A Roman Singer by F. Marion Crawford

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Lira once more stopped his horse in the road, and taking off his hat
bowed to Nino.

"And I, sir," said Nino, no less courteously, "am obliged to you for
your clearly-expressed answer. I shall never cease to regret your
decision, and so long as I live I shall hope that you may change your
mind. Good-day, Signor Conte," and he bowed to his saddle.

"Good-day, Signor Cardegna." So they parted: the count heading
homeward toward Fillettino, and Nino turning back toward Trevi.

By this manoeuvre he conveyed to the count's mind the impression that
he had been to Fillettino for the day, and was returning to Trevi for
the evening; and in reality the success of his enterprise, since
his representations had failed, must depend upon Hedwig being
comparatively free during the ensuing night. He determined to wait by
the roadside until it should be dark, allowing his mule to crop
whatever poor grass she could find at this season, and thus giving the
count time to reach Fillettino, even at the most leisurely pace.

He sat down upon the root of a tree, and allowed his mule to graze at
liberty. It was already growing dark in the valley; for between the
long speeches of civility the two had employed and the frequent pauses
in the interview, the meeting had lasted the greater part of an hour.

Nino says that while he waited he reviewed his past life and his
present situation.

Indeed, since he had made his first appearance in the theatre, three
months before, events had crowded thick and fast in his life. The
first sensation of a great public success is strange to one who has
long been accustomed to live unnoticed and unhonoured by the world. It
is at first incomprehensible that one should have suddenly grown to be
an object of interest and curiosity to one's fellow-creatures, after
having been so long a looker-on. At first a man does not realise that
the thing he has laboured over, and studied, and worked on, can be
actually anything remarkable. The production of the every-day task has
long grown a habit, and the details which the artist grows to admire
and love so earnestly have each brought with them their own reward.
Every difficulty vanquished, every image of beauty embodied, every new
facility of skill acquired, has been in itself a real and enduring
satisfaction for its own sake, and for the sake of its fitness to the
whole,--the beautiful perfect whole he has conceived.

But he must necessarily forget, if he loves his work, that those who
come after, and are to see the expression of his thought, or hear the
mastery of his song, see or hear it all at once; so that the
assemblage of the lesser beauties, over each of which the artist has
had great joy, must produce a suddenly multiplied impression upon the
understanding of the outside world, which sees first the embodiment of
the thought, and has then the after-pleasure of appreciating the
details. The hearer is thrilled with a sense of impassioned beauty,
which the singer may perhaps feel when he first conceives the
interpretation of the printed notes, but which goes over farther from
him as he strives to approach it and realise it; and so his admiration
for his own song is lost in dissatisfaction with the failings which
others have not time to see.

Before he is aware of the change, a singer has become famous, and all
men are striving for a sight of him, or a hearing. There are few like
Nino, whose head was not turned at all by the flattery and the praise,
being occupied with other things. As he sat by the roadside, he
thought of the many nights when the house rang with cheers and cries
and all manner of applause; and he remembered how, each time he looked
his audience in the face, he had searched for the one face of all
faces that he cared to see, and had searched in vain.

He seemed now to understand that it was his honest-hearted love for
the fair northern girl that had protected him from caring for the
outer world, and he now realised what the outer world was. He fancied
to himself what his first three months of brilliant success might have
been, in Rome and Paris, if he had not been bound by some strong tie
of the heart to keep him serious and thoughtful. He thought of the
women who had smiled upon him, and of the invitations that had
besieged him, and of the consternation that had manifested itself when
he declared his intention of retiring to Rome, after his brilliant
engagement in Paris, without signing any further contract.

Then came the rapid journey, the excitement, the day in Rome, the
difficulties of finding Fillettino; and at last he was here, sitting
by the roadside, and waiting for it to be time to carry into execution
the bold scheme he had set before him. His conscience was at rest, for
he now felt that he had done all that the most scrupulous honour could
exact of him. He had returned in the midst of his success to make an
honourable offer of marriage, and he had been refused,--because he was
a plebeian, forsooth! And he knew also that the woman he loved was
breaking her heart for him.

What wonder that he set his teeth, and said to himself that she should
be his, at any price! Nino has no absurd ideas about the ridicule that
attaches to loving a woman, and taking her if necessary. He has not
been trained up in the heart of the wretched thing they call society,
which ruined me long ago. What he wants he asks for, like a child, and
if it is refused, and his good heart tells him that he has a right to
it, he takes it like a man, or like what a man was in the old time
before the Englishman discovered that he is an ape. Ah, my learned
colleagues, we are not so far removed from the ancestral monkey but
that there is serious danger of our shortly returning to that
primitive and caudal state! And I think that my boy and the Prussian
officer, as they sat on their beasts and bowed, and smiled, and
offered to fight each other, or to shake hands, each desiring to
oblige the other, like a couple of knights of the old ages, were a
trifle farther removed from our common gorilla parentage than some of
us.

But it grew dark, and Nino caught his mule and rode slowly back to the
town, wondering what would happen before the sun rose on the other
side of the world. Now, lest you fail to understand wholly how the
matter passed, I must tell you a little of what took place during the
time that Nino was waiting for the count, and Hedwig was alone in the
castle with Baron Benoni. The way I came to know is this: Hedwig told
the whole story to Nino, and Nino told it to me,--but many months
after that eventful day, which I shall always consider as one of the
most remarkable in my life. It was Good Friday, last year, and you may
find out the day of the month for yourselves.

CHAPTER XVIII

As Nino had guessed, the count was glad of a chance to leave his
daughter alone with Benoni, and it was for this reason that he had
ridden out so early. The baron's originality and extraordinary musical
talent seemed to Lira gifts which a woman needed only to see in order
to appreciate, and which might well make her forget his snowy locks.
During the time of Benoni's visit the count had not yet been
successful in throwing the pair together, for Hedwig's dislike for the
baron made her exert her tact to the utmost in avoiding his society.

It so happened that Hedwig, rising early, and breathing the sweet,
cool air from the window of her chamber, had seen Nino ride by on his
mule, when he arrived in the morning. He did not see her, for the
street merely passed the corner of the great pile, and it was only by
stretching her head far out that Hedwig could get a glimpse of it. But
it amused her to watch the country people going by, with their mules
and donkeys and hampers, or loads of firewood; and she would often
lean over the window-sill for half an hour at a time gazing at the
little stream of mountain life, and sometimes weaving small romances
of the sturdy brown women and their active, dark-browed shepherd
lovers. Moreover, she fully expected that Nino would arrive that day,
and had some faint hope of seeing him go along the road. So she was
rewarded, and the sight of the man she loved was the first breath of
freedom.

In a great house like the strange abode Lira had selected for the
seclusion of his daughter, it constantly occurs that one person is in
ignorance of the doings of the others; and so it was natural that when
Hedwig heard the clatter of hoofs in the courtyard, and the echoing
crash of the great doors as they opened and closed, she should think
both her father and Benoni had ridden away, and would be gone for the
morning. She would not look out, lest she should see them and be seen.

I cannot tell you exactly what she felt when she saw Nino from her
lofty window, but she was certainly glad with her whole heart. If she
had not known of his coming from my visit the previous evening, she
would perhaps have given way to some passionate outburst of happiness;
but as it was, the feeling of anticipation, the sweet, false dawn of
freedom, together with the fact that she was prepared, took from this
first pleasure all that was overwhelming. She only felt that he had
come, and that she would soon be saved from Benoni; she could not tell
how, but she knew it, and smiled to herself for the first time in
months, as she held a bit of jewelry to her slender throat before the
glass, wondering whether she had not grown too thin and pale to please
her lover, who had been courted by the beauties of the world since he
had left her.

She was ill, perhaps, and tired. That was why she looked pale; but she
knew that the first day of freedom would make her as beautiful as
ever. She spent the morning hours in her rooms; but when she heard the
gates close she fancied herself alone in the great house, and went
down into the sunny courtyard to breathe the air, and to give certain
instructions to her faithful man. She sent him to my house to speak
with me; and that was all the message he had for the present. However,
he knew well enough what he was to do. There was a strong smell of
banknotes in the air, and the man kept his nose up.

Having despatched this important business, Hedwig set herself to walk
up and down the paved quadrangle on the sunny side. There was a stone
bench in a warm corner that looked inviting. She entered the house and
brought out a book, with which she established herself to read. She
had often longed to sit there in the afternoon and watch the sun
creeping across the flags, pursued by the shadow, till each small bit
of moss and blade of grass had received its daily portion of warmth.
For though the place had been cleared and weeded, the tiny green
things still grew in the chinks of the pavement. In the middle of the
court was a well with a cover and yoke of old-fashioned twisted iron
and a pulley to draw the water. The air was bright and fresh outside
the castle, but the reverberating rays of the sun made the quiet
courtyard warm and still.

Sick with her daily torture of mind the fair, pale girl rested her, at
last, and dreaming of liberty drew strength from the soft stillness.
The book fell on her lap, her head leaned back against the rough
stones of the wall, and gradually, as she watched from beneath her
half-closed lids the play of the stealing sunlight, she fell into a
sweet sleep.

She was soon disturbed by that indescribable ununeasiness that creeps
through our dreams when we are asleep in the presence of danger. A
weird horror possesses us, and makes the objects in the dream appear
unnatural. Gradually the terror grows on us and thrills us, and we
wake, with bristling hair and staring eyes, to the hideous
consciousness of unexpected peril.

Hedwig started and raised her lids, following the direction of her
dream. She was not mistaken. Opposite her stood her arch-horror,
Benoni. He leaned carelessly against the stone well, and his bright
brown eyes were riveted upon her. His tall, thin figure was clad, as
usual, in all the extreme of fashion, and one of his long, bony hands
toyed with his watch-chain. His animated face seemed aglow with the
pleasure of contemplation, and the sunshine lent a yellow tinge to his
snowy hair.

"An exquisite picture, indeed, countess," he said, without moving. "I
trust your dreams were as sweet as they looked?"

"They were sweet, sir," she answered coldly, after a moment's pause,
during which she looked steadily toward him.

"I regret that I should have disturbed them," he said, with a
deferential bow; and he came and sat by her side, treading as lightly
as a boy across the flags. Hedwig shuddered and drew her dark skirts
about her as he sat down.

"You cannot regret it more than I do," she said, in tones of ice. She
would not take refuge in the house, for it would have seemed like an
ignominious flight. Benoni crossed one leg over the other, and asked
permission to smoke, which she granted by an indifferent motion of her
fair head.

"So we are left all alone to-day, countess," remarked Benoni, blowing
rings of smoke in the quiet air.

Hedwig vouchsafed no answer.

"We are left alone," he repeated, seeing that she was silent, "and I
make it hereby my business and my pleasure to amuse you."

"You are good, sir. But I thank you. I need no entertainment of your
devising."

"That is eminently unfortunate," returned the baron, with his
imperturbable smile, "for I am universally considered to be the most
amusing of mortals,--if, indeed, I am mortal at all, which I sometimes
doubt."

"Do you reckon yourself with the gods, then?" asked Hedwig scornfully.
"Which of them are you? Jove? Dionysus? Apollo?"

"Nay, rather Phaethon, who soared too high--"

"Your mythology is at fault, sir,--he drove too low; and besides, he
was not immortal."

"It is the same. He was wide of the mark, as I am. Tell me, countess,
are your wits always so ready?"

"You, at least, will always find them so," she answered, bitterly.

"You are unkind. You stab my vanity, as you have pierced my heart."

At this speech Hedwig raised her eyebrows and stared at him in
silence. Any other man would have taken the chilling rebuke and left
her. Benoni put on a sad expression.

"You used not to hate me as you do now," he said.

"That is true. I hated you formerly because I hated you."

"And now?" asked Benoni, with a short laugh.

"I hate you now because I loathe you." She uttered this singular
saying indifferently, as being part of her daily thoughts.

"You have the courage of your opinions, countess," he replied, with a
very bitter smile.

"Yes? It is only the courage a woman need have." There was a pause,
during which Benoni puffed much smoke and stroked his white
moustache. Hedwig turned over the leaves of her book, as though
hinting to him to go. But he had no idea of that. A man who will not
go because a woman loathes him will certainly not leave her for a
hint.

"Countess," he began again, at last, "will you listen to me?"

"I suppose I must. I presume my father has left you here to insult me
at your noble leisure."

"Ah, countess, dear countess,"--she shrank away from him,--"you should
know me better than to believe me capable of anything so monstrous. I
insult you? Gracious heaven! I, who adore you; who worship the holy
ground whereon you tread; who would preserve the precious air you have
breathed in vessels of virgin crystal; who would give a drop of my
blood for every word you vouchsafe me, kind or cruel,--I, who look on
you as the only divinity in this desolate heathen world, who reverence
you and do you daily homage, who adore you--"

"You manifest your adoration in a singular manner, sir," said Hedwig,
interrupting him with something of her father's severity.

"I show it as best I can," the old scoundrel pleaded, working himself
into a passion of words. "My life, my fortune, my name, my honour,--I
cast them at your feet. For you I will be a hermit, a saint, dwelling
in solitary places and doing good works; or I will brave every danger
the narrow earth holds, by sea and land, for you. What? Am I decrepit,
or bent, or misshapen, that my white hair should cry out against me?
Am I hideous, or doting, or half-witted, as old men are? I am young; I
am strong, active, enduring. I have all the gifts, for you."

The baron was speaking French, and perhaps these wild praises of
himself might pass current in a foreign language. But when Nino
detailed the conversation to me in our good, simple Italian speech, it
sounded so amazingly ridiculous that I nearly broke my sides with
laughing.

Hedwig laughed also, and so loudly that the foolish old man was
disconcerted. He had succeeded in amusing her sooner than he had
expected. As I have told you, the baron is a most impulsive person,
though he is poisoned with evil from his head to his heart.

"All women are alike," he said, and his manner suddenly changed.

"I fancy," said Hedwig, recovering from her merriment, "that if you
address them as you have addressed me you will find them very much
alike indeed."

"What good can women do in the world?" sighed Benoni, as though
speaking with himself. "You do nothing but harm with your cold
calculations and your bitter jests." Hedwig was silent. "Tell me," he
continued presently, "if I speak soberly, by the card as it were, will
you listen to me?"

"Oh, I have said that I will listen to you!" cried Hedwig, losing
patience.

"Hedwig von Lira, I hereby offer you my fortune, my name, and myself.
I ask you to marry me of your own good will and pleasure." Hedwig once
more raised her brows.

"Baron Benoni, I will not marry you, either for your fortune, your
name, or yourself,--nor for any other consideration under heaven. And
I will ask you not to address me by my Christian name." There was a
long silence after this speech, and Benoni carefully lighted a second
cigarette. Hedwig would have risen and entered the house, but she
felt safer in the free air of the sunny court. As for Benoni, he had
no intention of going.

"I suppose you are aware, countess," he said at last, coldly eying
her, "that your father has set his heart upon our union?"

"I am aware of it."

"But you are not aware of the consequences of your refusal. I am your
only chance of freedom. Take me, and you have the world at your feet.
Refuse me, and you will languish in this hideous place so long as your
affectionate father pleases."

"Do you know my father so little, sir," asked Hedwig very proudly, "as
to suppose that his daughter will ever yield to force?"

"It is one thing to talk of not yielding, and it is quite another to
bear prolonged suffering with constancy," returned Benoni coolly, as
though he were discussing a general principle instead of expounding to
a woman the fate she had to expect if she refused to marry him. "I
never knew anyone who did not talk bravely of resisting torture until
it was applied. Oh, you will be weak at the end, countess, believe me.
You are weak now; and changed, though perhaps you would be better
pleased if I did not notice it. Yes, I smile now,--I laugh. I can
afford to. You can be merry over me because I love you, but I can be
merry at what you must suffer if you will not love me. Do not look so
proud, countess. You know what follows pride, if the proverb lies
not."

During this insulting speech Hedwig had risen to her feet, and in the
act to go she turned and looked at him in utter scorn. She could not
comprehend the nature of a man who could so coldly threaten her. If
ever anyone of us can fathom Benoni's strange character we may hope to
understand that phase of it along with the rest.

He seemed as indifferent to his own mistakes and follies as to the
sufferings of others.

"Sir," she said, "whatever may be the will of my father, I will not
permit you to discuss it, still less to hold up his anger as a threat
to scare me. You need not follow me," she added, as he rose.

"I will follow you, whether you wish it or not, countess," he said,
fiercely; and, as she flew across the court to the door he strode
swiftly by her side, hissing his words into her ear. "I will follow
you to tell you that I know more of you than you think, and I know how
little right you have to be so proud. I know your lover. I know of
your meetings, your comings and your goings--" They reached the door,
but Benoni barred the way with his long arm, and seemed about to lay a
hand upon her wrist, so that she shrank back against the heavy
doorpost in an agony of horror and loathing and wounded pride. "I know
Cardegna, and I knew the poor baroness who killed herself because he
basely abandoned her. Ah, you never heard the truth before? I trust it
is pleasant to you. As he left her he has left you. He will never come
back. I saw him in Paris three weeks ago. I could tell tales not fit
for your ears. And for him you will die in this horrible place unless
you consent. For him you have thrown away everything,--name, fame, and
happiness,--unless you will take all these from me. Oh, I know you
will cry out that it is untrue; but my eyes are good, though you call
me old! For this treacherous boy, with his curly hair, you have lost
the only thing that makes woman human,--your reputation!" And Benoni
laughed that horrid laugh of his, till the court rang again, as though
there were devils in every corner, and beneath every eave and
everywhere.

People who are loud in their anger are sometimes dangerous, for it is
genuine while it lasts. People whose anger is silent are generally
either incapable of honest wrath or cowards. But there are some in the
world whose passion shows itself in few words but strong ones, and
proceeds instantly to action.

Hedwig had stood back against the stone casing of the entrance, at
first, overcome with the intensity of what she suffered. But as Benoni
laughed she moved slowly forward till she was close to him, and only
his outstretched arm barred the doorway.

"Every word you have spoken is a lie, and you know it. Let me pass, or
I will kill you with my hands!"

The words came low and distinct to his excited ear, like the tolling
of a passing bell. Her face must have been dreadful to see, and Benoni
was suddenly fascinated and terrified at the concentrated anger that
blazed in her blue eyes. His arm dropped to his side, and Hedwig
passed proudly through the door, in all the majesty of innocence
gathering her skirts, lest they should touch his feet or any part of
him. She never hastened her step as she ascended the broad stairs
within and went to her own little sitting-room, made gay with books
and flowers and photographs from Rome. Nor was her anger followed by
any passionate outburst of tears. She sat herself down by the window
and looked out, letting the cool breeze from the open casement fan her
face.

Hedwig, too, had passed through a violent scene that day, and, having
conquered, she sat down to think over it. She reflected that Benoni
had but used the same words to her that she had daily heard from her
father's lips. False as was their accusation, she submitted to hearing
her father speak them, for she had no knowledge of their import, and
only thought him cruelly hard with her. But that a stranger--above
all, a man who aspired, or pretended to aspire, to her hand--should
attempt to usurp the same authority of speech was beyond all human
endurance. She felt sure that her father's anger would all be turned
against Benoni when he heard her story.

As for what her tormentor had said of Nino, she could have killed him
for saying it, but she knew that it was a lie; for she loved Nino with
all her heart, and no one can love wholly without trusting wholly.
Therefore she put away the evil suggestion from herself, and loaded
all its burden of treachery upon Benoni.

How long she sat by the window, compelling her strained thoughts into
order, no one can tell. It might have been an hour, or more, for she
had lost the account of the hours. She was roused by a knock at the
door of her sitting-room, and at her bidding the man entered who, for
the trifling consideration of about a thousand francs, first and last
made communication possible between Hedwig and myself.

This man's name is Temistocle,--Themistocles, no less. All servants
are Themistocles, or Orestes, or Joseph, just as all gardeners are
called Antonio. Perhaps he deserves some description. He is a type,
short, wiry, and broad-shouldered, with a cunning eye, a long hooked
nose, and very plentiful black whiskers, surmounted by a perfectly
bald crown. His motions are servile to the last degree, and he
addresses everyone in authority as "excellency," on the principle that
it is better to give too much titular homage than too little. He is as
wily as a fox, and so long as you have money in your pocket, as
faithful as a hound and as silent as the grave. I perceive that these
are precisely the epithets at which the baron scoffed, saying that a
man can be praised only by comparing him with the higher animals, or
insulted by comparison with himself and his kind. We call a man a
fool, an idiot, a coward, a liar, a traitor, and many other things
applicable only to man himself. However, I will let my description
stand, for it is a very good one; and Temistocle could be induced, for
money, to adapt himself to almost any description, and he certainly
had earned, at one time or another, most of the titles I have
enumerated.

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