VI
Everything here below beneath the sun is subject to continual change; and perhaps there is nothing which can be called more inconstant than opinion, which turns round in an everlasting circle like the wheel of fortune. He who reaps great praise today is overwhelmed with biting censure tomorrow; today we trample under foot the man who tomorrow will be raised far above us.
Of all those who in Rome had ridiculed and mocked at old Pasquale Capuzzi, with his sordid avarice, his foolish amorousness, his insane jealousy, was there one who did not wish poor tormented Marianna her liberty? But now that Antonio had successfully carried off his mistress, all their ridicule and mockery was suddenly changed into pity for the old fool, whom they saw wandering about the streets of Rome with his head hanging on his breast, utterly disconsolate. Misfortunes seldom come singly; and so it happened that Signor Pasquale, soon after Marianna had been taken from him, lost his best bosom friends also. Little Pitichinaccio choked himself in foolishly trying to swallow an almond in the middle of a cadenza; and a sudden stop was put to the life of the illustrious Pyramid Doctor Signor Splendiano Accoramboni by a slip of the pen, for which he had only himself to blame. Michele’s drubbing made such work with him that he fell into a fever. He determined to make use of a remedy which he claimed to have discovered, so, calling for pen and ink, he wrote down a prescription in which, by employing a wrong sign, he increased the quantity of a powerful substance to a dangerous extent. Scarcely had he swallowed the medicine than he sank back on the pillows and died, establishing, however, by his own death in the most splendid and satisfactory manner the efficacy of the last tincture which he ever prescribed.
As already remarked, those who had laughed loudest and who had repeatedly wished Antonio success in his schemes, had now nothing but pity for the old gentleman; and the bitterest blame was heaped, not so much upon Antonio, as upon Salvator Rosa, whom, to be sure, they regarded as the instigator of the whole plan.
Salvator’s enemies, who were many, exerted all their efforts to fan the flame. “You see,” they said, “he was one of Masaniello’s cutthroats, and he is ready to turn his hand to any deed of mischief, to any disreputable enterprise; we shall be the next to suffer from his presence in the city; he is a dangerous man.”
And the jealous faction who had leagued together against Salvator actually did succeed in stemming the tide of his prosperous career. He produced one remarkable picture after another, all bold in conception, and splendidly executed; but the so-called critics shrugged their shoulders, now pointing out that the hills were too blue, the trees too green, the figures now too long, now too broad, finding fault everywhere where there was no fault to be found, and seeking to detract from his hard-earned reputation in all the ways they could think of. Especially bitter in their persecution of him were the Academicians of San Luca, who could not forget how he had taken them in with the surgeon; they even went beyond the limits of their own profession, and decried the clever stanzas which Salvator at that time wrote, hinting very plainly that he did not cultivate his own fruit but plundered that of his neighbours. For these reasons, therefore, Salvator could not regain the splendor, which he had formerly enjoyed in Rome. Instead of being visited by the most eminent Romans in a large studio, he had to remain with Signora Caterina and his green fig-tree; but amid these poor surroundings he sometimes found both consolation and tranquility of mind.
Salvator took the malicious machinations of his enemies to heart more than he should have; he even began to feel that an insidious disease, resulting from chagrin and dejection, was gnawing at his vitals. In this unhappy frame of mind he designed and executed two large pictures which caused quite an uproar in Rome. Of these one represented the transitoriness of all earthly things, and in the principal figure, that of a wanton female bearing all the indications of her degrading calling, was recognizable the mistress of one of the cardinals; the other portrayed the Goddess of Fortune dispensing her rich gifts. But cardinals’ hats, bishops’ mitres, gold medals, decorations of orders, were falling upon bleating sheep, braying asses, and other such contemptible animals, while well-made men in ragged clothes were vainly straining their eyes upwards to get even the smallest gift. Salvator had given free rein to his embittered mood, and the animals’ heads bore the closest resemblance to the features of various eminent persons. It is easy to imagine, therefore, that the tide of hatred against him rose; and he was more bitterly persecuted than ever.
Signora Caterina warned him, with tears in her eyes, that as soon as it began to be dark suspicious characters were beginning to lurk about the house, apparently dogging his every footstep. Salvator saw that it was time to leave Rome; and Signora Caterina and her beloved daughters were the only people whom it caused him pain to part from.
In response to the repeated invitations of the Duke of Tuscany, he went to Florence; and here at length he was richly paid for all the mortification and worry which he had had to struggle against in Rome, and here all the honour and all the fame which he so truly deserved were freely conferred upon him. The Duke’s presents and the high prices which he received for his pictures soon enabled him to remove into a large house and to furnish it in the most magnificent style. There he gathered around him the most illustrious authors and scholars of the day, among whom it will be sufficient to mention Evangelista Toricelli, Valerio Chimentelli, Battista Ricciardi, Andrea Cavalcanti, Pietro Salvati, Filippo Apolloni, Volumnio Bandelli, Francesco Rovai. They formed an association for the prosecution of artistic and scientific pursuits, while Salvator was able to contribute an element of whimsicality to the meetings, which had a singular effect in animating and enlivening the mind. The banqueting hall was like a beautiful grove with fragrant bushes and flowers and splashing fountains; and the dishes even, which were served up by pages in eccentric costumes, were very wonderful to look at, as if they came from some distant land of magic. These meetings of writers and savants in Salvator Rosa’s house were called at that time the Accademia de’ Percossi.
Though Salvator’s mind was in this way devoted to science and art, yet his real true nature came to life again when he met with his friend Antonio Scacciati, who, along with his lovely Marianna, led the pleasant carefree life of an artist. They often recalled poor old Signor Pasquale whom they had deceived, and all that had taken place in Nicolo Musso’s theatre.
Antonio once asked Salvator how he had contrived to enlist in his cause the active interest not only of Musso but of the excellent Formica, and of Agli too. Salvator replied that it had been very easy, for Formica was his most intimate friend in Rome, so that it had been a work of both pleasure and love to arrange everything on the stage in accordance with the instructions Salvator gave him. Antonio protested that, though still he could not help laughing over the scene which had paved the way to his happiness, he yet wished with all his heart to be reconciled to the old man, even if he never touched a penny of Marianna’s fortune, which the old gentleman had confiscated; the practice of his art brought him in a sufficient income. Marianna too was often unable to restrain her tears when she thought that her father’s brother might go to his grave without having forgiven her the trick which she had played upon him; and so Pasquale’s hatred overshadowed like a dark cloud the brightness of their happiness. Salvator comforted them both—Antonio and Marianna—by saying that time had adjusted still worse difficulties, and that chance would perhaps bring the old gentleman near them in some less dangerous way than if they had remained in Rome, or were to return there now.
We shall see that a prophetic spirit spoke in Salvator.
A considerable time had elapsed, when one day Antonio burst into Salvator’s studio breathless and pale as death. “Salvator!” he cried, “Salvator, my friend, my protector! I am lost if you do not help me. Pasquale Capuzzi is here; he has procured a warrant for my arrest for seducing his niece.”
“What can Signor Pasquale do against you now?” asked Salvator. “Haven’t you been married to Marianna by the Church?”
“Stop!” cried Salvator, “now I see it all; now I see it all. What threatens to be your ruin, Antonio, is this man’s hatred against me. For I must tell you that this nephew of the Pope’s, a proud, coarse, boorish clown, was among the animals in my picture to whom the Goddess of Fortune is dispensing her gifts. That it was I who helped you to win Marianna, though indirectly, is well known, not only to this man, but to all Rome—which is quite reason enough to persecute you since they cannot do anything to me. And so, Antonio, having brought this misfortune on you, I must make every effort to assist you, all the more since you are my dearest and most intimate friend. But, by the saints! I don’t see in what way I can frustrate your enemies’ little game—”
Therewith Salvator, who had continued to paint at a picture all the time, laid aside brush, palette, and maul-stick, and, rising from his easel, began to pace the room backwards and forwards, his arms crossed over his breast, Antonio meanwhile being quite wrapt up in his own thoughts, with his eyes fixed upon the floor.
At length Salvator paused before him and said with a smile, “See here, Antonio, I cannot do anything myself against your powerful enemies, but I know a man who can help you, and who will help you, and that is—Signor Formica.”
“Oh!” said Antonio, “don’t joke with an unhappy man, whom nothing can save.”
“What! you are despairing again?” exclaimed Salvator, who was now suddenly in the merriest humour, and he laughed aloud. “I tell you, Antonio, my friend Formica shall help you in Florence just as he helped you in Rome. Go quietly home and comfort your Marianna, and calmly wait and see how things turn out. I trust you will be ready at the shortest notice to do what Signor Formica, who is really here in Florence at the present time, shall require of you.” This Antonio promised most faithfully, and hope revived in him again, and confidence.
Signor Pasquale Capuzzi was not a little astonished at receiving a formal invitation from the Accademia de’ Percossi. “Ah!” he exclaimed, “Florence is the place then where a man’s merits are recognized, where Pasquale Capuzzi di Senigaglia, a man gifted with the most excellent talents, is known and valued.” Thus the thought of his knowledge and his art, and the honour that was shown him on their account, overcame the hatred which he would otherwise have felt against a society at the head of which stood Salvator Rosa. His Spanish gala-dress was more carefully brushed than ever; his conical hat was equipped with a new feather; his shoes were provided with new ribbons; and so Signor Pasquale appeared at Salvator’s as brilliant as an iridescent beetle, his face all sunshine. The magnificence which he saw on all sides of him, even Salvator himself, who had received him dressed in the richest apparel, inspired him with deep respect, and, after the manner of little souls, who, though at first proud and puffed up, immediately grovel in the dust whenever they come into contact with what they feel to be superior to themselves, Pasquale’s behaviour towards Salvator, whom he would gladly have done a mischief to in Rome, was nothing but humility and submissive deference.
So much attention was paid to Signor Pasquale from all sides, his judgment was appealed to so unconditionally, and so much was said about his services to art, that he felt new life infused into his veins; and an unusual spirit was awakened within him, so that his utterances on many points were more sensible than might have been expected. If it be added that never in his life before had he been so splendidly entertained, and never had he drunk such inspiriting wine, it will readily be conceived that his pleasure was intensified from moment to moment, and that he forgot all the wrong which had been done him at Rome as well as the unpleasant business which had brought him to Florence. Often after their banquets the Academicians used to amuse themselves with short impromptu dramatic representations, and this evening the distinguished playwright and poet Filippo Apolloni called upon those who generally took part in them to bring the festivities to a fitting conclusion with one of their usual performances. Salvator at once withdrew to make all the necessary preparations.
Not long afterwards the bushes at the farther end of the banquet hall began to move, the branches with their foliage were parted, and a little theatre provided with seats for the spectators became visible.
“By the saints!” exclaimed Pasquale Capuzzi, terrified, “where am I? Surely that’s Nicolo Musso’s theatre.”
Without heeding his exclamation, Evangelista Toricelli and Andrea Cavalcanti—both of them grave, respectable, venerable men—took him by the arm and led him to a seat immediately in front of the stage, taking their places on each side of him.
This was no sooner done that there appeared on the boards—Formica in the character of Pasquarello.
“You dirty scoundrel, Formica!” shouted Pasquale, leaping to his feet and shaking his doubled fist at the stage. Toricelli and Cavalcanti’s stern, reproving glances bade him sit still and keep quiet.
Pasquarello wept and sobbed, and cursed his destiny, which brought him nothing but grief and heartbreak, declaring he didn’t know how he should ever set about it if he wanted to laugh again. He concluded by saying that if he could look upon blood without fainting, he should certainly cut his throat, or should throw himself in the Tiber if he could only stop that cursed swimming when he got into the water.
Doctor Gratiano now joined him and inquired what was the cause of his trouble.
Whereupon Pasquarello asked him whether he did not know anything about what had taken place in the house of his master, Signor Pasquale Capuzzi di Senigaglia, whether he did not know that an infamous scoundrel had carried off pretty Marianna, his master’s niece?
“Ah!” murmured Capuzzi, “I see you want to make your excuses to me, Formica; you wish for my pardon—well, we shall see.”
Dr. Gratiano expressed his sympathy, and observed that the scoundrel must have gone to work very cunningly to have eluded all the inquiries which had been instituted by Capuzzi.
“Ho! ho!” rejoined Pasquarello. “The doctor need not imagine that the scoundrel, Antonio Scacciati, had succeeded in escaping the sharpness of Signor Pasquale Capuzzi who was supported by powerful friends. Antonio had been arrested, his marriage with Marianna annulled, and Marianna herself had again come into Capuzzi’s power.”
“Has he got her again?” shouted Capuzzi, beside himself; “has he got her again, good Pasquale? Has he got his little darling, his Marianna? Is the scoundrel Antonio arrested? Heaven bless you, Formica!”
“You take a too keen interest in the play, Signor Pasquale,” said Cavalcanti gravely. “Pray permit the actors to proceed with their parts without interrupting them in this disturbing fashion.”
Ashamed of himself, Signor Pasquale resumed his seat, for he had again risen to his feet.
Dr. Gratiano asked what had taken place then.
A wedding, continued Pasquarello, a wedding had taken place. Marianna had repented of what she had done; Signor Pasquale had obtained the desired dispensation from the Holy Father, and had married his niece.
“Yes, yes,” murmured Pasquale Capuzzi to himself, whilst his eyes sparkled with delight, “yes, yes, my dear, good Formica; he will marry his sweet Marianna, the happy Pasquale. He knew that the dear little darling had always loved him, and that it was only Satan who had led her astray.”
“Why then, everything is all right,” said Dr. Gratiano, “and there’s no cause for lamentation.”
Pasquarello began, however, to weep and sob more violently than before, till at length, as if overcome by the terrible nature of his pain, he fainted away. Dr. Gratiano ran backwards and forwards in great distress, was so sorry he
had no smelling salts with him, felt in all his pockets, and at last produced a roasted chestnut, and put it under the insensible Pasquarello’s nose. Pasquarello immediately recovered, sneezing violently, and attributing his faintness to his weak nerves, he related that immediately after the marriage Marianna had been afflicted with the saddest melancholy, continually calling upon Antonio, and treating the old gentleman with contempt and aversion. But the old fellow, quite infatuated by his passion and jealousy, had not ceased to torment the poor girl with his folly in the most abominable way. And here Pasquarello mentioned a host of mad tricks which Pasquale had done, and which were really widely known in Rome. Signor Capuzzi sat on thorns; he murmured at intervals, “Curse you, Formica! You are lying! What evil spirit is in you?” He was only prevented from bursting out into a violent passion by Toricelli and Cavalcanti, who sat watching him with earnest gaze.
Pasquarello concluded his narration by saying that Marianna had at last succumbed to her unsatisfied longing for her lover, her great distress of mind, and the innumerable tortures which were inflicted upon her by the execrable old fellow, and had died in the flower of her youth.
At this moment was heard a mournful De profundis sung by hollow, husky voices, and men clad in long black robes appeared on the stage, bearing an open coffin, within which was seen the corpse of lovely Marianna wrapped in white shrouds. Behind it came Signor Pasquale Capuzzi in the deepest mourning, feebly staggering along and wailing aloud, beating his breast, and crying in a voice of despair, “O Marianna! Marianna!”
So soon as the real Capuzzi caught sight of his niece’s corpse he broke out into loud lamentations, and both Capuzzis, the one of the stage and the one off, gave vent to their grief in the most heart-rending wails and groans, “O Marianna! O Marianna! O unhappy me! Alas! Alas for me!”
The Best Tales of Hoffmann Page 53
