TAMBURINI.
It was rather late in the evening of a day in autumn, 182-, that two well dressed persons were seen standing before a small house in one of the principal streets of Milan. They leaned against the railing at the foot of the steps, and were listening with such apparent attention, that their attitude and employment might have excited observation, but that a certain high-bred air indicated them to be above suspicion, and the delicious music heard from the house fully justified them in pausing to listen.
The music was low, plaintive and touching, and accompanied by a clear and melodious male voice. Now and then it swelled into deeper pathos, the voice being evidently interrupted by sobs; and one of the listeners, deeply moved, turned aside to brush a tear from his eyes. After it had continued some time with these alternations of harmonious complaint, it was suddenly broken off, and a dead silence succeeded.
“Poor Antonio!” said one of the gentlemen, with a deep sigh; “this affliction will kill him.”
“Nay,” answered his companion, “I have no fear. He has youth, health, ambition, to sustain him; and though I know he feels——”
“But you know not Antonio as I do, Ronza,” rejoined the other. “It is the exquisite sensibility of his nature, the deep and passionate feeling hid under his graceful and composed exterior, that, even more than qualities merely professional, has contributed to his fame as the first of modern singers. And thisexquisitely toned instrument, that yields such melody to the lightest touch, may be as easily shattered.”
“He loved his mother devotedly; but—cielo—did he expect to survive her?”
“Ah! she was more than mother to him; he owed her his intellectual, his spiritual being. She directed his pure soul to the enjoyments alone fitted for him; she led him to the shrine of Art. No, Ronza, do not blame his grief.”
“I do not blame it. I only say that the deepest wound, even in natures like his, may the sooner be healed! But let us go in.”
The two friends ascended the steps, and knocked. They were admitted, and as they anticipated, found the person they had come to seek, plunged in a grief that defied all consolation—the more to be dreaded, as his outward manner was cold and calm. It was the snow upon the mountain, whose breast was consuming in volcanic fires.
“And yet I am grateful for your coming,” he said, after every commonplace source of consolation had been exhausted in their kind efforts to divert his mind from the contemplation of the calamity that had crushed him. “I cannot now say how grateful, but you will forgive my lack of words. Will you pardon, also, Count Albert, my entreating you to take charge of these papers?”
And opening a drawer, he took out several letters and handed them to the count.
“How—you do not now think of leaving Milan?”
“No—but I retire from the world. To-morrow I enter the Convent di ——.”
Count Albert di Gaëta and the Marchese di Ronza exchanged looks of dismay.
“So sudden a project——.”
“It is not sudden. My resolution has been formed since the day of my mother’s death, and my application was forwarded immediately. I expect a reply to it every hour.”
“You have been imprudent, my friend,” said the Marchese. “You will regret the precipitation of this step.”
“And what have I now to live for?” asked the mourner, bitterly.
“For fame,” replied di Ronza.
“For art,” said Count Albert.
The bereaved artist shook his head.
“When, at eighteen years of age,” he said, “I met with my first triumph at Bologna; when the public far and near were pleased to applaud me, what, think you, was my joy in the enthusiasm I awakened? Thatsherejoiced in my success; thatsheencouraged me to persevering effort; that I was earning honor and competence for her enjoyment in old age. Now I have lost my only stimulus to exertion; I have lost my love of art; my faculties are paralyzed.”
“This is not natural,” observed the Marchese, gravely.
“But it is truth. The world is a desert to me; I leave it. The church offers me an asylum. I accept it as a refuge where I can bear with me her memory for whom alone I wished to live!”
“Your friends,” said di Ronza, somewhat haughtily, “may not thank you for your exclusion of them. You have many to whom your success is a part of their daily joy. And yet, gifted with health, beauty, genius, not yet twenty-five, you would hide yourself in the cowl and scapulary from the admiration of men—the love of woman——.”
The mourner gave an involuntary and impatient gesture. The Marchese saw that his brow was crimson, and a new light seemed to break on Ronza’s mind, for a meaning smile played for an instant on his lip. It was gone before either of his companions perceived it.
“Before we part,” asked he, “will you sing us this air from the Cenerentola?” and he took up a leaf of music.
“Nay,” interposed Count Albert, “it is wrong to ask this. How unsuitable this song to the gloom of his feelings!”
“The better, that the power of music may for an instant dispel his melancholy thoughts. Come, Antonio, I will join you.”
Antonio complied, and seated himself at the piano to sing.Ronza accompanied him, watching him closely all the while, and nodded his head with an expression of satisfaction when the air was concluded.
There was a knock at the door; Antonio arose from the instrument. Theportiereentered, and handed him a letter. He begged pardon of his friends, and broke the seal; glanced over the contents, and buried his face in his hands.
The friends sat in silent sympathy. At length, in obedience to a sign from the mourner, Count Albert took the letter up and read it. It was an answer from the superiors of the Convent di ——. His application was rejected; their doors were closed against “an actor.”
Courteously as the denial was expressed, it was evident that Antonio felt the implied insult to his profession; and indignation for the moment rose above his grief.
“The creed is indeed exclusive,” he said, bitterly, “that refuses an actor space for repentance and preparation for death.”
“They are right,” said the Marchese, somewhat abruptly. “What sort of a monk would you make,Antonio mio? Your sorrow is profound, but it must in time abate; your heart will rise from its depression; you will feel once again the impulse of genius and ambition.”
“Never!” interrupted the artist.
“I tell you, you will. I am old in the world, and therefore a true prophet. You will, and the time is not far distant. In the convent, your eyes would be opened, only that you might see the gloom surrounding you; your wings would expand, only that you might feel the weight that chained them to earth—forever! For I know you well enough to know that once fettered by the vows, you would die ere fling them off! They are right; they foresee the result. Be warned in time!”
“My resolution is unalterable,” said Antonio. “Milan is not the world. In four days I shall leave it, and seek elsewhere the asylum I cannot obtain here. I am heart-broken and wretched;I cannot live among the scenes and associations of my past life. Better for me the grave of the suicide!”
“This must be remedied, and speedily,” said Count Albert to his companion, after they had quitted their friend, whose sufferings seemed in no degree alleviated by their sympathy, “or nature will give way. That wild look of anguish; that fevered flush; the hurried and abrupt movement; the visible emaciation of his whole frame; all these make me shudder. An organization so susceptible, so delicate, cannot withstand so mighty a shock. Suffer this grief to prey upon him, and in three months he will fall its victim.”
“You are right,” replied di Ronza. “There is danger, and it must be averted. The world has no overplus of genius and worth, that we can afford to lose a Tamburini.”
“But the means——.”
“I have thought, and still think of them. Join me at my lodgings at ten. For the present I have an engagement.A rivederci.”
And the friends separated.
The scene was a handsomely furnished drawing-room in the house of Madame Gioja. This lady—French by birth, celebrated for her many graces and accomplishments,—was the daughter of the Count Gaëtani, and wedded in early youth to the Marquis de Miriallia. His jealous love for the beautiful creature he had espoused prompted his last will, which made the forfeiture of his fortune the penalty of her second marriage. Surrounded by luxury and admiration, moving in the most exalted circles, the lovely widow cast her eyes upon a young artist, dependent on his profession for support. Love proved stronger than ambition, and she gave up splendor to share the lot of the poor man whom her heart had chosen. Her friends were indignant; she was deprived of her liberty; but being afterwards released from imprisonment, she left her native country to lead a wandering life, consoled for all her sacrifices by the love of her husband and children.
Madame Gioja was reading by a small table in the centre of the room. A young girl of exquisite beauty was playing at the piano, sometimes accompanying the music with her voice; and ever and anon the elder lady would look up from her book with a glance so full of tenderness and pride, that the spectator needed not to have observed the striking resemblance between the two to be certain of their relationship. The looks were such as only beam from a mother’s eyes upon a beloved and only daughter.
“The Marchese di Ronza,” said the portiere, throwing open the door.
Madame Gioja rose to receive her guest. The visit was unusual for one of rank so high; for the lady, be it remembered, had descended in marrying to the condition of her husband, and he was no associate of nobles. But she had in youth been familiar with courts and princes, and in grace and dignity she was not changed; so that though surprised at the visit, no princess could have received it with greater self-possession and composure.
The Marchese paid his respects to the lady, then turned to her daughter, who had risen from the piano, and fixed on her so prolonged a gaze, that the mother was startled and somewhat offended. She replied very gravely to some casual remark of her guest, and the young girl, who seemed aware that there was an embarrassment, blushed deeply. Ronza saw he had committed an error, and said with a serious air to Madame Gioja—
“May I crave the favor, madam, of a few moments’ conversation with you on business?”
“Certainly,” answered the lady; and turning to her daughter, “You may retire, my dear Marietta.”
The young lady left the room. The Marchese remained a few moments silent, as if considering how he should introduce what he had to say. At length he said, abruptly—
“My business concerns the Signorina, as well as yourself. It is for your permission for her to sing in part of a new piece by Mercadante, to be immediately produced.”
Madame Gioja hesitated.
“I have cultivated my daughter’s talent for music to the utmost,” said she, “and yet I tremble to decide on her choice of the art as a profession. She is so young, so sensitive, so ill able to sustain herself against the many trials of an artiste——”
“And is it you who talk thus?” asked the Marchese, surprised. “You, who sacrificed opulence, rank, friends, for the love of art—to share the fortunes of a votary of music!”
“I am the better able,” said the lady, smiling, “to judge of its consolations. Of its triumphs I say nothing; for I would not have Marietta influenced by the least whisper of vanity in her choice for life!”
“You are then undetermined as to your daughter’s embracing the profession of music?” cried Ronza, astonished. “You have perhaps, other views—other designs for her?”
“Signore?” said the mother, evidently not understanding the drift of the question.
“Nay,” said the Marchese, recovering himself, “it is not right to ask such questions, at least, without confiding our whole project to you, madam. And first, have no fears as to granting my request. It is only before a select audience that I wish your daughter to sing.”
“Then my permission is freely granted,” replied the lady.
“A word more. You are aware, madam, of the recent misfortune of our friend Tamburini?”
“The death of his mother? Ah! it was a terrible blow. I am told he bears it not with resignation.”
“Alas! madam, the blow may cost him his life. Driven by grief to despair, he has already applied for admission into the Convent ——.”
“This is dreadful!” exclaimed the lady; and Ronza saw that her cheek grew pale.
“His application,” he continued, “has been refused, as it ought to be, and he is now resolved on quitting Milan. You know Antonio; you know him to be one of those fiery spirits, impatient of suffering, ready to plunge into imprudence, and obstinateagainst opposition. The only hope of saving him is to re-awaken his ambition—his impulse for art.”
“And how can that be done?”
“By a master stroke, if at all; and in this I crave your aid. Your daughter—I have seen it—has much influence over our spoiled artist. I have seen his emotion when she sang, at your private concerts.”
“You overrate her powers,” said the mother, reservedly. “But her aid and mine shall be cheerfully given to any enterprise that promises to divert the grief of our valued friend. Your wish is——”
“Simply, that she will take a part in thePosto Abbandonato, in an act of which he will appear. A few select friends are to be the audience. I will have the piece sent to her immediately.”
“I promise for her.”
“I thank you, madam, and the world will thank you,” cried the Marchese, as he paid his parting salutations and hastened to his rendezvous with the count.
But the mother found opposition where she had not counted upon it—from the young lady herself. Marietta seemed the more averse to the proposition, the more she was reasoned with about it; and her own reasons for her reluctance were, as a petted young girl’s are sometimes apt to be, so frivolous, that they vexed Madame Gioja. Was it obstinacy or coquetry? thought she; but her daughter was ever wont to be complying, and above all artifice. She told Marietta there was no receding from her word pledged for her compliance; and then, though with not a little pouting, the young lady set about learning the part assigned to her.
The preparations of Tamburini for leaving Milan were complete. The amateurs of the city were in despair; but no entreatiescould move his determination. Count Albert passed with him the afternoon of the last day, to be crowned, according to the earnest solicitation of numerous friends, by a private concert, in which the already famous singer was to gratify them for the last time. It was to be his adieu to them, to music and the world.
“You will have the goodness also, dear count, to have this package delivered after my departure. It is a selection of the best pieces of opera music in my collection, with the great works of Gluck. Ah! he was once my favorite master.”
“Have you lost your taste for his compositions?”
“No; but I can no longer do them justice. I am an ingrate, for if I ever had aught of energy, fire or force, I owe it to him. What strength, what soul there is in his creations! how they task the noblest faculties! Passion they have, but more than passion; it is the very mind, the genius of tragedy.”
The count read the direction on the package—it was addressed “To Mademoiselle Marietta Gioja.”
“There is another of my lost divinities,” said Antonio, with a melancholy smile. “I might”—and his face flushed deeply as he spoke—“had I risen to the summit I once hoped to attain, to an eminence that would have conferred distinction on those I loved, I might have dared to offer her the homage of my heart. Beautiful as she is, the perfections of her person are surpassed by her mental loveliness, and oh, what angelic goodness! But I must not speak of her; it makes me bitter to think in what a delusion I have indulged.”
“Believe it, believe it yet!” cried Albert, grasping his friend’s hand.
“No; I am now fully awakened. What a mockery to think of one elevated so far above me! Her aristocratic descent, the pride of her mother’s family,—the claims of these might have been satisfied, had I lived to realize my lofty visions! But they are dispelled, and I have resigned this sweetest hope of all; cherishing only the thought that she will not perhaps disdain my last gift; that these noble and glorious works may sometimesrecall to her mind the memory of one who, had he proved worthy, would have dared to love her.”
“This is folly!” exclaimed the count. “You are depressed, and the world seems dark to you. With time, the soother of sorrow——”
“You mistake, my dear friend. It is not the pressure of grief alone that weighs me down, and has crushed my energies. I were not a man had I not within me a principle that could bear up against the heaviest calamity. But,” and he laid his hand impressively on Albert’s arm, “heard you never of thedeath of enthusiasm?”
His friend sighed deeply.
“It is thus with me. I have nothing now to offer at the shrine of art. Shall I present her with a cold and soulless votary, rifled of his treasure of youth, and faith, and hope? Shall I, whose spirit has flagged in the race, long ere the goal was won, pluck at inferior honors? Shall I cumber the arena to dishearten others, when I can obtain no prize? How am I to inspire the public with confidence when I have lost it in myself? How can I kindle passion in others, who am dead to its fires? No, Count Albert, I have become insensible to the deepest, the highest wonders of music. I will not insult her by a dragging, desperate mediocrity. I will not impede the advance of better spirits. I have fallen in the battle—the honors of victory are not for me.”
It was melancholy to see this paralysis, this prostration of a noble spirit! And yet, how to combat it? Argument was in vain, and the count rejoiced when this painful interview was at an end. It was already evening, and time to go to the concert; the carriage was at the door. He took his friend’s arm and led him down. Not a word was exchanged as they drove on, till they drew up and alighted at their place of destination.
It was at the house of a distinguished amateur that this final concert was to take place, and the saloon had been fitted up as a small theatre. A select number of auditors—many more, however, than the performers had expected—were seated at the upperend of the room. The stage was brilliantly lighted, and the scenery so well painted and so admirably arranged as almost to bewilder the senses with illusion. All that taste and poetry could devise, lent their enchantment to the scene.
Those who have observed the effect of sudden excitement on minds long and deeply depressed,—that is, in temperaments highly susceptible,—may conceive the conflict of emotion in the breast of Antonio, as he found himself thus unexpectedly surrounded by the external splendor and beauty of scenic art. He had anticipated meeting with a few friends, to sing with them a farewell song. What meant these flowery wreaths, this blaze of light, this luxury of painting? The orchestra struck up; their music seemed to penetrate his inmost soul; the revulsion of feeling kindled a wild energy within him. He felt, and at once, almost the inspiration of early youth. Though convinced it was but momentary, he yielded to the impulse and advanced upon the stage.
His symmetrical and noble figure, the grace and expression of his movements, the mind beaming from his features, would at any time have prepossessed an audience in his favor. Under the present affecting circumstances, appealing to every heart, the welcome was tumultuous and long. Tamburini, as he acknowledged it, recovered his melancholy composure. It was destined soon to be overthrown.
At a little distance from him stood the heroine of the piece; like him, bewildered at the novelty of her position and the splendor of her reception, and blushing in much confusion. Could Antonio believe his eyes? It was Marietta Gioja!
With an involuntary exclamation of surprise, he hastened towards her. He did not perceive either pride or coquetry in her evident avoidance of him. But there was no time for explanations. The music played on, and both performed their parts to the rapturous delight of all who listened.
At last the curtain fell. The young debutante was standing upon the stage; she turned to go, but at the instant her hand was clasped by Antonio and covered with burning kisses.
“Marietta, dear Marietta, how can I thank you for this?”
She struggled to withdraw her hand; she repelled him haughtily. He saw that her face was bathed in tears.
“For pity’s sake, Marietta, tell me how I have offended you!”
“Let me go, sir; it is all I ask!”
But love was stronger than reason or reserve. The torrent had burst its bounds, and it must overflow. In language impassioned as his own heart, irrepressible as the burning lava of a volcano, he poured forth the love so long nourished in secret. He told her of his hopes and fears—all, all swallowed up in earnest, ardent devotion! The tide of feeling had swept down at once both memory and resolution.
The hues of the rose and lily chased each other rapidly across the cheek of the beautiful girl. Suddenly, at a rustling in the silken folds that veiled them from a view of the audience, she snatched her hands from her lover and rushed off the stage.
Antonio was about to follow her, when Madame Gioja appeared. She led by the hand her trembling and blushing daughter.
“My daughter came hither in obedience to my commands,” said she. “And now, Marietta, that your bashful scruples are satisfied, and there is no danger that our friend can charge you with any unmaidenly project for storming his heart, you may as well tell him that you love him in sincerity, though in truth this scene is not the fittest for a real declaration. Since it must be, however, take my blessing, dear children!”
There was a continued clamor without, and frequent cries of “Tamburini.” Presently a corner of the curtain was raised, and the Marchese di Ronza appeared, his face radiant with benevolent joy.
“I have the happiness to announce to you, my friends, that our distinguished and well beloved Antonio has concluded to defer, indefinitely, his departure from Milan. You will dispense, therefore, with his farewell at present. I have reason to hope that he will ere long favor us with his performance through the whole piece of thePosto Abbandonato, and congratulate you, as well asmyself, upon the certainty that he has no idea ofabandoning his post!”
Loud, heartfelt and rapturous was the cheering that greeted this announcement. Tamburini heard, and wondered in his new born happiness how he could ever have yielded to despair.
Thus was a great artist rescued from self-despondency and restored to the world. The disappointment of his first project of turning recluse, was made to bring forth wholesome fruit. But the Marchese, whose plan of a surprise had so admirably succeeded, was never willing to give love all the credit it deserved. As to Madame Gioja, she knew the human heart, and wondered not at the result.
A short time after, the nuptials of Marietta and Antonio were celebrated. Though he cherished with veneration to the end of his life the memory of his mother, yet never again did he yield to that self-distrust and despair, which in the true artist is burying the talent committed to him.
It was near sunset on a bright and warm day in September, 182-, that a gentleman and lady, dressed in travelling attire, might have been seen descending the steps of a palazzo fronting on one of the principal canals of Venice. They were followed by an attendant, another having gone before with their luggage, and deposited it in a plain looking gondola fastened at the foot of the steps. The travellers took their seats in this gondola, and as they pushed off, observed two gentlemen ascend the steps of the house they had just quitted, and ring at the door. While they were talking with the porter, a turn in the canal carried the gondola out of sight.
“Who knows what we have escaped, Marietta,cara?” said the male passenger. “If my eyes inform me rightly, one of yon cavaliers is Signor Bordoni, a friend of the Impressario here, come doubtless to tempt me with some new piece, and urge me to stay.”
“I should not regret an accident that kept us longer inVenice,” observed the lady. “You are, I know, well appreciated.”
“We will return; oh, yes! We are not bidding a long adieu to the sea-born city. But I must not disappoint our friends at Trieste.”
“How lovely a scene!” exclaimed the lady, after a pause of some length.
And in truth it was beautiful. The sun had set, but his beams yet lingered on the towers and cupolas of the palaces of Venice, and on the light clouds that overhung them like a canopy of gold. They had passed from the canal, where light boats were shooting to and fro in every direction, and the sound of footsteps and lively voices filled the air, into one of the lagunes, where a complete stillness prevailed, broken only by the plash of the water as the oars dipped, and the gentle ripple as the boat swept on, and the softened, distant murmur of human life and motion in a great city. The moon rose large, and round, and bright, in the east. There was a delicious mistiness in the atmosphere that mellowed every object; a dreamy and luxurious softening, like the languor that enhances the charms of an oriental beauty. At no great distance lay the vessel that was to convey the passengers to Trieste, waiting for them and the hour appointed to set sail.
“See that large gondola yonder!” said the lady, laying her hand suddenly on her husband’s arm. “How gracefully it glides over the waters; and it seems to follow straight on our course.”
It came onward, indeed, with almost incredible velocity; and was now near enough for them to observe that it was painted black, and moreover of a somewhat peculiar construction.
“It is a government boat,” said the man.
“She has armed men on board,” remarked their attendant. “She bears directly upon us.”
“Antonio!” exclaimed the lady, pressing close to her husband with an expression of apprehension.
“Be not alarmed, Marietta mia; they mean us no harm—though sooth to say, it is somewhat discourteous to follow us soclosely. Hold there,” he cried to the gondolier; “let us rest a moment and see what they want with us.”
The gondolier backed water with his oars so dexterously, that the course of the light vessel was checked in an instant, and she quivered on the water without making a foot’s progress. At the same moment the other boat came along side, and also stopped. An officer wearing the imperial uniform stood up and signed to the gondolier as if forbidding him to proceed.
“May I ask, signore, what this means?” demanded the gentleman passenger. “We are in haste.”
“And we also,” replied the officer. “I am in search of a person called Antonio Tamburini.”
“I am he.”
“It is well. You will please accompany me.”
“That is impossible. I am about to sail for Trieste. We are on our way to the vessel.”
“You must return. I have an order for your arrest.” And he exhibited an order, signed by the proper authorities, and made out in due form, for the arrest of Antonio Tamburini.
The lady uttered a half shriek, and clung to her husband.
“Here is some mistake, signor. I am the singer Tamburini. I have never interfered in politics; I have nothing to do with the government. I am but a chance passenger through Venice.”
“My orders are positive,” said the officer, with some appearance of impatience. “Make way there;” and while his armed attendants moved so as to allow seats for the prisoners, he offered his hand to the lady to assist her into the other boat.
Our hero was sufficiently vexed at this unexpected delay, but saw that it was inevitable. Offering his arm to his wife, he helped her to change her place, and gave directions for the transfer of his luggage. In a few minutes they were retracing their course across the lagune.
Not a word was spoken by any of the party, except that once the officer inquired if the lady’s seat was commodious. Notwithstanding the silence, however, his manner and that of his men wasrespectful in the highest degree; and this circumstance somewhat encouraged the hopes of his prisoners that their unpleasant detention might be followed by no serious misfortune. But who could penetrate the mysteries of governmental policy, or the involutions of its suspicion?
Thus it was not without misgiving that Tamburini entered Venice on his compulsory return; and these apprehensions were strengthened when he saw it was not the intention of his guards to conduct him to his late residence. They passed the Palazzo di ——; the arcades of San Marco. They were not far from the ancient ducal palace. Thoughts of a prison, of secret denunciations, of unknown accusers, of trial and sentence, were busy in Antonio’s brain, and caused him to move uneasily. As for the lady, she was pale as death, and hardly able to support herself upright. The more inexplicable seemed the danger the greater was her dread. Once she leaned towards her husband and whispered, in a touching tone of distress—“My mother—how will she feel when she knows what has befallen us!”
Gentle and generous instinct of woman! Her first thought under the severest pressure of calamity is always for the dear ones whom the blow that crushes her perchance may bruise!
At length the gondola stopped. The moon was shining so brightly, that the marble steps seemed almost to radiate light. There was a hum of voices at a distance, and tones of music at intervals floated on the air; but all was still immediately around them. Two of the guard took their places on either side of the prisoners; two followed; the officer walked before and led the way up a dark flight of steps that terminated in a wide corridor. This, too, was only lighted by a torch carried in the hand of one of the attendants.
“Antonio, whither are we going?” asked Madame Tamburini, in a feeble voice, and leaning heavily on her husband’s arm, half fainting with affright.
“Courage, my beloved!” answered he, supporting her with his arm; “we shall soon know the worst.”
Crossing the corridor, they entered another long gallery, and walked its whole length in silence, stopping before a massive door at the lower end. The officer directed the door to be opened. It swung on its hinges with a most dungeon-like grating, and the prisoners were ushered into the next apartment.
The sudden light, combined with the effect of overpowering surprise, nearly completed the work of terror on the lady’s trembling frame; she would have fallen to the earth had not the officer supported her. Several persons came crowding round to offer their assistance. Tamburini thought himself fallen into a trance, and rubbed his eyes. They stood in the green-room of the opera house!
This, then, was their dungeon! And what meant this bold invasion of their liberty?—this marching them back as prisoners, under guard, and in fear of their lives? Was it the work of the Impressario? Apparently not—for he stood with open eyes and mouth, as much astonished as the rest at the unexpected apparition of the distinguished singer. He turned an inquiring look towards the officer.
“I know what you would ask, Signor Tamburini,” replied the cool official, “and will give you all the satisfaction in my power. I have the honor to announce to you the commands of His Majesty the Emperor. It is his imperial will that you perform this night in the Marriage of Figaro. The Emperor himself, with His Majesty the Emperor of Russia, will honor the performance with his presence.”
Who is there that had the happiness of being present on that memorable occasion, of witnessing the brilliant and graceful performance of Tamburini, that can forget it? The splendor of the scene, the countless number of spectators, comprising the beauty and aristocracy of the most aristocratic of Italian cities, assembled in the presence of two of the most powerful monarchs in Europe; the pomp of royalty; the enthusiasm of a people eager to do homage to genius; the gorgeous decorations of the theatre; the admirable aid of a well chosen orchestra—all these were butaccessories to the triumph of the young and distinguished artist. It was for him this glorious pageant was devised—he was the power that set in motion this vast machinery! What wonder that human pride failed to withstand a tribute so splendid, and that Tamburini, as he trod the stage, and listened to the bursts of rapturous applause that shook the house like peals of thunder, and knew himself the cynosure of all eyes,—the idol of beauty, nobility and royalty,—felt within his breast an inspiration almost superhuman!
When the opera was over, he was called out to receive the bravos of the audience, and the wreaths that fell in showers at his feet. When, flushed with triumph, yet filled with gratitude, he returned behind the curtain, he was surprised to find himself still a prisoner. The guard was ready to conduct him accompanied by his wife to the lodging assigned them. They were treated, indeed, with courtesy and respect, like prisoners of state; but our hero felt uneasy under the restraint, of which he could obtain no explanation further than “he would know on the morrow.”
The next day, a little after noon, Tamburini was conducted to the imperial presence. Surrounded by his court, by foreign nobles and visitors of distinction, the emperor entertained his illustrious guest, the Emperor of Russia, who sat at his right hand. There was silence throughout the courtly assembly when the artist was led in. He made a suitable obeisance when his name was announced, and stood with a respectful air to await the monarch’s commands.
“Signor Tamburini,” said the Emperor of Austria, “you stand before us a prisoner, and, we understand, plead ignorance as to the cause of your arrest.”
“I am, indeed, ignorant, sire,” replied the artist, “in what respect I have been so unfortunate as to transgress the laws or offend your majesty.”
“We will tell you, then,” said the emperor, gravely. “It was your treasonous design to pass through this noble city without stopping to perform at the opera house. Your plan was detected—you were taken in the very act of departure.”
“Your majesty——,” began the artist.
“Silence, sir; it is in vain to defend yourself. You are proved guilty not only of a conspiracy to defraud our good Venetians of their rights in refusing them the privilege of hearing you, but oflese majestéagainst ourself and our illustrious brother, the Emperor of Russia. You lie at our mercy; but you have many friends, and at their intercession we remit you other punishment than a few days’ imprisonment. Meanwhile, we have ordered a sum to be paid you, in testimony of our approval of your last night’s performance; and in addition, ask of us any favor you choose.”
“Sire, my gratitude—your gracious condescension——”
Tamburini’s voice faltered from emotion.
“Your boon, if you please!” cried the emperor, impatiently.
“Sire, it is simply this—permission to keep my word, pledged to my friends at Trieste, who are expecting me.”
There was a murmur of surprise among the spectators. The monarch, after a pause, replied, with a gracious smile—
“You are a noble fellow, Tamburini, and your request shall be granted. Only to-night we must have you inLucia di Lammermoor. We are told you are inimitable in that last adagio. And now, come nearer.”
The artist knelt at the monarch’s feet.
“Receive from our hands this medaldi nostro Salvatore,”[13]and the emperor flung the chain around his neck. “Learn thus how much we love to do honor to genius.”
Thus loaded with distinction, the artist was presented to the Russian emperor, and received the compliments and congratulations of the nobility present. He was destined ere long to receive in other lands honors almost equal to those bestowed in his own; and to show how boundless and how absolute is the dominion Heaven has given the true artist over the human heart.
FOOTNOTES:[13]Wellington was the only foreigner who had received this compliment previously to Tamburini.
[13]Wellington was the only foreigner who had received this compliment previously to Tamburini.
[13]Wellington was the only foreigner who had received this compliment previously to Tamburini.