Page:Littell's Living Age - Volume 129.djvu/36

28 The last notes of the overture sounded, the curtain rose, and the opera began. With just a slight and not unpleasant tremor, Annunziata felt that there was now no retreat possible for her. She set her teeth, and her breath came quickly for a moment or two, but she was quite composed again before it became necessary for her to step out and face the audience.

Many people may remember the thrill of surprise that ran through the whole house when the Vannini for the first time appeared upon the boards where she has since become so well known. Her graceful carriage, her self-possession and her marvellous beauty, set off by the diaphanous draperies she wore and the diamond stars that rested, like a coronet, upon her masses of dark hair, filled every one there with amazement. In an unbroken silence she began to sing. Clear, round, and sweet each note rose, filling the vast building without apparently any effort to the singer, and several heads in the stalls began to nod approvingly. But Signora Sassi, who knew that this beginning was mere child's play, was scarlet in the face, and fanned away more violently than ever. Then came rippling runs and trills, and there was a murmur of applause, as will sometimes be the case with English audiences, even in the middle of a solo. The Vannini went on singing like a nightingale; and higher and higher rose her voice, till Signora Sassi dropped her fan and grasped her neighbour's arm with a force that nearly made the poor man cry out. The critical moment had come; the note—the great note—the wonderful, terrible note—was out, and out successfully. The signora, feeling as though she had had an operation performed upon her, sank back with a sigh of relief, and almost immediately the aria came to an end.

Then the applause began—a roll and a rattle that swelled and grew till the Vannini was frightened at the thunder she had evoked Her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkled: applause- was intoxicating to her then—it does not occasion her much emotion now.

She had to sing her song twice again, and poor Signor Sassi passed a very agitated quarter of an hour; but all went off well, and then the successful cantatrice was free to receive the congratulations of her friends behind the scenes, and to repose herself till her second appearance in the third act. In this also she was triumphant. She left the theatre with the applause still ringing in her ears, followed by Sassi, whose arms were filled with bouquets; nor was there probably a happier supper-party in all London that evening, than was formed by the good singing-master and his wife and their fortunate pupil.

Such was the opening of the great Signorina Vannini's career. The details of that career cannot here be dwelt upon—space being insufficient; nor indeed did Annunziata's life differ much thenceforward from that usually led by the distinguished members of her profession. In the course of the two following years she sang at all the great capitals of Europe, and was everywhere received with enthusiasm. There was much pleasure in her life, plenty of work, some excitement, and also some anxiety. But she made a great deal of money; and we may be sure that one of the first things she did was to place her old aunt, Marta Vannini, in a position of ease and comfort. If amid the din and turmoil of the world she became a little forgetful of some of her old friends at Sorrento, I do not think any one can wonder or blame her much. But she blamed herself when, returning home one evening at Paris, after singing at the Italian Opera, a letter was put into her hand, signed "Luigi Ratta." Alas! had she not almost forgotten Luigi's very existence?

Luigi, mindful of Annunziata's promise—or half -promise—had resolved, immediately upon her departure, that he would henceforward set himself heart and soul to work at the task of learning to be a gentleman. Reading, writing, and a trifle of arithmetic he had already been taught, after a fashion; but something more than this would, he presumed, be necessary before he could be considered fit to associate with foreign dukes and princes. He therefore began by closely observing the manners and demeanour of the rich forestieri who frequented Sorrento during the winter months, and who often hired his boat to sail over to Capri and the famous Blue Grotto; but after long and conscientious study, he found himself unable to obtain any hints from them. That there was a difference between his ways and theirs he could easily see, but in what it consisted he could not, for the life of him, discover; nor did he think that he should ever succeed in imitating those gentlemen with any appearance of ease.

In this perplexity he decided on applying to one Antonio Bassano, surnamed