Tales from the Operas. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ but two ears the less. In the fatal battle of Rimini I was wounded; and while lying on the ground, and dying as I thought, Gennaro found me, helped me to horse, and bore me in safety from the field. In the shelter of a wood he was dressing my wounds, and we had both sworn to live and die together, when an aged man, clad in a dress falling to his feet, stood before us. ‘Youths,’ said he, ‘shun the Borgia, go not near Lucrezia, she is death.’ Then he was gone, gone. And the wind thrice whispered the hated name. There—what think you of my tale? See you, Gennaro would not listen to it, because he loveth not to be praised.

      “A good tale but it does not prove thou shouldst shun the Borgia.”

      “Whereof in proof, we go to Ferrara to-morrow. Bah! what Venetian need fear the Borgia, while the dreaded lion of Venice can roar? Yet still, sometimes, Signors, I fancy there may be some truth in the prophecy.”

      “Let us wake Gennaro, let us ask him if he believes in the solemn warning.”

      “Oh, let him sleep. If he would rather dream than hear my tales, let him dream.”

      Here the swelling dance music reaching their ears, they gaily sauntered to the palace, and soon the only person in the garden was Gennaro, peacefully sleeping on a marble bench, his head resting on his arm, and his face as tranquil as a little child’s.

      There is a ripple o’er the dark canal—the reflexions of the colored lamps are all broken up and scattered. ’Tis a gondola, silent and sombre, which, in a little seething of water, stops just below the terrace stairs.

      Then from it steps a woman all clothed in heavy black; a black mask on her face, a black fan in her hand. Nay, the very cross upon her neck is jet.

      The gondola from which she has stepped glides silently away, and leaves her standing hesitatingly in the garden. Then she starts as she sees the sleeping face turned towards the moonlight.

      She moves towards the sleeper, darkly, noiselessly, her shoulders drawn together; she is so desirous she may not be heard, that she might be about to murder him as he sleeps. At last, close to him, she bends over his sleeping face. Her hand is on his forehead. Lower and lower bends her head. Awake, awake! But there is no fear. She has but kissed him. A soft, noiseless kiss.

      As she moves a few steps from him, her eyes still on his face, her arm is touched.

      “Signora!”

      “Thou, Gubetta!”

      “I fear for thee. Venice may guard thy life, but she cannot save thee from insult.”

      What does this mysterious woman think as her head droops? Truly she should be insulted, all breathing men and women, and small children even, abhor her name. Yet she was not born to such a fate. But the past, the past, who shall recall the past. And then the vision of an aged man, clad in a robe falling to the ground in heavy folds, comes before her, and she trembles. As she looks on the sleeper, she asks herself how long was it since she had slept so peacefully?

      “Thou gazest upon the youth, Signora. Vainly have I sought to learn the reason of thy secret journey from Ferrara here to Venice—perhaps this youth.”

      “Thou seek to read my acts—thou! Leave me.”

      The man—a fair-looking man enough—bowed, and with quiet, measured steps withdrew.

      Then she came back to the sleeping man.

      “How beautiful he is,” she thought. Never in her dreams had she imagined him so beautiful. She almost cried with rapture as she looked on him. Was this love? Yes. Guilty love? Nay; wait and read. Should she wake him? No.

      She removed her mask to wipe away her tears (fallen to good purpose—as nearly all tears fall), and in those few moments her face was seen—not by the youth upon the marble seat, but by the scowling eyes of a tall, haughty-looking man, glaring from a treacherous gondola, which had quietly stolen up, under cover of the night, and there lay still below the terrace. Beside him stood a mean-looking creature whom he called Rustighello. “It is she!”

      “Truly, Signor.”

      “And the youth, who is he?”

      “A poor adventurer, without parents or country; people say he is brave.”

      “What will not people say, good Rustighello? Try every art to lure him to Ferrara, and to me—”

      “There is no need for art. By chance, he will set out with Gruirani for Ferrara.”

      Slowly the gondola stole away with its watching secret.

      “Sleep, sleep, poor youth, and good dreams wait on you. For me are naught but sleepless nights and bitter watching.” She stooped again to kiss him. He woke.

      “Heavens! whom do I see?”

      “I pray thee let me go!”

      “Nay, nay, fair lady. On my faith—”

      “Again I do implore thee, let me pass.”

      “Nay, but a moment to admire thee, for I feel thou’rt beautiful. Oh! be not afraid, I will not harm thee.”

      “Surely not, Gennaro.”

      “What! thou knowest me?”

      “And thou couldst love me!”

      “Who could not love the owner of so sweet a voice?”

      “And thou couldst love me, Gennaro?”

      “Surely, but not so dearly as I love one other I could name.”

      “And she—and she?”

      “Is my mother.”

      “Thy mother! Oh my Gennaro, thou dost love her?” And she trembles greatly, this unknown woman.

      “I love her as I love my life.”

      “And thinkst thou she loves thee?”

      “Alas! I never saw her.”

      “And yet thou lovest her?”

      “It is a wretched tale which I do hide from all; but ah! to thee it seems that I must tell it; for in thy face I read thou hast a noble soul.”

      “A noble soul!”

      “I thought myself the son of a poor fisherman, with whom I spent my early years. But one day came a noble stranger; he gave me money, a splendid steed, bright arms, and, best of all, a paper. It was my mother—it was my mother who had written it. The victim of a mighty man, she feared for both our lives, and so would hide herself from me. She bade me never seek her name; and to this hour never have I sought to learn it.”

      “And this paper!”

      “See here!” and he took it from the bosom of his dress; “it never leaveth me.”

      “Perchance, Gennaro, she wept when she wrote it!”

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