CHAPTER XVIII. A LAST WORD

It was at the Paris Opera House that I last saw Beltrami, three years after the death of that terrible woman. Things had gone exceedingly well with me since my student life in Milan, and I can say without vanity that Signor Hugo Urbino holds a very good position among operatic artists of to-day. After leaving Angello I devoted another year to hard study, and was finally pronounced fit to appear before an Italian audience by my last Maestro. This, however, was only half the battle, for now, having gained complete control of my vocal powers, I had to take lessons in scena from Maestro Biagio, or, in other words, I had to study the art of acting. I elected to make my déb?t in the fine part of Renato in Verdi's opera, "Un Ballo in Maschera," and having learned the music thoroughly, Biagio taught me how to render the character, dramatically speaking. This took some time, as every movement, every action, every gesture had to be studied; but with perseverance I overcame all difficulties, and at length found myself capable of rendering the character of Renato in a sufficiently good style. In passing I may say that, as far as I have found, it is ridiculous to think that acting comes instinctively. No doubt a histrionic genius is able to give a gesture or strike an attitude during the emotion engendered by the performance of a part, but he must always hold himself well under control, and, broadly speaking, act the character, as he studied it, in cold blood. Otherwise, carried away by his powers, he would do things likely to upset the entire mechanism of the scene. I have sung the part of Renato many times since my first appearance, and the critics are pleased to consider it a striking performance, but whatever touches on the spur of the moment I have introduced, the broad rendering of the character always remains precisely the same as taught to me by Maestro Biagio.

Being thus in a position to sing and act the part, my greatest difficulties commenced, and I can safely say that I never met a more unscrupulous set of scoundrels than these sixth-rate impresarios who go about Milan, like degraded Satans, seeking whom they may devour. English students, being popularly supposed to be made of money, are their favourite victims, and they demand from these the sum of four or five hundred francs as the price of a scrittura, i.e., an appearance on the stage. In a playful, ironical fashion they call this sum a present, I suppose after the fashion of Henry VIII.--I think it was that king--who dubbed his taxes "Benevolences;" and if you do not make the impresario "a present," you certainly will not get an appearance in Italy. With this money they take a theatre in a small town and put on the opera in which you desire to sing, but even then it is doubtful whether the déb?t so dearly purchased will come off at all.

The first impresario with whom I had to deal was a dingy individual, who, according to his own account, had brought out all the greatest singers of Europe for the last twenty years, and, having made him "a present" of two hundred francs--he was a modest man and asked no more--it was arranged that I should make my déb?t at Como but on arriving there for rehearsals I found that both the present and the impresario had vanished, like Macbeth's witches, into thin air. Considerably disheartened by this sample of Italian honesty, I yet had sufficient faith to trust another gentleman in the same fashion, but he must have been a brother of the first impresario, for he too vanished. I now began to perceive that there were still brigands in Italy, but that having become civilised, they were either hotel-keepers or impresarios, and as my two unfortunate attempts to get a scrittura had ended in disaster, I was not very anxious to make any one a third "present."

However, it was no use turning back when within the sight of the goal, so I consulted Maestro Biagio, who kindly interested himself on my behalf, and introduced me to an honest impresario, who required the necessary present, but nevertheless fulfilled his promise of introducing me to the Italian public. I made my déb?t at Brescia with great success, and at the conclusion of the season, for which, of course, I did not receive a penny, I had plenty of offers from all parts of the Continent. To make a long story short, I sang everywhere I possibly could, and, having secured an excellent reputation, by an unexpected stroke of good fortune I was engaged to sing at the Paris Opera House two years after my déb?t. I think Dame Fortune was anxious to make reparation to Hugo Urbino for the misfortunes of Hugh Cranston, for, to my great delight, I was favourably received by the critical Parisians, and before the season ended was overwhelmed with offers of lucrative engagements.

What with my good fortune and the constant excitement of the life of an artiste, I had almost forgotten the episode of Verona when I was reminded of it by the unexpected appearance of Luigi Beltrami, who came to my dressing-room one night at the conclusion of "Il Barbiere," in which I had been singing the part of Figaro.

He was changed, this cynical Marchese, since I had last seen him, and changed for the better, as he had lost his former sinister air and looked much happier and brighter than formerly. Since our parting in Milan he had written me frequently, but of late his letters ceased, so I was somewhat puzzled how to account for this new air of cheerfulness. However, we shook hands heartily, being glad to see one another, and Beltrami, lighting one of his eternal cigarettes, sat down to wait until I was ready to leave the theatre.

"Eh! Hugo," he said, gaily blowing a cloud of smoke, "so things have gone well with you, mon ami?"

"Exceedingly well, Beltrami, or you would not see me in this room."

"Bene! I congratulate you."

"Many thanks, Marchese; but you look as if life were agreeing with you."

Beltrami laughed, not with his former sardonic merriment, but with a hearty sense of enjoyment.

"Ma foi, yes! I am married again!"

"Oh! I hope I can congratulate you this time," I said with great significance.

"The present Marchesa is an angel, mon ami. Dame! I had enough of demons with the Contessa Morone."

"Well, she was punished for her sins."

"Eh! what would you? There is a God, mon ami, and He was wearied of the crimes of that Lucrezia Borgia. But what about the poor girl she tried to poison?"

"Signora Pallanza! Oh, I hear she is in America with her husband. He has made a wonderful success in New York, and Bianca tells me they have two children, a boy and a girl."

"A new Mario and Patti, I suppose. Diavolo! what a pity the old Maestro is not alive to train the voices of his great-grandchildren!"

"Yes, he is dead, poor old man! I heard all about it in Vienna, and Petronella has gone to America to look after her beloved piccola. Well, Angello had a long life, but he was not immortal."

"Dame! perhaps his system is immortal. It ought to be if your singing is an example."

"Ah, flatterer!"

"No; upon my word your Figaro was delightful. It is such a relief to hear a voice without that awful tremolo. But come, are you ready? I want you to sup with me."

"I will be delighted, Beltrami. Is the Marchesa in Paris?"

"Eh! no, not this time. I am here en gar?on for a few days. Madame is in Florence, where you must come and visit us. We are wonderfully happy. Dame! who wouldn't be with health, wealth, and an angel of a wife? Ecco!"

"You inherited the wealth of Madame Morone?"

"Ma foi! yes. It was the only good turn she ever did me."

"Oh!" I cried, with a revulsion of feeling, "you are becoming cynical again."

"I always become cynical when I think of that demon."

"Beltrami," I said after a pause, as we left the Opera House, "there is a question I have often wished to ask you."

I felt the Marchese's arm tremble a little in mine, but he laughed in a nonchalant manner.

"Eh! ask what you will, mon ami."

"Did you put your hand through the curtains and change the position of those glasses?"

Beltrami stopped and looked at me steadily with a grave look in his bright eyes.

"Hugo, mon ami," he said slowly, "I neither deny nor affirm, what you say. Giulietta Morone was a demon who came into the world to work evil, and God, wearied of her crimes, sent her back to the hell from whence she came. I am not much given to religion, Hugo, as you know, but I believe in a God; and whosoever He chose as an instrument to destroy that which He permitted to exist, rest assured that such a one will be held guiltless for executing the just decree of Heaven!"

He ceased speaking, and we walked on in silence through the crowded streets under the dark-blue summer sky. I understood perfectly what he meant, and whether it was right or wrong it is not for me to say, still I firmly believe that this man obeyed his impulse at that terrible time, not from any selfish motive, but because he saw clearly that in removing this frightful creature from the world he was doing a service to the humanity upon which she preyed.

All the same, I do not intend to visit the Marchese Beltrami at his Florentine palazzo.

The End