LOVE VERSUS TASTE.[15]
In the summer of 1825, it happened that a young man, whom we shall simply call Louis, a musician by profession, arrived in Berlin. He had long wished to visit this city; its advancement in art, its gifted men, the cultivation and taste of its citizens generally, were no slight attractions for the artist and student. It was his rule to neglect no opportunity of hearing anything good; so that he usually visited the opera every evening.
One day soon after his arrival in Berlin, passing the opera house, he saw a man fastening a fresh bill to a column of the building. He waited to read it; it announced the sudden illness of one of the singers, on which account the evening’s entertainment was to be changed. Instead of the Otello of Rossini, Don Giovanni was to be performed.
While Louis stood, attentively reading the bill, he heard a soft female voice close to him say, “Ah! I am so glad of that!” He turned quickly, and saw a beautiful young girl, who had noticed the bill in passing by. When she caught the young man’s look, she blushed, and turning away her head, walked hastily on. Louis stood gazing after her; the tones of her rich voice had charmed him, but much more her slender, elegant, and graceful figure, and the lovely face of which he had caught a brief glimpse. Unacquainted with the ways of young men in large cities, he did notfollow her, but stood looking till she vanished from his sight, and then went thoughtfully towards his lodgings.
Suddenly the idea struck him, she will of course be at the opera to-night! and he resolved to do what he had never done before, observe the ladies particularly.
The hour came for the opera; carriages rolled along the streets; Louis sat in the pit where he could see over the house, and looked eagerly around for his unknown fair one. In vain; she was nowhere to be seen!
The magnificent overture began; Louis was now in despair. She would not be at the opera; for who would miss the overture to Don Giovanni! He was disappointed, and felt only half roused to his wonted enthusiasm. The grief of Donna Anna, Elvira’s tears, Zerlina’s witchery, Don Giovanni’s bold wickedness, failed to excite him as they had been used to do. In fact, he only half listened to the music.
The performance was at an end. Discontented and vexed with himself, Louis stood in the vestibule while the crowd was passing out. Just then he caught the tones of a remembered voice—“To the left, dear father, the carriage is at the other door!” He started, and pressing forward, saw what appeared to be the same dark silk scarf he had seen in the morning. It was worn by a young lady, who leaned on the arm of an elderly man; and both were going towards the side door. Louis was about to follow them, when he felt a hand laid on his shoulder, and at the same moment his arm was grasped by some one in the crowd. “Good evening, friend!” cried a rough voice. “Whither, in such haste? I have been looking for you everywhere. Quick, come with me! We shall sup together!” The speaker was Heissenheimer, an old merchant; an excellent man, and a passionate admirer of music. Louis had brought a letter to him; and thus he found it impossible to decline his friendly invitation, unwelcome as it was just at this moment. Mechanically he suffered himself to be led away, wishing, however, the old gentleman and his supper at the bottom of the sea, and looking back more than once, to see if hecould catch a glimpse of his beautiful unknown. Nothing could be seen but a throng of strange faces, and his companion hurried him out of the nearest side door, to escape the confusion.
While they made their way through the crowd without, Heissenheimer did not observe the abstraction of his young companion. They soon emerged into a clear space, where the moon shone brightly on noble buildings; and the old man suddenly cried—“But have you nothing, friend, to say? I have been waiting for the expression of your delight, and hardly kept my own within bounds. What is the meaning of this? Is anything the matter?”
“Nay, Mr. Heissenheimer,” returned the young man, smiling, “I have felt the beauty of the work none the less, that I have enjoyed it in silence.”
“But,” cried the other petulantly, “that is not the way with young people! I like not this dullness, and grave looks, when the heart should be full of joy. You have youthful spirits, love, fire in your breast, and should give them vent! Be cheerful, I tell you; be delighted, be frolicsome, be half mad with enthusiasm; or I warn you, you have old Heissenheimer for an enemy! But stop; here we are at the place already!”
They stood under some linden trees, in front of a house whose lower story was brilliantly lighted. The light fell full upon the street through the windows. Before they entered, both turned to look at some passers-by. What was the astonishment of Louis to recognize his fair unknown, leaning on the arm of the elderly man he had seen at the opera! The lamplight shone upon her face; it was the very same! He started forward; nothing now would have withheld him; but Heissenheimer sprang also towards them, exclaiming—“Ha! Signor Ricco! Maestro! whither away! Good even to you, pretty Nina!”
Both stopped at this salutation. While Heissenheimer was speaking with them, Louis stood in some embarrassment; till his friend recollected himself, and presented him. “Ecco—Maestro—here is a young musician, who will give you something to do: he will dispute with you about Sebastian Bach and Rossini,Master Louis——the chapel-master, Signor Ricco, and his daughter Nina!” Louis bowed, coloring deeply, and murmured some indefinite words about pleasure and honor. His companion interrupted them with “My good friends, may I beg the favor of your company with us? Will you sup in theCafé Royal, fair Nina?” Nina declined the invitation gracefully, but begged her father not to lose the pleasure. Their home was only two doors off, and she could go there without escort. “We will all escort you,” said the old merchant, “hurt as I am that you will not go with us.” Two or three more gallant speeches passed, and the three accompanied the young lady to the chapel-master’s house. After a polite acknowledgment of their courtesy, Nina disappeared; the gentlemen went to the café, where an excellent supper was prepared, with the best wines; and Heissenheimer played the merry host to his heart’s content.
After Signor Ricco had explained the mystery of his daughter and himself going home on foot, their carriage having disappointed them, the conversation turned on the opera they had just seen. The chapel-master declared, with a half comic distortion of face, that he wished he had stayed away.
“And why, maestro?” asked Heissenheimer.
“I hoped to have heard Rossini’s magnificentOtello; and was compelled to take instead that confounded Don Giovanni.”
“Ricco,” said the old merchant, “you are certainly skilled in the black art, and have wrought magic upon me; else I know not what prevents me from throwing this empty champagne flask at your head! Butler—some more wine! and have done, chapel-master, with your nonsense about Rossini, for whom I know you care as little as I! and tell us truly, were you not enraptured with the glorious masterpiece of to-night?”
“O Germans—where are your ears? Caro Heissenheimer, I will tell you the truth; but shall I criticise as an Italian or a German?”
“What do you mean by the distinction?” asked Louis.
“What a question! Young man, can you be so ignorant? As Italian, I complain that this opera gives me no rest; that I must be kept on the stretch from beginning to end; that I forget the singers in the orchestra; that I feel more fear and horror than delight; in short, I complain that the devil, instead of Don Giovanni, has not taken the composer, who forces me tolabor, where I expected onlypleasure. But I can also complain as a German. Do you think I know not what you wish?Per Bacco!the misfortune is, you onlyhalfwish! An opera should be a whole; connected from beginning to end; each impression on the mind should be a stone added to the dramatic structure, strengthened by the music. Is it not so?”
“I should think a reasonable person would desire nothing less,” answered Louis.
“Well then—have you that in Don Giovanni?”
“You will drive me crazy!” cried Heissenheimer impatiently.
“Nay—rather you me—senseless Germans!” returned Ricco. “You can devise a theory that leaves nothing to be wished. But place a work of art before you, you have no eyes nor ears—much less a judgment. You fit on your theory; do they agree in a few points—well; the work is a masterpiece, though it may differ in all essentials from your own principles; thenceforth youbelieveblindly, and each adopts the other’s opinion. Do they not agree—you have not independence enough to yield to an impression of nature, and judge thereby that the thing is worthless. If a German is dying with rapture, he is to blame if not enraptured according to rule! Corpo di Bacco! I have more gall in me than wine! Fill my glass!”
“You are leaving the subject—Signor Ricco,” said Louis; “you were to complain of Don Giovanni as a German. I confess, I am curious to hear you.”
“I also,” added the merchant. “But it will come to nothing; for I see he is treating us to one of his accustomed jokes.”
“Nay—it is my ardor that leads me to digression. To return to Don Giovanni. At first—and then the Germans were reasonable, for they had in their theatres chiefly the works of Italian composers or their pupils—at first, I say—the thing was not popular, and with reason.”
“Stupid slanderer!” exclaimed Heissenheimer.
“There were in it a few good musical touches, and the Germans thought it a pity the work should be lost. They fitted on a skilful theory; they found that Don Giovanni stabs the commendatore, and commits other crimes, and is finally carried off by the devil: the thing is complete, and has a capital moral! Why should it not please? So its nonsense and folly are passed over. A single wise head has seen through it, who really understands more of the opera than your thirty millions of Germans besides. This was your late Hoffmann. He marked well where the thing halted: but he admired the music, and put a good face on it for his countrymen, quieting the last murmurs of their consciences. How he must have laughed over their fond delusion!”
“As well as I can gather your meaning,” said the young artist, “you seem to think there is a want of unity of idea in the action and music of Don Giovanni?”
“I should be blind and deaf if I thought otherwise.”
“And thus, as a German, you would find fault with the work?”
“Exactly.”
“I entreat you, then, to dispense with your oracular ambiguity, and passing by a few improbabilities and other trifling defects—to show us where is the vulnerable heel of this Achilles.”
“Ha, maestro!” cried the merchant, “you have but shallow water for the war-ship with which you mean to manœuvre round this walled and fortified citadel of art! You will be aground presently.”
“On the contrary—I will make you a breach, so that the enemy shall march in with all his forces.”
“Triumph not too soon!” cried Louis—“for we shall fight to the last man in its defence.”
“Right, my young friend!” added Heissenheimer; and Ricco proceeded, after a digression or two, from which he was called back by his two challengers—
“Is it not true, friends, that in a drama each principal person should contribute substantially to the progress of the action? You assent; well—in Don Giovanni there are five—the Commendatore, Giovanni, Octavio, Donna Anna, and Elvira. I have nothing against the old man, nor Giovanni. Your Hoffmann has cunningly rescued Donna Anna from criticism; Octavio may be considered to have a sort of right to his place. He is, so to speak, the earthly hostage for the elevated Anna, or rather the stake to which she is bound. Now for Donna Elvira. Many have felt that this fifth person is the fifth wheel to the wagon; and in many ways they have sought to justify her appearance. But it has not succeeded. Your Hoffmann does best, who says as good as nothing of her.”
“I thought,” observed Louis, “she was to be regarded as an avenging goddess; at least, so the great composer conceived her, even if the poet assigned her a somewhat doubtful place.”
“Excellent!” cried the merchant. “What have you to say to that, Ricco?”
“That it is not true. An avenging goddess—who whimpers rather than implores for love, and at last would snatch from justice the object of her revenge!—The kneeling in the last finale, or ante-finale (for you would have a battle also about this double close) looks like revenge!—Look you, this Elvira could be borne, or not observed, if she did not so lower herself in the middle of the piece. And here the composer is even more in fault than the poet. The terzetto in A major I will let pass; I will believe she can forgive her repentant betrayer, and love him again. But the sestetto! Have you borne in mind what wickedness has been committed towards her? I am an Italian, and we look oversome things more easily than you Germans. But a Chinese, or a barbarian, must revolt at this! The trusting, confiding, forgiving, loving Elvira is exposed to the deepest disgrace—the most crushing insult! Has she a spark of womanly pride or Castilian spirit in her breast, it must burst into a flame that will consume the guilty betrayer, or sweep the wretched victim to destruction. What has she suffered? The most horrible injury that can be inflicted on a woman! Why does she not snatch a dagger, to plunge it into the breast of the slave who has been employed against her—or that of the fiend Don Giovanni, the author of the outrage, or those who behold her dishonor—or, Lucretia-like, into her own? Go—you Germans, and boast of your passion for completeness! You feel not where a work of art strikes the heart. When Leporello’s mask is fallen, and Elvira, who should sink back in despair, or rise in the invincible might of revenge, sings so passionately with the other five voices—as if nothing more had happened to her than Zerlina,—I feel my blood boil! Would our Rossini have done the like? In his polonaises you feel the dolor of love: could you only understand the heavenly melodies as the maestro himself conceived them! The notes are not—indeed—but he dreamed of a singer such as your wooden German never thought of; a singer, the charm of whose expression could ennoble the most insignificant passages into a moving plaint of the heart! Have you never heard that the English Garrick could so repeat the alphabet as to move his audience to tears? So it is with Rossini’s music. He sacrifices himself; he wants not to shine; but that his performers should. But your German hears from paper; and thus writes tolerably. And you trouble not yourselves, if your singers misrepresent the best your master has furnished. The performance of to-night—but I am speaking only of Don Giovanni. What say you to my criticism on Elvira? why do I not hear reproaches?”
“You are a clever critic,” answered Louis; “I know you are wrong, and yet I cannot reply to your objections.”
“Yes—quite wrong—chapel-master!” added the merchant.“I will venture you do not believe yourself what you say. Swear that you do—in good faith!”
“Ha! ha! ha!” cried Ricco; “you would have me swear to what I have proved! My good Heissenheimer, I will read you the riddle. We Italians are more candid than you. We know well what is wanting in our operas, and have judgment enough to understand that it cannot be otherwise. Where two make a work, the whole cannot be cast in one great mould. If we thus discover disproportion betwixt the music and the text, it disturbs not our enjoyment. But the German will smoothe it all away; he rests not till the faults growing out of the nature of the thing are changed into beauties by some jugglery of the understanding; and after he has in this way deceived himself, he begins to enjoy. If I loved Don Giovanni ever so much, the part of Elvira would not disturb me. I would easily help myself out of the difficulty; I would have Elvira fall senseless on the discovery of her error, and a friend of Anna’s supply the sixth voice. What have you against that?”
“In this manner,” replied Louis, “you may banish reason from art altogether. I cannot conceive of a work of art, which shall not proceed from the full consciousness of the artist, and contain only beauties designed by himself. Therefore do I detest Rossini’s works, void of meaning——”
“Void of meaning? Young man, do not depreciate our master. Think you, he was unconscious of that for which you reproach him, and that he could not have bettered it if he had chosen? But he wished to lead music back to her own natural place; to make her again a science for the ear, and deliver her from your massive philosophical smoke-cells and pedantic fetters. Turn nothing but counterpoint; screw only fugues and canons; write only dissonances, like your Mozart and Beethoven; drive your anarchy ever so far, nature will still be victorious. And then delight yourself in the conceit—that your masters look to thewhole! Truly, they may have the will, but the vision fails them, and they see no further than a mole on the top of Mont Blanc. Your belovedDon Giovanni, of which you believe that it came forth fully armed from the composer’s fancy, like Minerva from the head of Jupiter, is an automaton, whose limbs are fastened together with thongs, and secured with hammer strokes; a thing that has more rents and seams than a clown’s jacket; which you can cut up like an eel, without touching its heart;—in short, as I have proved, a thing that can neither live nor stand, if more is expected than that it should be the scaffold on which the musician builds his illumination of tones.”
“But,” cried Louis, “the splendor of that illumination shall light up the gloom of the most distant future! It shall remain a Sirius, the central sun of stars of the first magnitude, so long as art itself shall exist.”
“Ay, and your torchlight, your will-o’-the-wisp, Rossini, shall be blown out by the first breath of time!” said Heissenheimer.
“Friends,” replied Ricco, “were it not better that we broke up our conference? Our discourse grows somewhat warm.”
“You have chilled me completely, at least, towards yourself,” returned the merchant. “But I cannot believe you in earnest with your talk, so I will drink a glass with you. If I did not think you have joked with us, I would have had the wine poisoned for me in which I pledge an enemy of Mozart.”
“Have I called myself his enemy?” said the chapel-master. “Who would deny the man genius? I charge him only with a wrong use of it—and of music, which should bring us joy and happiness, not gloom and melancholy. What should I do with wine that did not make me merry like your champagne?”
“So merry,” grumbled the merchant, “that, truly, you have made yourself merry with us. But, Louis, why so thoughtful?”
“Pardon me,” answered the young man; “I am troubled by what I cannot yet make clear to myself. I would reply to the chapel-master’s accusation against the part of Elvira. His opinion is plausible, but he is wrong in reference to the work. I believe I can see a way to lead to a right understanding.”
“We cannot reach it to-night,” said Ricco, preparing to depart. “It is midnight, and I must go home. Some other time we will speak on the subject; and I will convince you that your conviction is incorrect. Now, fare you well.”
“Good night—incorrigible fellow!” cried Heissenheimer; and then put it to the choice of his young friend, whether they should empty another flask, or take a walk in the fresh air. Louis preferred a walk, for he was somewhat excited with the conversation.
They walked for some time in the open air. The double row of old lindens that shaded the promenade, rustled in the summer breeze; the moon shone on the tall buildings; all was silent, as if the city were buried in slumber. As our friends passed the dwelling of the chapel-master, Louis stole a look upward at one of the windows, which he fancied might be that of the fair daughter of the heterodox musician. “Shehas a purer taste,” said he to himself, and turning to his companion—
“How is it possible that one can be so insensible to the beautiful as this Italian?”
The merchant glanced at the house of Master Ricco, and replied: “The heathenish churl! Yet there is something about him that inclines me to believe he does not express his real opinions. Did you not remark his contradictions? Now he slashed at Mozart, now at the subject of the piece; and, after all, only complained of the part of Elvira. What should he care for the subject, if he be really such an admirer of Rossini, and thinks music merely a science for the ear? His inconsistencies were palpable. Depend upon it, the man has not such wretched taste.”
“But why should he speak against his own convictions?”
“Because he is unwilling to confess that his countrymen are surpassed by the Germans in composition. Only one thing staggeredme. He permits his daughter to play no music but Rossini’s, Mercadante’s, Caraffa’s, and the like.”
“But she sings it unwillingly, surely?” cried Louis, quickly.
“On the contrary; she knows nothing else.”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the young man. “How can that lovely face—those eyes—so deceive? How can those features, expressive of a refined soul, be the index of a shallow understanding?”
“Ha, friend! Have Nina’s beautiful eyes shot their beams so deep into your heart? That is a precious discovery!” And the little man leaped forwards, rubbing his hands, and chuckling for joy.
Louis colored deeply, and in much embarrassment explained that his acquaintance with the young lady was scarce of two hours standing; but the merchant continued his expressions of delight till they reached Frederick street, and then took his leave with a wish that the young couple might be happy, humming a love tune till he was out of hearing.
As Louis walked towards his lodgings, absorbed in thought, he was startled by the sound of a female voice, singing. In the stillness of night the melody had a magical sweetness. He followed the sound, retracing his steps, and soon came opposite the chapel-master’s house. The music came from the windows, which were open, although the chambers were not lighted. Though he lost not a single note, Louis could not determine exactly in which room was the singer. “It is she,” he cried to himself; “it is herself:—the beautiful girl!” and leaning against one of the trees, he drank in the melody, never once removing his eyes from the windows.
It was evidently a German song. The voice was clear and powerful, yet soft and touching; the melody had a strange mingling of joy and sorrow, of suffering and repose. The enraptured listener could not distinguish the words, but the music penetrated his very soul. A sigh heaved his breast; he could not tell if delight or melancholy was the emotion excited; but felt, if thatwere sorrow, he wished never to be happy! The song at last ceased; but another more exquisite, more deeply moving, began. Each verse closed with some words in which seemed to lie a world of feeling. Louis caught the words “Dahin,” “Zu dir;” and at the close distinctly “Nur Du!” It seemed to him like the voice of fate. Tears streamed from his eyes; once again he heard the words “Nur Du” uttered with a melodious pathos he had never heard before; and with strained attention, just as it ceased, caught a glimpse of a white figure moving behind some plants near the window. It passed the next window; he listened for a renewal of the song, but all was silent; and after waiting some time, he took his way homeward.
The earliest beams of next morning’s sun aroused our friend from an unquiet slumber. The day was fine, and he had many objects of attention; but the image of the fair songstress alone occupied his mind. He leaned from his window, looking out on a garden opposite, and the scene beyond. A few carriages and foot passengers were in motion, but the bustle of the day had not yet commenced. Only here and there the shutters had been thrown open to admit the sun.
Louis remained some time in deep thought. At length it occurred to him that it was possible the object of his reflections might also be up, and inhaling the morning air. In a few minutes he was dressed and in the street; and a brisk walk soon brought him opposite the dwelling of the chapel-master. The windows were open as the night before, but all was still and motionless. Louis walked for some time under the trees, back and forward, keeping his eyes fixed on the house. At length he discerned a white dress moving behind the plants. In a transport of joy he approached, and stood directly opposite. The white robe was there; the figure rose, turned round, and looked out of the window. It was Signor Ricco himself, in his night-cap and dressing-gown, with a long pipe in his mouth! He leaned out, as if to look at the weather, and must have thought the sky too clear, by the cloud of smoke he sent whirling over his head!
Our young friend shrunk back, but it was too late; there was no one besides him in sight, and the glance of the chapel-master unavoidably fell on him. He was immediately recognized. “Good morning, Signor Louis!” cried the Italian. “So early abroad? or have you been up all night?” Louis bowed in some embarrassment, and answered that the fine morning had tempted him to a walk. “Right!” cried the signor; “I also am taking a peep at the weather, to see if it will do for a drive in the country we have been planning for some time. Suppose you accompany us?” “With the greatest pleasure!” answered the young man promptly. “Come in, then, and breakfast with me,” said Ricco; and Louis hastened up the steps.
He found the chapel-master in his music room; the piano stood open; Rossini’s Tancredi lay on the desk. Ricco made some remarks on his favorite opera; the eyes of Louis wandered restlessly to the door. “You wonder,” said the Italian, lighting his pipe again, “that my daughter does not appear. Ah! she is a sad sluggard! But I shall play her a trick to-day, we will go off without her; I have already sent for the carriage.”
These words caused no little chagrin to our young artist; but he was not to endure it long; they were surprised by a musical laugh, and looking up, saw Nina at the door. “Your scheme has fallen through, papa!” cried she. “But really it is true, that listeners hear no good of themselves. Yet I hoped, sir,” turning to Louis, “that you would have said something in my defence.” She pouted her pretty lips in affected anger, and a little scene of apologies ensued. “All’s well that ends well,” said Ricco at length; “we will have friend Heissenheimer of the party; now, daughter, let us to breakfast.” Nina led the way with a cheerful smile.
Louis had now opportunity to observe the fair girl whose first appearance had captivated him. She wore a white morning dress, with a colored silk handkerchief tied round her white, slender throat. Her dark brown hair fell in ringlets over her cheeks and neck, contrasting with a complexion fresh as the spring rose.Beautiful as she was, he could hardly understand how so much frankness and playfulness of manner could consist with the depth of feeling speaking from her large, dark eyes.
After several efforts to overcome his diffidence, he said to her, “I was made very happy by your song last night, Mademoiselle Nina. I heard you sing after midnight.”
“Impossible!” she answered in some surprise; “I did not sing last night.”
“Nay—that would have been forbidden,” said the father, gravely; “singing late at night is bad for the voice. We are no nightingales; our business is to sleep o’ nights.”
“You need not deny it,” cried the young man. “The music I heard came from yonder apartment, and I saw—pardon me—I saw a lady in white dress pass the open window.”
“That could not have been my daughter,” repeated Signor Ricco.
“But,” persisted Louis, “I could not have been deceived. I heard the sweetest soprano voice, and saw a female figure, which approached the window, and then passed through the chamber.”
Nina looked very mischievous, and cried—
“Oh, you are a ghost-seer! I will have nothing to do with you!”
And she began to sing an air in a clear, silvery staccato, making gestures of aversion with her pretty hands. Then the lively girl ran to the window, and exclaimed that the carriage was come; threw on her shawl and bounded down the steps so swiftly, that Louis could hardly keep pace with her. He assisted her into the carriage, and waited for Signor Ricco, who soon made his appearance with a roll of paper.
They stopped at Heissenheimer’s house, to take their old friend along. He was just up, and after he came to them, had to parry a great deal of raillery from the arch Nina.
The country was arrayed in all the loveliness of early summer. The fields were green with the young grain, the foliage was in its freshest verdure, the morning air was cool and balmy, the skycloudless; all things breathed of pleasure and beauty. Little was said by our friends, who each in his own way enjoyed the scenes around, and the motion through the fresh air. It might have been observed, however, that the eyes of Louis rested frequently on the fair Nina, and were withdrawn in some confusion whenever she raised hers to his face.
At length they left the high road and drove through an avenue bordered with cherry trees, past a little village, and into a wood beyond. On an eminence before them, half hid by foliage, was an old hunting-seat, and at the foot of the slope, the water, bordered with trees and bushes. On the other side of the river were situated country-seats.
The carriage stopped here; the friends alighted; and Nina immediately proposed a walk or a sail. The walk was decided upon, as the sun was now high, and the cool shade of the woods particularly inviting. They wandered about for some time, till they came to a knoll shaded by a large, old tree, covered with the softest moss. This served them for a sofa; and then Heissenheimer proposed that Nina should give the nightingales a lesson. She complained of being hoarse, and made twenty capricious excuses, till Signor Ricco produced his roll of paper, and handed a leaf to his daughter.
“What is this, dear father?” asked the maiden. “A composition?” inquired the merchant. “Truly,” answered Ricco, “I have attempted to arrange something; it is a cavatina from the ‘Gazza Ladra,’ to which I have made an accompaniment.”
Nina was delighted, and declared it was her favorite piece; Louis looked at her doubtfully. Signor Ricco assigned him the tenor, and the bass to Heissenheimer. Louis hoped to discover by Nina’s singing, if she were the songstress of the preceding night. It seemed to him that he was not mistaken; but he could find in her really charming voice not the least of that fervor and feeling which had so enchanted him with the mysterious songstress. His disappointment was so great that he went wrong in his own part, and was only recalled by a sharp look from thechapel-master. Nina seemed roguishly inclined to laugh. At last the piece was finished, and they rallied him severely on his abstraction. Heissenheimer said candidly he thought the solemn wood a place as unsuitable for such a melody, as a church for a waltz or polonaise; and thereupon ensued a renewal of the dispute about Rossini, Mozart, and Mercadante. Nina took a decided part with her father, who at last put an end to the discussion by proposing that they should go where they could obtain some lunch.
The providence of Nina had prepared for them a little surprise—a table spread with refreshments, under a neighboring tree. They talked of other matters besides music, and Louis recovered spirits enough to enter on a lively conversation with the young lady about the climates of Germany and Italy. While the elder guests were deep in their discourse, she proposed a walk down to the water.
The day was delicious; the blue, clear waters reflected the sunshine and the foliage on their bank. An avenue of chesnut and linden trees followed the windings of the river. Nina stood on the bank, smiling as she looked on the lovely scene; Louis was beside her, but a strange conflict agitated his bosom. Her evidently superficial apprehension of art, of that which formed the great object of his life, disappointed him so deeply, that his regard for her seemed nipped in the bud.
After a long silence, he ventured on the question that oppressed his heart. “We are alone;” he said to her in an earnest tone of entreaty; “tell me, was it you who sang last night? I beseech you, answer me truly.”
Nina looked at him, and burst into a mischievous laugh. “So,” she cried, “you are still haunted by the unknown singer?A strange adventure—in truth; you must have heard a witch! Now I understand why you did not praise my singing just now! And our poor innocent countryman, Rossini, must suffer for it! A young man hears a singer at midnight, and fancies her perfection; next day I sing an air which does not please him, becauseIhave not that good fortune! I thank you, sir, for your flattering confession!” and she made him a mocking curtesy.
“But tell me, I conjure you,” persisted Louis, “was it not you—”
“Hold!” cried Nina; “not so solemn. I think if I say yes, I can win you for an admirer of Rossini; so I will say, yes! I am a sort of siren, sir, who entices young artists by her song to worship Rossini even against their will.”
“Nay, then,” answered the young man, “last night’s song was not such an one. Now I really believe you werenotthe singer. Heaven knows how I could be mistaken; but I see such must have been the case.”
“Then,” replied the maiden, “blame not me; I am innocent; I hope sincerely you will soon find out your mysterious singer, who seems to have so captivated you. Be not unkind, meanwhile, to me, because you did not like my song; I have a favor to beg; take me out on the water; yonder is a boat. The shade of the trees on the bank will protect us from the heat.”
She spoke with so much gentleness and sweetness that Louis felt his growing coldness melt away. He hastened to push off the boat, took up the oars, and gave Nina his hand to help her in. She leaped in gracefully and seated herself opposite him. The boat soon glided swiftly over the smooth waters: Louis looking straight forward, or at his fair companion’s shadow on the water; for a feeling he could not explain, prevented him from looking at herself.
They went on for half an hour without speaking. The boat now glided into a small inlet, shaded by the foliage on high banks. “Let us stop awhile here,” said Nina; and Louis took up his oars. The young girl laid aside her straw hat, pushed her ringletsfrom her fair brow, and looked on the sweet picture with an expression of delight. Behind the wooded shore rose the walls of the ancient looking hunting-castle, embosomed in picturesque woods. The inlet was in deep shadow, which contrasted with the gleam of sunshine on the waves beyond; and the light flashed like jewels in the foliage above. The soft air, the refreshing coolness of the shade, and the fragrance of flowers that filled the wood, completed the effect of this charming scene. The heart of our young artist was full. He looked at Nina; her head was drooped slightly, but as she raised it with a sudden motion, he saw that tears were in her eyes. “You weep?” said he, taking her hand sympathizingly. “No,” she answered softly, and with a smile, “but there is so much beauty here!” After a moment she withdrew her hand; but not before a light pressure had responded to the expression of her feelings. So passed some minutes, till recovering her vivacity, she suddenly exclaimed—“Mercy! how late it is growing! We must make haste back, or my father will be uneasy!”
They were shortly at the landing-place again; but found the old people had suffered no uneasiness on their account. Both Ricco and his friend were leaning against the trees, fast asleep. Nina awoke the merchant with a mischievous tickling of his red nose, and he started up from a dream of orchestras and violins. After a walk in the castle garden, they returned to their carriage, and drove back to the city.
The next night saw Louis walking for two hours in front of the chapel-master’s house, in hopes of hearing again the mysterious singer. But all remained silent, and he returned disappointed to his lodgings.
As soon as he thought it proper, he paid a visit to Signor Ricco. On the steps he met Nina, going to visit a friend. After replying to his polite inquiry how she had been since the excursion into the country, she had already left him, when she suddenly turned back, saying, “While I think of it, I have found out your wonderful singer; but I cannot approve of your taste!” A flushrushed to the brow of the young artist. “And who is she?” he cried, eagerly. “Oh, sir,” answered Nina, “I can keep a secret, I assure you.”
“I entreat you!” cried Louis, catching her hand. She drew it away—and with mock gravity replied, “do you think I have so little of the vanity of an artist as to favor so dangerous a rival—one, the mention of whom so agitates you? No, sir, you learn nothing from me; and no one else can put you on the right track!” With this she walked away, leaving Louis embarrassed and disappointed. He had to betake himself to her father, who received him kindly, and invited him soon to repeat his visit, and join them at their family concerts.
Our artist was fain to avail himself of this invitation, and became a frequent visitor. He was conscious of a strong partiality for Nina, which she did not, however, seem to return; at least she treated him with a degree of caprice which he could not help fearing proceeded from levity of mind. Painful was the struggle in his breast; her beauty, frankness, and goodness of heart charmed him, while her utter want of sympathy with all his tastes and pursuits, was a perpetual vexation to him. She seemed to regard music only as a science of sounds, and to be insensible to its life and power; and all his enthusiasm could obtain nothing responsive from her. Louis could not help thinking her, with all her loveliness, a frivolous and soulless being. Notwithstanding, when under the spell of her presence, he could not escape from its fascination. This incessant strife of feeling caused him real suffering.
One evening the conversation chanced to turn again on Don Giovanni, and the chapel-master expressed opinions as strange as before, in the same ironical manner. Nina went even further; she abused the music altogether, which she thought too grave and tragic, and particularly the airs of Anna and Elvira; completing the horror of poor Louis, by declaring she would rather sing anything from Rossini, and that the opera might be made tolerable, if only Rossini would compose all the music anew! That was too much! The artist ventured no reply; but soon after took hisleave abruptly—not even hearing, as he rushed from the door, the playful “good night” of the pretty maiden.
On his way home Louis met his old friend, Heissenheimer, who remarked his ill-humor, and drew from him a confession of his trouble. The merchant, enthusiastic as he was in music, gravely remonstrated with his young friend for indulging such large expectations on the score of taste. Louis mournfully insisted, that it was not so much want of taste he complained of, as an absence of true refinement of feeling and mind. The want of an ear was a defect of nature; but Nina had a fine ear, and the highest musical cultivation; hers was a want ofsoul.He who cannot apprehend the beautiful, has no heart for the good.“She is lost to me!” was his final exclamation, uttered in such anguish of spirit, that Heissenheimer knew not how to console him.
They had walked for some time, without giving heed to the direction in which they went, and almost unexpectedly, found themselves nearly opposite the house of Signor Ricco. It was late, and the street was quite still; but low mutterings of thunder at a distance, and flashes of lightning at intervals, foretold an approaching storm.
All at once the softest and sweetest melody rose on the silence of night. Louis started, and grasped his friend’s arm; Heissenheimer cried, in surprise, “Who is singing? It cannot be Nina; and it seems to come from that house!” “No, it is not Nina!” answered Louis; “I once thought it was!”
“It comes from the upper story,” whispered the merchant: “who can it be?”
“For two months I have longed to know,” cried the artist, much affected, “and now Iwillknow!heralone will I love, whose soul breathes in that music!”
“Hush!” said Heissenheimer; “it comes like an air from heaven!” and leaning against the iron railing, he listened, while Louis drank in the delicious sounds with passionate delight, standing motionless, with folded arms, tears chasing each other down his cheeks.
The full, rich tones were accompanied on the piano; and strangely did the exquisite melody blend, from time to time, with the rolling thunder, that came nearer every moment. But it seemed sweeter from the contrast.
Meanwhile the clouds were gathering thickly over head. Large drops fell, and the wind rushed hoarsely through the trees. Presently a vivid flash clove the darkness, making the whole street light as day, and half blinding our two friends; it was followed by a tremendous crash of thunder, and then the rain came down in torrents.
“Der Teufel!” cried the merchant; “’tis time we were gone! Come, we shall find shelter in thecafé royal!” And seizing Louis by the arm, he dragged him away. Both ran down the promenade to the café, from the windows of which shone a welcome light. “Never mind,” said Heissenheimer, as they entered, “such a song was worth a drenching. Let us drink the singer’s health.”
It is needless to record all that was said between the friends, on this occasion: the result was an appointment to dine together next day, and meanwhile, Heissenheimer pledged himself to do his utmost to unravel the mystery.
So deeply had the heart of our artist been impressed by the nocturnal music, that he thought no more of Nina, but only of the mysterious songstress. He waited, with the utmost impatience, for the appointed hour next day. His first question, on meeting the merchant, was “Have you discovered the singer?” Heissenheimer put on an important face, and began to talk meaningly of the folly of being too curious, and the wisdom of Providence in concealing some things from us. From all this Louisdivined that his friend had penetrated the secret, but was determined not to impart his knowledge.
Heissenheimer began to quote Faust; his friend reminded him of his pledge to disclose what he should find out. “Well, then,” replied the merchant, “you shall guess who she is?”
“I conjure you, keep me no longer in suspense.”
“I may not name her; but this much I will say—you have often seen her; now will you guess?”
“I know not,” replied Louis; “perhaps the Countess, who lodges over the chapel-master?”
“No.”
“Or Nina’s friend, Mademoiselle Louise?”
“No.”
“Or the Italian dancer, who comes there sometimes—what is her name—Donna Cerconi?”
“No!—you do not go on. See now, how pure is your love for art! you have guessed only those who have beauty of person!”
“Mock me no longer!” cried the young man: “what pleasure is it to you to torment me?”
“Well, then, you shall know; but first, a question—have you never observed a female in the house of old Ricco?”
“Never.”
“Strange—and yet you have seen her frequently.”
“I can assure you——”
“Hold, sir! no assurances! I see plainly, the young artist so deeply in love with music, has eyes only for aprettydamsel! She of whom I speak, is neither handsome nor young. In short, it is no other than the girl who performs the services of maid to Nina.”
“Impossible! you are joking!”
“I am in earnest.”
“But how could a person in such a station, acquire such perfection in an art which, if she chose to exercise it, would place her above dependence? No—you are in jest!”
“Your incredulity is but natural, considering the ideal you have formed of your singer. But let me tell you how I made mydiscovery. I went at nine this morning to the Signor’s, entered without ringing, and passed quietly through the hall, for my object was to surprise him. I heard nothing in his apartment, or his daughter’s; but musical sounds came from a distance. I followed them into a corridor at the end of the hall, and soon found they came from a room above. I went up a narrow flight of stairs, listened, and ascertained that it was really the singer of last night. I held my breath; the voice was suppressed, but it had the same fervor and depth of feeling; I could even distinguish the words that closed the song—‘Nur Du.’”
“It is the same!” cried Louis, passionately. “I have heard that song—”
“Let me go on.—I could not withstand the impulse of curiosity; I peeped through the key-hole—I confess it—but could see only the bust of a female figure, which, however, I saw could not belong to Nina. I then determined to open the door suddenly, and to pretend I was in search of some one. This I did; the figure turned round quickly, and I recognized Caroline, the maid. She blushed deeply, and seemed much confused; at length she asked—‘you wish to see Signor Ricco, sir? He is in his chamber.’ I recovered my self-possession at these words, and told her all: how I had heard the music, looked through the key-hole, and finally opened the door to surprise her. I then begged her to sing again, and to inform me how and where she had acquired that exquisite cultivation of her rare musical talents. She refused to sing, but after some hesitation, told me her story. Enough; you know who is your singer: let us go to dinner.”
“No!” cried Louis, “I entreat you to tell me what she said of herself; why she has concealed her precious gift—why she submits to dependence, when she might place herself in a higher sphere!”
“My friend,” returned the merchant, “I feel it would be a breach of faith to repeat her story merely to gratify curiosity. You scarce remembered her existence—how can you be interested in her?”
“Indeed,” protested the young man, “I have often noticed her quiet, modest manners, and interesting countenance. I would do anything to befriend her.”
The merchant smiled at this late discovery of her merit, and looked very mischievous. At last he said—“I will then communicate to you all I know—provided you will promise silence—particularly to the chapel-master and his daughter.
“Caroline is the daughter of a poor musician, who lived in a remote village. He was reduced to poverty by the war, and suffered from a long illness brought upon him by the rough usage of the soldiers. In the time of his greatest need, Ricco and his daughter, being on a journey, happened to pass through the village. The chapel-master was detained by indisposition; and to amuse himself, wrote off the parts of an opera he had composed. As he required help in the work, he inquired of the landlord of the mean inn at which they lodged, who bethought himself directly of Caroline’s father. But on account of his illness, the poor man would have to do the work at home. Ricco sent Nina, then a girl of fourteen, to his house; she found him in the utmost poverty, with no one but his daughter, who worked to supply his wants. The sick man eagerly undertook the task required; but his over-exertion brought on a nervous fever, of which he died in a few days. During the time, Nina and her father gave the poor old man all the assistance he needed—they have both excellent hearts!—and Ricco promised to take care of his daughter. The day of her father’s death, Caroline had gone some miles for a physician; all was over when she returned, but her father had left her a letter, which she showed me with many tears. She accompanied Ricco and his daughter to Berlin, and now occupies a station in his house between maid and house-keeper. Now you know all.”
“But the letter?”
“True!—it would have touched you to see the affection it breathed; and the style was that of an educated person. Besides the counsels of an affectionate father, with regard to her futurelife, he gave her sensible advice about music; alluded to her rare voice, and the cultivation which, to the best of his ability, he had bestowed; with a delicate reference to the shocks to which her refined taste in music might be exposed in her new situation. Art, he said, was a revelation from God; and he entreated her not to display to vulgar eyes the jewel she possessed! Keep it, he said, like a secret treasure; it may yield you happiness when all other sources are withheld, like the hidden fountain to the pilgrim in the desert! And she obeyed his counsels in her prudence. If she has erred, it has been in the sincerity of a pure and loving heart!”
To this relation Louis listened with the deepest emotion. He felt that the desolate orphan could not be happy in the house of the good-natured, but frivolous Italians. He half formed a resolution in his own mind, but said nothing. During dinner little was said, Heissenheimer leading the conversation to indifferent subjects. When the cloth was removed, he said to his young friend—“I see this matter has impressed you as deeply as myself. But whatever may happen, promise me to take no step with regard either to Caroline or her young mistress, without first consulting me.” This was readily promised.
The evening came, and the hour for his customary visit to Signor Ricco. Louis, as he went, was far from being at his ease. He knew not, in the first place, how he would be received by Nina, after his abrupt departure the preceding night; nor was he satisfied what course he should himself pursue. All thoughts of becoming the fair girl’s lover he had of course abandoned. His passion had grown at first out of the belief that she was what a subsequent acquaintance had proved her not to be. His feelings towards Caroline he could not define. He felt the warmest sympathy for her misfortunes, and a deep admiration of her talents; her gentle manners touched him, and he was conscious, not of love, but of a fraternal interest in her.
He went to the chapel-master’s; Nina received him with even more than usual cordiality and cheerfulness, and seemed to havequite forgotten their late misunderstanding. Louis was absent and thoughtful, and even forgot to ask after Ricco, who did not appear, and who, his daughter at length said, had gone to a concert at the ambassador’s. How much would he once have given for such an opportunity of tête-à-tête conversation! As there seemed to be some constraint, Nina proposed that he should accompany her in some new airs. They began with Mozart’s great duet between Anna and Octavio, from Don Giovanni. She sang with readiness, but without that fire of inspiration, that loving sorrow, which breathe in every note. Then they sang a duet from Belmont and Constance; this also Nina performed with ease, but in as soulless a manner as the first. Louis went on with a species of desperation, and began with a duet from Fidelio; the young lady smiled, as if she were commending her own patience, and sang with such careless vivacity, that her guest’s vexation was complete. With a displeasure he could scarcely conceal, he asked, “Had we not better sing a duet from Blangini?”
“Oh, yes!” cried Nina, apparently delighted, “we will have my favorite, ‘Fra valli fra boschi!’” And springing up, she sought for it in a pile of music.
Louis struck his head with his hand, and looked fixedly on the keys of the piano; he could have shed tears, but anger restrained him. Nina had found the notes, and stood looking at him for some time. At last she said gently—“No; it is better we should not sing; I see you do it unwillingly. Before you get into such a passion as last night, let us shut the piano, and go up stairs to tea. I have done my best to entertain you to-night, but I see it is in vain; you are dissatisfied with me!”
Her tone showed mortification; it moved our artist deeply, and he would have replied by a confession of his feelings, but was restrained by the thought that he might find Caroline in the tea-room, where she often sat with her work. He only answered, “Yes, it is better; I would rather hear no more after that last duet.”
They went up stairs: Caroline was indeed there: he observedher attentively; she seemed conscious of his looks, and anxious to avoid them. She went to prepare the tea; Louis congratulated himself on the superior discernment that enabled him to discover in her plain, and at first sight inexpressive features, the trace of that nobility of soul her singing had revealed. What speaking earnestness dwelt, doubtless, in those downcast eyes! His delight was that of the discoverer of a new land, abounding in unknown treasures. He rejoiced in the thought of offering her his hand, and elevating her to the sphere she was so well fitted to adorn. As she returned with the tea, he could not help fancying, from her apparent avoidance of his glances, that she was aware of his interest in her.
Nina did not complain of his abstraction; but did her part in the conversation with so much grace and sweetness, that the artist involuntarily sighed, regretting that a form so lovely contained no soul. It cost him a severe pang to give her up forever.
Some time had passed in their monosyllabic discourse, when Nina suddenly started up, having forgotten to order lights, and quitted the room. Louis walked to the open window. His attention was an instant after arrested; he heard the voice of his unseen songstress. The sounds came from Ricco’s music room.
Softly he opened the door, and passed through the room into another, which adjoined the music room. There, in darkness—for the blinds were closed—he drank in the rich melody. It was the air from Mozart’s Magic Flute—