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  CHAPTER IV

  IN the midst of the general and somewhat exaggerated applause which the voice and manner of the débutant had drawn forth, a single auditor, seated on the extreme edge of his chair, his legs close together and his hands motionless on his knees, after the fashion of the Egyptian gods, remained dumb as a sphinx and mysterious as a hieroglyphic. It was the able professor and celebrated composer Porpora. While his gallant colleague Professor Mellifiore, ascribing to himself all the honor of Anzoleto's success, plumed himself before the women and saluted the men, as if to thank them even for their looks, the master of sacred song, with eyes bent on the ground, silent and severe, seemed lost in thought. When the company, who were engaged to a ball at the palace of the Doge, had slowly departed, and the most enthusiastic dilettanti, with some ladies, alone remained, Zustiniani approached the severe maestro.

  "You are too hard upon us poor moderns, my dear professor," said he; "but your silence does not impose upon me. You would exclude this new and charming style which delights us all. But your heart is open in spite of you, and your ears have drunk in the seductive poison."

  "Come, Sior Professor," said the charming Corilla, resuming with her old master the infantine manners of the scuola, "you must grant me a favor."

  "Away, unhappy girl!" said the master, partly smiling and partly displeased at the caresses of his inconstant pupil: "there is no further communion between us. I know you no more. Take your sweet smiles and perfidious warblings elsewhere."

  "There, now; he is coming round," said Corilla, taking with one hand the arm of the débutant, without letting go her hold of the white and ample cravat of the professor. "Come hither, Zoto, and bow the knee before the most learned maestro in all Italy. Submit thyself, my child, and disarm his rigor; One word from him, if thou couldst obtain it, would be more to thee than all the trumpets of renown."

  "You have been severe toward me, Signor Professor," said Anzoleto, bending before him with mock humility; "nevertheless, my only wish for four years has been to induce you to reverse your cruel judgment; and if I have not succeeded tonight, I fear I shall never have the courage to appear before the public, loaded with your anathema."

  "Child!" said the professor, rising hastily and speaking with an earnestness which imparted something noble to his unimpressive figure, "leave false and honied words to women. Never descend to the language of flattery, even to your superiors—much less to those whose suffrage you disdain. It is but an hour ago since, poor, unknown, timid, in this little corner, all your prospects hung upon a hair—on a note from your throat—a moment's failure of your resources, or the caprice of your audience. Chance, and the effort of an instant, have made you rich, celebrated, insolent. Your career is open before you, and you have only to go on, so long as your strength sustains you. Listen, then; for the first, and perhaps for the last time, you are about to hear the truth. You are in a false direction; you sing badly, and love bad music. You know nothing, and have studied nothing thoroughly. All you have is the facility which exercise imparts. You assume a passion which you do not feel; you warble and shake like those pretty coquettish damsels whom one pardons for simpering where they know not how to sing. You know not how to combine your phrases; you pronounce badly; you have a vulgar accent, a false and common style. Do not be discouraged, however, with all these defects. You have wherewith to combat them. You have qualities which neither labor nor instruction can impart. You have that which neither bad advice nor bad example can take away. You have the sacred fire—you have genius! Alas! it is a fire which will shine upon nothing grand, a genius that will remain forever barren; for I have seen it in your eyes, as I have felt it in your breast. You have not the worship of art; you have not faith in the great masters, nor respect for their grand conceptions; you love glory, and glory for yourself alone. You might—you could—but, no! it is too late! Your destiny will be as the flash of a meteor—like that of——"

  And the professor, thrusting his hat over his brows, turned his back, and without saluting any one, left the apartment, absorbed in mentally completing his enigmatic sentence.

  Every one tried to laugh at the sententious professor; but his words left a painful impression, and a melancholy feeling of doubt, which lasted for some moments. Anzoleto was the first who apparently ceased to think of them, though they had occasioned him an intense feeling of joy, pride, anger, and emulation, which was destined to influence all his after life. He appeared exclusively engaged in pleasing Corilla, and he knew so well how to flatter her, that she was very much taken with him at this first meeting. Count Zustiniani was not jealous, and perhaps had his reasons for taking no notice of them. He was interested in the fame and success of his theater more than in any thing else in the world; not that he cared about money, but because he was a real fanatic in all that related to what are termed the fine arts. This, in my opinion, is a phrase which is generally employed in a very vulgar sense, and being altogether Italian, is consequently enthusiastic and without much discernment. The culture of art, a modern expression, which the world did not make use of a hundred years ago, has a meaning altogether different from a taste for the fine arts. The count was a man of taste in the common acceptation of the word—an amateur, and nothing more; but the gratification of this taste was the great business of his life. He loved to be busy about the public, and to have the public busy about him—to frequent the society of artists—to rule the fashion—to have his theater, his luxury, his amiability, and his magnificence made the subject of conversation. He had, in short, the ruling passion of the great noblemen of his country—namely, ostentation. To possess and direct a theater was the best means of occupying and amusing the whole city. He would have been happy if he could have seated the whole republic at his table. When strangers asked Professor Porpora who was the Count Zustiniani, he was accustomed to reply—"He is one who loves to give entertainments, and who serves up music at his theater as he would pheasants on his table."

  It was one in the morning before the company separated. "Anzoleto," said Corilla, when alone with him in the embrasure of the balcony, "where do you live?" At this unexpected inquiry, Anzoleto grew pale and red almost at the same moment; for how could he confess to the rich and fascinating beauty before him, that he had in a manner neither house nor home? Even this response would have been easier than to mention the miserable den where he was in the habit of taking refuge, when neither inclination nor necessity obliged him to pass the night in the open air.

  "Well, what is there so extraordinary in my question?" said Corilla, laughing.

  "I am asking myself," replied Anzoleto, with much presence of mind, "what royal or fairy palace were fitting home for the happy mortal who is honored by a glance from Corilla."

  "What does all this flattery mean?" said she, darting on him one of the most bewitching glances contained in the storehouse of her charms.

  "That I have not that honor," replied the young man; "but that, if I had, I should be content only to float between earth and sky, like the stars."

  "Or like the cuccali," said the songstress, bursting into a fit of laughter. It is well known that gulls (cuccali) are proverbially simple, and to speak of their awkwardness in the language of Venice, is equivalent to saying, in ours, "As stupid as a goose."

  "Ridicule me—despise me," replied Anzoleto; "I would rather you should do so than not think of me at all."

  "Well, then," said she, "since you must reply in metaphors, I shall take you with me in my gondola; and if I take you away from your abode, instead of taking you to it, it will be your own fault."

  "If that be your motive for inquiry, my answer is brief and explicit; my home is on the steps of your palace."

  "Go, then, and await me on the stairs below," said Corilla, lowering her voice; "for Zustiniani may blame the indulgence with which I have listened to your nonsense."

  In the first impulse of his vanity Anzoleto disappeared, and darting toward the landing-place of the palace, to the prow of Corilla's gon
dola, counted the moments by the beating of his fevered pulse. But before she appeared on the steps of the palace, many thoughts had passed through the anxious and ambitious brain of the débutant. "Corilla," said he to himself, "is all powerful; but if by pleasing her I were to displease the count, or if, in virtue of my too easy triumph, I were to destroy her power, and disgust him altogether with so inconstant a beauty——"

  In the midst of these perplexing thoughts, Anzoleto measured with a glance the stair, which he might yet remount, and was planning how to effect his escape, when torches gleamed from under the portico, and the beautiful Corilla, wrapped in an ermine cloak, appeared upon the upper steps, amid a group of cavaliers anxious to support her rounded elbow in the hollow of their hand, and in this manner to assist her to descend, as is the custom in Venice.

  "Well," said the gondolier of the prima donna to the undecided Anzoleto, "what are you doing there? Make haste into the gondola, if you have permission; if not, proceed on your way, for my lord count is with the signora."

  Anzoleto threw himself into the bottom of the gondola, without knowing what he did. He was stupified. But scarcely did he find himself there, when he fancied the amazement and indignation which the count would feel, should he enter into the gondola with Corilla, and find there his insolent protegé. His cruel anxiety was protracted for several minutes. The signora had stopped aboul half-way down the staircase; she was laughing and talking with those about her, and, in discussing a musical phrase, she repeated it in several different ways. Her clear and thrilling voice died away amid the palaces and cupolas of the canal, as the crow of the cock before the dawn is lost in the silence of the open country.

  Anzoleto, unable to contain himself, resolved to escape by the opening of the gondola which was furthest from the stair. He had already thrust aside the glass in its panel of black velvet, and had passed one leg through the opening, when the second rower of the prima donna, who was stationed at the stern, leaning over the edge of the little cabin, said in a low voice, "They are singing—that is as much as to say, 'You may wait without being afraid.'"

  "I did not know the usual custom," thought Anzoleto, who still tarried, not without some mixture of consternation. Corilla amused herself by bringing the count as far as the side of the gondola, and kept him standing there, while she repeated the "felicissima notte" until she had left the shore. She then came and placed herself beside her new admirer, with as much ease and self-possession as if his life and her own fortune had not been at stake.

  "Look at Corilla," said Zustiniani to the Count Barberigo. "Well, I would wager my head that she is not alone in yonder gondola."

  "And why do you think so?" replied Barberigo.

  "Because she asked me a thousand times to accompany her to her palace."

  "Is that your jealousy?"

  "Oh, I have been long free from that weakness. I should be right glad if our prima donna would take a fancy to some one who would prevent her from leaving Venice, as she sometimes threatens. I could console myself for her desertion of me, but I could neither replace her voice nor her talents, nor the ardor with which she inspires the public at San Samuel."

  "I understand; but who, then, is the happy favorite of this mad princess!"

  The count and his friend enumerated all whom Corilla appeared to encourage during the evening. Anzoleto was absolutely the only one whom they failed to think of.

  CHAPTER V

  A VIOLENT struggle arose in the breast of the happy lover, who, agitated and palpitating, was borne on the waters through the tranquil night, with the most celebrated beauty of Venice. Anzoleto was transported by his ardor, which gratified vanity rendered still more powerful. On the other hand, the fear of displeasing, of being scornfully dismissed and impeached, restrained his impetuosity. Prudent and cunning, like a true Venetian as he was, he had not aspired to the theater for more than six years, without being well informed as to the fantastic and imperious women who governed all its intrigues. He was well assured that his reign would be of short duration, and if he did not withdraw from this dangerous honor, it was because he was taken in a measure by surprise. He had merely wished to gain tolerance by his courtesy; and, behold! his youth, his beauty, and budding glory, had inspired love! "Now," said Anzoleto, with the rapid perception which heads of his wonderful organization enjoy, "there is nothing but to make myself feared, if tomorrow I would not be ridiculous. But shall a poor devil like myself accomplish this with a haughty beauty like Corilla?" He was soon decided. He began a system of distrust, jealousy, and bitterness, of which the passionate coquetry astonished the prima donna. Their conversation may be resumed as follows:

  Anzoleto.—"I know that you do not love me—that you will never love me; therefore am I sad and constrained beside you."

  Corilla.—"And suppose I were to love you?"

  Anzoleto.—"I should be wretched, because that were to fall from heaven into the abyss, and lose you perchance an hour after I had gained you, at the price of all my future happiness?"

  Corilla.—"And what makes you think me so inconstant?"

  Anzoleto.—"First, the want of desert on my part; second, the ill that is said of you."

  Corilla.—"And who dares to asperse me?"

  Anzoleto.—"Every body, because every body adores you."

  Corilla.—"Then, if I were mad enough to like you, and to tell you so, would you repel me?"

  Anzoleto.—"I know not if I should have the power to fly; but if I had, I know that I should never behold you again."

  "Very well," said Corilla, "I have a fancy to try the experiment—Anzoleto, I love you."

  "I do not believe it," replied he. "If I stay, it is because I think you are only mocking me. That is a game at which you shall not frighten me, and still less shall you pique me."

  "You wish to try an encounter of wit, I think."

  "No, indeed; I am not in the least to be dreaded, since I give you the means of overcoming me; it is to freeze me with terror, and to drive me from your presence, in telling me seriously what you have just now uttered in jest."

  "You are a knowing fellow, and I see that one must be careful what one says to you. You are one of those who not only wish to breathe the fragrance of the rose, but would pluck and preserve it. I could not have supposed you so bold and so decided at your age."

  "And do you despise me therefore?"

  "On the contrary, I am the more pleased with you. Goodnight, Anzoleto; we shall see each other again."

  She held out her white hand, which he kissed passionately. "I have got off famously," said he, as he escaped by the passages leading from the canaletto.

  Despairing of gaining access to his nest at so late an hour he thought he would lie down at the first porch, to gain the heavenly repose which infancy and poverty alone know; but for the first time in his life, he could not find a slab sufficiently smooth for his purpose. The pavement of Venice is the cleanest and whitest in the world; still the light dust scattered over it hardly suited a dark dress of elegant material and latest fashion. And then the propriety of the thing! The boatmen who would have carefully stepped over the young plebeian, in the morning would have insulted him, and perhaps soiled his parasitic livery during his repose. What would they have thought of one reposing in the open air in silk stockings, fine linen, and lace ruffles? Anzoleto regretted his good woollen cap, worn and old, no doubt, but thick, and well calculated to resist the unhealthy morning fogs of Venice. It was now toward the latter end of February; and although the days at this period were warm and brilliant, the nights at Venice were still very cold. Then he thought he would gain admission into one of the gondolas fastened to the bank, but they were all secured under lock and key. At last he found one of which the door yielded; but in getting in he stumbled over the legs of the baracole, who had retired for the night. "Per diavolo!" said a rough voice from the bottom of the cabin, "who are you, and what do you want?"

  "Is it you, Zanetto?" replied Anzoleto, recognizing the man, who was
generally very civil to him; "let me stretch myself beside you, and dream awhile within your cabin."

  "And who are you?" said Zanetto.

  "Anzoleto; do you not know me?"

  "Per diavolo, no! You have garments which Anzoleto never wore, unless he stole them. Be off! Were you the Doge in person I would not open my bark to a man who strutted about in fine clothes when he had not a corner to rest in."

  "So, so," thought Anzoleto; "the protection and favor of the Count Zustiniani have exposed me to greater danger and annoyances than they have procured me advantages. It is time that my fortune should correspond with my success, and I long to have a few sequins to enable me to support the station I have assumed."

  Sufficiently out of sorts, he sauntered through the deserted streets, not daring to pause a moment, lest the perspiration should be checked which anger and fatigue had caused to flow freely forth. "It is well if I do not grow hoarse," said he to himself; "tomorrow the count will show me off to some foolish Aristarchus, who, if I have the least little feather in the throat in consequence of this night's want of rest, will say that I have no voice; and the Signor Count, who knows better, will repeat, 'If you had but heard him last night!' 'He is not equal, then,' the other will observe; 'or perhaps he is not in good health;' 'Or perhaps,' as a third will aver, 'he was tired last night. The truth is, he is very young to sing several days in succession. Had you not better wait till he is riper and more robust?' And the count will say, 'Diavolo! if he grow hoarse after a couple of songs, he will not answer me.' Then, to make sure that I am strong and well, they will make me exercise every day till I am out of breath, and break my voice to prove that I have lungs. To the devil with their protection, I say! Ah! if I were only free of these great folk, and in favor with the public, and courted by the theaters, I could sing in their saloons, and treat with them as equal powers.