CHAPTER III.
Next day, Dr. Bartolo sat him down to discuss the drunken soldier. The aged gentleman had sent out streams of inquiry in every direction, and he had ascertained that no such person as the drunken visitor was known in the regiment. Then who was he? Suspicion gave birth to acuteness, and this jealous old gentleman soon made up his mind that the stranger was in the employ of his ward’s--the unknown--lover, the detested Count Almaviva.
He was in the midst of a deep plan of retribution and revenge, when a thwacking at the outer door jerked him, as it were, from his reverie. Before old Bertha could open that door the knocks were repeated again and again, and the doctor had just risen to open himself (that is the door) when a visitor appeared.
A youngish looking, fairly handsome man, whom partial eyes would have declared to be very much like the drunken soldier, alias Lindoro, alias Count Almaviva, stood just within the room, dressed sedately in black, and making the profoundest of bows.
“May heaven send you peace and joy.” A profound bow.
“Thank you; they’ll be new gifts of heaven, but don’t trouble yourself. Who are you?”
“May peace and joy be yours for years, and years by thousands.” Another profound bow.
“Thank you; but don’t trouble yourself. Who is he? I think I know that face, h-u-u-u-u-m! But yet the countenance is changed, and certainly the dress, h-u-u-u-u-m!”
“Yes, joy and peace, and peace and joy, and joy and peace together.” Here the stranger bowed lower than ever.
“Well--well--well--well--well!”
“Yes, joy and peace I think--I said with all my heart.” He nearly laid his nose upon the doctor’s instep. And the new comer rather thought this last disguise was perfect, and panted for the moment when he and his Rosina should sweetest converse hold.
“And pray, sir, who _are_ you?”
“I’m Don Alonzo--and I am of music a professor, and I am, as well, dear sir, a pupil of Basilio’s--I mean good _Don_ Basilio’s. Poor man, he’s very ill, so in his stead--”
“What, _very_ ill--then I must run and see him.”
“No, no, pray don’t run and see him, ’tis no dangerous illness.”
“Hu--u--u--um. Come, let’s go.”
“But, sir!”
“Hu--u--u--m.”
“Now hear me.”
“Hu--u--um.”
“I’m Don Alonzo truly--but--but as the truth you’ll have--I come as well from Almaviva--count.”
“Softly, softly, my _good_ sir.”
“The count.”
“Yes--yes--yes--but softly, softly!”
“This morning to my lodging came, and in my hands, by chance, there fell this note, directed by your ward to HIM.”
“Her very hand.”
“You see, good doctor, busied with a lawyer, Basilio could not come, and so sent me, but he knows nothing of this letter, trust me. Well now, for I am mightily desirous, good sir, of your favor, if now I could speak a word to her?”
“Speak, speak with her!”
“I might induce the senorita to think I had this letter from--”
“Well, well.”
“A mistress of the count’s. And then you see.”
“Good, good. She’d hate him. Softly, good! a calumny. Ah, ah! a worthy scholar you of Don Basilio’s. Well, well, I’ll call the chit, and since you are so interested in me, why, I’ll e’en repose great confidence in you.”
The old man shakily going out of the room to hunt up his unfortunate little ward, the music master sat musing the most delicious thoughts. If now she would only consent to his plan, then they would be completely happy.
When the doctor came back, leading the opposing and indignant Rosina into the room, his jealousy was awake in a moment; for how should Rosina know that the Don Alonzo was somebody else at the same time? Hence, when she looked up haughtily at the music master, behold her face changed its expression directly, and to a little scream she added a little start.
The doctor saw the first, heard the second, and felt the third.
“Well--well--well!”
“Oh dear me, Senor, the _cramp_!”
“Hu--u--u--u--m.”
Meanwhile, the music master was again making the profoundest of bows. Then he profoundly placed a music stool before an old piano, and profoundly proposed to the young lady that she should sit down.
Perhaps not unwillingly, she sat down, and perhaps not unwillingly, she poured forth a delightful song.
Arriving at the end of it, and even the most delicious songs _will_ come to an end, the new music master was most enthusiastic in his praises.
The doctor would qualify _his_ praise. The voice was good--granted. But the airs--why the airs of the present day--what were they? Contemptible. Now, for instance, when the wonderful Cafariello sang, and when he sang that wonderful ‘la, la, la’ of his, why there was an air to which none could object. In fact he would sing it. It began--
“When thou art near, Rosina dear.”
To be sure the song said Giannina--but never mind.
“When thou art ne-e-e-ar, Rosina de-e-e-ar, With joy and fe-e-e-ar, there falls a te-e-e-ar.”
This delicious romance the old doctor pointed by means of his right foot and toes. He also elaborated the accent by means, first of his right hand and arm, and then of his left hand and arm; and getting to te-e-a-r, he laid both his hands on his heart, looked sentimental, and fell into a rage; for he caught sight of Figaro behind him, mimicking him.
Meanwhile, the professor of music was diligently explaining (perhaps the ground-work of music), to the young lady, who was as diligently listening.
The barber was horrified at the doctor’s discovery, and immediately flourished about his razors.
“Well--well--well.”
“Excuse me, Senor--I come to shave you.”
“I’ll not be shaved to-_day_.”
“Then not to-morrow. I’m engaged to-morrow.”
“I say I’ll not be shaved to-_day_.”
“What, doctor--think you I’m a _country shaver_! So please you find another barber--I am off.”
“Well--well--have your way. Go to my room and--no--no, I’ll go myself.”
I have forgotten to say that the old doctor had locked up the balcony, and carried the key in his pocket--with all the other keys--a mighty bunch. The doctor locked up everything.
Amongst other things and places, the doctor always locked up his own room. Now, therefore, he hauled forth the mighty bunch, and turned his legs towards the door. Suddenly his suspicion was all awake again. What, leave the stranger and the barber there! No--no. “Here, Figaro--take the keys; be careful, and break nothing!”
As Figaro passed the young lady she looked up, and said rapidly--“The newest key there is.”
With a jingle of triumph the barber ran off.
“Hu-u-u-m--that Senor, music-master, was the rascal who brought her the letter from the count.”
“Indeed!”
At this moment there was heard a horrible crash, which sounded like a canonnade with china bowls.
Away flew the doctor after the barber; again the explanation of the “ground-work” went on; and was only interrupted by Figaro’s flying entrance--a bright new little key between his fore-finger and thumb.
Victory--in fact!
But he showed a very doleful countenance as the doctor came deploringly in the room.
“Six plates--eight basins--one tureen! Was such damage ever seen?”
But, in spite of plates and dishes, the time of a town barber was not to be wasted; so Figaro, flourishing his instruments of torture about, the doctor sat down, and the barber was preparing to dash at him, brush in hand, when his arm remained suspended in the air; for Marplot, in the shape of Don Basilio, stood in the doorway!
For an instant the barber was disconcerted, but recovering his presence of mind, he prepared to assault the doctor. But the latter, struggling to his feet, called out, “Basilio! ’tis Basilio!”
Don Basilio made a lean bow, taking off his shovel hat with his long fingers. “Good day to you; good day to all.”
As for the young people at the piano, they could only wonder what could come next.
“And pray, Basilio, how are you?” asked the doctor, earnestly.
“How am I; as well as ever.”
“Excuse me Senor, but that confounded beard of yours; a town barber cannot wait all day!”
“Yes, yes; directly. And the lawyer, Don Basilio?”
“The lawyer?”
The professor of music deserted his post and fled up to the doctor. “Of the affair, Senor, of the letter, recollect he nothing knows.”
The barber turned to Don Basilio, who was elevating his eyebrows, and all the wrinkles in his forehead, wondering what all this might mean. “Oh heavens, Don Basilio, this is fever.”
Said Figaro,
“Yes, I swear it by my post; You’re as chalky as a ghost. Fever! ghost! Don Basilio--go to bed, ’Tis the fever called the red.”
The professor of music made that “chink, chink” chorus already alluded to; and when he performed it he was standing near the barber. Thereupon said Figaro, still in his quality of surgeon, and still to Don Basilio.
“And as you’ll want a nurse, Let me recommend--this purse; Yes; you are very bad indeed, In such cases one must--bleed.”
The music-master, the barber, and the young lady too, were all _so_ interested in Don Basilio’s health, and they did so crowd about him, that the doctor could neither put in a word nor get near his friend, whose fingers went twisting about, trying to discover the most profitable line of conduct to pursue.
At last:--
“Good day to all--with all my heart, I make my bow, and so depart.”
The town barber was immediately himself again with his implements. He turned even his handsome body to account; for he made of it a screen, and so hid the piano and the two young people from the doctor’s green eyes.
“Do, re, me, fa.”
“We have the keys of the balcony; at midnight be you there.”
“Yes; Sol, la, si, do-o-o-o-o.”
“Now pray don’t forget the hour.”
“No. D-o-o-o-o, si, la, sol-l-l-l.”
“At twelve you will be mine.”
“Yes. Fa-a-a, me, re, d-o-o-o-o.”
“And now you trust yourself to me Rosi--.”
“A-h-h-h,” shrieked the doctor, his head coming round the human screen, and noticing the whispers. He evaded the quivering razor and rushed at the music-people, one of whom, to wit the master, looked the picture of innocent consternation; while the other was quite astonished.
Cried Figaro:--
“When thus a man doth rage and rave, The thing to do ’s his head to shave.”
“I think I’d better go,” said the music-master, tremblingly.
“I think you had,” said Figaro.
Alas! Why, before he went, did he not tell Rosina of his giving her letter to the doctor. Alas! Why did this necessity escape the attention of the all-seeing Figaro? They both departed--the barber flippantly, the professor profoundly. And neither thought of the forgetfulness up to the time when they were both fixing a ladder against the locked up balcony.
Meanwhile, little Rosina had been converted into a little tigress.
For not an hour had the count and barber been gone, when Don Basilio had persuaded himself _his_ line of profitable conduct was to come creeping back after a little more money. This time he knew not a purse full, for the doctor was old and his purse low. He came in with his low bow.
“Noble doctor, do you know who this Alonzo was?”
“No, no; sent by the count, perhaps.”
“It was the count himself. Some scheme is sure afoot.”
“Good; and I’ll scheme too. Now, haste, Basilio, to the notary, and bid him come. This very night I’ll marry her.”
“But, noble doctor; fetch the notary! And it rains in torrents. Again, most noble doctor, the notary is engaged; this very night the barber Figaro gives his niece in marriage.”
“The barber Figaro _has_ no niece! Another plot--another plot. Now, go, and call the notary! Go--go--go! Here, take the street door key, and go--go--go!”
Then he cried out for Rosina; and that young beauty appearing, he very quickly turned her into a young tigress.
“A pretty pitfall, Senorita!”
“Indeed!”
“I’ve some news from your _new_ lover.”
“Lover, indeed!”
“Indeed! most nobly you’ve bestowed your young affections, truly. Why, with another he makes sport of you.”
“He dares!”
“(I’m right.) Yes, Senorita; as you say, ‘he dares.’ Behold this letter; it formed for them a comedy.”
“My very note.”
“(A pretty plot.) Why, this Alonzo and the barber are but tools, whose master is Count Almaviva.”
“Oh, Lindoro.”
(“Lindoro, is it!”)
“Vengeance! Did you not say you’d marry me? You did; then let us married be. And now, at once (stamp of the foot), at once, at once! At midnight he’ll be here, and with him, Senor, barber Figaro. It all was settled I should fly and marry him.”
“Ah! I run to bar the door.”
“‘Tis useless, Senor, you’d better bar the window.”
“The window!”
“Yes--yes--they have the key!”
“The key! I’ll not stir from the spot. Yet, should they come with arms! I’d better call the watch, and call them thieves. Go, shut yourself within your room, and double lock the door!”
And out into the pelting rain he rushed, while the little tigress, somewhat accusing herself of hastiness, went slowly to her room.
At first there was nothing heard but the rain; then “click, click,” the turning of a key in a lock. Then the window opened slowly, and with light jumps, in came the count and the barber.
And at this very moment, Don Basilio, drenched to his very fingers’ ends, was stalking along the street, towards the doctor’s, and with him was a notary, who with reluctance had left his house.
And at this very moment, also, Dr. Bartolo was full three streets off, laying a complaint before the Alcade.
“Rosina--Rosina!” cried Figaro.
“Rosina--Rosina!” cried the count.
No answer.
“Why, where can she be?” cried both together.
She had not, of course, meant to come; but hope is strong, and so at this precise moment she came softly into the room.
“Dear Rosina!”
“Stand back, Senor,--I but come here to tell you, you have lost me.”
“Can I believe my precious senses!” exclaimed the barber.
“Rosina!”
“Peace, Senor. Did you not pretend to love me, that you might betray me?”
“And to whom?”
“The Count Almaviva.”
“Ah--good!” said Figaro to himself.
“Then thou didst love Lindoro?”
“Too well.”
“Then thou didst love the count?”
“The count!”
“Rosina--yes--the count is thy Lindoro.”
“And Lindoro is the count,” said Figaro.
The bliss of these young people was soon ended--for alas! Figaro, who, as a general precaution, was looking on all sides and on all levels, saw from the balcony one lantern and two persons down below at the door!
“Quick--the ladder,” shouted he, and instinctively he felt for it. Gone--vanished. Even Figaro was disconcerted.
Footsteps!
The one lantern and the two persons. Don Basilio and the notary.
“Noble Dr. Bartolo,” whispered the gaunt man.
Figaro slipped quickly round the new comers, and then said softly to the count--“’Tis the scamp Basilio and our notary. Cheer up, leave all to me.” Then aloud he added, “Good evening, gentlemen,--I pray you place the lantern on the table here. Senor notary! this evening at my house you were to see a contract signed between the Count Almaviva and my niece.--Well, here are you and I, the count, and also, here’s my niece.”
“But where’s the doctor?” said Basilio, to whom Figaro, handing him a ring from the count’s hand,
“Put this ring upon your hand, And let no more be said, Or the next report may be, You’re shot clean through the head.”
Don Basilio saw the force of the argument, and accepted the ring.
Then there was the scratching of pens, and the signing of names, and in less time than it takes to record the fact, Rosina was a wife!
And at this moment arrived Doctor Bartolo, with a posse of people--the Alcade, and one, two, three--a whole regiment of alguazils.
“Arrest them, arrest them all.”
“What me. Figaro--arrest me!”
“I say arrest them all, they all are thieves.”
It is reported that the alcade marched up to the count with great dignity, but when he saw who it was--a real living count--he fell back without any show of dignity whatever.
And to a certain question that the doctor put to Figaro, this was all the reply:--“Chink, chink.” The question--simply how it was that Figaro could turn against him and betray him: “Chink, chink.” An argument without reply.
The doctor was not a bad doctor--and as he could do himself no good by being angry--and as the bridegroom was a count--why he forgave them.
And as this chronicle is all about the loves of two people who are now happily married, and about a guardian who is a guardian no longer, why, obviously, this chronicle is ended.
RIGOLETTO. (VERDI.)
This tells of a hunch-back only, who wears two masks, The one is mocking jest--the second godlike love, And if he wears them both too mixedly--chide not-- But dole him and his woes some pity. Now fall to.