I, Cherubino

I, Cherubino

G.F. Skipworth

Copyright©2012 – GF Skipworth, Rosslare Press/Rosslare Arts International. All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles, reports and reviews. The characters presented are entirely fictitious, and any resemblance to living persons is coincidental.

First Edition

ISBN – 13: 978-0-9837600-2-3

To Barbara

(Madama)

It was during the writing of this book that we lost our friend and colleague, Dr. Franya Berkman to breast cancer. Although she is in no way connected to the content, losing Franya made her part of the daily process. Much of I, Cherubino is centered around our responses to loss, and we thought of her daily. She is both admired and greatly missed.

-After all, where would any of us

be…without our charm?-

If you would enjoy some preparatory insight into Cherubino, we recommend the youtube example of:

Maria Ewing - Voi che sapete (you who know) to the Condesa.

Don’t be surprised to see the character portrayed by a woman, as they commonly sang the parts of young boys. A man’s voice would have been too adult. It’s called a Hosenrolle (pants role).

Background of the Title Character

The character of Cherubino, the page boy, was introduced in the three Figaro stories of playwright Pierre Beaumarchais, in 1778. He was brought to high fame by Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart in his incomparable opera, Le Nozze di Figaro (The Marriage of Figaro) in 1786.

Cherubino stands today as one of the most charming and empathetic characters in the history of opera It is of no consequence that the reader professes enjoyment of opera as a genre, although there are so many types, one probably hasn’t heard them all. Mozart occupies an exquisite class by himself, setting real people with real problems to unimaginably beautiful music.

In the opera, we are only privileged to meet Cherubino as an adolescent boy, where his job is to be caught in all the wrong places by all the wrong people. He’s not a young rake, just looking for information, so be kind to him. Here, however, we present his entire life after that time, warts and all.

Our setting is a time in which charm was, for many, the goal of life – after all, what are we without our charm? Perhaps a bit pompous in fashion and speech to our modern ears, these players nevertheless struggle through life with the same demons we wrestle today, and there is even some small room for the supernatural amidst all that enlightenment.

No matter what Mozart or Beamarchais may tell you, please remember that these accounts reflect the actual journals of the young page-boy cavalier, and are widely considered to be definitive, at least at my house. This is the way it really happened, your degree in musicology be damned.

Dramatis Personae

Cherubino – A page boy in the palace (informally, Casa) of Count (Conde) Almaviva in Seville, Spain. His parentage is unknown, but he is a typical adolescent, struggling with first feelings of love, and wondering why his body mistreats him so. He is, at regular intervals caught by the Conde in compromising locations, such as in the bedchamber of the Countess (La Condesa). We mustn’t get the wrong idea, though. Cherubino is a teenager desperate for information, and we all know what that means.

El Conde Almaviva – Founder of the Casa de Almaviva, a powerful lord in the region. Married to the most beautiful and saintly woman in Spain (brought from Italy), he has nevertheless fallen to searching for greener pastures elsewhere, including among his chambermaids. In the past, he attempted to invoke the ancient rite of lords spending the first night with new brides, but a year before our story begins, that plot was uncovered, and the Count was caught red-faced by the entire company. His Condesa forgave him publicly, but it did little good, as he soon returned to his old ways.

La Condesa Rosina - The Countess Almaviva, wife of the Count, and arguably the most beloved female figure among the aristocracy for a thousand miles in any direction. Compassionate and kind, she has been obsessed during these trying times with the rekindling of her husband’s love. Cherubino adores her above all other women, which is saying a great deal, considering the harem of his imagination. The Count has already tried to get rid of him once by sending him into the army at the age of fourteen, but he mysteriously returns. Rosina is almost entirely innocent in the matter, but Cherubino must nevertheless leap from her balcony to protect her honor.

Figaro – A servant, but the cleverest man in the entire Casa. A jack-of-all-trades, he brought Rosina and the Count together in the first place. Before our story opens, he needed all of his wits in order to obtain the Count’s permission to marry his sweetheart, Suzanna. Unfortunately, Suzanna was high on the Count’s list of intended liaisons. Figaro is quick-witted, verbally gifted, friendly and loyal to the end, if you’re on his right side.

Suzanna (Susana) – A chambermaid, and the cleverest woman in the Casa, the only one, in fact, who can match Figaro turn for turn. She is close to Rosina and shields her from the harm her husband causes in every way possible. Cherubino adores her as well, but the servant couple keeps him under control.

Bartolo – An attorney for the Casa de Almaviva, and as we are surprised to find in the earlier story, the father of Figaro. Contrary to Beaumarchais’s treatment, we consider him as one of the superior legal minds of his age, and are bewildered as to why the playwright painted the poor fellow in such a bumbling light.

Marcellina (Marcelina) – The wife of Bartolo, and not surprisingly the mother of Figaro. Before that fact came to light, however, she threatened him with a marriage contract if he didn’t repay a loan (pay me or marry me)…but the family doesn’t speak of that very often anymore.

Don Basilio – Court musician and music teacher of the Casa de Almaviva. He’s a scurvy lot, like all music teachers, but Cherubino’s papers often speak to the need for redemption, so who is to say?

Antonio – The gardener. Some historians claim him as the father of Suzanna. Others, such as this account, swear that he is Figaro’s uncle, but no one is absolutely sure why. He can’t be asked, being drunk most of the time.

Don Giovanni – Another of Figaro’s uncles living the life of a rake in Venice. He is, apparently, a good one, for his Venetian Casa Famoso outshines the palace in Madrid.

Leporello – Don Giovanni’s servant. However, his pedigree has been tied to the Bardi family of Florence, a higher station than Giovanni is willing to admit.

Donna Elvira – One of Giovanni’s many conquests, and the only one who will absolutely not let the man off the marriage hook. She is, however, prone to hallucinations and varied forms of hysteria.

Zerlina – A rustic field-hand’s fiancé, He requires the hint of an affair in order to hold his interest in her, so she obliges in an ongoing ruse with Don Giovanni, and others. Contrary to popular opinion, she is not in the slightest, gullible or thick.

Masetto – Zerlina’s bumpkin fiancé. Liberal by nature, he is repeatedly told by his friends that he gives his wife-to-be far too much latitude.

Donna Anna – The most dangerous of Giovanni’s dalliances. He killed her father, and no one’s done anything about it, so she goes to the Pope and other dark forces within the church after commissioning a grand statue of the patriarch. Beware this woman. She is the kiss of death for anyone intent on having a good time.

Osmin – The guardian of the Sultan’s harem in Szigetvar, Hongrié during the invasions of Vienna. Since he is male, and not a eunuch, he must be accompanied by his sister at all times within the confines of the harem.

Tayyibe – The Sultan’s Truth-teller and sister of Osmin, incapable of telling a lie, or keeping the truth to herself. Hatred for her is widespread.

Gabà – An Ottoman woman who wrestles bears…or whatever you like.

Bastien – A distant cousin who fell in love with Barbarina while on family holiday.

Barbarina – A servant girl. The Count ordered Cherubino to marry her in order to be rid of him at last. She, however, loves Bastien.

Monostatos – An Ottoman slave in a cultish Sarastrian temple, located in the upper kingdom of Egypt. Some historians place this structure in Babylon, but we are fairly certain that the charismatic evangelist escaped at an opportune time. Monostatos is a dear friend to Pamina, daughter of Sarastro, although the High Priest does his level best to make it sound otherwise.

Sarastro – Founder of the Sarastrian Temple, located south and west of the Valley of Kings between the Nile and the Khargas Oasis. He is frequently absent, siring new children abroad with willing devotees to provide leadership for the string of temples he hopes to build. He has left his daughter and her husband in charge of the temple in his absence.

Pamina – Daughter of Sarastro and husband to Tamino, a prince from the East. It is thought that their first syllables, Pa and Ta, form the amalgam of the god, Ptah, but that is neither here nor there. She is thought to be Danish by ancestry, although her mother’s side is a good deal harder to trace, being a supernatural.

Tamino – an eastern prince who, in addition to being a master archer, possesses a creditable singing voice and has some musical expertise on other instruments. He tends to be narrow and highly directed in his thinking, however, and Pamina has not seen him for nearly four years.

Queen of the Night – Pamina’s mother, who once hired Tamino to rescue her daughter from the clutches of her father, with no success. She’s waiting for the opportunity to try again. Finding an appropriate son-in-law is no easy task when you arrive on thunderclouds and the temple’s pet dragon goes off to hide.

Episodes

Almaviva

Madama

Casa de Cherubinus

Cherubina de Cherubinus

Contessa Rosina Cherubinus – the fourth day of April

The Golden Age

Summons

Scaramouche

El Rey

Maschera della Trargedie

Graz

Vienna

Tayyibe the Truth-Teller

The Nile

The Three Temples

Again Summoned

Spain

Salvadore

I.

MADAMA

-Why buy the candle when you can steal the sun?-

I, CHERUBINO

-Almaviva-

How she captured me in that instant, I cannot explain. I was a boy of eight, and should not have been vulnerable to gifts such as hers. It was summer, and the gypsy caravans that passed through were a common part of life in and around the village. Those who escorted me that day hurried the group along in hopes that I would elude the caravan’s call, knowing how easily rapt I could become. The woman took my hand by force in the moment that Gran Tio Bartolo turned his back, and began to read my fortune, whether or not I was willing.

It was all charming to me, so no offense was taken. She spoke so beautifully, and having one’s

features praised is never tiresome, at any age. At last, she invited me to choose a card from a soiled deck, but

in a sudden change of heart, put out a hand to cover my own as I reached for one of my liking. Staring deeply into me, she withdrew the cards, reached behind her and produced a white and pink blossom, one more elegant than I had ever seen or have seen since, and laid it gently into my hand. Learn the ways of the great women, my page boy lord…for that is what I see for you. Your station is unimportant, if you will learn the ways of the great women. Your greatness lies there as well. Take your knowledge to the church, the palace, the magistrate – it makes no difference, page boy. The elite will fall before you if you will only learn…learn!

At last, she withdrew, and a most wondrous aroma overtook me. I could not tell whether it was the blossom, some elixir lingering on her breath, or whether it was the true scent of her skin. I smelled it again as she leaned over me once more, and whispered into my ear…learn. Capturing the nature of a woman’s true scent would continue to perplex me, apart from peripheral aromas, but I departed the caravan with her essence planted in my deepest memories – my first lesson.

It has always been true that whatever catches my fancy, I learn, and learn indelibly. If it does not, no amount of repetition will affect the outcome, and I will remain, despite my best efforts, thick as an oak. I cannot remember where I placed my snuff box moments ago, but I do remember all of the most momentous days of my life, even those of my distant youth. They came and went as ever – new astonishments, until I began to assume that nothing else would come at all, and dedicated myself solely to the discovery of Nature’s bliss.

My life, up to the day in which bliss failed me, was ruled by discovery, by one sweet awakening after another. The woman in the village had spoken the truth. My low social rank was an aery thing, and I have never deemed it an obstacle. In spite of my station, I knew that the world would come to me in time, and I would be loved. Nature had whispered it into my ear many years past, long before the fortune-teller, and that is how I knew it to be true. Colors, scents, landscapes, movement, music and innuendo were with and within me through every breath of my youth, and nothing that I beheld or fashioned ever died, not in my perfumed, ruffled and invincible existence at court. Until the unthinkable occurrences to come, I was convinced of what I sensed to be an unshakeable truth.

It was the third day after my El Conde, my Pàtron, was thrown from his horse that I most keenly remember. I was there, close enough to see the mishap, but too far away to prevent it. The village knew how I could run, but I pray that all believed I did my best, and would never shirk at such a moment. I alone was there, but it is the angels’ truth that I’ve never run faster than on that day.

Despite our sport in bygone times, I loved him desperately, as we all did, even the maids. Between the sun, the moon and El Conde, life was held steady, a promise that we could live in daily self-assurance.

My Pátron was a superb horseman, and the well-bred Fresian never gave the master reason for concern. I was terrified of the enormous animal, but El Conde wasn’t afraid of horses or men…only women, but I forgave him that long ago.

When I reached him, his eyes were open, and he spoke in a hurried whisper, issuing frantic orders for me to fetch my Tio Figaro. Within the hour, Pátron rested in his chambers with La Condesa at his side. El Sol was restored to his seat in the heavens, and all was well at court and in the village. Tia Susana was there with my lady, as she always had been, and both silently prayed that the incident would rekindle his passion for the only beautiful woman he could not recognize, our good and brave Santa, our Rosina.

After all this time, to speak her Christian name still makes me tremble, but I have taken to calling her this blessed word in my private hours since the scandal in the garden. I prefer to speak of it as the masquerade in the garden, an incident barely a year gone. Even the gossips of the court had long tired of it. Lamentably, the experience also lost its power to bring El Conde’s affections home for long, and we labored under old familiar tensions.

La Condesa’s mind was purer than mine. She rejoiced that his heart was again under her care, but I wondered where his ride would have taken him, and to whom. I was, I believe, the more practical between us.

To speak of El Conde in less than reverential terms would be a sin, but in truth, that night and following morning brought a strange, forced serenity down upon us all. For one, we knew where he was sleeping, and considering present difficulties, that could only be considered a blessing. Further, our attentions were distracted from judging his exploits, and returned to a genuine worry over his health. This is how Divine Nature intended El Conde’s house to be, and we felt its rightness.

One should never attach a quest for joy to Divine Nature’s train, however. For boys, child-men, she is a cornucopia of possibility, and like all unschooled fools, we lived stubbornly in that belief. Her darker thoughts were known to us, but those sad fates only befell the un-charmed, the half-believing cowards who take what they’re given and thank God for it, grateful that it isn’t worse. Where we blissfully played as novices underneath her bright skirts, such as one would wear to the theater, Nature, being fully a woman, paid us no heed. As we groped in the dark for unknown pleasures (of which we possessed no understanding, but for which we spent dearly in the fear of anticipation), she expressed herself only when the time was right, and not a moment before or after, regardless of whom it might injure.

And so, without glancing right or left, Empress Nature walked past the stables and the cooks, up the stairs past the servants with candles to illuminate the hallways, past Grande Tia Marcelina and Gran Tio Bartolo in the library, past Tio Figaro into El Conde’s chambers, directly up to his bedside – and without a word to my lady, took him away.

As she approached, Pátron opened his eyes and smiled. Rosina took his hand, and he seemed like a new child. She understood what was happening. Whatever words he might have said to her, though, in such a dire hour, his chance was lost as he bade them summon me instead. Bring in my monkey. Bring me my tiny, lost officer, he was so fond of saying. Bring me my parrot, my Papageno. He sang for you, Madama. Now, let him sing for me.

But, no one came to fetch me. He fled the world with his dark eyes and wry smile rightfully attending to his reina, his Rosina. Tia Susana swears that it was his final declaration of love, but that’s Tia Susana, who is practical in the house, but not so much in the heart. I was not present, and this was not the day that I remember so well. What I most vividly recall…was the third day.

Pátron was not of everyday aristocracy. Not only was he admired for his lands and possessions, but for speaking courageously on behalf of the barons’ most honored traditions. Despite having taken one of those traditions too much to heart, in which the feudal Lord is granted first night privileges with any bride of the Casa, he was hailed throughout Spain as a champion of the former age. Silently, though, they admired him even more for winning the hand of Rosina, despite her meager heraldry. All who met her fell under her spell, not only from her beauty, but for the way she soothed every crisis merely by existing, and for her inexplicable goodness. El Conde was the iron hand of the aristocrats, but Rosina was the corona of the Casa, the patroness of its art and the glow of its vibrant life.

****

El Conde, as a cavalier’s cavalier, was hailed by all men and many women of importance in the region. He could not be brought to the Catedrál in Sevilla, but every dignitary of the cloth, every baron and every noble family came to the private chapel of our villa, a good ride from the city.

He lay in state for the better part of two days, but Rosina did not appear until the second evening, before the sun’s setting. For her arrival, the lid of Pátron’s casket was closed. Many people wondered at this, but I did not. The tradition is intended to provide a final physical remembrance for the grieving, but what loved one really wants to remember another in this way – vacant, silent, and without charm? Even for the most despicable of our number, we can all do better than that. After all, what are any of us…without our charm?

After all had gone, Madama entered more quietly than a cloud. Only I remained, and prayed to remain invisible, sitting there like an uninvited guest a few paces away. For a moment, my wish was borne out. Processing like a diplomat visiting a head of state, she showed little interest in the elaborate coffin, but fought a valiant exchange with the idea of his demise down an aisle of no more twenty of her tiny steps. Scarcely had she reached him when she brushed her hand along the elaborate box, turning to go without having truly arrived. Her only hesitation came upon seeing me, absorbed in my effort to appear blank and empty, a drab ghost to ignore. My eyes were forced to the floor. It was then that a tiny trace of her resolve crumbled, but she regained her composure in time to prevent any meaning or message to escape.

The musty air of the chapel floated in crusty stillness, as though unchanged for hundreds of years. La Condesa departed, less quietly than before. The ornate white and gold of the finely filigreed altar, dedicated to my lady, swam in the half light, and perhaps it was through the prism of some unanticipated tear that the room flowed slowly about in the celestial liquid. The outer doors slammed as the betrayed wife answered the abuse God had so blithely added to El Conde’s unkindness, past and present. Neither God nor man, it seems, had any gesture to offer her in consolation. She endured life then endured this – her husband. I had only endured the latter.

Naturally, this memory is painted far past the point to which I am able. It is nothing more than the portrait of an unnamed sensation. I could not speak for my lady then, and should never have attempted it now. However, this moment was one of few in my life spent alone with my Pátron, and somewhere in the odd contraption that lay beneath my finest wig, I fancied that we could, at last, have a conversation on equal terms, and that he could hear me and answer, but only when I bade him. What an unfulfilled wish that must have been. In the ebbing candle light, though, I thought it to be true, and venture now that it was.

****

Death was no more than a dream for me, because I had never experienced him in life. Death was not to be found in the world of gaily-colored tunics or sashes, powdered finery or artful women. He had no place in the amorous dialogues held behind garden lattices, or in the manner of movement prescribed for every social convention of importance. Now, the taking of life would be placed forever in my mind next to dark oiled wood, the musty air of windowless shrines and devotees, chanting and old cheerless dialects. Even simple candles, the stalwart of our lives after dusk, and essential for stealing a kiss at village fêtes, accompanied our strange new guest named Death. Such an awkward arrangement – one could not dance with him, make playful repartee or share stories from past romps. He delighted in nothing at all, and I, being promised a vibrant and triumphant career by the fortune-teller, was the least equipped in court to make any sense of him.

Nevertheless, I would not shrink from my one opportunity, and crept forward, sitting within half an arm’s reach of the casket. Lowering my ear onto it, I must have looked as if I were trying to hear the ocean in a seashell. It must have all seemed most comical.

"Señor…my dear Señor…what an awful day this has been. To think that you of all people, would be thrown from a horse. What do you think happened, Pátron? A scorpion, perhaps? I’ll tell you what I’ve been thinking, silly as it may sound. I’ve often heard you speak of the day in which the servant classes would rise up in rebellion, and that all true gentlemen would be required to stand ready when they did. You don’t suppose that the horse was the first sign of it, do you? No, you’re right, it’s a silly thought. Corsario would never…but still.

"Ah, but before I forget, I should tell you that he is safe. Tio Figaro ordered him killed, but Madama wouldn’t allow it. He’s been sent to Sevilla, to the army. You know, as it strikes me, even on a day such as this, that is amusing, don’t you think? The day you found me under the bed-clothes at Tia Susana’s, your first thought was to kill me, but then you banished me to the army in Sevilla, too. Just think, Corsario and I might have been bunk-mates, or perhaps he might have been my superior officer.

"Forgive me, Pátron. I understand that I should act as the priests and the old villagers do, but I don’t know how. Would you want a tribute like that from your lost officer? All I have is our gaiety and remembrances of sport together. Oho! You do remember the time in your chambers when I was locked in the wardrobe, don’t you? That’s the second time you tried to kill me. You treated La Condesa shamefully that day, you know. I’m sure that you’ve been properly scolded for that by now. You’ll have to grow accustomed to living in a place where people speak to aristocracy in any way they please. Oh, but Pátron, you should have seen Tia Susana when she released me and watched me leap from the window into the garden. I tell you in truth, Pátron, if I’d been six months older, I would have been too decrepit to manage it. Wasn’t I lucky? As I recall it now, you must have thought that I, not Corsario, was the first sign of the rebellion. Oh no, Sénor. I loved you too much for that.

But before you fall into suspicion, Sénor, I would like to hear it from your own lips. You do understand, don’t you, that you were never, ever defamed in those times? It really was all innocent merrymaking, just as Madama said. Perhaps that wasn’t fair after all. You were a Spanish Lord, and she had more Italian humours. Perhaps something in the meaning was lost, and what was comical to her didn’t amuse you.

In the silence of the chapel, I was faced with the truth. This sort of talk was accomplishing nothing and try as I might, I had no skill for talking with the dead. As it is with talking to God, no one speaks to us in return, and I have come to wonder if that is their secret, the dead and God. We want so badly for them to speak that we bare our souls to them and tell the truth in ways we could not possibly tell otherwise…and perhaps that is what they want from us. I met a man once who trained horses in this way, by ignoring them. He remained silent until, out of a maddening need to be recognized, the horse offered his undying allegiance, if only the man would speak to him. Only after surrendering his entire will would the conquistador converse with the suffering animal.

So, Pátron, here is my truth. You cannot go. Madama will be left to swim in a sea of pirates, and I will lose my only opportunity to have a father. Who will ever tell me of the great women, and their scents? Who will guide me through the realm of gentlemen? And the villa! The villagers will founder without a sail. Speak to me, Pátron, or this fellow Death, who is only strange and charmless now, will become a horror. Tell me, Pátron, tell me. Charm has died in you, but not in me. You know the answer, so tell me while you can still remember – what am I to do?

In that instant, in the fall of a single tear, Death broke through my flimsy fortress and became a horror after all. My breath left me, which, as I know, is his preference. Voi…che sapete…

Nephew, please. It’s time. The voice of Tio Figaro and his hand upon my shoulder only partially dispelled the dread. More importantly, it pulled me back from the precipice of my futile conversation, and stole my attention from the cavalier Death who, as I imagined, strode silently about the town clad as Scaramouche, with a fiery red plume on display, his head covered with an ostentatious and colorless hat.

The hand taking hold of my other shoulder was not so compassionate. I looked up to see my Tio Antonio and two burly men from the village looking down on me with a contempt unbefitting any living creature to another. I knew at once that the villa’s master gardener had been assigned other duties today, and though he was dressed in his best, the moist dirt from his grave- digging was already spread across my shoulder. Get up, peacock! Get up! This isn’t seemly, and you’re wanted at the manor. Who would want you, I can’t think. And get your grieving done quick, boy. It’s a luxury that’s not for you. Get up!

I was not allowed the time to stand, yanked to my feet by the much bigger man. Still, the kinder Tio Figaro saved me, and his embrace could only have been more tender if he had been the Pátron himself. How I wished that I were someone’s son.

The four men carried El Conde away as if he were a log or a forger’s anvil, to have his charm buried and silenced forever. I watched their silhouettes in the last of the light as they departed the chapel, and numbly followed without thinking.

Once through the outer doors, I could see that everyone from the Casa and surrounding village was gathered outside under torchlight, though it was not yet needed. There must have been a hundred or more, but Madama was not among them, nor were one or two distant family members present. It was my first look at the great procession of Sevilla’s legendary nobleman. Some had, as it turned out, come from a much greater distance. Barely had I begun to consider such a scene when my arm was gently taken, and I was processing with the multitude, falling in behind. To my side walked the gentle Barbarina, lighter than air.

All at once, she was cooing like a dove in my ear...Pobracillo. Pobre Cherubino. I felt insulted. Poor creature? Poor me? Why poor me? Everyone else is going through this. Why have you singled me out? Go and be someone else’s ministering angel – No wait, you’re right. Stay…poor me, indeed. As I have always believed, I am the least equipped of the entire court to endure any dearth of charm. So, I spoke not a word to her in return, and took the petting without shame.

Barbarina lowered her head onto my shoulder and nestled up into what hair she could find. I complied and nuzzled her while we walked. It was a wonder that we could navigate with the procession at all. She was, of course, giving her full measure of consolation in my hour of grief. I, in turn, was doing no such thing. I was doing everything within my earthly power, since I could find none elsewhere, to detect her true scent. She asked me about it later, those Italian words I mumbled on the long walk to bury El Conde and his charm. She swears to have heard them clearly, but could not decipher their purpose…Voi che sapete.

-Madama-

If one is to play a masquerade, one should keep careful track of the players, or risk being one of the duped. Setting the trap for El Conde was, as the women told me later, quite difficult. I was not to be involved, and shouldn’t have appeared at all that night. However, I walked through the gardens almost every evening. How was I to know that Susana and La Condesa had exchanged costumes? I did no more than flirt a little with the one I thought to be my lady, or was that…no matter. Apparently, I created a stir among the plotters, and received a nasty slap from the Pátron. In the end, though, all was well. El Conde was caught in the act of unfaithfulness, and knelt while we commoners rose to full height, a sight I never expected to see. Perhaps that was the beginning of El Conde’s revolution.

I have always felt that the sudden deus ex machina, this divine intervention to restore everyone’s happiness, was hastily devised, not to mention that there was no tangible rescuer. Without warning, everyone was forgiven, and all were returned to their proper partners. The masquerade ended graciously, just as it should by all the rules of charm.

I, who was not called by fate to attend this festival of restoration, found myself betrothed to the equally young Barbarina. I should have been more grateful. It was an obvious gesture of forgiveness on the part of the Pátron, and was, I confess, greatly preferable to army life in Sevilla, or to ending up on the point of the master’s saber. Putting us together was, on his part, a demonstration that all was now well, and so any thoughts of romance directed toward La Condesa was by royal decree, out of my head.

He still did not understand what had just occurred. In dragging Susana, disguised as La Condesa, before the whole company, and in refusing to forgive her for her infidelity, his colors had been run up the mast, and could not be stowed again. And yet, when he heard the true Condesa interceding like an invisible angel from within the thicket, he realized the trick, and kneeling was all that was left to him.

And what did this grand creation of a lady say to her unbending husband? Yes, I will forgive you, for I am kinder than you. El Conde was relieved, but still did not understand that his thoughts were occupied with his self-preservation, not humanity. What every other man in the vicinity understood was that he was in the presence of a santa, that they had witnessed the passing of a miracle as a blessing bestowed by an abused lady upon an unworthy husband. Yes, I will forgive you. I am kinder than you. Didn’t El Conde know that my adoration for her was sealed in that moment? Did he really believe that all was well and restored to its proper place? No – in the alignment of social prestige, she