IL TROVATORE. (Verdi .) THE MINSTREL.
LUCREZIA BORGIA. (Donizetti.)
CHAPTER I.
When Satan fell, some of the essence of the god-head pityingly clung about him—hence those of men whose faces turn towards the darkness have ever something of the god within them, which raises them above the poor animals who eat and die.—Montaigne.
The Venice of nearly four hundred years ago was a great, splendid, gay, and powerful city. Gold was every day showered into the coffers of its merchants from all parts of the earth, and every night there was feasting, laughing, and dancing in Venice, the richest and the gayest city in the world.
On the night when our story opens was being held at the Palazzo Barberigo a masqued ball. All Venice, masqued, was there. The lamps hanging in the trees, laughed at the water as it threw back the gay colored rays of light which kissed it, in tremulous softness and beauty.
And there below on the still canal, the Giudecca, glided the silent black gondolas, bearing gaily dressed cavaliers and dames to and from the fête.
So silently the gondolas passed, that not a soul upon the shore knew a boat had gone by, a boat, perhaps, from which peered out a jealous eye.
The gardens of the palace were large, and ever when the music ceased, there were seen in all parts of it gay masquers, courting, talking, singing, flirting, or watching.
Among the guests was Gennaro, young and beautiful as the nights of Italy. With him was one of the great Orsini, even younger than himself, and far gayer. Nay, he was but a boy. These two were ever together, in peace or on the battle-field, at fêtes, or quietly at home.
So now amidst the group wherever walked Orsini, Gennaro had a place. These two as they sauntered along with their friends, all either carrying their masks in their hands, or else tied to their belts, these two were deploring, and being pitied, for they were to leave Venice on the morrow.
“Alas!” said one, “You will never like Ferrara, as you like the poorest street in Venice.”
“But, still,” cried another, “’tis something to form part of an ambassador’s suite.”
“Faith,” cried a third, “I would sooner be as I am and in Venice.”
“Let me tell you Signors,” said a fourth, who was called Gubetta, a Spaniard, and not in good repute, “let me tell you the court of Alfonzo is superb, and as for Lucrezia Borgia”—
“What!” cried one, “name her, here, at a fête?”
“Pray ye be silent,” cried another.
“The Borgia,” said a third, “I abhor her very name.”
“In faith,” added another, “’twould not be saying much for thee to say that thou lovdst her.”
“As for us,” said the Orsini, whom they called Maffio, “we should dread her more than any of you, if the sorcerer spoke truly.”
“Again a tale, Maffio,” said Gennaro. “Leave the Borgia alone, who cares to hear of her.”
“No, no, Gennaro, let us hear the tale. Go on Maffio.”
“Then I’ll fain go to sleep,” said Gennaro. “Faith I could fall asleep standing, when Orsini begins his long tales.”
“Signors, ’tis a good tale, though my friend has heard it before. See, now, he has flung himself down on that seat. Well—well, ’tis but two ears the less. In the fatal battle of Rimini I was wounded; and while lying on the ground, and dying as I thought, Gennaro found me, helped me to horse, and bore me in safety from the field. In the shelter of a wood he was dressing my wounds, and we had both sworn to live and die together, when an aged man, clad in a dress falling to his feet, stood before us. ‘Youths,’ said he, ‘shun the Borgia, go not near Lucrezia, she is death.’ Then he was gone, gone. And the wind thrice whispered the hated name. There—what think you of my tale? See you, Gennaro would not listen to it, because he loveth not to be praised.
“A good tale but it does not prove thou shouldst shun the Borgia.”
“Whereof in proof, we go to Ferrara to-morrow. Bah! what Venetian need fear the Borgia, while the dreaded lion of Venice can roar? Yet still, sometimes, Signors, I fancy there may be some truth in the prophecy.”
“Let us wake Gennaro, let us ask him if he believes in the solemn warning.”
“Oh, let him sleep. If he would rather dream than hear my tales, let him dream.”
Here the swelling dance music reaching their ears, they gaily sauntered to the palace, and soon the only person in the garden was Gennaro, peacefully sleeping on a marble bench, his head resting on his arm, and his face as tranquil as a little child’s.
There is a ripple o’er the dark canal—the reflexions of the colored lamps are all broken up and scattered. ’Tis a gondola, silent and sombre, which, in a little seething of water, stops just below the terrace stairs.
Then from it steps a woman all clothed in heavy black; a black mask on her face, a black fan in her hand. Nay, the very cross upon her neck is jet.
The gondola from which she has stepped glides silently away, and leaves her standing hesitatingly