Tales from the Operas. Various
door, I say.”
“Nay, master, I cannot move.”
“Then must I.”
And he went to the door, and opened it. There stood the white statue of the murdered Don Pedro. Implacable, destructive.
“Don Juan, thou didst invite me to thy supper; behold thy guest!”
Still mighty in his courage at least.
“I did not expect thee. Leporello, fresh dishes.”
“Master, master, we are lost!”
“My presence here is that I may speak with thee!”
“Thou art polite.”
“Thou hast invited me to thy table—wilt thou be my guest?”
Here the first evidence of fear showed itself, in nervously tearing a candle from its socket and quickly walking round the visitor. As he ended that tour, he trembled, and the wax-light fell from his hand.
But he suddenly seemed to find fresh courage, and he flung himself easily into a chair.
“Wilt thou be my guest?”
“By the rood, master, say thou we are engaged.”
“I will come with thee; I will be thy guest. I never yet feared; I never will.”
“Then thou acceptest?”
“Good master, if you love me, say no. This master of mine will surely destroy me.”
“I say I will be thy guest.”
“Thy hand upon it.”
“Behold it!”
Then he trembled again, for as he touched the hand the chill of death crept through him.
“Repent, amend thy life, or die!”
This was a threat, so it renewed all his fatal courage.
“I will not repent; I will not amend my life! Let me die, then!”
“Repent, I say, amend thy life, or thou shalt surely die!”
“No, no, no!”
“Thy time has past—’tis too late to hope—die!”
“What is this sudden fear which weighs me down? Lost, lost! I see the flames rising to me. Lost, lost!”
So, if we repent not we shall surely die.
LA TRAVIATA. (Verdi.)
(THE LOST ONE.)
(“LA DAME AUX CAMELIAS.”)
CHAPTER I.
[The author makes no apology for laying before his readers the tale of this popular opera, for never yet was fester cured by covering it up. Whereby, he means to say that no social wrong will be remedied, if the mention of it be ignored. But “La Dame aux Camelias” does not only rest upon this justification, it has yet another, “morality” itself. Let any unprejudiced man take the younger Alexandre Dumas’s play, (I do not say the novel of the same name, which is terribly inferior,) and read it through, and I think he will admit, if he has read thoughtfully, that it is perhaps one of the best homilies he has ever perused. Let us now consider the subject. The heroine was a notorious woman, rich, handsome, courted. Seen going in her carriage to the opera, seen at balls, at gardens, always courted, always fêted; did she not excite envy in the heart of many a pretty girl, leaning on the arm of a not rich father? Dead—her history before the world, on the stage—let this said pretty girl see the real life of this woman, and her envy will change to pity; surely, a better armor than envy to defend her virtue! Let her look into the depths of that life, with no hope, one brilliant blank, surrounded by selfishness, and almost without a friend, and it will be no worthless lesson. Observe that all through the play the heroine is sad, and even in her poor yearnings after virtue, she does injury. And setting aside this real character, however, the play is a magnificent exposition of the heartlessness of sinful life, which may be read with profit by us all.]
There were many present, great lords and gentlemen, and several women. They were waiting for Marguerite’s return.
What Marguerite was, all knew. The reigning beauty and toast of Paris. The woman for whom men fought duels, and before whom jewellers bowed low. She had more diamonds than the richest lady at court. Her carriages were perfection, her house as sumptuously furnished as a nobleman’s.
And yet how wretched was her life. Not a young mother toiling for her children’s bread, but she envied; and though she had thousands of diamonds, she had not a single friend. To be sure her maid liked her, but she sighed for one nearer and dearer.
Rich men fêted her and named her with honor over their wine, but she knew how little their friendship was worth; and so, amidst all her admirers and female companions, she was as lonely as a land bird on a rock at sea, and she as often sighed as would the wind about that same barren rock.
Well, on this night her house was full of company, waiting her return from the opera.
She soon came amongst them, radiant, splendidly dressed, and apparently as joyous as any there. But now and then she coughed, for near her always sat an unseen skeleton, holding an hour glass.
This evening, a gentleman named Armand was introduced to her, who, it was declared, had loved her for a long time, but who was too timid to tell her so.
Some one proposing to dance, Marguerite started up and began waltzing, but soon her cough came upon her, and she was obliged to sit down half-fainting.
The youth Armand ran to her, almost stranger as he was. “You suffer, lady!”
“Oh! no, no! take no heed of me; leave me for a little, and I shall soon be myself again.”
They left the room, laughing and chattering (so used were they to her attacks); but the youth called Armand came gently back, as this poor lady looked at herself in a glass, with affright.
“You are still pale—”
“Ah! ’tis you, Monsieur Armand! Thank you, I am better; besides, I have grown accustomed to these attacks.”
“If I were your friend, your relation, I would say you are killing yourself, and would prevent you from continuing this wretched life.”
“Bah! you could not prevent me; but tell me, why are you yourself so pale?”
“I am sorry, perhaps, as I look upon you.”
“You are very gentle; you see the others take no notice of me—”
“Perhaps—perhaps they do not love you as I do, lady.”
“Ah! I forgot, this grand secret love of yours.”
“You are laughing at me, lady.”
“No, no—no, no—not laughing; I have heard the same declaration so often that I do not laugh at it.”
“Ah! well, make some return for it, so take care of your health.”
“Take care of my health, my friend! If I did, I should die at once. Bah! I can but live in this feverish life. Truly, good women, with families and friends, may seek quiet and rest, not such as I. The moment we cease to attract, we are alone, and our days then are so long, so long. Did I not keep my bed two months? At the end of the third week my last visitor came to see me!”
He