That same night there was heard in the Via Ripetta before Signor Pasquale’s house such a chorus of fearful screams and of cursing and raving and abuse that all the neighbours were startled up out of their sleep, and a body of gendarmes, who had been pursuing a murderer as far as the Piazza di Spagna, hastened up with torches, supposing that some fresh deed of violence was being committed. But when they, and a crowd of other people whom the noise had attracted, came upon the anticipated scene of murder, they found poor little Pitichinaccio lying as if dead on the ground, whilst Michele was thrashing the Pyramid Doctor with a formidable bludgeon. And they saw the doctor reel to the ground just at the moment when Signor Pasquale painfully scrambled to his feet, drew his rapier, and furiously attacked Michele. Round about were pieces of broken guitars. If several people had not grasped the old man’s arm he would assuredly have run Michele right through the heart. The ex-bravo, now becoming aware by the light of the torches whom he had attacked, stood as if petrified, his eyes almost starting out of his head, “a painted desperado, on the balance between will and power,” as it is said somewhere. Then, uttering a fearful scream, he tore his hair and begged for pardon and mercy. Neither the Pyramid Doctor nor Pitichinaccio was seriously injured, but they had been so soundly cudgelled that they could neither move nor stir, and had to be carried home.
Signor Pasquale had himself brought this mishap upon his own shoulders. We know that Salvator and Antonio had complimented Marianna with the finest serenade that could be heard; but I have forgotten to say that to the old gentleman’s great indignation they repeated it for several successive nights. At length Signor Pasquale, whose rage was kept in check by his neighbours, was foolish enough to have recourse to the authorities of the city, urging them to forbid the two painters to sing in the Via Ripetta. The authorities, however, replied that it would be a thing unheard of in Rome to prevent anybody from singing and playing the guitar where he pleased, and it was irrational to ask such a thing. So Signor Pasquale, determined to put an end to the nuisance himself, had promised Michele a large reward if he seized the first opportunity to fall upon the singers and give them a good sound drubbing. Michele at once procured a stout bludgeon, and lay in wait every night behind the door. But it happened that Salvator and Antonio judged it prudent to omit their serenading in the Via Ripetta for some nights before they carried out their plan, so as not to remind the old gentleman of his adversaries. Marianna remarked quite innocently that though she hated Antonio and Salvator, yet she liked their singing, for nothing was so nice as to hear music floating upwards in the night air.
This Signor Pasquale made a mental note of, and as the essence of gallantry intended to surprise his love with a serenade on his part, which he had himself composed and carefully practiced with his faithful friends. On the very night before the one in which he was hoping to celebrate his greatest triumph in Nicolo Musso’s theatre, he stealthily slipped out of the house and went and fetched his associates, with whom he had previously arranged matters. But no sooner had they sounded the first few notes on their guitars than Michele, whom Signor Pasquale had thoughtlessly forgotten to inform of his design, burst forth from behind the door, highly delighted that the opportunity which was to bring him the promised reward had at last come, and began to cudgel the musicians most unmercifully. We are already acquainted with the result. Of course there was no further possibility of either Splendiano or Pitichinaccio’s accompanying Signor Pasquale to Nicolo’s theatre, for they were both confined to their beds beplastered all over. Signor Pasquale, however, was unable to stay away, although his back and shoulders smarted considerably from the drubbing he had himself received; every note in his arias was a cord which drew him there with irresistible power.
“Well,” said Salvator to Antonio, “since the obstacle which we took to be insurmountable has been removed from our way of itself, it all depends now upon you not to let the favourable moment slip for carrying off your Marianna from Nicolo’s theatre. But I needn’t talk, you won’t fail; I will greet you now as the fiance of Capuzzi’s lovely niece, who in a few days will be your wife. I wish you happiness, Antonio, and yet I feel a shiver run through me when I think about your marriage.”
“What do you mean, Salvator?” asked Antonio, utterly astounded.
“Call it a crotchet, call it a foolish fancy, or what you will, Antonio,” rejoined Salvator—“I love the fair sex, but there is not a woman (not even one that I was madly in love with, and would die for) who doesn’t make me tremble with fear when I think of marriage to her. Their inscrutability perplexes all men. A woman that we believe has surrendered herself to us entirely, heart and soul, and that we think has unfolded all her character to us, is the first to deceive us, and along with the sweetest of her kisses we drink the most pernicious of poisons.”
“And my Marianna?” asked Antonio, amazed.
“Pardon me, Antonio,” continued Salvator, “even your Marianna, who is loveliness and grace personified, has given me a fresh proof of how dangerous the mysterious nature of woman is to us. Just call to mind what the behaviour of that innocent, inexperienced child was when we carried her uncle home, how at a single glance from me she understood everything—everything, I tell you, and as you yourself admitted, proceeded to play her part with the greatest cleverness. But that is not to be compared at all with what took place when Musso visited the old man. The most practiced address, the most impenetrable cunning—in short, all the arts of the most experienced woman of the world could not have done more than little Marianna did to deceive old Capuzzi with perfect success. She could not have acted in any better way to prepare the road for us for any kind of enterprise. Our feud with the cranky old fool—any sort of cunning scheme seems justified—
“But—come, my dear Antonio, never mind my fanciful crotchets, be happy with your Marianna; as happy as you can.”
If a monk had taken his place beside Signor Pasquale when he set out along with his niece to go to Nicolo Musso’s theatre, everybody would have thought that the strange pair were being led to execution. First went valiant Michele, repulsive in appearance, and armed to the teeth; then came Signor Pasquale and Marianna, followed by fully twenty gendarmes.
Nicolo received the old gentleman and his lady with every mark of respect at the entrance to the theatre, and conducted them to the seats which had been reserved for them, immediately in front of the stage. Signor Pasquale felt highly flattered by this mark of honour, and gazed about him with proud and sparkling eyes, whilst his pleasure, his joy, was greatly enhanced to find that all the seats near and behind Marianna were occupied by women alone. A couple of violins and a bass-fiddle were being tuned behind the curtains of the stage; the old gentleman’s heart beat with expectation; and when all at once the orchestra struck up the ritornello of his work, he felt an electric thrill tingling in every nerve.
Formica came forward in the character of Pasquarello, and sang —sang in Capuzzi’s own voice, and with all his characteristic gestures, the most hopeless aria that ever was heard. The theatre shook with the loud and boisterous laughter of the audience. They shouted, they screamed wildly, “O Pasquale Capuzzi! Our most illustrious composer and artist! Bravo! Bravissimo!” The old gentleman, not perceiving the ridicule and irony of the laughter, was in raptures of delight. The aria came to an end, and the people cried “Sh! sh!” for Dr. Gratiano, played on this occasion by Nicolo Musso himself, appeared on the stage, holding his hands over his ears and shouting to Pasquarello for God’s sake to stop this ridiculous screeching.
Then the doctor asked Pasquarello how long he had taken to the confounded habit of singing, and where he had got that execrable piece of music.
Whereupon Pasquarello replied that he didn’t know what the doctor wanted; the doctor was like the Romans, and had no taste for real music, since he failed to recognize the most talented of musicians. The aria had been written by the greatest of living composers, in whose service he had the good fortune to be, receiving instruction in both music
and singing from the master himself.
Gratiano then began guessing, and mentioned the names of a great number of well-known composers and musicians, but at every distinguished name Pasquarello only shook his head contemptuously.
At length Pasquarello said that the doctor was only exposing gross ignorance, since he did not know the name of the greatest composer of the time. It was no other than Signor Pasquale Capuzzi, who had done him the honour of taking him into his service. Could he not see that he was the friend and servant of Signor Pasquale?
Then the doctor broke out into a loud long roar of laughter, and cried, What! Had he (Pasquarello) after leaving him (the doctor), in whose service he had gotten plenty of tips besides wages and food —had he gone and taken service with the worst old idiot who ever stuffed himself with macaroni, to a patched carnival fool who strutted about like a satisfied old hen after a shower of rain, to the snarling skinflint, the lovesick old poltroon, who infected the air of the Via Ripetta with the disgusting bleating which he called singing? and so forth.
To which Pasquarello, quite incensed, replied that it was nothing but envy which showed in the doctor’s words; he (Pasquarello) was of course speaking with his heart in his mouth [parla col cuore in mano]; the doctor was not at all the man to pass an opinion upon Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senigaglia; he was speaking with his heart in his mouth. The doctor himself had a strong tang of all that he blamed in the excellent Signor Pasquale; but he was speaking with his heart in his mouth; he (Pasquarello) had himself often heard fully six hundred people at once laugh most heartily at Dr. Gratiano, and so forth. Then Pasquarello spoke a long panegyric upon his new master, Signor Pasquale, attributing to him all the virtues under the sun; and he concluded with a description of his character, which he portrayed as being the very essence of amiability and grace.
“Heaven bless you, Formica!” lisped Signor Capuzzi to himself. “Heaven bless you, Formica! I see you have arranged this to make my triumph perfect, since you are upbraiding the Romans for all their envious and ungrateful persecution of me, and are letting them know who I really am.”
“Ha! here comes my master himself,” cried Pasquarello at this moment, and there entered on the stage—Signor Pasquale Capuzzi himself, just as he breathed and walked, his very clothes, face, gestures, gait, postures; in fact so perfectly like Signor Capuzzi in the auditorium, that the latter, quite aghast, let go Marianna’s hand, which hitherto he had held fast in his own, and tapped himself, his nose, his wig, in order to discover whether he was not dreaming, or seeing double, whether he was really sitting in Nicolo Musso’s theatre and dare credit the miracle.
Capuzzi on the stage embraced Dr. Gratiano with great kindness, and asked how he was. The doctor replied that he had a good appetite, and slept soundly, at his service [per servirlo] ; and as for his purse—well, it was suffering from a galloping consumption. Only yesterday he had spent his last ducat for a pair of rosemary-coloured stockings for his sweetheart, and was just going to walk around to one or two moneylenders to see if he could borrow thirty ducats—
“How can you pass over your best friends?” said Capuzzi. “Here, my dear sir, here are fifty ducats, come take them.”
“Pasquale, what are you about?” said the real Capuzzi under his breath.
Dr. Gratiano began to talk about a bond and about interest; but Signor Capuzzi declared that he could not think of asking for either from such a friend as the doctor.
“Pasquale, have you gone out of your senses?” exclaimed the real Capuzzi a little louder.
After many grateful embraces Dr. Gratiano took his leave. Now Pasquarello drew near with a good many bows, and extolled Signor Capuzzi to the skies, adding, however, that his purse was suffering from the same complaint as Gratiano’s, and he begged for some of the same excellent medicine that had cured his. Capuzzi on the stage laughed, and said he was pleased to find that Pasquarello knew how to turn his good humour to advantage, and threw him several glittering ducats.
“Pasquale, you must be mad, possessed of the devil,” cried the real Capuzzi aloud. The listeners told him to be quiet.
Pasquarello went still further in his eulogy of Capuzzi, and came at last to speak of the aria which he (Capuzzi) had composed, and with which he (Pasquarello) hoped to enchant everybody. The fictitious Capuzzi clapped Pasquarello heartily on the back, and went on to say that he might venture to tell him (Pasquarello), his faithful servant, in confidence, that in reality he knew nothing whatever of the science of music, and in respect to the aria of which he (Pasquarello) had just spoken, as well as all pieces that he (Capuzzi) had ever composed, why, he had stolen them out of Frescobaldi’s canzonas and Carissimi’s motets.
“I tell you you’re lying in your throat, you dog,” shouted the Capuzzi off the stage, rising from his seat. Again he was told to keep still, and the woman who sat next to him drew him down on the bench.
“It’s now time to think about other and more important matters,” continued Capuzzi on the stage. He was going to give a grand banquet the next day, and Pasquarello must look alive and have everything ready that was necessary. Then he produced and read over a list of all the rarest and most expensive dishes, making Pasquarello tell him how much each would cost, at the same time giving him the money for them.
“Pasquale! You’re insane! You’ve gone mad! You good-for-nothing scamp! You spendthrift!” shouted the real Capuzzi at intervals, growing more and more enraged the higher the cost of this the most nonsensical of dinners arose.
At length, when the list was finished, Pasquarello asked what had induced him to give such a splendid banquet.
“Tomorrow will be the happiest and most joyous day of my life,” replied the fictitious Capuzzi. “For let me tell you, my good Pasquarello, that I am going to celebrate the auspicious marriage of my dear niece Marianna tomorrow. I am going to give her hand to that fine young man, the best of all artists, Scacciati.”
Hardly had the words fallen from his lips when the real Capuzzi leapt to his feet, utterly beside himself, quite out of his mind, his face aflame with the most fiendish rage, and doubling his fists and shaking them at his counterpart on the stage, he yelled at the top of his voice, “No, you won’t, no, you won’t, you rascal! You scoundrel, you—Pasquale! Do you mean to cheat yourself out of your Marianna, you hound? Are you going to throw her into the arms of that scoundrel—sweet Marianna, your life, your hope, your all? Ah! watch out! watch out! you infatuated fool. Remember what sort of a reception you will meet with from yourself. You shall beat yourself black and blue with your own hands, so that you have no relish for banquets and weddings! ”
But the Capuzzi on the stage doubled his fists like the Capuzzi below, and shouted in exactly the same furious way, and in the same high-pitched voice, “May all the spirits of hell sit at your heart, you abominable simpleton of a Pasquale, you atrocious skinflint—you lovesick old fool—you gaudy-tricked-out ass with the cap and bells dangling about your ears. Take care lest I snuff out the candle of your life, and put an end to the dirty tricks which you try to work upon the good, honest, modest Pasquale Capuzzi.”
Amid the most fearful cursing and swearing of the real Capuzzi, the one on the stage dished up one fine anecdote after the other about him.
“Don’t you dare,” shouted the fictitious Capuzzi at last, “you amorous old ape, interfere with the happiness of these two young people, whom Heaven has destined for each other.”
At this moment there appeared at the back of the stage Antonio Scacciati and Marianna locked in each other’s arms. Although the old man was at other times somewhat feeble on his legs, now fury gave him strength and agility. With a single bound he was on the stage, had drawn his sword, and was about to charge upon the pretended Antonio. He found, however, that he was held fast from behind. An officer of the Papal guard had stopped him, and said in a serious voice, “Recollect where you are, Signor Pasquale; you are in Nicolo Musso’s theatre. Without intending it, you have played a most ridiculous role
today. You will not find either Antonio or Marianna here.”
The two persons whom Capuzzi had taken for his niece and her lover now drew near, along with the rest of the actors. The faces were all completely strange to him. His rapier fell from his trembling hand; he took a deep breath as if awakening out of a bad dream; he grasped his brow with both hands; he opened his eyes wide. The presentiment of what had happened suddenly struck him, and he shouted, “Marianna!” in such a stentorian voice that the walls rang.
But she was beyond reach of his shouts. Antonio had taken advantage of the opportunity while Pasquale, oblivious of everything around him and even of himself, was quarrelling with his double, to make his way to Marianna, and escape with her through the audience, and out a side door, where a carriage stood ready waiting; and away they went as fast as their horses could gallop towards Florence.
“Marianna!” screamed the old man again, “Marianna! she is gone. She has fled. That knave Antonio has stolen her from me. Away! after them! Have pity on me, good people, and take torches and help me look for my little darling. Oh! you serpent!”
He tried to make for the door. But the officer held him fast, saying, “Do you mean that pretty young lady who sat beside you? I believe I saw her slip out with a young man—I think Antonio Scacciati—a long time ago, when you began your silly quarrel with one of the actors who wore a mask like your face. You needn’t make trouble about it; every inquiry shall at once be set on foot, and Marianna shall be brought back to you as soon as she is found. But as for yourself, Signor Pasquale, your behaviour here and your murderous attempt on the life of that actor compel me to arrest you.”
Signor Pasquale, his face as pale as death, incapable of uttering a single word or even a sound, was led away by the very same gendarmes who were to have protected him against masked devils and spectres. Thus it came to pass that on the selfsame night on which he had hoped to celebrate his triumph, he was plunged into the midst of trouble and all the frantic despondency which amorous old fools feel when they are deceived.
The Best Tales of Hoffmann Page 52
