Hugh Crichton's Romance. Coleridge Christabel Rose

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СКАЧАТЬ stood in the full stream of the dusty evening sunlight, and James thought, —

      “Why, this is no beauty, they are mad!”

      She was tall rather than otherwise, and very slim. Her soft misty hair was twisted loosely about her head, and fell partly on her neck; it was of so dull a shade of brown that the sunshine whitened it instead of turning it to gold. Her skin was fair for an Italian, and now pale even to the lips. Her eyes were large, dark, and soft, and in them there dwelt an expression of terror that marred whatever beauty they might otherwise have possessed. She did not blush and bridle with a not unbecoming shyness, but she looked, as the saying goes, frightened to death.

      “Poor little thing, what a shame to make her sing!” thought James, “but she is no beauty at all.”

      And yet, what was it? Was it the fall of her hair, the curve of her cheek, or the piteous setting of her mouth, that made him look again and again as she began to sing?

      James really loved music, and the sweet birdlike notes entranced him. It seemed the perfection of voice and execution, and the tones were full of power and pathos. She stood quite still with her hands before her – for she had no music – little child-like hands, and she never smiled or used her eyes, hardly moved her head, the voice seemed produced without effort, and she made no attempt to add to its effect. When it ceased there was an outburst of applause; she looked towards her father, and at a sign from him made the ordinary elaborate curtsey of a public singer; but still with never a smile. Then she went back to her place, and as she passed Hugh he whispered a word. She hung down her head and passed on, but her face changed as by magic, and then James knew that she was beautiful.

      She did not sing again, her father was very chary of her voice, and she did not come forward when the music was over, though Signor Mattei hoped “il signor” had been pleased, and Emily lingered, spite of her brother’s sign to her to make haste.

      “Indeed,” said James, “I have been delighted; one does not often hear a voice like your daughter’s.”

      “Her voice is good,” said the father, “but she does not give it a chance; she has no notion what study was in my day.”

      “Oh, father!” said Rosa Mattei, as these words were evidently intended to reach the ears of Violante, who was standing at a little distance. “She does practise, but she is so soon tired. My sister is only seventeen,” she added to James; “and her voice is not come to its full strength yet.”

      “She must not over-strain it – it is so beautiful,” said James, while Emily echoed —

      “Oh, it is lovely! oh, cara Violante, come here and let us tell you how beautifully you sang.”

      “Violante!” said her father; and she came towards them, while James on a nearer view saw how lovely were the curves of cheek and throat, and how delicate the outline of the still white features. With a view to hearing her speak, he thanked her for her song, and said —

      “I suppose I need not ask you if you are fond of music?”

      Violante cast down her eyes, blushed, and stammered out under her breath, —

      “Yes, Signor, thank you;” while her father said, “My daughter is very glad to have given you pleasure, and very grateful to those who are kind enough to express it. You must excuse her, Signor, she is not used to strangers.”

      The poor child looked ready to sink into the earth beneath this public notice of her bad manners. Hugh looked so stern and fierce that, had he asked the question, she might well have feared to answer him; but Emily broke the awkward silence by saying eagerly -

      “You will come and give me my lesson to-morrow, Signorina Rosa? Will Violante come too?”

      “I am afraid,” said Rosa, “that she will be too busy.”

      “Ah, well, I shall see her if she does not see me, next Tuesday. Good-bye, Violante. Good-bye, Signorina.”

      “Why!” exclaimed James, as they emerged into the street, “That poor girl looked frightened to death.”

      “Oh,” said Emily, “she is always frightened before strangers. How ever she will sing on Tuesday I cannot think; but what do you think of her, Mr Crichton?”

      “I think she is very pretty,” said James, rather dryly.

      “A pretty little simpleton,” said Mr Tollemache: “but a month or two’s experience will make all the difference. It is to be hoped her father will take care of her. But I believe she has an admirer – the manager of the operatic company here – so I suppose she may be considered very fortunate. Her voice is valuable, and she will be very handsome.”

      James nodded assent, but something in the thought of the young childish girl with her shy solemn face and frightened eyes touched him.

      “It’s rather a case of ‘Heaven sending almonds to those who have no teeth,’ isn’t it?” he said. “Poor little thing!”

      “Oh, the almonds will taste sweet enough, I daresay,” said Mr Tollemache. “If not, they must be swallowed, somehow.”

      “Well,” said Emily, “on Tuesday we shall see how she gets on.”

      Part 1, Chapter V

      The Mattei Family

      Then joining hands to little hands

      Would bid them cling together,

      For there is no friend like a sister

      In calm or stormy weather.

      “Violante! Will you never learn common-sense? Your want of manners will give perpetual offence. And let me tell you, English people of influence are not patrons to be despised. It is always well for a prima donna to have irreproachable private friends. If ever we should go to England, and the Signora Tollemache would notice you, it would be a great advantage; and not amiss that those young men should report well of you.”

      “Oh, father!”

      “Why! They see your name announced. They say, ‘Ah, Mademoiselle Mattei! We knew her in Italy – pretty – fine voice. My friend, you should go and see her.’ They take a bouquet and applaud you; and you become the fashion. You should be grateful, and show it. But you – you are a musical box! You sing like a statue, like a wax-doll. Ah, where is your fire and your expression? You have no soul – you have no soul!”

      “Father, I did try.”

      “Oh, I have no patience! Where is my music? I have a private lesson. Go and practise, child, and study your part better;” and off whisked Signor Mattei in a great hurry, and a much disturbed temper.

      Such scenes had been frequent ever since one unlucky day, two years ago, when the great opera manager, Signor Vasari, had heard Violante sing, and had told her father that she promised to have the sweetest soprano in Italy, and he must educate her for the stage, where she would make her fortune. And the owner of this sweet soprano was so timid that her music-master made her tremble, and possessed so little dramatic power that she could scarcely give a song its adequate expression, and was lost when she attempted to act a part. But the music is all important in Italy, and the middle course of concerts and oratorios did not there lie open to her. Her father hoped that her voice and her beauty would carry off her bad acting, and that perpetual scolding would cure her fears, since he gloried in her talent, and much needed her gains.

      He СКАЧАТЬ