CHAPTER IV. BARON KINSKI.
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The next opera night I was of course in my favourite
box. There was no doubt of the interest which I most
unwittingly, God wot! had contrived to excite in her.
The moment she recognized me at my post, her eyes
glistened with pleasure, and there was scarcely an interval
in which they did not seem clandestinely to be seeking
mine—all this was as unexpected as it was delightful.
This evening it was a different opera. The dress in
which she was now arrayed, was richer than her usual
costume, and displayed her gorgeous and most picturesque
beauty to singular advantage.
She was a sultana, and wore a robe of rich Indian
fabric, and of a thousand dyes; her golden hair fell
from beneath a graceful and sibylline turban; a necklace
of pearls hung round her snowy throat; her arms
were bound with bracelets, and her fingers glittered with
rings.
She was like one of Titian's most voluptuous creations.
The music was worthy to be sung by her, but it is
not my intention to write a critique on the opera.
The next evening we were all at a soirée at Kinski's.
She was singularly entertaining. She acted a charade
composed by herself, which occupied five minutes in
representation. She sang half a dozen comic songs.
She dressed herself like a Bohemian gipsy, and told
fortunes. She danced a Styrian dance with old Baron
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Kinski. She conversed in all languages;—in short, she
seemed determined to display herself:—and she did—
she was certainly a miracle of a woman.
At last, we all went to supper. There were not more
than a dozen persons present. We sat down and made
ourselves comfortable. The repast was enlivened by a
thousand brilliant sallies from Minna She was also
well seconded by the host, who seemed to renew his
youth in the sunny influence of the enchanting
girl.
At last, as the repast was nearly concluded, Kinski
entered into a long discussion with me on galvanism.
The subject, which was of so recent invention, had necessarily
attracted much of the attention of this votary
of science, and I was anxious to obtain some of his
views in relation to it. It is due to politeness to state
that our conversation had been carried on sotto voce;
for although I was getting weary of the society of those
present, not even excepting the actress, I was not savage
enough to display it. Owing, however, to the interest
which had spread from one to another as the animated
description of the Baron became more eloquent, the conversation
of the others had ceased, and all were listening
to the scientific lecture.
“What a tiresome old man you are!” said Minna,
yawning disconsolately in his face, as he concluded his
exposition.
“Have you no more compassion for an old professor—
well—well—I see you have no head for the sciences;
so come and sing the commencing aria of the last night's
opera.” It was the most favourite of all her melodies.
A general burst of supplication followed the request of
the Baron.
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“I shall do no such thing—I am determined never to
sing another song!” was the reply.
“I shall not let you off—who ever heard of such wilfulness—
come away to the harp directly. If you do not
behave yourself better, I shall not come to the opera for a
month!”
“Tanto meglio—but, indeed, I cannot sing!” said
Minna. “Now, don't ask me again, that's a good man.
I hate to sing except to individuals!”
As she said this, I can take my oath, she shot a glance
at me.
“Why you little piece of obstinacy!”—began Kinski.
“Now, no names, if you please Baron Kinski!” interrupted
Minna.
“Well, my dear child,” said the old gentleman, “what
stuff to say you only sing to individuals, when you sing
to the whole public every night.”
“Ah—but the public is to me an individual. When
I sing in the theatre, I sing to one general ear, and one
general heart, if it may be. But here in your saloon,
there is the Baron Kinski, and Sir Doomsday, and
Madame Walldorff, and this gentleman who despises
music!” said she, smiling reproachfully at me.
I felt half convinced that her refusal to sing was in
consequence of our scientific conversation. I was little
enough to enjoy the petty triumph of having piqued her
without intending it. We all went into the saloon. I
engaged in conversation with Minna—most of the others
sat down to cards.
“You will pardon my barbarism at supper,” said I,
“The fact is I hate to see you except when we are alone.”
“Why, we were never alone in our lives!” said she,
with a look of wonder.
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“Have you forgotten what you said but an instant
ago? I tell you, that it is in the same spirit, I feel I am
communing directly with you, when we are in the midst
a thousand. Rills may flow from mountains that are
thousands of miles asunder; when they meet together
in the multitudinous ocean their very existences are
mingled. Have not our eyes met when none dreamed
of it? Say, say it was not my imagination only.”
We were far from the rest of the company. I seized
her hand—she did not withdraw it—she faltered something
in reply. A footstep appproached—it was Sir
Doomsday.
Before the near-sighted lover was aware of our presence,
we had vanished together into the music-room.
She had recovered from her confusion. She raised
her drooping lashes, and with her dark, pleading eyes
fixed upon mine, she sank beside her harp, and, without
a word of preface or apology, sang the melody she had
just refused the rest. I felt the full force of the favour.
The moment she had ended, I heard company approaching;
I stole a look at Minna, which was understood
and returned; and then I hastened from the house.
Motley, John Lothrop, 1814-1877 [1839], Morton's hope, or, The memoirs of a provincial, volume 2 (Harper & Brothers, New York) [word count] [eaf284v2].
