“This is folly!” exclaimed the count. “You are depressed, and the world seems dark to you. With time, the soother of sorrow——”
“You mistake, my dear friend. It is not the pressure of grief alone that weighs me down, and has crushed my energies. I were not a man had I not within me a principle that could bear up against the heaviest calamity. But,” and he laid his hand impressively on Albert’s arm, “heard you never of the death of enthusiasm?”
His friend sighed deeply.
“It is thus with me. I have nothing now to offer at the shrine of art. Shall I present her with a cold and soulless votary, rifled of his treasure of youth, and faith, and hope? Shall I, whose spirit has flagged in the race, long ere the goal was won, pluck at inferior honors? Shall I cumber the arena to dishearten others, when I can obtain no prize? How am I to inspire the public with confidence when I have lost it in myself? How can I kindle passion in others, who am dead to its fires? No, Count Albert, I have become insensible to the deepest, the highest wonders of music. I will not insult her by a dragging, desperate mediocrity. I will not impede the advance of better spirits. I have fallen in the battle—the honors of victory are not for me.”
It was melancholy to see this paralysis, this prostration of a noble spirit! And yet, how to combat it? Argument was in vain, and the count rejoiced when this painful interview was at an end. It was already evening, and time to go to the concert; the carriage was at the door. He took his friend’s arm and led him down. Not a word was exchanged as they drove on, till they drew up and alighted at their place of destination.
It was at the house of a distinguished amateur that this final concert was to take place, and the saloon had been fitted up as a small theatre. A select number of auditors—many more, however, than the performers had expected—were seated at the upper end of the room. The stage was brilliantly lighted, and the scenery so well painted and so admirably arranged as almost to bewilder the senses with illusion. All that taste and poetry could devise, lent their enchantment to the scene.
Those who have observed the effect of sudden excitement on minds long and deeply depressed,—that is, in temperaments highly susceptible,—may conceive the conflict of emotion in the breast of Antonio, as he found himself thus unexpectedly surrounded by the external splendor and beauty of scenic art. He had anticipated meeting with a few friends, to sing with them a farewell song. What meant these flowery wreaths, this blaze of light, this luxury of painting? The orchestra struck up; their music seemed to penetrate his inmost soul; the revulsion of feeling kindled a wild energy within him. He felt, and at once, almost the inspiration of early youth. Though convinced it was but momentary, he yielded to the impulse and advanced upon the stage.
His symmetrical and noble figure, the grace and expression of his movements, the mind beaming from his features, would at any time have prepossessed an audience in his favor. Under the present affecting circumstances, appealing to every heart, the welcome was tumultuous and long. Tamburini, as he acknowledged it, recovered his melancholy composure. It was destined soon to be overthrown.
At a little distance from him stood the heroine of the piece; like him, bewildered at the novelty of her position and the splendor of her reception, and blushing in much confusion. Could Antonio believe his eyes? It was Marietta Gioja!
With an involuntary exclamation of surprise, he hastened towards her. He did not perceive either pride or coquetry in her evident avoidance of him. But there was no time for explanations. The music played on, and both performed their parts to the rapturous delight of all who listened.