“Teresa Bandettini, the Improvisatrice” (Bentley’s Miscellany)

Performer Name:

Bandettini; Corilla; Fantastici; Giannetti; Leoni

Performance Venue:

Verona; Mantua; Parma; Florence; Lucca

Performance Date:

 

Author:

 

Date Written:

 

Language:

English

Publication Title:

Bentley’s Miscellany

Article Title:

Teresa Bandettini, the Improvisatrice

Page Numbers:

36:484-94

Additional Info:

 

Publisher:

Richard Bentley

Place of Publication:

London

Date Published:

1854

Text:

[484] Amongst the many curious means to which Lucca had, occasionally, recourse in order to maintain an independence, disproportioned, it must be confessed, as the world goes, to her size or physical force, not the least curious, perhaps, were the talents of an Improvisatrice, which were crowned with the most complete success. Judging by my own experience, I am under the impression that the profession, if I may so call it, of an improvisatore or improvisatrice is very imperfectly understood, and greatly underrated by the generality of untravelled English, I think it may not therefore be misplaced to say a few words upon the earlier life and studies of one of the most celebrated of her class.

Teresa Bandettini was born at Lucca somewhere about the year 1765, in the humblest ranks of life, and was another instance of the struggles against annihilation, which the unfostered spark of genius is generally compelled to make, before it finds or recognises its proper sphere. Far beneath the reach of moral cultivation, that spark which, however, brooks not repose, first manifested itself in her by a sort of grace in her movements, so far different from those of her companions, that at an early age she was admitted as a dancer at a minor theatre; and for some years her parents were not only content but proud to receive a miserable pittance for such an exercise of the talents of her who was destined to be crowned Poetess and Improvisatrice at the Roman Arcadia, to be the theme of the verses of Mazza, of Monti, and of Alfieri, and finally to save her country from what must have been a fatal surprise, by the respect and the prestige with which her name was surrounded. But, however satisfied were her mediocre parents, very different was it with herself, who still felt “that within which passeth show.” Her introduction to the theatre gave her access to some books of poetry, and fortunately for her, amongst them were Metastasio and Tasso. The healthful young appetite at once recognised and seized with avidity upon its congenial fare. She devoured all the poems which by any means she could procure; and her wakening soul thirsting still for more, and, like all young people, believing that what they desire is to be found somewhere in the world, if they only seek for it, she left Lucca and made her way to Florence. It is said that she had not been long there when, from reading poetry, she proceeded to attempt writing it, and between such attempts, (which, however, were far from prefiguring her future greatness), and the soul which she now began to throw into her dancing, she there received the name of the “Figurante Poetesca,” or the poetical dancer. That her fame and name were still confined to the lowest circles is evident from two circumstances: firstly, that she was utterly unknown during that period to the celebrated Corilla [485] Olimpica, then the most famous improvisatrice of the world, who was then at Florence; and secondly that, while there, she married a buffo dancer name[d] Landrini, who became the bête noir of her after-life. Though worldly inexperience, however, caused her thus in one way to undervalue and throw herself away, conscious genius still whispered that she had not yet found its sphere; and away she went once more in search of it.

This time she arrived at Bologna, and there, patronised by the Count Ludovico Savioli, author of the classical little work called “Amori,” she seems to have made her first step upon that path which was at the opening covered with thorns destined, as she advanced, to disappear amongst clustering roses. She here wrote a little poem in four cantos, entitled, “The Death of Adonis;” and, showing the manuscript to her patron, he returned her the poem not only elegantly printed at his own expense, but adorned with the first engravings of Francesco Rosaspina. This timely and delicate aid enabled her to abandon her early profession, so unworthy of her talents; and encouraged her to decide upon trusting her future fortunes, or, at least, subsistence to extemporary recitation. I do not know exactly why she did not continue longer at Bologna; but she left it for Ferrara, where she had some very trifling success, through the indulgent protection of the poet Manzoni. From thence she went to Venice, then to Padua, still with only such success as, while enabling her to support existence, was far from satisfying that thirst after fame which some one says is the inseparable companion of genius.

From Padua, Teresa Bandettini went to Verona, and here there took place another sort of crisis in her fortunes, the reverse of that which befell her at Bologna. Verona was at that time the Athens of the North of Italy; many are the names both of men and women, dear to Italian literature, who were there assembled. But it was not that circumstance alone which made any literary or artistic success difficult there just then; there was yet another which exerted its baneful influence more directly upon the particular branch for which La Bandettini came to solicit their suffrages. Just before her arrival there had departed from amidst those brilliant circles one of those gifted beings, which, rare everywhere, are unknown in colder climes. The Duke Gasparo Mollo, young, handsome, rich, noble, with a voice of the most silvery sweetness and cultivated flexibility, and possessing the gift of singing extemporary poetry, had been for some time the attraction of all eyes, the delight of all ears, and, if all be true, the idol of too many hearts. Having received from nature these two latter, and peculiarly southern gifts, the talent of composing extemporary verses, and a soft delightfully musical voice for singing them—which though no study can ever give, never can be carried to perfection without it,—his position in life enabled him to second them by such advantages as fall to the lot of few. Paëaut;siello, Cimarosa, Zingarelli, and other musical composers, whose names are nearly as well known in England as in [486] their native land, were his contemporaries, and the talents of each and all were put into requisition, in order to compose airs peculiarly adapted to the voice and powers of the noble amateur, who seems to have possessed besides the rarest and best of all gifts, and which, in fact, gives value to all others, namely, that of keeping within the rôle for which nature had qualified him.

Feelings, or at least believing, that his talents did not extend to sublimity of conception, great powers of imagination, or even exuberance of fancy, he caused airs to be composed to suit the different metres of poetry then most in vogue; and by adapting his extemporary effusions to these varied airs and measures, he contrived to prevent that disagreeable monotony and consequent weariness which must otherwise have been the result, especially as he laid down and adhered to the rule never to allow more than one subject to be proposed for the exercise of his talent in the same vening. For instance—on one occasion he was given as a subject, the Creation of the World. After a few minutes given to reflection he decided upon dividing it into five parts; each part being of a different measure, and sung consequently to different airs. The first contained the description of the Almighty Father, surrounded by his angels, as he is represented by Michael Angelo in the Sistini Chapel at Rome, about to inspire Adam with the breath of life. The second division contained the surprise of Adam when he looked around him on Creation. The third, the creation of the Woman. The forth, the dialogue between Adam and Eve. The fifth, the hymn of thanks of both to their Almighty Creator—and with this variety in music and in measure, given by such a voice, it is easy to understand that even where he did not deserve applause, he never failed to excite delight; and that criticism itself was taken captive by his graceful tact and ingenuity. Nor was it the least proof of these latter qualities that, while doubly enjoying his success from the very consciousness that it was beyond his deserts, he prudently resolved to withdraw himself from its scene before his dazzled admirers should have time to cool into critics, and while unsated enthusiasm was sure for a time to increase by absence.

Such was the predecessor whom Teresa Bandettini offered herself to replace, and such the moment selected or doomed for that offer. But before proceeding to the result, it is desirable to have some more precise idea of the attractions she had to oppose to his. She was at that time about twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age. In appearance she was one of those whom nature seems only to sketch out, leaving the outlines to be filled up according to the circumstances that may befall in after-life. For instance, she was of good stature, tall enough to have become a fine woman, when acknowledged genius, and its consequent triumphs, added dignity to the air of good society, to the carriage and movements already graceful from her early profession, yet not tall enough to have rescued her from utter insignificance had her circumstances continued adverse. Her features were fairly enough formed; but [487] though her eyes were of the intensest black, large and well opened, it was not until cultivation drew forth the latent light from the depths of her soul that they became brilliant and expressive; and her well-carved mouth only assumed its smiling expression in reflecting that which the world so profusely lavished on her at last. When she made her appearance at Verona, none of these favourable circumstances had taken place. She was a plain, poor, uneducated, inexperienced woman, without even the attraction of a superior voice, though after-cultivation rendered it sufficiently agreeable, endeavouring to leave the miserable trade of a second or third-rate stage dancer, by the force of a talent which she declared herself to possess, but which the want of cultivation prevented from appearing; and as if to fill up the measure of her disadvantages, she was accompanied by a low, stupid, obtrusive husband, who during her or his whole life, in any circumstances, was seldom a moment absent from her side, or failed to throw the weight of his dulness into the sparkling gaiety of her conversation.

Such was the person who, without presumption however, or even that self-confidence which for a time imposes on the many, but from the mere necessity of procuring the means of living—a motive in itself the last to propitiate those from whom those means are expected—offered herself to the fastidious society of Verona, to replace the gay, brilliant, handsome and accomplished cavalier who only asked sweet smiles and brilliant glances as the guerdon of his cultivated and elegant talents. Poor Teresa!

Mortified, abashed, and discouraged, she fled rather than withdrew from Verona; probably had she had the means of existing, however miserably, without further appeals to the public, that moment would have sealed her doom, and lost to Italy one of her brightest modern ornaments; but necessity though a rugged is a healthful and health-inspiring nurse. She went to Mantua, and there at once boldly announced an evening for exhibiting her talent as an Improvisatrice, with permission offered to any or every one present to propose a subject. The announcement was startling, and fortunately for her, and for all who ever after heard her, it attracted the attention of one of those guardian angels of man’s earthly happiness, whose visits are indeed “few and far between,” who, spying out the obstructions to it, occupy themselves in endeavouring to remove them. The Count Girolamo Murari suggested a subject to the trembling aspirant. She handled it poorly, but his own genius, enlightened by benevolence, enabled him to recognise the kindred sparks, and to perceive that they were only prevented from blazing forth by the want of materials. He called upon her next day, and taking a beneficent advantage of his age, his rank, his literary and private character, and even of his personal misfortune, for he was blind—”Listen to me, Teresa,” he said, “and take in good part what I am about to say.” You are gifted with genius, but success in your present state is impossible, because your genius is of that kind which is obliged to offer the proof of its existence in treating of whatever subjects others [488] may please to give you, and that cannot be done without information so general, as will enable you if not to treat every subject profoundly, at least to adorn, vary, sport with them so as to charm those whom you may not be able to enlighten. This general information is only to be acquired by deep and serious study, particularly since poetry is your gift, by studying the ancient classics, which will furnish you with inexhaustible mines from which to draw at your discretion. This has not been, is not yet, in your power to procure, but I have the opportunity of offering it to you. Come to my house with your husband, look upon it as your own, upon me as your father, give your mind into my keeping, and I shall feel myself more than recompensed by bestowing upon the world one such as you then will become.”

The gratitude with which such an invitation was received by a gentle amiable woman, full of talent and sensibility, in La Bandettini’s position, must be left to the imagination of the reader. The time, the place, all was propitious to the good man’s views; for there were just then residing at Mantua, Andrea, who had already commenced the publication of his celebrated “Storia della litteratura universale;” Il Bettinelli, the poet, who was then in his seventy-third year, but who lived for seventeen years after Il Bondi, who was at that moment occupied in a translation of Virgil more literal, if not so attractive, as that of Annibale Caro, who was said to have converted Virgil’s gold into silver; and the Abbé Bazoli, author of a version of the Iliad and the Odyssey, who, though but an indifferent poet, was so learned, so good, so gentle and benevolent, that Murari selected him as the immediate preceptor of his protegée, while she had the advantage of a constant intercourse with all the others, as well as with whatever else Mantua had to boast of talent and erudition. Her progress, accordingly, was stupendous. The soil was congenial and prepared, and only required the seed to be sown, in order to produce a speedy and abundant harvest. Her first studies were in history, true and mythological; her next, in the elements of natural physics and natural history; and then she was promoted to a regular and thorough course of the Greek and Latin authors, committing to memory such portions of poetry as might be made available to her object. Though she commenced this course through the medium of translations, she rested not until she was able to quote, at least, the Latin authors in the original. During the progress of her studies, she gave every week an exhibition of her improving talent, first only to the most intimate friends of her benefactor, and extending the circle according as he and her other advisers considered judicious, delighting all by the joyous outpouring of a soul so long repressed by the want of appropriate language in which to make its inspirations understood. Her physique partook of the second birth as it were of her morale;; she grew into a beautiful, a brilliant woman, and at the age when most women have passed the zenith of their bloom and their attraction, she came forth with more than the bloom, the freshness and the joy of early youth. After two years’ sojourn [489] with him, her more than father sent her forth to gather the laurels which he now foretold would be flung at her feet. She went first to Parma, laden with introductions to the most celebrated literati of that once most literary and learned city, and her first public exhibition there became the key-stone to her future greatness. It created such a sensation that the poet Mazza being invited to suggest a subject for the display of her power of extemporising in verse, addressed her in a Sonnet, which, doubtless he had prepared for the occasion, and in which he made allusion to an unfortunate wight who, coming also direct from Mantua and calling himself a poet, had been chased from Parma a short time before. To this, after a few moments of self-concentration and subsequent flashing of her brilliant eyes, she replied in a poem of nine stanzas, of which I shall give one, merely as a specimen, because even those who understand but little of Italian poetry, must, I think, be struck with the harmony of the extemporary measures and rhymes.

“Crolla l’ Olimpo, e il Nubicante in ira,
Volge lo sguardo sotto il negro ciglio,
Di Flegra il Vallo Sottoporto mira.
E degli empj Giapetidi il consiglio;
L’ Aquila romba, e foco a foco spira,
E gli rinfresca il forgose vermiglio,
Che guizza in mano dell’ Egioso e fume,
E di sulfurea nebbia il crin gli alluma.”

In general, while the poets or poetesses sang their extemporaneous effusions, there were persons who noted down the words of inspiration that fell from their lips, and, on one occasion, the celebrated Gianni, on observing how many were catching her words as they fell, was not ashamed to cry out, “Take pens of gold—you write for eternity!”

La Bandettini, with infinitely more modesty, had yet a higher compliment paid her on that memorable evening. Bodoni, the prince of printers, who raised the price of a copy of Horace from five to twenty-five zecchini,* by the beauty of the types cut by himself, and whose editions of the Classics are in the libraries of, I believe, Lord Spencer, and a few other Englishmen of fortune, was present on the occasion, and yielding to the enthusiasm of the moment, he despatched the sonnets, on the spot, to his famous printing establishment, and, before the entertainment concluded, copies of them, elegantly printed, were distributed to the audience. It is unnecessary to enlarge upon the impression made by such an evening and such an incident. Such, indeed, could only happen in sunny, lighthearted, brilliant Italy—Italy, as it then was, instinct with talent, life, and enjoyment. Teresa Bandettini had now crossed the Rubicon, and every after-appearance added a leaf to her laurel crown. From Parma she went to Rome; and there, having the good fortune to excite the admiration of Monti, who composed a beau- [490] tiful ode in her praise, her sojourn there was one continued triumph in private circles of the highest order, as in public exhibitions of her talents, until it reached its climax by her being crowned in Arcadia.*

And here let us pause with her for one moment, and look back, as she did herself, from that dizzy height to the point whence she first started into public life. Neither the time nor space between was, in itself, very great, yet such were the vicissitudes she had gone through, and such the life-time of sensations she had experienced, and, accordingly, so immense the moral distance between what she had been, and what she that moment was, that, as she stood there—a proud, happy, beautiful, inspired woman, crowned in the midst of admiring multitudes, with that crown which, whatever may be its value in the eyes of others at the moment of receiving it, fills the soul with an ethereal ecstasy far beyond all others, and cast her eyes back over that immense moral distance and saw dimly at the end of it a poor, plain, miserable, ignorant, despised girl, struggling for the poorest pittance to enable her to live, her identity seemed to vanish, to be, as it were, worn out, and would not, perhaps, ever again have been recognised, were it not that a voice had gone forth from that distant point calling upon her to return, and give to her native land the honour and the glory, of saluting her as its daughter. The voice reached the affectionate heart of Teresa, and, unlike the many who do not feel that they can afford to patronise themselves, she returned to Lucca with all her blushing honours thick upon her; and without satiating the reader’s heart or imagination with further particulars, suffice it to say, that the succeeding year might in her case be set down amongst the few perfectly happy that might have been permitted to mortals upon earth. With spirit enough intensely to enjoy her dearly-earned and long-delayed laurels, she was free from that morbid ambition whose eternal craving prevents its own enjoyment, and with feeling and imagination enough to derive a soothing satisfaction from the admiration, and, perhaps, even from the warmer sentiments which she now inspired in almost all who approached her, she yielded not to that self-abandonment which never fails to bring its moments of retribution to the most flattered idol.

The first salons of Lucca now considered themselves honoured by her presence, and her own house there became the resort of all the talent and fashion, either native or foreign, that came within its reach. Society changed its phase for the time, and, altogether, a sort of delightful moral novelty fell upon the spirits of all, and La Bandettini was looked upon as little less than one of the Muses, in propria personâ. Nor was this enthusiasm confined to Lucca. In addition to the number of cultivated persons from all parts of Europe, which the celebrated University of Pisa attracted thither, there were, about this period, assembled upwards of 4000 emigrants from different parts of [491] France, and as La Bandettini allowed herself to be prevailed on to give one or more academic or public exhibitions of her talents there, when all had permission to suggest a subject for their exercise, it is impossible to describe to what a pitch the entranced amazement of so many enlightened foreigners to whom the talent of singing extemporary poetry was in itself a novelty, carried the pride and enthusiasm of her compatriots. In one single evening she treated six different subjects, and all admirably; one being the surprise of Adam on opening his eyes and seeing Eve for the first time, standing beside him, which was proposed by an Englishman; another was the French Revolution. A French gentleman, of some consideration, a M. Fournier, professing his incredulity in the possibility of the talent existing in such perfection, and it seeming to him more possible that the poetess might have previously studied almost every popular subject, hit upon a test which, besides the intrinsic difficulties it presented, must, I think, be considered as conclusive, from the improbability of the idea having been anticipated. He proposed to the improvisatrice to treat some subject as her own which had already been sung by other poets, and he pitched upon the meeting between Petrarch and Laura. On this being proposed to her, she was evidently for a moment surprised by its strangeness; but recalling her self-concentration, with not more hesitation than was naturally necessary to silence memory and invite imagination, she took up the subject, and treated it so as to delight her audience and completely to convert the sceptic. From this time it became a sort of fashion to give her subjects already treated of by other poets, and that which was at first adopted as a test, if not as a sort of snare, became the crowning of her glory. She herself often quoted Addison’s fine observation, that the recollection of beautiful passages is only second to composing them; and the habit once acquired, her flexible mind was able to make use of such recollections at once as her beacons and her guides; and the result of this tact and cultivation, united to her native genius, were sometimes such as not only to electrify her hearers, but to transport them and herself beyond the confines of time, space, and identity, into whatever scene or whatever character might be at the moment the focus of her glowing imagination. It was on one of those occasions that a young poet, who I believe, without authority positively to assert it, was no other than the now venerable Chevalier Rosini, who has been denominated the conservator of the Italian language, excited beyond the rest, and wholly losing sight of the present in the past, started from his place amongst the auditory, and exclaimed aloud—

“Penso, o Donna immortal se ad Ilio fui,
Spirto Guerriero d’una Salma altrui!”

In the midst of these, her almost unprecedented home-triumphs, she was invited to Florence with such flattering instance, that it was not possible to refuse, and there she was at once received as the companion and friend of the Princess Rospigliosi, the same [492] who supported the character of Antigone in the tragedy of that name in Rome, in 1782, and who is mentioned by Alfieri in his life of La Bellini, the first amateur musician in Italy, for whom Zingarelli thought it not beneath him to compose music expressly; of La Fabroni, one of the most elegant and accomplished women of her day; and of others no less respectable for rank and talent; while the celebrated Corilla, long considered as the first improvisatrice in the world, addressed her in a sonnet, commencing with—

“Vieni figlia del genio a questo seno,” &c. ;

and La Fantastici and Il Gianetti sung and recited extemporary verses with her. Gratifying, however, as such a reception in society, whenever she appeared, must have been to her feelings, and flattering as it must have been to her vanity, to carry away the prize where the first contemporary poets were her competitors at the Academia Fiorentina, all fell short, in her estimation, of the complimentary lines addressed to her by Alfieri himself; and ever after considered by her as the most ornamental leaf in her poetical chaplet.

It is time to re-conduct my readers to the point whence we started together; to narrate how it fell to the lot of La Bandettini to save her country in its hour of peril. However high the poetess herself might deem it right to place the name of Alfieri on the list of her admirers, there was one in Florence at that time who deemed another name worthy of a yet higher place. That name was Raimondo Leoni; and he who would so have placed it was no other than Raimondo Leoni himself! He was, in truth, one of those beings whom every one must admit to be the happiest of the human species, humanly speaking, and yet, whom no one in the world would wish to be.

Raimondo Leoni was an able man; for, he not only tried many trades, though he failed in all—but contrived to be employed in places of trust, though he always disappointed that trust. The talents most conspicuous in him were self-confidence and presumption. Italy was then, and had been for some years before, breathing music and poetry. Would Raimondo Leoni be behind others in such simple arts? While waiting for the chance of some occupation more worthy of his genius, he not only wrote a poem, but modestly titled it “Il Tempio della Fama.” It is true, his printer, on receiving it, respectfully pointed out to him that as the verses halted here and there, ignorant or malicious persons might deny its legitimacy, but Raimondo held up his fingers, and counting the syllables thereon, proved that the numbers were there, and if people did not choose to lay the needful emphasis to make them run, why, it was all the worse for them. The printer shrugged his shoulders, did his business, and received his pay; but the public were not to be invited to a poetical banquet and starved, and since Raimondo did not furnish food for mirth, some one else must, and so there immediately appeared a poem entitled “Il Tempio di Fame,” “The Temple of Hunger,” instead of “Fama,” “Fame.”

[493] “The Temple of Hunger” described Apollo, diverted by his presumption, seizing the luckless wight by the arm with his “cithara” (musical instrument), flying up into the air with him, intoxicated with his own vanity and all he saw, the poet fell asleep, and tumbling headlong down upon the banks of the Arno, wakened to find himself a goose, as he had ever been.

It was now Raimondo’s turn to shrug his shoulders—for every one in Italy shrugs his shoulders upon every imaginable occasion—and he talked of casting pearls before swine; which, however, not being a very profitable amusement, after fluttering some time longer in the literary saloons of Florence, in order to persuade the world that the burlesque poem which ran from mouth to mouth had nothing to do with his approaching departure, and paying such devotion to the rival improvisatrice—especially to the Bandettini, as the most in fashion—as should convince the world that he was aux petits soins with the Muses, he betook himself to Milan, then the capital of the Cisalpine Republic, in order to see whether Mars might not be less envious than Apollo had proved himself to be. It seemed for a time as if he had calculated justly. Not only did he obtain employment there, but we find him, in 1797, promoted to that trust which few others would have undertaken—namely, to betray by stratagem into the hands of the Directory that little State whose innate dignity had hitherto preserved her from all overt attacks against her independence. It was proposed to him to go as commissary to Carrara and Massa, distant about thirty miles from Lucca, and conducting a select body of troops to the very gates of Lucca, under pretext of passing on to Garfagnana, make a signal to the few within, who, notwithstanding all the precautions adopted by the Lucchese government, had not escaped the taint of infection from the French Revolution; and while thus throwing the firebrand, assume the appearance of having come to extinguish the flames, and take the city by a coup de main, and then make his own conditions. When this plan was opened to Raimondo, he scarcely allowed it to be developed; his vast mind took it in upon a hint. He smiled condescendingly, and put forth his right hand with dignified deprecation of further explanation; caressed his military stock as his instructor proceeded, and as soon as respect and good-breeding permitted him to speak, he said, “Give me the men; the thing is done!” and, in truth, even a less confident person might have considered it scarcely possible to fail. No time accordingly was lost. The men were given him; he went as Commissary-General to Massa, and he sent secret orders to the disaffected citizens of Lucca to hold themselves in readiness to make an emeute on receiving a signal from him on a certain evening when he should appear at the city gates. Everything proceeded exactly as he could have desired: he arrived at the appointed time; refreshed his men in the fields around the ramparts; and was within half-an-hour of making the preconcerted signal to those within, when an accidental circumstance betrayed the plot to the opposite party; but so late that the very slightest attempt at [494] resistance would have been little better than a signal for a general massacre. Consternation, horror, and despair seized upon the heirs of six hundred years of independence. All felt that nothing short of a miracle could preserve it to them an hour longer; nor did it. At that moment Teresa Bandettini came to the rescue of her country, and saved it. The alarm, of course, had reached her in the splendid home which her talents had won for her in her native city, and where she was then reposing from the fatigues of incessant triumphs. In a moment, instead of the usual gay and joyous circle, she found herself surrounded by manly faces become pale from the dreadful sense of impotency in the hour of danger, and women whose looks had become suddenly haggard from far other than personal anxiety or fear. For a moment she, too, seemed overwhelmed; and closing her eyes and clasping her hands she sank into a chair, and suffered her head to droop upon her breast in silence. What rapidly passed in that interval through a mind that lived and drew its chief nourishment from another sphere we may not guess; but while all gazed in astonishment upon her, she arose, and slowly opening her eyes, and looking round her as if waking from a dream, “Said yet not,” she asked, “that it was Raimondo Leoni who is without the walls? and that the signal is to be given to him this evening? Go to him, and say that La Bandettini is about to sing, and invites him to come and hear her!”

At first those to whom these words were addressed believed that terror had overexcited her; but on her repeating them, some of the most collected hastened to obey her. They found the poetical warrior giving the last directions to his men as he prepared to make the signal for insurrection to those who were anxiously watching for it within. The bearers of the invitation felt themselves almost repaid at that moment for all they had suffered in witnessing its effect upon him. His directions had been above all things to avoid all betrayal of design in the projected surprise—what excuse was he then to make for refusing the honour now offered to him? And yet—if he accepted it…. His agitation became visible, his jaw fell, his lips became blanched: the first articulate words he uttered were “E tu quoque—Marta!” and the next an acceptance couched in the language of rapture, but the accents of despair. As the heralds of peace and poetry insisted upon carrying their hospitality so far as not to lose sight of him for one single moment until they led him to the feet of the improvisatrice, he not only had no opportunity of making the concerted signal, but not even of giving the slightest explanation to his own soldiers, who were accordingly left to look on in bewildered silence; while the disaffected within were compelled to assist in closing the gates, manning the ramparts, and making such other preparations against their own projected attack as made Raimondo and his men very well satisfied, the following morning, to turn into reality their affected march to Garfagnani! As may be supposed, this incident did not render La Bandettini less dear to her fellow-citizens, amongst whom she breathed her last sigh not very many years ago.

Notes:

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