John Masefield - "The Old Front Line"

Selected by Beverly Nichols - "Book of Old Ballads"

Moliere (Poquelin) - "The Countess of Escarbagnas (La Comtesse D'Escarbagnas)"

G. E. Wyatt - "Archie's Mistake"

Annual Bibliography of Commonwealth Literature 2007
This paper argues that discourses of love in Ghanaian market literature for youth offer a view into complex negotiations of agency and empowerment. Drawing on Deborah Durham's notion of youth as "social `shifters'" and Francis Nyamnjoh's conception of the "interconnectedness" of agency, I take Ghanaian market literature as one specific case of how African literature for youth foregrounds questions of continuity and change as African societies enter into increasingly complex global relations. In this literature for youth, received notions of love, often constructed out of impressions from American pop and hip hop music, carry new notions of agency that compete with existing "domesticated" forms. Authors like Ike Tandoh and Evelyn Tay employ discourses of love to offer youth alternative avenues for empowerment in a context of socio-economic disenfranchizement. In a creative process of "straddling", this writing both reveals and reproduces the contradictions that obtain in youth configurations of agency.

Cord and Creese

J >> James de Mille >> Cord and Creese




"Do so, and you will keep him permanently in London till the time comes
when we can arise from the dead."

They were silent for a long time. Louis had thoughts of his own, excited
by the letter which he had received, and these thoughts he did not care
to utter. One thing was a secret even from Frank.

And what could he do? That Beatrice had fallen among friends he well
knew. He had found this out when, after receiving a letter from Philips
about her flight, he had hurried there and learned the result. Then he
had himself gone to Holby, and found that she was at Mrs. Thornton's. He
had watched till she had recovered. He had seen her as she took a drive
in Thornton's carriage. He had left an agent there to write him about
her when he left.

What was he to do now? He read the letter over again. He paused at that
sentence: "They have been talking it over, and have come to the
conclusion to get a detective, and keep him busy watching her with the
idea of getting her back."

What was the nature of this danger? Beatrice was of age. She was with
Langhetti. She was her own mistress. Could there be any danger of her
being taken back against her will? The villains at Brandon Hall were
sufficiently unscrupulous, but would they dare to commit any violence?
and if they did, would not Langhetti's protection save her?

Such were his thoughts. Yet, on the other hand, he considered the fact
that she was inexperienced, and might have peculiar ideas about a
father's authority. If Potts came himself, demanding her return,
perhaps, out of a mistaken sense of filial duty, she might go with him.
Or, even if she was unwilling to do so, she might yield to coercion, and
not feel justified in resisting. The possibility of this filled him with
horror. The idea of her being taken back to live under the power of
those miscreants from whom she had escaped was intolerable. Yet he knew
not what to do.

Between him and her there was a gulf unfathomable, impassable. She was
one of that accursed brood which he was seeking to exterminate. He would
spare her if possible; he would gladly lay down his life to save her
from one moment's misery; but if she stood in the way of his vengeance,
could he--dared he stay that vengeance? For that he would sacrifice life
itself! Would he refuse to sacrifice even _her_ if she were more
dear than life itself?

Yet here was a case in which she was no longer connected with, but
striving to sever herself from them. She was flying from that accursed
father of hers. Would he stand idly by, and see her in danger? That were
impossible. All along, ever since his return to England, he had watched
over her, unseen himself and unsuspected by her, and had followed her
footsteps when she fled. To desert her now was impossible. The only
question with him was--how to watch her or guard her.

One thing gave him comfort, and that was the guardianship of Langhetti.
This he thought was sufficient to insure her safety. For surely
Langhetti would know the character of her enemies as well as Beatrice
herself, and so guard her as to insure her safety from any attempt of
theirs. He therefore placed his chief reliance on Langhetti, and
determined merely to secure some one who would watch over her, and let
him know from day to day how she fared. Had he thought it necessary he
would have sent a band of men to watch and guard her by day and night;
but this idea never entered his mind for the simple reason that he did
not think the danger was pressing. England was after all a country of
law, and even a father could not carry off his daughter against her will
when she was of age. So he comforted himself.

"Well," said he, at last, rousing himself from his abstraction, "how is
Potts now?"

"Deeper than ever," answered Frank, quietly.

"The Brandon Bank--"

"The Brandon Bank has been going at a rate that would have foundered any
other concern long ago. There's not a man that I sent there who has not
been welcomed and obtained all that he wanted. Most of the money that
they advanced has been to men that I sent. They drew on us for the money
and sent us various securities of their own, holding the securities of
these applicants. It is simply bewildering to think how easily that
scoundrel fell into the snare."

"When a man has made a fortune easily he gets rid of it easily," said
Louis, laconically. "Potts thinks that all his applicants are leading
men of the county. I take good care that they go there as baronets at
least. Some are lords. He is overpowered in the presence of these lords,
and gives them what they ask on their own terms. In his letters he has
made some attempts at an expression of gratitude for our great
liberality. This I enjoyed somewhat. The villain is not a difficult one
to manage, at least in the financial way. I leave the denouement to you,
Louis."

"The denouement must not be long delayed now."

"Well, for that matter things are so arranged that we may have 'the
beginning of the end' as soon as you choose."

"What are the debts of the Brandon Bank to us now?"

"Five hundred and fifteen thousand one hundred and fifty pounds," said
Frank.

"Five hundred thousand--very good," returned Louis, thoughtfully. "And
how is the sum secured?"

"Chiefly by acknowledgments from the bank with the indorsement of John
Potts, President."

"What are the other liabilities?"

"He has implored me to purchase for him or sell him some California
stock. I have reluctantly consented to do so," continued Frank, with a
sardonic smile, "entirely through the request of my senior, and he has
taken a hundred shares at a thousand pounds each."

"One hundred thousand pounds," said Louis.

"I consented to take his notes," continued Frank, "purely out of regard
to the recommendations of my senior."

"Any thing else?" asked Louis.

"He urged me to recommend him to a good broker who might purchase stock
for him in reliable companies. I created a broker and recommended him.
He asked me also confidentially to tell him which stocks were best, so I
kindly advised him to purchase the Mexican and the Guatemala loan. I
also recommended the Venezuela bonds. I threw all these into the market,
and by dextrous manipulation raised the price to 3 per cent, premium. He
paid L103 for every L100. When he wants to sell out, as he may one day
wish to do, he will be lucky if he gets 35 per cent"

"How much did he buy?"

"Mexican loan, fifty thousand; Guatemala, fifty thousand; and Venezuela
bonds, fifty thousand."

"He is quite lavish."

"Oh, quite. That makes it so pleasant to do business with him."

"Did you advance the money for this?"

"He did not ask it. He raised the money somehow, perhaps from our old
advances, and bought them from the broker. The broker was of course
myself. The beauty of all this is, that I send applicants for money, who
give their notes; he gets money from me and gives his notes to me, and
then advances the money to these applicants, who bring it back to me.
It's odd, isn't it?"

Louis smiled.

"Has he no _bona fide_ debtors in his own county?"

"Oh yes, plenty of them; but more than half of his advances have been
made to my men.

"Did you hint any thing about issuing notes?"

"Oh yes, and the bait took wonderfully. He made his bank a bank of issue
at once, and sent out a hundred and fifty thousand pounds in notes. I
think it was in this way that he got the money for all that American
stock. At any rate, it helped him. As he has only a small supply of gold
in his vaults, you may very readily conjecture his peculiar position."

Louis was silent for a time.

"You have managed admirably, Frank," said he at last.

"Oh," rejoined Frank, "Potts is very small game, financially. There is
no skill needed in playing with him. He is such a clumsy bungler that he
does whatever one wishes. There is not even excitement. Whatever I tell
him to do he does. Now if I were anxious to crush the Rothschilds, it
would be very different. There would then be a chance for skill."

"You have had the chance."

"I did not wish to ruin them," said Frank. "Too many innocent people
would have suffered. I only wished to alarm them. I rather think, from
what I hear, that they were a little disturbed on that day when they had
to pay four millions. Yet I could have crushed them if I had chosen, and
I managed things so as to let them see this."

"How?"

"I controlled other engagements of theirs, and on the same day I
magnanimously wrote them a letter, saying that I would not press for
payment, as their notes were as good to me as money. Had I pressed they
would have gone down. Nothing could have saved them. But I did not wish
that. The fact is they have locked up their means very much, and have
been rather careless of late. They have learned a lesson now."

Louis relapsed into his reflections, and Frank began to answer his
letters.




CHAPTER XXXVII


THE "PROMETHEUS."

It took some time for Langhetti to make his preparations in London.
September came before he had completed them. To his surprise these
arrangements were much easier than he had supposed. People came to him
of their own accord before he thought it possible that they could have
heard of his project. What most surprised him was a call from the
manager of Covent Garden Theatre, who offered to put it into his hands
for a price so low as to surprise Langhetti more than any thing else
that had occurred. Of course he accepted the offer gratefully and
eagerly. The manager said that the building was on his hands, and he did
not wish to use it for the present, for which reason he would be glad to
turn it over to him. He remarked also that there was very much stock in
the theatre that could be made use of, for which he would charge nothing
whatever. Langhetti went to see it, and found a large number of
magnificently painted scenes, which could be used in his piece. On
asking the manager how scenes of this sort came to be there, he learned
that some one had been representing the "Midsummer Night's Dream," or
something of that sort.

Langhetti's means were very limited, and as he had risked every thing on
this experiment he was rejoiced to find events so very greatly in his
favor.

Another circumstance which was equally in his favor, if not more so, was
the kind consideration of the London papers. They announced his
forthcoming work over and over again. Some of their writers came to see
him so as to get the particulars, and what little he told them they
described in the most attractive and effective manner.

A large number of people presented themselves to form his company, and
he also received applications by letter from many whose eminence and
fortunes placed them above the need of any such thing. It was simply
incomprehensible to Langhetti, who thoroughly understood the ways of the
musical world; yet since they offered he was only too happy to accept.
On having interviews with these persons he was amazed to find that they
were one and all totally indifferent about terms; they all assured him
that they were ready to take any part whatever, and merely wished to
assist in the representation of a piece so new and so original as his
was said to be. They all named a price which was excessively low, and
assured him that they did so only for form's sake; positively refusing
to accept any thing more, and leaving it to Langhetti either to take
them on their own terms or to reject them. He, of course, could not
reject aid so powerful and so unexpected.

At length, he had his rehearsal. After various trials he invited
representatives of the London Press to be present at the last. They all
came, and all without exception wrote the most glowing accounts for
their respective journals.

"I don't know how it is," said he to Beatrice. "Every thing has come
into my hands. I don't understand it. It seems to me exactly as if there
was some powerful, unseen hand assisting me; some one who secretly put
every thing in my way, who paid these artists first and then sent them
to me, and influenced all the journals in my favor. I should be sure of
this if it were not a more incredible thing than the actual result
itself. As it is I am simply perplexed and bewildered. It is a thing
that is without parallel. I have a company such as no one has ever
before gathered together on one stage. I have eminent prima donnas who
are quite willing to sing second and third parts without caring what I
pay them, or whether I pay them or not. I know the musical world. All I
can say is that the thing is unexampled, and I can not comprehend it. I
have tried to find out from some of them what it all means, but they
give me no satisfaction. At any rate, my Bicina, you will make your
_debut_ under the most favorable circumstances. You saw how they
admired your voice at the rehearsal. The world shall admire it still
more at your first performance."

Langhetti was puzzled, and, as he said, bewildered, but he did not
slacken a single effort to make his opera successful. His exertions were
as unremitting as though he were still struggling against difficulties.
After all that had been done for him he knew very well that he was sure
of a good house, yet he worked as hard as though his audience was very
uncertain.

At length the appointed evening came. Langhetti had certainly expected a
good house from those happy accidents which had given him the co-
operation of the entire musical world and of the press. Yet when he
looked out and saw the house that waited for the rising of the curtain
he was overwhelmed.

When he thus looked out it was long before the time. A great murmur had
attracted his attention. He saw the house crammed in every part. All the
boxes were filled. In the pit was a vast congregation of gentlemen and
ladies, the very galleries were thronged.

The wonder that had all along filled him was now greater than ever. He
well knew under what circumstances even an ordinarily good house is
collected together. There must either be undoubted fame in the prima
donna, or else the most wide-spread and comprehensive efforts on the
part of a skillful impresario. His efforts had been great, but not such
as to insure any thing like this. To account for the prodigious crowd
which filled every part of the large edifice was simply impossible.

He did not attempt to account for it. He accepted the situation, and
prepared for the performance.

What sort of an idea that audience may have had of the "Prometheus" of
Langhetti need hardly be conjectured. They had heard of it as a novelty.
They had heard that the company was the best ever collected at one time,
and that the prima donna was a prodigy of genius. That was enough for
them. They waited in a state of expectation which was so high-pitched
that it would have proved disastrous in the extreme to any piece, or any
singer who should have proved to be in the slightest degree inferior.
Consummate excellence alone in every part could now save the piece from
ruin. This Langhetti felt; but he was calm, for he had confidence in his
work and in his company. Most of all, he had confidence in Beatrice.

At last the curtain rose.

The scene was such a one as had never before been represented. A blaze
of dazzling light filled the stage, and before it stood seven forms,
representing the seven archangels. They began one of the sublimest
strains ever heard. Each of these singers had in some way won eminence.
They had thrown themselves into this work. The music which had been
given to them had produced an exalted effect upon their own hearts, and
now they rendered forth that grand "Chorus of Angels" which those who
heard the "Prometheus" have never forgotten. The words resembled, in
some measure, the opening song in Goethe's "Faust," but the music was
Langhetti's.

The effect of this magnificent opening was wonderful. The audience sat
spell-bound--hushed into stillness by those transcendent harmonies
which seemed like the very song of the angels themselves; like that "new
song" which is spoken of in Revelation. The grandeur of Handel's
stupendous chords was renewed, and every one present felt its power.

Then came the second scene. Prometheus lay suffering. The ocean nymphs
were around him, sympathizing with his woes. The sufferer lay chained to
a bleak rock in the summit of frosty Caucasus. Far and wide extended an
expanse of ice. In the distance arose a vast world of snow-coveted
peaks. In front was a _mer de glace_, which extended all along the
stage.

Prometheus addressed all nature--"the divine ether, the swift-winged
winds, Earth the All-mother, and the infinite laughter of the ocean
waves." The thoughts were those of Aeschylus, expressed by the music of
Langhetti.

The ocean nymphs bewailed him in a song of mournful sweetness, whose
indescribable pathos touched every heart. It was the intensity of
sympathy--sympathy so profound that it became anguish, for the heart
that felt it had identified itself with the heart of the sufferer.

Then followed an extraordinary strain. It was the Voice of Universal
Nature, animate and inanimate, mourning over the agony of the God of
Love. In that strain was heard the voice of man, the sighing of the
winds, the moaning of the sea, the murmur of the trees, the wail of bird
and beast, all blending in extraordinary unison, and all speaking of
woe.

And now a third scene opened. It was Athene. Athene represented Wisdom
or Human Understanding, by which the God of Vengeance is dethroned, and
gives place to the eternal rule of the God of Love. To but few of those
present could this idea of Langhetti's be intelligible. The most of them
merely regarded the fable and its music, without looking for any meaning
beneath the surface.

To these, and to all, the appearance of Beatrice was like a new
revelation. She came forward and stood in the costume which the Greek
has given to Athene, but in her hand she held the olive--her emblem--
instead of the spear. From beneath her helmet her dark locks flowed down
and were wreathed in thick waves that clustered heavily about her head.

Here, as Athene, the pure classical contour of Beatrice's features
appeared in marvelous beauty--faultless in their perfect Grecian mould.
Her large, dark eyes looked with a certain solemn meaning out upon the
vast audience. Her whole face was refined and sublimed by the thought
that was within her. In her artistic nature she had appropriated this
character to herself so thoroughly, that, as she stood there, she felt
herself to be in reality all that she represented. The spectators caught
the same feeling from her. Yet so marvelous was her beauty, so
astonishing was the perfection of her form and feature, so accurate was
the living representation of the ideal goddess that the whole vast
audience after one glance burst forth into pealing thunders of
spontaneous and irresistible applause.

Beatrice had opened her mouth to begin, but as that thunder of
admiration arose she fell back a pace. Was it the applause that had
overawed her?

Her eyes were fixed on one spot at the extreme right of the pit. A face
was there which enchained her. A face, pale, sad, mournful, with dark
eyes fixed on hers in steadfast despair.

Beatrice faltered and fell back, but it was not at the roar of applause.
It was that face--the one face among three thousand before her, the one,
the only one that she saw. Ah, how in that moment all the past came
rushing before her--the Indian Ocean, the Malay pirate, where that face
first appeared, the Atlantic, the shipwreck, the long sail over the seas
in the boat, the African isle!

She stood so long in silence that the spectators wondered.

Suddenly the face which had so transfixed her sank down. He was gone, or
he had hid himself. Was it because he knew that he was the cause of her
silence?

The face disappeared, and the spell was broken. Langhetti stood at the
side-scenes, watching with deep agitation the silence of Beatrice. He
was on the point of taking the desperate step of going forward when he
saw that she had regained her composure.

She regained it, and moved a step forward with such calm serenity that
no one could have suspected her of having lost it. She began to sing. In
an opera words are nothing--music is all in all. It is sufficient if the
words express, even in a feeble and general way, the ideas which breathe
and burn in the music. Thus it was with the words in the opening song of
Beatrice.

But the music! What language can describe it?

Upon this all the richest stores of Langhetti's genius had been
lavished. Into this all the soul of Beatrice was thrown with sublime
self-forgetfulness. She ceased to be herself. Before the audience she
was Athene.

Her voice, always marvelously rich and full, was now grander and more
capacious than ever. It poured forth a full stream of matchless harmony
that carried all the audience captive. Strong, soaring, penetrating, it
rose easily to the highest notes, and flung them forth with a lavish,
and at the same time far-reaching power that penetrated every heart, and
thrilled all who heard it. Roused to the highest enthusiasm by the sight
of that vast assemblage, Beatrice gave herself up to the intoxication of
the hour. She threw herself into the spirit of the piece; she took deep
into her heart the thought of Langhetti, and uttered it forth to the
listeners with harmonies that were almost divine--such harmonies as they
had never before heard.

There was the silence of death as she sang. Her voice stilled all other
sounds. Each listener seemed almost afraid to breathe. Some looked at
one another in amazement, but most of them sat motionless, with their
heads stretched forward, unconscious of any thing except that one voice.

[Illustration: "THE APPEARANCE OF BEATRICE WAS LIKE A NEW REVELATION."]

At last it ceased. For a moment there was a pause. Then there arose a
deep, low thunder of applause that deepened and intensified itself every
moment till at last it rose on high in one sublime outburst, a frenzy of
acclamation, such as is heard not seldom, but, once heard, is never
forgotten.

Beatrice was called out. She came, and retired. Again and again she was
called. Flowers were showered down in heaps at her feet. The
acclamations went on, and only ceased through the consciousness that
more was yet to come. The piece went on. It was one long triumph. At
last it ended. Beatrice had been loaded with honors. Langhetti was
called out and welcomed with almost equal enthusiasm. His eyes filled
with tears of joy as he received this well-merited tribute to his
genius. He and Beatrice stood on the stage at the same time. Flowers
were flung at him. He took them and laid them at the feet of Beatrice.

At this a louder roar of acclamation arose. It increased and deepened,
and the two who stood there felt overwhelmed by the tremendous applause.

So ended the first representation of the "Prometheus!"




CHAPTER XXXVIII.


THE SECRET.

The triumph of Beatrice continued. The daily papers were filled with
accounts of the new singer. She had come suddenly before them, and had
at one bound reached the highest eminence. She had eclipsed all the
popular favorites. Her sublime strains, her glorious enthusiasm, her
marvelous voice, her perfect beauty, all kindled the popular heart. The
people forgave her for not having an Italian name, since she had one
which was so aristocratic. Her whole appearance showed that she was
something very different from the common order of artistes, as
different, in fact, as the "Prometheus" was from the common order of
operas. For here in the "Prometheus" there were no endless iterations of
the one theme of love, no perpetual repetitions of the same rhyme of
_amore_ and _cuore_, or _amor'_ and _cuor'_; but
rather the effort of the soul after sublimer mysteries. The "Prometheus"
sought to solve the problem of life and of human suffering. Its divine
sentiments brought hope and consolation. The great singer rose to the
altitude of a sibyl; she uttered inspirations; she herself was inspired.

As she stood with her grand Grecian beauty, her pure classic features,
she looked as beautiful as a statue, and as ideal and passionless. In
one sense she could never be a popular favorite. She had no archness or
coquetry like some, no voluptuousness like others, no arts to win
applause like others. Still she stood up and sang as one who believed
that this was the highest mission of humanity, to utter divine truth to
human ears. She sang loftily, thrillingly, as an angel might sing, and
those who saw her revered her while they listened.

And thus it was that the fame of this new singer went quickly through
England, and foreign journals spoke of it half-wonderingly, half-
cynically, as usual; for Continentals never have any faith in English
art, or in the power which any Englishman may have to interpret art. The
leading French journals conjectured that the "Prometheus" was of a
religious character, and therefore Puritanical; and consequently for
that reason was popular. They amused themselves with the idea of a
Puritanical opera, declared that the English wished to Protestantize
music, and suggested "Calvin" or "The Sabbath" as good subjects for this
new and entirely English class of operas.

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