1. PART FIRST.
Torconnier was an Italian, and the leader of a band
famous for its great harmony and power. All Verona rang with
its praise. Was there to be a marriage of some Don's dark-eyed
daughter? Torconnier must be there with his handsome, straight
young musicians, that is, if one was able to pay them their stipulated
price, which, it must be confessed, was enormous.
Of gigantic stature, massive frame, and portly mein, this
chief of melody surpassed all others of his countrymen in grace
of form and commanding beauty of feature. Passionately fond
of his profession, at times his deep set eyes would sparkle with
a fire that made them almost too intensely brilliant, and his finely
cut lips, naturally of a coral glow, grew pale and tremulous with
the emotion that, wild or sweet sounds conjured in his heart.
To belong to Torconnier's band was esteemed a great honor;
and many young men of noble families met with him in private
at his rehearsals, and in public showed him much favor and feted
him, getting up entertainments in a style of almost princely
magnificence. The great leader was unmarried, constantly receiving
immense sums of money, yet, always poor. His saloons
were rich in adornment, beyond description; the rarest works of
art, the most elegant and costly tapestry, the softest frescoing on
walls and ceilings, carpet of luxurious pattern and material,
statue of the finest marble, and gorgeous furniture; indeed
the mansions of the great were rarely equalled with that of
Torconnier.
But alas' what a sight was this mighty leader, at times,
when the carousel was over, and the last midnight lamp gave a
yellow tinge to his handsome face as its sickly flame streamed
over him. Stretched out upon one of his velvet couches, his
great eyes glaring and bloodshed, his fine features convulsed,
poor Torconnier laid, drivelling and insensible; he had sipped
the wine till he was drunk; and none of his band as they reeled
home from his splendid suppers were in better condition than
himself. Generally, at such a time, a young female of great
beauty stood, weeping over him and lavishing caresses upon his
insensible form. She was his niece; the beautiful Viola Torconnier,
whom a dying brother had commended to the care of
his famous kinsman; and she was betrothed to young Tricolo,
first player upon the flute, who, Torconnier himself said, would
yet be the wonder of the world.
Both loved with a passionate fervor peculiar to that clime
burning and fervid as it is, and Viola seldom appeared in public,
because her loveliness made her subject to many annoyances, for
all Verona knew that the famous Torconnier had in his splendid
home, a gem for the possession of which, many would have
parted with their whole fortunes.
A dark day dawned upon the Italian city. Not that the
sun shone with less splendor, not that the soft winds were less
cool and fragrant of flowers, or the skies shorn of their blue
enamel-like transparency—no; the harp still sounded in the
land of song, but fair fingers elicited most melancholy cadences;
Torconnier was dead; the man who moved all hearts with his
stirring melodies, who brought forth, tears, smiles or sighs at his
pleasure, would never again sway the baton, or with the magic
of his pen clothe with glorious garments the noble creations of
his genius.
No! he slept for ever; his tongue was mute, his thrilling
glance passionless. Shorn of his great strength, he slept motionless
beneath a canopy of sable velvet over the dim splendor
of his darkened room, the tall candles threw at times a startling
light, the warm wind from between the marble pillars sweeping
their dull flames aside, as the mourner, or the sorrowing stranger
entered to pay their last tribute of respect to Torconnier. The
massive cross at the foot of his couch, all blazing with diamonds,
flashed with a ghastly radiance over the scene of death, and the
tall forms of monks gliding here and there in the funeral gloom,
gave a ghastly sort of harmony to the sad scene.
Poor Viola, her slight girlish figure trembled like the silver
aspen; she leaned upon young Tricolo near the tall jasper vase
that a monarch had presented the gifted Torconnier; one of
her white arms shining through its slight drapery of black, laid
upon the embossed handle of the ornament, the other within
that of Tricolo.
Her betrothed occasionally spoke to her soothingly, but his
eyes were troubled, though tearless, and his manly heart swelled
with this swollen grief. He of the few favored ones admitted
into the great composer's presence, enjoyed most his confidence,
understood best his wild, wayward genius. Early bereft of parents,
the chance child of fortune, he cherished in Torconnier all
the emotions of filial gratitude because he had indeed been as a
father to him. And then did he not feel the gentle but more
decided pressure of that fair arm? had not that little hand been
laid within his own, by the doting uncle? and now, left as she
was without father, mother, relatives; full of gentleness, guileless
as innocence and beautiful as the light, was he not bound to
stand before the altar with her—yes, even on the morrow, and
take upon himself those vows which no strong power but that
of death could sever.
Not such were the thoughts of Viola, her sorrowful glances
were fixed on the still troubled face of the corpse. He had died
in her presence, died raving mad—drunken with wine. She
knew whatever the smooth-faced physician might say, that, to
his last breath, he had raved the incoherent blasphemy of the
inebriate, the sot; that he knew her not, though her fingers
sometimes laid upon his burning temples—that he saw her not,
though his starting eyeballs glaring with the red lustre of the
maniac, roved meaningless from feature to feature of her beautiful
face. And yet so accustomed was she to the sight of this
ruby beverage, crowned with frothy pearls as it leaped from the
sparkling champaign crystal, so often had she seen it upon the
tables of the wealthy, so frequently had she herself sipped the
juice of the grape, since she was a little child, that she comprehended
not the true source of this great calamity, or very slimly
felt that an excess of indulgence and that only, had been the
ruin of her beloved uncle.
The grand funeral procession marched from the house of
mourning in solemn state; it was conducted on an almost regal
scale of splendor. Neither music nor mourners were wanting;
the priests chanted, and the solemn line of monks, all belonging
to the monastery where Torconnier had sometimes electrified
thousands with his entrancing strains, swelled the cortege to an
mmense number, and gave an appearance of due solemnity to
the occasion.
Viola returned to her desolate home; sobbing like a child,
and throwing herself within the open arms of her old nurse, she
half shrieked, half sobbed, “what friend have I now on earth,
dear old Lara—oh! this terrible loneliness at my heart.”
“Tricolo will take care of you now, my child, see—you
distress him with your grief. Compose yourself, my darling,
nay, he does not hear me, he is weeping over Master's baton—
I can see his eyes are full of tears. Torconnier, your uncle—
may his soul be at rest—has left you all this beautiful furniture
these magnificent rooms; Tricolo has wonderful genius, your
uncle himself said that; he will yet be a leader; he will be
famous; rich; ah! he will take care of you as if you were a
queen. See, younder; the poor youth is refreshing himself with
wine; I do not wonder; he wishes to drive away his heavy
thoughts.”
Viola shuddered as she turned her gaze slowly towards
him; the nurse's kindly meant consolation had not lifted an
atom of the weight that crushed her spirit.
Before many months Viola wore the long bridal veil with
its complement of orange blossoms, and her young face, though
pale, gleamed bewitchingly sweet through the thick tresses of
curling hair that fell heavily over her white neck and down to
her jewelled waist. And there she spoke solemn words which
one like her breathes not lightly, and from thence she moved,
amid admiring multitudes, the bride of Tricolo, the matchless
flutist of Torconnier's band. A home of splendor had been
decorated for her; a deathless fame seemed awaiting the husband
of her love, in the future. By degrees, the sad calamity
that had befallen her assumed a softer shade, and though for a
long while she mourned Torconnier, and looked through tears
upon the many possessions which his touch had hallowed in
her eyes, yet the sunny smile came back as of old, and she
gradually forgot that she had ever felt so lonely and heart-broken,
as when she left the ashes of the great composer in
his last and lowly home.
