Tales from the Operas. Various

      Whereon the jealous young rustic marched home appeased.

CHAPTER VI.

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      The worthy servant and the worthy master were once more together; they met in the cemetery.

      The don was wondering how his servant had managed with the Donna Elvira, when that valuable factotum ran up against his master.

      “This master will destroy me.”

      “What! dost ruffle with thy master?

      “Yes, I say again—would I had never known this master.”

      “What, rapscallion!”

      “I tell thee I have rarely escaped a murdering business and I love not blood, my master; no, I love not blood.”

      “’Twould be an honor to lose blood for thy master’s sake.”

      “Faith! I would sooner keep it for mine own.”

      “Come, I have rare adventures to tell thee.”

      “Good master, tell them me at home; but, master, what devilment brings thee here?”

      “I have had a wondrous adventure.”

      “The poor woman!”

      “I met her in the street. Thou may’st guess, I briskly went to her. Take her by the hand, do I? Aye, yes. When, thou dog, whom, thinkest thou, she took me for? Thyself was it? Yes, then.”

      “For me! then, master, that woman hath abused herself in this, for I will have nought to do with the sex.”

      “But, faith! she soon finds I am not Leporello, and then doth she yell so as to wake the happiest sleepers. I’ faith! I leapt over the wall, and here am I. Ha, ha, ha!”

      “Good! rare! my master. Ha, ha, ha!”

      “Before the dawn this mirth shall die!”

      “Who speaketh?”

      “Master as I tremble—and I would not say I do not tremble; for as I have a soul, I tremble vastly—’tis some spirit from the other world who knows thee better even than I do.”

      “Peace, fool! Who speaketh?”

      “Man weighed down with crime, depart from amidst the holy dead.”

      “Did I not say ’twas a spirit, master? A very gentle spirit, most assuredly.”

      “’Tis some one without the wall, who would affright us. But, prythee, is not that the statue of Don Pedro? By my faith, ’tis the statue of Don Pedro! Read the inscription.”

      “I pray thee spare me. My eyes are not diligent in the moonlight.”

      “Read, Leporello, read.”

      “Yes, master, yes. As I do spell it, it says, ‘Patiently here I await vengeance on my destroyer.’”

      “Master, good master, if thou upholdest me not, I fall.”

      “Bid him to supper. Ha! ha! ha!”

      “Preserve us, ye saints, how he frowneth. Master, he hath life. He will speak. I would I were conveniently away from here. Master, why dost thou not look at the statue?”

      “’Tis not handsome. Now, thou cur, obey me!”

      “Softly, good master. This is woeful, this is woeful. So please you, gentle statue; nay, I cannot proceed. I have my heart in my mouth. I would I were at home, this master will most completely destroy me.”

      “If thou dost hesitate, I will warm this dagger in thy coward’s heart. Now, proceed.”

      And he again laughed, still not turning his face to the statue.

      “So please you, gentle statue, for I advise me thou art gentle, if thou art stonely—he hath turned his eyes on us: mercy, he hath remarked us.”

      “What, thou wilt die, recreant?”

      “Master, laugh not. So thou hast thy choice of death, Leporello—’tis more than many a sinner; either by fear or by steel thou fallest. Well, well, if I love blood, I know not my likings. Good, master, good. Most gentle of statues, my master, and I—prythee, mark well, ’tis my master, and not I, good statue. Oh Lord! he hath up and downed his head.”

      “Thou art but a pudding, friend Leporello.”

      “Granted, I am what I am, yet look, master.”

      “And wherefore?”

      “The statue, which with his stony head goeth thus, up and down, up and down!”

      Then suddenly the don turned and looked for the first time at the statue.

      “Tell me, statue, wilt thou sup with me?”

      “Yes.”

      The don started, but his courage was equal to his crimes, so he laughingly bade his servant come and prepare the meal.

      “Anywhere and anything, my good master, so that we go from this place. Methinks I am half dead.”

      And the servant kept pretty close to his master’s heels till they had quitted the cemetery and the awful speaking statue.

CHAPTER VII.

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      The supper was laid, the don seated. He had forgotten his guest. He sat lightly at table, leaning back in a great crimson chair, and chattering gaily to his servant and friend.

      “Leporello, I shall eat a supper as large as thy eyes when thou art frightened.”

      “Rare, master, rare.”

      “This is a good dish, Leporello.”

      “My faith, but I would e’en eat of it too. I would he would ask me.”

      “Another plate, good Leporello. Pour out some wine, Leporello.”

      “Verily, if I do not eat, I shall fail in my strength. Faith, I will steal, ’tis not much more on my conscience.”

      “Leporello, my friend, whistle.”

      “He fain would stay my eating.”

      “Marry, how doth a man whistle, master?”

      “Not with his mouth full.”

      “Master, lay it down that ’tis no fault of mine. The cook is too good; he is a tempter.”

      Here there sounded a terrible tramp which shook the mansion.

      “Preserve us, saints; what is that my master?”

      Again the awful sound broke over the house.

      “’Tis a wondrous uncouth noise, Leporello!”

      Again the sound came, like the footsteps of an iron-shod giant.

      “Go thou to the door.”

      Yet once more the footsteps sounded. Nearer now.

      The servant ran from the room and then came staggering back, shutting the folding doors after him, as though for safety.

      “Help, master! help! methinks I am dying!”

      Yet once more the sound was heard. Then a summons at the door of the room called the don’s attention.

      “Leporello, some one knocketh—open.”