All the people gathered round this wonderful being with open-mouthed
respect. Then this great man condescended to step from his grand
carriage and address the villagers, as his carriage and his trumpeter
stopped together.
“Listen, listen, listen--oh! oh! you rustics all
Listen, listen, listen, or great and small.
I am, I am, I am the greatest of great men!
For I can fright away the greatest oldest wen!
I, present now,
Who make a bow.
Am Doctor Dulcamara.
In France I’m known,
The French will own,
In Venice and Ferrara.
Such things I’ve done,
That more than one
Have said I am--no matter;
But this I know,
Where’er I go,
I make no little clatter.
“Listen, listen, listen every one that’s here.
If amongst you any’s dying, let him no longer fear.
I’ll cure her, or I’ll cure him, with physic quite divine--
In fact, you wouldn’t know it from very nice sweet wine.
Apoplexy
Need not vex ye,
If unto Dulcamara,
With rapid run,
You straightway come.
And as for those with asthma,
If they but drink,
I’m sure they’ll think
They need not drink much longer
If they’re too weak
Almost to speak,
Quick--_presto_--they’ll be stronger.
“Oh! listen, listen, listen. If any one has gout.
Oh! let him buy a bottle, and let him drink it out
As for tooth-ache,
But _one_ sip take,
You’d think no more of _that_ tooth.
And as to age,
I do engage,
_Two_ sips will bring back _your_ youth.
Oh! yes I am,
Your’e sure I am.
Great Doctor Dulcamara
In France he’s known,
His fame has grown
In Venice and Ferrara.
“Oh! listen, listen, listen. No doubt you think ’tis dear.
Oh! rustics, rustics, rustics, of that now have no fear.
A hundred pounds!
A hundred crowns!
A bottle I don’t ask you!
Oh! yes--oh! yes,
The price now guess.
To guess high, I don’t ask you.
Well, half-a-crown,
Just lay it down.
Ah! ah? my friend, health bless you.
All doctors pale,
Before me fail,
_I_ only can redress you.
Come buy, come buy--oh! rustics, that’s if you’d be well;
Your duty is to purchase--my duty is to--sell.”
Now amongst the “rustics” who had heard this very eulogistic patter, was
Nemorino; and this youth, biting the rim of his rustic hat, struck
himself with the idea that the doctor could cure people of want of love.
“Sir doctor, pardon me, do you know many secrets?”
“Secrets, rustic, I’m _all_ secrets.”
“My faith! Well, have you, by chance, the love drink of Queen Isotta?”
“Hu-u-m. Well, well, well, rustic.”
“The real love-drink that awakens love?”
“Ah! I’m the only brewer of it.”
“And--and do you _sell_ it?”
“To those who can afford to buy it, rustic.”
“Good doctor, and what is the charge?”
“Well--hum--well!”
“I’ve half-a-dozen crowns.”
“I’ faith, you’ve hit it.”
Then the doctor went to his gilt carriage, and brought out something
singularly like a small wine-bottle.
“I’ faith,” said the stout doctor, taking the crowns, “you will be cured
if you drink that.”
“I’ faith (this to himself,) fools there are ’neath the sun;
A fool, yet none the less a brother--this one.”
“Oh, but doctor, how am I to manage?”
“Ah, I forgot, young rustic.
“Now with great care,
In weather fair,
The bottle must be taken;
Then up and down,
Mind, _do not frown_,
The bottle must be shaken!
Pulled out the cork
Per screw or fork,
The bottle to your lips, oh,
You then must place,
And--no grimace,
The potion drink in sips, oh.”
“Yes, yes, young man, this is the _real_ elixir of love!”
(And perhaps it was, for ’twas good Bordeaux.)
“And young rustic, don’t take it till to-morrow. (By that time I shall
be gone.)”
“Oh, good doctor!”
“I’ faith (to himself again,) fools there are ’neath the sun;
“A fool, yet none the less a brother--this one. And mind, young rustic.
A word in your ear. Silence, _silence_! Tis dangerous to sell
love-potions now-a-days. I don’t speak for myself, young rustic, for
_I_’m the great Dulcamara, famed in Venice and Ferrara; but for _your_
sake, young rustic--ah! ah! all the women in the place will be dying for
you. To-morrow, mind. Good bye young rustic, good bye.”
And the worthy doctor vanished through the doorway of the village inn.
“Faith,” said the lover to himself, no longer in a disconsolate tone, “a
good thing is a good thing to-day as well as to-morrow. And ’tis fair
weather, for am I not sitting down here with my elixir of love? And the
bright sky above me. Good! I will!” Pop! ’tis the cork. “Ah, ah! good!
another sip. Good!--another.”
“La, la, la, la, la, ra, ra.”
“Good! Good! yet another; and another sip.”
“La, la, la, la, la, ra, ree.”
“Can I believe my eyes; why ’tis Nemorino singing. Actually Nemorino
singing. Ah, ah!”
“‘Tis she! I shall go to her! No; why should _I_ go to her? Let her come
to me. La, la, la. La, la, la. For to-morrow; yes to-morrow. They’ll be
sighing at my feet!”
“He doesn’t even look at me! ah, ah!” Rather a louder “ah, ah!” than the
first.
“La, la, la, re, ra, ra, ra. Aie, aie, aie, eie, ah!”
“‘Tis all put on!”
“She’s very clearly not in love with me _yet_. La, la, la, re, ra, ra,
ra. Aie, aie, eie, ah!”
“It MUST be put on! Good _evening_, Nemorino. _Very_ good. You’re taking
my advice. You’re, you’re quite _merry_!”
“True; I like this new life.”
“Then your sighs, and your sobs, and your tears!”
“La, la, la.”
“Silence, sir.”
“Re, ra, ra, ra.”
“How dare you!”
“Aie, aie, aie, eie, a, a, le.”
“_Very_ good.”
“Oh! I shall be heart-whole to-morrow.”
“Indeed! we shall see! We shall see!” The second “we shall see” very low
and confidential.
Then came a voice from the inn, which cried,
“Tran, tran, tran,
In love or in war;
Tran, tran, tran,
You ne’er saw before;
Tran, tran, tran,
A Sergeant Belcore;
Tran, tran, tran,
A Sergeant Belcore.”
“Ah! here comes that _admirable_ sergeant. Ah, sergeant; is that you?”
“Yes; dear heart of stone!”
“Stone! oh no.”
“Sound to the assault, sergeant. Now, tell me; when shall we be
married?”
“We-e-e-l-l-l--Perhaps s-o-o-o-o-n.”
“Ah!”
“He started,” said Adina in a low voice. “Don’t pull your moustaches,
sergeant,” said she in a louder voice.
“Always obey orders; well, in six days?”
“Wel-l-l-l--Per-hap-p-p-s.”
“Victory, victory. As sure as I’m a sergeant!”
“Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah!” laughed Nemorino.
“Oh, oh! he’s actually laughing.” And somebody was almost crying.
“What’s that donkey laughing at?” shouted the sergeant. “If he don’t
retreat I shall charge him.”
“Oh, I--could--bite--my--fingers--off--with--rage--he--don’t--seem--
to--care--in--the--_least_.”
“Ah, ah!” thought the donkey; “wait till to-morrow, brave sergeant; wait
till to-morrow!”
“Tr-r-r-m, Tr-r-r-m, Tr-r-r-m.”
“Hallo! hallo! What’s that?”
“Sergeant;” here there was a military salute from a soldier. “Despatch.”
With a fierce twirl of his moustaches, “sergeant” opened the paper.
“Hum! we march to-morrow.”
“Oh, _dear_!” cried several young girls together. And there was a
general impression that a shifting garrison was a national wrong.
“Con-n-nfound it,” said the sergeant; “and my marriage.”
“Yes, yes! to-morrow, my friend,” again thought Nemorino.
“Oh! I shall not forget you, sergeant!”
“Forget! Peste! Hu-m-u-m, Adina--why can’t we be married to-day?”
“He--seems--moved--now; in--fact--he--seems--quite--frightened;” thought
the little coquette.
“To-day;” thought rustic Nemorino, “to-day--if they’re married to-day
there will be no to-morrow--and the elixir of love--will be useless!”
“We-l-l-l sergeant. Y-y-y-es; to-day!”
“Oh, no, no, no; Adina. Wait till to-morrow.”
“Ah, ah!”
“You cannot marry him; because, I--I--I--know why!”
“Co-r-r-r-rpodi Bacco!”
“You can’t, Adina. You’ll be sorry if you do. Don’t, don’t marry him
till to-morrow.”
“Begone, booby; or I strangle you!”
“Sergeant, pray take no notice of the poor fellow. Half-witted,
sergeant. He thought; ah, ah! thought I should--should _love_ him.
Oh--the--ridiculous--creature. _He_ thought! I’ll be revenged on him,”
she said to herself. “How _dared_ he to sing before me. He shall fall at
my feet in penitence before I’ll have a word to say to him.”
And all the girls about said, “the _idea_! a common husbandman to dare
to be the rival of a sergeant in the army; the _idea_!”
“Come, sergeant.”
“The notary; corpo di Bacco; the notary.”
“Yes, yes; sergeant, come.”
“Doctor, doctor,” shrieked out Nemorino. “Doctor, help! quick! help,
doctor!”
“Now, then; all of you there; fall in; march.”
And away they all went to see sergeant Belcore married to Adina the
coquette.
Leaving Nemorino the rustic to call for the doctor at his leisure.
CHAPTER III.
When they all got to the great room in Adina’s farmhouse, they quite
filled it. Well, there they were, looking out for the notary. Adina,
too, was looking out for Nemorino, for she had a faint fear she had gone
a little too far.
Even an invitation from Doctor Dulcamara, who was there, to sing a song,
did not cheer her; and not even the song itself, though she sang it very
well, gave her any consolation.
“Here comes the NOTARY.”
“Bravo, bravo, bravo,” said the doctor.
Out of respect to the notary, all the neighbors withdrew to the lawn
outside. And also out of respect to the notary, he was shown into the
best room; so only the doctor remained in the hall. And only for a
moment too, for Nemorino came rushing in.
“Oh, doctor; here you are. Nay, don’t run away, doctor.” For that stout
man was certainly trying to effect an escape.
“Doctor, I must be loved now, at once; to-morrow will be no good.”
“I’faith, fools there are, ’neath the sun, a fool, yet none the less a
brother--this one. By Bacchus, he’s mad! Take the elixir, sir.”
“Sir, I have.”
“Then take another dose.”
“Give me another bottle.”
“Good; but first give me your money.”
“Money--money,--I have none.”
“Well, well, well, my young rustic. Come to-morrow, or, get some; and
ask for me at the inn as soon as you like. Good night, good night.” And
the doctor seemed rather glad to shuffle off, losing thereby, the feast
to which he had been bidden.
“Ah, me!” sighed the youth, flinging down on a seat.
“Heigho! women are an awkward lot, as sure as my name’s Belcore,” said
the sergeant, sauntering in. “Of course she loves me, and yet she will
wait till this evening for the marriage. Hullo! hullo! rustic, what’s
the matter?”
“I want money, and it seems I _may_ want it.”
“Well, you’re a fine fellow; enlist, and you’ll have twenty crowns.”
“_Twenty!_ did you say twenty crowns, Mr. Sergeant?”
“Look! here--jingle, jingle--here they are. And glory, and honor--and
love--the soldier need never sigh.”
“_Twenty_ crowns?”
“Tw-w-wenty crowns!”
“Done!”
“Here, just sign this paper. Good; take your money. You’ll soon be a
corporal, if you look up to me.”
“Ha! ha! oh! oh!” laughed the sergeant, “I’ve enlisted my rival; oh! oh!
a good tale to tell.”
And he swaggered off, while Nemorino rushed away to buy bottle number
two.
CHAPTER IV.
Every woman then and there in the market-place was full of it, and
crowded about each other to hear and receive the news. “Did you
ever!”--“Oh! _quite_ true!”--“Who _would_ have thought it, you
know?”--“Yes but who told you?”--“Hush! not so _loud_.”--“It’s a
secret.”--“Oh, of course!”--cried twenty voices at least. “Because, _I_
heard it from the young grocer (She _always_ hears every thing from the
young grocer) who heard it from the mercer, who had it from the lawyer
himself; and so you know _then_ it is.”--“Oh, of course; well, I’m sure
_I_ should never have thought it.”--“And such a fortune.”--“Why, he’s
the richest man in the parish.”--“I wish _I_ had a rich old
uncle.”--“Yes, and he never went to see him.”--“All through _that_
Adina.”--“Eugh!”--“There he is!” (Twenty voices again.)
“He” was Nemorino. “He” had run to the doctor, who again fraudulently
appropriated the crowns; again “he” had imbibed the elixir of love, and
this time he really hoped the elixir would have some effect.
“How humble he looks.”
“He don’t know his good fortune _yet_.”
“Good evening to your curls, Nemorino,” said one.
“Good evening, and a curtsey to your heart, Nemorino,” cried another.
“Good evening, and a smile, Nemorino,” exclaimed a third.
“Your humble servant, signor,” said a mean fourth.
“THE ELIXIR!”
“You’ll forget your old playmates now, signor.”
“Oh! no, Nemorino is too _amiable_.”
“Your humble servant, signor.”
“THE ELIXIR.”
Here two persons coming stopped in the utmost wonder to see Nemorino,
the rustic, in the midst of a group of girls. One person was the
enormous Doctor Dulcamara, and the other person was the far from
enormous Adina.
“Bless _me_!” said Adina to herself Nemorino ran up to the doctor, and
whispered--“You were right, the elixir this time was _stronger_.”
“Can ... I ... believe ... my ... senses?” exclaimed Dulcamara. Then he
said to the women--“Does he please you?”
“The insolence of that doctor!” all the girls seemed to say with their
little noses in the air.
“Can--I--believe. _Am_ I the proprietor of the love philtre?” For we may
tell lies till we actually believe them ourselves.
“Well,” thought the rustic to himself, “if every girl loves me, she
ought.”
“And I thought to find him in tears, and if he still loved me, he
_would_ be,” thought Adina.
“You’ll dance, Nemorino.”
“Yes, Gianetta, with you.”
“With me, your humble obedient servant, signor, too.”
“Yes, yes.”
“With _you_, indeed! Ah, ah. _Very_ good.” And here the pretty noses
were brought into action again.
“Can--I--bel--. I DON’T.”
“Ne--ne--ne--ne--mo--ri--no!”
“THE ELIXIR. She comes!”
“Can--I--I CAN’T,” said the doctor.
“So, for a few poor crowns, you’ve become soldier, Nemorino. I must
speak to you,” said Adina.
“Nemorino!”
“Well, Gianetta.”
“Hark! there’s the music. And you know you promised me.”
“True, true, I’m coming. I’ll hear you presently, Adina. Coming,
Gianetta, coming.”
Scene--a despairing little woman pressing her little hands one within
the other. And whether anybody is there she cares not, as she says in a
whisper, “I love him, I do love him.”
Says Doctor Dulcamara. “Can--I--DO believe my senses. Ah, ah! I’m a gold
mine. I’m a Crœsus!”
“Ah, ah, ah!” cried a quick, sharp voice, the personal property of
Gianetta in fact. And as she went off to the dance, audacious with
Nemorino. “Ah, ah, ah, _she_ thinks she’s to have the homage of all the
men in the village, but she WONT.”
“_She_” heard the remark, but it did not make her angry.
“How cruel, how cruel!”
“Ah! all my doings.”
“Yours, doctor.”
“Yes, I have Queen Isotta’s love secret!”
“Queen--n--_Isotta’s_! I won’t believe it. And you gave it to Nemorino!”
“Oh, yes. To try it on some cruel fair, who would have naught to say to
him.”
“Ah, then he _was_ in love with--some one.”
“Yes, the poor fellow; and to get money for Queen Isotta’s secret, he
enlisted.”
“The poor youth!”
“‘Tis my impression she would buy elixir herself,” said the doctor to
himself.
“And now, Nemorino is fortunate in love?”
“There’s not a girl but--here, just look at them. This way!”
“And who is he in love with?”
“Faith, I know not, but they are all in love with _him_.”
“And once I _know_ he only loved _me_.”
“The elixir is not dear. Think! you might have a hundred lovers at your
feet!”
“I’d not know what to do with them. I--I only wish but _one_.”
“And every woman in the place would hate you.”
“What are they to me!”
“Or if you’d marry a rich man.”
“I’m rich enough already.”
“A count, a marquis.”
“Good, if named Nemorino.”
“And my philtre!”
“You may swallow it yourself.”
“I rather think Adina knows a good deal more than I. But I also think
Adina for all girls don’t reply.”
“He _shall_ come back to me,” said the little woman to herself, “he
shall, he shall! A look, a smile, a little frown, and he is at my feet.
For I _have_ the elixir, here, in my face, here, in my eyes.”
And away she went to find Nemorino. If she had only looked behind her
now. For there he was; and as she fluttered away, he came a few steps
forward.
As a clear evidence how fond he was of her in this, that he was sorry he
had gone away with Gianetta, perchance the mercenary. Indeed, he thought
he had marked a furtive tear or so in Adina’s eyes; and, very softly, he
thought to--
“O, Nemorino! what, left the dancing?”
“Yes, I was tired.”
“What, and left Gianetta?”
“Yes; for I was tired of her, too. You see, when a poor youth is loved
by _all_ the girls, he need not care for _one_ only. Heigho! they all
want to marry.”
“Well, they can’t all marry you; and what do you say?”
“_I_ don’t know.”
“Now listen to me,” said the maiden, coming up close to him.
“Well, Adina (she’s going to confess.)”
“Why--why are you going to leave us? Why are you going away for a
soldier?”
“Going to seek my fortune, Adina.”
“But--but we _all_ like you here. And--and we should _all_ be _so_ sorry
to part with you. And--and” (here the little right hand went to the
little natty apron-pocket, and brought out a paper.) “And--and _I’ve
bought your discharge_.”
“Ha! you love me!”
“Love you? We _all_ love you--like you. There, take the paper. And pray
keep amongst us. I dare say _you will find somebody you can fall head
over ears in love with_; for I’m sure we _all_ like you. _Good_ bye.”
“But this isn’t confessing!”
“_Good_ bye, Nemorino.”
“But--but you’re not going like that!”
“Why, what more can you want? you have your discharge. _Good_ bye,
Nemorino.”
“Oh, good bye; only you have forgotten something.”
“Indeed--what?”
“The discharge. Take it. I shall remain a soldier. For the doctor has
deceived me; and--and--God bless you, and good bye, Adina.”
“Oh, no, no, no, no. He has not deceived you. I--I want to make you as
happy as I have made you wretched. I--I _know_ you love me, and--and I
LOVE YOU WITH ALL MY HEART!”
“THE ELIXIR!”
“Hi! hi! hi! what’s this? what’s this? Can Sergeant Belcore believe his
handsome eyes!”
“If he can’t, he must believe Adina’s tongue. My husband, Sergeant
Belcore.”
“Your husband, ma’am; your husband! Keep him. Sergeant Belcore won’t
break his heart for _one_ woman.”
“Ah! but one Sergeant Belcore would break the hearts of a thousand
women. Let him buy the elixir of love, ten crowns a bottle. I, Doctor
Dulcamara, only sell it. Who subdued the sweet Adina? I, Doctor
Dulcamara, did!”
“Cursed mountebank! may you and your coach fall into the next ditch.”
“He! he! he! she only marries him because his rich uncle is dead.” This
was the malicious remark of Gianetta.
For one moment Adina drew away.
The next moment Nemorino drew closer to Adina.
Adina did not withdraw.
“And pray, who made him die?”
“Why, rustics all, ’twas I.”
“Oh! listen, rustics, listen, if either has an uncle,
Almost dead with--say lumbago, phythsics, or carbuncle,
I’ll kill him, or I’ll cure him, precisely as you say;
But this way, or the other, my friends, you’ll have to pay,
“I, present, now,
Who make this bow,
Am Doctor Dulcamara.
In France I’m known,
I’m famed alone,
In Venice and Ferrara
Such things I’ve done,
That more than one,
Have said I am--no matter;
But this I know,
Where’er I go,
I make no little clatter.
“Oh, rustics, rustics, rustics, if e’er you would grow fat,
To purchase these my bottles ’tis the best thing to be at,
Women--ye maidens who’d in the waist be thin,
Try one bottle; ’tis far better than lacing yourselves in.
“You soldiers, there,
Who court the fair,
I pray you make one trial.
Why, sure as fate,
Sure as I’m great,
You’ll ignore the word denial
Thank you; and you,
Four crowns, ’twill do.
I am great Dulcamara,
But two? take three!
Cash hand to me!
I’m famed in Carrara.
“Oh, every one, or old, or young, or you of middle age,
To do all things--I don’t care what--I doctor do engage.
Grow rich, grow poor, grow young, grow old, I’m Doctor Dulcamara,
Famed north, famed south, and as I’ve said, I think, in far Carrara.
“You want a head;
No sooner said,
Than done--if I’m your doctor.
Your skin, I ween,
I’ll color green
Or make you look a Chocktaw.
But mind you all,
Both great and small,
Don’t draw away afraid, oh!
The money bring
For every thing,
Dulcamara must be paid, oh!”
And after this happy conclusion, who shall say there is not _some_
virtue in the ELIXIR OF LOVE.
IL BARBIERE DI SIVIGLIA. (ROSSINI).
THE BARBER OF SEVILLE.
CHAPTER I.
The barber, Figaro, was, in his way, a blessing.
I don’t mean to say for one moment that he was at all equal to any one
benison uttered by any one ecclesiastic in the quaint old city of
Seville; yet I do assert, and plainly, he was a blessing--Figaro, barber
and bleeder of Seville.
For, besides being a barber, a Spanish barber, Figaro _was_ a bleeder;
and in Figaro’s days, barbers were of infinitely more importance than
they are now.
Ah! and Figaro was also a postman; but, I grieve to say, he never
delivered letters with double knocks; indeed, the only percussions at
all in _these_ matters arose between the hearts and the ribs of those to
whom the billets d’amour were delicately addressed.
On the whole, however, I do NOT think Figaro was the pattern of a moral
man. But, dear me, you must pick up your bread where you can find it in
Seville, and Seville never was, and never will be, a highly moral
centre.
Well, then, you will please to understand that Figaro was ubiquitous (so
to speak,) clever, ready-witted, a good barber, a good bleeder, a good
musician, and a not over scrupulous Spaniard.
But, in the affair of the Count Almaviva, everything was strictly moral
and proper. The count was madly in love with Rosina, and desired her for
his countess; but, alas! Rosina was an imprisoned flower, and she spelt
her jailor’s name thus:--g-u-a-r-d-i-a-n.
Well, well; the count adored Rosina, though where he first made her
acquaintance, tradition sayeth not.
But this is certain, he came one night, as usual, to serenade this dark
beauty, who was close shut up in her guardian’s dark old house. _Her_
darkness was delicious, but the darkness of that old house was
abominable. There was, however, a balcony to it, and to that balcony the
poor Rosina would fly whenever she could.
On this night, too, the count did not serenade alone; he had with him
quite a crowd of serenaders, delighted to serve a man of _his_ quality.
And, truth to tell, he and his crowd played their best music, and not a
sign was there from the house. But the day itself advancing, the crowd
was dismissed, and the count stood alone, happily unhappy, near the door
of the enchantress’s guardian’s horrid house.
He was still pensively watching, when by came Figaro. Never mind upon
what errand he had been--’tis no business of ours; he had his guitar in
his hand, and on his guitar he was playing; singing, too, rather
egotistically, but never mind.
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.
There’s no time for the city’s factotum here,
He must off to his shop, for dawn is quite near.
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.
What merrier life, whose pleasures more gay,
Than those of this barber, good people say,
Ah! brave Figaro, bravo, bravissimo,
Is there a better one? oh dear, dear me, no!
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.
Ready at call, both by day and by night,
No one more active, and no one more light.
What better cheer, or happier lot,
Have any men, pray, than barbers have got?
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.
Lancet, and scizzors, and razor, and comb,
Your Figaro sells when he’s at home.
But when he’s _from_ home, his trade’s billets-doux,
Which he’ll carry for that man, or this man, or you.
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.
How I am looked for--wherever I go,
On this side a belle--on that side a beau.
Where is my wig, you stupid pig,
Just take this packet, under your jacket
Figaro--Figaro--here, sir, here,
Figaro up--Figaro down,
Figaro, presto, all over town.
Oh yes; I’m as quick as lightning’s bright flash,
And what’s best of all, I earn plenty of cash.
Oh brave Figaro--bravo bravissimo,
Is there no better one--oh dear, dear me no.
La ran, la lera, la ran, la la.
This contented personage was rushing off to his shop when he went crash
up against the count himself. “Good master!”
“What--Figaro! Hush, be silent! I’m not known here.”
“Surely--surely--surely--Senor.”
It would be hardly within the bounds of possibility to believe that the
grand count actually set to work, then and there, in the dark, to tell
Figaro of his loves; but then it was Figaro--and the barber was a father
confessor in all affairs of the heart. The count stated that he had
fallen in love with a lady whom he took to be the daughter of an old
physician--and he, count as he was, called himself Lindoro, and was,
night and day, watching _that_ balcony.
“_That_ window! Senor--you are lucky.” Then the barber set him right.
Her name was Rosina--she was not the doctor’s daughter, but his
ward--and she hated him; and he was jealous of her--and she was
wretched, and he was wretched, and a very pretty house it was. As for
him, Figaro, in that said house he was everything--barber, hairdresser,
and surgeon too.
He was in the full tide of chatter when the count started. Barber knew,
without looking, that the window opened--and _she_ was in the balcony.
Rosina--lovely as the night--stood in the balcony, holding a letter in
her hand. She was wondering where somebody was.
Crack!--she had barely got into the balcony than the old doctor was
after her.
“A fine morning, child. What letter’s that?”
As she answered, she saw the proposed owner of the letter. “A
letter--no--a piece of music. Oh, dear, it has fallen into the
street--pray go and pick it up.”
He required no recommendation. He trundled his jealous old legs to the
street door, but the letter was delivered. He looked sharply about,
while the young lady deplored that the wind had carried it away.
“I’ll surely have that balcony walled up,” said the old doctor--“I
surely will.”
And he went in and barred the door.
As for the letter--opened and read by Figaro--it stated that the lady
had a laudible curiosity to know who and what was the serenader, and why
he came there--that she was touched by his attentions; that she was
wretched; that she hated her guardian; and that her name was Rosina.
After reading the letter, said Figaro--“And a sad old fellow is that
same guardian--a miser, a monster, a wretch.”
Again the barber was brought up short--the doctor had left his house
again--going to see a patient. And he left strict injunctions to let no
one enter while he was away; though, if Don Basilio came--let him wait
outside.
A stream of condemnation for Don Basilio--who, truth to say, was a rival
of Figaro’s. “A match-maker by trade,” said Figaro; “a penniless,
know-nothing rapscallion, who had recently set up as a music master. A
long, lank, lean man, with a nose like a hook; and he taught Rosina
music too!”
“Chink--chink.” This speaking sound was the passage of gold from count
to barber. Barber engaged upon _that_ argument to do all things.
Clearly the first thing to do was to get into the house. One second, and
the barber had it. A regiment had just arrived--the count must disguise
himself as a soldier and present a billet. The count was charmed with
the idea; and the barber was charmed with himself. “Chink--chink,” from
the barber’s purse. Another thought. He must be drunk--’twould put the
guardian off his guard--what _gentleman_ would be drunk!
So, on the very best terms with each other, the count and the barber
walked off to put their plans into execution.
CHAPTER II.
It is, I hope, no imputation upon Rosina’s character to say she
_watched_ the count and the barber as they chatted; and it is to be
hoped no one will accuse her of impropriety, if, in that hour, she
fairly made up her mind that the count would make an admirable husband!
And--and after a time she wrote another letter--a delicious lover’s
relief--and wondered how _he_ was to get it; and she was just thinking
that perhaps Figaro could----
When Figaro came into the room.
“Good day, Senorita.”
“Good day, Senor Figaro; I am dying of weariness.”
“Then look in the glass, and you’ll be charmed.”
“Charmed in a tomb, Figaro? This house _is_ a tomb.”
“Dear, dear--hist!--he’s coming.”
Figaro slid to the other end of the room--Rosina whisked from it, and
the barber was a most unconscious person--when Dr. Bartolo and Don
Basilio--humbug and music-master (vide Figaro), made their appearance.
Figaro was ordered out for the present.
Terror for Rosina--what says her guardian to the other?--that either by
love or force he will be married to her, and that too, within
twenty-four hours.
“Ah! Count Almaviva has arrived.” Here the informant, Don Basilio,
serpentized all his fingers.
“What--what--that same unknown lover of Rosina’s?”
“The very same--but softly--softly--let’s paint him black--as black as
paint may be.”
The doctor shook his head, beckoned his friend aside, for this was a
thing which should be discussed in a closet--not in a room.
Hardly had they left the apartment than it lighted up with the presence
of Figaro and Rosina.
It was the duty of Figaro to hear--“chink--chink”--he had been paid for
it. But it was not the duty of Rosina to listen; so she had not heard.
“Wedding cake, Senorita!”
“Not here, Senor.”
“Yes--yours; your guardian intends to marry you.”
“La, la.”
“On the faith of a barber--he and the music-master are at this moment
arranging the matter.”
“Indeed; but Figaro, who was it that I saw you talking with a few hours
since in the streets?”
“My cousin--a fine fellow--with the best of heads and hearts. He has
come here to study, and make his fortune.”
“Fortune--and he’ll make it, Figaro?”
“He has one defect--he’s over head and ears in love!”
“_In_deed--how interested I am! Where does _she_ live?”
“Not far off.”
“_In_deed; handsome?”
“Hum--yes; here’s her portrait. A pretty graceful figure--such jetty
ringlets--a rosy cheek--eyes too that sparkle--and....”
“And her name?”
“ROSINA!”
“What! _I_ the poor Lindoro’s flame?”
“As sure Rosina is your name!”
“And I shall see him, and speak to him?”
“You will--and soon--and here. But he, poor fellow, fain would have some
token--just two lines; come--quick--a note.”
“A note--oh--here’s one ready.”
“Ah! In love I plainly see,
She’s taken her degree,
What man knows woman’s art?
Faith--what man knows a part?”
And he was gone.
She wore a very pleased expression of feature for two minutes after
Figaro had departed. But then she justifiably pouted, for Dr. Bartolo
came into the room, feeble in all his parts but his eyes, which were
glancing about like sharp knives. Figaro. He was doubtful of Figaro. And
he was sure of Rosina’s simplicity.
“What man knows woman’s art?
Faith--what man knows a part?”
So he thought he would question her.
“Pray what brought the barber here so early--he spoke to you?”
“He always does! And chatted of a thousand things--the latest fashions
from Paris--and--and other things.”
“And the answer of your note! No quibbling--the note, the piece of music
you dropped this morning from the balcony? You blush--how came that
finger marked with ink?”
“A burn--I used the ink to cure it!”
“That paper--where’s the sixth--there are but five sheets here.”
“I wrapped some sweetmeats in it, that I sent to Figaro’s little niece.”
“And this pen--why ’tis yet wet.”
“Yes--I designed a flower.”
“A flower indeed!”
Finding she had the worst of the battle, she flounced away and out of
the room, the doctor following her, and positively breathing jealousy.
* * * * *
There was such a knocking at the street door, that the whole house shook
in alarm; and old Bertha, the housekeeper, thought it was coming down
about her ears. Hence she opened the door with greater speed than she
had used for years, and she stood a ghost as there, upon the door step,
she saw a soldier--and, moreover, a drunken soldier. She would have
banged to the door again--but in so doing she must have crushed the
intruder, for he was coolly leaning against the post.
The old housekeeper came steaming back into the room, her arms wide
open, and, so to speak--full of the subject--the soldier--the drunken
soldier!
“Tramp--tramp--tramp--tramp.” Two steps and a stagger on the part of the
soldier.
Dr. Bartolo heard the noise, and came in at a sharp trot at one door, as
the drunken soldier came stumbling in at the other.
“Here you--are you--are you--well ARE you he?”
“He--he--what he?”
“Doctor Berteldo--Balordo--whatever it is----?”
“Go to the deuce, sir--_my_ name is Bartolo!”
“Well--well--Dr. Barbaro--it _don’t_ matter--how are you, Dr. Barbaro?
Let us embrace, doctor.”
“Stand back, sir.”
“I WILL embrace thee. Ah, how good that is!
“The marshal of regiment I,
A doctor, too, of full degrees--
billet on your house I hold
Pray look at it--dear doctor--please.”
As the doctor took the paper in a sightless rage, little Rosina came
tripping in.
“Methought I overheard just now,
A most unusual clamor here,
A soldier--and my guardian--too,
There’s something much amiss I fear.”
“I am Lindoro.” Thus the drunken soldier, in a soft, delicate voice,
suited to--love-making.
“Oh,” she cried, which caused the old guardian to start, and look up. At
her he ran like a mad bull.
“Go along--girl--go along!”
“And, faith I, marshall, aye, and doctor too, will e’en go with her.”
“Indeed you won’t.”
“My quarters, sir, are here.”
He reeled towards her, but his voice was far from thick, in fact,
deliciously soft, as he whispered, “Dearest, dearest!”
“Help,” she screamed, but her glance was quite kind, nevertheless.
Meanwhile, the guardian was spluttering wildly--“Zounds, sir, stand
off.”
“Quick--quick--your handkerchief--let it fall,” he again softly
whispered; and as the old doctor had his eyes on him, he drew forth his
sword and made a dreadful lunge at Bertha, who, with a squeal, shot away
with all the speed she could muster.
As for the guardian--he thought he should burst with rage. But the next
moment he had to scamper too, for the drunken wretch made a lunge at
_him_.
“Sir--sir--I’m exempt from billeting.”
“Quick--quick--Rosina--take this letter;” and with a remarkably steady
hand the soldier held her out a delicate little billet.
But she saw the eyes upon her, so she could not take it.
Still with his eyes on her, the old doctor thrust his hand into a desk,
and brought forward a paper--an exemption from billeting.
Said the soldier, “Don’t pull that paper out, old man--unnecessary pain.
I’ve taken up my quarters here--and here I will remain.”
“You will--not if there are cudgels in Seville.”
“You’d fight--then let’s begin. A charming thing a battle--truly.
I’ll show you how to fight. Now mark me--let this be the
trench--and _you_ the enemy. Now pray you mark me, sir,--(drop your
handkerchief)--now--but look the other way.”
Here the drunken soldier let fall a something like a note, and
immediately something like a lace handkerchief fell over it.
The doctor saw it, though he did not see whence it came; and he made
straight for the contraband property. But the soldier stopped him.
“‘Tis nought but a prescription, sir; I told you I was a doctor, well
degreed. The writing’s bad, I fain would have you see it not.”
“And I myself would just fain see it.”
“Ah! ’tis a little love affair, perhaps of hers. Pardon.” Here he picked
up the note and lace, and handed them to Rosina.
The doctor deserted the soldier directly, and fell upon his little ward.
“Quick, quick, the paper!”
“If I could but change it,” thought she; and she did. In a pretended
little fright she leant against the table, covered a paper with her
hand, and the deceptive deed was done.
’Twas but a list of groceries!
“A fool--a fool--a very fool am I,” thought the old doctor. But he did
not say so.
Here there was the sound of weeping on the part of a young lady, who was
heard to remark, in a tearful voice, that such oppression was
intolerable, and such a life quite unendurable. These remarks, unusual
in the sprightly Rosina--for she loved to defy the doctor--caused
inexpressible pain to the drunken soldier, who was still reeling about;
and perhaps somebody knew the little stabs these same remarks would
give.
“What man knows woman’s art,
Faith--what man knows a part?”
Suddenly the soldier lunged forward with his long sword again, and did
so fly and lay about him, that old Bertha took more exercise than she
had taken since her hair turned white. As for the old doctor, he flew
about till his respectable black legs looked like a dozen at least.
“Help, help!” shrieked the doctor.
“Murder, murder!” quavered the old lady, getting over the ground more
quickly than ever.
“Oh! oh! oh!” said the young lady, in great fear of the drunken soldier.
“Pray be still, soldier!”
Suddenly, and with a bound, rushed in barber.
“What’s the matter--what’s the clatter?
About a quiet house ’tis pity.
I pray you, doctor, gaze below,
What’s this to-do, the crowd would know.”
“This is a rogue.”
“Then you’re another.”
“This is a knave.”
“Then you’re my brother.”
Then the barber:
“Good Mr. Soldier, have a care,
Or, as sure as you stand there,
This basin here, at one fell smack,
’Gainst your sconce it shall go crack.”
“Bang--bang--bang!” at the street door.
“Bang--bang--bang!”
The old guardian hesitated for a moment; but then, thinking he couldn’t
make matters worse, he went and opened the door; and in came the watch,
and part of the crowd, and tramped all over the place.
Said the officer:
“I ne’er heard such a noise before,
Whence springs this horrible uproar?”
The drunken soldier, and the indignant guardian, and the rapid Figaro,
and the pert Rosina, and even the flushed old Bertha herself, hastened
to give their evidence in chorus; but, with a stern wave of the hand,
the captain of the watch bade one speak at a time.
The doctor’s grey hair carried it. He deposed that the soldier was a
scoundrel, a coward, and a scamp, who had sought his life and drawn his
sword--and that, too, without the least provocation.
Here the barber could not help striking in, “Yes, Senor, and _I_ came
in, and _I_ parted the sanguinary combatants.”
“Oh dear, oh dear!” This was the voice of a frightened little maiden who
began to think a certain drunken soldier was in trouble.
“You are arrested,” said the captain of the watch to the drunken
soldier.
Who, thereupon, thinking that the farce had been played long enough,
tore open the breast of his coat and showed the Order of the Grandees of
Spain.
We are bound to set forth the particulars of the Spanish chronicle,
whence we learn that the effect of this “Order” was order indeed. The
officer, with unpardonable partiality, immediately un-arrested (to coin
a word) the drunken soldier, and everybody was respectfully astonished.
Then, everybody went peacefully home, and (bed time arriving) went
possibly, to bed.
CHAPTER III.
Next day, Dr. Bartolo sat him down to discuss the drunken soldier. The
aged gentleman had sent out streams of inquiry in every direction, and
he had ascertained that no such person as the drunken visitor was known
in the regiment. Then who was he? Suspicion gave birth to acuteness, and
this jealous old gentleman soon made up his mind that the stranger was
in the employ of his ward’s--the unknown--lover, the detested Count
Almaviva.
He was in the midst of a deep plan of retribution and revenge, when a
thwacking at the outer door jerked him, as it were, from his reverie.
Before old Bertha could open that door the knocks were repeated again
and again, and the doctor had just risen to open himself (that is the
door) when a visitor appeared.
A youngish looking, fairly handsome man, whom partial eyes would have
declared to be very much like the drunken soldier, alias Lindoro, alias
Count Almaviva, stood just within the room, dressed sedately in black,
and making the profoundest of bows.
“May heaven send you peace and joy.” A profound bow.
“Thank you; they’ll be new gifts of heaven, but don’t trouble yourself.
Who are you?”
“May peace and joy be yours for years, and years by thousands.” Another
profound bow.
“Thank you; but don’t trouble yourself. Who is he? I think I know that
face, h-u-u-u-u-m! But yet the countenance is changed, and certainly the
dress, h-u-u-u-u-m!”
“Yes, joy and peace, and peace and joy, and joy and peace together.”
Here the stranger bowed lower than ever.
“Well--well--well--well--well!”
“Yes, joy and peace I think--I said with all my heart.” He nearly laid
his nose upon the doctor’s instep. And the new comer rather thought this
last disguise was perfect, and panted for the moment when he and his
Rosina should sweetest converse hold.
“And pray, sir, who _are_ you?”
“I’m Don Alonzo--and I am of music a professor, and I am, as well, dear
sir, a pupil of Basilio’s--I mean good _Don_ Basilio’s. Poor man, he’s
very ill, so in his stead--”
“What, _very_ ill--then I must run and see him.”
“No, no, pray don’t run and see him, ’tis no dangerous illness.”
“Hu--u--u--um. Come, let’s go.”
“But, sir!”
“Hu--u--u--m.”
“Now hear me.”
“Hu--u--um.”
“I’m Don Alonzo truly--but--but as the truth you’ll have--I come as well
from Almaviva--count.”
“Softly, softly, my _good_ sir.”
“The count.”
“Yes--yes--yes--but softly, softly!”
“This morning to my lodging came, and in my hands, by chance, there fell
this note, directed by your ward to HIM.”
“Her very hand.”
“You see, good doctor, busied with a lawyer, Basilio could not come, and
so sent me, but he knows nothing of this letter, trust me. Well now, for
I am mightily desirous, good sir, of your favor, if now I could speak a
word to her?”
“Speak, speak with her!”
“I might induce the senorita to think I had this letter from--”
“Well, well.”
“A mistress of the count’s. And then you see.”
“Good, good. She’d hate him. Softly, good! a calumny. Ah, ah! a worthy
scholar you of Don Basilio’s. Well, well, I’ll call the chit, and since
you are so interested in me, why, I’ll e’en repose great confidence in
you.”
The old man shakily going out of the room to hunt up his unfortunate
little ward, the music master sat musing the most delicious thoughts. If
now she would only consent to his plan, then they would be completely
happy.
When the doctor came back, leading the opposing and indignant Rosina
into the room, his jealousy was awake in a moment; for how should Rosina
know that the Don Alonzo was somebody else at the same time? Hence, when
she looked up haughtily at the music master, behold her face changed
its expression directly, and to a little scream she added a little
start.
The doctor saw the first, heard the second, and felt the third.
“Well--well--well!”
“Oh dear me, Senor, the _cramp_!”
“Hu--u--u--u--m.”
Meanwhile, the music master was again making the profoundest of bows.
Then he profoundly placed a music stool before an old piano, and
profoundly proposed to the young lady that she should sit down.
Perhaps not unwillingly, she sat down, and perhaps not unwillingly, she
poured forth a delightful song.
Arriving at the end of it, and even the most delicious songs _will_ come
to an end, the new music master was most enthusiastic in his praises.
The doctor would qualify _his_ praise. The voice was good--granted. But
the airs--why the airs of the present day--what were they? Contemptible.
Now, for instance, when the wonderful Cafariello sang, and when he sang
that wonderful ‘la, la, la’ of his, why there was an air to which none
could object. In fact he would sing it. It began--
“When thou art near, Rosina dear.”
To be sure the song said Giannina--but never mind.
“When thou art ne-e-e-ar, Rosina de-e-e-ar,
With joy and fe-e-e-ar, there falls a te-e-e-ar.”
This delicious romance the old doctor pointed by means of his right foot
and toes. He also elaborated the accent by means, first of his right
hand and arm, and then of his left hand and arm; and getting to
te-e-a-r, he laid both his hands on his heart, looked sentimental, and
fell into a rage; for he caught sight of Figaro behind him, mimicking
him.
Meanwhile, the professor of music was diligently explaining (perhaps the
ground-work of music), to the young lady, who was as diligently
listening.
The barber was horrified at the doctor’s discovery, and immediately
flourished about his razors.
“Well--well--well.”
“Excuse me, Senor--I come to shave you.”
“I’ll not be shaved to-_day_.”
“Then not to-morrow. I’m engaged to-morrow.”
“I say I’ll not be shaved to-_day_.”
“What, doctor--think you I’m a _country shaver_! So please you find
another barber--I am off.”
“Well--well--have your way. Go to my room and--no--no, I’ll go myself.”
I have forgotten to say that the old doctor had locked up the balcony,
and carried the key in his pocket--with all the other keys--a mighty
bunch. The doctor locked up everything.
Amongst other things and places, the doctor always locked up his own
room. Now, therefore, he hauled forth the mighty bunch, and turned his
legs towards the door. Suddenly his suspicion was all awake again. What,
leave the stranger and the barber there! No--no. “Here, Figaro--take the
keys; be careful, and break nothing!”
As Figaro passed the young lady she looked up, and said rapidly--“The
newest key there is.”
With a jingle of triumph the barber ran off.
“Hu-u-u-m--that Senor, music-master, was the rascal who brought her the
letter from the count.”
“Indeed!”
At this moment there was heard a horrible crash, which sounded like a
canonnade with china bowls.
Away flew the doctor after the barber; again the explanation of the
“ground-work” went on; and was only interrupted by Figaro’s flying
entrance--a bright new little key between his fore-finger and thumb.
Victory--in fact!
But he showed a very doleful countenance as the doctor came deploringly
in the room.
“Six plates--eight basins--one tureen!
Was such damage ever seen?”
But, in spite of plates and dishes, the time of a town barber was not to
be wasted; so Figaro, flourishing his instruments of torture about, the
doctor sat down, and the barber was preparing to dash at him, brush in
hand, when his arm remained suspended in the air; for Marplot, in the
shape of Don Basilio, stood in the doorway!
For an instant the barber was disconcerted, but recovering his presence
of mind, he prepared to assault the doctor. But the latter, struggling
to his feet, called out, “Basilio! ’tis Basilio!”
Don Basilio made a lean bow, taking off his shovel hat with his long
fingers. “Good day to you; good day to all.”
As for the young people at the piano, they could only wonder what could
come next.
“And pray, Basilio, how are you?” asked the doctor, earnestly.
“How am I; as well as ever.”
“Excuse me Senor, but that confounded beard of yours; a town barber
cannot wait all day!”
“Yes, yes; directly. And the lawyer, Don Basilio?”
“The lawyer?”
The professor of music deserted his post and fled up to the doctor. “Of
the affair, Senor, of the letter, recollect he nothing knows.”
The barber turned to Don Basilio, who was elevating his eyebrows, and
all the wrinkles in his forehead, wondering what all this might mean.
“Oh heavens, Don Basilio, this is fever.”
Said Figaro,
“Yes, I swear it by my post;
You’re as chalky as a ghost.
Fever! ghost!
Don Basilio--go to bed,
’Tis the fever called the red.”
The professor of music made that “chink, chink” chorus already alluded
to; and when he performed it he was standing near the barber. Thereupon
said Figaro, still in his quality of surgeon, and still to Don Basilio.
“And as you’ll want a nurse,
Let me recommend--this purse;
Yes; you are very bad indeed,
In such cases one must--bleed.”
The music-master, the barber, and the young lady too, were all _so_
interested in Don Basilio’s health, and they did so crowd about him,
that the doctor could neither put in a word nor get near his friend,
whose fingers went twisting about, trying to discover the most
profitable line of conduct to pursue.
At last:--
“Good day to all--with all my heart,
I make my bow, and so depart.”
The town barber was immediately himself again with his implements. He
turned even his handsome body to account; for he made of it a screen,
and so hid the piano and the two young people from the doctor’s green
eyes.
“Do, re, me, fa.”
“We have the keys of the balcony; at midnight be you there.”
“Yes; Sol, la, si, do-o-o-o-o.”
“Now pray don’t forget the hour.”
“No. D-o-o-o-o, si, la, sol-l-l-l.”
“At twelve you will be mine.”
“Yes. Fa-a-a, me, re, d-o-o-o-o.”
“And now you trust yourself to me Rosi--.”
“A-h-h-h,” shrieked the doctor, his head coming round the human screen,
and noticing the whispers. He evaded the quivering razor and rushed at
the music-people, one of whom, to wit the master, looked the picture of
innocent consternation; while the other was quite astonished.
Cried Figaro:--
“When thus a man doth rage and rave,
The thing to do ’s his head to shave.”
“I think I’d better go,” said the music-master, tremblingly.
“I think you had,” said Figaro.
Alas! Why, before he went, did he not tell Rosina of his giving her
letter to the doctor. Alas! Why did this necessity escape the attention
of the all-seeing Figaro? They both departed--the barber flippantly, the
professor profoundly. And neither thought of the forgetfulness up to
the time when they were both fixing a ladder against the locked up
balcony.
Meanwhile, little Rosina had been converted into a little tigress.
For not an hour had the count and barber been gone, when Don Basilio had
persuaded himself _his_ line of profitable conduct was to come creeping
back after a little more money. This time he knew not a purse full, for
the doctor was old and his purse low. He came in with his low bow.
“Noble doctor, do you know who this Alonzo was?”
“No, no; sent by the count, perhaps.”
“It was the count himself. Some scheme is sure afoot.”
“Good; and I’ll scheme too. Now, haste, Basilio, to the notary, and bid
him come. This very night I’ll marry her.”
“But, noble doctor; fetch the notary! And it rains in torrents. Again,
most noble doctor, the notary is engaged; this very night the barber
Figaro gives his niece in marriage.”
“The barber Figaro _has_ no niece! Another plot--another plot. Now, go,
and call the notary! Go--go--go! Here, take the street door key, and
go--go--go!”
Then he cried out for Rosina; and that young beauty appearing, he very
quickly turned her into a young tigress.
“A pretty pitfall, Senorita!”
“Indeed!”
“I’ve some news from your _new_ lover.”
“Lover, indeed!”
“Indeed! most nobly you’ve bestowed your young affections, truly. Why,
with another he makes sport of you.”
“He dares!”
“(I’m right.) Yes, Senorita; as you say, ‘he dares.’ Behold this letter;
it formed for them a comedy.”
“My very note.”
“(A pretty plot.) Why, this Alonzo and the barber are but tools, whose
master is Count Almaviva.”
“Oh, Lindoro.”
(“Lindoro, is it!”)
“Vengeance! Did you not say you’d marry me? You did; then let us married
be. And now, at once (stamp of the foot), at once, at once! At midnight
he’ll be here, and with him, Senor, barber Figaro. It all was settled I
should fly and marry him.”
“Ah! I run to bar the door.”
“‘Tis useless, Senor, you’d better bar the window.”
“The window!”
“Yes--yes--they have the key!”
“The key! I’ll not stir from the spot. Yet, should they come with arms!
I’d better call the watch, and call them thieves. Go, shut yourself
within your room, and double lock the door!”
And out into the pelting rain he rushed, while the little tigress,
somewhat accusing herself of hastiness, went slowly to her room.
At first there was nothing heard but the rain; then “click, click,” the
turning of a key in a lock. Then the window opened slowly, and with
light jumps, in came the count and the barber.
And at this very moment, Don Basilio, drenched to his very fingers’
ends, was stalking along the street, towards the doctor’s, and with him
was a notary, who with reluctance had left his house.
And at this very moment, also, Dr. Bartolo was full three streets off,
laying a complaint before the Alcade.
“Rosina--Rosina!” cried Figaro.
“Rosina--Rosina!” cried the count.
No answer.
“Why, where can she be?” cried both together.
She had not, of course, meant to come; but hope is strong, and so at
this precise moment she came softly into the room.
“Dear Rosina!”
“Stand back, Senor,--I but come here to tell you, you have lost me.”
“Can I believe my precious senses!” exclaimed the barber.
“Rosina!”
“Peace, Senor. Did you not pretend to love me, that you might betray
me?”
“And to whom?”
“The Count Almaviva.”
“Ah--good!” said Figaro to himself.
“Then thou didst love Lindoro?”
“Too well.”
“Then thou didst love the count?”
“The count!”
“Rosina--yes--the count is thy Lindoro.”
“And Lindoro is the count,” said Figaro.
The bliss of these young people was soon ended--for alas! Figaro, who,
as a general precaution, was looking on all sides and on all levels, saw
from the balcony one lantern and two persons down below at the door!
“Quick--the ladder,” shouted he, and instinctively he felt for it.
Gone--vanished. Even Figaro was disconcerted.
Footsteps!
The one lantern and the two persons. Don Basilio and the notary.
“Noble Dr. Bartolo,” whispered the gaunt man.
Figaro slipped quickly round the new comers, and then said softly to the
count--“’Tis the scamp Basilio and our notary. Cheer up, leave all to
me.” Then aloud he added, “Good evening, gentlemen,--I pray you place
the lantern on the table here. Senor notary! this evening at my house
you were to see a contract signed between the Count Almaviva and my
niece.--Well, here are you and I, the count, and also, here’s my niece.”
“But where’s the doctor?” said Basilio, to whom Figaro, handing him a
ring from the count’s hand,
“Put this ring upon your hand,
And let no more be said,
Or the next report may be,
You’re shot clean through the head.”
Don Basilio saw the force of the argument, and accepted the ring.
Then there was the scratching of pens, and the signing of names, and in
less time than it takes to record the fact, Rosina was a wife!
And at this moment arrived Doctor Bartolo, with a posse of people--the
Alcade, and one, two, three--a whole regiment of alguazils.
“Arrest them, arrest them all.”
“What me. Figaro--arrest me!”
“I say arrest them all, they all are thieves.”
It is reported that the alcade marched up to the count with great
dignity, but when he saw who it was--a real living count--he fell back
without any show of dignity whatever.
And to a certain question that the doctor put to Figaro, this was all
the reply:--“Chink, chink.” The question--simply how it was that Figaro
could turn against him and betray him: “Chink, chink.” An argument
without reply.
The doctor was not a bad doctor--and as he could do himself no good by
being angry--and as the bridegroom was a count--why he forgave them.
And as this chronicle is all about the loves of two people who are now
happily married, and about a guardian who is a guardian no longer, why,
obviously, this chronicle is ended.
RIGOLETTO. (VERDI.)
This tells of a hunch-back only, who wears two masks,
The one is mocking jest--the second godlike love,
And if he wears them both too mixedly--chide not--
But dole him and his woes some pity.
Now fall to.
CHAPTER I.
In the sixteenth century, kings and dukes still kept their fools. The
Duke of Mantua had his--a poor hunch-back, whom they called Rigoletto.
He was as witty as any fool in France or Italy; and he was an honest man
in this--that he despised the courtiers, who bowed low before the
tyranny of the duke, who broke up their families as a child would toys,
and quite as fearlessly. And if, as the tale goes on, you find he had
some human love in him, remember he is a hunch-back, and give him double
praise.
The duke, whose whole life was a panorama of gallantry, despised his
conquests; and, being handsome, believed no woman could withstand him.
He was as heartless as he was handsome, and he had no affection for a
living soul, unless, indeed, for Rigoletto, whom he loved for his power
of satirizing the courtiers, who loved Rigoletto accordingly.
This fool, Rigoletto, was superstitious; moreover, he had a secret,
which it was the hope of his life to keep from that terrible court; for
a fool, a jester, a hunch-back, may have loves and secrets like other
men.
The duke had discovered a beautiful girl, whom he followed daily as she
went to prayers. For weeks he followed her each day, and yet all he
learned was that she lived in a mean house in a mean street, and that
every day the same unknown man visited her.
He still knew no more; when, on a certain night, he gave a grand ball at
his palace. A happy, happy ball, where each man trembled as the giver of
the feast turned eyes upon his wife or daughter! A happy, happy, fête!
He was paying the Countess Ceprano great attention, when Rigoletto
entered the hall, and saw the husband of the lady jealously watching
them.
“What troubles you count?” said the fool, smiling maliciously.
Rigoletto turned away gibing at the courtiers, crossed the hall, and was
gone.
Hardly had he left, than the Lord Marcello stepped quickly up to a
group, declaring he had great news to tell them. They crowded about him,
wondering what he had to say. ’Twas of Rigoletto. “What, had he lost his
hump?” cried one. “Had _he_ become straight?” cried another.
“No, no,” replied the lord. “Rigoletto, Rigoletto has a mistress!”
They all laughed merrily, perhaps a little cruelly, for men and women
love to return blow for blow. “What a change, from a hunch-back to a
cupid.” They were yet laughing, when the fool passed near them with the
duke, who was still thinking of the Ceprano’s wife.
“Steal her away!” said the fool.
“Easily conceived, but not easily performed,” replied the duke.
“This very evening. Have you no prisons, great duke? Can you not banish
him? Or take his head?”
“What, Ceprano’s head?” asked the duke aloud, and turning to that noble.
“Yes--what is it good for?”
The count drew his sword as the duke smiled, and the fool affected to be
overcome with fear.
“Ah! ah! he is very amusing to-night.” But the fool did not see how
menacingly the courtiers drew together, and frowned at him.
The duke lightly warned the fool that he might jest too deeply, and that
the count’s sword might end his jokes.
“Bah! who shall be brave enough to touch the duke’s favorite?”
And he imitated the duke, and turned away from the group of nobles, not
noticing their angry looks and gestures.
At this moment an aged lord appeared at the door, and violently thrust
himself into the hall, though the servants tried all they could to hold
him back. His hair was white, his limbs trembling--his was another
family the duke had dishonored.
The guests started with surprise.
“I _will_ see the duke, and even here blazon forth his crimes.”
“I _will_ see the duke--and even here blazon forth his crimes,”
exclaimed the fool, mockingly, and, as well as he could, imitating the
grand posture of the aged noble.
“Poor wretch!”---- Then, turning to the duke, the lord again exclaimed
that he spoke in the name of his dishonored family, and called for
justice.
“Justice--justice!” continued the fool.
“Let him be arrested,” said the duke, as he frowned upon this new comer.
“He is mad,” said the fool, solemnly.
“He is mad,” repeated the courtiers.
“Be both accursed,” cried the old lord to the fool.
The soldiers seized him--“thou and thy shameful master--who can laugh at
a father’s grief--be both accursed.”
The fool, as the curse was uttered, drew on one side, put his hands
together affrightedly, and said to himself, his superstition all
dominant, “He cursed me--he cursed me.”
Meanwhile, the cowardly courtiers merely looked after the doomed lord as
he was led away.
* * * * *
That same night, when the weary dancing was over, and the duke no more
required his fool, Rigoletto stole out, and went quickly to an obscure
part of the city, to a high thick wall, in which was a small retiring
door.
He had almost reached it, his head drooping at the thought of the
terrible curse, when a ruffianly man jostled him. “Who are you? Go; I
need you not.”
“Signor, I am a man who has a dagger at your service, ready at a word!”
“You are a thief.”
“No; but a man who for money will rid you of your rival. You have a
rival.”
“Who is he?”
“Is not your mistress near at hand?”
The fool trembled violently for a little; but recovering, he hurriedly
asked how much the fellow would charge to kill a man? How he would be
sure to slay him?
The brigand said he struck his victims in the street, or in his own
house.
His own house? How was that?
Said the brigand--his sister danced in the streets, she decoyed the man
who was to fall, and, by his faith, the matter was at an end. And how
did he kill? By his faith, noiselessly, with the sword which he then
carried.
The fool hurriedly asked where he could meet him again, if he might want
him--was told here, at that very spot, on any night. Rigoletto gave some
money, and the ruffian slouched away.
Instead of opening the door, the fool stood looking after the brigand,
and thinking what difference was there much between them? If the brigand
wounded with his steel, he, the fool, thrust and wounded with his
tongue. Then again he thought of the terrible curse, and turned towards
a gloomy house at hand--the house of the very man who had but now cursed
him. Then he thought that if he were bad, ’twas not his will, but the
wills of nature and of men. To be deformed, to be a fool, to be
condemned to laugh against his will, never to be pitied, never to gain
tears! Then he frowned as he thought of the cowardly and hateful
courtiers, and then again he was thinking of the awful curse--for surely
a curse by one condemned to death might live--might live! He trembled as
he asked himself why this thought so clung to him? Then warily he opened
the door and crept in--into a courtyard, a jealous courtyard, which hid
what it held from the common gaze by great high walls.
To him ran a beautiful girl, who kissed and embraced him. A mistress?
No! no! His daughter--his daughter, whom he so loved, who made him
human, who made him fear the curse! The mother of that girl had married
him for pity’s sake, and the poor fool’s daughter knew not what her
father was. She often wondered; and now, on this very night; she no
sooner saw him than she began asking him gaily to tell her the long
promised secret. She prayed him to tell her who had been her mother,
what he himself, her father, was.
He confusedly parried her questions, and told her hurriedly that she
must never leave the house--never except to prayers. She answered that
for now three months he had ever spoken so; should she never, never see
the city? Again he only warned her never to leave the house, and
trembled as he thought that if he lost her they would only laugh at a
poor fool’s loss.
Giovanna was his daughter’s companion and servant through the weary
days, and as she now came from the house into the courtyard he ran to
her, and nervously bade her guard his Gilda--his only child. Truth to
tell, the memory of the curse sat heavily on him, and he trembled
greatly.
Suddenly he thought he heard a noise at the gate; in the dark, thick
night he rashly opened it, and ran two or three steps forward. Before he
could return, a figure had glided into his stronghold and reached the
shelter of a tree. Is there nothing that will warn him of the thief--the
thief that came in that night to steal away his treasure? Is there
nothing to prompt him to stay at home that night--near her to guard her?
He has come to the house but for a few blest moments in which to see
her; he hastens to creep back to the palace to play the fool again. This
is one of the desolate nights when he may not creep to her door, and
watch like a faithful dog till morning. He must return to the weary
palace prison. “Good night, dear Gilda,” he says. The girl pouts, but
the father kisses her frowns away, and says again, “Good night, dear
daughter,” and unwisely turns away, and pulls to the creaking door.
“His daughter,” thought the thief, who had stolen through the doorway.
“His daughter,” thought the duke, for it is he--“The fool, then has a
daughter.”
So, while the father crept back to court, the duke was trying to gain
the love of his innocent daughter, whispering that he was a poor student
who thought only of her--“Gilda.”
At last the noble liar stole away again, and then, Gilda, thinking more
of the supposed student than of her father, turned from the gate to
which she had walked with the duke, and moved towards the house. She had
to ascend a score of steps to reach a terrace, past which was the house,
and as she arrived on the highest of those steps, she was seen from the
dark street by several men, who said amongst each other, “See, that is
she. How beautiful she is. That is Rigoletto’s mistress!”
At this moment the poor fool returned to his gate. “Why do I return?
Alas! the curse, the curse!”
As he stood, the men in the street came near to Rigoletto, and so drew
his attention to them. They knew him in a moment--the hunch showed
plain. They were lords of the court; and amongst them was Ceprano, the
count, who had drawn his sword upon the jester, and who now again drew
it. “Softly,” whispered one to him; “if he is killed where will be our
laughter to-morrow!” Then the speaker turned and told Rigoletto--who
started as he spoke--they were there to steal from Ceprano his
countess--that the fool must help them. They had the keys of the house,
they said. See, the speaker handed to the trembling fool the keys.
The curse--he still thought of the curse as he took the keys. What if
they had come to steal his treasure? For a moment he held these keys
listlessly; then suddenly he swept a trembling fore-finger over the loop
of one of them--and as he did so he half knelt and nearly wept
aloud--for on the friendly steel he felt the count’s heraldic crest. So
they were not deceiving him--they had come not to the house where lived
his Gilda--but to the other--the other. Then, full of thanks, he had to
laugh and make a sorry jest--because of their adventure.
“Come,” said the same speaker, “aid us,” and he placed on the fool’s
face a mask, and bound it about his head with a handkerchief--and the
next moment the poor creature was holding the ladder by which they
climbed to steal his daughter.
Standing there, he heard the crash of wood as they forced a window.
(“Why, if they had the keys,” he thought, “did they want a ladder? why
break into the house?”) Then for a few moments there was silence. Then a
door opened, feet trampled near him, he heard even a smothered cry.
Still he remained holding the ladder, still he saw nothing, for a
handkerchief, unknown to himself, was hanging over his eyes. Then the
steps sounded more distant, and at last were lost altogether.
He waited a little, and was then startled as his wandering hand found
the handkerchief hanging loosely over his eyes. He flung it from him,
and oh! by the faint light, he saw, the whole terrible truth. The open
garden gate,--a scarf that had fallen from her shoulders as she was
carried away--the desolate home!
He ran in--round the garden like a chased rat--up the steps, till he
reached the house--into it--tore at the serving-woman--dragged her forth
silently and without a word--then at last, finding his voice, he cried,
“The curse--the curse,” and fell upon the ground, mercifully insensible.
CHAPTER II.
Oh! the weary, weary hours till daylight; till he could search through
the city for his daughter. The age of fear, with but a faint poor hope
to bear him through it. See the poor fool who has mocked the aged
lord--see him wandering up and down the house; then out into the
streets; and then back again into the house, afraid to leave it! The
house--how changed! And when he sees anything dearly associated with
her, he touches it, kisses it--as though she were dead, and for her sake
he loved it! Wearily, wearily dragging on life, till the crowd of
courtiers met to receive the duke, on his rising for the day. Then the
fool’s gay dress was donned again, covering his breaking heart, and the
cap and bells mocking his deep, loving sighs.
“Good morning, Rigoletto--what news?”
“News? you are nearer hell to-day than yesterday, by a score of hours.
(Oh! my child! where art thou, oh! my child!)”
“See,” they whispered to each other, “see how his eyes search for her.
Mark how hardly he draws his breath!”
Then turning to them, he went on lightly, “You look well, gentlemen.
Last night’s cold air, then, did you no harm?”
“Last night,” said one, “I slept well through the night.”
For an instant he thought perhaps it was all a dream; but the next
moment he saw a mask and a handkerchief lying on a table. “See,” they
said to one another, as he walked negligently to the table, “see how he
marks all things!”
Then he saw the handkerchief was not hers, and still wondering if she
were in the palace, he asked jauntily, “Is the duke still asleep?”
As he spoke, a page entered, and said the duchess desired to see the
duke.
Said a courtier, “He is asleep.”
“But,” said the page, “he was awake not a minute since.”
“Canst thou not understand? He would not now be questioned.”
The fool heard this conversation, and guessed its meaning. “Ah! then she
is here!”
“She--who?”
“The poor girl you stole from under my roof.”
“You are mad. If you have lost your mistress, ’tis not within these
walls you will find her.”
For a moment he stood before them, jauntily and smiling as ever; then
the revengeful lords might have surely been satisfied, for the mocked
fool was at their feet.
“This is a new jest for thee, Rigoletto.”
All the small silver bells upon his head-dress rang as he clasped his
hands together. “She is my daughter, she is my daughter. If, if I have
offended you, you are great lords, and will not be revenged on a poor
fool.”
Then he started to his feet as several courtiers looked meaningly
towards a door, and ran towards it. But they pressed upon him, and drove
him back. He battled with them hard, he threatened, yelled, overthrew
them. All to no purpose; he was still far, far from the door. Then he
wept, and in his wretchedness flattered them, and said he knew they had
feeling hearts, and again asked them where was his daughter. And then
again he fell upon his knees before them, before them who had so often
flinched from him, and lowered his head humbly.
He was still kneeling when the door opened, and through it came his
daughter--white, trembling, frightened.
She saw and ran to him, as he sprang from the ground.
“My daughter, my daughter! See you, my lords, she is my child, my only
child! Oh, be not afraid, daughter, these are all noble lords; it was
only in jest, only in jest. Why even I wept, but you see I am laughing
now! But why dost thou weep, why dost thou weep?”
She made no answer, only hid her face lower and lower.
Then he flung himself down in a chair, half in mad jest, half in real
madness, and in a pompous voice, cried out, “Begone, ye people, and bid
the duke not approach while I remain here.”
They began to laugh, for the vengeance was complete; there was no more
need to bar the door. Saying, fools and children must be humored, these
great lords departed.
Then she confessed to him how each day going to church she saw a
handsome stranger; how this stranger had come only the night before and
told her he was poor and loved her. Then the men who had just left them
tore her from her home; and the rest of her history was miserable
silence.
A moment he held her from him; then he laid her head upon his breast and
caressed her, and absolved himself of his sins by bitter, bitter tears.
So then, heaven did not hear his prayer, that the curse should fall on
him alone; it had, indeed, fallen on her. He stooped down, and kissed
her as she lay in his arms; then he bade her look up, and told her that
they would leave that place for ever.
Still she was weeping, and hiding her eyes from him, her father, when
the door opened, and there stood the aged count, who on the day before
had cursed him. He was surrounded by soldiers--had been condemned, and
was now being led off to prison.
He did not see the fool; but as he came near to the fool he muttered,
“So my curse was vain; this duke still lives. Is there no hand to be
found to slay him?”
“Here, here,” whispered the fool, “here.” And though he rocked with fear
he came a step forward, his daughter still in his encircling arms.
The next moment the one father had passed from the room, while the other
again bent his head, wept over, and kissed his lost, and yet found,
daughter.
CHAPTER III.
A stormy angry night; the wind weeping and whistling high up in the sky,
and a thick stifling vapor crawling over the earth--over the whispering
muddy river; winding in and out the gay palace like a poisonous serpent.
Near to this sickening river was a cracked ruined house through the
crevices in the walls of which might be observed a flickering light.
No house was near this wretched hut, which was called an inn. Within
this place lived the ruffian who had accosted Rigoletto on the night
when his daughter was stolen away. He was cleaning a leathern belt and
singing softly at his work.
Who are these wayfarers, toiling along the dark road to the ruined inn?
They are the fool and his daughter.
She still loved the duke; and the fool, hoping to kill the awful
passion, had brought her to this lonely spot. He told her to creep
softly to the house, and look in through the broken door. As she did so,
the duke himself, now in a new disguise, came quickly along, and up to
the door. She shrank back from him, and he passed into the inn, ordering
a room and wine.
Then as she and her father stood shivering near the door, he began
singing in dispraise of woman. They saw the brigand lay upon the table
some bottles and glasses. That done, he struck the low ceiling several
times, and immediately a girl came running into the room--a gipsey girl
who danced about the streets. The duke ran to her as she avoided him,
and the brigand came cautiously out upon the road.
“Shall he live, Signor Rigoletto?” whispered the ruffian.
“Wait--wait,” replied the father. And both men spoke so softly, that
Gilda did not hear. She did not care to hear, as she looked once more on
him whom she had so dearly loved when she thought him a poor student.
“Good,” said the bandit, and went out slowly into the darkness.
Then as the two stood there miserably, the duke began laughing and
chatting with the gipsey girl. Soon Gilda was weeping, as was also her
father. Yet still within the hut continued the laughter and the singing.
“Thou art sure now, he loves thee not--thou art sure now. Hear me: we
will leave this country at once. Go thou home, dress thyself in the
clothing of a nobleman, my child, and fly to Verona. Thou knowest where
to go when thou art there. I will come to thee to-morrow.”
“Now--come with me now.”
“Now? No, not now.” He spoke with terrible hesitation.
The girl kissed her father and went towards their house. Through the
gloom he watched her and saw her pass the garden gate. Then he searched
about for the bravo. The assassin was lounging at the corner of the
house, and at a motion from the fool he came forward.
Eagerly Rigoletto put money into his hand, saying the rest should be his
when the man was dead. Then he turned away, saying that at midnight he
would return.
The bravo carelessly replied that he had no need of help, he could,
alone, cast the body into the river.
“No,” said the fool, suddenly stopping; “let that be my portion of the
work.”
“Good,” said the assassin, carelessly; “who is he?”
“His name is Crime and mine is Punishment.”
The bravo shrugged his shoulders, and then carelessly opened the door of
the hut, and entered, while the fool turned, and with downcast head,
moved slowly away, afraid to go home till the vengeance was completed.
Loud roared the storm; the lightnings lit up the hovel, and the wavering
thunder rolled incessantly. Yet had the assassin no fear.
The duke said he should remain all night, and bade the new comer leave
them. But the gipsey girl prayed the young duke to depart. Said the
bravo, he should be glad to place his room at the stranger’s disposal,
and he hid the golden money the fool had given him.
The duke attended by the bravo, ascended a ricketty flight of stairs to
a room, more dilapidated, if possible, than the one below.
Saying it was like sleeping in the open air, the noble flung down his
hat and sword, fell upon the bed, and was soon asleep.
The ruffian by that time was drinking the wine the duke had left. At
last he said slowly--“Go up, and if he sleeps, bring away his sword.”
The gipsey girl obeyed sorrowingly, for the stranger was so handsome
that she had grown to feel some pity for him.
As she stole up the stairs another girl was near at hand--the wretched
Gilda; who, disguised in the clothes of a page, came creeping towards
the inn.
Nearer and nearer till she was close to the door and pressing it.
Looking through the crevice, she saw the girl coming down with the sword
glittering in her hand.
“Do not kill him--do not kill him,” cried the gipsey girl.
“Kill him!” cried the fool’s daughter.
There, still listening, she heard the gipsey tempt him, saying, that
when the fool came back he could take his money and kill him. But the
bravo angrily cried that his honor was dear to him; he would not kill
the fool, he would slay the stranger. Rigoletto had paid him well.
Gilda shuddered as she listened; so her father had paid the bravo to
kill the duke.
Again the gipsey girl prayed for the stranger’s life. Again the
assassin refused. At last he said quickly that if a traveller came past
he would slay him in his place--the fool could not tell who might be in
the sack.
Then the gipsey wept as she said there was no hope of a traveller
passing while the storm raged so fiercely.
Why does she tremble and draw back from the crevice? What? shall this
woman, this dancing gipsey, weep and pray for him? And shall she, Gilda,
do nothing to save him? Who is this woman that she should weep for him?
Will she--this gipsey--die for his sake? Yet she, Gilda, could. Again
she looked, and saw the gipsey still kneeling and weeping. Then she
would die for his sake. Thus her love and jealousy had lost her.
The next moment she had entered--the storm raging more fiercely than
before.
Walking proudly and fearlessly through the night air, came the fool,
sure that by this time his vengeance was complete--the vengeance for
which he had waited an age of grief.
Forth from the hut came the bandit, dragging a heavy sack. There he lay,
then--dead; there was the chinking of money over the still burden, and
there the bravo had left the fool alone with the destroyer. “So then,”
thought Rigoletto, “here was the great duke, lying dead at his, the poor
fool’s feet.” Then he thought he should like to see the face of his
enemy, before he cast him into the black waters.
Yet no, he would not like to see his face; so he began drawing away the
sack, when--merciful powers!--he heard the voice of the duke singing
gaily, as he moved away, saved, in the distance.
“But then whose body lay at his feet? Whose?”
With a might of horror, he tore open the mouth of the sack; and there,
within it, lay--his daughter!
“My daughter! Heaven! my Gilda! Yet no, she is now on her way to Verona.
Is this a dream? Oh, no! no dream. My daughter! oh, my daughter!”
In an agony of grief he ran to the door of the hut, and beat at it, when
he heard a voice--_her_ voice--calling to him.
“SHE LIVES--SHE LIVES! OH! SHE LIVES!”
He was down at her side again, tearing her from the shameful sack with
his trembling hands.
“My father! oh, my father!”
“‘Tis thou, and they have stricken thee.”
“They have stabbed me--here--here.”
And wearily she pressed her hands about her heart, as the wretched man
drew back, saying to himself, that he--he himself had killed her.
She was silent for a moment, still wearily pressing her breast.
“Speak--speak to me! oh, daughter!”
“I am almost too weak to speak, dear father. Lay thy hand upon my head,
and bless me. If I may always think of thee, I will. Near my mother, I
will pray for thee--near my mother.”
What is this with which he is suddenly stricken; what conviction is
growing on his mind as his eyes grow yet wilder, and he grasps his
throat with his trembling hand?
“My child, do not leave me. Have pity on me, tarry yet a little
longer--leave me not in the world alone--oh I--and I am thy father--bid
thee stay!”
She does not answer. He bends over her, as the dread conviction forces
itself upon him.
“DEAD! DEAD! DEAD!”
He wraps his hands round his head, looks wildly to the lowering sky, and
cries:--
“THE CURSE--THE UNDYING CURSE!”
Then he speaks no more.
Mercy for him as--his breath grows thick--mercy for him as he clasps his
helpless hands together prayerfully. Mercy--mercy!
His faults are not all his own. He hath but mocked the world as it hath
mocked him! Who would not hate where he is scorned? Oh--many are
forgiven who have sinned more deeply.
See the clasped hands--the bloodless lips. Mercy--mercy!
So at last it hath fallen on him--the grace of forgiveness.
I PURITANI. (BELLINI.)
THE PURITANS.
CHAPTER I.
Immediately succeeding the execution of Charles I., General Walton was
in command of a fortress, then standing not far from Plymouth. One of
his officers was his brother, Colonel George Walton. This man loved his
brother’s daughter, as many an unmarried uncle will love nephews and
nieces, and with an affection almost equal to that of the best of
fathers!
And it is also true that this daughter, Elvira, loved her uncle even
more than she loved her own father, the general. This young lady was
promised in marriage, to a puritan officer, Captain Richard Forth, but
it may be stated that she herself had favored the pretentions of Lord
Arthur Talbot, a strong, unyielding royalist.
Just after the death of Charles the First, a lady arrived at the
fortress, and was received by General Walton as the friend of his
daughter--the friend of his daughter only in this, that a dear friend
had recommended the unknown lady to his care.
She called herself Madame Henrietta, and no more. They thought her a
French lady--and indeed her slightly imperfect English proved her to be
a foreigner. But they asked no questions. She was franked by the dear
friend, and so she was made welcome.
She soon became the companion of Elvira, who, young and light-headed,
would kiss, torment, and delight this unknown lady, all within a minute.
And thus things were when the General gave way to the united entreaties
of his brother and Madame Henrietta, and recalled the promise of his
daughter’s hand to the Puritan Colonel.
Imagine the curtain of our story drawn up, and what do you see? A
platform of the fortress, the solemn sentries walking to and fro. The
sun rises, and then these honest, straightforward religious puritans,
sing their usual morning hymn.
This service over, the gates of the fortress are opened to the market
girls, with their fresh, demure faces, and their neat, almost sombre,
garments.
There is much talking about the young lady Elvira, the governor’s
daughter, and how she was going to be married, and who to, and what he
was like--but all this little tittle-tattle was carried on gravely, and
with a demure air.
But pacing apart is Captain Richard Forth--his puritan heart strongly
beating against the governor’s injustice in recalling his promise, and
the shame that a puritan leader should marry his daughter to one of the
godless cavaliers.
Nay--he speaks his complaints out aloud--whereon Robertson, a fellow
officer, tells him to wear a fair face--there are his country and his
soul to live for yet. “Open thy heart to me.”
“‘Tis not a righteous act, I say. He hath promised me the maiden--and
now I have returned, he doth recall his word.”
“Heaven is a bride who never turneth away from the true lover.”
“Death were welcome.”
“I would fain death passed over thee if thou art in that frame, Richard
Forth.”
“I have lost her--I have lost her!”
“And thereby perchance thou hast gained much. Heaven is merciful and
all-seeing. Hark! dost hear the good march--embrace thy good
sword--’twill not fail thee.”
“But my weak arm may, my friend.”
“Shame on thee, Richard Forth--methinks thou art a coward.”
“No, friend, no! not a coward, but weak.”
And the two friends turned towards the castle.
CHAPTER II.
That same day Colonel George Walton was sitting with his niece, Elvira,
and chatting with her about the marriage. The leaven of puritanism was
not so severely bitter in high as in low life. Among the latter there
was still left something like cheerfulness and blithe talk.
Sitting down near his niece, the uncle asked why she looked so sad?
“I am thinking, second father.”
“And of what, Elvira?”
“Daughter, always call me daughter, second father.”
“Well then, daughter. So, to-day, you are to be a bride!”
The uncle then playfully supposed that ’twas the puritan lover who was
to be the bridegroom; whereat the young lady protested, but the uncle
soon uttered the talismanic name, Arthur.
They were still talking when a trumpet call was heard without the
fortress.
A happy sound, for it announced the arrival of the bridegroom--Lord
Arthur Talbot, in reality, but plain Master Arthur Talbot in those
puritan times.
Soon the young lord was within the room where were waiting for him the
gentle Elvira and her good uncle Colonel George--not the plain little
room where they had been chatting, but in the chief hall of the castle,
where armor glistened on the walls, and from the windows of which could
be seen the bristling fortifications.
He met her, proud of himself and of her, and dressed gaily, in defiance
of popular taste. And, truth to tell, but few in the great room could
compare in demeanor or good looks, with Lord Arthur, or rather Master
Talbot.
Among the ladies present was Madame Henrietta, bustling about from place
to place like a careful housekeeper. She did not notice that a messenger
came rapidly to the general with a letter, nor did she mark that as he
read it he started and then looked up at her. Nor did she hear the order
he gave to let no female pass from the castle without an order from
himself--except, of course, the marriage party. For the marriage was to
take place at the neighboring village church. The messenger bowed low
and left the room, and still Madame Henrietta was bustling about, busy
and cheerful.
Turning to his daughter and Arthur, the general said, he should not be
able to attend the ceremony. And he was presently in deep conversation
with several of his gentlemen. Suddenly he turned to madame.
“Lady--a parliamentary order compels me to depart with you for
London--have no fear.”
Those about her saw Madame Henrietta start and turn pale, but they did
not think much of the matter; and, being bidden to the feast, were soon
moving from the room.
Arthur heard the intimation given by the general, and said, naturally
enough, to the colonel, “Is she a friend of the Stuarts?”
“She is, I believe, suspected,” replied the discreet colonel, turning
away.