ONE day during the Revolution, an officer, not dressed in auitor, was passing on horseback by some military works that were being prepared by a small squad of soldiers, and he found the leader of the party merely stauding by and looking on at the operations, which were being carried on with difficulty, owing to the small number of men. The officer, seeing the state of affairs, aud that assistance was much needed, inquired of the man why he did not render a little aid instead of only standing idle. The latter in great astonishment turned round, it is said, "with all the pomp of an emperor," and replied: "Sir, I am a corporal !" "You are, are you?" said the officer; "I did not know that ;" and raising his hat in solemn mockery, he continued: "I ask your pardon, Mr. Corporal." He dismounted from his horse, threw off his coat, and not until he was tired out with sheer hard work did the stranger cease to render his assistance to the squad; and then, turning round to the corporal, he said: "Mr. Corporal, when you have another such job as this, and have not men enough, send for George Washington, and he will come and help you a second time." And, to the utter amazement of tue poor corporal, he found that the unknown officer who had addressed him was indeed no other than his own commander-in-chief. IT was the third day of the Carnival at Milan, 1836. Donizetti's immortal masterpiece, "Lucia di Lammermoor," had been performed for the first time at the San Carlo, in Naples, a few months previous, and was then making its triumphal tour throughout Italy. The genius of Bergamo's sweet bard had attained its culminating point. "Fra poco" and the stupendous magnificence of the septette had electrified the entire musical world, and even the star of Rossini had been eclipsed by the incredible success of the younger composer. Milan was in an uproar; the streets, squares and arcades were illuminated a giorno; the cathedral in marble majesty glittered beneath the glare of innumerable lanterns, while the joyous quip and laughter of sixty thousand pleasure-seekers made the old narrow streets ring and echo again; and the "Scala," ablaze with glory, had placed before the entrance, in letters of flame, the magic word "Lucia !" No wonder the crowd hastened thither; for eighty lire you could not have obtained a seat! Vol. XIV., No. 6-42. "A WILD THRILL OF HORROR CAME OVER ME, AND I FELL SENSELESS." It was the third representation - the third only- and fame, beauty or gold could not have forced an entrance! It was now six o'clock; the pit and gallery, boxes and stalls of the immense theatre were crowded to suffocation. Four thousand eager people-four thousand anxious, soulful Italians-were waiting with subdued frenzy for the curtain to rise. The nobility of Lombody graced the boxes, the political celebrities of the city crowded the passages, all the élite of the art-loving town had flocked thither. The heat was stifling; at half-past six the overture began. The immense throng was silenced at the first wave of the conductor's baton. Was it not to hear the last and the most admirable of Donizetti's operas? Had not the Neapolitan papers been devoured with avid eyes? Was it not to hear the songs over which Italy was raving? And last, but not least, was it not to applaud the beauteous prima donna, Alfieri, who had achieved such a colossal success the two previous nights ?-their favorite-their idol-the divine Alfieri! who had sung for seven consecutive seasons in Milan, alike renowned for her consummate art, her beauty, and her unrivaled voice! Ah! how the audience was moved 1-how it trembled with expectant ecstasy -the curtain rose. The hunter's chorus was listened to with religious attention; the baritone's song and cabaletta which follow caused but a slight impression, in spite of their veritable excellence, and the shifting of the scene to the park where Lucia makes her first appearance was welcomed with a hushed murmur of delight. A frail, white-robed female form advanced toward the footlights; her eyes were cast down, and she moved slowly near the prompter's box. There she stood still, raised her eyes and gazed full upon the audience. aria of "Lucia" upon her entrance. I was present, and recall perfectly the cold sensation and chilliness I felt when she delivered the first few notes of her song. It seemed to me as if some humid cavern had been suddenly opened upon me, and that I had breathed the first icy wafts of air emanating therefrom. She continued; not a sound save her voice was heard. Her hands hung listlessly by her side. I do not remember bow she finished. I heard her first strange tones change to a soft, sweet voice of fascinating, bell-like brilliancy, and I awoke from a trance by hearing the audience shriek and stamp with delight. The applause was feverish and frantic, then suddenly ceased as if by enchantment; the strange woman had turned aside and had begun the ordinary stage business and duet with Edgardo, as Alfieri would have done. The first act ended in an indescribable state of wonder and amazement. "Who is she? Who is she? What a voice!" and such exclamations were heard on all sides. The director appeared at this moment, evidently anxious to find out for himself who the beautiful pale songstress was, but could answer no inquiries. In the meantime I hurried behind the scenes to Alfieri's dressing-room, where I had often gone to chat with her, expecting to see this marvelous creature. The apartment was illuminated; Lucia's bridal costume for the second act was ready on the sofa; a bottle of Asti wine, which Alfieri always partook of between the acts, stood on the table; but naught proved that the room had been occupied previously-nothing showed the presence of the newcomer. I waited a few minutes, took a few whiffs from my cigarette, and was about to return, when I spied upon the A howl of anger and disappointment arose from the floor an earring of such uncommon size that I stooped to crowded house. "Non è Alfieri !" (She is not Alfieri!) was echoed on all sides; groans, hissing and stamping of feet drowned the orchestra. Some vociferously cried out, "Basta! basta! we want Alfieri !" The frail woman confronting the enraged audience appeared not in the least disconcerted, and walked leisurely around the stage during the uproar. pick it up, and gazed upon it in wonder. It was a solitaire diamond, richly set, of a slight greenish tint. I knew the value of green diamonds, and estimated this one to be worth seven to eight thousand dollars, being finer than any I had seen in the famous vaults of Dresden. I hastened down to the director's office to remit it, thinking it belonged to the newcomer or to Alfieri. The A man peeped out from the side-scenes. It was the director was absent, and I heard the bell ring for the director. second act. I held the diamond in my hand and hastened "Who is that woman ?" he asked. "It is not Alfieri !" to my seat. "No one saw her enter," was the reply. Again the conductor raised his baton; the unknown prima donna seemel to rouse herself from her pensiveness and lethargy, and moved solemnly toward the centre of the stage. The clamor had ceased. She raised her eyes to the level of the first tier, and stood in full force of the light. She was wondrously beautiful, but white-white as a shroud of snow; deathly, spectrally white !-not a tinge of rose enhanced the marble graces of her face, which was purely, faultlessly Greek. Her eyes, black and radiant, flashed luridly. When she dropped them their tint became sad, gray and crepuscular. Her lips shone red as vermilion, and seemed like a gash-like a hideous gash when contrasted with the glacial whiteness and rigidity of her face. Her hair, long and purplish, in undulate tresses rioted over her shoulders. She had no ornaments. A tuberose thrust in a rebellious curl adorned her brow; around her throat was a piece of broad, black velvet. Her dress was white-all white. She gazed weirdly upon the audience, and began, in a strange, vague, unearthly tone of voice, the ravishing The unknown woman again entered; she was, if possible, a tinge paler than before. She wore gloves this time, and her lips were not so cruelly red. She sang, and, ye gods, what song! Her voice soared, spread, fused with other invisible voices; it rang sonorously, and murmured divinely in magnficent power and harmony-a voice all fire, a voice all soul! I trembled the audience quivered. Still that strange being stood in the same position, still did her great, luminous black eyes gaze continually upward; she seemed not to heed her fellow-artists; the bewilderment of Edgardo, the anxious, inquiring glance of Ashton did not move her; she would glide by them like a sylph, a vision light, ethereal, graceful. No one heard her walk-she sang! Again the curtain went down, again the house cried out with delirium. "Brava! brava !" shouted the begemmed aristocrats in the boxes. "Brava! brava !" yelled the rabble. No one appeared. Again I went to Alfieri's box while the ballet (which in those days was performed between the acts of the opera) was going on, but it was empty; so I returned to listen to the animated discussions and conversations in the lobby. "Alfieri is eclipsed; she is Pasta and Persiani combined! 'Tis the Beatrice of Dante descended from heaven!" said one. "An angel!" cried another. A friend came from behind the scenes. “Well, what news, Ricciardo? Have you seen her ?" "No, but Grazzini has" (Grazzini was the tenor, a handsome fellow), "and he tells me he spoke to herforced to do so by some subtle, magnetic attraction. He told her of his wonder, his admiration, his love, I believe, and she answered him, in Milanese dialect, 'We shall meet again.'' The bell rang, and the curtain went up slowly. The lights seemed to burn badly, and the heat was stifling, but upon the entrance of the mysterious stranger a sudden chill pervaded every one. We did not breathe to listen, and as I gazed upon her, charmed by her supernatural beauty, I noticed that from one of her ears hung a bright, large stone, similar to the one I held in my hand. Scarcely had I seen it when she caught my eye. She smiled-the only time. I averted my glance. The music went on. The scene, where the unhappy Lucia, after having been dragged to the altar by her heartless brother, realizes the full atrocity of his conduct, seemed to influence the sombre, sprite-like prima donna, for she roused herself at last and acted-acted with the frenzy of passion, acted with the sublimity of pathos and despair. She was intense, superb, in the mad scene. Her voice had sobs of anguish. Up, up, swelled the vertiginous staccato, high above the moans of the orchestra. She raved, she wept, and the large tears rolled down her white cheeks; her hair floated wildly over her quivering shoulders, and still rang forth her magical, heart-rending, angelic notes. I trembled ; the house groaned. The mad-scene now neared its end, and the musicians, as if ordered, ceased to play. They looked at her, and she sang alone and unaccompanied. It was terrible, unique, sublime. The culminating point arrived, and the pains and pangs of Donizetti's masterpiece vibrated on her lips as they had never done on lips before. She gazed wildly, stupidly about when she stopped, and I saw drops of blood ooze from her mouth and drip upon her dress; she fell heavily upon the stage, and the curtain went down slowly. The house was in tears. Half an hour later all Milan knew of the miraculous performance at the Scala ;, the last act was listened to without curiosity, Lucia not appearing in it. Nothing occurred except the sudden indisposition of the tenor, Grazzini, who was taken ill, and who, I afterward learned, died that night. Milan, outdoors, all fun, frolic and animation, conld not comprehend the story told and repeated in the cafés and on the squares by members of the audience. The reports were called exaggerated, and the singer's phenominal voice a myth. But no one could find her, and it was in vain that I waited for an hour in Alfieri's box, hoping to meet her. The director told me confidentially that he was as nonplussed as the audience, and had never beheld the marvelous singer before. Then, as he left me, he superstitiously added: "She was a spirit, I believe." Full of conflicting thoughts, I walked sadly homeward, and heard again through the quiet streets, far away from the riot and revel of the carnival, the heavenly echo of that unutterably divine voice, I walked on, and passed across the St. Italda Cemetery to near my home. It was late. The noise of Milan s festivities reached my ear from time to time faintly, but I heeded it not, wrapped as I was in my reverie and musing. Within a few steps of my house, separated by a high wall from the end of the graveyard, there, beneath a few cypress-trees, in the full glare of the moon, I beheld a rather unusual sight. The cemetery through which I passed regularly every night, and which I knew in every nook and corner, seemed in that particular spot to present a different aspect than it ordinarily did. I advanced, and remarked with astonishment that a tomb had been desecrated, and that a coffin had been exhumed ! Sure enough, the sod on either side was all strewn and scattered here and there, footprints were plainly visible, and, to my horror, I saw that the coffin was open. In it, wrapped in a faded yellow shroud, was a human form. I was about to call for the guard when my eye was attracted by a twinkling near the top of the coffin. I stooped over, and, to my amazement, saw a diamond earring in the lobe of the corpse's ear-the mate of the one I had found. The moonlight, checkered by the tree-boughs, did not allow me to get a view of the face, and, trembling like a leaf, I drew aside and lit a match. Approaching, I gazed on the body before me. It was that of the spectral songstress! Utterly bewildered, with haggard eyes and quivering knees, I grasped at the coffin lid and hurriedly replaced it over the livid face. On it was written in large letters: "VIRGINIA COSSELI, Queen of Soprani, Died September, 1781, Requiescat in pace." I remember a wild thrill of horror came over me, and I fell senseless. For weeks I raved in delirium. When I had sufficiently recovered, I left Milan. People were still talking of the mysterious prima donna and the famous representation of Lucia. They have not understood, but I believe in spirits. THERE was a rich Basque who lived at Seville in the beginning of the eighteenth century, and his name was Don Francisco Figaroa. He was a great man with the ladies, and like Don Juan, was said to be irresistible. At the same time there lived at Seville a barber, who was a very sly fellow. One day he took it into his head to fall in love with a high-born lady, and in order to obtain a rendezvous he disguised himself as a gentleman. The lady was caught in the trap, and the barber went to the rendezvous with the intention of giving himself out as the gallant Don Francisco. After the usual compliments, the barber had to give his name. Sure of his effect, he whispered it in the lady's ear, syllable by syilable: "Madame, your servitor and passionate admirer is named Don Francisco Figa-ro." This last syllable had scarcely fallen from his lips when the lady, who knew the real Don Francisco, laughed in his face. The barber understood, kept calm, and insisted that his name was Don Francisco Figaro. The incident was known all over the town the next day, and that is how the barber, musician and man of letters came to be called Figaro, and only escaped being denounced as an impostor by not pronouncing the first letter of the alphabet. The above account is traditional at Seville. If it is not true, it is at any rate "ben trovato." |