The Serapion Brethren Volume Ii Part 33

But Pasquarello began to sob and cry more violently than before, and at last fell down in a faint, as if overcome by his terrible sorrow.

Doctor Graziano ran about anxiously; regretted that he had not a smelling-bottle about him; searched in all his pockets, and at length pulled out a roasted chestnut, which he held under the nose of the insensible Pasquarello. The latter recovered at once, sneezing violently, begged him to excuse the weak state of his nerves, and went on to say that after the marriage Marianna had fallen into the deepest melancholy, calling continually on Antonio's name, and regarding the old man with loathing and contempt. But the latter, blinded by his love and jealousy, had never ceased torturing her in the most terrible manner with his foolishness. Then Pasquarello related a number of mad tricks which Pasquale had been guilty of, and which were actually told of him in Rome. Signor Pasquale jigged uneasily on his seat here and there, murmuring, "Accursed Formica, you lie!--what devil inspires you?" It was only the fact that Torricelli and Cavalcanti kept their grave eyes fixed upon him that restrained a wild outburst of his anger.

Pasquarello ended by saying that the luckless Marianna had at last fallen a victim to her unstilled love-longing, her bitter sorrow, and the thousand-fold tortures which the accursed old man had inflicted upon her, and had pa.s.sed away from this world, in the flower of her age.

At this moment there was heard an awe-inspiring _De profundis_, chanted by hoa.r.s.e and hollow voices; and men in long white mantles appeared upon the stage bearing a bier, on which lay the body of the beautiful Marianna, shrouded in white grave-clothes. Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, in the deepest mourning, tottered along behind it, moaning aloud, beating his breast, and crying, in his despair, "Oh, Marianna! Marianna!"

When the Capuzzi in the audience saw the body of his niece, both the Capuzzis (him on the stage and he of the audience) howled, and cried in the most heart-breaking tones: "Oh, Marianna! Oh, Marianna! Miserable man that I am! Ah me! Ah me!"

Imagine the corpse of the beautiful girl on the open tier, Surrounded by the mourners, their solemn _De profundis_, and along with all this, the comic masks, Doctor Graziano and Pasquarello, expressing their grief in the most absurd gesticulations; and then the two Capuzzis, howling and crying in despair. And in truth, all they who were spectators of this strangest of dramatic representations, notwithstanding the irrepressible laughter into which they could not help breaking over the extraordinary old man, were penetrated by a deep and eerie shudder of awe.

The stage now suddenly grew dark. There was thunder and lightning; and out of the depths arose a pale and spectral form, exactly alike in every feature to Capuzzi's brother, Pietro, father of Marianna, who died in Senegaglia.

"Wicked Pasquale!" cried the spectre-form, in hollow, terrible tones; "what have you done with my daughter? Despair and die, accursed murderer of my child! Your reward awaits you in h.e.l.l!"

The Capuzzi on the stage fell down as if struck by lightning, and at the same instant the Capuzzi down beneath fell senseless from his seat.

The branches rustling, closed into their former places; and the stage, with Marianna and Capuzzi, and Pietro's grizzly ghost, disappeared from view. Signor Pasquale was in such a deep faint that it cost some trouble to bring him to himself again.

At last he revived, with a deep sigh, stretched his hands out before him as if to keep off the terror which seized upon him, and cried in hollow tones: "Let me go, Pietro!" A stream of tears burst from his eyes, and he cried, with sobs: "Ah, Marianna!--my darling beautiful girl!--my own Marianna!"

"Bethink you!" said Cavalcanti at last. "Consider Signor Pasquale! It was only on the stage that you saw your niece dead. She is alive. She is here, to implore your forgiveness for the thoughtless stratagem to which love--and, perhaps, your own inconsiderate conduct--impelled her."

Here Marianna, with Antonio Scacciati behind her, rushed forward from the back of the hall, and fell at the feet of the old gentleman, who had been placed in an easy chair. Marianna, in the fullest l.u.s.tre of her beauty, kissed his hands, bedewed them with hot tears, and begged forgiveness for herself and Antonio, united to her by the Church's benediction. From the old man's deathly pale face flames suddenly broke, fury flashed from his eyes, and he cried in a half-articulate voice: "Ha! abandoned wretch!--venomous serpent! whom I nourished in my bosom, for my destruction!" But the grave old Torricelli came up to him, in all his dignity, and said that he (Capuzzi) had seen in a figure the fate which would inevitably overtake him if he dared to prosecute his evil design against the peace and happiness of Antonio and Marianna. He painted, in the most brilliant colours, the folly--the madness--of amorous old age yielding to love, which has the power of bringing down upon its head the most destroying evil with which Heaven can threaten man, since it annihilates all the affection which might still be his portion, whilst hatred and contempt aim their death-dealing arrows at him from every side.

And Marianna cried out, in a tone which penetrated the heart: "Oh, my uncle! I want to love and honour you as a father! You will bring me to the bitter death if you take Antonio from me!"

And all the poets who were surrounding the old man cried, with one voice, that it was impossible that such an one as Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senegaglia--a lover and patron of the arts, himself an admirable and accomplished artist--should not forgive; that he, who occupied the position of a father to the loveliest of women, should not welcome with joy, as a son-in-law, a painter such as Antonio Scacciati, prized by the whole of Italy, overwhelmed with honour and fame.

It was easy to see that a mental process of some kind was going on within the old man. He sighed; he groaned; he hid his face in his hands, whilst Torricelli plied him with the most convincing arguments; whilst Marianna implored him, in the most moving accents; whilst the others extolled and belauded Antonio Scacciati to the utmost of their skill. The old man looked, now at his niece, now at Antonio, whose fine dress and rich chain of honour proved the truth of what was urged as to his artistic position and success.

All anger had disappeared from Capuzzi's countenance. He sprung up with beaming glances, pressed Marianna to his heart, and cried: "Yes, I forgive you, my beloved child! I forgive you, Antonio! Far be it from mo to destroy your happiness. You are right, my worthy Signor Torricelli. Signor Formica has shown me, in a figure, on the stage, all the misery and destruction which would have come upon me if I had carried out my insane idea. I am cured--completely cured--of my folly.

But where is Signor Formica?--where is my worthy physician, that I may thank him a thousand times for my recovery, which he has brought about.

The terror which he knew how to cause me has transformed my whole being."

Pasquarello came forward. Antonio threw himself upon his breast, crying:

"Oh, Signor Formica! to whom I owe my life, my all! cast aside the mask which disguises you, that I may see your face--that Formica may cease to be a mystery to me."

Pasquarello took off the cap, and the skilfully-constructed mask, which seemed to be an actual, natural face, placing no obstacle in the way of facial expression. And this Formica--this Pasquarello--was transformed into--Salvator Rosa!

"Salvator!" cried Marianna, Antonio, and Capuzzi, _ensemble_, all amazement.

"Yes," said that wondrous man. "Salvator Rosa; whom the Romans would have none of, as painter, as poet; and who, as Formica, for more than a year, on Nicolo Musso's poor little stage, moved them almost nightly to the loudest and most immoderate applause; from whom they gladly accepted all ridicule and mockery of what was bad, though they would not swallow it in Salvator's poems and pictures. Salvator Formica it is who has aided you, dear Antonio."

"Salvator!" old Capuzzi began; "Salvator Rosa! I have looked upon you as my worst enemy, but I have always held your art in highest honour; and now I love you as the most valued of my friends, and I venture to beg you to accept me as such."

"Say, my worthy Signor Pasquale," answered Salvator, "in what I can be of service to you, and be a.s.sured beforehand that I will employ all my powers to fulfil your desires."

There dawned in Capuzzi's face once more that sugary smile which had vanished since Marianna's departure. He took Salvator's hand, and whispered gently: "My dear Signor Salvator, you can do anything with the good Antonio. Beg him, in my name, to allow me to spend the brief remainder of my days with him and my dear daughter Marianna, and to accept from me the fortune which she inherits from her mother, to which I mean to add a liberal marriage-portion. And then, too, he mustn't look askew if I now and then kiss the lovely child's little white hand; and--at all events on Sundays when I go to ma.s.s--he must dress my moustache for me; a thing which n.o.body in all the world can do as he can."

Salvator had difficulty in restraining his laughter; but before he could make answer, Antonio and Marianna, embracing the old man, a.s.sured him that they would not consider the reconciliation complete, or feel thoroughly happy, until he took his place by their hearth as a beloved father, never to leave them more. Antonio added that he would dress Capuzzi's moustachios not only on Sundays, but every day of the week, in the daintiest manner. And now the old man was all joy and happiness.

Meanwhile a splendid supper had been served, and to this they all sate down, in the happiest mood of mind.

In taking my leave of you, dear reader, I wish with all my heart that the happiness which has now fallen to the lot of Salvator and all his friends, may have glowed very brightly in your own breast, whilst you have been reading the story of the marvellous Signor Formica.

"Now," began Lothair, when Ottmar had ended, "since our friend has been fair and honourable enough to admit from the outset the lack of vigour--the weakness of knee, so to speak, of his production, which it has pleased him to call a 'Novella,' this appeal to our considerateness does, certainly, draw the sting out of our criticisms, which were formed up, in complete steel, to attack him. He bares his bosom to the partizan-pike, and therefore, as magnanimous adversaries, we withhold our thrust, and are bound to have mercy."

"More than that," said Cyprian, "to console his pain, we feel ourselves permitted to bestow a certain limited amount of praise. For my part, I see a good deal in this work that is pleasant and Serapiontic.

Capuzzi's broken leg, for instance, and its consequences, his mysterious serenade----"

"Which," interrupted Vincenz, "has all the more of the real Spanish, or the true Italian smack about it, just because it ends with a tremendous cudgelling. No proper Novella of the kind would be complete without the due amount of licking, and I prize it highly as, medically speaking, a specially powerful stimulant, always employed by the best writers. In Boccacio things hardly ever wind up without cudgelling; and where does it rain more blows or thrusts than in the Romance of all Romances, 'Don Quixote?' Cervantes himself considered it necessary to apologise to his readers about it. Now-a-days intellectual ladies will have none of such matters in connection with the mental 'teas' (which they enjoy along with tea for the body); the honoured hide of a favourite poet--if he would retain his footing at 'teas,' and in pocket-books--must, at highest, be blackened by a tap or so on the nose, or the least little box on an ear. But what of tea? What of cultivated ladies? Behold in me, oh, Ottmar, your champion in complete armour, and cudgel soundly in all the novels you may be thinking of writing. I praise you for the cudgelling's sake."

"And I," said Theodore, "for the delightful trio which Capuzzi, the Pyramid-doctor, and the somewhat shudder-creating little abortion, Pitichinaccio, form; and, moreover, for the wonderful way in which Salvator Rosa--who never appears as the hero of the tale, but always as an auxiliary--conforms to his character as it is described, and also as it appears in his own works."

"Ottmar," said Sylvester, "has held chiefly to the adventurous and enterprising side of his character, and given us less of what was grave and gloomy in him. _A propos_ of this, I think of the famous sonnet in which, allegorising on his own name--Salvator--he utters his deep indignation at his enemies and persecutors who accused him of plundering from older writers in his poetry, which, indeed, is all ruggedness, and deficient in interior connectedness."

"But," said Lothair, "to return to Ottmar's Novella. The princ.i.p.al fault which I have to find with it is that, instead of a story rounding itself into a whole in all its parts, he has merely given us a series of pictures, although they are often delightful enough."

"Can I do otherwise than fully agree with you?" said Ottmar. "Still, you will all admit that it requires very skilful navigation to keep clear of the rocks upon which I have run."

"Perhaps," said Sylvester, "the rocks in question are more dangerous to dramatic writers. Nothing--at least in my opinion--is more annoying than, instead of a Comedy, in which all that happens is necessarily and closely attached to the thread which runs through the piece, and should appear to be indispensably necessary to the picture represented, to see merely a series of arbitrary incidents, or even unconnected, detached situations; and indeed, the ablest dramatic author of recent times has set the example of this thoughtless (or 'frivolous') treatment of Comedy. Does the 'Pagen-streiche,' for example, consist of anything but a series of ludicrous situations strung together apparently by chance, and at random? In former days, when, on the whole (at all events as regards the drama), one cannot complain of the want of due seriousness, every writer of a Comedy took much pains to construct a regular plot, and out of that plot all the comic element, the drollery, nay, the very absurdity, duly evolved itself, of itself; because it seemed the natural thing for it to do. Junger (although he but too often seems very 'flat') always did this, and even Brenner--utterly prosaic as he was on the whole--was by no means deficient in the power of making the comic element flow out from his plots, and his characters have often real force and vividness of life, derived from actuality; as, for instance, in his 'Eheprokurator.' Only those ladies of his, with their grand phrases, are completely unenjoyablo by us nowadays.

Notwithstanding this, I have a very high opinion of him, for the reasons I have given."

"In my mind," said Theodore, "his Operas put him out of court altogether. They may serve as examples how an opera ought not to be written."

"For the simple reason," said Vincenz, "that the departed (peace to his ashes, as Sylvester very properly said) did not show many signs of having much poetry in his const.i.tution; so that in the romantic realm of opera he could not find the slightest indication of a track to go upon. However, as you are talking in this strain on the subject of Comedy, I might do worse than point out that you are wasting your time in discussing a nonent.i.ty--a thing which does not exist; and cry out to you, as Romeo did to Mercutio--

'Peace, peace, good people, peace, Ye talk of nothing.'

What I mean is that, taking them altogether, we never see a single German Comedy presented on the stage, for the simple reason that the old ones cannot be swallowed or digested (by reason of the weakness of our stomachs), and new ones are no longer written. The reason of the latter I might establish, very briefly, in a treatise of some forty sheets or so; but, for the moment, I let you off with a play-upon-words. What I say is, that we have no comic plays, because we have none of the comic which plays with itself; nor the sense for it."

"Dixi," cried Sylvester, laughing. "Dixi, and the name 'Vincenz'

thereunder, with due stamp and seal. I happened, at the moment, to be thinking that in the lowest cla.s.s of dramatic performances, or rather of productions destined to be represented on the stage, perhaps those should be included in which some clever _farceur_ mystifies and befools some good uncle--a theatre director, or some such person. And yet it is not so very long ago that shallow, stupid stuff of this description const.i.tuted almost the daily bread of every stage. Just at present there seems to be more or less an intermission in this."

"It will never come to an end," said Theodore, "as long as there are actors to whom nothing in the world can be more delightful than to let themselves be wondered at and admired as chameleontic marvels, in that they change their costume and appearance in the most varied manner in the course of the same evening. Right out of the very depths of my being have I been compelled to roar with laughter over the self-apotheosis of self-sufficiency with which, after pa.s.sing through a marvellous series of soul-transmigrations, the true _ego_ of the performer takes its enfranchised flight, like a beautiful insect.

Generally speaking, this is done in the shape of a pretty, elegant night-moth, dressed in black, with silk stockings, and a three-cornered hat under one arm, having, from the moment of its appearance as such, only to deal with the admiring public, not troubling itself about that which previously had been doing it soccage-service. As (_vide_ Wilhelm Meister's 'Lehr-jahren') a special line of parts may so bind and enslave to it some given actor, who, for instance, plays all the characters who have to be cudgelled, or otherwise maltreated, every stage must possess a _sujet_ who undertakes all the parts of the character of _souffre douleur_, and consequently plays those indispensable theatre managers, &c.; at all events, every starring actor has a part of the kind in his pocket, by way of entrance-pa.s.s, or letter of credit."

"What you say," answered Lothair, "reminds me of a most extraordinary fellow whom I met with in a theatrical troupe in a small town in the south of Germany, who was the exact image of that 'pedant' (to speak technically) in Wilhelm Meister. Insupportable as he now was on the stage in his little minor parts, _praying_ them out in the most direful monotony, it was said that formerly, in his younger days, he had been a capital actor, and used to play, for instance, those sly, scampish inn-keepers which, in older times, used to occur in almost every comedy, and over whose total disappearance from the stage the host in Tieck's 'Verkehrter Welt' complains. When I knew this man he seemed to have completely accepted his fate, which truely had been a pretty hard one, and, in complete apathy, to place no value on anything in the world, least of all on himself. Nothing penetrated the crust which the heaping up of the most complete wretchedness had formed over the surface of his better self, and he was perfectly satisfied with himself under it; and yet there often beamed out of his deep-set, clever eyes the gleam of a higher intelligence, and there would rapidly jerk over his face the expression of a bitter irony, so that the exaggerated submissiveness with which he bore himself towards every one--and more particularly towards his manager (a silly young man, full of vanity)--took, in him, the form of an ironical contempt. On Sundays he used to take his seat at the lower end of the _table d'hote_ of the best hotel in the place, dressed in a good well-brushed suit of clothes, whose cut and extraordinary pattern indicated the actor of a long by-gone period; and there he enjoyed a hearty meal, never saying a word to a soul, although he was exceptionally temperate, particularly as regarded the wine, for he scarcely half-emptied the bottle which was placed before him. At each filling of his gla.s.s he made a courteous bow to the landlord, who gave him his Sunday dinner in return for his teaching his children reading and writing. It happened that I was dining one Sunday at this _table d'hote_, and found only one vacant seat, which was at this old fellow's side. I hastened to occupy this place, hoping that I might have the good fortune to bring to the surface that better spirit which must be shut up within the man. It was difficult, almost impossible, to get hold of that spirit. Just when one thought one had him, he suddenly dived down, and slunk away in utter humility of submissiveness. At length, after I had with difficulty induced him to swallow a gla.s.s or two of good wine, he seemed to begin to thaw a little, and spake with visible emotion of the fine old theatrical times, now past and gone, apparently never to return. The tables were being cleared; one or two of my friends joined themselves to me; the player wanted to take his leave. I held him fast, though he made the most touching protests. A poor superannuated actor, he said, was no fit company for gentlemen such as we; it would be better that he should not stay, it was not his place, and so forth. It was not so much to my powers of persuasion as to the irresistible attractions of a cup of coffee, and a pipe of the best Knaster, which I had in my pocket, that I could attribute his remaining. He spoke with vividness and _esprit_ of the old theatrical days. He had seen Eckhoff, and acted with Schroeder. It came out that the untuned state in which he was now so marred proceeded from the circ.u.mstance that those by-gone days had been, for him, the world wherein he had breathed freely, and moved unconstrainedly, and that, now that he was thrown forth out of that period, he had no firm standing-point that he could get hold of. But how marvellously did this man astonish us when, having become thoroughly at his ease, and free from constraint with us, he spoke the speech of the Ghost in Hamlet, as given in Schroeder's version (Schlegel's translation he knew nothing about), with a power of expression which touched our hearts; and we were all moved to admiration at the manner in which he delivered several pa.s.sages from the part of Oldenhelm (for he would have nothing to say to the name 'Polonius'), rendering them in such a way that we distinctly saw before our eyes the courtier, in his second childhood now, but who had clearly not lacked worldly wisdom in former times, and still showed distinct traces of it. This he brought before us in a manner very seldom seen on the boards. All this, however, was but the prelude to a scene which I never saw the parallel of, and which I can never forget. It is here that I really, for the first time, come to what, during this conversation of ours, brought to my remembrance the old actor in question, and my worthy Serapion Brethren must pardon me if I have made my introduction to this somewhat too long. This man was compelled to undertake those wretched subordinate parts which we were talking of, and thus it chanced that, some days after the occasion I have been speaking of, he had to play the part of the 'Manager' in the piece 'The Rehearsal,' which the _Impresario_ had altered to suit himself, thinking he particularly excelled in it. Whether it was that the conversation with us has stirred up his inner, better self, or that, perhaps (as it was rumoured afterwards), on that day he had reinforced his natural power with wine--contrary as that was to his usual custom-- he had no sooner come upon the stage than he appeared to be a totally different man from what he had been at other times. His eyes sparkled, and the hollow wavering voice of the worn-out hypochondriac was transformed into a clear, resonant ba.s.s, such as is employed by jovial characters of the old style; for instance, the rich uncles who, in the exercise of poetical justice, punish folly and reward virtue. The beginning of the piece gave no indication of what was to come; but how amazed was the audience when, after the first changes of dress had been made, the strange creature turned upon the manager with sarcastic smiles, and addressed him somewhat as follows: 'Would not the respected audience have recognised our good So-and-so' (he mentioned the manager's name here), 'just as readily as I did myself at the first glance? Is it possible to base the power of deception on a coat cut in a particular fashion, or on a more or less frizzled wig? and in this way to stuff out a meagre talent, unsupported by any vigour of intelligence, like a child deserted by its nurse? The young man who is trying to pa.s.s himself off upon me, in this unskilled manner, as a many-sided artist, a chameleontic genius, need not gesticulate so immoderately with his hands, nor fold himself up like a pocketknife after each of his speeches, nor roll his r's so fearfully; and if he had not done so, I believe that a highly-prized audience (any more than I myself) would not have recognised our little manager in one instant, as has been the case now, to such an extent that it is pitiable. But, inasmuch as the piece has got to go on for another half-hour, I shall conduct myself, this once more, as if I didn't see it; although the affair is terribly tedious and uncongenial to me.' Be it enough to say that upon each fresh entrance of the manager, the old fellow ridiculed his acting in the most delicious manner; and it may be fancied that this was accompanied by the most ringing laughter of the audience; whilst the best part of it all was that the manager, completely absorbed in his numerous changes of costume, was absolutely unconscious of what was going forward till the very last scene. Perhaps the old fellow may have made a wicked compact with the theatre tailor; but it is a fact that the wretched manager's wardrobe had got into the most complete confusion, so that the intermediate scenes which the old man had to fill out lasted much longer than usual, giving him time enough to let the fulness of his bitter mockery of the poor manager stream forth in all its glory, and even to imitate his manner of speaking, saying many things with a wicked verity which sent the audience out of itself. The whole piece was turned topsy-turvy, so that the stop-gap intermediate scenes became the princ.i.p.al and important part of the business. It was delightful, too, how the old fellow sometimes told the audience beforehand how the manager was going to appear, mimicking his gestures and att.i.tudes; and that he attributed the ringing laughter, which really belonged to the old fellow's admirable imitation of him, to his own success in making up. At last, however, the manager could not possibly help finding out what the old fellow was doing, and you may suppose he flew at him like a raging wild boar, so that it was all that he could do to escape mishandling. He did not dare to appear on the stage again; but the audience and the public had got so fond of the old actor, and took his side with so much zeal, that the manager (burdened, moreover, since that celebrated evening, with the curse of ludicrosity), found himself compelled to close his theatre, and betake himself elsewhere. Several respectable townsmen, with the innkeeper at their head, met, and collected a considerable sum of money for the old actor, enough to enable him to have done for ever with the worries of the stage, and end his days in comfort in the place. But marvellous, nay, unfathomable, is the mind of an actor! Before a year was over he suddenly disappeared, n.o.body knew whither, and presently he was discovered travelling with a strolling company, quite in the same subordinate position from which he had so recently shaken himself clear."

"With a very slight 'moral application,'" said Ottmar, "this tale of the old actor belongs to the moral codex of all stage-players, and of those who desire to become players."

During this, Cyprian had risen silently, and, after walking once or twice up and down the room, taken his position behind the window curtain. Just when Ottmar ceased speaking, a blast of wind came suddenly howling and raging in. The lights threatened to go out; Theodore's writing-table seemed to become alive; hundreds of papers flew up, and were wafted about the room; the strings of the old piano groaned aloud.

"Hey, hey!" cried Theodore, as he saw his literary notices, and who knows what other written matter, at the mercy of the raging autumn storm. "Hey, hey, Cypria.n.u.s, what are you about?" And they all set to work to keep the lights in, and shield themselves from the thick snowflakes which came swirling in.

"It is true," said Cyprian, shutting the window, "the weather won't let one look to see what it is."

"Tell me," said Sylvester, taking the wholly absentminded and deeply preoccupied Cyprian by both hands, and forcing him to sit down again in the seat he had left, "only tell me--that is all I ask--where have you been? In what distant region have you been wandering? for far, far away from us has that restless spirit of yours been bearing you again."