Tales from the Operas. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ as her arms crept round him he was dead.

      As he lay there, she looking on him, the doors were opened, notwithstanding her orders, and there at the head of the steps stood the duke and many ladies. No fear now had she of him, her Gennaro was dead. He might come and scorn, upbraid, insult her now. No matter, she did not care.

      Hark! she speaks.

      “He was my son, my hope, my comfort. He would have saved me. Where now is hope? All lost. All lost. Heaven hath turned from me.”

      Her head fell and her cheek lay against her child’s.

      They went to lift her. And then they learnt that she was dead.

      So, destroyed by the only godlike evidence she ever had, the love she bore her child, lay Lucrezia Borgia, cold upon the palace floor.

      [Note.—The general notion of Lucrezia Borgia seems to partake of the nature of a popular error. Though the sister to the great Cesare was not, perhaps, the most discreet lady in the world, and though drama, opera, and tale have represented her as “the great poisoner of the fifteenth century,” no authentic account of a crime of this nature has yet appeared. It is true that she married thrice, and that tradition gives her a hand in the deaths of two of her husbands, but no criminal charge has been really substantiated against her. It is well that the truth be told of so famous a historical personage, even though a whole library of fine fiction be thereby destroyed. She lived in a profligate court, and was doubtless witness to many flagitious scenes, but that is all that can be said against her. On the other side of the picture we have her charities, her beauty, her wisdom, and her devotion, in the latter years of her life, to virtue and religion.—Ed.]

DON GIOVANNI. (Mozart.)

       (DON JUAN.)

       Table of Contents

CHAPTER I.

       Table of Contents

      A tale whispered and told to children all Spain through. And why should not a statue have power to speak?

      Don Juan lived in a city of Castille, lived a godless, reckless life; and as for that matter so did his factotum Leporello. If the don climbed a ladder, Leporello held it; if the don had to be thrashed, Leporello often caught the blows. He might have had a better service, and he frequently complained of the don’s, but he did not leave it till the don had no further need of a factotum.

      One night he was watching as usual, and grumbling as usual, “what a life was his, to be harassed day and night, blown by the wind, cut at by the rain, robbed of sleep, and all for what? no wages paid, and half starvation.” For the thousandth time he had resolved to get him a new master, when the noise of footsteps made him discreetly retire.

      Next moment where he had been standing, was a woman striving to detain a cavalier, and calling all the time for help.

      “Let me go, I say, for thine own sake, let me go.”

      “Help, help.”

      A quick, heavy step, and a third person was there, an old man, his white hair streaming in the moonlight.

      The lady let go her hold, as the new comer ran forward, his sword bravely out before him.

      Yet he did not at once fall on this thief coming in the night time. He called on him to defend himself.

      Said the other, placing himself, so that the golden braid about him glistened in the moonlight, “Begone, my sword is not crossed with such as yours.”

      “Defend yourself, I say.”

      “Ah! dotard, if thou bravest me.”

      A little sawing of the swords, a click or two, and the white hair is touching the dust.

      “Dead, by the rood!” exclaimed the cavalier, wiping his sword. “Here, Leporello, here!”

      “Sinner that I am—behold me, master. Thou art not killed—then the old man is?”

      “Surely, the old can better be spared than the young.”

      “Rare, rare, my master, to break into the chamber of the daughter, and to kill the father, both in one night. Rare, oh! rare.”

      “By my faith, he thrust himself upon my sword. Come, let us go. See, torches are flickering near.”

      And without fear or hurry, the young don moved away, not swaggeringly, yet audaciously, followed by the trembling Leporello.

      Another moment, and the light of torches was gleaming on the face of the dead. The old man’s daughter, Donna Anna, had hastened away for assistance, and returned with it but to find her father slain, the warm blood gurgling out from his heart on to the cold and thirsty ground.

      With her was the Don Ottavio, her betrothed, but he was nothing to her in her grief, as she leant over her dead father.

      Then came the solitary procession, bearing one dead into his house, who but a little while agone was hale and strong, even in his age.

      Meanwhile, the don was forgetting the tragedy.

      Even the next evening he was in the streets with Leporello, seeking some new adventures.

      “Well, Leporello, and pray what is it thou hast to tell me?”

      “It is important—it is grave.”

      “Better and better.”

      “Now good master, promise not to be wrath.”

      “So that it doth not relate to Don Pedro.”

      “Unless thou art Don Pedro, it doth not relate to him.”

      “Speak out!”

      “Verily, thy life is infamous!”

      “Rapscallion.”

      “And thy promise, good master, thy promise.”

      “What! thou darst to suppose I keep promises.”

      “To me, yes, of a verity, I’m dumb, I’m dumb.”

      “The way to friendship. Now, why am I here?”

      “An affair. The name of the damsel, for my list, good master, for the perfectioning of my list.”

      “Write her down Venus, for she hath her form. I shall whisper her at the Casino; but tarry a little, here cometh one—whom—”

      “In truth my master hath a good eye.”

      “At a glance, I see she is handsome.”

      “And СКАЧАТЬ