He made his début ten days later before an audience which filled the great music-room of the Villa Angelica. He repeated “Pallido il sole” and an air of bravura from the same opera of Artaxerxes, which was composed to show the compass and the control of a great soprano voice, “Son Qual Nave,” a solo from Jommelli’s Demophoon, and another from the Achilles in Scyros. He made, not a success but a triumph. Standing up on the dais before an audience for the first time, his voice for the first few notes had trembled and quavered, but the music had mastered him then and though his audience still existed in front of him, it existed as something dead into which his voice and his melodies were to breathe life. And his audience was inspired. This was no longer the pretty boy in the pretty clothes, this was a singer who could lift you into azure dreams or drop you into a swooning sadness. When he finished, the Evvivas rang loud, fans tapped the palms of hands in applause, flowers were thrown at his feet — and in the midst of these extravagant favours, he saw on the outer edge of the chairs, Lady Place standing beside a Captain of the Royal Navy in his blue coat with a string of glistening medals across his chest. The Captain was applauding, but whilst he applauded, he spoke under his breath to Lady Place, and Lady Place agreed with a nod — and Julian on the dais receiving the ovations of his audience burst into tears.
He couldn’t help it. He felt the bitterest shame.
“I’m womanish, but not a woman. I’m a man and less than a man. I’m a doll with a voice, and he’s telling her so, and she is agreeing.” The fact that the man wore the blue of the Navy made that moment doubly bitter for Julian Linchcombe. “And now I am crying like a girl,” Julian said to himself. “Before all these people. And I meant to be an Admiral.”
But he was wrong. What the Captain had said was simply, “That boy is about as English as a good foreigner can be,” and Lady Place had answered, “He has the Englishman’s reticence.” But the audience took his exhibition as no more than an emotional tribute to its applause; and as he descended from the dais one great lady threw her fur coat about his shoulders and hooked it across his throat.
“Poor boy! It is charming that you should weep. So many only return us insolence for our applause.”
Julian saw himself in a long mirror with this fur-coat about his shoulders; he who had meant to stump his quarter-deck with a wooden leg, whilst his wife and children waited for him at Grest, was petted as a girl, and looked like a girl in the Villa Angelica at the foot of Vesuvius.
“It is arranged,” said Durante as he and his pupil drove back to Naples. “You will make your appearance as Megacles in the opera of Olympiade by Metastasio in a month’s time.”
“Where, Sir?”
“Why, at the great Teatro San Carlo.”
For a few moments Julian was silent. Then he said:
“I shall owe you, Signor, a great deal more than I can ever repay.”
“Then let me hope that you will remember it,” replied Durante. “Most of my pupils do not. But there is still a fault to be found, Giovanni,” — and his enthusiasm for his art overcame his resentment against the indifference of his old pupils. He criticised the division of an aria here, the portamento there. He forgot himself in his minute directions, until they had reached the doors of the Conservatorio.
“But do not fear, Giovanni,” he cried as the lad got out of the coach. “You will go far. Beyond Naples you will make yourself known.”
“That, Sir, is also my wish,” said Giovanni Ferrer. Yes, one of these days, a long way from Naples he would make himself known. All the more because he had behaved like a whimpering school-girl to-night. The scent of musk and amber was stronger in his nostrils than that of the lemon trees of Naples.
XI. THE NEW BARONET SUFFERS A SHOCK AT VENICE
WHILST JULIAN SANG in the Villa Angelica, Mr.
James Elliot’s father lay dying in London. He was an East India merchant of advanced years and great wealth who, for reasons which no doubt Sir Robert Walpole could have explained, had been made a baronet. He died before Durante and his pupil had reached Naples. “A little more embroidery, more shakes — the public adores them,” said Durante with a shrug of the shoulders, and the aged Baronet in Kensington Square drifted placidly into another world. James Elliot, already comfortably furnished by his mother’s bequest, now became Sir James and a man of wealth.
The incident would be of no importance whatever, had not Sir James, after the sixteen tedious months occupied in the transfer of the estate, determined to give his title an airing in his favourite Italy. So many Dukes, Earls, Barons, Baronets and Knights had lived and travelled and scattered their gold sovereigns from Turin down to the heel of Calabria that English titles were held throughout that country in the highest esteem. The degrees were hardly recognized. They were all English Milords, imperious in their demands and fabulous in their generosity. Thus Sir James was not surprised, nor indeed was he displeased, to find himself presented with a bill by the landlord of the Lobster Inn at Milan addressed to “Milord, the Right Honourable Sir James Elliot, Bart.” Sir James was on his way to Venice, where he proposed to stay for some weeks, and being fastidious about his comforts, he had commissioned a friend of his at the English Ministry to secure an apartment for him and the necessary service.
Elliot reached the little town of Mestre on the mainland late in the afternoon, and found his friend waiting for him with a boat large enough to hold all his baggage and his servant. Elliot took off his hat and breathed the cool air with delight as the magical city grew across the level water of the lagoon.
“Yes, yes,” said his friend Charles Williams, with a laugh. Williams’ duties at the Ministry were very light. He had been appointed to Venice years before for a brief holiday. He had refused promotion which would remove him to another capital. He had friends in every circle in that city of many circles: each new Minister found in him a walking encyclopaedia. “The Ministry without Charles Williams would be Venice without the Campanile,” had said one of them. “Yes, yes,” said Williams, smiling contentedly, “we middle-aged fellows no longer take things as if they were dropped there for us to cast a momentary glance at and pass on. With all its gaiety and its grim dark background....” Perhaps Sir James looked a little surprised at the application of such heavy words to what he knew as a city of pleasure and the arts—” Oh, yes, it has a dark background, my friend, though English Milords do not often see the shadow of its shadow — it is the Venus of cities.”
It took them two hours to cross the lagoon and descend the Grand Canal between the Palaces. At a corner between the Rialto and the Rezzonico Palace where the Rio San Polo debouches upon the canal, Williams gave an order to the boatmen. The boat was turned and brought to a stop at the steps of an entrace just within the Rio.
“Your apartment is on the top floor of this Palace,” said Williams, “and you have your own staircase leading up to it.”
Sir James Elliot’s new servants were waiting for him at the steps.
“By the way, your servants will sleep at their homes. You will have your own man with you at night.”
“Nothing could be better,” said Sir James. He was in the mood to be satisfied with all the arrangements. And indeed when he had mounted to his eyrie, he had reason to be more than contented. The long windows of his rooms opened on to a great balcony. A stone parapet protected it and looking down from the parapet, Sir James saw the waters of the Canal washing against the walls of the Palace. No building overlooked him and the Canal ran in so twisted a course to the sea that the Campanile and the Piazza of San Marco were directly opposite to his windows. He had the most complete privacy and the most wonderful view for a man who did not pine for green trees and the songs of birds.
“I cannot thank you enough, my dear Williams,” cried the Baronet and perhaps there was just an unnecessary flavour of his Baronetcy in the manner of his address. But Williams, radiant with the knowledge that he had given pleasure to a friend, did not notice it.
“Now you have dined?�
� he said.
“At Treviso,” said Sir James, “and not too well.”
“We shall make our amends at supper at the Caffé Grimani,” said Williams. “You have just time to change your dress. We shall be late but that will not matter.”
Sir James, who had looked forward to an idle, busy evening, setting out in his rooms those little personal ornaments and commodities without which no one is ever quite at home, was a trifle ruffled.
“You have made plans for me?” he asked.
“None that you cannot disregard,” replied Charles Williams. “But to-night the Opera House of San Benedetto re-opens; and you have a box there on the first tier, next to the stage, reserved for you for the season.”
“Oh, I have?” exclaimed Elliot, turning about.
The first tier, next to the stage, were his favourite positions.
“I saw to it,” answered Williams.
“I am grateful.”
“But of course you need not go at all. Or you can go for half an hour,” said Williams.
Sir James smiled.
“I perceive that you want me to go.”
Charles Williams nodded his head.
“For you can hardly avoid inviting me to go with you.”
Elliot laughed.
“And the evening promises to be agreeable?”
“Hooked!” thought Williams. But he flourished his hands and made a show of declining responsibility.
“You might not think so who come from London.”
“I might guess whether I would, if I were told what opera was to be given.”
“Achilles in Scyros,” said Williams.
“Ah! Metastasio!”
“With a new score by Baldissare Galuppi,” Williams added indifferently.
“Indeed! The Maestro of the Incurabili?”
“A Venetian and therefore a favourite in Venice.”
“But a great composer,” Elliot added with a touch of rebuke in his voice. “I am tempted. One should spend one’s first evening in Venice worthily,” and he bowed over the balustrade his duty to the city.
“Played,” Mr. Williams said to himself. Aloud he continued:
“Maria Baretti will sing the part of Deidamia.” Sir James swung round again delightedly.
“I have heard her in Milan. She has a strong voice with a good shake.”
“Also,” said Williams and paused.
“Yes, also,” Elliot repeated impatiently.
“A new soprano will take the part of Achilles.”
“His name, Charles! His name.”
“Much is expected of him.”
“You are outrageously annoying! His name.”
“Marelli.”
“Marelli?” Elliot shook his head. “Marelli?”
“He came out of the sea, it is said, a year or so ago. Hence his name. He took Naples by storm. Last season he was the idol of Florence. He is young, a mere boy with a powerful, sweet and most appealing voice, so they say, and charms all by his modesty.”
“What!” cried the Baronet. “A soprano who is modest? A paragon then! A second Farinelli!”
“Well, there will be a crowded house at the San Benedetto,” said Williams. “So we shall hear to-morrow.”
“To-morrow!” Sir James stared indignantly at his friend. Had he lived so long in Venice that there was now only fish-blood in his veins? To-night there would be suspense, excitement, the whole theatre a-tingle, perhaps a resounding triumph with men throwing their shoes about and women sobbing, perhaps — and equally not to be missed — a formidable fiasco.
“I will change my dress and we shall hear to-night,” he said firmly, and calling to his man for a hot bath and more suitable clothes, he hurried towards the door of his bedroom.
“Landed!” said Mr. Williams.
Elliot halted at the door.
“We shall need a gondola in half an hour,” he said.
“It shall be at your steps,” replied. Williams.
In fact it was already there with two gondoliers to man it already attired in the Baronet’s livery. Williams used it to carry him to his own lodging on the Rio Polo where he made some changes in his dress. But he was back before the half hour had elapsed and a magnificent Baronet, jewelled and rosy, appeared upon the steps.
“My dear Charles,” said Sir James, as he took his seat in the gondola, “my livery! What forethought and kindness! How shall I repay you?”
Williams smiled contentedly.
“I got your colours from your servant in London. I wanted you to cut a proper figure in Venice.”
They were rowed across the Grand Canal and along the Rio di Santa Luca to the theatre of San Benedetto which they reached some minutes after the curtain had risen upon the second act.
Metastasio’s operas have been dead these many years. But they were very much alive in those days. They were more than librettos. They were dramatic plays with the dialogue pruned and compressed, and songs to stress the poignancy of the scenes. The dialogue was spoken in recitative, sometimes but not always to music and in the songs the composer had his way. Wherever opera was sung, Metastasio’s were being produced with new scores, Achilles in Scyros especially, since the very theme made it suitable to those bygone victims of a barbarous custom, the sopranos, the musici as they were called.
Sir James was thus at no loss to pick up the threads of the old legend. How Thetis was terrified by the declaration of the oracle that Troy would never fall unless her young son Achilles, famed alike for his valour and his beauty, led the Greeks; how she packed him off disguised as a girl in the charge of his Governor Nearchus, disguised as his father, to the Court of Lycomedes, King of Scyros; how he was placed amongst the hand-maidens of the Princess Deidamia; how he fell in love with her and she with him; and how the wise Ulysses coming to Scyros with his ships, discovered Achilles and by cunning devices sought to force him to fling off his disguise; and how the youth’s love for his Princess fought a battle with his manliness until a middle way was found. Elliot knew the book so well that the first words he heard, as he followed Williams into the box, evoked the scene upon the stage — Ulysses in the Hall of Statues, reproaching the image of Hercules for sheltering in women’s clothes beside his favourite Iole, and Achilles in just that travesty secretly overhearing him.
“Alcides here, alas! excites our pity No more Alcides son of thundering Jove...
As Ulysses spoke these lines in the dark and crowded house, Williams took his seat in the front of the box and Elliot unslung his cloak from about his shoulders, slowly and indifferently with his back to the auditorium, as though he had more than enough time to hear and see all that he wanted of the play. But here Achilles must speak and as his voice wailed,
“It is the truth. Oh, my eternal shame!”
Williams saw his companion stiffen. Then Elliot turned not so much his hand as his ear towards the stage and stood listening with so complete a concentration of his senses that his body seemed to have no more life than the statues on the lighted stage. The scene was broken off, Achilles rejected his governor and, falling under his passion again, sang of his love for Deidamia. Elliot shivered, to Williams’ thinking just like a man suddenly stricken, and then as the voice died away he slowly folded his cloak with a care which he had certainly never shown before and laid it on the couch. But he did not yet turn towards the stage. He is incredulous, Williams reflected and changed the word.
“No, he’s afraid. He is not sure. He is waiting to be made sure.”
“There can’t be two voices so alike,” Elliot murmured.
His thoughts flashed back to the night in Naples when a throng had gathered under the windows of the Inn and Julian had sung. Had he been kidnapped because of that song, by some who heard him, from the square of the Duomo on the day of San Januarius?
“I grow fanciful,” Sir James thought, but he did not dare to turn round lest his fancies should be established as the sober, horrible truth. A moment was coming when he could not fail to know. He wo
uld wait until that moment before he looked.
It was here — the great banquet in the Hall, when Ulysses brought forward his presents, the golden armour, the shield, the sword and once more “Pyrrha” sang of love and then dashed the lyre upon the ground. It was a song of many verses demanding all the delicacy, all the sweetness which music could give and rising to a passionate outcry. Once that moment was reached, he would know — he could make no mistake — and God forbid that he should know what he feared to know.
“Marelli! The boy who came out of the sea!” — he remembered those words with which Williams had described the singer. And as he remembered them, old Lycomedes spoke. His daughter was to bid “Pyrrha” take her lyre and sing.
There was an unendurable pause whilst a page brought the lyre and “Pyrrha” tightened the strings; and then the singer’s voice rose again in an indictment of love’s tyranny. Baldissare Galuppi had excelled his high talent in the composition of this aria. There was revolt and helplessness, anger and defeat. The voice rose and throbbed and fell. It was a wounded bird which soared in a desperate effort to vanquish and annul its hurt and fell broken-winged to earth. To Elliot the aria chimed too exquisitely with his fears. It was the boy’s own soul which he was pouring out in an intolerable longing and in a poignant despair. The crowded house was held in an enchantment, hanging upon each note and clasping its clear truth. But Elliot had but one thought. “It must stop! It must stop!”
Complete Works of a E W Mason Page 735