 | CHAPTER IV. Monaldi |  |
4. CHAPTER IV.
Had Maldura loved Rosalia Landi for herself, the
manner in which she had rejected him would have
exalted her still more in his estimation. But with
the loss of her person came a blight on his hopes
of distinction. Though he still felt the same confidence
in his own powers, yet he could not bear
to forego all those advantages which he had so
long counted on from his union with Rosalia; and
he hated her as one who had scattered a glorious
vision of ambition which her sorcery had called
up as if but to mock him. But, whatever his
rage, or hopes of revenge, the fortune of his tragedy,
which was now on its way to Florence,
soon drove her from his mind. He had laid out
his whole strength on this performance, sparing
neither time nor labor, and giving to it the highest
finish; so that when he sent it he felt that he had
done his best, and that should it fail it would be
from some fatality which he could not control: it
was his last stake, and he was willing to rest his
in the whole or in parts, the better he was satisfied
that it could not fail.
The success of his satire immediately procured
the tragedy a good reception at the theatre; it
was already announced for representation, and
Maldura had only to wait for the decision of the
public. He did not wait long; the fate of the
play soon reached him: it had fallen dead on the
boards the first night. So wrote the manager.
This was an unlooked-for blow; and he sat for
near an hour gazing upon the manager's letter, as
if endeavoring to recall, he knew not what; for
its purport was gone ere hardly known. But his
recollection soon returned. Better had it not, than
so to make visible the utter desolation within him
— to show him a mind without home or object;
for he could look neither back nor forward. If he
looked to the future, in place of the splendid visions
that once rose like a mirage, he beheld a desert;
if he turned to the past, his laborious realities, once
seeming so gorgeous, now left without purpose,
only cumbered the ground with their heavy ruins.
In this hopeless state, however, there was one
comforter which never deserted him — his indomitable
pride; it was this sustained him. Had a
shadow of self-distrust but crossed Maldura for a
no doubts of his genius had ever entered his mind;
he was therefore an ill-used man, and he hated the
world which had thus withheld his just rights.
His only solace now, was in the wretched resource
of the misanthrope, in that childish revenge which,
in the folly of his anger, he imagines himself
taking on the world, by foregoing its kindnesses;
for there is small difference between a thorough
misanthrope and a sullen child; indeed their illogical
wrath generally takes the same course in
both, namely, to retort an injury by spiting themselves.
For the full indulgence of this miserable
temper, he retired to an unfrequented part of the
city, and, rarely venturing out except at night,
it was generally concluded that he had quitted
Rome — where he was soon forgotten.
| CHAPTER IV. Monaldi | |