Tales from the Operas. Various
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oh! never be SAD.
“Oh!—oh—sing, drink, and laugh at the madmen
Who give to the future a thought;
Let to-morrow look after to-morrow,
For double is trouble when sought.”
Hark—as the last note dies away, there is a slow chanting without.
“The joy of the profane is a passing smoke.”
As the solemn sound reaches them, the very light seems to pass away. For it is late, and the lights are dying out.
“What voices are these?”
“’Tis a jest.”
“Bah—another verse.”
“Oh—’tis ready.”
“Let us smile on the youth that smiles on us,
For youth of all joys is the crown;
While if death for a moment draw nigh us,
And he should ungraciously frown.
“Oh!—oh—sing, drink, and laugh at that madman
Who gives to the future a thought;
Let to-morrow look after to-morrow,
For double is trouble when sought.”
“The joy of the profane is but a passing smoke.”
“Again those sounds!”
“See—see, how the lights are going out.”
“Gennaro, I can barely see thee.”
“Orsini, Orsini, here.”
“Methinks this is no jest,” cried another.
And the six came close together. Amongst them was no Gubetta.
A moment or two of bated breath, still the lights are fading. Another moment, and the room is almost dark as midnight.
“Let us fly.”
They drew to the great door, sped rapidly up the steps, and then the whole six stood motionless, their hands pressing against the unyielding doors.
They came down from the steps, but the next moment the doors swung open, and as they turned towards them, thinking, perhaps, for a moment, that it was a jest—behold there stood Lucrezia Borgia, looking down on them, proud, triumphant—a demon. Behind her were men-at-arms, ready to do her utmost will.
“Lost!—lost!—lost!”
“Yes, Signors. Lost. You gave me a ball at Venice. In return I give you a supper here in Ferrara. For you, my guests, I have prepared five shrouds, which shall enwrap you when the poison now coursing through your blood, hath diligently done its duty.”
“Five did’st thou say? But here are six of us!”
“Oh heavens, Gennaro!”
Then rapidly she turned to the guard behind her; almost by a gesture she bade them remove the destroyed gentlemen, and coming down the steps, called to Gennaro to remain.
Helpless—lost—they showed no spirit. Hope had utterly left them. They embraced their friend Gennaro one after the other, and went mournfully from the hall. Gennaro alone remaining, she ran swiftly to the doors, bidding one close them, and ordering that whatever happened, no one should enter the room.
“Thou wert here, Gennaro, thou wert here.”
“Near my friends, lady.”
“Again thou art poisoned.”
“And my friends, lady?”
Suddenly her face lit up. “The antidote, the antidote I gave thee.”
Love of life is strong—so he felt for the little bottle, and he held it before her.
“Drink it.”
“No—with my friends I either live or die.”
She took the little bottle, looked at it agonizingly, and then said, “There is barely enough for thee. Holy virgin, he has cast it to the ground.”
“But if I must die, thou demon—if I, my friend, my dear Orsini, if we all die, shalt thou live—thou? Ah! thou also hast reached death; none will come to help thee; hast thou not closed the door thyself. Prepare thee, thou shalt die!”
See how the knife glitters in the pale moonlight as it sweeps high up into the air.
“Gennaro! Gennaro! wouldst thou kill me?”
“On thy knees. I grant thee that mercy, die on thy knees.”
“I forbid thee!”
“Thou forbid me, thou who hast destroyed me. To thy knees! To thy knees!”
He forces her to her knees. Again the avenging steel is high in the air. Another moment and he shall thrust it downwards through the air—down, down, into her wicked heart. But she speaks five words—and see! The steel has fallen from his hand, and is lying harmless on the floor, his hands are clasped upon his head, and she may kill him without fear and so save herself. What is it then she has said? The words were:—
“Hold—thou art a Borgia.”
Hark to what he whispers. “I—I a Borgia?”
“Thy ancestors were mine. Thou durst not shed the blood of thy people.”
“I—I a Borgia?”
“What have I said? have I forbidden thee to kill me? Rather I should bid thee kill me, for each day I die a thousand deaths. And thou, oh live, live, Gennaro. If thou canst save thyself, and if thou wilt not, thou dost destroy thyself. See, see, the phial is not broken. Thou canst yet be saved. Ah! thou takest it from my hand. Drink! drink!”
“I—I a Borgia?”
“Drink. No, do not hear that sound, ’tis nothing—’tis but the wind.”
“Oh Maffio, ’tis thy voice, the poison kills thy youth the first. Good bye, good bye.”
“They shall live, if thou wilt save thyself. For thy mother’s sake.”
“How darest thou name my mother?”
“And who may name her, if not I?”
“Perchance, thou didst destroy her also.”
“Ah, no! she lives.”
“She lives, she lives, and I shall never see her.”
Here the quick poison struck him so that he reeled against a high Gothic pillar to save himself from falling, and as his hands lay on his breast, he leaned his head slowly backward, and still he cried “Mother, mother, that I could die in her arms. Back, back, woman, do not touch me. Oh, mother! mother!”
“A woman, guilty, yet penitent, quailing and kneeling at the feet of him whom she has slain, who lowers her head as I do mine, and fearingly doth shut out sight by covering her eyes with both her hands, as I do, Gennaro. This woman is thy mother.”
As she spoke, he was sustaining himself against the Gothic pillar, like a brave man as he was, willing to meet death standing—rocking round the pillar from right to left, and clinging to it with weak hands.
But the last words stay him. Rigid he stands for a moment, then as she flinches away from him, yet stretching out her arms, he falls down, and to her breast.
“In my mother’s arms. At last in my mother’s arms, I die.”—And as her arms crept round him he was dead.
As he lay there, she looking on him, the doors were opened, notwithstanding her orders, and there at the head of the steps stood the duke and many ladies.