A Romance of the Republic - Lydia Maria Francis Child
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Mrs. Delano replied politely, expressing regret that she and her
daughter were deprived of the pleasure of hearing such a musical
genius. After some desultory chat concerning the various sights in
Rome, the visitors departed.
"I'm glad your call was short," said Mr. Fitzgerald. "That lady is a
perfect specimen of Boston ice."
Whereupon his companion began to rally him for want of gallantry in
saying anything disparaging of Boston.
Meanwhile Mrs. Delano was pacing the parlor in a disturbed state
of mind. Though she had foreseen such a contingency as one of the
possible consequences of adopting Flora, yet when it came so suddenly
in a different place, and under different circumstances from any she
had thought of, the effect was somewhat bewildering. She dreaded the
agitation into which the news would throw Flora, and she wanted to
mature her own future plans before she made the announcement. So, in
answer to Flora's questions about the visitors, she merely said a lady
from Boston, the daughter of one of her old acquaintances, had called
to introduce her husband. After dinner, they spent some time reading
Tasso's Aminta together; and then Mrs. Delano said: "I wish to go and
have a talk with Mr. and Mrs. Percival. I have asked him to inquire
about vessels at Civita Vecchia; for, under present circumstances, I
presume you would be glad to set out sooner than we intended on that
romantic expedition in search of your sister."
"O, thank you! thank you!" exclaimed Flora, jumping up and kissing
her.
"I trust you will not go out, or sing, or show yourself at the windows
while I am gone," said Mrs. Delano; "for though Mr. Fitzgerald can do
you no possible harm, it would be more agreeable to slip away without
his seeing you."
The promise was readily and earnestly given, and she proceeded to the
lodgings of Mr. and Mrs. Percival in the next street. After she had
related the experiences of the morning, she asked what they supposed
had become of Rosabella.
"It is to be hoped she does not continue her relation with that base
man if she knows of his marriage," said Mrs. Percival; "for that would
involve a moral degradation painful for you to think of in Flora's
sister."
"If she has ceased to interest his fancy, very likely he may have sold
her," said Mr. Percival; "for a man who could entertain the idea of
selling Flora, I think would sell his own Northern wife, if the law
permitted it and circumstances tempted him to it."
"What do you think I ought to do in the premises?" inquired Mrs.
Delano.
"I would hardly presume to say what you ought to do," rejoined Mrs.
Percival; "but I know what I should do, if I were as rich as you, and
as strongly attached to Flora."
"Let me hear what you would do," said Mrs. Delano.
The prompt reply was: "I would go in search of her. And if she was
sold, I would buy her and bring her home, and be a mother to her."
"Thank you," said Mrs. Delano, warmly pressing her hand. "I thought
you would advise what was kindest and noblest. Money really seems
to me of very little value, except as a means of promoting human
happiness. And in this case I might perhaps prevent moral degradation,
growing out of misfortune and despair."
After some conversation concerning vessels that were about to sail,
the friends parted. On her way homeward, she wondered within herself
whether they had any suspicion of the secret tie that bound her so
closely to these unfortunate girls. "I ought to do the same for them
without that motive," thought she; "but should I?"
Though her call had not been very long, it seemed so to Flora, who
had latterly been little accustomed to solitude. She had no heart
for books or drawing. She sat listlessly watching the crowd on Monte
Pincio;--children chasing each other, or toddling about with nurses
in bright-red jackets; carriages going round and round, ever and anon
bringing into the sunshine gleams of gay Roman scarfs, or bright
autumnal ribbons fluttering in the breeze. She had enjoyed few things
more than joining that fashionable promenade to overlook the city in
the changing glories of sunset. But now she cared not for it. Her
thoughts were far away on the lonely island. As sunset quickly faded
into twilight, carriages and pedestrians wound their way down the
hill. The noble trees on its summit became solemn silhouettes against
the darkening sky, and the monotonous trickling of the fountain in the
court below sounded more distinct as the street noises subsided. She
was growing a little anxious, when she heard soft footfalls on the
stairs, which she at once recognized and hastened to meet. "O, you
have been gone so long!" she exclaimed. Happy, as all human beings
are, to have another heart so dependent on them, the gratified lady
passed her arm round the waist of the loving child, and they ascended
to their rooms like two confidential school-girls.
After tea, Mrs. Delano said, "Now I will keep my promise of telling
you all I have discovered." Flora ran to an ottoman by her side, and,
leaning on her lap, looked up eagerly into her face. "You must try
not to be excitable, my dear," said her friend; "for I have some
unpleasant news to tell you."
The expressive eyes, that were gazing wistfully into hers while she
spoke, at once assumed that startled, melancholy look, strangely in
contrast with their laughing shape. Her friend was so much affected by
it that she hardly knew how to proceed with her painful task. At last
Flora murmured, "Is she dead?"
"I have heard no such tidings, darling," she replied. "But Mr.
Fitzgerald has married a Boston lady, and they were the visitors who
came here this morning."
Flora sprung up and pressed her hand on her heart, as if a sharp arrow
had hit her. But she immediately sank on the ottoman again, and said
in tones of suppressed agitation: "Then he has left poor Rosa. How
miserable she must be! She loved him so! O, how wrong it was for me
to run away and leave her! And only to think how I have been enjoying
myself, when she was there all alone, with her heart breaking! Can't
we go to-morrow to look for her, dear Mamita?"
"In three days a vessel will sail for Marseilles," replied Mrs.
Delano. "Our passage is taken; and Mr. and Mrs. Percival, who intended
to return home soon, are kind enough to say they will go with us. I
wish they could accompany us to the South; but he is so well known
as an Abolitionist that his presence would probably cause unpleasant
interruptions and delays, and perhaps endanger his life."
Flora seized her hand and kissed it, while tears were dropping fast
upon it. And at every turn of the conversation, she kept repeating,
"How wrong it was for me to run away and leave her!"
"No, my child," replied Mrs. Delano, "you did right in coming to me.
If you had stayed there, you would have made both her and yourself
miserable, beside doing what was very wrong. I met Mr. Fitzgerald once
on horseback, while I was visiting at Mr. Welby's plantation; but I
never fairly saw him until to-day. He is so very handsome, that, when
I looked at him, I could not but think it rather remarkable he did not
gain a bad power over you by his insinuating flattery, when you were
so very young and inexperienced."
The guileless little damsel looked up with an expression of surprise,
and said: "How _could_ I bear to have him make love to _me_, when he
was Rosa's husband? He is so handsome and fascinating, that, if he had
loved me instead of Rosa, in the beginning, I dare say I should have
been as much in love with him as she was. I did dearly love him while
he was a kind brother; but I couldn't love him _so_. It would have
killed Rosa if I had. Besides, he told falsehoods; and papa taught us
to consider that as the meanest of faults. I have heard him tell Rosa
he never loved anybody but her, when an hour before he had told me he
loved me better than Rosa. What could I do but despise such a man?
Then, when he threatened to sell me, I became dreadfully afraid of
him." She started up, as if struck by a sudden thought, and exclaimed
wildly, "What if he has sold Rosa?"
Her friend brought forward every argument and every promise she could
think of to pacify her; and when she had become quite calm, they sang
a few hymns together, and before retiring to rest knelt down side by
side and prayed for strength and guidance in these new troubles.
Flora remained a long time wakeful, thinking of Rosa deserted and
alone. She had formed many projects concerning what was to be seen
and heard and done in Rome; but she forgot them all. She did not even
think of the much-anticipated opera, until she heard from the street
snatches of Norma, whistled or sung by the dispersing audience. A
tenor voice passed the house singing, _Vieni_ _in Roma_. "Ah," thought
she, "Gerald and I used to sing that duet together. And in those
latter days how languishingly he used to look at me, behind her back,
while he sang passionately, '_Ah, deh cedi, cedi a me_!' And poor
cheated Rosa would say, 'Dear Gerald, how much heart you put into your
voice!' O shame, shame! What _could_ I do but run away? Poor Rosa! How
I wish I could hear her sing 'Casta Diva,' as she used to do when we
sat gazing at the moon shedding its soft light over the pines in that
beautiful lonely island."
And so, tossed for a long while on a sea of memories, she finally
drifted into dream-land.
CHAPTER XIX.
While Flora was listlessly gazing at Monte Pincio from the solitude of
her room in the Via delle Quattro Fontane, Rosabella was looking at
the same object, seen at a greater distance, over intervening houses,
from her high lodgings in the Corso. She could see the road winding
like a ribbon round the hill, with a medley of bright colors
continually moving over it. But she was absorbed in revery, and they
floated round and round before her mental eye, like the revolving
shadows of a magic lantern.
She was announced to sing that night, as the new Spanish _prima
donna_, La Senorita Rosita Campaneo; and though she had been applauded
by manager and musicians at the rehearsal that morning, her spirit
shrank from the task. Recent letters from America had caused deep
melancholy; and the idea of singing, not _con amore_, but as a
performer before an audience of entire strangers, filled her with
dismay. She remembered how many times she and Flora and Gerald had
sung together from Norma; and an oppressive feeling of loneliness came
over her. Returning from rehearsal, a few hours before, she had seen
a young Italian girl, who strongly reminded her of her lost sister.
"Ah!" thought she, "if Flora and I had gone out into the world
together, to make our own way, as Madame first intended, how much
sorrow and suffering I might have been spared!" She went to the piano,
where the familiar music of Norma lay open before her, and from the
depths of her saddened soul gushed forth, "_Ah, bello a me Ritorno_."
The last tone passed sighingly away, and as her hands lingered on the
keys, she murmured, "Will my heart pass into it there, before that
crowd of strange faces, as it does here?"
"To be sure it will, dear," responded Madame, who had entered softly
and stood listening to the last strains.
"Ah, if all would hear with _your_ partial ears!" replied Rosabella,
with a glimmering smile. "But they will not. And I may be so
frightened that I shall lose my voice."
"What have you to be afraid of, darling?" rejoined Madame. "It was
more trying to sing at private parties of accomplished musicians, as
you did in Paris; and especially at the palace, where there was such
an _elite_ company. Yet you know that Queen Amelia was so much pleased
with your performance of airs from this same opera, that she sent you
the beautiful enamelled wreath you are to wear to-night."
"What I was singing when you came in wept itself out of the fulness of
my heart," responded Rosabella. "This dreadful news of Tulee and the
baby unfits me for anything. Do you think there is no hope it may
prove untrue?"
"You know the letter explicitly states that my cousin and his wife,
the negro woman, and the white baby, all died of yellow-fever,"
replied Madame. "But don't reproach me for leaving them, darling. I
feel badly enough about it, already. I thought it would be healthy so
far out of the city; and it really seemed the best thing to do with
the poor little _bambino_, until we could get established somewhere."
"I did not intend to reproach you, my kind friend," answered Rosa. "I
know you meant it all for the best. But I had a heavy presentiment of
evil when you first told me they were left. This news makes it hard
for me to keep up my heart for the efforts of the evening. You know I
was induced to enter upon this operatic career mainly by the hope of
educating that poor child, and providing well for the old age of
you and Papa Balbino, as I have learned to call my good friend, the
Signor. And poor Tulee, too,--how much I intended to do for her! No
mortal can ever know what she was to me in the darkest hours of my
life."
"Well, poor Tulee's troubles are all over," rejoined Madame, with a
sigh; "and _bambinos_ escape a great deal of suffering by going out of
this wicked world. For, between you and I, dear, I don't believe one
word about the innocent little souls staying in purgatory on account
of not being baptized."
"O, my friend, if you only _knew_!" exclaimed Rosa, in a wild,
despairing tone. But she instantly checked herself, and said: "I will
try not to think of it; for if I do, I shall spoil my voice; and Papa
Balbino would be dreadfully mortified if I failed, after he had taken
so much pains to have me brought out."
"That is right, darling," rejoined Madame, patting her on the
shoulder. "I will go away, and leave you to rehearse."
Again and again Rosa sang the familiar airs, trying to put soul into
them, by imagining how she would feel if she were in Norma's position.
Some of the emotions she knew by her own experience, and those she
sang with her deepest feeling.
"If I could only keep the same visions before me that I have here
alone, I should sing well to-night," she said to herself; "for now,
when I sing 'Casta Diva,' I seem to be sitting with my arm round dear
little Flora, watching the moon as it rises above the dark pines on
that lonely island."
At last the dreaded hour came. Rosa appeared on the stage with her
train of priestesses. The orchestra and the audience were before her;
and she knew that Papa and Mamma Balbino were watching her from the
side with anxious hearts. She was very pale, and her first notes were
a little tremulous. But her voice soon became clear and strong; and
when she fixed her eyes on the moon, and sang "Casta Diva," the
fulness and richness of the tones took everybody by surprise.
"_Bis! Bis_!" cried the audience; and the chorus was not allowed to
proceed till she had sung it a second and third time. She courtesied
her acknowledgments gracefully. But as she retired, ghosts of the past
went with her; and with her heart full of memories, she seemed to weep
in music, while she sang in Italian, "Restore to mine affliction one
smile of love's protection." Again the audience shouted, "_Bis! Bis_!"
The duet with Adalgisa was more difficult; for she had not yet learned
to be an actress, and she was embarrassed by the consciousness of
being an object of jealousy to the _seconda donna_, partly because
she was _prima_, and partly because the tenor preferred her. But when
Adalgisa sang in Italian the words, "Behold him!" she chanced to
raise her eyes to a box near the stage, and saw the faces of Gerald
Fitzgerald and his wife bending eagerly toward her. She shuddered, and
for an instant her voice failed her. The audience were breathless. Her
look, her attitude, her silence, her tremor, all seemed inimitable
acting. A glance at the foot-lights and at the orchestra recalled the
recollection of where she was, and by a strong effort she controlled
herself; though there was still an agitation in her voice, which the
audience and the singers thought to be the perfection of acting. Again
she glanced at Fitzgerald, and there was terrible power in the tones
with which she uttered, in Italian, "Tremble, perfidious one! Thou
knowest the cause is ample."
Her eyes rested for a moment on Mrs. Fitzgerald, and with a wonderful
depth of pitying sadness, she sang, "O, how his art deceived thee!"
The wish she had formed was realized. She was enabled to give voice to
her own emotions, forgetful of the audience for the time being. And
even in subsequent scenes, when the recollection of being a performer
returned upon her, her inward excitation seemed to float her onward,
like a great wave.
Once again her own feelings took her up, like a tornado, and made her
seem a wonderful actress. In the scene where Norma is tempted to kill
her children, she fixed her indignant gaze full upon Fitzgerald, and
there was an indescribable expression of stern resolution in her
voice, and of pride in the carriage of her queenly head, while she
sang: "Disgrace worse than death awaits them. Slavery? No! never!"
Fitzgerald quailed before it. He grew pale, and slunk back in the
box. The audience had never seen the part so conceived, and a few
criticised it. But her beauty and her voice and her overflowing
feeling carried all before her; and this, also, was accepted as a
remarkable inspiration of theatrical genius.
When the wave of her own excitement was subsiding, the magnetism of an
admiring audience began to affect her strongly. With an outburst of
fury, she sang, "War! War!" The audience cried, "_Bis! Bis_!" and she
sang it as powerfully the second time.
What it was that had sustained and carried her through that terrible
ordeal, she could never understand.
When the curtain dropped, Fitzgerald was about to rush after her; but
his wife caught his arm, and he was obliged to follow. It was an awful
penance he underwent, submitting to this necessary restraint; and
while his soul was seething like a boiling caldron, he was obliged to
answer evasively to Lily's frequent declaration that the superb voice
of this Spanish _prima donna_ was exactly like the wonderful voice
that went wandering round the plantation, like a restless ghost.
Papa and Mamma Balbino were waiting to receive the triumphant
_cantatrice_, as she left the stage. "_Brava! Brava_!" shouted the
Signor, in a great fever of excitement; but seeing how pale she
looked, he pressed her hand in silence, while Madame wrapped her in
shawls. They lifted her into the carriage as quickly as possible,
where her head drooped almost fainting on Madame's shoulder. It
required them both to support her unsteady steps, as they mounted the
stairs to their lofty lodging. She told them nothing that night of
having seen Fitzgerald; and, refusing all refreshment save a sip of
wine, she sank on the bed utterly exhausted.
CHAPTER XX.
She slept late the next day, and woke with a feeling of utter
weariness of body and prostration of spirit. When her dressing-maid
Giovanna came at her summons, she informed her that a gentleman had
twice called to see her, but left no name or card. "Let no one be
admitted to-day but the manager of the opera," said Rosa. "I will
dress now; and if Mamma Balbino is at leisure, I should like to have
her come and talk with me while I breakfast."
"Madame has gone out to make some purchases," replied Giovanna. "She
said she should return soon, and charged me to keep everything quiet,
that you might sleep. The Signor is in his room waiting to speak to
you."
"Please tell him I have waked," said Rosa; "and as soon as I have
dressed and breakfasted, ask him to come to me."
Giovanna, who had been at the opera the preceding evening, felt the
importance of her mission in dressing the celebrated Senorita Rosita
Campaneo, of whose beauty and gracefulness everybody was talking. And
when the process was completed, the _cantatrice_ might well have been
excused if she had thought herself the handsomest of women. The glossy
dark hair rippled over her forehead in soft waves, and the massive
braids behind were intertwisted with a narrow band of crimson velvet,
that glowed like rubies where the sunlight fell upon it. Her morning
wrapper of fine crimson merino, embroidered with gold-colored silk,
was singularly becoming to her complexion, softened as the contact was
by a white lace collar fastened at the throat with a golden pin. But
though she was seated before the mirror, and though her own Spanish
taste had chosen the strong contrast of bright colors, she took no
notice of the effect produced. Her face was turned toward the
window, and as she gazed on the morning sky, all unconscious of its
translucent brilliancy of blue, there was an inward-looking expression
in her luminous eyes that would have made the fortune of an artist, if
he could have reproduced her as a Sibyl. Giovanna looked at her with
surprise, that a lady could be so handsome and so beautifully dressed,
yet not seem to care for it. She lingered a moment contemplating the
superb head with an exultant look, as if it were a picture of her
own painting, and then she went out noiselessly to bring the
breakfast-tray.
The Senorita Campaneo ate with a keener appetite than she had ever
experienced as Rosabella the recluse; for the forces of nature,
exhausted by the exertions of the preceding evening, demanded
renovation. But the services of the cook were as little appreciated as
those of the dressing-maid; the luxurious breakfast was to her simply
food. The mirror was at her side, and Giovanna watched curiously to
see whether she would admire the effect of the crimson velvet gleaming
among her dark hair. But she never once glanced in that direction.
When she had eaten sufficiently, she sat twirling her spoon and
looking into the depths of her cup, as if it were a magic mirror
revealing all the future.
She was just about to say, "Now you may call Papa Balbino," when
Giovanna gave a sudden start, and exclaimed, "Signorita! a gentleman!"
And ere she had time to look round, Fitzgerald was kneeling at her
feet. He seized her hand and kissed it passionately, saying, in an
agony of entreaty: "O Rosabella, do say you forgive me! I am suffering
the tortures of the damned."
The irruption was so sudden and unexpected, that for an instant she
failed to realize it. But her presence of mind quickly returned, and,
forcibly withdrawing the hand to which he clung, she turned to the
astonished waiting-maid and said quite calmly, "Please deliver
_immediately_ the message I spoke of."
Giovanna left the room and proceeded directly to the adjoining
apartment, where Signor Balbino was engaged in earnest conversation
with another gentleman.
Fitzgerald remained kneeling, still pleading vehemently for
forgiveness.
"Mr. Fitzgerald," said she, "this audacity is incredible. I could not
have imagined it possible you would presume ever again to come into my
presence, after having sold me to that infamous man."
"He took advantage of me, Rosa. I was intoxicated with wine, and knew
not what I did. I could not have done it if I had been in my senses.
I have always loved you as I never loved any other woman; and I never
loved you so wildly as now."
"Leave me!" she exclaimed imperiously. "Your being here does me
injury. If you have any manhood in you, leave me!"
He strove to clutch the folds of her robe, and in frenzied tones cried
out: "O Rosabella, don't drive me from you! I can't live without--"
A voice like a pistol-shot broke in upon his sentence: "Villain!
Deceiver! What are you doing here? Out of the house this instant!"
Fitzgerald sprung to his feet, pale with rage, and encountered the
flashing eyes of the Signor. "What right have _you_ to order me out of
the house?" said he.
"I am her adopted father," replied the Italian; "and no man shall
insult her while I am alive."
"So _you_ are installed as her protector!" retorted Fitzgerald,
sneeringly. "You are not the first gallant I have known to screen
himself behind his years."
"By Jupiter!" vociferated the enraged Italian; and he made a spring to
clutch him by the throat.
Fitzgerald drew out a pistol. With a look of utter distress, Rosa
threw herself between them, saying, in imploring accents, "_Will_ you
go?"
At the same moment, a hand rested gently on the Signor's shoulder, and
a manly voice said soothingly, "Be calm, my friend." Then, turning to
Mr. Fitzgerald, the gentleman continued: "Slight as our acquaintance
is, sir, it authorizes me to remind you that scenes like this are
unfit for a lady's apartment."
Fitzgerald slowly replaced his pistol, as he answered coldly: "I
remember your countenance, sir, but I don't recollect where I have
seen it, nor do I understand what right you have to intrude here."
"I met you in New Orleans, something more than four years ago,"
replied the stranger; "and I was then introduced to you by this lady's
father, as Mr. Alfred King of Boston."
"O, I remember," replied Fitzgerald, with a slight curl of his lip. "I
thought you something of a Puritan then; but it seems _you_ are her
protector also."