THE YOUNG TRAGEDIAN.
One morning in the summer of 1812, the busy manager of an Italian theatrical company returned to his lodgings in a hotel in one of the principal streets of Naples. His brow was contracted, and an air of disquietude spread over his whole countenance. He announced to the landlord that he was in an hour to leave the city with his company. Mine host divined that he would not depart in the sunniest of humors.
“So, you have not been successful in your search, Master Benevolo,” he asked.
“Mille diavoli! there never was such luck!” was the petulant reply. “Here I have stayed three days beyond my time, in the hope of finding what Naples, it seems, does not afford; and now I must begone to play at Salerno, without an actor of tragedy in my company!”
“And such a company!” echoed Boniface.
“Such a one, indeed! though I say it, it is the pride of Italy! a magnificent princess! Did not the Duke of Anhalt—swear she was as ravishing in beauty as exquisite in performance—with eyes like diamonds, and a figure superb as that of Juno herself!”
“Enough to make the fortune of a whole troop!” cried the landlord.
“Well—and then such an admirable comic actor; with a figure that is all one laugh, and a wit like Sancho Panza’s! A genius, too, for the pathetic; he will make you sigh an instant after a convulsion of mirth; and he weeps to enchantment. He is Heraclitus and Democritus in one.”
“He is an angel!” cried the landlord with enthusiasm.
“An unrivalled troop—a perfect coronet of gems—with but one wanting:—the tragic. Ah, me! what shall I do without a Geronimo, or a Falerio?” and the Impressario wrung his hands.
“Do not despair, maestro,” said the good-natured host; “you may find one yet to your mind.”
“And whence is he to come? from the clouds! He must fall directly; for in two hours I must be on my way to Salerno. Some of my friends are there already; and the performance has been twice postponed, waiting for me. I might have made such sums of money! Saint Antonio! how provoking to think of it!”
“You are disturbed, Signor Impressario,” said the fat hostess, who had stood in the door during the preceding conversation, and now waddled forward, her hands placed on her hips, with an air of importance,—“because you have not been able to find a tragedian for your excellent company?”
“Assuredly, buona mia donna.”
“And you have tired yourself out with running about the city in search of one; and now are going to leave us disappointed, in hopes that one will drop from the clouds for you on the way!”
“Ah! there is no hope of that.”
“No—for the heavens do not rain such good things at Salerno. But here—Signore—here is one already fallen for you; and a capital fellow he is.”
“Who!—what do you mean?” exclaimed both manager and landlord in a breath.
“Ah, there is a secret about it that I know, but shall tell no one!” cried the hostess, with looks of triumph. “You must not even know his name. But you shall have your tragedian.”
“My tragedian?”
“Yes. He is a young man of prodigious genius. He came to us last night. Oh, if you had but heard and seen him! All the maids were in tears. If he had only a robe and poignard, he would be absolutely terrific. Then he sang droll songs, and madeus laugh till my sides ached. I should have brought him to you before, but you went out so early.”
“Whence did he come?—at what theatres has he appeared?”
“Oh, as to practice, he has had none of it; he has never been on the stage; but he has a genius and passion for it. He has left his home and friends to become an actor.”
“Hem”—mused the Impressario. “Let us see him. Perhaps—”
The landlady had already quitted the room. She returned in a few minutes, leading, or rather pulling forward a lad apparently sixteen or seventeen years of age. He was tall and stout for his years; but his beardless face and boyish features, together with a shuffling bashfulness in his gait, caused the hopes of the manager to fall to the ground more rapidly than they had risen.
“Him!” he exclaimed in utter astonishment; “him!—why, he is a child!”
“A child!” repeated the landlady;—“and must not everything have a beginning? He is a child that will make his own way in the world, I promise you.”
“But he is not fit for an actor,” said the director, surveying, with a look of disappointment, the youth who aspired to represent the Emperors of Rome and the Tribunes of the Italian republics.
“Have a little patience,” persisted the dame. “When you see his gestures—his action, you will sing another song. Come forward, Louis, my boy, and show the Signore what you can do.”
The overgrown lad cast his great eyes to the ground, and hung his head; but on further urging from his patroness, he advanced a pace or two, threw over his arms the somewhat frayed skirt of his great coat to serve as a drapery, and recited some tragic verses of Dante.
“That is not bad!”—cried the Impressario, drawing his breath. “What is your name, my lad?”
“Luigi,” was the reply, with a not ungraceful bow.
“What else?”
“He is called simply Luigi,” interposed the hostess, with anair of mystery; “he has reasons at present for concealing his family name; for you see—he has broken bounds—”
“Exactly, I comprehend; and the runaway would fare hardly, if he were caught again. But I should like to hear him in Otello.”
Thus encouraged, Luigi recited a brilliant tragic scene from Otello. The eyes of the director kindled; he followed with hands and head the motions of the youthful performer, as if carried away by sympathetic emotion, and applauded loudly when he had ended.
“Bravo—bravissimo!” he exclaimed, rubbing his hands; “that is something like—it is just the thing! You will make a capital Moor, when you are set in shape a little. Come, my fine fellow, I will engage you at once, and you shall not find me a bad master. I will give you fifteen ducats a month, and here is the first month’s pay in advance, to furnish your outfit. You must appear like a gentleman, and your clothes are shabby. Go now, make your purchases, pack up, and let us be gone. I will have a mule ready for you.”
The hostess led off herprotégéin triumph, while the Impressario busied himself in preparations for immediate departure. Poor Luigi, being new to the city and its pleasures, had contracted sundry debts the day before, which honor bade him pay before he made other use of his money. By the time these demands were satisfied, a round bill paid to the hostess, and a new coat, with change of linen, provided for himself, not a fraction was remaining of his fifteen ducats. But it was no less with a light heart and smiling face that he joined his employer, and the whole troop was soon on the road out of Naples.
On their arrival at Salerno, the Impressario had advertisements struck off, announcing that a young tragic actor would appear in an extremely popular part. He presented him to the public as aphenomenon—as an example of the most wonderful genius, developed at a tender age.
The Impressario was walking briskly about giving directions, inthe happiest mood imaginable, rubbing his hands, and congratulating himself on the possession of such a prize. Visions of wealth in prospect rose before his eyes, as he saw the treasurer counting out the piles of gold just received. But alas, for the deceptions of the world, his present joy and bright anticipations for the future! Fate breathed on his magic castle, and the fabric melted into thin air.
Luigi was behind the scenes, arrayed in an imperial costume of the middle ages, endeavoring, by the practice of action and gesture, to habituate himself to the feeling that he was sustaining the part of a sovereign. He was partly encouraged, partly abashed by the comments of one of the chorus, a young and lovely creature, whose expanding talents gave promise of future eminence. The name of Rosina, though not her own, will suit here as well as any other.
“That will not do, your majesty!” she cried, correcting an awkward movement Luigi had just made. “Only think of such an Emperor!” and she began to mimic his gestures with the prettiest air of mock dignity in the world—so saucy and provoking at the same time, that the lad vowed he would have his revenge in a kiss; and presently the little maid was chased around the scenes by Luigi, to the great disorder of his imperial robes and the discomfiture of his dignity.
Suddenly there was an unusual bustle, and the sound of steps and voices without. “The curtain is going to rise!” cried Luigi in consternation. “Give me my sword, quick!” But the noise came nearer, and was in the direction opposite to the audience. What was his astonishment and dismay when he saw advancing towards him the vice-rector, followed by sixsbirri, with the manager giving expression to the utmost grief and despair. The youngdébutantstood petrified, till the vice-rector advanced, and laying his hand on his shoulder, arrested him by virtue of an order from His Majesty the King of Naples. It was his business—so he proclaimed to the astonished bystanders—the whole company having rushed together at the news of this intrusion—to secure theperson of the fugitive Luigi, and carry him back to theConservatorio della Pietá de’ Turchini, where he would be remanded to his musical studies under the direction of the famous master, Marcello Perrino.
The disappointment was too much for the dignity of the Emperorin petto. Luigi burst into tears, and blubbered sadly; the pretty Rosina cried out of sympathy, and there was a general murmur of dissatisfaction.
“Signore,—Signore—” remonstrated the Impressario,—“such a genius—he must not be restrained; tragedy is his vocation!”
“His vocation just now is to go back to school,” returned the vice-rector, gruffly.
“But, Signore, you are robbing the public; you are robbing me!”
“Has not the worthless boy been robbing His Majesty, who was graciously pleased to send him to the Conservatorio after his father’s death? How has he repaid His Majesty’s protection?”
“He is engaged in my service. I have advanced him a month’s pay.”
“You should have thought twice before employing a raw youth, whom you knew to have run away from his guardians. Come, boy.”
Thesbirrilaid hold of Luigi, and somewhat roughly disencumbered him of his imperial robes. The audience without the curtain at the same time manifested unequivocal symptoms of impatience. The manager was in absolute despair.
“Let him only remain, and play in this piece.”
“Not a moment,” said the vice-rector; “we have no time to lose.”
“Dear Master Benevolo,” entreated Luigi, who had dried his tears: “be not troubled about me; I will have my revenge yet. I will be a tragedian in spite of them.”
“But my losses?”
“I will make them up—I pledge you my word.”
“My fifteen ducats paid in advance?”
“You shall have them again.”
“If not in this world”—added the vice-rector, with a sullen laugh—“you may keep your account open for another.”
“Stay, Luigi;” cried little Rosina, as the men led him off, “here is your handkerchief,” and she put hers into his hands. The lad understood her, and pressed the keepsake to his lips.
“At least,” said the manager, recovering a little from his disappointment, “I have not lost everything. The vagabond has left his trunk behind,” and he went to make his peace with his impatient audience.
Next morning he ordered the trunk brought to him. It was very large, and so heavy that the servants who carried it imagined it to be filled with gold. The Impressario, having called together some of his friends to make an inventory of its contents, caused the lock to be broken. It was found filled with—sand. The young debutant, anxious to make a favorable impression, and not being in possession of a wardrobe, had had recourse to this piece of deception in order to command respect and attention at the inns where they stopped on the way from Naples.
Words cannot describe the rage of the manager. He vented it in execrations against Luigi, whom he denounced as a cheat, an impostor, and a thief. And his fifteen ducats—they had been thrown away! The only retaliation in his power was to write a letter full of violent abuse to the shameless offender, ending his invectives with the assurance that so base a fellow need never aspire to the honors of tragedy. Luigi said not a word when he read this missive. From that time he applied himself with so much diligence to his studies, that his masters had no reason to complain of him. He bade fair, they all said, to rival Bohrer on the violoncello, and Tulon on the flute. And for his encouragement and that of his comrades, a hall of representation was constructed in the interior of the Conservatorio, where those who desired might gratify a passion for the stage.
Late in the autumn of 1830, it was announced that a new artist,of great reputation in Italy, would appear at theThéâtre Italienin Paris. Great expectation was excited; as his progress through the cities beyond the Alps had been a continued triumph. The immense audience was hushed in suspense. Even after the curtain had risen, the connoisseurs seemed resolved that their applause should not be bestowed till it was fairly earned. But when the debutant appeared, there was a hum of admiration at sight of his majestic, imposing figure and noble countenance, expressive not only of power, but of frank good humor; and the first tones of that magnificent voice, swelling above the orchestra in lordly music, “like thunder amid a tempest,” yet piercing to the very depths of pathos, called forth a burst of rapturous applause. At the close of the piece the spectators vied with each other in his praises, and voted him by acclamation the firstbassetaileof the age.
The tragic opera of Otello was announced for representation, amidst the shouts of admiring thousands.
“I will go to hear Otello, since you bid me, madonna,” said the ex-manager of an Italian opera company to the fair Rosina, now an admired singer, but in the midst of fortune and fame retaining the same excellent heart; “but I have no pleasure in listening to these French actors. They do not fill my idea of tragedy. Ah! the best days of the art are gone by!”
“But, Master Benevolo, you have not seen the new artist?”
“No, nor do I care to see him. I should not like what pleases these fantastical Parisians.”
“But you must hear him. He is an Italian. I have an invitation for you, written in his own hand.”
“Ah! that is courteous and attentive, seeing I am a stranger in Paris. How came he to send it to me?”
“He knew you to be a friend of mine,” answered the lady rather embarrassed.
“Ebbene, I will attend you, my lady.” And at the appointed time the ex-manager escorted the fair singer to the theatre.
“There is a figure for tragedy!” cried he in involuntary admiration,as the colossal form of the actor moved across the stage, and he bowed in dignified acknowledgement of the applause of the audience. “Ha! I should like him for the tyrant in Anna Bolena!” But when his powerful voice was heard in the part—when its superb tones, terrible yet exquisitely harmonious, carried the senses, as it were, captive, the Italian gave up his prejudices, and joined in the general enthusiasm. And at the point where the father of Desdemona curses his daughter, Benevolo uttered a cry, into which the very soul of emotion seemed to have passed.
“Wonderful!stupendo! tragico!” he exclaimed, wiping his eyes, when the curtain had fallen, and he rose to offer his arm to his fair companion.
“But you must see him,” persisted she, and led the ex-impressario behind the scenes.
The wonder of the Parisian connoisseurs advanced to meet them. Benevolo gazed in awe on the person whose performance had moved him so deeply, and thought he saw the impress of majesty in his features. Clasping his hands, he saluted him as the king of tragedy!
“Ah, my good Master Benevolo! I am rejoiced to see you at last! It has been my evil fortune that we have not met before! Now, tell me if you have been pleased. Think you I will ever make a tragic actor?”
“You are the first in the world!” cried the Italian. “I am proud of my countryman.”
“Ah,mio fratello!but you had once not so good an opinion of me. Ha! you do not recognize your old acquaintance—the runaway Luigi!”
The ex-impressario stared, in silent astonishment.
“I have grown somewhat larger since the affair at Salerno;” said the artist, laughing and clapping his sides. “But I forgot; I was under a cloud when we parted. Ah! I see you have aheavyrecollection of that trunk of mine, and the fifteen ducats. I always meant to ransom that unlucky trunk; but only, you understand,with my pay as a tragedian, to make you unsay your prediction. Here is an order for twelve hundred francs.”
The ex-manager drew back. “I cannot receive so much,” he said.
“Nonsense, friend; you are too scrupulous. Bethink you; my fortune has grown apace with myembonpoint.”
Benevolo grasped his hand. “You are a noble fellow!” cried he; “and now, as a last favor, you must tell me your name. You act under an assumed one, I suppose?”
“Not at all; the same——Lablache.”
“Lablache! are you, then, a Frenchman?”
“My father was one; he fled from Marseilles at the time of the Revolution; but I was born in Naples. Does that satisfy you?”
“I always took you for a nobleman in disguise,” said Benevolo; “but now I know you for one of the nobility of artists.”
“That is better than the first,” said Lablache; “and now you must come home and sup with me, in the Rue Richelieu. I shall have a few friends there, andla belleRosina will honor us.”