The Prince Corsair, or, The three brothers of Guzan a tale of the Indian Ocean |
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[FROM “THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.”]
THE CONCERT. |
 | The Prince Corsair, or, The three brothers of Guzan |  |
[FROM “THE FLAG OF OUR UNION.”]
THE CONCERT.
BY MISS ANNE T. WILBUR.
YOU, my friend, who were intimately acquainted
with her, know that we shall never find her
equal. She lives in our memories, as one of the
most charming beings of modern times. She
had genius, beauty, youth, combined with grace
and goodness. She passed away like a meteor,
but left a luminous trace. Since you love to
dwell upon her virtues, and everything connected
with her has for you an attraction always
pleasant and always new, I will relate to you in
what manner I was privileged to see her for the
first time.
It was some years since. I was young and
knew little beyond my native village. A friend
of the family, who was much attached to me,
having spoken of taking me with him to the
south of France, whither he had been summoned
on business, it was thought desirable to let
me see a little of the world. I, therefore, set
out on a beautiful morning in April, in company
with friend Jacques, in a little carriole
which answered instead of a post-chaise, with a
little mare harnessed to it, which her master
called Bergere. Judge what an enchanting journey!
Spring everywhere, within me, around me:
all flourishing, rustling, blossoming, in my heart
as on earth, and my sixteen years mingling their
song with the warbling of the forest birds.
We travelled by short stages, after the manner
of the vetturini, setting out in the morning at
sunrise, taking our meals at random and sleeping
wherever night chanced to overtake us. My
friend Jacques spoke little. Between sunrise and
sunset, he smoked from fifteen to twenty pipes,
and slept the rest of the time. Bergere travelled
from eight to ten leagues per day more or
less, according to the stops. Everything was
new and delightful to me, except the cities we
passed through, which seemed frightful. I asked
myself if it were possible for beings organized
like my friend Jacques and myself to consent
freely to drag out their lives in these hideous
places, to which I compared with pride the natal
spot where I had grown up. Charm of country!
Power of the places where our childhood rolled
away! Magic of the corner of earth where our
eyes opened to the light of heaven! Have not
you, my dear Augustus, beneath the blue sky of
Italy, amid the the orange-trees of the river of
Genoa, sometimes regretted your blossoming apple-trees,
of your orchard?
Meanwhile, the farther we travelled towards
the south, the more coquettish, elegant and neat
became the aspect of the cities. About the end
of April, on an evening warm and golden as
summer, Bergere, the carriole, friend Jacques,
his pipe and myself, triumphantly entered Carpentras,
which, at the foot of Mt. Venton, surrounded
with bristling ramparts, like a partridge
in a crust of pastry, is one of the most poetic
cities of France. We alighted at the hotel of
“The Three Mewing Cats.” On the swinging
sign, an artist of the place had painted three
cats in a state of exaltation difficult to describe,
who seemed to be executing the most infernal
trio imaginable.
Scarcely had we alighted from our carriage,
when we noticed around us an unusual agitation.
Animated groups were stationed before the hotel
and on the square of the theatre. There was,
with the air of spring, a festival air in the atmosphere.
Carriages were coming from all
parts and meeting in every direction. Something
joyous and strange must be in preparation,
of which we were ignorant: for Bergere, my
friend Jacques and myself, were too unknown
and too modest to attribute this movement and
concourse of the citizens to our passage through
their walls. it was clear that some celebrated
actor or prince of the blood was expected.
The dinner bell suddenly interrupted our commentaries.
At the table d'hote we were informed
there was to be given, this evening, a concert
in the hall of the theatre, for the benefit of the
poor. A concert! At this word I blushed
with pleasure, which seeing, my friend Jacques
turned pale with fear; for there were in the
world two things which he profoundly hated:
first, his wife, and second, music. Music was the
only point on which we differed in sentiment.
A concert was then a rare thing in the provinces.
At this period, the musical education of
France hardly commenced, and, for my part, I
had never heard any other concerts than those
of the birds among the branches. Concerts are
at present an amusement common enough. But
at the time when I travelled with my friend
Jacques, in the carriole drawn by Bergere, a
concert was an event, something unusual and
solemn. It was talked of three months beforehand,
and when the great day arrived, there was
an influx from all parts like that which encumbered
Carpentras at this hour. We must tell
all; at this concert for the poor were to be heard
several amateurs, celebrated in the department
and the neighborhood, among others a flageolet
from Tarascon, of whom marvels were related.
But the most lively attraction, the most alluring
bait, the true charm of this fete, was the Countess
de R—, who had promised to assist with her
grace, her beauty, her voice and her talent.
Now there was a history about this Countess
de R—, which was related in various ways.
What I heard piqued my curiosity to the utmost.
I learned that she had been some years
before, a celebrated cantatrice; her name, which
has not passed into oblivion, resounds still to-day
like an Eolian harp, between those of Pasta
and Catalani. Having been unable to make the
prima-donna his mistress, the Count de R—
made her his wife. It was added, that a jealous
lover as well as severe husband, he kept her shut
up in his chateau, where the unfortunate victim
was dying with regret, sadness and ennui.
Perhaps these were only fables. Certain it is
that during the three years in which the countess
had inhabited the neighborhood, she had scarcely
been seen. If some praised her youth and
beauty, others insisted that she had neither.
Others still asserted that she had lost her voice.
With the sole object of satisfying themselves on
all these points, the people of the neighborhood
who disliked Count R—, because of his great
fortune, great name, his rare mind and elegant
manners (all of which I learned afterwards),
those people had, I say, resolved to give a concert
for the benefit of the poor, and to ask the
Countess de R— to assist in this charitable object.
This was simply a pretext to get access
to the mysterious chatelaine, a snare extended
for her by the idle curiosity of fools, who were
not sorry to remind the count that he had married
a chanteuse, and prove to him that they were
in the secret of his mesalliance. A deputation
of the notables, therefore, repaired to the chateau.
To their great disappointment, they were not admitted
to the presence of the countess, but the
count had received them politely, and readily
promised the concurrence of his wife in this
charitable object. The news was quickly diffused
throughout the neighborhood, and it was this
which had brought a crowd from all parts to the
entertainment.
To decide friend Jacques to take a concert
ticket was not to be thought of. The very idea
that there was to be music at Carpentras, would
have made him harness Bergere and flee in haste.
eight o'clock he went to bed, and I, guided by
the crowd; took, joyous and free, the road to the
theatre. The hall was already full. The orchestra
and their instruments occupied the stage,
ornamented with flowers and garlands of foliage.
A piano, destined for the Countess de R—,
was placed near the foot-lights, facing the assembly.
Everybody was at their post; no one was
absent but the countess. Already people looked
anxiously at each other; their glasses wandered
here and there; the Countess de R—
did not appear. After an hour of vain expectation,
as murmurs of impatience began to circulate
around the hall, the orchestra resolved to
commence.
They played at first the overture to “The Caravan.”
I thought the execution perfect and the
effect magical; I had not suspected that twelve
men could make all this music. Flutes, violins,
base-viols and clarionets rivalled each other in
energy and good-will. It is unnecessary to add
that the piece was received with frantic applause:
the mothers, sisters, wives and cousins
of the performers were enraptured. The last
measure finished, all eyes sought the Countess
de R—; there was no countess.
At the expiration of a few minutes' respite, a
short and fat gentleman, with a black coat and
white cravat, advanced to the front of the stage,
bowed graciously, drew from his pocket three or
four pieces of wood; then, after having adjusted
them together, announced that by the aid of this
light instrument, he would imitate the song of
all birds, from the chant of the nightingale to the
croaking of the raven. At these words, a murmur
of flattering approbation ran around the
assembly, followed almost immediately by a
profound and religious silence. The fat and
short gentleman was the flageolet-player from
Tarascon.
First, he imitated the warbling of the nightingale,
the chirping of the titmouse and the linnet,
the whistle of the blackbird, the hooting of the
owl, the cooing of the dove, the clacking of the
hen, the shrill note of the cock, and, as he had
promised the croaking of the raven. This flageolet
was at once an aviary and a poultry yard.
After an hour of this agreeable exercise, which
seemed to be much to the taste of the public of
Carpentras, the gentleman took his precious instrument
to pieces, put it in his pocket, and withdrew
amid the applause of the crowd. My
neighbor on the right, who could not believe the
marvels he had just heard, insisted that there
were birds concealed behind the scenes. My
left hand neighbor, an amiable and delicate wit,
was of opinion that the gentleman should send
his flageolet to M. Dupont, the naturalist, to be
stuffed.
To the short and fat gentleman, succeeded another
gentleman, tall and thin. The latter was
from Avignon. He announced that he was about,
with the aid of a single violin, to imitate all instruments
from the flute to the drum, which he
did in fact with the best intentions in the world.
He played all instruments except the violin. As
I reflected upon this, I thought afterwards that
there are many artists in whom a talent for assimilation
has destroyed individuality, skilful in
reproducing all but their own nature, echoes of
everybody but themselves.
To the tall and thin gentleman, succeeded a
third, long-haired, bearded, frizzled, powdered,
with canary-colored gloves, and cuffs turned up
at the wrists; a bean, a dandy. He had the
stature of a drum-major, fists large enough to
knock down an ox, shoulders which Hercules
might have coveted. He seated himself at the
piano, and sang “Fleure du Tage,” in an amorous
voice which delighted us all. Thenceforth,
I have always professed a profound admiration
for the valorous youth who thus charms the evenings
of the fashionable world. To go upon the
ground; to brave, without turning pale, the fire
of an adversary; to assist valiantly in a battle;
to charge the enemy with a firm foot; to walk
unfalteringly to execution; all this does not astonish
me. But, in presence of two or three
hundred persons, to encamp bravely before a
piano, and sing, My Normandy, or some other
kindred plaint, is the highest point of heroism
to which man can arrive. These gentlemen have
proved their courage and have a right to refuse a
duel. The ladies are of my opinion in this, and
as, in general, they love heroes, it is very rare
that singers of romances do not bear with them
the reputation of men of mind.
Meanwhile, the countess did not arrive. It
was nearly ten o'clock: we had no reason to expect
her longer. Nevertheless, we still waited,
and hoped, when a fourth gentleman, of Carpentras,
the leader of the orchestra, the giver of the entertainment,
approached the foot-lights, and after
three stiff bows, communicated to the assembly
a note which he had just received. It was a
charming little note, in which Madame de R—
apologized for not being able to appear at the
her offering with her regrets. This letter was
accompanied by a bill of a thousand livres.
It may be imagined that this was a cruel disappointment
for the inquisitive, the foolish and
the malicious. There was a general confusion.
some said the countess was old and ugly, since
she refused to appear; that she had lost her
voice, since she refused to let it be heard. But
it was the sending of the bill for a thousand
livres which especially excited the indignation of
these honest people. It was becoming indeed
for a street-singer to give herself the airs of a
princess! Did the indigent of Carpentras need
the munificence of the Chateau de R—?
Could not the city support its own poor. They
were of opinion that this bill of a thousand
livres should immediately be returned to the
proud donor. At the same time, as the greater
number had only paid to see the countess, people
declared in every direction that they had
been cheated, and imperiously demanded their
money: so that from this concert, given for the
benefit of the poor, the poor ran a great risk of
deriving no benefit but that of not having been
present. The indignation was increasing, the
exasperation was at its height. Vainly did the
orchestra, to appease unchained passions and
drown the noise of the storm, attack with unusual
vigor, the overture to Lodoiska: the storm
drowned the noise of the orchestra. Since that
remarkable evening I have been present at many
concerts, but I never heard such a tumult. They
shouted, they hissed; half a dozen dogs, who
had accompanied their masters, uttered plaintive
howls, to which some jesters among the audience
responded by lamentable mewings. The
children whispered, the women cried, the mob
threatened to throw the henches upon the stage,
and, amid all this tempest, the overture to Lodoiska
kept on its way.
It was difficult to foresee how this scene of confusion
would terminate, when suddenly the furious
waves fell back, silent and immovable, as if
the finger of God had commanded them to be still.
A young stranger had, with a light foot, unperceived
in the general disturbance, ascended
the steps which separated the parquet from the
stage, and was suddenly seen to appear, seated
before the piano destined for Madame de R—,
like an angel descended from heaven. Was
she not indeed an angel! She had searcely
reached the earliest period of youth; the simple
graces of childhood still adorned her charming
countenance; but the fire of genius illuminated
her brow and her glance. She sat there, simple
and grave, without embarrassment and without
boldness, her lips half-smiling. At this apparition,
all was silence. Who was this woman?
No one could tell. All eyes were rivetted upon
her: calm and serene, she seemed scarcely to
notice the crowd who contemplated her. She
untied the ribbons of a white hood, which she
carelessly deposited at her feet. Her coiffure was
low; her tresses, parted on her forehead, descended
along her temples, glossy and black as a
raven's wing. She took off her gloves, and her
little hand ran over the key-board. At last, after
having preluded a few moments the young stranger
sang.
Angels and seraphim with tremulous wings,
who hold on high the harps of gold, and sing in
chorus at the feet of the Eternal, how then do
you sing, harmonious phalanxes, if such music
can be heard on earth! I listened, bewildered,
breathless, immovable, and all listened with me.
What I heard, none can express. She sang in
that sweet tongue which women and children
warble on the banks of the Arno. There were
at first gentle undulations which spread out like
beautiful sheets of water beneath cool shades, to
lose themselves quickly in graceful meanderings
like a river in its slow and peaceful course between
fragrant shores. For an instant, I thought
I saw the melodious waves escape her lips, I felt
myself lifted up by them and borne to celestial
regions. O, magic of song! Power of the
voice! In this smoky hall, by the light of oily
argand lamps, on a dusty bench, it seemed to me
as if I were present for the first time at the splendors
of creation. She sang in a sweet and
grave tone, the charm of serene nights, of mutual
tenderness by the light of the silver stars,
of the bark furrowing in silence the mirror of the
glassy lake, and I, with my head buried in my
hands, saw, as in a dream, the azure mountains
through the rosy vapors of sunset; I breathed
the perfumes of evening, I heard the breezes
awake, and amorous sighs mingle with the murmur
of the wave and the rustling of the foliage.
This first song finished, the assembly remained
silent, motionless; not a sound, not a tremor, not
a movement in the hall, all were suspended on
the lips of the enchantress. They listened again.
The young woman had placed her fingers on
the ivory keys. After having wandered over
them at random, and with an absent air, she
abandoned herself anew to the inspiration of her
I express the effects of that voice, which, by turns
light and lively, tender and sonorous, grave and
profound, sparkled, broke into caseades of a thousand
crystalline notes, flowed in harmonious
waves, gushed like a torrent into an abyss?
There was in it the grace of young love and the
energy of terrible passions. So the beautiful
unknown expressed by turns simple joys, playful
coquetry, jealous transports, burning love,
despairing grief; I saw for the first time the impersonation
of those poetic heroines, whose
names were not yet revealed to me, Rosini, Anna,
Juliet, Elvira. She sang the romance of
Saule as I had heard my godmother sing it; this
time I heard the Desdemona of Shakespeare,
melancholy as the night which seemed to sigh
with her, foreseeing her terrible destiny, predicting
it in every accent, revealing it in every look,
Desdemona about to die. How beautiful and
touching it was! Then she sang the song of the
Tyrol, agile and bounding like the chamois on
the snow of Alpine heights: for this voice
which knew how to descend so deeply into hearts,
knew also how to sport in brilliant fantasies.
After having kept us for nearly an hour in a
state of intoxication, which I will not attempt to
describe, she rose, calm and smiling. At this
instant, the audience broke out in applause which
seemed as though it would take off the roof. I
have since believed in what has been related to
us of the influence of Orpheus on the animals of
his country. All hearts were moved, all eyes
moistened with tears. I have since been present
at many triumphs of this kind. I have seen
epileptic pianists excite frenzied admiration: I
have seen roses and camellias thrown at the
heads of portly tenors; but I have never seen
equalled the emotions of this evening, so grotesque
in its opening ending in a manner so unexpected
and so affecting. No one thought even
of asking who this unknown young woman was;
enthusiasm had swallowed up curiosity. Meanwhile,
still calm and serene, her lips parted with
a half-smile, she appeared not to suspect what was
passing around her. The flageolet from Tarascon
having advanced to congratulate her, she
laughed at him gaily; the genius which we had
just heard was now only that of a spoiled child.
In the midst of the applause, under the fire of
all glasses, she tranquilly put on her gloves and
travelling hood; then opening a little bag of
green velvet which she had until then kept
suspended to her arm by a silver cord and gilt
tassels, she folded it like a purse, and presenting
it to the people who surrounded her, said, in that
voice which knew so well the road to hearts:
“Gentlemen, for the poor of your city.”
Think whether the applause was redoubled,
and whether each hastended to put his hand in
his pocket. The poor of Carpentras reaped a
bountiful harvest. A shower of silver fell from
every direction into the purse of the fair solicitor.
I saw an elegantly adorned lady, still trembling
with emotion, detach from her arm a rich
bracelet, slip it into the purse, then kiss the hand
which presented it. I saw a young girl, simply
clad, who doubtless had nothing else to give, deposit
there, blushingly, a bunch of violets which
she held in her hand and had moistened with her
tears. What rain of flowers was ever as valuable
as this humble offering? The collection finished,
the stranger, after having poured out the
proceeds on the piano, took the bunch of violets
and having placed it in her girdle, presented the
young girl her little green bag in exchange.
I need not tell you that the concert went no
father; the violins and clarionets were returned
to their cases. Leaning on the arm of her maid,
the beautiful unknown withdrew through the
eager waves which opened to allow her to pass.
The musicians had already planned a serenade,
and the young people of Carpentras were proposing
to offer her a patriotic banquet. Unfortunately
a post-chaise, drawn by four horses,
awaited her at the door of the theatre: the postilions
were in the saddle. She entered the carriage,
and at the moment the major advanced to
compliment her, the whips snapped, the horses
started into a gallop, and the chaise disappeared
amid the shouts and benedictions of the crowd.
Was it a dream? I know not. I was intoxicated
with delight. It was a magnificent night;
I escaped from the city, and did not return until
daylight. My friend Jacques was still asleep.
I hastily awoke him, and sprang on his neck;
but he, seeing that music was the subject in question,
sent me to all the devils, laid his head
again on the pillow and began to snore with all
his might.
The year following I was let loose in Paris. I
haunted the opera, the concerts; but nowhere
heard the voice I sought except in dreams, where
I heard it always. The most admired talents
awakened only a smile; she songs most applauded
found me absent and indifferent; the idols
of the boxes and the parterre appeared to me
unworthy of the ovations decreed them. Notwithstanding
representations to which I hurried with the
crowd, left me sad and disenchanted. I had then
a little comrade, a great lover of music, passionately
fond of fine singing and beautiful voices.
We went together to the lyric theatres, and returned
together, by night along the quays, arm
in arm, he joyous and full of enthusiasm, I sorrowful
and with downcast brew. When he asked
me why I was thus, I replied by this sentence
which had become proverbial between us: “Ah,
if you had been present, last year, at a concert
for the poor given at Carpentras.” And he
would interrupt me and laugh at thy name, O,
city eternally dear, where I heard for the first
time the music of that melodious soul which remained
on earth, as within thy walls, only long
enough to charm the world.
Discouraged I had resolved to keep my remembrances
to myself, and for some months
declined to accompany my little comrade in his
excursions. Winter arrived; it was the first I
had spent in Paris. One day my little friend
entered my room, radiant and triumphant as
Christopher Columbus after the discovery of
America. He also, no later than the evening
before, had discovered a new world; the theatre
Italien. The child related to me its marvels, and
assured me that one might venture there, even
after having been present at the concert for the poor
at Carpentras. I shook my head with an air of
incredulity. He persisted, but in vain; I had
no taste for new experiments; besides I was occupied
with other cares; in fine, must I confess
it? I was jealous for the voice which sang in my
heart, jealous as a lover for the beauty of his
mistress; and I felt that I should suffer if I encountered
its rival.
Thenceforth, few days passed away without my
little dilettante returning to the charge. More
than once I was tempted to treat him as my
friend Jacques had treated me at Carpentras. I
must confess, however, that he had at last piqued
my curiosity and re-awakened my musical tastes.
He spoke especially of two rival queens of
song; I turned and trembled at the same time
to hear them.
One evening (I shall remember it all my life)
I had seen Othello on the bill; in one of those
dense fogs which envelope Paris like a shroud, I
joined the file besieging the doors of the theatre
Italien. After waiting an hour, in this fine and
icy fog which pierced me to the bone, the file
undulated slowly, like the rings of a serpent
about to uncoil. I was one of the last to penetrate
the sanctuary; to tell the truth I did not
penetrate it. I found the temple filled, and it
was not without difficulty that I obtained the
favor of a taboret in the lobby. As the clock
struck eight, it seemed as if a tremor passed
over us all. The curtain rose, and such was the
religious silence, that I could hear the vibration
of the last chorus of the orchestra, which rose
light as a cloud, hovered over the motionless
multitude, and broke against the ceiling, as the
wave against the stone basin which encloses it.
I saw nothing but every sound reached me. I
listened with delight, I seemed to be listening at
the gates of heaven, and was forgetting Carpentras,
when suddenly a movement took place in
the hall, and a triple round of applause saluted
the appearance of Desdemona. I sought the
young Venetian with a look, but a living wall
concealed from me the theatre and the stage.
The crowd had again become mute. Desdemo
na sang. At the first accents of that clear voice,
I started. Was it true?—was I not deceived?—
was I not the sport of an illusion?—was it indeed
the voice of my dreams? I attempted to
break the rampart which closed to me the entrance
to the hall; I attempted it in vain, and
fell back upon my seat. I hesitated, I doubted
still; but when I heard the romance of the Saule
I doubted no more, it was she! After the fall of
the curtain, I threw myself by a desperate effort
into the orchestra. Soon the curtain rose again
amid the acclamations of the assembly, who recalled
Desdemona on the stage; Desdemona
appeared. The rays of the lamps oscillated at
the sound of the prolonged shouts of enthusiasm;
flowers rained, the boxes sparkled with jewels,
white and rosy scarfs waved in the fragrant air.
Simple and naive amid her triumph, I recognized
her plainly: it was she, it was the angel
traveller, who, sometimes on her route, amused
herself by singing for the poor.
“Sir,” asked I of my neighbor, “what is the
name of the cantatrice who has just sang in the
role of Desdemona?”
My neighbor looked at me with an inquisitive
air, as if I had arrived from Congo, “Marie
Malibran,” said he.
Alas! nothing could soften inexorable death,
neither genius, grace, the love of the public, nor
the splendor of fame and beauty!
| The Prince Corsair, or, The three brothers of Guzan | |