A

CHAPTER XXVI.

THE SINGER.

GREAT event in my life lies so near to me here that it

almost dislodges all others from my mind, as the lofty pine-tree of the wood draws away the eye from the low undergrowth; I therefore only passingly describe that which lies in the middle ground.

I was often at the house of the Podesta I was, they said, its enlivening genius. Rosa talked to me about her beloved Naples, and I read aloud to her and her niece the "Divina Commedia," Alfieri, and Nicolini, and I was captivated with Maria's mind and feeling as much as with the works of the poets themselves. Out of this house Poggio was my dearest associate; they knew it, and he, too, was invited by the Podesta. He thanked me for this, and declared that it was my merits and not his, and our friendship, which had introduced him there, for which he was the envy of the whole youth of Venice.

Everywhere was my talent as improvisatore admired, nay, it was so highly esteemed that no circle would allow me to escape before I had gratified their wish by giving them a proof of my power. The first artists extended to me their hands as brothers, and encouraged me to come forward in public. And in part I did so before the members of the Academia del Arte one evening, by improvising on Dandola's procession to Constantinople, and upon the bronze horses on the church of St. Mark, for which I was honored with a diploma and received into their Society.

But a much greater pleasure awaited me in the house of the Podesta. One day Maria presented to me a little casket containing a beautiful necklace of lovely, bright-colored musselshells, exceedingly small, delicate, and lovely, strung upon a

silken thread; it was a present from the unfortunates of Lido, whose benefactor I was called.

"It is very beautiful," said Maria.

“That you must preserve for your bride,” said Rosa ;

6 it

is a lovely gift for her, and with that intention has it been given."

"My bride," repeated I, gravely: "I have not one-really have not one."

"But she will come," said Rosa; "you will have a bride, and certainly the most beautiful."

"Never!" repeated I, and looked on the ground, in the deep sense of how much I had lost.

Maria, also, became silent with my dejection. She had pleased herself so much in the idea of astonishing me by the gift, and had received it from Poggio, to whom it had been given for that purpose; and I now stood embarrassed, concealing my embarrassment so ill, and holding the necklace in my hand. I would so gladly have given it to Maria, but Rosa's words staggered my determination. Maria certainly divined my thoughts, for, as I fixed my eye upon her, a deep crimson flushed her countenance.

"You come very seldom to us," said my rich banker's wife one day as I paid her a visit, "very seldom come here, but to the Podesta's ! - yes, that is more amusing! Maria is, indeed, the first beauty in Venice, and you are the first improvisatore. It will thus be a very good match; the girl will have a magnificent estate in Calabria; it is her own heritage, or has been bought for that purpose. Be bold, and it will succeed. You will be the envy of all Venice."

66

"How can you think," returned I, that such a conceited thought should enter my mind? I am as far from being a lover of Maria's as anybody else can be. Her beauty charms me, as all beauty does, but that is not love; and that she has fortune does not operate with me."

“Ah, well, well! we shall see for all that!" said the lady. "Love gets on best in life when it stands well in the kitchen —when there is enough to fill the pot. It is out of this that people must live!" And with this she laughed and gave me her hand.

It provoked me that people should think and should talk in this way. I determined to go less frequently to the house of the Podesta, spite of their all being so dear to me. I had thought of spending this evening with them, but I now altered my determination. My blood was in agitation. Nay, thought I, wherefore vex myself? I will be cheerful. Life is beautiful if people will only let it be so; free I am and nobody shall influence me! Have I not strength and will of my own?

In the dusk of the evening I took a ramble alone through the narrow streets, where the houses met one another, where, therefore, the little rooms were brightly lighted up, and the people thronged together. The lights shone in long rays upon the Great Canal, the gondolas flew rapidly along under the single lofty arch which sustained the bridge. I heard the voice of singing; it was that ballad about kissing and love, and, like the serpent around the tree of knowledge, I knew the beautiful face of Sin.

I went onward through the narrow streets, and came to a house more lighted up than any of the others, into which a crowd of people were going. It was one of the minor theatres of Venice, Saint Lucas', I believe, it was called. A little company gave the same opera there twice in the day, as in the "Theatro Fenize" in Naples. The first representation of the piece begins about four o'clock in the afternoon and ends at six, and the second begins at eight. The price was very low, but nobody must expect to see anything extraordinary; yet the desire which the lower classes here have to hear music, and the curiosity of strangers, cause there often to be very good houses, and that even twice in the evening.

I now read in the play-bill, “Donna Caritea, regina de Spagna, the music by Mercadante."

"I can come out again if I get weary of it," said I to myself; "and, at all events, I can go in and look at the pretty women." I was in the humor for the thing, and resolved to enjoy myself.

I went in, received a dirty little ticket, and was conducted to a box near the stage. There were two rows of boxes, one above the other; the places for the spectators were right spa

cious, but the stage itself seemed to me like a tray: several people could not have turned themselves round upon it, and yet there was going to be exhibited an equestrian opera, with a tournament and a procession. The boxes were internally dirty and defaced; the ceiling seemed to press the whole together. A man in his shirt-sleeves came forward to light the lamps; the people talked aloud in the pit; the musicians came into the orchestra - they could only raise a quartette.

Everything showed what the whole might be expected to be, yet still I resolved to wait out the first act. I noticed the ladies around me none of them pleased me. A young man now entered the box next to mine; I had met him in company. He smiled and offered me his hand, saying,

"Who would have thought of meeting you here? But," whispered he, "one can often make very pleasant acquaintance here; in the pale moonlight people easily get acquainted."

He kept talking on and was hissed, because the overture had begun; it sounded very deplorable, and the curtain rolled up. The whole corps consisted of two ladies and three gentlemen, who looked as if they had been fetched in from field labor, and bedizened in knightly apparel.

"Yes," said my neighbor, "the solo parts are often not badly cast. Here is a comic actor who might figure in any first-rate theatre. Ah, ye good saints!" exclaimed he to himself, as the queen of the piece entered with two ladies; are we to have her to-night? Yes, then, I would not give a half-zwanziger for the whole thing; Jeanette was much better!"

It was a slight, ordinary figure, with a thin, sharp countenance, and deeply-sunken dark eyes, who now came forward. Her miserable dress hung loosely about her; it was poverty which came forward as the queen; and yet it was with a grace which amazed me, and which accorded so little with the rest, a grace which would excellently have become a young and beautiful girl. She advanced towards the lamps my heart beat violently; I scarcely dared to inquire her name; believed that my eyes deceived me.

"What is she called?" at length I asked.

I

"Annunciata," replied my neighbor. "Sing she cannot, and that one may see by that little skeleton!"

Every word fell upon my heart like corrosive poison; I sat as if nailed fast; my eyes were fixed immovably upon her.

She sang; no, it was not Annunciata's voice; it sounded feeble, inharmonious, and uncertain.

"There are certainly traces of a good school," said my neighbor; "but there is not power for it."

"She does not resemble," said I tremulously, "a namesake of hers, Annunciata, a young Spaniard, who once made a great figure in Naples and Rome? "

66

Ah, yes," answered he; "it is she herself! Seven or eight years ago she sat on the high horse. Then she was young, and had a voice like a Malibran; but now all the gilding is gone; that is, in reality, the lot of all such talents! For a few years they shine in their meridian glory, and, dazzled by admiration, they never think that they may decline, and thus rationally retire whilst glory is beaming around them. The public first find out the change, and that is the melancholy part of it; and then, commonly, these good ladies live too expensively, and all their gains are squandered, and then it goes down hill at a gallop! You have then seen her in Rome, have you?" asked he.

"Yes," replied I, "several times."

"It must be a horrible change! most to be deplored, however, for her," said he. "She is said to have lost her voice in a long, severe sickness, which must be some four or five years since; but with that the public has nothing to do. Will you not clap for old acquaintance sake? I will help; it will please the old lady!"

He clapped loudly; some in the parterre followed his example, but then succeeded a loud hissing, amid which the queen proudly went off the scene. It was Annunciata!

"Fuimus Troes!" whispered my neighbor. Now came forward the heroine of the piece; she was a very pretty young girl, of a luxuriant form, and with a burning glance; she was received with acclamations and the clapping of hands. All the old recollections rushed into my soul; the transports of