wish to leave II- without reproaching him with the crime of which I thought him guilty. I desired to move him to the bottom of his soul, and to force him to make an avowal of his guilt. The more I pondered the matter, the more I thought that Crespel must be villain; and the speech with which I was about to address him assumed, little by little, a stronger and more highly indignant tone; at length it became a masterpiece of fiery rhetoric. Thus prepared with my harangue, and excited by my imagination, I ran to Crespel's house. I found him manufacturing playthings, with a calm and smiling visage. "How!" said I warmly, "can you retain for an instant your peace of soul, when the terrors of a bad deed should torture you ?" He stared at me with surprise, and dropped his working implements by his side. "Whatever you have to say, my good friend," he said, "I beg you to take a seat." I became more and more excited. I accused him of having caused Antonina's death, and I invoked 'divine vengeance upon him. Rendered very proud by my new dignity as judge, I was even about to affirm that I would set to watch and endeavour to discover the traces of his crime, and have him brought before a court of justice. I found myself singularly embarrassed, however, when, at the conclusion of my pompous harangue, the councillor looked at me calmly, as if waiting for what I had yet to say. I essayed to continue; but all that I said appeared to me so involved and so unsuitable that I durst not go any further. Crespel enjoyed my embarrassment; ap ironical smile played about his features. Soon, however, he assumed a serious air, and said to me, in an imposing voice "Young man! I do not wish to look upon you as an idiot-as a fool. I pardon you He rose, strode up and down the apartment, with eyes constantly fixed on mine. He took me by the hand and led me to the window, which he opened. Then, as he leant against the stone balcony, his eyes fixed on the garden, he related to me the story of his life. When he had concluded, I took my leave, deeply moved, and still more deeply ashamed. I will relate, in a few words, the history of Antonina. About twenty years before the time of which I have spoken, the councillor was attracted to Italy by a desire to obtain the best violins by the old masters. He had never, as yet, constructed any of these instruments, neither had he ever dreamed of taking one to pieces. At Venice he heard the celebrated prima donna, Angela, at the time playing at the theatre of San Benedetto; and he became inspired with enthusiasm, brought forth not only by the talent, but by the angelic beauty of the signora. He sought an introduction to her; and, despite the ruggedness of his manner, he succeeded, by his bold and expressive performances upon the violin, in gaining the good graces of the young actress. Some weeks afterwards he contracted a marriage with her, which was to be kept secret, because Angela did not wish to leave the theatre, nor renounce her celebrated maiden name for the inharmonious one of Crespel. The councillor described to me, with the wildest irony, all the tortures which the signora had inflicted upon him soon after becoming his wife. "Every caprice of every prima donna," said Crespel, "was to be found in that little lady." If, any day, he dared to show a will of his own, that very instant Angela sent to him a legion of abbés, of maestri, of academicians, and of theatrical people, who, not aware of his conjugal privileges, treated him as a most exacting and insupportable lover. Once, after an unusually stormy freak, Crespel had taken refuge in Angela's country villa, and was forgetting the sorrows of the day by executing fantasias upon his Cremona violin. In a short time the signora came home. She was seized, at that moment, with a caprice of affection; she embraced the councillor, gazed upon him with languishing looks, and rested her head upon his shoulder. Crespel, carried away by the whirlwind of his melody, continued playing abstractedly and with ardour, and struck, by chance, the signora with the tip of his bow. At that instant she rushed upon him furiously. "Bestia Tedesca !" she cried, snatching the violin from his hands, and smashing it upon the marble table. The councillor stared at her a moment, petrified. Then, awaking as from a dream, he pushed her, with a powerful hand, upon a couch a few feet distant. He stayed not a second to see whether the lady was hurt, but flew out of the house, and went off to Germany. Some time after he durst scarcely think upon his violence. Although he knew he had obeyed a sudden and irresistible impulse in delivering himself, in that rude fashion, from the attacks of his choleric wife, yet he was consumed by a secret anguish, which was redoubled as he recollected that the signora had, about that time, given him the hope of becoming a mother. He feared to make any inquiry; and was not a little surprised when, about eight months afterwards, he received a very affectionate letter from Angela. That letter made not the slightest allusion to what had passed in the rustic villa, but announced that the signora had become the mother of a darling little daughter. The "marito amato," the "padre felicissimo," was implored to come as soon as possible to Venice. Crespel, before acceding to this request, wrote to some friends, to learn precisely what had happened since his departure, and was informed that Angela had sustained not the slightest injury from her fall, but that, on the contrary, the shock had produced upon her the most satisfactory results. The energetic conduct of Crespel had completely changed the character of his young wife. From that time no one had been able to discover in her any of her old freaks of temper. The maestro who, that year, was to compose the music for the Carnival pieces, was the happiest of men, for the signora had consented to sing without exacting from him those thousands of variations which she had demanded hitherto. The councillor, moved by this alteration, ordered his horses and set off at once in his carriage. Suddenly he stopped. "It is possible," he said to himself, "that my appearance will cause Angela to resume her fantastic temper!" He returned home, and wrote to his wife a letter full of tenderness, in which he expressed the joy he felt at learning that his daughter had, like himself, a little mark behind the ear. He declared that he loved her with all his heart, but he wished to remain in Germany. Their correspondence was continued for a long time, and protestations of love, hopes, prayers, and expressions of regret, flew from Venice to H, and from H— to Venice. At length Angela came to Germany, and sang with unbounded success at the theatre of F. She was no longer very young, but her voice had lost nothing of its brilliancy. Antonina had grown up, and had become, like her mother, a prima donna of the first order. One day Crespel's friends informed him that two celebrated singers had arrived at F——, and requested him to go to hear them. They little imagined how close were the bonds between those gifted women and the grim lawyer. The councillor had often been seized with a desire to see his daughter; but, as he recalled the violent nature of his wife, he was overcome with melancholy, and remained at home in the midst of his broken violins. A young but distinguished composer had grown violently in love with Antonina, and the young girl responded to his passion. Angela had no objection to offer against their union, and the councillor approved of it the more readily as the young man's works had found favour in his severe judgment. Each day Crespel expected to hear that the union had taken place; but one day, instead of the happy news, he received a letter sealed with black, and written in a strange hand. A physician informed Crespel that, on leaving the theatre, Angela had taken cold, and that she had died the evening before Antonina was to have been married. Angela had told the physician that she was the councillor's wife; and to her husband she confided the care of her daughter. That same day the councillor left for F. I cannot describe the heartrending pathos with which Crespel described to me the scene which took place when he saw his daughter for the first time. There was, in the quaintness of his expressions, a force of which I can give you no idea. Antonina had all the loveableness, all the graces of her mother, without any of her faults. When Crespel arrived, her young betrothed was seated beside her, and Antonina, knowing the eccentric nature of her father, began to sing a quaint motivo of Father Martini, which Angela had so often sung before the councillor in their love-making days. Crespel shed a torrent of tears; never had the voice of even Angela herself vibrated so powerfully in his bosom. Antonina's song was of a particular nature; sometimes it resembled the sighs of an æolian harp, sometimes the modulations of the nightingale. It seemed hardly possible that sounds so mellifluous could escapo from human lips. Antonina, rendered enthusiastic by love and joy, sang her most beautiful air, whilst her betrothed accompanied her. Crespel was plunged in a kind of ecstacy. Suddenly he became pensive, silent, and, rushing towards Antonina, he pressed her to his breast, and said "Sing no more if you love me. Your song lacerates my soul! A fearful anxiety overcomes me! Sing no more!". "No," said he next day to the physician; "when I observed, as she sang, two red spots on her cheeks, I was aware that it was a fearful sign." The doctor, whose face darkened as he heard these words, replied "It is possible that, in consequence of too assiduous study, or from a defect of organization, Antonina, may have a disease of the chest which gives to her voice that marvellous force and those supernatural vibrations. That faculty will be the cause of her death if she continues to sing. If you allow her to use her voice, I will not give her six months to live!" This avowal of the physician rent the councillor's heart. His resolution was immediately formed. He expressed all his fears to Antonina, and asked her whether she loved best to allow herself to be led away by the seductions of fame, and to sink into an early grave, or to live with her father in his old days, to give him a repose, a happiness, he had never before known, and to enjoy, herself, a long life. Antonina fell, sobbing, into her father's arms. He understood all the sorrow that she felt. He then addressed himself to her betrothed, and, although the latter assured Crespel that a single note should never escape the young girl's lips, the councillor thought that the musician could not resist the temptation of hearing Antonina execute the morceaux composed by himself. The councillor disappeared with Antonina, and retired to H. The betrothed, in despair at their abrupt departure, followed their traces, and arrived at the same time as themselves at their retreat. "Sing once more before I leave you for ever!" he implored. "It will be her death!" cried Crespel, a cold tremor penetrating even to his neart. He saw his daughter-that adored being, that beautiful creature, who had revealed to him a hitherto unknown happiness-he saw her about to be snatched from his breast! The lover seated himself at the piano; Antonina sang; Crespel accompanied on his violin, until he saw two red circles burning on the young girl's cheeks. It was time to end the concert, and, when the musician took a farewell of Antonina, she fell, with a dolorous cry, upon the carpet. "I thought," said Crespel to me, "that my beloved daughter was dead, as I had been warned-really dead-and, as I had prepared myself for this frightful catastrophe, I remained calm. I took the musician softly by the shoulders, and said to him, 'Since you have been pleased to kill your betrothed, my worthy pianoforte player, you are now free to go in peace where you choose; but, if you remain here, I will bury this hunting-knife in your heart. Away, then, for I cannot answer for myself.' My words at that moment must have had a terrible force, for he fled in all haste." When he was far away, Antonina, who had hitherto reposed inanimate upon the carpet, opened her eyes softly, though Death seemed to struggle with her to close them immediately. Crespel uttered a cry of desolation. The physician, whom the old housekeeper had brought, declared that Antonina's condition was serious, but without danger; and, in fact, she recovered more quickly than Crespel had dared to hope. From that day she displayed towards her father extreme affection; she gave herself to study his habits and all his odd whims; she helped him to take to pieces the old violins and to construct new ones. "I no longer want to sing," she would say to him laughingly; "I wish to live for you." And she resisted every request made to her to hear the melody of her voice. The councillor sought, as much as possible, to save her these importunities. He found nothing but pain when he entered society with her, and carefully shunned a concert. He well knew what it cost Antonina to renounce an art in which she had attained so high a degree of perfection. When he had completed that magnificent violin which he had buried with her, and which he wished to destroy like the others, Antonina, looking at him with a sorrowful air, said— "What! break up this also ?" The councillor himself knew not what unknown power prevented him destroyng that instrument, and, instead, obliged him to play it. Scarcely had he. produced the first notes, when Antonina said, "Ah, I see I can sing again!" In fact, the clear and silver sounds seemed to issue from a human breast. Crespel, moved to the bottom of his soul, played with more feeling than ever, and, as he ran boldly and forcibly through all the notes of the gamut, Antonina would clap her hands, and cry, with a sort of rapture, "Just as if I were singing! Just as if I were singing!" From that day she grew gay and happy. Very often she would say to the councillor, "Father, I should like very much to sing something!" But at those times Crespel would take down from the wall the old violin, and play, and soon his daughter felt her heart lightened. A little time before my return to H, the councillor thought he heard the sound of a piano in a neighbouring chamber. Very soon he recognized the usual prelude of the young musician. He wished to rise, but he felt himself bound down as if with chains of steel, and he could not make a single movement. Some moments after, he heard Antonina's voice, rising at first like a soft whisper, and gradually mounting to the most sonorous fortissimo. Then he heard a striking melody, which her betrothed had composed for her, after the manner of the old masters. Crespel told me that he was at that instant a prey to the most frightful agitation. Suddenly a dazzling light seemed to fill the chamber. He saw his daughter in her betrothed's embrace, and the two regarding each other with rapture. The melody continued, although Antonina sang no longer, and her lover no longer touched the piano! The councillor became insensible. When he came to himself he experienced a renewal of the terrible anguish which he had before felt. He flew towards Antonina's chamber; he saw her on her couch, her eyes closed, her lips parted by a smile, her hands clasped. It might be said she slept, cradled in celestial dreams. She was dead! FORSAKEN. THOUGHTS of purity and beauty, O'er the path where sunbeams shone; When thou wast, with soul patrician, Likened her to one divine!. Nought could shake thy heaven-built faith- Rivers, flowing to the ocean, All exhaled, retrace their course; |