The moral of this is most easily guessed,In age to shun wives, is of wisdom the best.
The moral of this is most easily guessed,In age to shun wives, is of wisdom the best.
The moral of this is most easily guessed,In age to shun wives, is of wisdom the best.
Ina beautiful valley in Switzerland there lived a maiden whose name was Amina, a poor village foundling, who was as fondly loved by the woman who had adopted her as her own mother might have loved. There also lived in the valley a rich farmer whose name was Elvino. Not much wealth truly had he, but enough to make him the richest person in the parish, except the absent lord. Count Rudolpho.
At the village inn (as all villages are supposed to possess that appendage) lived Liza, its mistress, but alas! scandal said many cruel things of her; in fact, there were two or threeveryugly tales about her, but they were all so dim that when any of her female acquaintances quarrelled with her, which thing frequently happened, the other one could only vaguely hint, but could never positively assert anything.
But whether or no, certain it is that young Elvino, who fell in love with Liza when he was young, but as he grew older, he shook that love off, and Liza herself declared with much warmth, that it was all owing to that chit of a child Amina; scandaldidsay that it was all owing to Liza herself.
Be that however, as it may, it is very certain that having abandoned Liza, Elvino soon grew madly in love with Amina, whom all the women declared to be very plain, an evident proof of the young creature’s pretty face.
Amina worked hard and well for a living, and she laughed at Liza, as well she might, having certainly the best of the position.
The village was a very happy one throughout the daybut when night came, it was quite the reverse. “The phantom” weighed the village down. It was clothed all in white, was very tall, and every villager trembled as he spoke or even thought of it.
It had been the ruin of Liza’s best bed room, into which this phantom would glide in the dead of the night through the unfastened window, which opened down to the ground, and upon the flower garden; beyond which, and across a rickety, unused bridge, stood the little cot of Amina’s adopted mother, Teresa.
Sooner than sleep in Liza’s best bed room, any peasant would have slept out upon one of the mountain tops. Yes, the village was a happy village, if you took away the phantom.
Well, at last it was understood that Amina and Elvino were to be married, and the very night came when the contract of marriage was to be signed. ’Twas summer time, so the contract was signed in the broad street itself, just opposite Liza’s house, behind which stood the old mill, the unused bridge, and Amina’s cot, or, to be honest, Teresa’s cot, though for that matter, everything that belonged to Teresa was Amina’s.
Elvino endowed Amina with all his wealth. Amina said she could only endow Elvino with her love, and that youth was perfectly satisfied. Liza signed the contract, and very spitefully she signed it too.
The good-tempered fool of the village, Alesso, was rather fond of Liza, and he offered her the pen, but she took it with such a snatch, that he regretted his politeness.
“Never mind, never mind,” said Amina, patting the disconsolate fool on the back; “’tis a way she hath of shewing her love for thee.”
“Then I should like to know, Mam’selle Amina, how she would show her dislike for me.”
All having signed the contract, the bridegroom presented his bride with the ring—a plain little fillet of gold, but how great a treasure when given between a couple, whose only difference of opinion is which loves the other the best.
“Take now this ring, I pray thee,In assurance that I wedShe who once nobly wore itWas my mother, who is dead.“O! sacred be the gift, love,Let it aid thee in thy vow;And ever, ever bid usLove, dear wife, as we love now.”
“Take now this ring, I pray thee,In assurance that I wedShe who once nobly wore itWas my mother, who is dead.“O! sacred be the gift, love,Let it aid thee in thy vow;And ever, ever bid usLove, dear wife, as we love now.”
“Take now this ring, I pray thee,In assurance that I wedShe who once nobly wore itWas my mother, who is dead.
“O! sacred be the gift, love,Let it aid thee in thy vow;And ever, ever bid usLove, dear wife, as we love now.”
It need not be said that the word “wife” applied by Elvino was hardly right; for the church had to bless the couple before he could fairly use the tender term, and the church would not do that till the next day.
Well, the ring had hardly been given, when, with a great smacking of a whip, a travelling carriage drove into the village, up to the inn, and, as a consequence, right into the heart of the contract-signing party.
From this carriage alighted a fine-looking gentleman.
“How weary the road is,” said the stranger to his postillion; “how many miles to the castle?”
“So please you three, monsieur, and adreadfulroad;—have a delightful inn, monsieur—my inn—if monsieur would do me the honor to walk in.”
“True,” said the handsome gentleman, smiling; “seeing your face, I recollect you and also the inn.”
Alesso heard this admission, and immediately began to puzzle his brains to find out who this new arrival was, and for that purpose he went peering amongst the boxes and portmanteaux.
“And pray, good people, do you ever think of this new lord, whom you have not seen since he was a boy?”
The villagers immediately began talking about this lord with great force; would he come? why had he not come before? pray did the good monsieur know him? &c., &c.
The stranger laughingly said they would ask questions till the evening was night; but this assertion Alesso doubted; for he could assure monsieur that they would not stop to question even the new lord himself when the night came.
“Indeed, why not?”
What! what! had monsieur never heard of their village spectre? Why, where had monsieur been? He, Alesso, thought it was talked of all—over—the—world!
The stranger desired to have it described.
A villager then sang—
“When day has gone—when night has come,When howls the wind—when thunders roar,Then on the hill-top, all dressed in white,Thou’lt see this shade—thou’lt see with awe!”“Without a step it glides along,With hanging hair—with glaring eyes.On—on it glides, and then ’tis gone,And as ’tis lost, it utters cries!”
“When day has gone—when night has come,When howls the wind—when thunders roar,Then on the hill-top, all dressed in white,Thou’lt see this shade—thou’lt see with awe!”“Without a step it glides along,With hanging hair—with glaring eyes.On—on it glides, and then ’tis gone,And as ’tis lost, it utters cries!”
“When day has gone—when night has come,When howls the wind—when thunders roar,Then on the hill-top, all dressed in white,Thou’lt see this shade—thou’lt see with awe!”
“Without a step it glides along,With hanging hair—with glaring eyes.On—on it glides, and then ’tis gone,And as ’tis lost, it utters cries!”
The stranger laughed, and said he would soon find out the mystery if he lived there.
It may be presumed that the stranger had been living in Paris; but certainly he was very gallant.
He flattered Liza somewhat, but turning his eyes full upon Amina, he forgot Liza altogether, and began paying the young bride a great many compliments.
She smiled at the compliments paid her by the stranger, and answered smartly; but at last grew timid as the count grew bolder; and indeed she was not sorry when Elvino came up, and accidentally stood between them. The count requiring some explanation, Elvino gave it him by plainly telling him she was his wife; whereupon the count congratulated him on his good fortune.
Well, the contract business over, the notary departed for home; the villagers also within doors; the count in the village inn, and Liza retired, rather annoyed and angry; the two young people were in the moonlight, bidding each other good night.
At last, after a long time, Amina’s mother had the opportunity of remonstrating upon late hours, and then Amina went to bed for the last time in that little cot of her adopted mother’s.
Thestranger looked curiously about the haunted room, when shown to it by Liza. There was the white-curtained bed standing near the window; the door-windows open to admit the cool night air; and beyond, the garden, and the unused rickety bridge.
He looked out through the open window, and then returning where Liza was standing, began talking gaily to her.
Liza not feeling gratified by his former conduct, answered rather pertly, and told him that the villagers had discovered who he was—Count Rodolpho; and further intimated that they were coming to pay their respects to their young lord. The “young lord” said he cared naught for the whole village, while so pretty a woman was by his side. Whereat Liza smiling, the count—for it was the count—grew bolder, and insisted upon having one kiss, when a noise frightened Liza, and she ran quickly behind the bed. But as she ran, some portion of the bedstead caught the light scarf about her shoulders, and tore it from them. She took no notice of this mishap, but ran and hid herself behind the curtains.
Certainly she had heard a noise. ’Twas a light footfall. Nearer—then nearer still.
The count went to the closed door, light in hand, and listened.
The step was not coming that way.
Still the slight noise continued; nearer and nearer still. Then a light flashed through the open window. He ran towards it, and then started back.
It was the phantom they had told him of—a white figure moving slowly along, with a lamp steadily held in one hand.
Nothing daunted, he moved towards the figure, as it silently entered the room, and put down the light. And then he saw that it was the village girl to whom he had spoken but an hour or so before.
He drew his breath silently, as he recognized her, forhe knew that she was a somnambulist, and that if woke too suddenly she might fall dead.
But he kept his eyes upon her, as she moved from the table towards his bed.
On—on; slowly—slowly, till she came to the bed; upon which she laid down, whispering Elvino’s name, and then in a minute was sleeping peacefully.
He stepped lightly to the window, saw how she had entered, closed and fastened the sashes, returned to the bed—hesitated for a moment, then turning towards the door, he retired.
The woman Liza, immediately he had left, came from behind the bed, where she had remained, gave one earnest look at the unconscious Amina, and quickly left the room.
Now was the time for revenge. Now Amina should feel what it was to have a rival; now she should suffer for alienating Elvino from her. And Elvino, too, should weep, and be sorry for having slighted her. She would tell him he had cruelly dismissed her, and she would add that in revenge she would point at the Amina he believed so good and pure.
Now, the villagers instead of soberly going to bed, got up a demonstration of delight in honor of the count’s return, and a score or so of the principal people in the place entered the inn to congratulate the count just as he left his room. The deputation grandly demanding of Liza to be shown into the count’s apartment, Mademoiselle Liza, with all the simplicity in the world, said she would head them, and so the procession entered the haunted room to congratulate the count—but to find whom? The poor girl still sleeping soundly, and little dreaming of what was coming.
“Amina!” they all cried, as with one voice.
And they looked towards Elvino, who formed one of the deputation.
They made room for him, falling away on each side. He ran up to the bed side, and there she still lay asleep, breathing peacefully.
He uttered a loud cry, and with a start she awoke.
As she saw the crowd about her, she shrunk back withalarm, and covered her eyes, thinking possibly ’twas some terrible dream. Then, as they all stood silent about her, she again looked.
Too terrified now to shut out the sight, she remained for a moment or two gazing before her.
Suddenly she spoke. “Where am I? Where am I?”
Bounding from the bed, she looked from right to left, still dimly seeing the faces, and again cried, “Where am I? Where am I?”
“Ask thine own unhappy self!” said a voice she knew, and turned towards it.
“Ah, Elvino!” and she put out her arms to him.
But he flung her from him to the ground, and there she knelt gazing at him with her arms clasped upon her breast, wondering what her fault was.
Not yet comprehending either her position or his words, she looked to the nearest woman; but she turned her back upon the girl, as did the next to whom the poor girl moved her eyes.
Then, panic-struck, she ran round the room from one to the other, still not knowing what her fault was.
They all drew back from her as though she were a plague; so she moved quite naturally to Elvino again—her husband as she thought him.
But he showed the greatest repugnance to her.
Then, as she felt herself deserted, they told her her crime.
Vainly she declared her innocence; vainly she wept, flinging herself upon her knees; vainly she spoke of her past life; vainly she said she could not tell how she came there; vainly she turned to Liza, whose heart was stone, who turned from her with the rest; vainly she clung to her Elvino’s very feet: he shook her from him and strode towards the door.
As he was leaving the haunted room, Amina’s adopted mother came past the threshhold, and though they all told her what they believed of the village queen, this mother, the only one amongst all these simple, honest village folk, went up to her daughter, and put her arms about her neck.
So at last the iciness of despair gave way before thisone touch of sympathy, and the poor girl with her mother’s arms about her, wept bitterly, and so gave relief to her young heart.
Thevillage generally condemned her; especially Liza. Not a single voice was heard in her favor but her mother’s.
Ah, yes, there was one voice in her favor—honest Alesso’s, the good-tempered fool’s. He would not believe in Amina’s guilt, which determination of his thoroughly stamped him a fool in the eyes of all. Her guilt was so palpable; doubt her guilt! you might as well doubt the light of the sun.
Liza, as before said, was especially severe, and doubted whether she ought to be allowed to remain in the village. But nobody supported such a doubt; they were not quite so virtuous themselves as to come tothatconclusion. Alesso, indeed, spite of his belief in Amina’s innocence, admired Liza more than ever, for her stern virtue, and sighed as he thought that man would be happy who should call Liza wife.
Alesso had long thought he should be happy to be that man, but though Liza had never given him much hope, he had never given it up in despair, therefore it may be imagined with what grief he heard only the next morning after the catastrophe, that Elvino had made up his mind, and told somebody, who had told somebody else, who had told it to Alesso, that Elvino meant to make proposals to Liza; and before three hours had elapsed this was confirmed throughout the village.
As for the poor girl Amina, she wept most piteously.
Towards the afternoon of the unhappy day which came after the catastrophe, she sought him out, helped by her stout-hearted mother, and made another effort to regain his old love for her. She was no heroine—only a simple village maid; so she did not upbraid him, she only entreated and protested.
He would not listen to her: when she again left him, hehad got back the betrothal ring he had placed upon her finger—the dear ring his mother had worn.
By that night he had asked for and gained Liza’s consent to take her to wife, and poor little Amina’s remaining hopes (nursed by her mother) were all dead.
When evening came upon the village, the greater part of the villagers were in their tiny cots, and a score or so, together with Liza, Elvino, and Alesso, were seated before the inn door, behind which stood the cottage, within which was the unhappy little woman, now fallen asleep, and sobbing as she slept.
What made Elvino suddenly start—what made him run forward with his fists clenched, and his breath convulsive?
The Count, the Count Rudolpho, who had been missing since the unhappy affair, now came forward to speak out the truth, and upon whose silence the cowardly Liza had relied.
It is a comfort to know that a libertine need not necessarily be a liar though he very frequently is: and in this especial case Count Rudolpho spoke the truth. He declared the whole tale from beginning to end, and, doubtless, he would have appealed to Liza for corroboration, but that, that discreet person got out of the way.
As for the lover, who still so deeply loved, that he was actually going to marry a woman for whom he cared naught as a revenge, he would believe nothing that the count said. Indeed, how could the girl have entered the inn, if not with the count’s aid.
The noble pointed to the unused bridge, but Elvino scouted the idea; why it would fall at the least touch, how then could she have passed over it?
The count was turning away in despair, when a noise a little distance off arrested his steps; the villagers turned and saw the village phantom, and they saw at once who it was.
Again, Amina was walking in her sleep; again she was moving towards the old ruined bridge; again she carried a flickering light in her hand.
As Elvino saw her, all his old love returning, he ran forward and would have shouted to her, but that the countsped after him, laid a hand upon his mouth, and softly, yet imperatively, bade him be silent.
The lover flung himself upon his knees, stretched out his arms towards his pure wife, and with straining eyes watched her coming.
Nearer to the old bridge—which was rotten, and below which was a roaring torrent. Nearer still, then one foot was upon it.
All silent with fear they drew back a pace, as though each had stepped upon the tottering wood, or as though he could prevent her second step by the act.
Again a step forward, and she was fairly on the bridge, the angry water roaring beneath.
Suddenly there was a crackling sound, and as they heard it, they flung themselves down upon their knees, and hid their faces in their hands.
When they stood up again they expected to see her and the bridge no longer before them. But the brave old bridge had only cracked; there was a great flaw in it, and there also stood Amina as though in doubt, as though cautious of her next step. The hand which had held the light was still held out, but the lamp was gone, the rupture of the stones had shaken it from her hold.
If now she sees her way by the lighted lamp; if now she stands undecided, because she can no longer see where to make her steps, she is lost, for no one can dare step on to the rotten bridge to save her, and she will fall over the low parapet, and so be lost.
But no; again she steps on—feeling carefully with her foot; again she hesitates, as her sliding foot comes against an unaccustomed projection, caused by the fracture of the stone-work.
Then again she moves on—a step; another; yet another—and she is safe.
Then they all fell on their knees, and so gained pardon for having wrongfully accused the poor girl.
For had she been guilty, she would not have had the courage to try and cheat the villagers. Yes, she was really asleep, and had no idea of the danger she had run.
She came close to the spot upon which knelt her Elvino, whom she had now gained back to her whilst sheslept; and then she went through the motion of setting down the lamp, now rolling at the bottom of the torrent.
Soon she began talking of the lost ring—the ring he had given her, and had torn from her.
And she broke up into atoms the score of roses he had also given her on that happy night, and which she now took from her bosom. Then again she wept for the ring, and felt on her hand for it.
He still had the ring, for he had not hardened his heart enough to put it on Liza’s hand; and, under the direction of the count, he quietly slipped it on the sleeping girl’s finger.
’Twas enough.
Feeling the ring once again, she awoke. But ah! to how much joy? The whole village crowding around her, sorry for their unjust suspicions, and more desirous of getting a kind look from her than ever; her Elvino, proud and happy, near her; her dear old adopted mother, proud and self-satisfied. Was it not better as it was—that that happiness should come after such deep trouble (which is ofttimes a short cut to years of joy,) than that the two young people should have dropped into wedlock after a happy, unclouded childhood and love, without having had a pang to teach them the sweetness of peace and innocence.
As for Liza, the less that is said of that lady the better. That scarf of hers told terribly against her; and though poor Alesso felt the blow terribly, he could hardly show the remains of any bruise whatever to his new love when Liza left the village.
Itis pleasant to see the reapers resting after their work, in the shadows of the trees. Indeed, it may be pleasant to be a reaper reposing. Yet a disappointed, wretched lover can find no pleasure in anything but being miserable; and lovers, disappointed in love, do so indulge in misery, that itmustbe a pleasure.
Nemorino, the poor young farmer, was a disappointed lover, and on one particular autumn evening, when the reapers were sitting in the shadow of the trees, he took no notice ofthem, but kept his eyes fixed upon Adina, who, on her part, kept her eyes fixed upon her book, like St. Dunstan of old.
The fact is, Adina was a coquette, and no one likes your unalterably attached man more than a thorough coquette. A coquette—that is, a thorough coquette—never does marry an unalterably attached man. She usually marries a man who thinks just a little more of himself than he does of his bride, and a coquette is happy ever after in consequence.
Well Adina, who, by the way, was by no means poor, lived in a farm-house, in the exact centre of her farm, and did nothing but what she pleased. And Adina ran very considerable risk of marrying Sergeant Belcore, of the attractive chasseurs; and she quite laughed at the attentions of Nemorino. Handsome; yes, certainly handsome, butsostupid, so different to Sergeant Belcore.
See you, in her heart of hearts, a coquette knows her own inestimable little worth, and so, consequently, she cannot help despising a man who thoroughly believes in her.
On this particular evening she was more contemptuous with respect to Nemorino than she had ever shown herself, and truth to tell, sitting under a tree reading, she looked, and was, very pert indeed.
She made him jealous of her very book; it was such an interesting book. Suddenly, when the poor fellow ceased looking for an instant—
“Ah, ah! capital! Just listen: ’The beautiful Tristano quite burned away with love for the cruel Isotta, whoSCORNEDhim (here she looked scornfully at Nemorino). At last, he found a sage, who gave him a love-philtre, and after that, the lovely Isotta was continually following the handsome Tristano.’ Nonsense! that only proves that the lovely Isotta was as stupid as somebody else I know. Hark! there are the drums; oh, delight, here comesthe sergeant;” and then she looked wickedly at the disconsolate Nemorino.
Who was certainly very different to “the sergeant.” Nemorino was tall, comely-looking, flaxen-haired, and ingenuous; Sergeant Belcore was equally tall, but he was more than comely-looking. Such a figure had Sergeant Belcore! And Sergeant Belcore’s moustache, a long, sweeping moustache, which stood out straight on each side of his face, in the mathematical manner, and was as bright as his splendid boots. His handsome black hair, too, was clipped short to the pole of his neck; and altogether, Sergeant Belcore was very spruce indeed; and Sergeant Belcore knew it.
He thought he was in love with Adina, but he certainly was not; whereof, in proof of which, witness the nosegay. No lover—really a lover—comes up as cool as a cucumber to offer his bouquet? No, he suggests the flowers, so to speak, with many doubts; and if it be accepted, he don’t twirl his moustaches (if he has any), as though he had done a very admirable thing.
All of which conduct was Sergeant Belcore’s, when he stepped cavalierly up to the maiden. As for Nemorino, poor fellow, he looked more lone, dismal, and ridiculous than before.
“O, country nymph, I present this nosegay to you, as Paris did the apple, because you are the loveliest.”
“Ah, ah, ah! very good.”
Nemorino sighs.
“And I see clearly I’ve carried your heart by storm. Well, well, no girl can withstand a red coat.”
“Ah, ah, ah! very good, sergeant.”
“Ah, me!” sighed the love-born swain.
“Well, pretty one, if your love equals mine, let’s ground arms—capitulate; on what day will you marry me?”
“Ah, ah, ah! very good, Sergeant Belcore.”
“Come—come—come—here’s the conqueror.”
“Sergeant, sergeant, you storm too soon. Who should cry victory before the battle has begun? And besides,Iam Adina.”
“I wish,” thought the poor stricken lover, “Icould talk as bravely as the sergeant.”
“Well well, as sure as I’ve a military moustache, I’ll not desert the post.”
“Spoken like a brave sergeant. But, in the meantime, may I offer you something to eat?”
“I’m one of the family already,” thought the sergeant; so he said, “Ifyousit at the same table.”
“Ah, ah, ah!verygood, Sergeant Belcore. Go in, go in.”
Shesaw Nemorino was coming up to speak to her.
“One little word, Adina.”
“Oh,twolittle words for Nemorino. The usual sighs, though he had much better go and see his uncle, who is ill—they sayveryill.”
“He is not so sick as I am, Adina.”
“And, then, if his uncle dies, he’ll make somebody else his heir.”
“What does that matter to me, Adina?”
“And then he’ll die of hunger and misery;” addressed generally to the surrounding landscape.
“Either of hunger or love, what matters it, Adina?”
“Well, well. Heismodest, which Sergeant Belcore certainly isNOT. This Nemorino don’t presume, and I never shall love him.”
“But why—why, Adina?”
“He might as well ask the wind why it loveth to go this way or that, over brook or field.”
“Then I ought?”
“Then he ought to think no more about me.”
“But I cannot, Adina.”
“But why?”
“You might as well ask the river why it flows to the sea.”
“Ah, I see; because hemust!”
“Even as the river floweth onwards to the sea, I’ll follow Adina.”
“Ah, ah, ah!”
And with this general winding up of her interviews with the luckless youth, she ran in, and clapped to the little door.
Onehour later and everybody in the market place was opening his or her eyes, as widely open he or she could. For with a great blowing of trumpets, and other unusual sounds, camesucha visitor!
In a carriage, too—not an ordinary carriage, but a gilt carriage. Not a mean covered-in carriage, like a van, but a fine open carriage, withsucha gentleman sitting within it. One had to look twice before he could comprehend him—he wassogrand. His waistcoat was a fair field, and his forehead a great plain. But as for his legs, to what shall they be compared? The legs of Jupiter himself, or perhaps Hercules! Yet he had a benignant face, this new comer, and he seemed to know he should be welcome.
Who was he—a lord, a prince?
And who was his trumpeter behind, blowing a triumphal march?
All the people gathered round this wonderful being with open-mouthed respect. Then this great man condescended to step from his grand carriage and address the villagers, as his carriage and his trumpeter stopped together.
“Listen, listen, listen—oh! oh! you rustics allListen, listen, listen, or great and small.I am, I am, I am the greatest of great men!For I can fright away the greatest oldest wen!I, present now,Who make a bow.Am Doctor Dulcamara.In France I’m known,The French will own,In Venice and Ferrara.Such things I’ve done,That more than oneHave said I am—no matter;But this I know,Where’er I go,I make no little clatter.“Listen, listen, listen every one that’s here.If amongst you any’s dying, let him no longer fear.I’ll cure her, or I’ll cure him, with physic quite divine—In fact, you wouldn’t know it from very nice sweet wine.ApoplexyNeed not vex ye,If unto Dulcamara,With rapid run,You straightway come.And as for those with asthma,If they but drink,I’m sure they’ll thinkThey need not drink much longerIf they’re too weakAlmost to speak,Quick—presto—they’ll be stronger.“Oh! listen, listen, listen. If any one has gout.Oh! let him buy a bottle, and let him drink it outAs for tooth-ache,Butonesip take,You’d think no more ofthattooth.And as to age,I do engage,Twosips will bring backyouryouth.Oh! yes I am,Your’e sure I am.Great Doctor DulcamaraIn France he’s known,His fame has grownIn Venice and Ferrara.“Oh! listen, listen, listen. No doubt you think ’tis dear.Oh! rustics, rustics, rustics, of that now have no fear.A hundred pounds!A hundred crowns!A bottle I don’t ask you!Oh! yes—oh! yes,The price now guess.To guess high, I don’t ask you.Well, half-a-crown,Just lay it down.Ah! ah? my friend, health bless you.All doctors pale,Before me fail,Ionly can redress you.Come buy, come buy—oh! rustics, that’s if you’d be well;Your duty is to purchase—my duty is to—sell.”
“Listen, listen, listen—oh! oh! you rustics allListen, listen, listen, or great and small.I am, I am, I am the greatest of great men!For I can fright away the greatest oldest wen!I, present now,Who make a bow.Am Doctor Dulcamara.In France I’m known,The French will own,In Venice and Ferrara.Such things I’ve done,That more than oneHave said I am—no matter;But this I know,Where’er I go,I make no little clatter.“Listen, listen, listen every one that’s here.If amongst you any’s dying, let him no longer fear.I’ll cure her, or I’ll cure him, with physic quite divine—In fact, you wouldn’t know it from very nice sweet wine.ApoplexyNeed not vex ye,If unto Dulcamara,With rapid run,You straightway come.And as for those with asthma,If they but drink,I’m sure they’ll thinkThey need not drink much longerIf they’re too weakAlmost to speak,Quick—presto—they’ll be stronger.“Oh! listen, listen, listen. If any one has gout.Oh! let him buy a bottle, and let him drink it outAs for tooth-ache,Butonesip take,You’d think no more ofthattooth.And as to age,I do engage,Twosips will bring backyouryouth.Oh! yes I am,Your’e sure I am.Great Doctor DulcamaraIn France he’s known,His fame has grownIn Venice and Ferrara.“Oh! listen, listen, listen. No doubt you think ’tis dear.Oh! rustics, rustics, rustics, of that now have no fear.A hundred pounds!A hundred crowns!A bottle I don’t ask you!Oh! yes—oh! yes,The price now guess.To guess high, I don’t ask you.Well, half-a-crown,Just lay it down.Ah! ah? my friend, health bless you.All doctors pale,Before me fail,Ionly can redress you.Come buy, come buy—oh! rustics, that’s if you’d be well;Your duty is to purchase—my duty is to—sell.”
“Listen, listen, listen—oh! oh! you rustics allListen, listen, listen, or great and small.I am, I am, I am the greatest of great men!For I can fright away the greatest oldest wen!I, present now,Who make a bow.Am Doctor Dulcamara.In France I’m known,The French will own,In Venice and Ferrara.Such things I’ve done,That more than oneHave said I am—no matter;But this I know,Where’er I go,I make no little clatter.
“Listen, listen, listen every one that’s here.If amongst you any’s dying, let him no longer fear.I’ll cure her, or I’ll cure him, with physic quite divine—In fact, you wouldn’t know it from very nice sweet wine.ApoplexyNeed not vex ye,If unto Dulcamara,With rapid run,You straightway come.And as for those with asthma,If they but drink,I’m sure they’ll thinkThey need not drink much longerIf they’re too weakAlmost to speak,Quick—presto—they’ll be stronger.
“Oh! listen, listen, listen. If any one has gout.Oh! let him buy a bottle, and let him drink it outAs for tooth-ache,Butonesip take,You’d think no more ofthattooth.And as to age,I do engage,Twosips will bring backyouryouth.Oh! yes I am,Your’e sure I am.Great Doctor DulcamaraIn France he’s known,His fame has grownIn Venice and Ferrara.
“Oh! listen, listen, listen. No doubt you think ’tis dear.Oh! rustics, rustics, rustics, of that now have no fear.A hundred pounds!A hundred crowns!A bottle I don’t ask you!Oh! yes—oh! yes,The price now guess.To guess high, I don’t ask you.Well, half-a-crown,Just lay it down.Ah! ah? my friend, health bless you.All doctors pale,Before me fail,Ionly can redress you.Come buy, come buy—oh! rustics, that’s if you’d be well;Your duty is to purchase—my duty is to—sell.”
Now amongst the “rustics” who had heard this very eulogistic patter, was Nemorino; and this youth, biting the rim of his rustic hat, struck himself with the idea that the doctor could cure people of want of love.
“Sir doctor, pardon me, do you know many secrets?”
“Secrets, rustic, I’mallsecrets.”
“My faith! Well, have you, by chance, the love drink of Queen Isotta?”
“Hu-u-m. Well, well, well, rustic.”
“The real love-drink that awakens love?”
“Ah! I’m the only brewer of it.”
“And—and do yousellit?”
“To those who can afford to buy it, rustic.”
“Good doctor, and what is the charge?”
“Well—hum—well!”
“I’ve half-a-dozen crowns.”
“I’ faith, you’ve hit it.”
Then the doctor went to his gilt carriage, and brought out something singularly like a small wine-bottle.
“I’ faith,” said the stout doctor, taking the crowns, “you will be cured if you drink that.”
“I’ faith (this to himself,) fools there are ’neath the sun;
A fool, yet none the less a brother—this one.”
“Oh, but doctor, how am I to manage?”
“Ah, I forgot, young rustic.
“Now with great care,In weather fair,The bottle must be taken;Then up and down,Mind,do not frown,The bottle must be shaken!Pulled out the corkPer screw or fork,The bottle to your lips, oh,You then must place,And—no grimace,The potion drink in sips, oh.”
“Now with great care,In weather fair,The bottle must be taken;Then up and down,Mind,do not frown,The bottle must be shaken!Pulled out the corkPer screw or fork,The bottle to your lips, oh,You then must place,And—no grimace,The potion drink in sips, oh.”
“Now with great care,In weather fair,The bottle must be taken;Then up and down,Mind,do not frown,The bottle must be shaken!Pulled out the corkPer screw or fork,The bottle to your lips, oh,You then must place,And—no grimace,The potion drink in sips, oh.”
“Yes, yes, young man, this is therealelixir of love!”
(And perhaps it was, for ’twas good Bordeaux.)
“And young rustic, don’t take it till to-morrow. (By that time I shall be gone.)”
“Oh, good doctor!”
“I’ faith (to himself again,) fools there are ’neath the sun;
“A fool, yet none the less a brother—this one. And mind, young rustic. A word in your ear. Silence,silence! Tis dangerous to sell love-potions now-a-days. I don’t speak for myself, young rustic, forI’m the great Dulcamara, famed in Venice and Ferrara; but foryoursake, young rustic—ah! ah! all the women in the place will be dying for you. To-morrow, mind. Good bye young rustic, good bye.”
And the worthy doctor vanished through the doorway of the village inn.
“Faith,” said the lover to himself, no longer in a disconsolate tone, “a good thing is a good thing to-day as well as to-morrow. And ’tis fair weather, for am I not sitting down here with my elixir of love? And the bright sky above me. Good! I will!” Pop! ’tis the cork. “Ah, ah! good! another sip. Good!—another.”
“La, la, la, la, la, ra, ra.”
“Good! Good! yet another; and another sip.”
“La, la, la, la, la, ra, ree.”
“Can I believe my eyes; why ’tis Nemorino singing. Actually Nemorino singing. Ah, ah!”
“’Tis she! I shall go to her! No; why shouldIgo to her? Let her come to me. La, la, la. La, la, la. Forto-morrow; yes to-morrow. They’ll be sighing at my feet!”
“He doesn’t even look at me! ah, ah!” Rather a louder “ah, ah!” than the first.
“La, la, la, re, ra, ra, ra. Aie, aie, aie, eie, ah!”
“’Tis all put on!”
“She’s very clearly not in love with meyet. La, la, la, re, ra, ra, ra. Aie, aie, eie, ah!”
“ItMUSTbe put on! Goodevening, Nemorino.Verygood. You’re taking my advice. You’re, you’re quitemerry!”
“True; I like this new life.”
“Then your sighs, and your sobs, and your tears!”
“La, la, la.”
“Silence, sir.”
“Re, ra, ra, ra.”
“How dare you!”
“Aie, aie, aie, eie, a, a, le.”
“Verygood.”
“Oh! I shall be heart-whole to-morrow.”
“Indeed! we shall see! We shall see!” The second “we shall see” very low and confidential.
Then came a voice from the inn, which cried,
“Tran, tran, tran,In love or in war;Tran, tran, tran,You ne’er saw before;Tran, tran, tran,A Sergeant Belcore;Tran, tran, tran,A Sergeant Belcore.”
“Tran, tran, tran,In love or in war;Tran, tran, tran,You ne’er saw before;Tran, tran, tran,A Sergeant Belcore;Tran, tran, tran,A Sergeant Belcore.”
“Tran, tran, tran,In love or in war;Tran, tran, tran,You ne’er saw before;Tran, tran, tran,A Sergeant Belcore;Tran, tran, tran,A Sergeant Belcore.”
“Ah! here comes thatadmirablesergeant. Ah, sergeant; is that you?”
“Yes; dear heart of stone!”
“Stone! oh no.”
“Sound to the assault, sergeant. Now, tell me; when shall we be married?”
“We-e-e-l-l-l—Perhaps s-o-o-o-o-n.”
“Ah!”
“He started,” said Adina in a low voice. “Don’t pull your moustaches, sergeant,” said she in a louder voice.
“Always obey orders; well, in six days?”
“Wel-l-l-l—Per-hap-p-p-s.”
“Victory, victory. As sure as I’m a sergeant!”
“Ah, ah, ah, ah, ah!” laughed Nemorino.
“Oh, oh! he’s actually laughing.” And somebody was almost crying.
“What’s that donkey laughing at?” shouted the sergeant. “If he don’t retreat I shall charge him.”
“Oh, I—could—bite—my—fingers—off—with—rage—he—don’t—seem—to—care—in—the—least.”
“Ah, ah!” thought the donkey; “wait till to-morrow, brave sergeant; wait till to-morrow!”
“Tr-r-r-m, Tr-r-r-m, Tr-r-r-m.”
“Hallo! hallo! What’s that?”
“Sergeant;” here there was a military salute from a soldier. “Despatch.”
With a fierce twirl of his moustaches, “sergeant” opened the paper. “Hum! we march to-morrow.”
“Oh,dear!” cried several young girls together. And there was a general impression that a shifting garrison was a national wrong.
“Con-n-nfound it,” said the sergeant; “and my marriage.”
“Yes, yes! to-morrow, my friend,” again thought Nemorino.
“Oh! I shall not forget you, sergeant!”
“Forget! Peste! Hu-m-u-m, Adina—why can’t we be married to-day?”
“He—seems—moved—now; in—fact—he—seems—quite—frightened;” thought the little coquette.
“To-day;” thought rustic Nemorino, “to-day—if they’re married to-day there will be no to-morrow—and the elixir of love—will be useless!”
“We-l-l-l sergeant. Y-y-y-es; to-day!”
“Oh, no, no, no; Adina. Wait till to-morrow.”
“Ah, ah!”
“You cannot marry him; because, I—I—I—know why!”
“Co-r-r-r-rpodi Bacco!”
“You can’t, Adina. You’ll be sorry if you do. Don’t, don’t marry him till to-morrow.”
“Begone, booby; or I strangle you!”
“Sergeant, pray take no notice of the poor fellow. Half-witted, sergeant. He thought; ah, ah! thought I should—shouldlovehim. Oh—the—ridiculous—creature.Hethought! I’ll be revenged on him,” she said to herself. “Howdaredhe to sing before me. He shall fall at my feet in penitence before I’ll have a word to say to him.”
And all the girls about said, “theidea! a common husbandman to dare to be the rival of a sergeant in the army; theidea!”
“Come, sergeant.”
“The notary; corpo di Bacco; the notary.”
“Yes, yes; sergeant, come.”
“Doctor, doctor,” shrieked out Nemorino. “Doctor, help! quick! help, doctor!”
“Now, then; all of you there; fall in; march.”
And away they all went to see sergeant Belcore married to Adina the coquette.
Leaving Nemorino the rustic to call for the doctor at his leisure.
Whenthey all got to the great room in Adina’s farmhouse, they quite filled it. Well, there they were, looking out for the notary. Adina, too, was looking out for Nemorino, for she had a faint fear she had gone a little too far.
Even an invitation from Doctor Dulcamara, who was there, to sing a song, did not cheer her; and not even the song itself, though she sang it very well, gave her any consolation.
“Here comes theNOTARY.”
“Bravo, bravo, bravo,” said the doctor.
Out of respect to the notary, all the neighbors withdrew to the lawn outside. And also out of respect to the notary, he was shown into the best room; so only the doctor remained in the hall. And only for a moment too, for Nemorino came rushing in.
“Oh, doctor; here you are. Nay, don’t run away, doctor.” For that stout man was certainly trying to effect an escape.
“Doctor, I must be loved now, at once; to-morrow will be no good.”
“I’faith, fools there are, ’neath the sun, a fool, yet none the less a brother—this one. By Bacchus, he’s mad! Take the elixir, sir.”
“Sir, I have.”
“Then take another dose.”
“Give me another bottle.”
“Good; but first give me your money.”
“Money—money,—I have none.”
“Well, well, well, my young rustic. Come to-morrow, or, get some; and ask for me at the inn as soon as you like. Good night, good night.” And the doctor seemed rather glad to shuffle off, losing thereby, the feast to which he had been bidden.
“Ah, me!” sighed the youth, flinging down on a seat.
“Heigho! women are an awkward lot, as sure as my name’s Belcore,” said the sergeant, sauntering in. “Of course she loves me, and yet she will wait till this evening for the marriage. Hullo! hullo! rustic, what’s the matter?”
“I want money, and it seems Imaywant it.”
“Well, you’re a fine fellow; enlist, and you’ll have twenty crowns.”
“Twenty!did you say twenty crowns, Mr. Sergeant?”
“Look! here—jingle, jingle—here they are. And glory, and honor—and love—the soldier need never sigh.”
“Twentycrowns?”
“Tw-w-wenty crowns!”
“Done!”
“Here, just sign this paper. Good; take your money. You’ll soon be a corporal, if you look up to me.”
“Ha! ha! oh! oh!” laughed the sergeant, “I’ve enlisted my rival; oh! oh! a good tale to tell.”
And he swaggered off, while Nemorino rushed away to buy bottle number two.
Everywoman then and there in the market-place was full of it, and crowded about each other to hear and receive the news. “Did you ever!”—“Oh!quitetrue!”—“Whowouldhave thought it, you know?”—“Yes but who told you?”—“Hush! not soloud.”—“It’s a secret.”—“Oh, of course!”—cried twenty voices at least. “Because,Iheard it from the young grocer (Shealwayshears every thing from the young grocer) who heard it from the mercer, who had it from the lawyer himself; and so you knowthenit is.”—“Oh, of course; well, I’m sureIshould never have thought it.”—“And such a fortune.”—“Why, he’s the richest man in the parish.”—“I wishIhad a rich old uncle.”—“Yes, and he never went to see him.”—“All throughthatAdina.”—“Eugh!”—“There he is!” (Twenty voices again.)
“He” was Nemorino. “He” had run to the doctor, who again fraudulently appropriated the crowns; again “he” had imbibed the elixir of love, and this time he really hoped the elixir would have some effect.
“How humble he looks.”
“He don’t know his good fortuneyet.”
“Good evening to your curls, Nemorino,” said one.
“Good evening, and a curtsey to your heart, Nemorino,” cried another.
“Good evening, and a smile, Nemorino,” exclaimed a third.
“Your humble servant, signor,” said a mean fourth.
“The Elixir!”
“You’ll forget your old playmates now, signor.”
“Oh! no, Nemorino is tooamiable.”
“Your humble servant, signor.”
“The Elixir.”
Here two persons coming stopped in the utmost wonder to see Nemorino, the rustic, in the midst of a group of girls. One person was the enormous Doctor Dulcamara, and the other person was the far from enormous Adina.
“Blessme!” said Adina to herselfNemorino ran up to the doctor, and whispered—“You were right, the elixir this time wasstronger.”
“Can ... I ... believe ... my ... senses?” exclaimed Dulcamara. Then he said to the women—“Does he please you?”
“The insolence of that doctor!” all the girls seemed to say with their little noses in the air.
“Can—I—believe.AmI the proprietor of the love philtre?” For we may tell lies till we actually believe them ourselves.
“Well,” thought the rustic to himself, “if every girl loves me, she ought.”
“And I thought to find him in tears, and if he still loved me, hewouldbe,” thought Adina.
“You’ll dance, Nemorino.”
“Yes, Gianetta, with you.”
“With me, your humble obedient servant, signor, too.”
“Yes, yes.”
“Withyou, indeed! Ah, ah.Verygood.” And here the pretty noses were brought into action again.
“Can—I—bel—. IDON’T.”
“Ne—ne—ne—ne—mo—ri—no!”
“The Elixir.She comes!”
“Can—I—ICAN’T,” said the doctor.
“So, for a few poor crowns, you’ve become soldier, Nemorino. I must speak to you,” said Adina.
“Nemorino!”
“Well, Gianetta.”
“Hark! there’s the music. And you know you promised me.”
“True, true, I’m coming. I’ll hear you presently, Adina. Coming, Gianetta, coming.”
Scene—a despairing little woman pressing her little hands one within the other. And whether anybody is there she cares not, as she says in a whisper, “I love him, I do love him.”
Says Doctor Dulcamara. “Can—I—DObelieve my senses. Ah, ah! I’m a gold mine. I’m a Crœsus!”
“Ah, ah, ah!” cried a quick, sharp voice, the personal property of Gianetta in fact. And as she went off to the dance, audacious with Nemorino. “Ah, ah, ah,shethinksshe’s to have the homage of all the men in the village, but sheWONT.”
“She” heard the remark, but it did not make her angry.
“How cruel, how cruel!”
“Ah! all my doings.”
“Yours, doctor.”
“Yes, I have Queen Isotta’s love secret!”
“Queen—n—Isotta’s! I won’t believe it. And you gave it to Nemorino!”
“Oh, yes. To try it on some cruel fair, who would have naught to say to him.”
“Ah, then hewasin love with—some one.”
“Yes, the poor fellow; and to get money for Queen Isotta’s secret, he enlisted.”
“The poor youth!”
“’Tis my impression she would buy elixir herself,” said the doctor to himself.
“And now, Nemorino is fortunate in love?”
“There’s not a girl but—here, just look at them. This way!”
“And who is he in love with?”
“Faith, I know not, but they are all in love withhim.”
“And once Iknowhe only lovedme.”
“The elixir is not dear. Think! you might have a hundred lovers at your feet!”
“I’d not know what to do with them. I—I only wish butone.”
“And every woman in the place would hate you.”
“What are they to me!”
“Or if you’d marry a rich man.”
“I’m rich enough already.”
“A count, a marquis.”
“Good, if named Nemorino.”
“And my philtre!”
“You may swallow it yourself.”
“I rather think Adina knows a good deal more than I. But I also think Adina for all girls don’t reply.”
“Heshallcome back to me,” said the little woman to herself, “he shall, he shall! A look, a smile, a little frown, and he is at my feet. For Ihavethe elixir, here, in my face, here, in my eyes.”
And away she went to find Nemorino. If she had only looked behind her now. For there he was; and as she fluttered away, he came a few steps forward.
As a clear evidence how fond he was of her in this, that he was sorry he had gone away with Gianetta, perchance the mercenary. Indeed, he thought he had marked a furtive tear or so in Adina’s eyes; and, very softly, he thought to—
“O, Nemorino! what, left the dancing?”
“Yes, I was tired.”
“What, and left Gianetta?”
“Yes; for I was tired of her, too. You see, when a poor youth is loved byallthe girls, he need not care foroneonly. Heigho! they all want to marry.”
“Well, they can’t all marry you; and what do you say?”
“Idon’t know.”
“Now listen to me,” said the maiden, coming up close to him.
“Well, Adina (she’s going to confess.)”
“Why—why are you going to leave us? Why are you going away for a soldier?”
“Going to seek my fortune, Adina.”
“But—but wealllike you here. And—and we shouldallbesosorry to part with you. And—and” (here the little right hand went to the little natty apron-pocket, and brought out a paper.) “And—andI’ve bought your discharge.”
“Ha! you love me!”
“Love you? Wealllove you—like you. There, take the paper. And pray keep amongst us. I dare sayyou will find somebody you can fall head over ears in love with; for I’m sure wealllike you.Goodbye.”
“But this isn’t confessing!”
“Goodbye, Nemorino.”
“But—but you’re not going like that!”
“Why, what more can you want? you have your discharge.Goodbye, Nemorino.”
“Oh, good bye; only you have forgotten something.”
“Indeed—what?”
“The discharge. Take it. I shall remain a soldier. For the doctor has deceived me; and—and—God bless you, and good bye, Adina.”
“Oh, no, no, no, no. He has not deceived you. I—I want to make you as happy as I have made you wretched. I—Iknowyou love me, and—andI love you with all my heart!”
“The Elixir!”
“Hi! hi! hi! what’s this? what’s this? Can Sergeant Belcore believe his handsome eyes!”
“If he can’t, he must believe Adina’s tongue. My husband, Sergeant Belcore.”
“Your husband, ma’am; your husband! Keep him. Sergeant Belcore won’t break his heart foronewoman.”
“Ah! but one Sergeant Belcore would break the hearts of a thousand women. Let him buy the elixir of love, ten crowns a bottle. I, Doctor Dulcamara, only sell it. Who subdued the sweet Adina? I, Doctor Dulcamara, did!”
“Cursed mountebank! may you and your coach fall into the next ditch.”
“He! he! he! she only marries him because his rich uncle is dead.” This was the malicious remark of Gianetta.
For one moment Adina drew away.
The next moment Nemorino drew closer to Adina.
Adina did not withdraw.
“And pray, who made him die?”
“Why, rustics all, ’twas I.”