Chapter VIII: Piale Schemes

"Wilt thou go forth into the friendless waste
That hast this Paradise of pleasure here?"
The Light of Asia.

There are some who consider that a hero must be practically immaculate, and who grumble sorely if called upon to study the life of an ordinary mortal who often stumbles when the road is rough, who shrinks from the Valley of Humiliation, and takes a foolish, fleeting delight in Bypath Meadow. But if the function of all art is to picture life,--not to photograph, but to paint it,--then, without doubt, the typical hero of romance with his faultless features and his preternatural nobility must disappear forever from the canvas; for where are these perfect beings who, in spite of cruel circumstances, never fall, who never harbor selfish thoughts--never speak hasty words?

Thank God, one meets plenty of good men, but the best of them would certainly own that there had been times when they had felt ready to tear their tongues out in vain regret for irrevocable words--that they would give almost anything to live over again some misguided bit of their lives.

Carlo Donati was not an immaculate hero of romance, but a nineteenth-century man,--a man of flesh and blood, with a quick, ardent, sanguine temperament and strong passions. When those words which the English tourist let fall in the Neapolitan _caffé_ had arrested his attention, he had been pricked at heart, and for the time vaguely disquieted. A yet deeper impression had been made upon him by his promise to his mother on her death-bed. Still, all had been vague and formless. Now, Sardoni's bald, matter-of-fact statement had plunged the sword much farther, had called up before him a plain, unmistakable way of helping Anita. The typical hero would of course have flung himself into the breach without an instant's hesitation, but Carlo did no such thing; he did not even allow his thoughts to dwell on the possibility, but just turned his back on the whole matter, tried to make Anita's visit as pleasant as might be, and sought refuge from his own sad memories in daily meetings with Francesca.

He did, however, to some extent follow Sardoni's advice, and, intrusting Piale with as much of the truth as he deemed necessary, wrote to ask him whether he knew of any singer who might be found to take Comerio's place. He also wrote to Merlino, obtaining further leave of absence for his sister, on condition that she drove into Naples each day next week for rehearsal, and finally returned when the performances began. The days sped by rapidly enough, and on the Thursday, true to his promise, Carlo took his sister back, parting with her at the entrance to the Palazzo Forti, not without regret and apprehension. Mingled, however, with these came a sense of deep relief, for, from a selfish point of view, he could not but revel in his regained freedom: his life could never again be what it had been before Anita's return, but a sort of after-glow of the old times seemed to rise in his sky when the cloud of poor Nita's immediate presence was removed. He felt hopeful, too, for Piale had written to ask him to call at twelve o'clock, and he thought that perhaps he had found a desirable baritone.

The old Maestro received him very kindly, but soon dashed his expectations to the ground.

"I know of no one," he said emphatically,--"no one. You speak as if good baritones were as rife as mushrooms. And, look you, Comerio is a clever actor, and has a fine voice; you'll not easily find any one to beat him, and if you did it is unlikely enough that they would take lower terms. Besides, Merlino is extremely unpopular as a manager; only just now I had his conductor in, a capital young fellow--Marioni, and he says that they all find it almost impossible to work with him. You must give up that idea; I, at any rate cannot help you in it."

Carlo sighed, and fell into deep thought. He did not hear footsteps on the stairs, nor notice that some one entered the inner room, which was divided from the front one only by a curtain. But Piale heard, and abruptly changed the subject.

"You have been neglecting your voice, I fear," he said, looking critically into his pupil's face, and grieving to see what a change trouble had wrought in it. "Not that I blame you in the least; there are times, of course, when even music must go to the wall. Let me hear you."

He made him work for a time at _solfeggi_, then broke into an impatient explanation, forgetting everything but his art. "Out of practice--shockingly out of practice," he said, with a portentous frown, "try this."

He took down a copy of "_Faust_" and played the opening bars of "_Dio Possente_." The frown and the impatient ejaculation incited Carlo; he cared intensely to please his old master, and, throwing his whole soul into the music, and losing his own identity in that of Valentino, he gave an almost perfect rendering of the song.

Suddenly the curtain between the two rooms was torn back, and a black-bearded man, with swarthy face, and extremely small, dark eyes, with a restless, irritable look in them, hastened forward.

"Signor Piale, I congratulate you!" he exclaimed, "you have produced the most promising singer of the day! No wonder you are proud of your pupil!"

He was evidently carried away by the excitement of the moment, for his face, naturally most disagreeable, was illuminated with the same glow of artistic delight which, as the song proceeded, had softened Piale's rugged features.

For a minute an observer would have noticed that the two listeners had forgotten everything but their art, while Carlo was still Valentino, not himself. There was a silence; the old Maestro looked triumphantly happy; the stranger turned his small, restless eyes on the singer, and Carlo gradually awoke to the recollection that he was not Valentino going off to the war and praying for the safety of his sister, but Anita's brother with far greater cause for anxiety, and with his hopes of assistance from Piale dashed to the ground.

All at once he came to full consciousness of the actual present, and found the stranger undisguisedly taking stock of him, looking him over from head to foot with interest and curiosity. Carlo, unaccustomed to this sort of appraising stare, felt the blood rush to his cheeks, yet it was no sense of the stranger's rudeness which aroused his strong antipathy. He looked hastily at the black-bearded visitor, looked again, angry with himself at being so much moved, then instinctively he recoiled a pace.

"The likeness is extraordinary!" exclaimed the new-comer, turning to Piale and startling him from his happy reverie.

"Likeness!" ejaculated the old musician, still half in the clouds, but dimly perceiving that sublunary affairs were somehow gone awry. "Likeness! Not at all, signor, not at all; there's not a voice like that in all Italy."

"I don't speak of the voice," said the stranger, impatiently, "but the face is like my wife's--curiously like."

The old musician looked dismayed; he was fully awake now, art was forgotten, and a perilous bit of real life lay before him. In two strides Carlo was beside him, his face flushed, his eyes full of suppressed anger.

"Maestro," he panted, "what is this? what is this that you have done to me?"

"Forgive me," said the old man, "I am not so much to blame as you think. I did indeed invite Signor Merlino to hear you sing, but with the understanding that he should not appear. You broke faith with me, signor."

"A thousand pardons," said Merlino, coolly: "but in truth your pupil ought to be pleased with the compliment. I was so carried away by his singing that I forgot all. I don't understand what all this fuss is about."

He glanced at Carlo, who had turned away at his first words, and stood now at the window with his back to them, evidently struggling to restrain an outburst of passion. Piale looked at him, too, with compunction, but with great bewilderment. How was he to get matters set right? how disentangle himself from the confusion into which Merlino's impulsive entrance had plunged everything?

Carlo stood looking out into the busy street, but he saw nothing, was conscious of nothing but that Merlino was in the room with him--Merlino, the cause of all his sorrow and perplexity. He had conquered by a supreme effort the first savage impulse to fly at the throat of the man who had caused his mother so much grief, but fierce anger still burnt in his heart and sent fiery blood coursing through his veins. A storm of wrathful indignation consumed him as he thought of Merlino's misdeeds; he was angry, too, with Piale, feeling naturally enough that a snare had been laid for him; and he was angry with himself, because even in this moment of confusion he was aware that he had deliberately turned his back on the question now forced upon him, and that want of preparation was his own fault.

For moments of what seemed to us sudden temptation are seldom really sudden. God has given us our times of preparation, and if we have wilfully neglected them the conflict is severer, or perhaps ends in defeat.

How was he now to think out the frightfully involved question at issue? How decide on the right course of action? And yet a false step might prove Nita's ruin. The anguish of that thought, and the loathing of his own selfish procrastination, calmed his anger. With an effort he yielded up his will, and therewith forgot Merlino's presence, because another presence absorbed him wholly.

He was interrupted by a touch on his arm. Piale stood beside him, with a look of deep concern on his kind old face.

"Carlo _mio_," he said, in a low voice, "I apologize to you, and beg your forgiveness; but since things have so fallen out, perhaps you will permit me to introduce you to Signor Merlino, who will then understand us better."

Carlo assented, subduing the angry thoughts which yet struggled to find place in his heart.

"Signor," said the old musician, approaching Merlino, "there is nothing extraordinary in the likeness you observed. Permit me to introduce you to Signor Donati."

Merlino started violently, and for a minute looked abashed, and greatly confused. Piale with much curiosity watched his pupil, who had turned from the window as he spoke, and now, with a face as pale as death, bowed gravely.

There was an awkward pause, broken presently by Carlo.

"I brought my sister to Palazzo Forti an hour ago, signor," he said, speaking to Merlino with grave courtesy; "I am much obliged to you for sparing her to me so long."

The speech cost him a great deal, but he was glad that he had brought himself to make it, for he had no wish to quarrel with Nita's husband, indeed he fully recognized Merlino's rights, though unable to think patiently of the way in which he had acquired them, or the manner in which he now abused them.

"A few days' rest will doubtless have been good for Anita," said Merlino, complacently, speaking of his wife much as he might have spoken of an over-worked horse; "she has had hard work in America, nor can we afford now to be idle. It is a pleasure to me to make your acquaintance, signor. If I could induce you to follow your sister's example and use your great talents professionally it would give me the greatest satisfaction."

Carlo's heart began to throb painfully. Could it be that he was called to this? Could it be that this man--this coarse, brutal tyrant--was to prove the arbiter of his destiny? The words which a few days before he had used so emphatically to Sardoni trembled on his lips, "I hope for a very different life." But he managed to strangle them. Had he not offered up his will? He stood silent, waiting for guidance, hoping against hope, as is the way with the poor mortals, that, after all, his own will might be done. He waited. At length Piale spoke; the words fell on him like blows.

"I have long urged upon my pupil, signor, the duty of going on the stage, for which he is admirably fitted. I am not without hope that circumstances may prompt him at length to consent. But there is as yet no vacancy in your troupe, I think, so I fear that you will not have the honor of introducing to the public both Madame Merlino and Carlo Donati."

Carlo stood silently listening to the discussion of his fate, looking now at Piale's brown, wrinkled face, with its parchment-like skin, furrowed brow, and crown of bushy, grizzled hair, now at the disagreeable face of Merlino. He knew that when the Impresario spoke next he would say that Comerio's engagement might be terminated very shortly if he so willed; knew that Merlino was once more appraising him, observing the symmetry of his face and figure, calculating whether he would "draw." He felt like a slave in the market, but still he waited and held his peace.

"It shall not be my fault if I lose the honor," said Merlino at length; "by good luck Comerio's engagement is terminable at eighteen months if I so please; may be ended, that is, in a fortnight's time. What say you, Signor Piale? Could you have your pupil fit to fill the vacancy in so short a time as that?"

Piale was not to be daunted, though he knew well enough that the time was very short indeed for the preparation which would be necessary.

"Whether Comerio's costumes could be altered for him so soon is perhaps doubtful," he replied proudly; "they might or might not be ready in a fortnight's time; but my pupil will be ready--quite ready."

"Well, I'll risk it," said Merlino, who was a keen-eyed man of business, and knew that Carlo would prove a good speculation. "I am prepared to offer you, signor, an engagement of three years, terminable at the end of the first year at the wish of either party. As to the salary, we shall not quarrel I think, '_Oro è che oro vale_,' let me see----"

He began to make a calculation and to discuss money matters with Piale, who, in his delight at the prospect of at length inducing his pupil to go on the stage, was ready to accede to almost any terms.

Carlo, still with that thought of the slave-market in his mind, watched the discussion like one in a dream, paying little heed to the details. It mattered nothing to him, just then, whether he received five pounds a week or fifty; it mattered supremely that he had prayed for guidance, and that immediately after there had come to him this definite offer. He dared not refuse, he hesitated to accept. Silencing the fiends' voices which urged him at once to decline Merlino's proposal, at once to seek the selfish peace which that decision would bring, he braced himself up for a reply. The haggling at length ended, and Merlino turned to him.

"Well, Signor Donati, you hear my offer, and Signor Piale approves of the terms; it rests with you now to accept them or not. It is not for me to advise you either one way or the other; but, in my own mind, I have little doubt that, if you work well, you will be one of the first singers of the day."

Piale's eyes shone; he could hardly contain himself, so great was his excitement. It damped his ardor to see that this glorious prospect brought no faintest gleam of pleasure to his pupil's face. He scratched his parchment-like cheek ferociously, a trick which he had when anything annoyed him or tried his patience. At length Carlo spoke:

"I am obliged to you for your offer, signor, but you will understand that it is impossible for me to accept it on the spur of the moment. The decision will affect others; I must think of them as well as of myself. I must consult those who belong to me."

"Well, well," said Merlino, impatiently, "so long as you keep the matter quiet--so long as it does not come to Comerio's ears, I don't object to that; but I can't afford to be off with him till I am on with you."

"I promise you all shall be kept quiet," said Carlo. "How soon must you know my decision?"

"Meet me next Wednesday at the Mercadante--or, better still, if Signor Piale will permit, at this house, and I will have the contract ready. That leaves you nearly a week, and I shall quite hope for a favorable reply. I shall, in the mean time, not breathe a word of this to my wife, who, of course, will be charmed to have you in the troupe. Good-day, signor, and let me entreat you not to throw away this opportunity. A thousand thanks, Signor Piale, for your courtesy, and pray forgive my impetuous entrance."

He bowed himself out.

Carlo watched him as he walked down the street--watched him in a sort of stupor. When he had disappeared, his eyes turned to a heavily laden mule just coming into sight, with waving green boughs tied about its head to keep off the flies; it toiled patiently on, the lazy boy in charge hanging on to its tail with his right hand, while he devoured a great hunch of bread clasped fast in his left. Carlo watched with a sort of envy the placid calm of the sun-burned lad--that picture of lazy content contrasted so oddly with the state of his own mind. Piale soon added to the fierceness of the storm by urgent and almost piteous entreaties that he would accept Merlino's offer. With tears in his eyes the old musician paced to and fro, passionately declaiming upon the sacred calling, and the duty of not allowing such great gifts to rust unused; and Carlo listened with the reluctant attention of one who does not wish to be persuaded. It was bad enough to fight against his own convictions; he did not want Piale's arguments to make the conflict yet more severe.

"I tell you," urged the old man, "that Italian opera is dying--dying for want of fit exponents. There is scarcely a man whom one cares to listen to, and it will never be kept alive by two or three _prime donne_. You might revive it, and yet you hesitate. _Corpo di Bacco!_ Is it that you are unaware of your gifts? Is it that your very modesty is to prove the bane of your life and the destruction of my hopes? Listen to me--it is the plain truth I am telling you, and you well know I never flatter. For years upon years Italy has produced no great tenor, or baritone, or bass; now she has produced you; and, if you work well, you will be the first singer in Europe. Italy has produced you, and then you persist in hiding your light under a bushel! _Diavolo_! 'tis enough to try the patience of a saint!"

"Dear Maestro!" said Carlo, with a faint smile, "what can I do more than promise to consider this offer? How can you expect me to decide all in a moment? Ah!"--a quick sigh escaped him--"do you not see what it will involve?"

"_Hein!_ What it will involve? Why, yes; I understand that it might postpone your marriage for a time. Art demands some sacrifices."

"And what right have I to sacrifice Francesca's happiness? To a duty perhaps even that might be right, but to a dream of fame--never!" He laughed; the idea when put into words seemed to him so preposterous.

"Happiness be damned!" cried Piale, with righteous indignation. "I have yet to learn that Italy produced you, and England produced Miss Britton, that you might be happy. And do I not know Miss Britton? Can I for one moment dream that she would wish to hold you back? Why, by all saints, no! My dear boy you are young--young. Believe me, a girl is always willing to wait when the good of her lover is in question. As to Captain Britton, he can't have lived all these years in Italy and yet retain his Puritan notions in all their strictness. He may object at first, but, hearing all the circumstances of the case, he will soon give way. Courage, Carlo _mio_! For a great gain, a momentary sacrifice!"

Perhaps it was that word "momentary" which showed Carlo plainly what he had before felt dimly, that Piale knew nothing whatever about the sacrifice in question.

Much as he loved the old man, he could bear his presence no longer, but hastily took leave with a few incoherent words about "time" and "thinking it over." He fled from his old singing-master as those in trouble or perplexity always do flee from glib talk. It is the one intolerable thing, as exasperating to the nineteenth-century man as the glib talk of Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar, was to poor Job.

"Momentary, indeed! A momentary sacrifice!" The idea made him indignant and yet pitiful. Had Piale lost his manhood in his art-life? Had he so little conception of what it was to love that he could speak thus? And then he tried to imagine to himself the fulfilment of the Maestro's wish; he had a vision of himself, old and gray-headed, enjoying the sense of his fame and his world-wide reputation, and calmly advising some other in the heyday of youth to renounce love and happiness.

It was not till he was confronted by a huge poster, in which the names of Madame Merlino and Comerio shone out conspicuously, that he once more perceived the true facts of the case. This was no question between the merits of marriage and of art-life; it was the question whether he should choose happiness for Francesca and himself, or choose the possibility of saving his sister. Life is made up of such decisions--some of them petty, some of them overwhelmingly great, but all of them momentous. We hate the thought of the choice, long to gain without losing, hope to triumph without sacrifice, strive and struggle and fret in the vain effort to break through the inexorable law that those who find their life must first lose it. Truly, "men are not more willing to live the life of the Crucified."

Again those words returned to Carlo's mind; they grated upon him even more than when he had first heard them spoken--perhaps because, while far from understanding them, he began vaguely to perceive their drift. He saw a dim, distasteful vision of self-renunciation; he did not see that true self-renunciation implies the peace-giving presence of One in whose service we renounce.

While he was still all confused and agitated by this inward conflict he was waylaid by Herr Ritter.

"Whither away?" exclaimed the old man, kindly. "You are never thinking of going to Pozzuoli in this heat. Come home with me; it is long since I saw you. You are looking fagged, Carlo."

Recollecting the obligation he was under to Enrico's father, Carlo felt that it would not do to refuse his hospitality, though, truth to tell, he had never felt less inclined for a visit to the kindly German household. He, the laughter-loving, felt that he could not endure the sound of laughter; he, the impulsive and unreflecting, had actually come to such a point that he desired nothing so much as quiet and solitude to think out this great question.

He did not get much quiet in the Ritter household, but he met with that hearty, vociferous kindness which Enrico's family knew so well how to bestow. Frau Ritter had never before been so motherly, the daughters of the house never so anxious to do what they could for him. Enrico himself was unusually silent; he watched his friend narrowly, perceiving from his face that matters must be worse rather than better since their last meeting. Possibly, however, the parting with his sister might account for the troubled expression he bore; and when, after dinner, the two friends were left alone, Enrico turned eagerly to the subject which the others had studiously avoided.

"Madame Merlino has left you, I suppose?" he began. "She makes her first appearance to-night, I see."

"She left this morning," said Carlo, "and sings to-night in _Don Giovanni_?"

"Why should you go back to the empty house? Spend the night here," suggested Enrico.

Carlo hesitated.

"It would be my best chance of seeing Comerio," he said, thoughtfully.

"How do you mean?"

"If I slept here and went this evening to the Mercadante."

"_Gran Dio!_ It would scarcely be an enjoyable evening for you, my friend."

Carlo made an expressive gesture with his shoulders.

"Perhaps not, but I should see him and be able to judge better what to be at."

"You have not heard, then, of a baritone fit to step into his shoes?"

"I have heard of one, but it is doubtful whether he will accept Merlino's offer."

"What! Has it gone so far as that? Actually an offer? Come, the clouds begin to disperse! Once get that scamp ousted and your troubles are over."

Carlo was silent. In his heart he thought they would be, not over, but just begun. He had not yet told Enrico of Piale's little plot, for he knew that his friend would favor no plan likely to make him unhappy, and felt that he was not yet strong enough to stand arguments for the side on which he was already biassed.

"Well, I will stay the night since you ask me," he said at length. "Will you come with me to _Don Giovanni_?"

"Yes, if you are indeed bent on going. Your presence will be commented on, though. You see it is so soon after--" he broke off in confusion, adding, after a pause, "and you see every one will be there to-night, for Madame Merlino's first appearance has been much talked of. Your going may be misunderstood."

"_Che sarà sarà_," said Carlo, with a quick sigh. "Enough, I shall go; let us say no more about it."