty. Keep it, for it will help thee to remember me. But if some
day, there cometh a kindly honest girl who will love and marry thee, as
it should be, as I hope it may be, and if she should find this portrait,
tell her it is the likeness of a friend who, if she may reach the
obscurest corner of heaven, will pray for her happiness. If though she
is jealous of the past (as we women are sometimes), if she demands from
you this poor picture, place it in her hand, without fear or remorse--it
will be but justice. And now I pardon thee the act, for a loving woman
suffers so much when her love is not returned. Thou hast heard me.
Dying--dying--yet happy. Tell them to talk about me sometimes--and they
will--will they not? and--and--give me your hand. Oh, it is not hard to
die when one dies happily. But what is this?”
She stood up for a moment, smiling gloriously; then she continued, “Why
I suffer no more. All pain has left me. Has a new life been breathed
into me? I feel as I have never felt. Am I to live--am I to live?”
Then she gently sat down again, leant back in her chair, and, sighing
softly, became silent.
“She is sleeping,” said Armand to himself, his hand still pressed in
hers. “Marguerite, Marguerite.”
Still her hand was clasped in his.
“Marguerite--Marguerite!” Still she slept.
He uttered a loud cry, and started to his feet. But his hand still
remained clasped in hers.
“Marguerite,” he again cried, and with a terrible energy, he tore his
hand from her grasp. Her own fell placidly to her side.
He flung himself down at her feet.
“Dead--dead--dead.”
DON PASQUALE. (DONIZETTI.)
CHAPTER I.
Don Pasquale was an old bachelor, and as wealthy as he was old. He was
saving, credulous, and obstinate. But for all that Don Pasquale was the
best-hearted of dons.
Now he had a nephew, whose name was Ernesto. This youth had been
continually either falling from the heights of his uncle’s approbation,
or to the depths of his displeasure, only to be raised again the next
day. But at last Ernesto forfeited the don’s approbation altogether, for
he fell in love with Norina, of whom the don had no good opinion,
though, in truth, he had never seen her. In the first place, according
to the don, she was flighty; in the second place, she was impatient; in
the third place, she was fiery; and the old bachelor had a horror of
fiery women.
So when his nephew showed a disposition to speak in praise of his lady
love, the don grew so obstinate and ill-tempered, that his friend,
Doctor Malatesta, no longer recognized him as the old bachelor
companion: Doctor Malatesta had known the bachelor don for more years
than he would like to name, and known the nephew as long as the don
himself, so he was like one of the family. It may also be stated that
the doctor was a practical joker.
There is but a fourth party to this little tale--though she cannot be
called one of the family--we mean Norina, a young widow, a delightful
widow, perhaps impatient, as the don had declared, nay, perhaps even
fiery, but for all that she was affectionate and sincere, and amazingly
fond of Ernesto.
Well, it may be said at once, that the nephew persisted in adoring
Norina; the old don then marked out a line of conduct, the effect of
which was, that he sat in his breakfast parlor one fine morning,
impatiently waiting for his friend Malatesta, and snappishly looking at
the clock. Being old and a leetle deaf, he took the first sound he heard
to be the doctor’s step--’twas only the wind; then he thought of the
“pill” he had prepared for his obstinate nephew, moreover his insulting
nephew, for that relation had gone so far as to indecently call him a
donkey--call _him_, Don Pasquale--a donkey.
In the midst of his silent anger, the doctor arrived, a pleasant
middle-aged gentleman, with a jolly, pleasant face.
“Well, well,” said the don.
“Well, indeed,” said the doctor.
“What, you have found--”
“Yes, indeed.”
The don embraced his friend in the Italian manner, and thereupon did not
see the laugh that spread over the doctor’s merry countenance.
“Now for her portrait,” said the don; “I am all attention.”
“She is as beautiful as an angel who has missed her way, and wandered to
earth; she is as fresh as a newly-blown lily, and her eyes are like
darts that pierce the very heart--and whether you shall most admire the
blackness of her hair, or the beauty of her smile, who shall say?”
“Blessed is the man who is blessed with such a wife.”
“And her modesty, and her grace, and her charity!”
“Yes, yes, doctor; and her family!”
“Such a family!”
“And her name--”
“Her name is Malatesta.”
“What! is she related to you?”
“A little; she’s my sister.”
“Oh, dear brother! when shall I see her?”
“To-morrow.”
“‘Tis an age! this very instant!”
“Ah!” said the doctor, “I can deny naught to a friend.”
Again the don embraced the doctor.
This second embrace was not so long as the first. The don ejected his
friend from his arms, and said rapidly, “Go, go, go.”
Left to himself, it may be remarked the old don danced with glee. If you
have not seen a gingerly old gentleman in such a situation, you have
lost a sight. He was in the midst of this practice, when his nephew,
Ernesto came running into the room.
“Good morning, nephew! You may sit down.”
“Surely, surely, uncle!”
“Don’t be afraid.”
“Surely, surely, uncle!”
“I am not going to scold you. Tell me, did I not, precisely two months
ago, offer you the hand of a lady, as rich as beautiful, and as noble as
both?”
“Surely, surely, uncle!”
“And did I not promise to give you all I had?”
“At your death--surely, surely.”
“And did I not say if you refused, I would marry her myself?”
“That is, marry somebody else--surely, surely.”
“Well, you did refuse; now, I offer you this young lady again--will you
marry her?”
“Surely, surely--NO.”
“No!”
“No.”
“You homeless fellow, you!”
“You turn me out, uncle?”
“Yes, I do, to make room for your aunt.”
“You marry?”
“Surely, surely, nephew; I myself, the Don Pasquale, in very flesh and
bone.”
“You take my breath away!”
“Yes, I myself, the Don Pasquale, sane and sound, I marry.”
“‘Tis a comedy!”
“Is it? Till to-morrow; wait till to-morrow.”
“Sir, I will.”
“Yes, but not here, in Don Pasquale’s house.”
The youth here grew very disconsolate, for indeed he was thinking if his
uncle cut him off with that proverbial shilling, he would have to resign
the promised hand of somebody whom he had no objection to marry
whatever.
Meanwhile the don was watching him attentively, and half hoping that the
youth would consent.
Said Ernesto, after the dismal pause, “Uncle, just two words.”
“Three--young man.”
“Don’t be rash--consult Doctor Malatesta.”
“Sir--I have consulted him.”
“And what is his advice?”
“He is as _willing for the match as I_. Oh, you may look astonished--as
willing for the match as I. In fact, nephew--between ourselves--SHE IS
HIS SISTER!”
“The doctor’s?”
“Well, he _said_ so.”
Poor Ernesto. The doctor had always been his best friend, and when the
crashing announcement came, he thought Doctor Malatesta would be his
man-at-arms, and now it seemed he had gone over to the enemy. And he
looked even more dismal than before, for now, not only had his old love
drifted away from him, but his old friend too.
The don saw these dismal marks of misery with dolorous satisfaction--the
satisfaction arose out of his pride--and the dolor was buried in his
heart. But for all that he showed his nephew to the door, though it
should be said to his honor, that he did not dance when he was alone
again.
CHAPTER II.
Norina, the young widow who had caused all that commotion at the don’s
domicile, was _not_ so rich as she was beautiful. If she had been, she
would have been besieged with lovers; but she was rich enough to have a
home of her own, and she was sitting in it reading on that very morning
when the don directed his young nephew’s shoes to the street door.
The doctor had told her he should want her for a certain plot, though he
had carefully only raised her curiosity without confiding particulars,
and she had taken up the book to divert herself till the doctor, by
appointment, should be there.
The book was a romantic old love tale, and she had got as far as, “Her
looks were so heavenly, so delightful, that the Knight Richard,
enraptured, fell at her feet, and vowed eternal fidelity,” when she
flung it down, exclaiming to herself, that she did not want the heavenly
lady’s instructions in the art of love-making. She well knew the power
of glance in time and place, the effect of a smile, a tear, silence, a
word; in fact, this vivacious little widow believed herself a coquette,
though in reality, there was not a more earnest little woman in the
whole world, when it was a question of _her_ love for Ernesto. She _did_
love him. She would plague him by flirting with third parties; but she
could always turn his anger into smiles. Well, she was thinking of
Ernesto, when a letter came to her in the handwriting of that youth. Ah!
how all the bright looks went out of the face a moment after, and the
letter was opened. She read it through, and was reading it again, when
the doctor, without waiting for any ceremony, ran in and up to the
little lady--for she was little.
“Good news,” he cried, “strategem--”
“Not a word of it, doctor,” and she thrust the letter into his hands.
He read: “‘My dear Norina, I write to you with a broken heart.’ (The
poor young man) ‘Don Pasquale, advised by that scoundrel’ (that’s me,
beyond a doubt, poor young man), ‘by that false, double-faced Doctor
Malatesta’ (as I thought) ‘will marry a sister of his, and he turns _me_
out of doors. And so love tells me I must run away from you. Therefore,
good bye, good bye. May you be happy, ’tis the dearest wish of Ernesto.’
How glad you must be to receive this letter.”
“Glad, doctor!” she exclaimed, in tears.
“Why, next time you see him, he’ll be more loving than ever.”
“When will that be--perhaps, perhaps, he’s _gone_!”
“And perhaps not. He shall know our plans at once.”
“_Our_ plans, what are they?”
“You know to punish his nephew, the don would marry!”
“Is _that_ our plan, doctor?”
“Well, well, seeing him determined, I seconded him!”
“Oh!”
“To serve you, and Ernesto--I have spoken to the don of my sister. You
shall pass for her. You appear before him, he falls in love with you!”
“Well!”
“Then he marries you!”
“Oh!”
“Don’t scream. He marries you, and yet he does not. My nephew Charles
shall personate a notary. Then, married, I leave the rest to you, ’tis
your business to drive him mad, as of course you know. Then, then we
will do with him as we please.
“Ah, ah, ah, ah!” (no more tears now, unless from laughter,) “ah, ah,
ah, ah, ah, oh! Oh, how I’ll teaze him--how I’ll worry him--how he shall
repent--ah, ah, ah.”
“Oh but not at first!”
“Oh, _dear_ no! shall I be merry, or downcast, or reserved?”
“No, not at all.”
“Shall I weep, or cry?”
“No, you must appear a simple country lass.”
“And I _will_. See how do I manage? oh, thank you, thank you--no, that
is--but I’d rather not--you’re very, very humble servant, sir. Ah, ah,
ah!”
“Brava, that will do.”
“And I must hold my head down, like a goose!”
“And your lips pursed up.”
“Like an old maid. Oh! sir, I am ashamed. I’d _rather_ not--your humble
servant, sir! Ah, ah, ah!”
“Come, let us go.”
“Yes, oh, I shall die of laughing before we get there. Sir, your most
obedient--ah, ah, ah, ah, ah!”
CHAPTER III.
Don Pasquale got himself up in such style for the reception of his bride
that his own servants did not know him. In fact he hardly knew himself,
and felt rather taller. But he was not comfortable, and indeed as he
gave his servants orders to admit none but the doctor and the person who
might be with him, he blushed rather red, which last word is
superfluous, for no don in the world could blush blue! Well, the
servants departed; he danced again, and then growing tired he was
fatigued with waiting.
Soon they arrived. The doctor pushing his “sister” forward with angry
jerks. As for her, with her veil down over her meek face, she was
uttering cries of fright and mild opposition.
“Courage, courage, sister.”
“Oh, dear me--that is--I can’t--please, brother, do not leave me.”
Here the don danced up to the young lady, adjusting his necktie
gracefully round his neck.
“Something like a giggle was heard, but the next moment a voice from
under the veil said,
“Oh, dear, dear, dear, I can’t--that is, I’d rather go away. Please,
brother, don’t--_don’t_ leave me.”
“Do not be afraid.”
“Oh, I’d rather stand behind.” And behind she went.
The doctor went up to the don apologetically, saying that the poor girl
was but just fresh from the convent. In fact, he said, she was naturally
of a wild disposition, and it was for the don to tame her.
“Oh, brother, brother, come here.”
“Just one moment, sister--”
“Suppose some one should come in, I should faint.” Here the young and
bashful widow covered her mouth with her hand, and laughed.
Said the don to himself, keeping away from the lady, whose face had not
yet turned towards him, “If her face is equal to her voice, Don
Pasquale, you lucky man you, you have waited for something.”
“Brother, brother, I don’t like to be left alone.”
“My dear, you are not alone, I am here, and here is Don Pasquale.”
“Oh! oh! a man!--oh my goodness! a man,--oh take me away--a man! oh I
never!” Here there was another laugh.
Here the don congratulated himself more than ever.
And here, also, the Doctor said to himself, “Poor old fellow.”
Then he added, “Don’t be afraid, sister, this is the noble Don
Pasquale.”
“Oh indeed!”
Don Pasquale made as low a bow as a stout old gentleman could. The timid
young lady made him a sweeping curtesy.
“Thank you, sir--your most obedient. Oh, oh.” Here the don was taking
her hand.
“Oh loving hand,” muttered the old don.
And while he pranced off after three chairs, there was another laugh,
suppressed, from under the veil.
Each chair the doctor set down with a puff and a bang, and at last he
sat himself down in the center one.
“What do you think of her?” (in a low voice to the don.)
“What indeed! But that veil?” (in a lower voice to the doctor.)
“Oh! she would not dare to speak to a man, unveiled. Talk to her a
little; see if your dispositions agree. Then we will question the veil.”
“Hum--hum--(courage, don, courage)--Am delighted--have the honor--your
brother--Dr. Malatesta--pray did you speak?”
Here she got up and made him another curtesy. “Oh--sir your most
obedient--sir.”
“I was going to say, no doubt you like company of an evening.”
“Oh _dear_ no. We never do at the convent. We always go to bed.”
“Ah, but you _some_times went to the theatre?”
“Oh!--dear,--what--is--that? I’m sure--I never _wished_ to go there.”
“Delightful,” thought the old don, and added, “And pray, now, how did
you pass your time?”
“Oh, sir, in sewing, and knitting, and embroidering, and sometimes I
played with the pretty little cats.”
“Ah, ah.” (doctor.)
“Dear me, doctor, pray be still; ’tis rude to laugh, even at one’s
sister. But doctor, that veil!”
“Dear sister, remove thy veil.”
“Oh! no, I couldn’t--before a man.”
“But I bid you.”
“Oh yes--oh yes, brother--I obey.”
The don rose in honor of this act, but no sooner did he see the
dove-like face, than he fell upon his seat again with a crash.
“Pray, Don Pasquale, what’s the matter?”
“Can’t tell, doctor. But it seemed to go right through me--speak for me,
doctor. Tell her how I love her.”
“Courage, old friend. She does not seem indisposed towards thee. Now
tell me, sister--this gentleman--do you like him?”
After casting a glance at the don who was admiring his own legs, she
said. “--I--I--I think I do.”
“She consents, don; she is yours!”
“Oh bliss; oh joy; oh delight, oh!”
Here came another of those mysterious laughs.
Said then the don in a loud voice (when he had recovered it,) “A
notary.”
“Ah, don, a notary is not like a glass of wine, ever at hand; but
anticipating this joyful moment, I have brought a notary with us.”
“Quick, quick, quick,” said the don.
“Yes, yes, yes,” replied the doctor, and running; but he returned
immediately, with the false notary, Nephew Charles.
Solemnly this functionary walked to a table, sat down a mass of black
folds, and severely took up a pen.
Then said the doctor pompously, and dictating to the grave notary, “On
the one part, et cetera, et cetera, Sophronia Malatesta, residing et
cetera, et cetera, and the rest of it. And on the other part, Don
Pasquale, et cetera, et cetera, residing at et cetera, et cetera, and
also all the rest of it.”
The notary, writing hurriedly, soon completed the work.
“Very good!” said the proud don, “and then continue--which above-named
gentleman (I mean myself,) from this hour, makes over one half his goods
and property, by a deed of gift made before his death, to his most
beloved wife.”
This was also written in a hurry.
“Bless you! bless you!” said the doctor.
“Bl-l-less you, sir, your obedient,” chimed in the lady.
The notary gravely held out the pen for signatures. Thereupon the don
seized it, and speedily signed his name.
“Oh, dear sir, I’d rather not; no, don’t brother.”
For the doctor was again pushing her forward. The modest woman didn’t
like to sign, and again her face was buried in her handkerchief.
“Where are the witnesses?” said the grave notary.
And at this moment, the voice of a gentleman named Ernesto was heard at
high words with the obdurate footman. The face of the lady thereupon
grew very grave, and indeed she dropped her pen.
“Back, back!” shouted Ernesto, without the room.
And the lady was forced to confess to herself, that she now really began
to tremble.
And so also did the doctor tremble, for Ernesto had not been informed of
these plans, and he might in consequences spoil all.
At this moment there was a rush at the door, the next moment it was
flung open, and in the doorway stood the young nephew.
“Sir,” said this latter, “I came to take my leave of you, and I am
debarred your presence as though I were a robber.”
“We were busy, young man, _very_ busy when you came to the door;
however, now you are here, stop; sign--witness. Let the bride advance.”
Tableau.
The “young man” was about explaining, when he felt his coat pulled. Then
the doctor said quite solemnly, “This is Sophronia--my sister.”
“So--who?”
“So that you be quiet--never mind who,” said the doctor, lowly. “For
your own sake, be still--be dumb: excuse him, don--the poor youth, I
will explain all to him.” And as the old don bowed in his own absurd
fashion, the doctor led the youth on one side, and thus admonished him:
“Now, if you wish to be your own enemy and Norina’s, go on; but if you
are not your own enemy and Norina’s, don’t.”
“Just so--but--”
“Yes--exactly--don’t, as I said before; come and sign the contract.”
Which, with great doubt still, the jealous lover did.
Said the stern notary, rising from his chair, “You are man and wife.”
The writer _would_ respectfully have it understood that _he_ is in no
way responsible for this astounding free and easy marriage; far be it
from him so to dispose of brides. But he opines that ’tis a way they
have in Spain.
Upon that notarial announcement, the don was faint with joy, and the
next moment he was nearly faint with surprise.
For hardly was the contract completed, hardly had the astounding
notarial intimation been given, than the bride throws aside her veil,
and with it her meek look. Let it not, however, he said she assumed a
bold look--say rather, an easy, cool, pleasant countenance.
The don advanced towards the lady to give her a marital embrace, but she
gently pushed him back. “Softly pray; calm your ardor; you should first
entreat permission.”
“And I do!”--
“And I do _not_ permit.”
The don fell plump upon his chair, and looked unmeaningly after the
notary, who was quietly withdrawing.
“Ah, ah, oh,” said the youth Ernesto, as he saw the blank expression on
his uncle’s face.
“Sir Nephew, how dare you laugh. Quit this house. Begone!”
“Begone, don, fie!” said the new wife contemptuously. “What rudeness!
Pray remain, sir.” Then turning rapidly to the don, she said, “I must
teach you better manners.”
“Doctor Malatesta!” said the astounded don.
“Don Pasquale!” said the doctor in the same tone.
“This is quite another woman, doctor.”
“I am turned to stone, don.”
“What does she mean?”
“By your leave, I’ll ask her.” And the doctor luckily turned away, for
his red face was quivering.
As for the lady Norina, she marched with dignity up to and against the
don, and thus terribly spoke. “You are too old, too stout, too slow, to
take charge of a young wife through the streets; this young cavalier
shall be my BEAU!”
“Oh, dear NO.”
“And pray who will prevent it?”
“_I_ will.”
“You said--”
“_I_ will.”
“_In_deed.” (Here she tenderly approached him, and stroked his friendly
old grey head.) “Dear husband; now forget those horrid words ‘I will,’
or at least leave them with me, with me alone, for the wife _should_ be
obeyed.”
“But--but!”
“But us no buts, dear man. Be still, I say. What, are you one of those
men who will not be led by kindness? what, would you dare!”
Here there was a dull rap distinctly heard, it was a knock on the don’s
expostulating knuckles.
“Am I awake?” asked the don of himself. “What has happened? blows I
think! Pray what shall come next?”
In fact, the don looked as though petrified--dreaming--struck by
lightning, as though he were anybody but himself.
“Courage, don, courage,” said the doctor.
“Courage, oh dear,” said Don Pasquale, the married man sinking lower and
lower in his chair.
Suddenly the new lady of the house flew at the bell, and rang it till
the room seemed made of bells. As a servant entered, she cast the
implement at him.
“Let all the servants come directly, rascal.”
“Oh, heavens!” sighed Don Pasquale.
Two servants and the steward came running in a moment after at a
tremendous pace.
“Three! _Three_ beggarly servants. Three. As for you, steward. Bow
lower, sir, bow lower” (stamp of the foot); “listen to these my orders.
Turn those cubs away at once. Get new servants, good looking young men
that will do us credit; two dozen will do.”
“Oh, heaven!” exclaimed Don Pasquale.
“Steward,” (another stamp of the foot) “how dare you turn away. Let
there be two new carriages this very evening in MY stables; as for MY
new horses, I leave the choice to you. And as for these apartments, they
are frightful, they shall be rebuilt. And as for this horrid furniture,
it shall be burnt.”
“Oh, heaven! have you done ma’m?”
“No, man. Steward (greater stamp of the foot than ever,) how dare you
not keep your eyes on me? Let everything, everywhere, always be in the
first style, so that people may respect us. Begone, fool!”
“And pray now ma’m,” suggested the don, “who pays?”
“And pray now sir, who should know better than you?”
“Oh, heaven! Pray am I master, or am I not?”
“You are not--master, where I am! Zounds!” She flings over a chair.
“Sister, sister,” said the doctor, but the sister did not even look at
him. She flew at the don as well as she could, seeing she was a wingless
angel; and arrived within a quarter of an inch of his head, bade him, in
the most impassioned language, depart.
“Tell me, some one, _have_ I married her?”
“Ah, you poor man you,” said the new wife; with a sneer.
Here the don went off into a roaring, yelping, yelling rage, tearing his
own clothes, dilapidating his own walls with his own head, and damaging
his personal appearance with nobody’s hands but his own.
“Oh, brother, brother,” shrieked the doctor, dashing after the don, who
was taking a tour of destruction all round the drawing-room to the
north, while his lady was doing precisely the same thing to the south.
“Oh, will anybody tell me,” asked the don--“am I mad?”
Well, Norina in her rage worked round to where Ernesto was standing--and
then she was wearing her own natural bright face, and reaching that
youth she uttered this little speech. “Ah! well--Ernesto”--To which the
youth answered--“Ah! dear Norina.”
So it may be supposed that both were gratified.
The next moment she had recommenced her sail round the room: but by this
time the doctor had run up to the don and deftly turned him away from
this affectionate little duet of soft words.
“My goodness, don, what a pulse--eighty, ninety, one hundred and twenty,
twenty-five--Don Pasquale you must straightway go to BED!”
CHAPTER IV.
The don’s pulse was moderate by a late hour the next day; and having
obtained the permission of the doctor, who had sedately watched all
night by the bed, to go down stairs, the poor gentleman crept down as
though he had never danced in all his life.
And what a sight when he reached that drawing-room of his! To the right,
dresses; to the left, dresses; in front, band-boxes; behind, the same;
lace, bobbins, furs, scarfs, shoes, gloves and--bills! a large number,
all in a nice little heap in the centre of the table. He sat down in the
middle of all this invasion, and stared about him as though he was
anybody else in a strange place, rather than Don Pasquale.
He was still sitting staring about when a hairdresser passed quickly
through the room. The next moment a lady’s maid appeared at the door.
“Good gracious,” said she, “ain’t my lady a scolding--do be quick with
the diaments!”
“Please, miss,” said a second servant to the lady’s maid, “here’s the
milliner.”
“Then let the milliner come quick.”
The milliner rushed past the don, so to speak, smothered in boxes.
At the door she was met by another waiting-woman, dashing off to the
carriage with a cloak, a bouquet, and a scent-bottle. All these
paraphernalia were handed to a footman, and then back the woman came,
and crashed up against the fourth body menial--“me lady’s fan! me lady’s
gloves! me lady’s veil!”
The second footman without the door fell upon, and bore away these
things.
“Me lady’s carriage!”
“Storms and----” something else said Don Pasquale, and with an effort
fell upon the pile of bills. “To dressmaker, 100 dollars--oh! dear me!
To coach-maker, six hundred--worse and worse. Twice as much to the
jeweller. To horses--horses! I wish they’d carry all to----,” again the
don used a highly improper atom of speech.
Then the don in an awful whisper said, “HERE SHE IS!”
In she came, like several ladies of state, and dressed as surely never
pupil at a convent had ever been dressed before. She did not see him as
she passed on, not she; but he stopped her--rather hoped he would excuse
her, and faintly desired to know whither she was going.
She loudly desired to be informed what that was to him--she was going
out!
Again he faintly and in a slightly sarcastical tone observed that a
husband _might_ take the liberty of objecting.
“A husband _might_ take the liberty, and it certainly _was_ a liberty;
and indeed, a husband _might_ even _object_, but that was no reason why
the wife should _obey_. It was the duty of such a man to see, and hold
his tongue; indeed, common sense would tell him to hold his tongue; for,
she would ask him, was he listened to when he _did_ speak?”
“Take care, take care.”
“It were wise, don, to take care of yourself.”
“Go to your room, ma’am.”
“You were best in yours. Go to bed, and to sleep. We will talk about
this to-morrow.”
“You shall not pass.”
“Ah! you fill up the door. Indeed--don.”
“Yes.”
“Pray, now move.”
“I will not.”
“Ah!”
What is it makes fire flash in the old eyes of the new husband? Was it a
humiliating box on the ear--the right ear? Yes--yes.
She came out from the door-way.
Meanwhile the young Norina asked herself if she were not going too far.
“Then I may go now?”
“Yes, go where you like. Go anywhere, so that you don’t come back.”
“I shall then see you to-morrow--hem!”
“You will find my doors closed.”
“Bah! be not a tyrant, poor grandfather. Sleep well, and when the
morning comes, I will call you.”
And she sailed out grandly.
“Divorce, divorce!” he shrieked out as the lady left him--“divorce! if
this is wedlock--what’s that?”
_That_ was a paper which Norina had dropped on going out.
He picked it up, after some effort. “Another horrid bill, I find one in
every corner--eh! what! ah!”--(here he read.) “‘Between nine and ten I
shall be at that part of the garden which looks to the north; for
greater precaution try to let me in through the secret door. I shall
warn you by singing. Adieu.’ I shall go mad, I, Don Pasquale--I shall go
mad. Malatesta, send for Malatesta. Here, some one--anyone--ALL--go
fetch Doctor Malatesta. All--I say--all.” And out he tumbled from the
room.
Then came the servant’s parliament. “Up and down. Up and down. Did you
ever? First a bell this way--then a bell that way. Who could bear it?
Did you ever, now? Horrid. Not a moment’s peace. A good house--yes, a
good house. But still, why _she_ made a piece of work when her breakfast
went up, and when her dinner went up, too. Then there _was_ a
disturbance when she went out. _He_ flies into a passion, _she_ flies
into a worse passion than ever, and then they fought! Lor! Oh yes! She
hit him. You don’t say so!”
When footsteps were heard approaching, the house adjourned.
It was the doctor and Ernesto, still plotting. Ernesto was to appear at
the secret door, and he was to take great care that the don should not
recognize him. Here the heavy step of that luckless gentleman was heard
coming towards the room, so that Ernesto fled like guilt.
The don came in paler, and colder, and more dejected than ever.
“Don Pasquale!”
“A living corpse, brother.”
“The matter--what is the matter?”
“I wish,” said the gentleman to himself, “I wish I had rather given a
thousand Norinas to Ernesto.”
“A good thing to know,” thought the doctor, as the don thus spoke. Then
aloud, “But pray explain yourself.”
“Half my income spent in ribbons; but that is nothing.”
“Dear me--go on.”
“To the theatre she _will_ go--but also that is nothing.”
“Dear me--proceed.”
“My ears she boxes with a will--_that_ is nothing.”
“Indeed--indeed.”
“But just look here. I think that’s something, surely.”
Here he handed the horrid letter to the doctor, whose horror was
unapproachable when he had read it minutely.
“Stone, don, I’m stone.”
“So am I. Revenge! revenge!”
“Surely don. Revenge! revenge!”
“And I have the means. Sit down.”
“The means.”
“To the garden on tip toe--you and I--we softly go--on and on behind
each tree--fearing one of them should see--then upon them straight we
fall--and loudly for assistance call. Then to prison off they go--and
thus am I avenged you know. And now doctor if you can--please devise a
better plan.”
“Very good; but,” said the doctor, “he had a better plan, which he would
divulge only on one condition, namely, that the don should agree to all
he should propose.”
The don was too fallen to oppose, so, with this arrangement, away they
trundled towards the garden.
CHAPTER V.
In the garden, where the last scene of the don’s married life was to
take place, and in the moonlight, tripped Norina--a young widow
again--to the secret garden gate. Click, click went the lock, and the
next moment Ernesto was at her little feet, vowing in the warmest manner
that he loved her.
Barely had he got through a dozen protestations when there was the
flashing of a few rays from a dark lantern all up and down the garden
walks, and there was the cranching of the don’s heavy legs in the
gravel, followed by the lighter walk of the intriguing doctor.
The doctor quite cleverly showed the little lantern rays as he slid
behind from tree to tree, and as he did not see Ernesto glide away to
the house.
All of a sudden, and with a terrific lunge, he dashed before Norina, and
started open the dark little lantern full in her face.
“Thieves! thieves!”
“Hush, ma’am, where is he?”
“Who, the thief--thieves! thieves!”
“No, ma’am, he--who was whispering in your ear.”
“Sir, how dare you. There was no one here.”
Whereon the don shot the dark lantern all round and about, like
clock-work.
“Sir, I say again, how DARE you, there was no one here.”
“Pray what were you doing at this dark spot, at this hour of midnight?”
“Enjoying the cool air and the moonlight.”
“Begone ma’am--out of my house, ma’am.”
“Sir, what tone is this?”
“I say, begone ma’am.”
“A pretty tale; this house is mine, and in it I’ll remain.”
“Ten thousand bombs, you won’t.”
“Ten thousand bombs I will.”
“Don Pasquale, Don Pasquale,” said the doctor, “pray leave it all to me.
Sister, I would spare you.”
“Would you, sir, indeed.”
“To-morrow, a new bride will be brought to this house.”
“How _dare_ you, sir, indeed.”
Don Pasquale paid great attention to the dialogue.
“And pray whose bride?”
“Ernesto’s, Norina. That contemptible, coquettish, arrant widow!”
Don Pasquale felt some satisfaction, and cried out, “Bravo, doctor.”
“That odious woman, here in spite of me. Norina and I under the same
roof. Never, I’ll leave the house first.”
“DO.”
“But stop, stop, brother. Perhaps this is a trick. I must be sure of
it.”
The doctor went up to the don and said, “Then Don Pasquale, you must let
them marry, or she’ll _never_ go.”
“_Never?_ Will she when they _are_ married?”
“Here--house! who is there? Why, as I’m a doctor, ’tis Ernesto.”
“Well, well.”
“I, Doctor Malatesta, speaking for Don Pasquale, grant you the hand of
Norina, and an income of four thousand dollars a year.”
“Dear uncle, is this true?”
“Dear nephew, yes it is.”
“And _I_ (stamp of the foot) oppose it.”
“And _I_ (don, shaking his head) do not. Go and fetch her, some one; go
and fetch her straight.”
Said the doctor. “No one need go far, for she, Norina’s here.”
“What--what--what--what--what!”
Here Norina made a full curtsey.
“THEN WHERE’S SOPHRONIA!”
“I’d not be sure, dear don, she should be in her convent.”
“And the marriage, doctor.”
“A glimpse, dear don, of what your future _might_ have been.”
“Dear--dear--dear--dear--dear! Thank heaven. Still--”
“Come don, be generous.”
Need it be said where the two “young people” were at this particular
moment--of course, at the don’s stout feet.
The don blessed them in the usual manner, and the young people rose,
happy.
THE MORAL OF THIS IS MOST EASILY GUESSED,
IN AGE TO SHUN WIVES, IS OF WISDOM THE BEST.
LA SOMNAMBULA. (BELLINI.)
THE SLEEP WALKER.
CHAPTER I.
In a beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a maiden whose name was
Amina, a poor village foundling, who was as fondly loved by the woman
who had adopted her as her own mother might have loved. There also lived
in the valley a rich farmer whose name was Elvino. Not much wealth truly
had he, but enough to make him the richest person in the parish, except
the absent lord. Count Rudolpho.
At the village inn (as all villages are supposed to possess that
appendage) lived Liza, its mistress, but alas! scandal said many cruel
things of her; in fact, there were two or three _very_ ugly tales about
her, but they were all so dim that when any of her female acquaintances
quarrelled with her, which thing frequently happened, the other one
could only vaguely hint, but could never positively assert anything.
But whether or no, certain it is that young Elvino, who fell in love
with Liza when he was young, but as he grew older, he shook that love
off, and Liza herself declared with much warmth, that it was all owing
to that chit of a child Amina; scandal _did_ say that it was all owing
to Liza herself.
Be that however, as it may, it is very certain that having abandoned
Liza, Elvino soon grew madly in love with Amina, whom all the women
declared to be very plain, an evident proof of the young creature’s
pretty face.
Amina worked hard and well for a living, and she laughed at Liza, as
well she might, having certainly the best of the position.
The village was a very happy one throughout the day but when night
came, it was quite the reverse. “The phantom” weighed the village down.
It was clothed all in white, was very tall, and every villager trembled
as he spoke or even thought of it.
It had been the ruin of Liza’s best bed room, into which this phantom
would glide in the dead of the night through the unfastened window,
which opened down to the ground, and upon the flower garden; beyond
which, and across a rickety, unused bridge, stood the little cot of
Amina’s adopted mother, Teresa.
Sooner than sleep in Liza’s best bed room, any peasant would have slept
out upon one of the mountain tops. Yes, the village was a happy village,
if you took away the phantom.
Well, at last it was understood that Amina and Elvino were to be
married, and the very night came when the contract of marriage was to be
signed. ’Twas summer time, so the contract was signed in the broad
street itself, just opposite Liza’s house, behind which stood the old
mill, the unused bridge, and Amina’s cot, or, to be honest, Teresa’s
cot, though for that matter, everything that belonged to Teresa was
Amina’s.
Elvino endowed Amina with all his wealth. Amina said she could only
endow Elvino with her love, and that youth was perfectly satisfied. Liza
signed the contract, and very spitefully she signed it too.
The good-tempered fool of the village, Alesso, was rather fond of Liza,
and he offered her the pen, but she took it with such a snatch, that he
regretted his politeness.
“Never mind, never mind,” said Amina, patting the disconsolate fool on
the back; “‘tis a way she hath of shewing her love for thee.”
“Then I should like to know, Mam’selle Amina, how she would show her
dislike for me.”
All having signed the contract, the bridegroom presented his bride with
the ring--a plain little fillet of gold, but how great a treasure when
given between a couple, whose only difference of opinion is which loves
the other the best.
“Take now this ring, I pray thee,
In assurance that I wed
She who once nobly wore it
Was my mother, who is dead.
“O! sacred be the gift, love,
Let it aid thee in thy vow;
And ever, ever bid us
Love, dear wife, as we love now.”
It need not be said that the word “wife” applied by Elvino was hardly
right; for the church had to bless the couple before he could fairly use
the tender term, and the church would not do that till the next day.
Well, the ring had hardly been given, when, with a great smacking of a
whip, a travelling carriage drove into the village, up to the inn, and,
as a consequence, right into the heart of the contract-signing party.
From this carriage alighted a fine-looking gentleman.
“How weary the road is,” said the stranger to his postillion; “how many
miles to the castle?”
“So please you three, monsieur, and a _dreadful_ road;--have a
delightful inn, monsieur--my inn--if monsieur would do me the honor to
walk in.”
“True,” said the handsome gentleman, smiling; “seeing your face, I
recollect you and also the inn.”
Alesso heard this admission, and immediately began to puzzle his brains
to find out who this new arrival was, and for that purpose he went
peering amongst the boxes and portmanteaux.
“And pray, good people, do you ever think of this new lord, whom you
have not seen since he was a boy?”
The villagers immediately began talking about this lord with great
force; would he come? why had he not come before? pray did the good
monsieur know him? &c., &c.
The stranger laughingly said they would ask questions till the evening
was night; but this assertion Alesso doubted; for he could assure
monsieur that they would not stop to question even the new lord himself
when the night came.
“Indeed, why not?”
What! what! had monsieur never heard of their village spectre? Why,
where had monsieur been? He, Alesso, thought it was talked of
all--over--the--world!
The stranger desired to have it described.
A villager then sang--
“When day has gone--when night has come,
When howls the wind--when thunders roar,
Then on the hill-top, all dressed in white,
Thou’lt see this shade--thou’lt see with awe!”
“Without a step it glides along,
With hanging hair--with glaring eyes.
On--on it glides, and then ’tis gone,
And as ’tis lost, it utters cries!”
The stranger laughed, and said he would soon find out the mystery if he
lived there.
It may be presumed that the stranger had been living in Paris; but
certainly he was very gallant.
He flattered Liza somewhat, but turning his eyes full upon Amina, he
forgot Liza altogether, and began paying the young bride a great many
compliments.
She smiled at the compliments paid her by the stranger, and answered
smartly; but at last grew timid as the count grew bolder; and indeed she
was not sorry when Elvino came up, and accidentally stood between them.
The count requiring some explanation, Elvino gave it him by plainly
telling him she was his wife; whereupon the count congratulated him on
his good fortune.
Well, the contract business over, the notary departed for home; the
villagers also within doors; the count in the village inn, and Liza
retired, rather annoyed and angry; the two young people were in the
moonlight, bidding each other good night.
At last, after a long time, Amina’s mother had the opportunity of
remonstrating upon late hours, and then Amina went to bed for the last
time in that little cot of her adopted mother’s.
CHAPTER II.
The stranger looked curiously about the haunted room, when shown to it
by Liza. There was the white-curtained bed standing near the window; the
door-windows open to admit the cool night air; and beyond, the garden,
and the unused rickety bridge.
He looked out through the open window, and then returning where Liza was
standing, began talking gaily to her.
Liza not feeling gratified by his former conduct, answered rather
pertly, and told him that the villagers had discovered who he was--Count
Rodolpho; and further intimated that they were coming to pay their
respects to their young lord. The “young lord” said he cared naught for
the whole village, while so pretty a woman was by his side. Whereat Liza
smiling, the count--for it was the count--grew bolder, and insisted upon
having one kiss, when a noise frightened Liza, and she ran quickly
behind the bed. But as she ran, some portion of the bedstead caught the
light scarf about her shoulders, and tore it from them. She took no
notice of this mishap, but ran and hid herself behind the curtains.
Certainly she had heard a noise. ’Twas a light footfall. Nearer--then
nearer still.
The count went to the closed door, light in hand, and listened.
The step was not coming that way.
Still the slight noise continued; nearer and nearer still. Then a light
flashed through the open window. He ran towards it, and then started
back.
It was the phantom they had told him of--a white figure moving slowly
along, with a lamp steadily held in one hand.
Nothing daunted, he moved towards the figure, as it silently entered the
room, and put down the light. And then he saw that it was the village
girl to whom he had spoken but an hour or so before.
He drew his breath silently, as he recognized her, for he knew that she
was a somnambulist, and that if woke too suddenly she might fall dead.
But he kept his eyes upon her, as she moved from the table towards his
bed.
On--on; slowly--slowly, till she came to the bed; upon which she laid
down, whispering Elvino’s name, and then in a minute was sleeping
peacefully.
He stepped lightly to the window, saw how she had entered, closed and
fastened the sashes, returned to the bed--hesitated for a moment, then
turning towards the door, he retired.
The woman Liza, immediately he had left, came from behind the bed, where
she had remained, gave one earnest look at the unconscious Amina, and
quickly left the room.
Now was the time for revenge. Now Amina should feel what it was to have
a rival; now she should suffer for alienating Elvino from her. And
Elvino, too, should weep, and be sorry for having slighted her. She
would tell him he had cruelly dismissed her, and she would add that in
revenge she would point at the Amina he believed so good and pure.
Now, the villagers instead of soberly going to bed, got up a
demonstration of delight in honor of the count’s return, and a score or
so of the principal people in the place entered the inn to congratulate
the count just as he left his room. The deputation grandly demanding of
Liza to be shown into the count’s apartment, Mademoiselle Liza, with all
the simplicity in the world, said she would head them, and so the
procession entered the haunted room to congratulate the count--but to
find whom? The poor girl still sleeping soundly, and little dreaming of
what was coming.
“Amina!” they all cried, as with one voice.
And they looked towards Elvino, who formed one of the deputation.
They made room for him, falling away on each side. He ran up to the bed
side, and there she still lay asleep, breathing peacefully.
He uttered a loud cry, and with a start she awoke.
As she saw the crowd about her, she shrunk back with alarm, and covered
her eyes, thinking possibly ’twas some terrible dream. Then, as they all
stood silent about her, she again looked.
Too terrified now to shut out the sight, she remained for a moment or
two gazing before her.
Suddenly she spoke. “Where am I? Where am I?”
Bounding from the bed, she looked from right to left, still dimly seeing
the faces, and again cried, “Where am I? Where am I?”
“Ask thine own unhappy self!” said a voice she knew, and turned towards
it.
“Ah, Elvino!” and she put out her arms to him.
But he flung her from him to the ground, and there she knelt gazing at
him with her arms clasped upon her breast, wondering what her fault was.
Not yet comprehending either her position or his words, she looked to
the nearest woman; but she turned her back upon the girl, as did the
next to whom the poor girl moved her eyes.
Then, panic-struck, she ran round the room from one to the other, still
not knowing what her fault was.
They all drew back from her as though she were a plague; so she moved
quite naturally to Elvino again--her husband as she thought him.
But he showed the greatest repugnance to her.
Then, as she felt herself deserted, they told her her crime.
Vainly she declared her innocence; vainly she wept, flinging herself
upon her knees; vainly she spoke of her past life; vainly she said she
could not tell how she came there; vainly she turned to Liza, whose
heart was stone, who turned from her with the rest; vainly she clung to
her Elvino’s very feet: he shook her from him and strode towards the
door.
As he was leaving the haunted room, Amina’s adopted mother came past the
threshhold, and though they all told her what they believed of the
village queen, this mother, the only one amongst all these simple,
honest village folk, went up to her daughter, and put her arms about her
neck.
So at last the iciness of despair gave way before this one touch of
sympathy, and the poor girl with her mother’s arms about her, wept
bitterly, and so gave relief to her young heart.
CHAPTER III.
The village generally condemned her; especially Liza. Not a single voice
was heard in her favor but her mother’s.
Ah, yes, there was one voice in her favor--honest Alesso’s, the
good-tempered fool’s. He would not believe in Amina’s guilt, which
determination of his thoroughly stamped him a fool in the eyes of all.
Her guilt was so palpable; doubt her guilt! you might as well doubt the
light of the sun.
Liza, as before said, was especially severe, and doubted whether she
ought to be allowed to remain in the village. But nobody supported such
a doubt; they were not quite so virtuous themselves as to come to _that_
conclusion. Alesso, indeed, spite of his belief in Amina’s innocence,
admired Liza more than ever, for her stern virtue, and sighed as he
thought that man would be happy who should call Liza wife.
Alesso had long thought he should be happy to be that man, but though
Liza had never given him much hope, he had never given it up in despair,
therefore it may be imagined with what grief he heard only the next
morning after the catastrophe, that Elvino had made up his mind, and
told somebody, who had told somebody else, who had told it to Alesso,
that Elvino meant to make proposals to Liza; and before three hours had
elapsed this was confirmed throughout the village.
As for the poor girl Amina, she wept most piteously.
Towards the afternoon of the unhappy day which came after the
catastrophe, she sought him out, helped by her stout-hearted mother, and
made another effort to regain his old love for her. She was no
heroine--only a simple village maid; so she did not upbraid him, she
only entreated and protested.
He would not listen to her: when she again left him, he had got back
the betrothal ring he had placed upon her finger--the dear ring his
mother had worn.
By that night he had asked for and gained Liza’s consent to take her to
wife, and poor little Amina’s remaining hopes (nursed by her mother)
were all dead.
When evening came upon the village, the greater part of the villagers
were in their tiny cots, and a score or so, together with Liza, Elvino,
and Alesso, were seated before the inn door, behind which stood the
cottage, within which was the unhappy little woman, now fallen asleep,
and sobbing as she slept.
What made Elvino suddenly start--what made him run forward with his
fists clenched, and his breath convulsive?
The Count, the Count Rudolpho, who had been missing since the unhappy
affair, now came forward to speak out the truth, and upon whose silence
the cowardly Liza had relied.
It is a comfort to know that a libertine need not necessarily be a liar
though he very frequently is: and in this especial case Count Rudolpho
spoke the truth. He declared the whole tale from beginning to end, and,
doubtless, he would have appealed to Liza for corroboration, but that,
that discreet person got out of the way.
As for the lover, who still so deeply loved, that he was actually going
to marry a woman for whom he cared naught as a revenge, he would believe
nothing that the count said. Indeed, how could the girl have entered the
inn, if not with the count’s aid.
The noble pointed to the unused bridge, but Elvino scouted the idea; why
it would fall at the least touch, how then could she have passed over
it?
The count was turning away in despair, when a noise a little distance
off arrested his steps; the villagers turned and saw the village
phantom, and they saw at once who it was.
Again, Amina was walking in her sleep; again she was moving towards the
old ruined bridge; again she carried a flickering light in her hand.
As Elvino saw her, all his old love returning, he ran forward and would
have shouted to her, but that the count sped after him, laid a hand
upon his mouth, and softly, yet imperatively, bade him be silent.
The lover flung himself upon his knees, stretched out his arms towards
his pure wife, and with straining eyes watched her coming.
Nearer to the old bridge--which was rotten, and below which was a
roaring torrent. Nearer still, then one foot was upon it.
All silent with fear they drew back a pace, as though each had stepped
upon the tottering wood, or as though he could prevent her second step
by the act.
Again a step forward, and she was fairly on the bridge, the angry water
roaring beneath.
Suddenly there was a crackling sound, and as they heard it, they flung
themselves down upon their knees, and hid their faces in their hands.
When they stood up again they expected to see her and the bridge no
longer before them. But the brave old bridge had only cracked; there was
a great flaw in it, and there also stood Amina as though in doubt, as
though cautious of her next step. The hand which had held the light was
still held out, but the lamp was gone, the rupture of the stones had
shaken it from her hold.
If now she sees her way by the lighted lamp; if now she stands
undecided, because she can no longer see where to make her steps, she is
lost, for no one can dare step on to the rotten bridge to save her, and
she will fall over the low parapet, and so be lost.
But no; again she steps on--feeling carefully with her foot; again she
hesitates, as her sliding foot comes against an unaccustomed projection,
caused by the fracture of the stone-work.
Then again she moves on--a step; another; yet another--and she is safe.
Then they all fell on their knees, and so gained pardon for having
wrongfully accused the poor girl.
For had she been guilty, she would not have had the courage to try and
cheat the villagers. Yes, she was really asleep, and had no idea of the
danger she had run.
She came close to the spot upon which knelt her Elvino, whom she had now
gained back to her whilst she slept; and then she went through the
motion of setting down the lamp, now rolling at the bottom of the
torrent.
Soon she began talking of the lost ring--the ring he had given her, and
had torn from her.
And she broke up into atoms the score of roses he had also given her on
that happy night, and which she now took from her bosom. Then again she
wept for the ring, and felt on her hand for it.
He still had the ring, for he had not hardened his heart enough to put
it on Liza’s hand; and, under the direction of the count, he quietly
slipped it on the sleeping girl’s finger.
’Twas enough.
Feeling the ring once again, she awoke. But ah! to how much joy? The
whole village crowding around her, sorry for their unjust suspicions,
and more desirous of getting a kind look from her than ever; her Elvino,
proud and happy, near her; her dear old adopted mother, proud and
self-satisfied. Was it not better as it was--that that happiness should
come after such deep trouble (which is ofttimes a short cut to years of
joy,) than that the two young people should have dropped into wedlock
after a happy, unclouded childhood and love, without having had a pang
to teach them the sweetness of peace and innocence.
As for Liza, the less that is said of that lady the better. That scarf
of hers told terribly against her; and though poor Alesso felt the blow
terribly, he could hardly show the remains of any bruise whatever to his
new love when Liza left the village.
L’ELISIR D’AMORE. (DONIZETTI.)
THE ELIXIR OF LOVE
CHAPTER I.
It is pleasant to see the reapers resting after their work, in the
shadows of the trees. Indeed, it may be pleasant to be a reaper
reposing. Yet a disappointed, wretched lover can find no pleasure in
anything but being miserable; and lovers, disappointed in love, do so
indulge in misery, that it _must_ be a pleasure.
Nemorino, the poor young farmer, was a disappointed lover, and on one
particular autumn evening, when the reapers were sitting in the shadow
of the trees, he took no notice of _them_, but kept his eyes fixed upon
Adina, who, on her part, kept her eyes fixed upon her book, like St.
Dunstan of old.
The fact is, Adina was a coquette, and no one likes your unalterably
attached man more than a thorough coquette. A coquette--that is, a
thorough coquette--never does marry an unalterably attached man. She
usually marries a man who thinks just a little more of himself than he
does of his bride, and a coquette is happy ever after in consequence.
Well Adina, who, by the way, was by no means poor, lived in a
farm-house, in the exact centre of her farm, and did nothing but what
she pleased. And Adina ran very considerable risk of marrying Sergeant
Belcore, of the attractive chasseurs; and she quite laughed at the
attentions of Nemorino. Handsome; yes, certainly handsome, but _so_
stupid, so different to Sergeant Belcore.
See you, in her heart of hearts, a coquette knows her own inestimable
little worth, and so, consequently, she cannot help despising a man who
thoroughly believes in her.
On this particular evening she was more contemptuous with respect to
Nemorino than she had ever shown herself, and truth to tell, sitting
under a tree reading, she looked, and was, very pert indeed.
She made him jealous of her very book; it was such an interesting book.
Suddenly, when the poor fellow ceased looking for an instant--
“Ah, ah! capital! Just listen: ’The beautiful Tristano quite burned away
with love for the cruel Isotta, who SCORNED him (here she looked
scornfully at Nemorino). At last, he found a sage, who gave him a
love-philtre, and after that, the lovely Isotta was continually
following the handsome Tristano.’ Nonsense! that only proves that the
lovely Isotta was as stupid as somebody else I know. Hark! there are the
drums; oh, delight, here comes _the sergeant_;” and then she looked
wickedly at the disconsolate Nemorino.
Who was certainly very different to “_the sergeant_.” Nemorino was tall,
comely-looking, flaxen-haired, and ingenuous; Sergeant Belcore was
equally tall, but he was more than comely-looking. Such a figure had
Sergeant Belcore! And Sergeant Belcore’s moustache, a long, sweeping
moustache, which stood out straight on each side of his face, in the
mathematical manner, and was as bright as his splendid boots. His
handsome black hair, too, was clipped short to the pole of his neck; and
altogether, Sergeant Belcore was very spruce indeed; and Sergeant
Belcore knew it.
He thought he was in love with Adina, but he certainly was not; whereof,
in proof of which, witness the nosegay. No lover--really a lover--comes
up as cool as a cucumber to offer his bouquet? No, he suggests the
flowers, so to speak, with many doubts; and if it be accepted, he don’t
twirl his moustaches (if he has any), as though he had done a very
admirable thing.
All of which conduct was Sergeant Belcore’s, when he stepped cavalierly
up to the maiden. As for Nemorino, poor fellow, he looked more lone,
dismal, and ridiculous than before.
“O, country nymph, I present this nosegay to you, as Paris did the
apple, because you are the loveliest.”
“Ah, ah, ah! very good.”
Nemorino sighs.
“And I see clearly I’ve carried your heart by storm. Well, well, no girl
can withstand a red coat.”
“Ah, ah, ah! very good, sergeant.”
“Ah, me!” sighed the love-born swain.
“Well, pretty one, if your love equals mine, let’s ground
arms--capitulate; on what day will you marry me?”
“Ah, ah, ah! very good, Sergeant Belcore.”
“Come--come--come--here’s the conqueror.”
“Sergeant, sergeant, you storm too soon. Who should cry victory before
the battle has begun? And besides, _I_ am Adina.”
“I wish,” thought the poor stricken lover, “_I_ could talk as bravely as
the sergeant.”
“Well well, as sure as I’ve a military moustache, I’ll not desert the
post.”
“Spoken like a brave sergeant. But, in the meantime, may I offer you
something to eat?”
“I’m one of the family already,” thought the sergeant; so he said, “If
_you_ sit at the same table.”
“Ah, ah, ah! _very_ good, Sergeant Belcore. Go in, go in.”
_She_ saw Nemorino was coming up to speak to her.
“One little word, Adina.”
“Oh, _two_ little words for Nemorino. The usual sighs, though he had
much better go and see his uncle, who is ill--they say _very_ ill.”
“He is not so sick as I am, Adina.”
“And, then, if his uncle dies, he’ll make somebody else his heir.”
“What does that matter to me, Adina?”
“And then he’ll die of hunger and misery;” addressed generally to the
surrounding landscape.
“Either of hunger or love, what matters it, Adina?”
“Well, well. He _is_ modest, which Sergeant Belcore certainly is NOT.
This Nemorino don’t presume, and I never shall love him.”
“But why--why, Adina?”
“He might as well ask the wind why it loveth to go this way or that,
over brook or field.”
“Then I ought?”
“Then he ought to think no more about me.”
“But I cannot, Adina.”
“But why?”
“You might as well ask the river why it flows to the sea.”
“Ah, I see; because he _must_!”
“Even as the river floweth onwards to the sea, I’ll follow Adina.”
“Ah, ah, ah!”
And with this general winding up of her interviews with the luckless
youth, she ran in, and clapped to the little door.
CHAPTER II.
One hour later and everybody in the market place was opening his or her
eyes, as widely open he or she could. For with a great blowing of
trumpets, and other unusual sounds, came _such_ a visitor!
In a carriage, too--not an ordinary carriage, but a gilt carriage. Not a
mean covered-in carriage, like a van, but a fine open carriage, with
_such_ a gentleman sitting within it. One had to look twice before he
could comprehend him--he was _so_ grand. His waistcoat was a fair field,
and his forehead a great plain. But as for his legs, to what shall they
be compared? The legs of Jupiter himself, or perhaps Hercules! Yet he
had a benignant face, this new comer, and he seemed to know he should be
welcome.
Who was he--a lord, a prince?