Drowsy

by John Ames Mitchell

Then onward for Trieste. In this search for savory victims it overlooked a villa high up a hillside. Here, indeed, the Breath of Scandal might have entered and rejoiced! But the villa, as if guarding against this very visitor, had drawn before its face a screen of trees and vines and flowers. As wise old Bumble takes his morning nectar from the choicest flowers, so here might this fateful zephyr have drunk his fill.

There was mystery about this villa.

Natives, whose business brought them in the vicinity, were enchanted by the beauty of a woman's voice. In melody and in power it was, to them, a revelation. Two middle-aged gentlemen—one of them the Curé of S. Pietro in Selve—both lovers of music and who attended operas at Milan and other cities heard the celestial voice one day when passing near the villa. They were charmed. Both knew it was no ordinary singer. But the singer's identity was not discovered.

On this particular morning a young man was sitting alone in the Loggia of the villa. Westward, through one of the open arches, he gazed upon the deep, blue waters of the Adriatic, far down below. Small boats, with sails of various colors, floated here and there, like lazy butterflies. The man was reclining in an easy chair like an invalid—which he was. Bandages encased his throat. A bullet through his neck, two months ago, would explain these bandages. It was the price he paid for striking an Austrian officer across the mouth. The Austrian officer had made an offensive remark concerning the Diva. The young American was a good shot and in the duel, three days later, he sent a bullet through his adversary's chest. It so happened that the Austrian, being also a good shot, sent a corresponding missile through the young American's neck. Then the Diva and her defender had fled to this villa; not together, but separately, to escape the Breath of Scandal. Here, in this ideal nest, they found peace and privacy. Not under their own names. Ah, no! If the lady's identity were suspected the thrilling news would have circled the globe. One cannot be an opera singer of world-wide fame and suddenly become obscure. The Diva's Italian friends and the public believed that she was rusticating somewhere, with relatives. The American's friends in Paris had heard about the duel, but knew nothing of his whereabouts. So, alone and happy, here on this Istrian hillside, they laughed at Mrs. Grundy, and lived and loved at leisure. And what sweeter victory than looking down from a perch of safety upon the world below where the Breath of Scandal spared neither the guilty nor the innocent? Kind providence had so managed that the Diva's immediate family was not inquisitive. It consisted solely of her father, a famous scientist, whose portrait, with its high forehead, shaggy hair and drowsy eyes was a familiar face to Italian students. So absorbed he was in study and experiment that the adventures of his yet more famous daughter caused him no uneasiness. Had the Breath of Scandal entered his laboratory, it would have been ignored—or ejected as a liar. The Diva's husband—known as "The Calamity" by her friends—a handsome gentleman of noble family, had long since become immune to the Breath of Scandal—so well encased in his disrepute that he could sink no further. He and the Breath of Scandal were boon companions. At present he held a government position in Siam. Three years he had been there, and might remain for ten years more. So, at the cozy Istrian villa were no jealous eyes to disturb a lover's dream.

On this May morning, too warm, perhaps, in the sunshine, but perfect in the shade, the American, in his reclining chair, was listening to a singing voice. It came to him from an inner room of the villa. Dreamily he listened, with half closed eyes, and smiling mouth. It had been rather a handsome face before the duel. Now the features were too sharp, and the eyes showed lack of sleep. This old Hungarian song—a mother's prayer, now coming from the Diva's lips, and heart—was her lover's favorite, and her own. It was given with the depth of feeling and the art of a great singer, herself soon to be a mother. There are things in music, often the simplest songs, that stir the imagination and reach the secret chamber of the soul beyond all others. This Hungarian prayer was one. It had become, to these two people, a hymn of hope, with its love and fears, its yearnings and its joy. And into it the Diva gave her very soul.

The song ended. Then, with eyes still moist, the Diva walked out into the loggia.

A pleasant thing to look upon, this goddess of the ravishing voice. There seemed bewitchment in her figure, in her carriage, in her head and neck, in the low, wide brow with its blackest of black hair. Beneath the heavy lashes of the midnight eyes lurked tragedy. Their mysterious depths disturbed the hearts of men. Yet her lips told more of mirth. Certain critics maintained that her greatest triumphs were in comedy. But as nearly all grand opera is for tragedy she rarely appeared in lighter rôles. This morning, as she stepped out into the loggia, she could have passed for almost any heroine—either of tragedy or comedy. Her robe, a thing of light material, might be any shade or color; perhaps a delicate purple ground with a smiling yellow pattern—or vice versa; so artfully designed that the outlines of her figure became elusive.

She bent over, kissed the invalid, and pressed a cheek against his face. Then she straightened up and stood beside him, looking down with a smile that was more than friendly. The invalid returned the smile. It was an easy thing to do. For what is easier than returning the smile of a singing goddess vainly sought by other men, when she descends from pinnacles of glory—and freely, joyfully surrenders herself, and all from an overpowering love? In the smile that lingered between them were things whose utterance is not in words of any language:—things that true lovers, and they alone, can ever know. Close beside him she drew a wicker chair, and she sat in silence for a moment, studying his face. Earnestly she looked into his eyes as if searching his secret thoughts.

Flowers may be the language of love, but in this case it was also French. The Diva was Italian and her French was more than good. And Dr. Alton's French, for an American, was not so very bad. But since the leaden messenger had entered his neck three months ago, he had spoken no word, of French, nor of any other language. It was still a question whether he would regain his voice or be forever mute. And in those three months of ceaseless devotion there had come to the Diva an amazing gift. So intense had been her desire to know his thoughts, so persistent her efforts to know what his silent lips would utter, that at last the wish was granted. A mysterious power had come: a power that transferred to her own brain—or soul—the thoughts his lips could not express.