Читать книгу The Black Carnation - Fergus Hume - Страница 4

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It has been said, truly or otherwise, that every man has in his own life the materials for at least one romance, and for my part I am inclined to subscribe to the saying, seeing that the story I have to tell is as romantic as any I have read. Moreover, it happened to myself, though truly I was more of spectator than actor; still it came within the experience of my latter days, and out of such experience have I constructed this tale. I say constructed, for, indeed, I did but little else than arrange the events in due order, so as to make them understandable to all. Between chapter one which relates the committal of a crime and chapter seventeen which reveals the name of the person who committed it, there is a deal of unravelling to be done, and had it not been for the idleness of my life, I am afraid I would never have had time or patience to disentangle the mysterious circumstances which surrounded the death of Marietta Mazzucata.

Up to the age of fifty years my life was as smooth and happy as any mortal could desire. Of course, in common with all men, I suffered from petty annoyances; still, no very startling event ever happened to lift me out of the common ruck of humanity. I was born of wealthy parents, I went to Eton, I migrated to Oxford, I entered the army, I left the army, I travelled here, there and everywhere, enjoyed all things, exceeded in none, and between my fortieth and fiftieth years had become one of those well-dressed, well-preserved old fogies whom you may see any day in St. James’ Street, or at the windows of respectable clubs. My life, I am afraid, has been an extremely negative one—as I did neither harm nor good, but “dandered on,” as the Scotch say, in a pleasant, aimless fashion, which had, at least, the merit of being happy.

Then occurred that extraordinary event which turned my placid existence into one of great trouble and distress, though, doubtless, I was not called upon to mix myself up in the affair, and had I so chosen could have held aloof, which I certainly would have done had I not been seized with “detective fever.” What! You don’t know what it is? Then I hope for your own peace of mind you never will know, for it is a disease which entails sleepless nights, much thought and ceaseless vigilance. In many cases the game is not worth the candle, and even in this instance, I doubt not, it would have been wiser for me to have left the affair to Scotland Yard, and not to have meddled with what did not concern me. But as I said before, I was seized with detective fever; and if it did not concern me, it greatly concerned Gilbert Tressinger and Lawrence Dallas, both good friends of mine. However, I have now prologized enough, so I will begin to tell you the story of Mazzucata from the very commencement, which, so far as this book is concerned, starts from Covent Garden Theatre on the first night of the new season.

I am very fond of music, and for years have been an assiduous attendant at the opera whenever it chanced to be on at Covent Garden or Her Majesty’s. I have heard Jenny Lind, Malibran, Mario, Grisi—in fact all the great singers of the past, and remember well those palmy days of the Italian Opera, when Rossini, Donizetti, and Bellini were composing master-pieces. Then it was all melody and exquisite vocalization, but now, what with this Wagner craze and Dvorak-Grieg-Brahms-mania, music seems to be nothing but noise. Probably I am wrong—in fact my nephew Charles, a graceless young dog who has no respect for age, tells me I am wrong,—but I had much rather hear an Italian aria, sung by a highly trained singer, than this incessant fiddle playing and drum banging, with every now and then a feeble note from the stage when a fortunate pause gives the vocalist an opportunity of being heard. Oh, Grisi, or Alboni, or Lablache, what could even your strong lungs do against this roar of brass, and shrieking of strings which is called orchestration.

Yet in spite of my distaste for such new-fangled music, I still go to the opera, and it was on that night of the sixteenth of May, one thousand eight hundred and ninety, when hearing Mazzucata in La Reine d’ Ecosse that the catastrophe occurred which resulted in the death of that great singer.

She was a great singer, I admit, a worthy successor to Grisi and Persiani, full of fire and dramatic force, not a mere musical box, twittering like a mechanical bird, which seems to be the prevailing style of the new school of singers. When I was a young man—but there, this is not a book of reminiscences, and I grow wearisome. I speak of the present not of the past, and will therefore defer criticising this degenerated age, with which I am decidedly “out of joint.”

Renaud had composed La Reine d’ Ecosse, and as he was the chief exponent of the most advanced French school, combining—so they say—a thorough knowledge of musical technique with a rare gift of melodic inspiration, the dilettanti of London, whose name is legion, looked forward to a treat of no common order, especially as Mazzucata had created the rôle of Mary Stuart in Paris to the complete satisfaction of Renaud who was notoriously difficult to please.

It being the first night of a new season, the first night of a new opera, and the first night of a new singer, the house was naturally crowded on account of the triple novelty, and I recognized many of my friends. The stall next to mine was vacant, however, and it was not until the overture had commenced that it was occupied, when to my surprise my neighbor proved to be young Lawrence Dallas, whom I had fancied was still abroad. A handsome young fellow he was, somewhat bronzed by tropical suns, but I thought for the moment that his face looked a trifle careworn, as though he were consumed by some secret sorrow. Of course he recognized me at once and shook hands, after carefully depositing under his seat a large bouquet of flowers.

“I didn’t know you were back, Dallas,” I said, as he sat down beside me.

“Oh, I returned to-day.”

“And came to the opera to-night. That is rather sharp work.”

“I had reasons for coming to-night,” he answered, hurriedly.

“Do those flowers form part of the reasons?”

“No! they are for Mazzucata.”

“What, is she so good as that?”

“She is splendid. I saw her in Vienna.”

“Vienna!” I repeated, somewhat amazed. “I did not know you had been there. I thought the East—”

“I’ve been everywhere,” interrupted Dallas with a frown. “East, west, and all over the world. Don’t I look all the better for my travels?”

“No! you look worried.”

He started at this, and cast a searching look on my face.

“You are a close observer, major,” he said, slowly. “I have been worried, but it’s all over now. I am here to enjoy myself.”

“And see Mazzucata.”

“Precisely. But here, you know everyone, major. Who is the man with the flowers, over yonder?”

“Sir Gilbert Tressinger,” I replied, following the direction of his eyes, “his uncle has just died and left him eight thousand a year, and a title. Rather a change.”

“Why ‘rather a change’?”

“Oh, it’s a long story, but the pith of it I can tell you in a few words. Gilbert’s father married an opera singer, who was by no means his social equal. The Tressinger family cut him off, and when the parents died, Gilbert was studying for the stage in Milan. He has a fine tenor voice, and was going to be a new Mario, but when his uncle died all these fine schemes were knocked on the head, and he came in for the property.”

“Lucky fellow,” said Dallas, raising his opera glass to a pair of brilliant black eyes, “but why does he carry flowers otherwise than in his buttonhole?”

“As far as that goes, why do you? Mazzucata must be very good if you young fellows all honor her with bouquets.”

“Well, you see I know Mazzucata very well.”

“In that case you ought to know Tressinger,” said I, coolly.

“Never set eyes on him before to-night.”

“But you surely have heard his name?”

“No! why should I?”

“And yet they say a woman can’t keep a secret.”

“Meaning Mazzucata,” observed Dallas, with a frown.

“Of course.”

Dallas looked straight ahead, but I noticed he was observing me out of the tail of his eye, so, wondering at the persistent way in which Mazzucata was mixed up in his conversation, I adopted the masterly policy of silence, thereby drawing him on to further explanation of his enigmatic utterances.

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said, at length in a hesitating manner.

“Oh, well, if you don’t know, you don’t know,” I answered ambiguously, “but if you bring a bouquet to throw to Mazzucata, why should not Tressinger do the same?”

“He doesn’t know her.”

“There you are wrong. He knows her very well.”

Dallas bit his lip and said something under his breath, the meaning of which I could not catch, but it sounded uncommonly like bad language. Then he laughed in a constrained manner, and tossed back his head, a trick he had with him when annoyed.

“Well, and why not?” he said, after a pause, “Mazzucata knows plenty of people.”

“Of course, especially rich young men.”

“What have you heard?”

“Nothing but town talk. Hush, the curtain is rising.”

The fact was, I knew a good deal about the lady in question, for my club, like the ear of Dionysius, gathers all news, and the relations between Tressinger and this singer had been pretty well discussed, but of course, I was going to mention nothing of this to my fiery young friend, Dallas. It is a weakness of my character that I am over fond of gossip, but I never repeat what I hear, so, having thus an excellent character for secrecy, I am the recipient of many things of a private nature. Dallas knew that I would not hint my knowledge without good reason, and not at all daunted by my abrupt closing of the discussion, touched me on the shoulder as the curtain went up, to invite my attention. Now if there is one thing above another I dislike, it is being interrupted in my enjoyment, so I was not in a very amiable frame of mind when I turned in response to his touch.

“Well! what is it?”

“Is Tressinger a very dear friend?”

“Yes, too dear to be respectable.”

“It’s a—”

“Look here, Dallas,” said I, now thoroughly angry, for I knew his impulsive temper, “if you want to make a noise go outside. I came here to enjoy the music, not to gossip.”

“Well, will you tell me all about this fellow tonight?” he persisted.

“Yes, yes. In fact I’ll introduce you to him.”

“Good, I’ll bear that in mind.”

Having thus satisfied his curiosity for the time being, I concentrated my attention on the stage, but to tell the honest truth, my enjoyment for the evening was over, as the demeanor of Dallas had quite piqued my curiosity, and knowing what I did about Tressinger and Mazzucata, I was puzzled to think how the introduction of this new element would affect the position of affairs. Dallas was Irish and had a most ungovernable temper, so if it were the case, as I suspected, that the singer had been flirting with him, there was no doubt that when he found out she had thrown him over in favor of Tressinger, things would become unpleasantly warm for everyone concerned. I determined to find out all I could from Dallas with the idea of smoothing matters, though at the same time, I must confess, I was considerably curious to know the meaning of all this social mystery.

At this period of my reflections, Mazzucata appeared on the stage, and without doubt she was a beautiful woman, not unworthy to represent the dead loveliness of Mary Stuart. It was the Scottish queen herself, not worn and gray with the shadow of a violent death near at hand, but bright and youthful, holding her court in grim old Holyrood with the poet-lover Chastelard at her feet. Ivan, of course, took the part of the French chevalier, and sang the difficult music allotted to the rôle as only he can sing it. He put me much in mind of Mario, both as regards voice and appearance, but his face was somewhat after the style of Charles Stuart, with grave melancholy eyes—too sombre for a lover, and yet fitted for the character, seeing what was the end of the original.

The stage was very brilliant, representing the throne room of the old palace, filled with silken-clad courtiers and lovely women all grouped round the dais whereon sat Mary Stuart in the spring-time of her fatal beauty. There was a chorus of stern Scottish barons, a counter chorus of Presbyterian fanatics, and when these latter insulted the queen, Chastelard, bold, gay and wrathful, dashed, sword in hand, before the throne to defend his mistress. As I said before, I do not care about modern music, but the stirring finale of this act was worked up in a manner worthy of Meyerbeer’s Huguenots, and when the curtain fell, I, in spite of my prejudices, applauded as heartily as the rest of the audience. I am a just man, and, from long experience, esteem myself a good critic, so I am not ashamed to give it as my opinion that Mazzucata was but little inferior to Giulia Grisi either as regards acting, voice or vocal production.

“Well, what about Tressinger?”

It was Dallas who spoke, and I must say I was distinctly annoyed, as his incessant desire for information quite spoilt my appreciation of the new singer. Under these circumstances I answered him sharply, as I am sure I had every right to do, for his very mal à propos question.

“Good heavens, Dallas, are you still harping on that fellow—cannot you enjoy the music?”

“Oh, the music is well enough, but I want to know about Tressinger.”

“You have Tressinger on the brain. What is he to you?”

“Nothing,” retorted Dallas, promptly, “but, from what you say, he’s a good deal to Mazzucata.”

“Ah! you are jealous.”

“Rubbish!”

“I quite agree with you,” I answered, smiling, “it is rubbish to be jealous—especially on account of that lyric coquette.”

“How do you know she’s a coquette?”

“Common report—” I began, but he interrupted me rudely.

“Common report is a common liar.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

“It’s a truism,” said Dallas, crossly, “but look here, major, don’t abuse Mazzucata any more, for I love her better than my life—in fact, I want to marry her.”

I stared at him in dismay.

“Are you mad?”

“No! I’m as sane as you are. Because you’ve never married, that doesn’t say I shouldn’t.”

“Don’t talk so loud,” said I, soothingly, for he had raised his voice more than I liked, “marry if you like—but Mazzucata—”

“Well, what have you to say against her?” he demanded, defiantly.

“I’ll tell you all I know to-night.”

This closed the conversation for the time being, as the curtain was now rising on the second act, and Dallas, therefore, held his tongue, for which boon I was very thankful, not caring to be worried much more by his incessant questioning and bad temper. I had a good deal to say against Mazzucata; but who would be such a fool as to ignite this mass of gunpowder? Dallas, as I well knew, had a very bad temper, and no respect for age; so, in such circumstances, a wise man holds his tongue. I am a wise man, so I held mine—for the time being.

The second act of the lyric drama, as ’tis now the fashion to call an opera, consisted mostly of intrigue, in which the queen, Chastelard, Murray, and John Knox were all involved, ending in a fine scene, in which Mary banishes the poet from her presence for his presumptuous passion. From a musical point of view, I did not consider it so fine as the first act; but, probably, Renaud had purposely restrained his genius at this part, in order to accentuate more fully the splendid third act, which was said to be a triumph of melodic inspiration and harmonic cunning.

When the curtain fell for the second time, I saw Gilbert Tressinger rise from his seat, and go out into the vestibule of the theatre. Upon seeing this, Dallas touched my arm, and hastily followed him. I arose with considerable reluctance, as, not smoking myself, I find a tobacco-impregnated atmosphere extremely disagreeable, and would much preferred to have remained quietly in my place, or visited the boxes of my friends. Dallas, however, was so anxious to meet Tressinger, and I was so anxious to see why he desired such a meeting, that we both followed the young man,—a thing I would not have done under any other circumstances.

“There he is,” whispered Dallas, when we were in the smoking-room, “leaning against the wall.”

“You won’t wait a moment,” said I, crossly; but, nevertheless, for the sake of peace, walked across to Tressinger, holding out my hand.

“How do you do, Gilbert?” I said, using the privilege of an old friend, and calling him by his Christian name. “So you are back from Paris?”

“Yes; I only ran over on business, major.”

“Mazzucata business,” I murmured, under my breath. “Oh, by the way, let me introduce you to my friend; Mr. Dallas—Sir Gilbert Tressinger.”

“Lawrence Dallas,” said Gilbert, with a bow. “I know you very well, Mr. Dallas. We have a mutual friend, I think.”

“Signora Mazzucata,” replied Dallas, in a marked tone; and then they eyed each other with considerable curiosity, while I, wondering what was to be the outcome of the meeting, stood aside, watching the comedy.

“I knew Signora Mazzucata in Italy,” said Lawrence, at length, in an agreeable manner, evidently considering it best to be diplomatic.

“So she told me. Some time ago, is it not?”

“About eighteen months, or thereabouts. Since then, I have been travelling in the East, and only returned to-day.”

“Oh!” murmured Gilbert, significantly. “And you patronize the opera on the first night of your arrival! You are fond of music?”

“Yes, very,” replied Dallas, who saw at what Tressinger was hinting, and determined not to gratify his rival by showing that he did.

“So fond,” said I, interposing amiably, with the intention of preventing a quarrel between those hot-headed youngsters, “that he brought a bouquet to throw to the lady.”

“I am afraid I also must plead guilty,” observed Gilbert, with a laugh, upon which Dallas half frowned, then recollecting his manners, smiled quietly.

“One cannot pay too many compliments to an artist of Signora Mazzucata’s standing,” he said, carelessly; “do you know her well, Sir Gilbert?”

“Yes, very well, I saw a great deal of her in Paris.”

“Ah!” said Dallas, jealously, and made no further remark about the singer.

On his part Tressinger scrupulously refrained from further discussing Mazzucata, and for the rest of the conversation the two young men, both eaten up with jealousy about this woman, behaved in a regulation society manner. This conversation puzzled me more than ever, and when we were once more seated in our stalls I spoke to Dallas on the matter.

“Well!”

“Well,” he replied, stolidly.

“You are a riddle to-night,” I said, shrugging my shoulders, “you get into a vile temper with a man you do not know, and when I introduce you to him at your express request, you are positively agreeable to one whom I verily believe you regard as your enemy.”

“If he loves Mazzucata I do regard him as my enemy.”

“And why?”

“Because I also love her.”

“There are always two to a bargain,” I observed, sapiently; “so far as I can see, you are both in love with this woman. Now the chances are that she prefers one of you—which one?”

“Myself!” said Dallas, promptly.

“Well, supposing it’s Tressinger?”

“In that case, I would kill her,” he replied equally promptly. I stared in surprise, upon which he broke out into a harsh laugh which had the effect of making several people turn their heads to look at him.

“Oh, you wonder at my melodrama,” he said, at length in a low voice, “but I tell you I would. You have no idea how I love her—of the encouragement she has given me. I heard all about Tressinger—oh yes, you told me nothing new, and knowing he was to be here to-night, I came with the intention of being introduced to him. Well, I have been introduced to him, and now I know—”

He paused suddenly, and, much impressed by his manner, I spoke at once.

“Know what?”

“That which I desired to know.”

“My good fellow, you rave,” I said in calm despair at the hopelessness of extracting sense from this erratic maniac.

“Wait till to-morrow,” he whispered harshly, “and you will see if I rave.”

I was about to make a further remark when the curtain rose, and as Dallas obstinately refused to speak again, I was obliged to turn my attention to the stage, though I wondered much at the strange manner in which he was behaving. However, I put down his extraordinary conduct to an attack of love, and prepared to listen to this famous third act which had been extolled throughout Europe as a miracle of musical excellence.

The stage was set to represent the queen’s chamber in Holyrood, and after half the act had passed in chorus and songs from Chastelard and the queen, the great duet which was so famous, began. Chastelard has hidden himself in the room, the queen sees him and runs to call her guards, but he, throwing himself at her feet, implores her to forgive what he has done for love’s sake. He appeals not to the queen, but to the woman, and she, forgetting her royalty, is about to confess that she loves him, when the sight of the crown recalls to her what she owes to her race, to her country. With a cry she breaks from his encircling arms and summons the guard. The chorus pour in, there is a splendid and stirring finale, and the curtain falls on Mary ordering Chastelard to prison.

It was a great performance on the part of both artists, and when the curtain fell they were called before the footlights to receive the applause which they had honestly earned. The enthusiasm of the audience recalled to me the triumphs of Jenny Lind, especially when a perfect hail of flowers fell on the couple on the stage. Tressinger rising in his stall threw his bouquet to the prima-donna, upon which Dallas, not to be behindhand, also arose and threw his. Ivan picked up some flowers, but whether they were those of my two friends I am not prepared to say, and presented them to Mazzucata. The singer, all smiles, bowed first to one side of the house, and then to the other, pressing the bouquet she held to her breast. Suddenly she looked at it and gave a cry of horror—a cry that was drowned in the frightful explosion which followed.

There was a cloud of smoke which slowly dispersed, and then through the smoky veil I saw, as in a dream, that which was once a lovely woman lying a mangled corpse on the stage. Ivan was leaning back against the curtain with a white face, half stunned with the noise of the explosion—a thrill of horror ran through the crowded house—there was a dead silence, then the vast audience arose with a roar of alarm and made for the doors. The cries of women, the curses of men, I heard half confusedly, but higher than all I heard a cry of terror—

“Dynamite!”