IN THE BOURDOIR.
The play-bill announced that in consequence of Signora Bollini's
hoarseness the performance of the "_Somnambula_" would not take place,
"_der Freischuetz_" was substituted for it.
The theatre was empty, and all the greater was the number of visitors
who towards evening came to enquire after the health of the singer.
Beate had trouble to restrain the pressure which, under pretexts of
every description, became dangerous for her friend's quiet, nor could
she always succeed, inventive as she was in evasions of every kind; the
regular visitors would not let themselves be turned away, and even a
few others who were particularly pushing, obtained admittance by force.
Amongst the latter class was the student Salomon, who in the interim
had relinquished his studies at the gymnasium, and was proudly
conscious of his new position in life, which was still more
transfigured for him by the brilliancy of the jubilee.
The cunning Italian, with her sparkling eyes, her high, arched
eyebrows, the agreeable sly smile upon her lips, one of those beauties
that would have been fitted for a queen of hearts for the tricks at
cards of a Bosco, felt an unconquerable repugnance to the wearisome
youth.
"Signora Beate," said he in reply to all her representations, "your
friend may be indisposed and exclude herself from the general crowd,
but you really do not act in your own interests when you insult the
student class; I look upon myself as its representative; I am to give
my friends information as to the admired actress' state of health;
what, then, would they say if I found these doors closed? Consider
that her success is our work; we are the genuine, incorruptible
enthusiasts--enthusiasm of the _claque_ always betrays its hired
origin--the fate of an evening at the theatre rests in our pure hands."
Beate was not impervious to such explanations, and opened the portals
of the sanctuary to the repulsive young man.
Somewhat pale, Signora Giulia lay upon the sofa, her hair unbound, a
book in her hand, a red-hued sheeny silk encircled the slender form;
the modulated light of a hanging lamp which still struggled with the
light of day, imparted a slightly green tint to her noble features.
Spectre-like stood out the statues of Dante and Tasso, of Rossini and
Bellini from the dark red velvet hangings; the Signora loved the art of
sculpture and beautiful forms.
There, too, the head of Juno Ludovisti was displayed, a successful
copy; here the Venus out of the Florentine Academy, and that group upon
the buffet represented the bull of the derricks, the cruel piece of
carving out of the Museo Borbonico.
The Signora greeted the student with a slight movement of her head as
he entered; he enquired after her health and the subject of her
reading--
"Tasso!" exclaimed he then, "Jerusalem delivered? and the very canto
which treats of Armida and Rinaldo? I must confess that Tasso is not my
favourite, he takes things so terribly seriously, and describes
circumstances which are really frivolous, with such solemn feeling; he
is for ever squinting at the capitoline laurels."
"Oh, who would not," cried the singer suddenly raising herself, "gaze
towards those laurels, even with weary expiring eyes, as the poet
beneath the oak of San Onofrio gazed across at the Capitol?"
"I personally," said Salomon, "am not susceptible to laurel wreaths; in
these days they are much too cheap a prize!"
And at the same time he cast an impertinent glance at the velvet wall
which was completely covered with such wreaths.
"But as far as _Gerusalemme Liberata_ is concerned, as Tasso sings of
it, it is an old worn-out story which never becomes new, thank God;
because the crusades could only take place in a period so little
enlightened as the so-called middle ages, when any monk with a long
beard, who sat upon a jackass, possessed more influence than a minister
of war, and who mobilised the whole Reserve and Landsturm of
Christianity. Such things are no longer possible in these days. You
cannot misunderstand me when I, as an educated man of our times, in
connection with the 'Jerusalem delivered,' think of something very
different than what that mad poet glorified in his stanzas, namely the
emancipation of our faith. Heine is our Tasso, and is indeed a much
greater poet; for when he describes an Armida, she is flesh and blood,
and with a few strokes of the brush he gives her more vivid colouring
than when Tasso absorbs a whole palette full of tints in order to paint
her upon canvas."
Signora Giulia paid no attention to the chatterer, and calmly continued
to read her poem.
"Ariosto now, is quite a different man! In him there is some of the
blood of Heinrich Heine; an ironical light hovers around his creations;
his giants bear some resemblance to Atta Troll, and his beautiful women
might move about in a drawing-room. But you are surely unwell, Signora?
I must, it is true, confess that I have not perceived any of the
hoarseness of which the play-bills speak, but they, so far as I am
concerned, are very little deserving of credence, I, who, indeed,
possess a sceptical nature; but you seem to be exhausted also, and
doubtlessly such a conversation as I love to hold, I might say in
academical style, fatigues you, because my mind is always devoted to
the loftier interests of art and literature, although I am also
interested in butterflies and other creatures of the animal kingdom.
Indeed, I surely weary you?"
For the first time, Giulia gave him a look of gratitude; she
acknowledged that she was unwell, and begged him to thank the brave
youth of the Albertina, who had behaved so admirably at the late
commemoration. Salomon acknowledged these thanks in the name of all the
students, and not without a sensation of dissatisfaction left the
singer who had not given him personally that sympathy which his
enthusiasm and constant efforts merited.
"A sad lot," said Giulia to Beate, who entered, "this dependence upon
the public--is it not the worst slavery? And what is it all for? So
that in the general exultant applause, no sound of disapproval, no
token of discontent may be mingled. Always fear for this evanescent
fame; ever from day to day this begging for the alms of applause!"
"Well," said Beate, "they have always been expended lavishly upon you!"
"Yet how short is the memory of our contemporaries: what is all this
fleeting, intoxicating splendour for which we strive with all the
fibres of our soul? How soon we are transformed into a legend that each
year becomes more obscure, and then the vast storm of oblivion sweeps
over us all! Oh, I am weary, often infinitely weary, and would fain fly
to a quiet spot where never more the incessant chase after success
would shatter my nerves."
Giulia rested her head upon her hand, and closed her eyes; then she
continued, opening them again wearily.
"Yes, if the sweet rapture still hold us captive; if we still feel all
the magic of renown in its perfect entirety, then we may defy the
infinite trouble which the chase after laurels brings with it, for the
time has passed in which they fall spontaneously like divine favours
into the lap of the happy being, but when we have become indifferent to
all these triumphs, when we would fain cast aside all this rustling
gilt tinsel of fame, and necessity still compels us to labour, for
immortality in which we no longer believe, oh, then we could envy the
daily labourer the calm happiness of his work, for he only needs his
hands--his thoughts and emotions are free, while we must bring spirit
and nerve to our daily task, yield up our heart's blood without faith
or love."
"In such a frame of mind you probably declined to-day's performance!"
"Perhaps--but you know--I have seen him. How uncertain are my feelings!
I did not wish to see him again, therefore we sought his home when he
was absent. With dread I look forward to the moment in which he will
speak to me, call me by my name--the step out of that enchanted fairy
tale into sober reality, appears inconceivable to me. I feel the
burning colour of shame upon my cheeks at the very thought. At one
time I appear to myself like a Somnambula who must precipitate herself
into an abyss when he calls me, awakes me out of my dreams, then at
another like a Melusina, who is surprised by her knight while she,
with a fish's tail, splashes about in the crystal stream with other
water-witches, that horrible fish's tail, the paper train of unhappy
theatrical renown."
"But many a _principe_ has married such a Melusina despite her fish's
tail," said Beate with a smile of ready comfort.
"He feels differently, I know it; I wish now not to meet him, not to
desecrate a beautiful moonlight memory with the sober light of day, and
yet what is it that ever drives me hither to this desolate land? A
dark, incomprehensible longing, that I dare not confess to myself; I
feel as if I belonged to him when I stand upon the soil of his home,
and when I saw him again the day before yesterday, he recognised me--I
saw it, felt it; what is all fame, all exultation of the crowd to me? I
yearn for one word from him, he will come, he must come, and because I
expect him, I have not sung to-day."
"If the stern manager knew that!"
"I tremble at the prospect of meeting him, I start up each time the
bell is touched; I listen with feverish expectation; I am boundlessly
disappointed at every other face, and yet I could hardly endure to see
him."
The bell was rung; in anxious anticipation Giulia smoothed the dark
curls from her brow. Beate, shrugging her shoulders, announced Herr
Spiegeler, the indefatigable, irrepressible operatic reporter, who in
addition provided the radicalism for many German theatrical newspapers.
Giulia, after a silent malediction, assumed a friendly smile and
greeted the lame critic, who limped into the room upon his crutch.
"Indisposed, beautiful _prima donna_?" said he, with the air of a
protector, "our malicious climate is not created for nightingales."
"And yet I have heard that in Lithuania the nightingales are very
numerous and sing wonderfully."
"It may be--in that case they must have been sent to a wrong address,
for there is no public there capable of appreciating their melting
warbles."
Spiegeler belonged to the would-be witty daily writers, who are not
alarmed at any impertinence to the descendants of Saphir, whose star at
that time was already on the wane; he wished to make himself talked
about and feared, he cared not at what cost; in every artist he did but
perceive a victim of his wit, and examined that victim until he had
discovered the vulnerable heel of Achilles for his dart. He piqued
himself upon his rudenesses, his existence depended upon them. In
middle class life it often befell him that he was turned out of
public-houses on account of his unseemly conduct; everywhere he was
exposed to a by no means silent contempt; at the same time in literary
and theatrical circles he was deemed a magnate, and there all strove to
win his good-will. But the latter always remained uncertain, because
for the sake of a happy idea he would even sacrifice his friends. He
was so touchingly innocent that he was never even conscious of his own
impudence; he considered wit to be his profession, and in that
profession everything was allowable. Without blushing he stretched out
the hand of friendship to those into whose heart he had on the previous
day plunged a dagger with the skill of a literary bravo, and then
wondered why his friendly greeting was not reciprocated. Such
parasitical existences more than aught else have brought literature
into disrepute in middle class German life, because the German cannot
bring himself to admire that which in other respects he despises!
Certainly in literature the portals are thrown widely open even to
these sharks; under the banner of so-called talent even the most
miserable characterless creatures are smuggled in, and when such a
shameless pretender of wit composes an immature piece which only
possesses dramatic joints in however slight a degree, and ill or well
can move upon the boards, immediately many court theatres, which have
long since learned to treat as rubbish all productions of true talent,
hasten to bring out that drama or after-piece, so as to pay homage to a
young genius, or much more, to render themselves secure against the
ruthless lash of the literary clown.
Spiegeler certainly had not yet made any attempt upon the domain of
original art; but in all other qualities he did not deny the type of
the so-called wit, above all not in indifference towards every
description of chastisement which did not extend so far as the laying
on of hands. For him moral annihilation did not exist, and he was wont
to return with great freedom from embarrassment whithersoever such acts
of homage had been his portion.
Never did Giulia feel the degradation of her actress' calling more than
in the presence of such German critics and their professional malice: a
_prima donna_ who had associated on friendly terms with the highest
nobility of Italy was compelled to receive with all well-bred
affability persons to whom the doors of a drawing-room would never have
been thrown open. Often enough had she proudly scorned to wait upon the
malicious "gentlemen of the press," while many of her colleagues in
velvet trains rustled up the back-stairs to an attic in which some
newspaper writer, dangerous to her existence, had his den; but even if
her success did not suffer therefrom, at all events on all sides she
was told of the witty sallies with which the intellectual reporter
revenged himself for this neglect. Of what use to her was all proper
indignation?
It troubled her to read in every countenance the knowledge of those
spiteful _bon mots_, she was given up to public malice; the air in
which she breathed was no longer the pure atmosphere of art, it wafted
a poisoned pestilential blast towards her, and she preferred to submit
to secret humiliation rather than bear the insults to which she was
exposed before the whole world.
And Giulia was obliged to tell herself that such theatrical criticism
only flourished upon German soil! In Italy, in England, in Spain every
critic was a _nobile_, a gentleman, an _hidalgo_; even censure is
offered with a polite bow, every merited acknowledgment is made to
talent and beauty. Never is an artistic performance sacrificed to the
unsparing spirit that delights in plucking it to pieces; never do
newspapers venture to let an inquisitive ray of light fall into the
interior of private life as through an open window shutter, and then to
gossip about it with _piquant_ allusions. Giulia thought little of the
much-vaunted German piety, she saw that not alone the actors and
actresses, but also the original poets themselves were often
criticisingly ill-treated by most incapable heads, and that the public
did not take part with the richly gifted and nobly struggling talents,
but rather carried their homage with utmost complacency to the
sparkling conceits of the much promising critic. She certainly did not
know that a similar lot had fallen to our classical poets, that a
criticism which had a fig-leaf ready for every bare mediocrity picked
Schiller's tragedies to pieces as being schoolboy's work, even shortly
before their author's death, and that amid the exultation of a numerous
crowd a squib sought to destroy Goethe's laurels.
All the same, these thoughts, the recollections of many an experience
in her intercourse with the representatives of German public opinion,
caused her blood to boil more than usually to-day; either the sad mood
that overcame her was its cause, or a dim feeling that even in daring
defiance she would find a protector in the man who breathed the air of
the same town with her.
Spiegeler had made himself comfortable, propped his crutch against the
easy chair; the spiteful line about his lips, recognisable despite the
luxuriant beard, the small dark watchful eyes intimated that some
malice was being prepared, but it was no plumed dart, which he this
time launched at the singer; he wished to let her feel his superiority,
while showing her that she was dependent upon a man who had never
troubled himself particularly about her especial art.
"My real department," said he, "is the drama; I have only added
operatic criticism to it, because our musical men can write nothing but
notes. I do not understand much about music; those unfortunate finger
exercises disgusted me with the pianoforte, and I have no voice for
singing, but I am therefore all the more impressionable, all the freer
from prejudice; handicraft is universally the death of art; all men of
business are craftsmen, unbiassed only is he who enjoys, and I am thus
the fitting exponent of public opinion. What does our great public
understand about music? Nothing, absolutely nothing; I assure you it is
unbounded hypocrisy of our society that it pretends to be initiated in
the secrets of an art, which one must study like the cabala in order to
decipher its marks. Nowhere do the charlatans possess so great a field
as here--
'That which cannot declined be
Is ta'en for immortality.'
People worship the incomprehensible devoutly and do not know that it is
everlastingly incomprehensible. On the other hand it is genuine music
that electrifies, that penetrates the nerves; and who does not rejoice
at a national melody, the notes of which can be caught up and retained
while they are hummed around us, or at a piece for the trumpet at which
even the horses begin to neigh and raise their heads?"
Giulia was indignant at the impudence with which the critical musical
guide of the capital confessed his ignorance and claimed admiration for
it.
"It is not very flattering," said she, "that you study the influence of
our art amongst four-footed creatures."
"Influence--that of course is the principal thing! Whether a war-horse
raises his head at the trumpet's note or Raffaelle's Cecilie at the
sound of the harp, originates in one and the same cause--the magic of
music! And in order to feel it thoroughly one must be hampered with no
theory; music must insinuate itself around us, or rouse us like an
elementary power."
"You may be right," said Giulia, "and yet they are two quite different
matters--feeling the charms of music and writing upon them."
"You offer me a challenge," replied Spiegeler, not without bitterness.
"My criticisms are not learned enough for you; they contain nothing
about fugues and counter-point, and I do not understand how to
designate your highest notes according to the alphabet of _la Scala_.
Nevertheless, I can detect whether they are pure and beautiful or if
they leave an unpleasant after-taste which you will then perceive in my
criticisms. That was the case recently in 'Norma.' I pitied you on
account of your indisposition. You must, indeed, spare yourself; people
are already remarking that your performances are moving in a declining
scale."
Giulia had risen angrily from the sofa.
"I am a great lover of truth," continued Spiegeler. "We here live in
the town of a great Thinker, who spoke the truth ruthlessly. Until now
in my criticisms I have extended the cloak of Christian charity over
your shortcomings, but my conscience is awakened. For some time I have
collected every variety of observations and remarks upon broken and
cracked voices; they are not amiss these scraps of thought; they are
mental iron filings, and I am seeking the magnet to which they can be
attached; I cannot promise you that I may not utilise them in my
criticism of your next performance if it satisfy my expectations as
little as did your 'Norma.'"
The fiery blood of the Italian now conquered all prudence. Her tall
figure was drawn up to its full height, her eye flashed, internal
agitation quivered in the corners of her lips, as Giulia cried--
"Well, then, annihilate me; I will gladly be the victim so that not one
of nay successors may have the accumulated poisonous flowers poured
over her from the cornucopias of your intellect. We are all, indeed,
the slaves of the public; it subscribes to my notes as to your wit, and
when my voice becomes hoarse and your genius is snuffed out, the Moor's
occupation will be gone and he may retire."
"Very true," interposed Spiegeler, nodding his head in assent.
"The public is perfectly right; yet I, too, have the right to tell you
what I think. I despise a criticism which alone aims at its own
brilliance, even if it only be the light of mental corruption with
which it wanders about like a will-o'-the-wisp."
Spiegeler cast a hostile glance at the singer, rose with difficulty,
and grasped the crutch that stood beside him.
"I despise any criticism," continued Giulia, implacably, "that vaunts
its own ignorance of that glorious art to which I and we all have
dedicated our lives. We are and shall remain in the sanctuary; what do
we care about the baying of the dogs at the portals of the temple?"
Noisily Spiegeler seized the second crutch.
"The criticism may be severe, but noble; brave and conversant with the
rules and customs of war; I myself will eat the black soup with the
Spartan, little as I may like it, yet not with the Helot! He must carry
my shield, else I shall chastise him."
Spiegeler struck the floor with his crutch, so that the room shook.
"That to me, Signora! But beware, my bees may swarm!"
"I shall know how to protect myself against their sting."
"I doubt it; but I thank you--you accord me full liberty once more. I
have longed for it, I showed consideration for your beauty, did any
favour befall me in consequence? I showed consideration for your
worldly fame, it dazzled me as it did the public. Worldly fame, like a
soap-bubble it shall collapse. A circus in Barcelona, a Crystal Palace
in England, to these may be added a _cafe chantant_ in Moscow, and the
magic is dissolved. Talent! What is talent? People possess it so long
as it is believed in. Talent is a bill at sight, it must be redeemed.
It is little enough to possess talent alone; a singer must cease to
begin when her voice begins to cease. There you have a few specimens;
how do you like the colour? It is of a brilliant lustre, brilliant!
That will create a sensation!"
Giulia stood as if bewildered beneath the drizzling rain of these
aphorisms. She kept her hands pressed convulsively upon the table.
"I can discover new stars," cried Spiegeler, "and transform them into
falling ones. I have given the German stage two _prime donne_. I can
create queens of the opera, but also hurl them to destruction. _Nous
verrons_, Signora!"
Beate rusted in from the adjoining room.
Stamping with his crutches, the lame reporter left the boudoir.
"What have you done? _Corpo di bacco!_"
"I feel myself free and great as Italy's most promising actress, young
Adelaide Ristori, when, as Mary Stuart, she plunged the knife into her
enemy's bosom."
"Unbounded recklessness! What possessed you? We shall be obliged to
bear the consequences."
The bell was rung outside.
"I fear nothing more! He comes--it is he!"
With downcast mien Beate announced Lieutenant Buschmann and Herr
Boeller.
Giulia received her adorers with cold reserve.
Boeller, who was as tall as Buschmann, but who, behind the corpulent
officer, looked like the latter's shadow, was now one of the Signora's
friends most capable of sacrificing himself. After she had rejected his
attentions, he had relinquished all hopes of winning her; however, he
had vowed to himself to protect and watch over her as much as he
possibly could.
He was a young man of principle, noble-hearted and faithful to his
duty; but his exterior was not very prepossessing. A figure thin as a
lamp-post, grey eyes, a haggard face and a sharply prominent nose; he
seemed to be the embodiment of Immanuel Kant's conception of duty.
Lieutenant Buschmann's principles were less firmly planted, but his
outward appearance was superior. It was imposing, of great physical
size; his features expressed perfect self-complacency, a healthy colour
lay upon his cheeks, and confidence of success flashed from his eyes.
He was little adapted to stand in the ranks, therefore he was generally
ordered upon duties which had nothing in common with the march past on
parade.
Far removed from resigning, like his friend Boeller, who on that account
was his friend, he still went out bent upon conquest; for him the
beautiful _prima donna_ was a worthy prize.
She looked favourably upon him because he spoke good Italian, and that
had also been the excuse for his first visit. Just as he always
connected the useful with the agreeable, so he looked upon his visits
to Signora Bollini at the same time as lessons in exercising and
improving himself in Italian. Even if his loftier plans were
shipwrecked, he should not have spent his time quite uselessly, but to
the benefit of his linguistic studies.
Thus he now commenced an Italian conversation with the singer, while
Beate imparted to Herr Boeller the declaration of war which her friend
had thrown to the critic. This cast Boeller into a state of great
perturbation; already he perceived the _mene tekel_ of Belshazzar
written in black and white, and felt every sharply pointed word pierce
his own bosom like the stroke of a dagger.
Buschmann spoke of "Norma," of the art treasures of Naples and
Florence, he lingered fondly over plastic pictures which he certainly
set forth in an aesthetic light; at the same time, however, he let a
bold word fall occasionally, taking greater intimacy for granted.
Then the bell rang again! Giulia started. This time her expectations
had not deceived her, it was Herr von Blanden's card which Beate handed
to her. How her heart beat! she pressed her hand upon it and rested the
other upon the table to keep herself steady. How painful to be obliged
to receive him just now; she wished the officer far away who had drawn
so defiantly close to her, and even modest Herr Boeller, who cast such
mournful glances at her, and ever again filled the basket, which he had
received,[1] with fresh flowers expressive of his homage; and yet,
perhaps, she should be less embarrassed if she were not alone when she
greeted him for the first time. She signed to her friend, and soon
after Blanden entered the room.
She went to meet him, and offered her hand to him; but she trembled in
so doing, and a burning colour suffused her cheeks.
"I am rejoiced," said he, after having been introduced to the other
gentlemen, "to be able here in the cold north to renew a brief
acquaintance begun in Italy."
Blanden spoke with calmness and ease, and sought by these tactics to
mask Giulia's agitation, but Buschmann, who had as good an eye for a
countenance as he had for reconnoissance, had long since perceived that
no indifferent meeting was now taking place. His jealousy had
immediately been roused; he decided at once to reconnoitre the ground
more closely, and ventured to the front with one question after another
as to the time and place of that meeting, but if he counted upon
evasive replies, he had been mistaken. Blanden took it upon himself to
speak, and answered so clearly and decidedly that the officer withdrew
his _vedettes_.
Blanden felt himself once more entirely under the spell of that
beautiful woman of the south; not myrtles and laurels, not the mirror
of the lake with the reflection of the lofty Alpine peaks, not the
aromatic breath of orange flowers acted now intoxicatingly upon his
senses, and yet it was the self-same charm that held him in its spell,
at the contemplation of those harmonious features and of that noble
form. But she appeared distant to him, majestically distant, and he
could hardly believe that he had once folded her in his arms.
Beneath indifferent conversation both concealed the emotions and
thoughts that stirred them inwardly. Vainly Blanden hoped that the
first visitors would withdraw and grant him an undisturbed interview.
Lieutenant Buschmann stood bravely to his post, and did not give the
slightest indication of retiring from the field; he even at times
assumed a familiar tone towards the singer, which she repelled with
displeasure.
Blanden's conversation seemed to glide unconcernedly above all this
by-play, which in reality he watched closely; the other guests'
obduracy obliged him to be the first to take leave. Giulia's looks,
however, assured him of her unchanged affection; she requested him to
repeat his visit very soon.
"My Beatrice," said Buschmann, who thought much of his knowledge of
Dante's comedy, "my guide through Paradise appears to turn completely
away from me! Who then is this stranger who crosses our mutual path?"
"I have already mentioned his name," said Giulia coldly, "but here is
his card!"
"An old Italian acquaintance! Herr von Blanden, a gentleman of large
property! Ah, ah, Boeller, that is promotion over our heads, we shall
have to retire to the ranks."
"I gave no cause for such remarks," said Giulia.
"No, Signora, we have not yet lost all courage. Such acquaintances from
the land where the oranges bloom, easily droop in our climate; they
require a special hot-house here, and it is to be hoped that you will
not find one. But we are tried weather-proof friends, is it not so
Boeller? But we will not disturb the Signora any longer! no bad
feelings, lovely one! Does not Beatrice bear the olive branch of
peace?"
When Buschmann and Boeller had retired, Giulia gave way to violent tears
and sobs. Beate came to her and enquired as to the cause of this
despair.
"Despair, indeed! I have seen him again and all else has become
worthless to me; it is the breath of this passion that extinguishes all
the other lights on the Christmas tree of my life, while I, dazzled,
stare fixedly into the one all-consuming flame! But he, he--how can he
respect me? That love, which I as if in a dream and intoxication gave
to him, I the nameless one to the stranger--does it not now speak its
own verdict of condemnation upon me? Now, when all gains name, form
humiliating distinctness! In what circles does he see me. In those of
importunate admirers, who sacrifice my name! The theatrical tinsel that
rustles around me is sure to make all appear like a _comedia_ to him,
and who knows if like a _divina comedia_! Ah! and he does not imagine
how the glowing recollection of him governs all my dreams, how, like
that Penelope who waited for her Odyssey, I reject every other lover."
"He does not know it," said Beate, consolingly, "but you can tell him
though."
"And when I have told him, if he believe me, if he still love me, what
then? Is my misfortune any the less? The secret of my life, that
baneful fetter that I drag after me, all prohibit any thought of
lasting happiness! Was there ever a more pitiable slave than I? I would
make a holocaust of all my laurel wreaths, of that accumulated
adornment of my life, and precipitate myself into the flames; it would
be best!"
"Do not despair," said Beate, "I have courage and resolution! I think
day and night of a means by which to release you."
"It is impossible," replied Giulia sighing.
"First you shall speak to your friend of Lago Maggiore, and probe his
heart. Appoint the hour yourself; I shall keep guard and no one shall
cross this threshold."
Gratia pressed Beate's hand gratefully, but then she shook her head,
threw herself upon the sofa, and, weeping silently, buried her face in
the cushions.