FIDELIO.
George Brand walked away from the house in Curzon Street in a sort of
bewilderment of hope and happiness and gratitude. He would even try to
accept Calabressa's well-meant counsel: why should he not be friends
with everybody? The world had grown very beautiful; there was to be no
more quarrelling in it, or envy, or malice.
In the dark he almost ran against a ragged little child who was selling
flowers.
"Will you buy a rose-bud, sir?" said she.
"What?" he said, severely, "selling flowers at this time of night? Get
away home with you and get your supper, and go to bed;" but he spoiled
the effect of his sharp admonition by giving the girl all the silver he
had in his pocket.
He found the little dinner-party in a most loquacious mood. O'Halloran
in especial was in full swing. The internal economy of England was to be
readjusted. The capital must be transferred to the centre of the real
wealth and brain-power of the country--that is to say, somewhere about
Leeds or Manchester. This proposition greatly pleased Humphreys, the man
from the North, who was quite willing to let the Royal Academy, the
South Kensington and National Galleries, and the British Museum remain
in London, so long as the seat of government was transferred to
Huddersfield or thereabouts. But O'Halloran drew such a harrowing
picture of the effect produced on the South of England intellect by its
notorious and intense devotion to the arts, that Humphreys was almost
convicted of cruelty.
However, if these graceless people thought to humbug the hard-headed man
from the North, he succeeded on one occasion in completely silencing his
chief enemy, O'Halloran. That lover of paradox and idle speculation was
tracing the decline of superstition to the introduction of the use of
steam, and was showing how, wherever railways went in India, ghosts
disappeared; whereupon the Darlington man calmly retorted that, as far
as he could see, the railways in this country were engaged in making as
many ghosts as they could possibly disperse in India. This flank attack
completely surprised and silenced the light skirmisher, who sought
safety in lighting another cigar.
More serious matters, however, were also talked about, and Humphreys
was eager that Brand should go down to Wolverhampton with him next
morning. Brand pleaded but for one day's delay. Humphreys reminded him
that certain members of the Political Committee of the Trades-union
Congress would be at Wolverhampton, and that he had promised to see
them. After that, silence.
At last, as Humphreys and O'Halloran were leaving, Brand said, with an
effort,
"No, it is no use, Humphreys. I _must_ remain in London one more day.
You go down to-morrow; I shall come by the first train next morning.
Molyneux and the others won't be leaving for some days."
"Very well, sir; good-night, sir."
Brand returned into the room, and threw himself into an easy-chair; his
only companion now was his old friend Evelyn.
The younger man regarded him.
"I can tell the whole story, Brand; I have been reading it in your face.
You were troubled and perplexed before you got that letter. It gave some
hope. Off you went to see Natalie; you came back with something in your
manner that told me you had seen her and had been received favorably.
Now it is only one more day of happiness you hunger for, before going up
to the hard work of the North. Well, I don't wonder. But, at the same
time, you look a little too restless and anxious for a man who has just
won such a beautiful sweetheart."
"I am not so lucky as that, Evelyn," said he, absently.
"What, you did not see her?"
"Oh yes, I saw her; and I hope. But of course one craves for some full
assurance when such a prize is within reach; and--and I suppose one's
nerves are a little excited, so that you imagine possibilities and
dangers--"
He rose, and took a turn up and down the room.
"It is the old story, Evelyn. I distrust Lind."
"What has that to do with it?"
"As you say, what has that to do with it? If I had Natalie's full
promise, I should care for nothing. She is a woman; she is not a school
girl, to be frightened. If I had only that, I should start off for the
North with a light heart."
"Why not secure it, then?"
"Perhaps it is scarcely fair to force myself on her at present until her
father returns. Then she will be more her own mistress. But the doubt--I
don't know when I may be back from the North--" At last he stopped
short. "Yes, I will see her to-morrow at all hazards."
By-and-by he began to tell his friend of the gay-hearted old albino he
had encountered at Lind's house; though in the mean time he reserved to
himself the secret of Natalie's mother being alive.
"Lind must have an extraordinary faculty," he said at length, "of
inspiring fear, and of getting people to obey him."
"He does not look a ferocious person," Lord Evelyn said, with a smile.
"I have always found him very courteous and pleasant--frank, amiable,
and all the rest of it."
"And yet here is this man Calabressa, an old friend of his; and he talks
of Lind with a sort of mysterious awe. He is not a man whom you must
think of thwarting. He is the Invulnerable, the Implacable. The fact is,
I was inclined to laugh at my good friend Calabressa; but all the same,
it was quite apparent that the effect Lind had produced on his mind was
real enough."
"Well, you know," said Lord Evelyn, "Lind has a great organization to
control, and he must be a strict disciplinarian. It is the object of his
life; everything else is of minor importance. Even you confess that you
admire his tremendous power of work."
"Yes, I do. I admire his administrative capacity; it is wonderful. But I
don't believe for a moment that it was his mind that projected this big
scheme. That must have been the work of an idealist, perhaps of a dozen
of them, all adding and helping. I think he almost said as much to me
one night. His business is to keep the machinery in working order, and
he does it to perfection."
"There is one thing about him: he never forgets, and he never forgives.
You remember the story of Count Verdt?"
"I have cause to remember it. I thought for a moment the wretch had
committed suicide because I caught him cheating."
"I have been told that Lind played with that fellow like a cat with a
mouse. Verdt got hints from time to time that his punishment as a
traitor was overtaking him; and yet he was allowed to live on in
constant fear. And it was the Camorra, and not Lind, or any of Lind's
friends, who finished him after all."
"Well, that was implacable enough, to be sure; to have death dogging the
poor wretch's heels, and yet refusing to strike."
"For myself, I don't pity him much," said Lord Evelyn, as he rose and
buttoned his coat. "He was a fool to think he could play such a trick
and escape the consequences. Now, Brand, how am I to hear from you
to-morrow? You know I am in a measure responsible."
"However it ends, I am grateful to you, Evelyn; you may be sure of that.
I will write to you from Wolverhampton, and let you know the worst, or
the best."
"The best, then: we will have no worsts."
He said good-bye, and went whistling cheerfully down the narrow oak
staircase. He at least was not very apprehensive about the results of
the next day's interview.
But how brief was this one day, with its rapidly passing opportunities;
and then the stern necessity for departure and absence. He spent half
the night in devising how best he could get speech of her, in a
roundabout fashion, without the dread of the interference of friends.
And at last he hit upon a plan which might not answer; but he could
think of nothing else.
He went in the morning and secured a box at Covent Garden for that
evening. Then he called at Lisle Street, and got Calabressa's address.
He found Calabressa in his lodgings, shivering and miserable, for the
day was wet, misty, and cold.
"You can escape from the gloom of our climate, Signor Calabressa," said
he. "What do you say to going to the opera to-night?"
"Your opera?" said he, with a gesture indicative of still deeper
despair. "You forget I come from the home, the nursery of opera."
"Yes," said Brand, good-naturedly. "Great singers train in your country,
but they sing here: that is the difference. Do not be afraid; you will
not be disappointed. See, I have brought you a box; and if you want
companions, why not ask Miss Lind and Madame Potecki to go with you and
show you the ways of our English opera-houses?"
"Ah, the little Natalushka!" said Calabressa, eagerly. "Will she go? Do
you think she will go? _Ma foi_, it is not often I have the chance of
taking such a beautiful creature to the opera, if she will go! What must
I do?"
"You will have to go and beg her to be kind to you. Say you have the
box--you need not mention how: ask if she will escort you, she and
Madame Potecki. Say it is a kindness: she cannot help doing a kindness."
"There you are right, monsieur: do not I see it in her eyes? can I not
hear it in her voice?"
"Well, that you must do at once, before she goes out for her walk at
noon."
"To go out walking on a day like this?"
"She will go out, nevertheless; and you must go and intercept her, and
pray her to do you this kindness."
"_Apres?_"
"You must come to me again, and we will get an English evening costume
for you somehow. Then, two bouquets; I will get those for you, and send
them to them to the box to await you."
"But you yourself, monsieur; will you not be of the party?"
"Perhaps you had better say nothing about me, signore; for one is so
busy nowadays. But if I come into the stalls; if I see you and the
ladies in the box, then I shall permit myself to call upon you; do you
understand?"
"Parfaitement," said Calabressa, gravely. Then he laughed slightly. "Ah,
monsieur, you English are not good diplomatists. I perceive that you
wish to say more; that you are afraid to say more; that you are anxious
and a little bit demure, like a girl. What you wish is this, is it not:
if I say to Madame Potecki, 'Madame, I am a stranger; will you show me
the promenade, that I may behold the costumes of the beautiful English
ladies?' madame answers, 'Willingly.' We go to see the costumes of the
beautiful English ladies. Why should you come? You would not leave the
young lady all alone in the box?"
"Calabressa," he said, frankly, "I am going away to-morrow morning: do
you understand that?"
Calabressa bowed gravely.
"To comprehend that is easy. Allons, let us play out the little plot for
the amusement of that rogue of a Natalushka. And if she does not thank
me--eh bien! perhaps her papa will: who knows?"
Before the overture began that evening, Brand was in his seat in the
stalls; and he had scarcely sat down when he knew, rather than saw, that
certain figures were coming into the box which he had been covertly
watching. The opera was _Fidelio_--that beautiful story of a wife's
devotion and courage, and reward. As he sat and listened, he knew she
was listening too; and he could almost have believed it was her own
voice that was pleading so eloquently with the jailer to let the poor
prisoner see the light of day for a few minutes in the garden. Would not
that have been her prayer, too, in similar circumstances? Then Leonora,
disguised as a youth, is forced to assist in the digging of her own
husband's grave, Pizarro enters; the unhappy prisoners are driven back
to their cells and chains, and Leonora can only call down the vengeance
of Heaven on the head of the tyrant.
At the end of the act Brand went up to the box and tapped outside. It
was opened from within, and he entered. Natalie turned to receive him;
she was a little pale, he thought; he took a seat immediately behind
her; and there was some general talk until the opening of the second act
restored silence.
For him it was a strange silence, that the music outside did not
disturb. Sitting behind her, he could study the beautiful profile and
the outward curve of her dark eyelashes; he could see where here and
there a delicate curl of the raven-black hair, escaping from the mob-cap
of rose-red silk, lay about the small ear or wandered down to the
shapely white neck; he could almost, despite the music, fancy he heard
her breathe, as the black gossamer and scarlet flowers of an Indian
shawl stirred over the shining satin dress. Her fan and handkerchief
were perfumed with white-rose.
And to-morrow he would be in Wolverhampton, amidst grimy streets and
dirty houses, in a leaden-hued atmosphere laden with damp and the fumes
of chimneys, practically alone, with days of monotonous work before him,
and solitary evenings to be spent in cheerless inns. What wonder if this
seemed some brief vision of paradise--the golden light and glowing
color, the soft strains of music, the scent of white-rose?
Doubtless Natalie had seen this opera of Fidelio many a time before; but
she was always intently interested in music; and she had more than once
expressed in Brand's hearing her opinion of the conduct of the ladies
and gentlemen who make an opera, or a concert, or a play a mere adjunct
to their own foolish laughter and tittle-tattle. She recognized the
serious aims of a great artist; she listened with deep attention and
respect; she could talk idly elsewhere and at other times. And so there
was scarcely a word said--except of involuntary admiration--as the opera
proceeded. But in the scene where the disguised wife discovers her
husband in the prison--where, as Pizarro is about to stab him, she
flings herself between them to protect him--Brand could see that Natalie
Lind was fast losing her manner of calm and critical attention, and
yielding to a profounder emotion. When Leonora reveals herself to her
husband, and swears that she will save him, even such a juncture, from
his vindictive enemy--
"Si, si, mio dolce amico,
La tua Eleonora ti salvera;
Affronto il suo furor!"
the girl gave a slight convulsive sob, and her hands were involuntarily
clasped. Then, as every one knows, Leonora draws a pistol from her bosom
and confronts the tyrant; a trumpet is heard in the distance; relief is
near; and the act winds up with the joyful duet between the released
husband and the courageous wife--"_Destin, destin ormai felice!_"
Here it was that Calabressa proposed he should escort Madame Potecki to
the cooler air of the large saloon; and madame, who had been young
herself, and guessed that the lovers might like to be alone for a few
minutes, instantly and graciously acquiesced. But Natalie rose also, a
little quickly, and said that Madame Potecki and herself would be glad
to have some coffee; and could that be got in the saloon?
Madame Potecki and her companion led the way; but then Brand put his
hand on the arm of Natalie and detained her.
"Natalie!" he said, in a low and hurried voice, "I am going away
to-morrow. I don't know when I shall see you again. Surely you will give
me some assurance--some promise, something I can repeat to myself.
Natalie, I know the value of what I am asking; you will give yourself to
me?"
She stood by the half-shut door, pale, irresolute, and yet outwardly
calm. Her eyes were cast down; she held her fan firmly with both hands.
"Natalie, are you afraid to answer?"
Then the young Hungarian girl raised her eyes, and bravely regarded him,
though her face was still pale and apprehensive.
"No," she said, in a low voice. "But how can I answer you more than
this--that if I am not to give myself to you I will give myself to no
other? I will be your wife, or the wife of no one. Dear friend, I can
say no more."
"It is enough."
She went quickly to the front of the box; in both bouquets there were
forget-me-nots. She hurriedly selected some, and returned and gave them
to him.
"Whatever happens, you will remember that there was one who at least
wished to be worthy of your love."
Then they followed their friends into the saloon, and sat down at a
small table, though Natalie's hands were trembling so that she could
scarcely undo her gloves. And George Brand said nothing; but once or
twice he looked into his wife's eyes.