THE SECRET.
The triumph of Beatrice continued. The daily papers were filled with
accounts of the new singer. She had come suddenly before them, and had
at one bound reached the highest eminence. She had eclipsed all the
popular favorites. Her sublime strains, her glorious enthusiasm, her
marvelous voice, her perfect beauty, all kindled the popular heart. The
people forgave her for not having an Italian name, since she had one
which was so aristocratic. Her whole appearance showed that she
was something very different from the common order of artistes, as
different, in fact, as the “Prometheus” was from the common order of
operas. For here in the “Prometheus” there were no endless iterations
of the one theme of love, no perpetual repetitions of the same rhyme of
_amore_ and _cuore_, or _amor’_ and _cuor’_; but rather the effort of
the soul after sublimer mysteries. The “Prometheus” sought to solve the
problem of life and of human suffering. Its divine sentiments brought
hope and consolation. The great singer rose to the altitude of a sibyl;
she uttered inspirations; she herself was inspired.
As she stood with her grand Grecian beauty, her pure classic features,
she looked as beautiful as a statue, and as ideal and passionless. In
one sense she could never be a popular favorite. She had no archness
or coquetry like some, no voluptuousness like others, no arts to win
applause like others. Still she stood up and sang as one who believed
that this was the highest mission of humanity, to utter divine truth to
human ears. She sang loftily, thrillingly, as an angel might sing, and
those who saw her revered her while they listened.
And thus it was that the fame of this new singer went quickly
through England, and foreign journals spoke of it half-wonderingly,
half-cynically, as usual; for Continentals never have any faith in
English art, or in the power which any Englishman may have to interpret
art. The leading French journals conjectured that the “Prometheus” was
of a religious character, and therefore Puritanical; and consequently
for that reason was popular. They amused themselves with the idea of
a Puritanical opera, declared that the English wished to Protestantize
music, and suggested “Calvin” or “The Sabbath” as good subjects for this
new and entirely English class of operas.
But soon the correspondents of some of the Continental papers began to
write glowing accounts of the piece, and to put Langhetti in the same
class with Handel. He was an Italian, they said, but in this case
he united Italian grace and versatility with German solemnity and
melancholy. They declared that he was the greatest of living composers,
and promised for him a great reputation.
Night after night the representation of the “Prometheus” went on with
undiminished success; and with a larger and profounder appreciation of
its meaning among the better class of minds. Langhetti began to show a
stronger and fuller confidence in the success of his piece than he had
yet dared to evince. Yet now its success seemed assured. What more could
he wish?
September came on, and every succeeding night only made the success more
marked. One day Langhetti was with Beatrice at the theatre, and they
were talking of many things. There seemed to be something on his mind,
for he spoke in an abstracted manner. Beatrice noticed this at last, and
mentioned it.
He was at first very mysterious. “It must be that secret of yours which
you will not tell me,” said she. “You said once before that it was
connected with me, and that you would tell it to me when the time came.
Has not the time come yet?”
“Not yet,” answered Langhetti.
“When will it come?”
“I don’t know.”
“And will you keep it secret always?”
“Perhaps not.”
“You speak undecidedly.”
“I am undecided.”
“Why not decide now to tell it?” pleaded Beatrice. “Why should I not
know it? Surely I have gone through enough suffering to bear this, even
if it bring something additional.”
Langhetti looked at her long and doubtfully.
“You hesitate,” said she.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“It is of too much importance.”
“That is all the more reason why I should know it. Would it crush me if
I knew it?”
“I don’t know. It might.”
“Then let me be crushed.”
Langhetti sighed.
“Is it something that you know for certain, or is it only conjecture?”
“Neither,” said he, “but half-way between the two.”
Beatrice looked earnestly at him for some time. Then she put her head
nearer to his and spoke in a solemn whisper.
“It is about my mother!”
Langhetti looked at her with a startled expression.
“Is it not?”
He bowed his head.
“It is--it is. And if so, I implore--I conjure you to tell me. Look--I
am calm. Think--I am strong. I am not one who can be cast down merely by
bad news.”
“I may tell you soon.”
“Say you will.”
“I will,” said Langhetti, after a struggle.
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Why not to-morrow?”
“That is too soon; you are impatient.”
“Of course I am,” said Beatrice. “Ought I not to be so? Have you not
said that this concerns me? and is not all my imagination aroused in the
endeavor to form a conjecture as to what it may be?”
She spoke so earnestly that Langhetti was moved, and looked still more
undecided.
“When will you tell me?”
“Soon, perhaps,” he replied, with some hesitation.
“Why not now?”
“Oh no, I must assure myself first about some things.”
“To-morrow, then.”
He hesitated.
“Yes,” said she; “it must be to-morrow. If you do not, I shall
think that you have little or no confidence in me. I shall expect it
to-morrow.”
Langhetti was silent.
“I shall expect it to-morrow,” repeated Beatrice.
Langhetti still continued silent.
“Oh, very well; silence gives consent!” said she, in a lively tone.
“I have not consented.”
“Yes you have, by your silence.”
“I was deliberating.”
“I asked you twice, and you did not refuse; surely that means consent.”
“I do not say so,” said Langhetti, earnestly.
“But you will do so.”
“Do not be so certain.”
“Yes, I will be certain; and if you do not tell me you will very deeply
disappoint me.”
“In telling you I could only give you sorrow.”
“Sorrow or joy, whatever it is, I can bear it so long as I know this.
You will not suppose that I am actuated by simple feminine curiosity.
You know me better. This secret is one which subjects me to the tortures
of suspense, and I am anxious to have them removed.”
“The removal will be worse than the suspense.”
“That is impossible.”
“You would not say so if you knew what it was.”
“Tell me, then.”
“That is what I fear to do.”
“Do you fear for me, or for some other person?”
“Only for you.”
“Do not fear for me, then, I beseech you; for it is not only my desire,
but my prayer, that I may know this.”
Langhetti seemed to be in deep perplexity. Whatever this secret was with
which he was so troubled he seemed afraid to tell it to Beatrice, either
from fear that it might not be any thing in itself or result in any
thing, or, as seemed more probable, lest it might too greatly affect
her. This last was the motive which appeared to influence him most
strongly. In either case, the secret of which he spoke must have been
one of a highly important character, affecting most deeply the life and
fortunes of Beatrice herself. She had formed her own ideas and her own
expectations about it, and this made her all the more urgent, and even
peremptory, in her demand. In fact, things had come to such a point that
Langhetti found himself no longer able to refuse, and now only sought
how to postpone his divulgence of his secret.
Yet even this Beatrice combated, and would listen to no later
postponement than the morrow.
At length, after long resistance to her demand, Langhetti assented, and
promised on the morrow to tell her what it was that he had meant by his
secret.
For, as she gathered from his conversation, it was something that he had
first discovered in Hong Kong, and had never since forgotten, but had
tried to make it certain. His efforts had thus far been useless, and
he did not wish to tell her till he could bring proof. That proof,
unfortunately, he was not able to find, and he could only tell his
conjectures.
It was for these, then, that Beatrice waited in anxious expectation.