Lippincott's Magazine of Popular Literature and Science, Volume 15, No. 85, January, 1875

Salvini related to me several anecdotes which show how quick he is to master any difficulties accident throws in his way. "Once I bought," he said, "a play of a poor young writer which I thought I could make something of; but when we came to rehearse it for the last time before representation, it seemed to me utterly flat and unprofitable. The piece was called La Suonatrice d'Arpa ('The Harp-Girl'). The actors all said the last act was so stupid that we should make a fiasco. I at last hit upon an idea. We had, however, only a few hours to execute it in. I changed the story: instead of the play ending happily, I made the father kill his daughter accidentally, and then die of grief. All the dialogue had to be improvised by the leading actress and myself. I played the father, and Signora Piamonti the daughter. Such was the success of our invention that the piece was played eight nights in succession, and a rival actor, hearing of the triumph achieved by The Harp-Girl, bought from the author for a handsome sum the privilege of acting it in certain districts which were not included in my purchase of the drama. Not being aware of the alterations we had made, and performing it according to the letter of the text, he made un fiasco solenne—a dead failure."

After the first performance of Zaïre I took the liberty of observing to Salvini that a superb piece of "business" which marks his acting in the last act was not to be found in the text. "Oh," he replied, "I will tell you the origin of it. I was playing at Naples, and one night, when I threw the body of my murdered wife upon the ottoman in the last act, my burnouse fell off and fixed itself to my waist like a tail. I saw at once that if I was not careful I should provoke laughter, and instantly imagined that I would pretend to believe the clinging drapery was the wounded Zaïre grasping me behind. I appeared to dread even to look round, lest I should encounter her pallid face. I hesitated, I trembled, and when with a supreme effort I at last grasped the burnouse and cast it from me, I still lacked the courage to ascertain what it really was, and stood shivering before the white heap it made upon the floor. Finally, just as I thought public curiosity to know what I was going to do began to grow weary, I stooped down and seizing the white mantle dashed it from me with contempt, showing by the gesture that I had discovered what it was, and felt anger that such a trifle should thus alarm a bold man who had committed murder." This pantomime obtained for Salvini at the New York Academy of Music one of his greatest ovations.

When asked why he did not learn English, "Ah!" he replied, "I am too old; and even if I mastered it, I could not control my knowledge of it. When excited I should be lapsing into Italian, which would be very absurd. You asked me the other day why I do not play Orestes. I should make a queer young Greek with an Apollo-like figure now-a-days! The time was when I looked the part and acted it well, and then I liked to play it. I must leave it, with many other good things, to younger men." Speaking about dramatic elocution, he said, "The best method is obtained by close observation of Nature, and above all by earnestness. If you can impress people with the conviction that you feel what you say, they will pardon many shortcomings. And, above all, study, study, study! All the genius in the world will not help you along with any art unless you become a hard student. It has taken me years to master a single part."

Salvini's visit to America has been fruitful of a double good. He has shown forth the splendor of Italian genius, even revealing to us new marvels in that mine of wealth, the works of the greatest Bard of the English-speaking race; and he has gone back to Italy to tell her people of things he has seen in the New World which his great compatriot discovered—as wonderful in their way as any related by Othello to Desdemona's willing ear.

R. DAVEY.

THREE FEATHERS

BY WILLIAM BLACK, AUTHOR OF "A PRINCESS OF THULE."

CHAPTER XX.

TINTAGEL'S WALLS

What was the matter with Harry Trelyon? His mother could not make out; and there never had been much confidence between them, so that she did not care to ask. But she watched, and she saw that he had, for the time at least, forsaken his accustomed haunts and ways and become gloomy, silent and self-possessed. Dick was left neglected in the stables: you no longer heard his rapid clatter along the highway, with the not over-melodious voice of his master singing "The Men of Merry, Merry England" or "The Young Chevalier." The long and slender fishing-rod remained on the pegs in the hall, although you could hear the flop of the small burn-trout of an evening when the flies were thick over the stream. The dogs were deprived of their accustomed runs; the horses had to be taken out for exercise by the groom; and the various and innumerable animals about the place missed their doses of alternate petting and teasing, all because Master Harry had chosen to shut himself up in his study.

The mother of the young man very soon discovered that her son was not devoting his hours of seclusion in that extraordinary museum of natural history to making trout-flies, stuffing birds and arranging pinned butterflies in cases, as was his custom. These were not the occupations which now kept Master Harry up half the night. When she went in of a morning, before he was up, she found that he had been covering whole sheets of paper with careful copying out of passages taken at random from the volumes beside him. A Latin grammar was ordinarily on the table—a book which the young gentleman had brought back from school free from thumb-marks. Occasionally a fencing-foil lay among these evidences of study, while the small aquaria, the cases of stuffed animals with fancy backgrounds and the numerous bird-cages had been thrust aside to give fair elbow-room.

"Perhaps," said Mrs. Trelyon to herself with much satisfaction—"perhaps, after all, that good little girl has given him a hint about Parliament, and he is preparing himself."

A few days of this seclusion, however, began to make the mother anxious; and so one morning she went into his room. He hastily turned over the sheet of paper on which he had been writing: then he looked up, not too well pleased.

"Harry, why do you stay in-doors on such a beautiful morning? It is quite like summer."

"Yes, I know," he said. "I suppose we shall soon have a batch of parsons here: summer always brings them. They come out with the hot weather—like butterflies."

Mrs. Trelyon was shocked and disappointed: she thought Wenna Rosewarne had cured him of his insane dislike to clergymen—indeed, for many a day gone by he had kept respectfully silent on the subject.

"But we shall not ask them to come if you'd rather not," she said, wishing to do all she could to encourage the reformation of his ways. "I think Mr. Barnes promised to visit us early in May, but he is only one."

"And one is worse than a dozen. When there's a lot you can leave 'em to fight it out among themselves. But one!—to have one stalking about an empty house, like a ghost dipped in ink! Why can't you ask anybody but clergymen, mother? There are whole lots of people would like to run down from London for a fortnight before getting into the thick of the season: there's the Pomeroy girls as good as offered to come."

"But they can't come by themselves," Mrs. Trelyon said with a feeble protest.

"Oh yes, they can: they're ugly enough to be safe anywhere. And why don't you get Juliott up? She'll be glad to get away from that old curmudgeon for a week. And you ought to ask the Trewhellas, father and daughter, to dinner: that old fellow is not half a bad sort of fellow, although he's a clergyman."

"Harry," said his mother, interrupting him, "I'll fill the house if that will please you; and you shall ask just whomsoever you please."

"All right," said he: "the place wants waking up."

"And then," said the mother, wishing to be still more gracious, "you might ask Miss Rosewarne to dine with us: she might come well enough, although Mr. Roscorla is not here."

A sort of gloom fell over the young man's face again: "I can't ask her—you may if you like."

Mrs. Trelyon stared: "What is the matter, Harry? Have you and she quarreled? Why, I was going to ask you, if you were down in the village to-day, to say that I should like to see her."

"And how could I take such a message?" the young man said, rather warmly, "I don't see why the girl should be ordered up to see you as if you were conferring a favor on her by joining in this scheme. She's very hard-worked; you have got plenty of time; you ought to call on her and study her convenience, instead of making her trot all the way up here whenever you want to talk to her."

The pale and gentle woman flushed a little, but she was anxious not to give way to petulance just then: "Well, you are quite right, Harry: it was thoughtless of me. I should like to go down and see her this morning; but I have sent Jakes over to the blacksmith's, and I am afraid of that new lad."

"Oh, I will drive you down to the inn. I suppose among them they can put the horses to the wagonette," the young man said, not very graciously: and then Mrs. Trelyon went off to get ready.

It was a beautiful, fresh morning, the far-off line of the sea still and blue, the sunlight lighting up the wonderful masses of primroses along the tall banks, the air sweet with the resinous odor of the gorse. Mrs. Trelyon looked with a gentle and childlike pleasure on all these things, and was fairly inclined to be very friendly with the young gentleman beside her. But he was more than ordinarily silent and morose. Mrs. Trelyon knew she had done nothing to offend him, and thought it hard she should be punished for the sins of anybody else.

He spoke scarcely a word to her as the carriage rolled along the silent highways. He drove rapidly and carelessly down the steep thoroughfare of Eglosilyan, although there were plenty of loose stones about. Then he pulled sharply up in front of the inn, and George Rosewarne appeared.

"Mr. Rosewarne, let me introduce you to my mother. She wants to see Miss Wenna for a few moments, if she is not engaged."

Mr. Rosewarne took off his cap, assisted Mrs. Trelyon to alight, and then showed her the way into the house.

"Won't you come in, Harry?" his mother said.

"No."

A man had come out to the horses' heads.

"You leave 'em alone," said the young gentleman: "I sha'n't get down."

Mabyn came out, her bright young face full of pleasure.

"How do you do, Mabyn?" he said coldly, and without offering to shake hands.

"Won't you come in for a minute?" she said, rather surprised.

"No, thank you. Don't you stay out in the cold: you've got nothing round your neck."

Mabyn went away without saying a word, but thinking that the coolness of the air was much less apparent than that of his manner and speech.

Being at length left to himself, he turned his attention to the horses before him, and eventually, to pass the time, took out his pocket-handkerchief and began to polish the silver on the handle of the whip. He was disturbed in this peaceful occupation by a very timid voice, which said, "Mr. Trelyon." He turned round and found that Wenna's wistful face was looking up to him, with a look in it partly of friendly gladness and partly of anxiety and entreaty. "Mr. Trelyon," she said, with her eyes cast down, "I think you are offended with me. I am very sorry: I beg your forgiveness."

The reins were fastened up in a minute, and he was down in the road beside her. "Now look here, Wenna," he said. "What could you mean by treating me so unfairly? I don't mean in being vexed with me, but in shunting me off, as it were, instead of having it out at once. I don't think it was fair."

"I am very sorry," she said. "I think I was very wrong, but you don't know what a girl feels about such things. Will you come into the inn?"

"And leave my horses? No," he said, good-naturedly. "But as soon as I get that fellow out, I will; so you go in at once, and I'll follow you directly. And mind, Wenna, don't you be so silly again, or you and I may have a real quarrel; and I know that would break your heart."

The old pleased smile lit up her face again as she turned and went in-doors: he meanwhile proceeded to summon a hostler by shouting his name at the pitch of his voice.

The small party of women assembled in the parlor were a trifle embarrassed: it was the first time that the great lady of the neighborhood had honored the inn with a visit. She herself was merely quiet, gentle and pleased, but Mrs. Rosewarne, with her fine eyes and her sensitive face all lit up and quickened by, the novel excitement, was all anxiety to amuse and interest and propitiate her distinguished guest. Mabyn, too, was rather shy and embarrassed: she said things hastily, and then seemed afraid of her interference. Wenna was scarcely at her ease, because she saw that her mother and sister were not; and she was very anxious, moreover, that these two should think well of Mrs. Trelyon and be disposed to like her.

The sudden appearance of a man with a man's rough ways and loud voice seemed to shake these feminine elements better together, and to clear the air of timid apprehensions and cautions. Harry Trelyon came into the room with quite a marked freshness and good-nature on his face. His mother was surprised: what had completely changed his manner in a couple of minutes?

"How are you, Mrs. Rosewarne?" he cried in his off-hand fashion. "You oughtn't to be in-doors on such a morning, or we shall never get you well, you know; and the doctor will be sending you to Penzance or Devonport for a change. Well, Mabyn, have you convinced anybody yet that your farm-laborers with their twelve shillings a week are better off than the slate-workers with their eighteen? You'd better take your sister's opinion on that point, and don't squabble with me. Mother, what's the use of sitting here? You bring Miss Wenna with you into the wagonette, and talk to her there about all your business-affairs, and I'll take you for a drive. Come along. And of course I want somebody with me: will you come, Mrs. Rosewarne, or will Mabyn? You can't?—then Mabyn must. Go along, Mabyn, and put your best hat on, and make yourself uncommonly smart, and you shall be allowed to sit next the driver—that's me."

And indeed he bundled the whole of them about until they were seated in the wagonette just as he had indicated; and away they went from the inn-door.

"And you think you are coming back in half an hour?" he said to his companion, who was much pleased and very proud to occupy such a place. "Oh no, you're not. You're a young and simple thing, Mabyn. These two behind us will go on talking now for any time about yards of calico and crochet-needles and twopenny subscriptions, while you and I, don't you see, are quietly driving them over to Tintagel—"

"Oh, Mr. Trelyon!" said Mabyn.

"You keep quiet. That isn't the half of what's going to befall you. I shall put up the horses at the inn, and I shall take you all down to the beach for a scramble to improve your appetite; and at the said inn you shall have luncheon with me, if you're all very good and behave yourselves. Then we shall drive back just when we particularly please. Do you like the picture?"

"It is delightful: oh, I am sure Wenna will enjoy it," Mabyn said. "But don't you think, Mr. Trelyon, that you might ask her to sit here? One sees better here than sitting sideways in a wagonette."

"They have their business-affairs to settle."

"Yes," said Mabyn petulantly, "that is what every one says: nobody expects Wenna ever to have a moment's enjoyment to herself. Oh, here is old Uncle Cornish—he's a great friend of Wenna's: he will be dreadfully hurt if she passes him without saying a word."

"Then we shall pull up and address Uncle Cornish. I believe he used to be the most thieving old ruffian of a poacher in this county."

There was a hale old man of seventy or so seated on a low wall in front of one of the gardens, his face shaded from the sunlight by a broad hat, his lean gray hands employed in buckling up the leathern leggings that encased his spare calves. He got up when the horses stopped, and looked in rather a dazed fashion at the carriage.

"How do you do this morning, Mr. Cornish?" Wenna said.

"Why, now, to be sure!" the old man said, as if reproaching his own imperfect vision. "'Tis a fine marnin', Miss Wenna, and yü be agwoin' for a drive."

"And how is your daughter-in-law, Mr. Cornish? Has she sold the pig yet?"

"Naw, she hasn't sold the peg. If yü be agwoin' thrü Trevalga, Miss Wenna, just yü stop and have a look at that peg: yü'll be 'mazed to see en. 'Tis many a year agone sence there has been such a peg by me. And perhaps yü'd take the laste bit o' refrashment, Miss Wenna, as yü go by: Jane would get yü a coop o' tay to once."

"Thank you, Mr. Cornish, I'll look in and see the pig some other time: to-day we sha'n't be going as far as Trevalga."

"Oh, won't you?" said Master Harry in a low voice as he drove on. "You'll be in Trevalga before you know where you are."

Which was literally the case. Wenna was so much engaged in her talk with Mrs. Trelyon that she did not notice how far away they were getting from Eglosilyan; but Mabyn and her companion knew. They were now on the high uplands by the coast, driving between the beautiful banks, which were starred with primroses and stitchwort and red dead-nettle and a dozen other bright and tender-hued firstlings of the year. The sun was warm on the hedges and the fields, but a cool breeze blew about these lofty heights, and stirred Mabyn's splendid masses of hair as they drove rapidly along. Far over on their right, beyond the majestic wall of cliff, lay the great blue plain of the sea; and there stood the bold brown masses of the Sisters Rocks, with a circle of white foam round their base. As they looked down into the south the white light was so fierce that they could but faintly discern objects through it; but here and there they caught a glimpse of a square church-tower or of a few rude cottages clustered on the high plain, and these seemed to be of a transparent gray in the blinding glare of the sun.

Then suddenly in front of them they found a deep chasm, with the white road leading down through its cool shadows. There was the channel of a stream, with the rocks looking purple amid the gray bushes; and here were rich meadows, with cattle standing deep in the grass and the daisies; and over there, on the other side, a strip of forest, with the sunlight shining along one side of the tall and dark-green pines. As they drove down into this place, which is called the Rocky Valley, a magpie rose from one of the fields and flew up into the firs.

"That is sorrow," said Mabyn.

Another one rose and flew up to the same spot.

"And that is joy," she said, with her face brightening.

"Oh, but I saw another as we came to the brow of the hill, and that means a marriage," her companion remarked to her.

"Oh no," she said quite eagerly, "I am sure there was no third one: I am certain there were only two. I am quite positive we only saw two."

"But why should you be so anxious?" Trelyon said, "You know you ought to be looking forward to a marriage, and that is always a happy thing. Are you envious, Mabyn?"

The girl was silent for a moment or two. Then she said, with a sudden bitterness in her tone, "Isn't it a fearful thing to have to be civil to people whom you hate? Isn't it, when they come and establish a claim on you through some one you care for? You look at them—yes, you can look at them—and you've got to see them kiss some one that you love; and you wonder she doesn't rush away for a bit of caustic and cauterize the place, as you do when a mad dog bites you."

"Mabyn," said the young man beside her, "you are a most unchristian sort of person this morning. Who is it you hate in such a fashion? Will you take the reins while I walk up the hill?"

Mabyn's little burst of passion still burned in her cheeks and gave a proud and angry look to her mouth, but she took the reins all the same, and her companion leapt to the ground. The banks on each side of the road going up this hill were tall and steep: here and there great masses of wild flowers were scattered among the grass and the gorse. From time to time he stopped to pick up a handful, until, when they had got up to the high and level country again, he had brought together a very pretty bouquet of wild blossoms. When he got into his seat and took the reins again he carelessly gave the bouquet to Mabyn.

"Oh, how pretty!" she said; and then she turned round: "Wenna, are you very much engaged? Look at the pretty bouquet Mr. Trelyon has gathered for you."

Wenna's quiet face flushed with pleasure when she took the flowers, and Mrs. Trelyon looked pleased and said they were very pretty. She evidently thought that her son was greatly improved in his manners when he condescended to gather flowers to present to a girl. Nay, was he not at this moment devoting a whole forenoon of his precious time to the unaccustomed task of taking ladies for a drive? Mrs. Trelyon regarded Wenna with a friendly look, and began to take a greater liking than ever to that sensitive and expressive face and to the quiet and earnest eyes.

"But, Mr. Trelyon," said Wenna, looking round, "hadn't we better turn? We shall be at Trevenna directly."

"Yes, you are quite right," said Master Harry: "you will be at Trevenna directly, and you are likely to be there for some time. For Mabyn and I have resolved to have luncheon there, and we are going down to Tintagel, and we shall most likely climb to King Arthur's Castle. Have you any objections?"

Wenna had none. The drive through the cool and bright day had braced up her spirits. She was glad to know that everything looked promising about this scheme of hers. So she willingly surrendered herself to the holiday, and in due time they drove into the odd and remote little village and pulled up in front of the inn.

So soon as the hostler had come to the horses' heads the young gentleman who had been driving jumped down and assisted his three companions to alight: then he led the way into the inn. In the doorway stood a stranger, probably a commercial traveler, who, with his hands in his pockets, his legs apart and a cigar in his mouth, had been visiting those three ladies with a very hearty stare as they got out of the carriage. Moreover, when they came to the doorway he did not budge an inch nor did he take his cigar from his mouth; and so, as it had never been Mr. Trelyon's fashion to sidle past any one, that young gentleman made straight for the middle of the passage, keeping his shoulders very square. The consequence was a collision. The imperturbable person with his hands in his pockets was sent staggering against the wall, while his cigar dropped on the stone. "What the devil—!" he was beginning to say, when Trelyon got the three women past him and into the small parlor. Then he went back: "Did you wish to speak to me, sir? No, you didn't: I perceive you are a prudent person. Next time ladies pass you, you'd better take your cigar out of your mouth or somebody'll destroy that two-pennyworth of tobacco for you. Good-morning."

Then he returned to the little parlor, to which a waitress had been summoned: "Now, Jinny, pull yourself together and let's have something nice for luncheon—in an hour's time, sharp. You will, won't you? And how about that Sillery with the blue star—not the stuff with the gold head that some abandoned ruffian in Plymouth brews in his back garden. Well, can't you speak?"

"Yes, sir," said the bewildered maid.

"That's a good thing—a very good thing," said he, putting the shawls together on a sofa. "Don't you forget how to speak until you get married. And don't let anybody come into this room. And you can let my man have his dinner and a pint of beer. Oh, I forgot: I'm my own man this morning, so you needn't go asking for him. Now, will you remember all these things?"

"Yes, sir; but what would you like for luncheon?"

"My good girl, we should like a thousand things such as Tintagel never saw, but what you've got to do is to give us the nicest things you've got: do you see? I leave it entirely in your hands. Come along, young people."