Jonathan Swift - "A Tale of a Tub"

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A Siren

T >> Thomas Adolphus Trollope >> A Siren




"Oh, no, Signorina," answered Violante, gently, "the knowledge that
you were painting up there would not suffice to distract my
thoughts. But will you not let me look at your work? It must be very
difficult to copy these strange old wall-paintings. May I climb up?
I know your friend the Marchese Lamberto well. Do you know who I
am?"

"Pray, come up, Signorina, if you have any curiosity. Oh, yes, I
know your ladyship. I saw you once in the Cardinal's carriage. You
are his niece, the Contessa Violante," replied Paolina, blushing a
little at the name of the Marchese Lamberto, only because, though
assuredly not the rose, he lived close to it.

So the two girls climbed the steps of the estrade together.

"How came you to know the Marchese Lamberto?" asked Violante, after
they had matured their acquaintanceship by a little talk about the
subject of Paolina's work.

"Only because the Englishman, who employed me to copy these mosaics,
gave me a letter to him. He seems to be very highly esteemed."

"More so than any other man in all Ravenna,--except my uncle the
Cardinal, I suppose I ought to say; he is a most excellent man in
all ways. But you know his nephew also, the Marchese Ludovico? non e
vero?" said Violante, looking down on the ground, while a pale blush
came over her white cheeks.

"Yes," replied Paolina, flushing crimson, and similarly looking
down, but stealing a side-glance under her eyelashes at her
companion,--"yes; I became acquainted with him also in the same
manner--at least, on the same occasion; and, in truth, I have seen
more of him than of his uncle, for the Marchese Lamberto is always
so busy, and he commissioned his nephew to do all that he could to
assist us, when we were first settling ourselves here."

"And you found him kind, too; as kind as his uncle?" said Violante,
stealing a sidelong glance at Paolina.

"Yes, indeed, Signorina," said she, feeling not a little
embarrassment.

"Paolina--you see I know your name, and I think it such a pretty
one--Paolina," said the Contessa Violante, yielding to a sudden
impulse, and taking the hand of the blushing girl, who kept her eyes
fixed on the ground, "shall we be friends, and speak openly to each
other? I should like to."

"Oh, Signorina! so should I, so much. There is nothing I should like
so much--almost nothing," replied Paolina, looking up into her face,
with her own still crimson.

"Tell me, then, if you ever heard my name mentioned in connection
with that of the Marchese Ludovico?" said Violante, looking with a
rather sad and subdued, but yet arch, smile into Paolina's eyes.

"Yes, Signorina, I have so heard," said Paolina, raising her head
with a proud movement, and looking, with well-opened eyes and clear
brow, into Violante's face as she spoke. "I have heard that it was
intended by both your families that you and the Marchese Ludovico
should be married."

"Yes; everybody in Ravenna, I believe, expects to see such a
marriage before long; do you? We are to be friends, you know, and
speak frankly to each other; do you expect it, Paolina?" asked
Violante, still holding her hand, and looking with a smile, half
shrewd, half sad, into her face.

Paolina remained silent a minute or two, again dropping her clear
honest eyes to the ground. Then raising them again, she said in an
almost whispered voice, but looking straight at her companion,

"No, Signorina, I do not expect that; for he has promised to marry
me."

"Ah--h! it is a relief to hear you say so. My dear Paolina, I am so
glad," said the elder girl, putting a hand on each of Paolina's
shoulders, and kissing her on the forehead--"I am so glad; much for
your own sake, somewhat, too, for his, and much for my own sake.
For, Paolina, I could not marry Ludovico. If he asked me to do so,
it would be only done in obedience to the will of his uncle. He does
not--no, 'tis no fault of yours, my child--never has loved me."

"Signora, when first I--allowed him to teach me to love him, I knew
nothing of any duty that he owed elsewhere. And when I did know it I
determined, even if it should break my heart, to refuse any such
love as should have been stolen from a wife," said Paolina.

"That was the part of a good and honest girl. And for me, I have to
thank you for it. Paolina, I hope you may be happy. We shall often
meet here, shall we not?"

"Not often here, Signora. My task here is not a long one; and I hope
by the end of Carnival to have finished it, so that I may go to St.
Apollinare, outside the town, where I have to make several copies.
It is very desirable not to go there later; because when the warm
weather comes it becomes so unhealthy there."

"Yes; but we have some days yet before the end of the Carnival; and
till then you will be at work every day here?"

"Si, Signora; I hope so."

"Then I hope we shall have several more opportunities of seeing each
other. And now I must not keep you from your work any longer. Shall
we be friends?"

"Oh, Signorina; it is too good of you to ask me, a poor artist. And
when--it would be my greatest pride to have such a friend."

And then the girls kissed and parted: Violante to kneel for her
daily devotions, at the footstool before the altar; and Paolina to
continue her copying. And after that they had frequent meetings in
the little chapel, and learned to become fast friends.

The Carnival was now drawing near its end; and the city had been
promised that before the time of cakes and ale should be over, and
that of sackcloth and ashes should begin, the divine prima donna
should appear in one more new part. And, after much deliberation and
debate, it had been decided that this should be Bellini's
masterpiece, La Sonnambula. She was to sing it on one night only--
the last Sunday of the Carnival; and the attraction on that night
was proportionably great. The Sonnambula, then in the first blush of
its immense popularity, had never yet been heard in Ravenna. It was
one of the favourite parts of the Diva; and all the city was on the
tiptoe of expectation.

It was a matter of course that all the "society" would be there. The
entire first row of the boxes,--the "piano nobile," as it is called
in Italian theatres,--was the private property of the various noble
families of the city, which each had its box, with its coat of arms
duly emblazoned on the door thereof, in that tier. Nobody who did
not belong to "the society" of the town could in any way show his
intruding face in the "piano nobile." But above this sacred
hemicycle there was another range of boxes; equally private boxes;
as all the boxes of an Italian theatre are;--and the key of one of
these upper "loggie" had been secured by Ludovico, and presented to
Signora Orsola and Paolina for the great evening.

Of course he himself would be obliged to be in his proper place in
the Castelmare box, which was the stage box on the left hand of the
stage.

"Whether I may be able to run up and pay you a little visit in the
course of the evening, I don't know. You may be very sure I shall if
I can; but there will be all the world there, of course, and lo zio
in the box--unless, indeed, he should choose to go behind the
scenes. Talking of that," he added, as he was on the point of
leaving the room, "I don't know what to make of lo zio of late."

"Has he said anything?"

"Not a word; but I don't like the look of him. He never was more
amiable as far as I am concerned; but he is not well; I never saw
him as he is now. He is haggard, feverish, restless; an older man in
appearance by a dozen years than he was at the beginning of
Carnival."

"I suppose he has been raking too much, and wants a little rest.
Lent will be good for him."

"What, he! The Marchese Lamberto raking! You don't know him. But he
seems quite broken down; I should say, that he had got something on
his mind, if it was not impossible. He never had any trouble in his
life; and never did anything he ought not to do, I believe. But I
confess he puzzles me now. Good-night. God bless you, Paolina mia!"

That was on the Friday; and the Diva's last appearance was to take
place on the following Sunday.



CHAPTER II

The Corso


The institution of Carnival and Lent in Italy seems very much as if
it arose from a practical conviction in the minds of the Italians
that they cannot serve two masters,--at least at the same time,--
Mammon in all his forms is to be the acknowledged and exclusive lord
of the hour during the first period, on condition that higher and
holier claims to service shall be as unreservedly recognized when
the second shall have set in.

"Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter,
Sermons and soda water the day after."

Byron has given us the rule with the most orthodox accuracy. Whether
the second portion of the prescription is observed as heartily,
punctually, and universally as the first, may be doubted. But in all
outward form and ceremony the violence of the contrast between the
two seasons is acted out to the letter; is, or was, as may be
perhaps more correctly said now-a-days; for both Carnival jollity
and licence, and Lent strictness, are from year to year less
observed than used to be the case. At Rome, Mother Church exhorts
her subjects to feast and laugh in Carnival, in nowise less
earnestly or imperatively than she enjoins on them fasting and
penances for having laughed in Lent. But her subjects will do
neither the one nor the other. And when one hears reiterated
complaints in Roman pulpits of pipings to which no dancers have
responded, and the vain exhortations of the ecclesiastical
authorities to the people to Carnival frolic and festivity, one is
reminded of our own Archbishop's "Book of Sports," and led to make
comparisons, by which hangs a very long tale.

Great Pan died once upon a time. And Carnival, as it used to be, is
with much else dying now in Italy. But in the days to which the
incidents here narrated belong, the difference between Carnival and
Lent was as marked as that between day and night.

More marked indeed. For between day and night there is twilight, but
the transition from Carnival to Lent is as sudden as a plunge from
sunshine into cold water. Carnival ends at twelve o'clock on the
night of Shrove Tuesday. And the theory of its observance is, or
was, that the fun and revelry should grow ever more fast and furious
up to the last permitted moment. Then, the clock strikes; the lights
are put out, Carnival dies amid one last hurrah. And maskers and
revellers go home to rise the next morning with grave and perhaps
yellow faces.

In Ravenna, as has been said, a great reception of all the society
at the Palazzo Castelmare on the Sunday evening was as much an
institution as the High Mass on a Sunday morning. And this was the
course of things during all the year, except in Carnival time. Then,
in order to leave Sunday evening--the great time for balls and
theatres, and pleasure of all sorts free, the reception at the
Palazzo Castelmare was changed to the Monday. The programme,
therefore, for the three last grand days of the Carnival in Ravenna,
on that occasion, stood thus:--

On the Sunday, a grand gala Corso from four to six in the afternoon.
(That is to say, that every available carriage of every sort in
Ravenna would be put in requisition, and would be driven in
procession, at a slow foot pace, up and down the long street called
the Corso; and those who had servants and liveries and fine horses
would display them and rejoice; and those who had none of these
things would mingle with the grand carriages in broken-down
shandridans, and rejoice also at the sight of the finery, without
the smallest feeling of shame at their own poverty. This is a
Corso.) On the Sunday evening, the grand representation of the
Sonnambula, with the theatre lighted (according to advertisement)
"with wax-candles, till it was as light as day!"

Secondly, on the Monday, another Corso, with throwing of flowers and
"coriandoli" (i. e. what was supposed to be comfits, but in reality
little pills of flour made and sold by the hundredweight for the
purpose) from the carriages to each other, and from the windows and
the balconies of the houses. Then in the evening, a grand gala
reception at the Palazzo Castelmare, at which it was understood
masks would be gladly welcomed by the host.

On the night of the Tuesday, thirdly, the last great day of all,
there was to be a grand masked ball at the Circolo dei Nobili; that
ball of which and of its consequences on the Ash Wednesday morning,
the reader already wots. And this was to be the wind-up of the
Carnival.

The Corso on the Sunday was a most successful one. The weather was
all that was most desirable; bright, not too cold, and free from
wind and dust. The Marchese Lamberto turned out with two handsomely
appointed equipages. He and his sister-in-law occupied one carriage,
and the Marchese Ludovico and the Conte Leandro Lombardone, who was
not a rich man, and had no carriage of his own, sat in the second.

It could not be said that the Marchese Lamberto "looked like the
time!" And, in truth, he would have given much to escape the ordeal
he was called upon to go through. But that was out of the question;
unless he had been confined to his bed--in which case the whole town
would have been at the palazzo door with inquiries, and all the
doctors at his bedside in consultation--it could not be that he
should not show himself at the Corso.

Both the Castelmare carriages had the front seats laden with huge
baskets of bouquets prepared for throwing at friends and
acquaintances in other carriages, and at windows and balconies. The
occupants of the carriages seemed to be embedded in a bank of
flowers. And there sat the Marchese amid this wealth of rainbow-
colours, looking positively ghastly,--so changed, so drawn, so aged
was he. And his painful attempts to enter into the spirit of the
scene, and act the part which he was expected to act, would have
been pitiable to any eye which had observed them closely.

He had left Bianca only just before it had been necessary to return
to the palazzo to get into his carriage for the Corso: and the
interview between them had been an important one. He had gone
thither fully purposed to explain to her, finally, the utter
impossibility of his doing as she would have him do. He meant to
point out to her how exceptionally difficult it would be for him, in
the peculiar position he occupied, to make her his wife. He intended
to show her that such a step would have the effect of pulling him
down rather than that of pulling her up. He had purposed
endeavouring to induce her to accede to such proposals as he could
make to her by the exhibition of the most unstinting generosity. And
he had determined,--fully, finally, and irrevocably determined, that
if all that be could say to her on these points should fail to
persuade her to accede to such an arrangement, as he had it in his
power to propose to her, he would that day, and from that hour, give
her up, and swear to himself never to let the image of her cross his
memory again.

The visit had been long, and occasionally even somewhat tempestuous.
The Marchese had been eloquent; and now driven to bay, had been
unequivocal enough in his declarations, his determinations, and his
promises. The Diva had shown herself a Diva at every point. She had
wept, she had smiled, she had been scornful, she had been suppliant,
she had been repellent, she had been loving! And in every mood she
had seemed to the fascinated eyes of the Marchese more lovely than
in that which preceded it. Finally, she had conquered. Instead of
coming away from her, never to see her again, he came away leaving
her with the offer of his hand.

And there had been a moment of supreme triumph and ecstasy when
permitted, for the first time, to take her in his arms, and press
that lovely bosom to his own, and glue his own to those heavenly
lips; it had seemed to him as if the prize that was his was worth a
thousand times all that he was paying for it. It was all for love,
and the world well lost. For not for an instant did the Marchese
blind himself to the fact that his world must be lost by such a
marriage as he was contemplating. But what did he care for all that
had been hitherto to him as the breath of his nostrils? He now felt,
for the first time, what of joy and real happiness life had in truth
to offer. He would go away,--far away with his Bianca and live only
for her, and for the delights of her love! Fool that he had been to
hesitate. And blessed a thousand times was her sweet, her dear
insistence, that had led him to better things!

Such was the state of the mind of the Marchese, while he held his
Diva in his arms; and it lasted in full force, almost till he had
left the door of her house behind him as he hastened to the palazzo
to discharge the Corso duty, which was one of the most prominent
functions of his present social position.

And then it seemed as if suddenly,--with a suddenness equal to that
of a tropical sunset,--the scales had fallen from his eyes, and he
was another man.

Great God! What had he done? Had he been smitten with sudden
madness? What--what was the fatal power this fearful woman had over
him? Were then the old witchcraft and philtre tales really true?
Surely he must be the victim of some spell, some horrible
enchantment. Marry her! Heavens and earth! He hated her. He felt as
if he could with pleasure take her by that beautiful throat and
squeeze the noxious life out of her.

He pressed his burning hand to his yet hotter forehead, as soon as
he found himself in the quiet and solitude of his own room,
swallowed a large glass of water, and strove to obtain such little
command over himself, for the moment at least, as might suffice to
enable him to go through the task before him.

A servant knocked at the door and put his head in to announce that
the carriages were at the door. The miserable man started from his
chair as if he had been caught in some crime, and answered that he
would be down directly. A second time he swallowed, hastily, a large
glass of water, for his throat felt parched with thirst; and then,
with a vigorous effort to appear gay and at his ease, which produced
only the semblance of a fixed unnatural grin on his face, he went
down to the carriage.

It was painful to him to pass between the servants who stood in the
hall, painful to have to take his seat by the side of his sister-in-
law,--and most painful of all to meet the gaze of all the town
assembled for the Corso. He could not help thinking that all eyes
were turned on him, with glances of surprise and suspicion. He felt
ashamed to meet and be seen by his acquaintances. He, the Marchese
Lamberto di Castelmare, who had never, till that hour, known what it
was to shun the eye of any man,--who had been accustomed to be the
cynosure of all eyes, and to feel that they were all turned on him
with respect and regard.

The occasion, and the part he was expected to fulfil in it, made it
necessary for him to recognize and return every minute the
salutations and greetings of his friends and those who knew him. And
who in Ravenna did not know the Marchese Lamberto? There was a good-
natured word wanted here, a gallant little phrase there, a
salutation with the speaking fingers to this carriage, a more formal
bow to the occupants of another, a gracious nod to one person, and a
smile to a second.

And all this the unhappy man essayed to perform, as he had so often
performed it happily, easily, and successfully in other days.

It was impossible for anybody, whose eye rested on the Marchese for
an instant, as he sat amid the flowers in his carriage, to avoid
seeing that there was something wrong with him--that he was very
unlike his usual self. And every eye, as the carriages passed each
other in the long procession, forming two lines as one passed down
the street while the other moved in the contrary direction, did rest
on him. But it never for an instant entered into the head of a
single human being there, to guess at anything like the real cause
of the change in the Marchese.

"Time begins to tell on the Marchese; he takes too much out of
himself; always busy--no rest--a bad thing!" said one.

"The Marchese Lamberto looks knocked up with this carnival. Quite
time for him that Lent was come," said another.

"The fact is that the Marchese is growing old, and he wants more
rest. He has not a minute to himself,--too many irons in the fire at
once, said a third.

"I dare say he has been worried out of his life in getting this new
Opera put upon the stage. You'll see he'll be all right enough at
the ball to-morrow night."

"Is she in the Corso--La Lalli?"

"Altro. I should think so--and looking so lovely. What a woman she
is!"

"Whereabouts is she?"

"About twenty carriages further ahead. You'll see her presently,
when we are near the turn, sitting buried up to her waist nearly in
flowers--a regular Flora, and such a representative as the Goddess
never had before."

"Who has she got with her in her carriage?" asked the first speaker.
"I expected to have seen the Marchesino Ludovico there, but he is
with the Conte Leandro, in one of the Castelmare carriages."

"Che! catch her compromising herself in any such manner. I wonder
how much some of our friends would have given to have the place
beside her to-day? But not a bit of it: she has got the old man she
calls her father with her."

"Funny, isn't it? I wonder what her game is?"

"Simply to work hard at her vocation, and make as much money as she
can, I take it. Probably you would find, if you got at the truth,
some animal of a baritono robuato, who owns the Diva's heart, and
for whom she works and slaves."

"Poverina! there are the Castelmare carriages coming round again."

The manner of an Italian "Corso" is this: A certain street, or
streets--the most adapted to the exigencies of the case that the
city can supply--is selected for the purpose; and when the line of
carriages reaches the end of this, it turns and proceeds back again
to the other end; turns again, and so on. Thus, at each turn, every
carriage in the line meets every other once in each circuit.

The second Castelmare carriage, in which the Marchese Ludovico and
Leandro Lombardoni were sitting, was following next after that
occupied by the Marchese Lamberto and his sister-in-law; and thus
each carriage in the line proceeding in a contrary direction to
them, passed first the Marchese Lamberto and then his nephew. The
carriage occupied by the latter was a wholly open one with a low
back. But that in which the Marchese Lamberto sat, though also an
open carriage, and entirely so in front, had a half roof at the
back, so that it was not so conveniently adapted as the other for
seeing those following it as well as those preceding it.

The Marchese and his sister-in-law threw bouquets into almost every
carriage that passed them; and the stock with which they had started
was soon very much diminished. But one specially magnificent and
large bouquet, which conspicuously occupied the centre of the front
seat of the carriage, was evidently reserved. Everybody who saw it
knew very well for whom that was intended. Of course it was for none
other than the Diva of the theatre. And the known interest which the
Marchese took in such matters, his musical fanaticism, and the large
share he had had in bringing La Lalli to Ravenna, made it quite
natural, and a matter of course, that he should pay her such a
compliment.

Presently he descried her in the opposite string of carriages,
coming towards him. Her carriage was an entirely open one, and she
sate in it, with old Quinto Lalli by her side, literally, as one
observer had said, half buried in flowers. And most assuredly
neither the labours nor the dissipations of the carnival, nor time,
nor care, nor any other circumstance, had dimmed the lustre of her
beauty, or lessened the verve and spirit of enjoyment with which she
took her part in the pageant. She was brilliant with vivacity,
beauty, and happiness.

The Marchese might have been seen, had anybody been observing him
closely at the moment, to turn visibly paler as her carriage
approached his. As far as any clear thought had been in his mind, or
any power of thinking possible to him, his latest idea in reference
to her had been a desperate resolve that he would never speak to her
again. And now, again, as he saw her, in a new avatar of loveliness,
he once again knew that to keep such a resolution was above his
power.

What he had to do at the moment was to be done, in any case, with
the best grace he might. Taking the huge mass of skilfully-arranged
flowers in both hands, as her carriage came opposite to his, he
leaned out as far as he could, and Quinto Lalli, who sat on the side
nearest to him, stretched out to meet him, and then handed the
offering to the Goddess. She smiled brilliantly and bowed low,
sending a coquettish, sidelong glance of private thanks under
eyelashes as she bent her graceful neck.

The carriages rolled on, and passed each other; and there rushed
into the Marchese's head a sudden pulse of blood, which turned his
previous pallor into a dusky crimson, and seemed to make all the
scene swim before his eyes. Partly to hide the evidences of the
emotion of which he was conscious, and partly because he felt as if
he needed the support, he threw himself back into the corner of the
carriage, turning himself away from the scene in front of it as
though to shelter his face from the sun that was then so low in the
sky as to begin to throw its slanting rays under the hoods of the
carriages. This position, as it chanced, brought the Marchese's eye
to bear on the little glass window made in the back of the hood of
the carriage, after the old-fashioned manner of coach-building.

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