Читать книгу Hugh Crichton's Romance - Christabel R. Coleridge - Страница 26

“Go back, my lord, across the moor!”

Signor Mattei was coming out from a rehearsal. He often told Violante that her work was nothing to his; and, indeed, his violin was always in its place in the orchestra. His work was his life, he would have been miserable without it; and yet, with a not uncommon inconsistency, he liked to pity himself for having got it to do. He was a man with an ideal, with a dream that was very difficult of fulfilment; and, perhaps, did not need sympathy less than the girl who suffered so much and disappointed him so sorely. Whatever may have been Signor Mattei’s youthful hopes, in the days when he had thrown away the chance of a more eligible profession to follow the art he so loved, he had long been forced to limit them to making a fair livelihood by it. Aspirations are not always capabilities; and, spite of self-devotion and enthusiasm and much technical skill, he was not destined to rise to the top of the tree. He was not, indeed, great enough to do as he liked; and his temper and touchiness often brought good engagements to a premature end; and, though he had never hitherto failed in obtaining fresh ones, there was an element of uncertainty in his fortunes. However different things might be with him from what he had once desired, Signor Mattei had not been a discontented man. Small successes which he would once have despised were much pleasanter than small failures; and he had grown to limit his desires to such as were possible of fulfilment; when ambition, desire of gain, and burning enthusiasm were all reawakened by the discovery of Violante’s wonderful voice. Here was his chance again. His daughter’s name should be heard in every capital in Europe: the fortunes of the whole family should be assured. What sacrifices were too great, what toil too arduous by which the possessor of this glorious gift could turn it to account! If such a voice had belonged to Violante’s father how he would have gloried and rejoiced, how he would have worked early and late, how intoxicating would have been the success that crowned his efforts! People bear much harder on each other by the inevitable workings of their alien natures than by wilful selfishness or cruelty. Violante and her father made each other miserable; yet he was anxious to give her what would have been to himself the greatest good, and she wore herself out in trying to obey and to please him. It is not easy for a bystander to judge between distaste and incapacity; it is difficult to say which is the most provoking. No amount of idleness on Violante’s part would have so provoked her father as did her unenthusiastic performance of the amount of study required of her, her tears and terror when she achieved a success. Such folly must be curable by a sufficient amount of scolding and argument. A person must enjoy what is enjoyable when the advantage is pointed out to them with sufficient strength. And Violante had been just successful enough to make her father believe that it entirely depended on herself to succeed better still. Violante thought this belief cruel; and Rosa, standing between both, while she prevented either from feeling the very sharpest edge of the other’s opinion, if she pitied her little sister the most, to a certain extent sympathised with Signor Mattei.

So much for sentiment. Violante was unworthy of her gift, but she possessed it, and it brought substantial gains, much needed; for in a life with so many ups and downs Signor Mattei had not held himself free from debt. Besides, no engagement had ever suited him so well as his present one, and was not that confirmed to him by Signor Vasari’s interest in his young prima donna? If Violante married the manager her success was certain, and the fortunes of the whole family were assured; but if Vasari were offended there was an end of everything.

Her gains for her present engagement would belong to her father; and he felt, though he would not own, that there was enough uncertainty about her future to make the solid good of her marriage most desirable. And Signor Vasari had just made the flattering suggestion that Mdlle. Mattei’s timidity and reluctance might be in part owing to a maidenly coyness and consciousness towards himself. Once acknowledged as his promessa sposa she would gain courage and self-confidence. Signor Mattei joyously pledged himself to do everything in his power to favour the manager’s views. Art, fame, and fortune all smiled upon him; and no experience could make Signor Mattei believe that Violante was so unlike other girls as not to view such a proposal with rapture. Full of this pleasing prospect he was walking hastily home from the theatre to his own dwelling, when he was accosted by Hugh Crichton, who begged the favour of a few words with him.

Hugh was courteous and deferential, but he had no expectation that his proposal would not be received with pleasure; and was desirous, since he must speak to Signor Mattei, to have so far committed himself before he again encountered his brother, whose co-operation when he reached home he felt that he could not altogether afford to despise. Spite, however, of his not unnatural confidence in the result, he felt very hot and shy; blundered through a few unintelligible sentences; tried Italian, with a view of being polite; forgot the Italian for “daughter,” “proposal,” for every thing; and finally, with startling abruptness, hoped in plain English that Signor Mattei would consent to his engagement to his daughter. Signor Mattei stopped short in the street, struck an attitude of astonishment, and loudly exclaimed:

“Signor Hugo! Do my ears deceive me?”

“No, sir, assuredly not,” said Hugh, much discomposed at the sudden standstill. “I have long admired la signorina Violante, and to-day I have ventured to tell her so.”

“Tell her so! tell her so!” ejaculated Signor Mattei. “Tell her so, in her father’s absence! Signor, is this the conduct I could expect?”

“If I have acted in ignorance of Italian customs,” said Hugh, “your long residence in England must have informed you that in coming to you at once I have done all that is required by our own. If you will walk on, sir,” for Signor Mattei was still figuring about on the pavement in a way that worried all the sense out of Hugh’s head, “I will explain myself further.”

Signor Mattei, who had really been taken utterly by surprise by Hugh’s application, and was not undesirous to gain a little time for consideration, bowed profoundly and walked on by Hugh’s side; while the latter, who, with all his desire to make a good impression, felt irritated by his companion’s way, began stiffly:

“I should tell you, Signor Mattei, that I am in all respects my own master, and quite independent of everyone. I am not afraid that my mother will not give Mdlle. Mattei a welcome; and of my own feelings, I assure you, sir, they are most—most strong. I love her, and I hope I shall make her happy—happier than she can be in a profession to which she is so unsuited.”

Hugh was a good speaker, and generally said what he had to say on all public and private occasions with perfect fluency and distinctness; but his eloquence foiled him now, and he coloured up and looked entreatingly at Signor Mattei as he made this false step.

“Unsuited to her profession, signor! unsuited to her profession! Do you mean to insult my daughter?”

“I mean that the profession is unsuited to her,” said Hugh, not mending matters.

“Signor, she has been dedicated to my beloved art from her earliest years. Music is her vocation, as in a lesser—I am proud to say in a lesser—degree it is mine.”

Hugh was not naturally conciliatory; and to listen patiently to what he considered such nonsense, uttered with a flash of the eyes that proved its sincerity, jarred upon him so much that there was as much annoyance as entreaty in his voice as he answered:

“I venture to set myself up as a rival to your art, and I ask you for—Violante. Indeed, I don’t think she will regret the fame she gives up.”

Hugh was so sure that it was better for Violante to marry him, an English gentleman, than to sing at all the operas in Europe, he felt that he was making so good an offer, and yet he wanted her so much, that the humility born of passionate desire conquered his sense of his own merits, and he finished pleadingly:

“If I can help it she never shall.”

“Signor, my daughter is already promised, and the arrangements for her marriage will shortly be begun.”

“That is impossible,” exclaimed Hugh; “she has given her promise to me.”

“Her promise?” cried Signor Mattei; “the promise of a little, foolish, most foolish, girl! No, sir, she knows what my views are, and she is Signor Vasari’s promised wife.”

“She knows!” She—the loving, trustful child whom he had seen kiss his white flowers, who had given herself to him without one word of misgiving. Impossible, indeed.

“She shall not be sacrificed,” cried Hugh, in his turn stopping short. “She has told me that she loves me. Whatever you may have intended her to do is without her will or knowledge.”

Now, in thus asserting Violante’s individuality Hugh made a great mistake. The Italian father did not think that it made much difference if Violante had told Hugh that she loved him twenty times. It was his part to arrange a marriage for her; and her little wishes, her foolish tongue, went for nothing.

“I do not believe Mademoiselle Mattei is aware of your wishes,” said Hugh again, hotly.

Now this was an assertion which Signor Mattei could fairly face. Violante was well aware of her father’s wishes. That she was involved in any positive promise she could not know, insomuch as the promise had been made for her at the very time when she had been making a far different one for herself. Nor had she fully known her danger, since Rosa, for the sake of peace and composure, had carefully kept the subject out of sight.

“Nevertheless, she is aware of them,” said Signor Mattei; and while Hugh paused, silenced for the moment, he went on, not without dignity:

“Signor, I thank you. Your proposal honours my little girl, and honours you, since you mean to sacrifice much to win her. But I know your country and your manners, and I will not give up my daughter. Your noble ladies will not receive her well.”

“There is nothing of the sort—we have no rank at all,” interposed Hugh, “and I will answer for my mother.”

“My daughter, sir, has a great future before her; she shall not sacrifice it. She shall not marry out of her class and away from her country and give up what Fortune has laid at her feet. Your fancy, Signor, will pass as it came, and hers—pshaw—she has nothing strong in her but her voice, her voice of an angel.”

Signor Mattei was a single-minded man, though he had not dealt singly with Hugh. The good match for his daughter shrank to nothing compared to the career from which it would shut her out. That underneath lurked some consciousness of the advantage to himself is true; but never would he have dreamed of claiming any like advantages from this other suitor.

Hugh walked on by his side pale and bewildered, a horrible doubt of Violante weakening his arguments and chilling his entreaties. At last he said, desperately, “Signor Mattei, after what has passed I cannot take my answer from you. She told me nothing of a former promise. She must tell me that she has made none, and then I swear to you her life shall have none of the trials you dread. I will either go home and bring you my mother’s words of welcome—my mother herself,” he continued, rashly, “or I will seek no consent at all—none is needed. I would marry her to-morrow if you care for such a test.”

“You in England, Signor, may marry spite of a parent’s curse.”

“Curse! nonsense,” said Hugh, impatiently.

“But here a father’s word is enough. She can give you no answer but mine.”

“I will have an answer from her,” said Hugh; “and if she can tell me she is not promised to that fellow I will never give her up till—till I have persuaded you to take a different view of this.”

“But she is promised, sir, and I refuse to entertain your proposals for her.”

“She never told me so!”

“She is timid,” said Signor Mattei, with a shrug, “timid, and, like all girls, a fool. Enough; I can say no more, Signor. I have the honour to wish you good evening.” And, with a rapidity for which Hugh was unprepared, Signor Mattei darted down a side street, and left him to himself.

Baffled as he was, Hugh did not mean to rest satisfied with his answer. He could not believe that the opposition would hold out after he had proved himself to be thoroughly in earnest. If only the horrible doubt of Violante’s own fair dealing could be removed!—and removed it should be the first time he had the chance of a word with her. For Hugh was not a suspicious person, and it would have been hard indeed to doubt the shy yet passionate tenderness of Violante’s voice and face. He did not understand the entanglement, but he was not going to convict her without a trial. Still, this later interview had effectually brought him down to earth; and he went back to the Consulate with the arguments which were to bring James over to his side by no means in such order as he had hoped. He found the ladies drinking coffee and James discoursing on the delights of his afternoon ramble.

“I assure you, Miss Tollemache, she had eyes like a gazelle, and her smile—there was intelligence and intellect in it; you could see by the way that she smiled that she had a mind, you know.”

“But flower-girls always do smile, Mr Crichton.”

“Ah, but how different this was from the made-up smiles you see in England—such a sense of art, too, in her white handkerchief—no hats and feathers. She only said, ‘Grazie, signor!’ but there was a sort of recognition, you know, of one’s interest in her.”

“I shall go and look at her,” said Emily.

“Now, if one lived in a simpler state of society,” pursued Jem, “what curious intercourse one might have with such a being—how much she might add to one’s knowledge of existence! How one can imagine the great men of old—Raphael in search of the Beautiful—dancing in the evening! Oh, Hugh, I didn’t see you! Where have you been?”

“Where have you been would be more to the point,” retorted Hugh. “In one of Bulwer’s novels?”

“He has fallen in love with a flower-girl,” said Emily.

“Emily, my dear,” said her mother, “Mr Crichton was only describing an artistic effect. It is very desirable to cultivate a love of nature.”

“Very,” said Jem. His enthusiasm had been perfectly genuine, though he had not been without a desire to interest his audience; and he could not resist a side glance at Hugh, who looked hot and cross.

“Have you seen any flower-girls, Mr Crichton?” said Emily, wickedly.

“No, Miss Tollemache, nothing so interesting;” and then a sudden sense of the extreme falsity of his words came over him; and he blushed in a violent, foolish way, which completed his annoyance with things in general.

James saw the blush and knew that something had happened. He did not, how ever, quite like to question his brother; and when the ladies left them they went out on the balcony and for some time smoked in silence.

At last Hugh knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and said, in a formal, uncomfortable tone:

“James, I have made a proposal to Mdlle. Mattei.”

“The deuce you have!” ejaculated Jem.

“And what did she say?”

“She accepted it. But, Jem, you may entirely disabuse your mind of the idea that there has been any attempt to—to catch me; for her father has just given me to understand that he will not consent to it.”

“What! he prefers the manager!”

“So he says.”

“And she doesn’t?”

“No,” very shortly. “But I cannot suppose that if he was fully aware of the genuineness of my intentions and knew that my mother would receive her— In short, Jem, another person’s words—”

“Another person? Do you mean me? Answer for mamma? I declare, Hugh, that’s a little too much. You’re going to raise such a row at home as was never heard of, and you want me to help you!”

Hugh said nothing, and James’s momentary perturbation subsided.

“This is good!” he said. “You wanting help! Did you ever live in Oxley, Hugh, or is it all a mistake? ‘Jones at the opera abroad’ is so very unlike ‘Jones at the opera at home.’”

“I am in earnest, Jem,” said Hugh, as James did all the laughing at his own joke.

“It’s a great mistake being in earnest,” said Jem. “Here have you spoilt all your fun by it.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Why,” said Jem, mischievously. “Of course, Violante was intended to amuse you during your holiday. A little sentiment—study of life.”

“I have asked Mdlle. Mattei to be my wife,” interrupted Hugh, in a tone of high offence.

“I beg your pardon,” said Jem, after a moment’s pause. “I’ll be serious. So Signor Mattei is the difficulty? H’m! How far do you suppose he is involved with this dangerous rival?”

“That is what I cannot make out. He says that she, Violante, is engaged to him but she never mentioned his name.”

“Told you nothing about him?”

“No. So the question is,” said Hugh, in a voice that he tried hard to keep at an even level, “the question is, who is deceiving me?”

“Both and neither,” returned Jem. “What?”

“I dare say she likes you best, and thinks she will try to get out of her previous entanglement.”

“She should have spoken the truth,” said Hugh, frowning.

“Come, Hugh, that’s expecting a great deal of a poor little frightened thing like that, and an Italian, too. What would you have?”

“You did not see her?” said Hugh.

James looked at him, and saw that his hand shook as he put his pipe back into its case while he kept his face turned away.

“What shall you do?” he said.

“Find out,” returned Hugh, “and act accordingly.”

He walked away as he spoke. James did not suppose it likely that Violante would come out of the ordeal with such flying colours as to satisfy his brother; and, though he was very little inclined to judge the poor child harshly, he could not help hoping that here was a way of escape for Hugh from a most unlucky prepossession, though, as he was forced to acknowledge, at the cost of considerable pain.