TARTINI.
It was late one evening in the summer of 171-, that a party of wild young students at law in the University of Padua were at supper in the saloon of a restaurateur of that city. The revelry had been prolonged even beyond the usual time; much wine had been drunk; and the harmony and good feeling that generally prevailed during their convivial meetings had been interrupted by furious altercation between two of their number. As is almost always the case, the rest took sides with one or other of the disputants; all rose from table; high words were exchanged, and a scene of confusion and tumult was likely to ensue, when the offenders were imperiously called to order by one of their number. He was evidently young; but his slender limbs were firmly knit, and his form, though slight, so well proportioned as to give promise both of activity and strength beyond his years.
“For shame!” he cried, angrily, after producing a momentary silence by a vigorous thump on the table; “are you but a set of bullies, that you stand here pitching hard words at each other, and calling all the neighborhood to see how valiant we can be with our tongues? Fetch me him that can swear loudest, and give us space for our swords!”
Here the clamor was redoubled by all at once explaining, and contradicting each other.
The first speaker struck the table again till all the glasses rang.
“Have done,” he cried, “with this disgraceful uproar, or San Marco! I will fight you all myself—one by one!”
This threat was received with cries of “Not me—Giuseppe!”and after a few moments, the two disputants stood forth, separated from their companions. A space was speedily cleared for the combat.
The combatants needed no urging; but scarcely was the clashing of their swords heard, when Pedrillo, the restaurateur, ran in, followed by his servants, and with a face pale with terror protested against his house being made the scene of riot and bloodshed. It would be his ruin, he averred; he should be indicted by the civil authorities; he should be banished the country; he could never again show his face in Padua! If young gentlemen would kill one another there were places enough for such a purpose besides a reputable establishment like his; and with ludicrous rapidity enumerating the localities resorted to by duellists of the city, he besought them with piteous entreaties to transfer themselves elsewhere, offering even to remain minus the expenses of their supper. But Pedrillo’s solicitations had little effect on the wilful young men, till backed by threats that he would call the guard. Most of them had known what it was to fall into the hands of the police for midnight disturbances, and duels were favorite pastimes among the students of the University; so that immediately on the disappearance of Pedrillo’s servant, the whole party precipitately left the house. First, however, Giuseppe, the one who had recommended a resort to the duel, laid the amount of the reckoning on the table.
As the party turned the corner of a narrow street, they came close upon a carriage, attended by several servants. At this sudden encounter with so many half intoxicated and noisy students, recognised by their dress and well known to be always ready for any deed of mischief, the attendants fled in every direction. The horses caught the alarm, and, wild with fright, plunged, reared, and set off at full speed down the street. A shout of laughter from the revellers, who thought it capital sport to see the dismay created at sight of them, greeted the ears of the terrified inmates of the carriage. But Giuseppe sprang forward, and at the peril of his life, threw himself upon the horses’ necks, pullingthe bits with such violence as to check them at once. The animals, quivering with fear, stood still; the coachman recovered his control over them; and Giuseppe, opening the door, assisted an elderly gentleman, very richly dressed, to alight, and inquired kindly if he had suffered injury.
“I have only been alarmed;” replied the gentleman, carefully adjusting his dress, and drawing his cloak about him. “But my daughter”—
Giuseppe had already lifted from the carriage the nearly lifeless form of a young girl. As the lamp-light fell upon her face, he could see it was one of matchless beauty.
“My Leonora!” exclaimed the father, in a tone of anxious apprehension. The young girl opened languidly a pair of beautiful dark eyes, started up, gazed with an expression of surprise upon the young student who had been supporting her, then threw herself into her father’s arms. With an expression of joy that she had recovered from her fright, the gentleman ordered his servants, who had returned when the danger was over, to procure another conveyance. This was immediately done; and turning to Giuseppe, he thanked him with lofty courtesy for the service he had rendered, and invited him to call next day at the house of the Count di Cornaro, in the Prado della Valle.
All night wild thoughts were busy in the brain of the young student. Never had such a vision of loveliness dawned upon him. And who was she? One elevated by fortune and rank so far above him that she would regard him but as the dust beneath her feet. As he had seen her in her delicate white drapery, like floating silver, her hair bound with pearls, she had moved, in some princely palace, among the nobles of the land. Many had worshipped; many had doubtless poured forth vows at her feet. How would she look upon one so poor and lowly? Giuseppe heaved a bitter sigh, but he resolved nevertheless to love her, and only her, for the rest of his life. A new sensation was born within him. He had hitherto cared only for frolic and revel and fighting; had been known only as Giuseppe, the mad student; the moverand leader in all mischief; a perfect master of his weapon, and the most skilful fencer in Padua. So great was his passion for fencing, and so astonishing the skill he had acquired in the art, that the most finished adepts in that noble science were frequently known to resort to him for lessons. So fond was he, moreover, of exhibiting this accomplishment, that he shunned no opportunity of exercising it at the expense of his acquaintances. Many were the duels in which he had been engaged; whether on his own account or for the sake of his friends, it mattered little. His love of fighting was as well known as the fact that few could hope to come off victorious in a strife with him; and this may account for the ascendancy he evidently had over his companions, their unwillingness to chafe his humor, and submission to the imperious tone in which he was wont to address them.
Of late, disgusted with the study of law, to which he had been consigned by his parents as a last resort—their first wish having been that he should embrace a monastic life—he had adopted the resolution of leaving Padua, of taking up his abode in one of the great capitals, and pursuing the profession of a fencing-master. Thus he would have opportunity for the cultivation of his favorite science, and at the same time would be unfettered by the control of others, a yoke galling beyond measure to his impatient spirit. Already he had announced this determination to his fellow students, and waited only a favorable opportunity to effect his escape from the University.
How often are the plans of a human mind changed by the slightest accident! How many fortunes have been made or marred by occurrences so trivial that they would have passed unnoticed by ordinary observation! How many events of importance have depended on causes at the first view scarce worth the estimation of a hair! In the present instance, the Count di Cornaro’s horses taken fright cost a capital fencing-master, and gave the world—aTartini!
In due time next day, Giuseppe appeared in the Prado dellaValle. As he was about to ascend the steps of the noble mansion belonging to the Count di Cornaro, a window above was hastily thrown open, and a rose fell at his feet. Glancing upward, he caught a glimpse of the bright face of Leonora; she smiled, and vanished from the window. The youth raised the flower, pressed it to his lips, and hid it in his bosom.
At the door, the porter received him as one who had been expected, and ushered him into a splendidly furnished apartment. The marble tables were covered with flowers; a lute lay on one of them; the visitor took it up, not doubting that it belonged to the beautiful Leonora, and while waiting for the Count, played several airs with exquisite skill.
“By my faith! you have some taste in music!” cried Cornaro, who had entered unperceived, as he finished one of the airs. The young man laid down the instrument, embarrassed, and blushing deeply, stammered an apology for the liberty he had taken.
“Nay, I excuse you readily, my young friend,” said the Count, cordially—extending his hand. Then motioning him to a seat, he asked his name.
“Giuseppe Tartini.”
“A native of Padua?”
“No; I was born at Pisano, in Istria.”
“Your business here?”
“I am a student at law, in the University.”
The speaker colored again; for he had suddenly become anxious to obtain the Count’s good opinion.
“And where,” asked Cornaro, after a pause, “did you acquire your knowledge in music?”
“You are pleased, Signor,” replied the youth, modestly, and bending his eyes to the ground, “to commend what is indeed not worthy—”
“Allow me judgment, if you please,” interrupted the Count, sharply. “I am myself skilled in the art. I ask, where did you receive instruction?”
“I took some lessons at Capo d’ Istria,” answered Giuseppe,“when very young; my parents had placed me there to be educated for the church; and I found music a great solace in my seclusion.”
“The church! and why have you changed your pursuits?”
“I could not, Signor, conscientiously devote myself to a religious life—when I knew myself in no way fitted for it.”
“I understand; you wished to act a part in the world; you were right. Your parents were wrong to decide for you prematurely. I like your frankness and simplicity, Giuseppe. You may look upon me as a friend.”
This was said in the lofty tone of a patron. The young man bowed in apparent humility and gratitude.
“You rendered me a service last night, at great risk to yourself—ay, and some injury, too!” Here he noticed, for the first time, a slight wound on the cheek of his young visitor.
“Oh, it is nothing, Signor!” cried Giuseppe, really embarrassed that so slight a hurt should be alluded to.
“You may esteem it such, but I do not forget that I owe you thanks for your timely aid; nor do I fail to observe that you are modest as brave. I perceive, also, that you have talents, and lack, perhaps, the means of cultivating them. In such a case, you will not find me an ungenerous patron. In what way can I assist you now?”
Tartini made no reply, for his head was full of confused ideas. His former purposes and plans were wholly forgotten. The Count remarked his embarrassment, and graciously gave him permission to go home for the present and consider what he had said.
The young man lingered a moment before the door, and stole a glance upward, hoping to see once more the angelic face that had smiled upon him; but the window was closed and all was silent. He departed with a feeling of sadness and disappointment at his heart. He knew not how powerful an advocate he had in the bosom of the maiden herself. Under the sun of Italy love is a plant that springs up spontaneously; and the handsome face and form of the youth who had perilled his life to save her from harmhad already impressed deeply the fancy of the susceptible girl. Unseen herself, she watched his departure from her father’s house; and, impelled by something more than mere feminine curiosity, immediately descended to know the particulars of his visit. It was to be supposed that her woman’s wit could point out some way in which the haughty Count could discharge his obligation to the humble student. And she failed not to suggest such a way.
Two days after, Giuseppe was surprised by a message from the Count di Cornaro, proposing that he should become his daughter’s tutor in music, and offering a liberal salary. With what eagerness, with what trembling delight he accepted the offer! How did his heart beat, as he strove in the Count’s presence to conceal the wild rapture he felt, under a semblance of respect and downcast humility! How resolutely did he turn his eyes from the face of his beautiful pupil, lest he should become quite frantic with his new joy, and lest the passion that filled his breast should betray itself in his looks! As if it were possible long to conceal it from the bewitching object!
It was a day in spring. The soft air, laden with the fragrance of flowers, stole in at the draperied windows of Cornaro’s princely mansion, and rustled in the leaves of the choice plants ranged within. In the apartment to which we before introduced the reader, sat a fair girl, holding a book in her hand, but evidently too much absorbed in melancholy thought to notice its contents. She was reclining upon a couch in an attitude of the deepest dejection. Her face was very pale, and bore the traces of recent tears. As the bell rang, and the door was opened by the domestic, she started up and clasped her hands with an expression of the most lively alarm. But when a young man, apparently about twenty years of age, entered the room, she ran towards him, and throwing herself into his arms, wept and sobbed on his bosom.
“Leonora! my beloved!” cried the youth; “For heaven’s sake, tell me what has happened!”
“Oh, Giuseppe!” she answered, as soon as she could speak for weeping, “We are lost! My father has discovered all!”
“Alas! and his anger has not spared thee!”
“No—Giuseppe! He has pardoned me; thou art the destined victim! Stay—let me tell thee all—and quickly; for the moments are precious! The Marchese di Rossi, thou knowest, has sought my hand. He saw thee descend last night from my window.”
“He knows, then, of our secret marriage?”
“No—he knows nothing; but seeing thee leave my chamber at night, he gave information this morning to my uncle, the Bishop.”
“The villain! he shall rue this!” muttered Tartini, grasping the hilt of his weapon.
“Oh, think not of punishing him! it will but ruin all! Fly—fly—before my uncle——”
“Tell me all that has happened.”
“This only—the Bishop revealed what he knew to my father; I was summoned to his presence scarce an hour since. He reproached me with what he called the infamy I had brought upon his house. I could not bear his agony—Giuseppe! I confessed myself thy wedded wife!”
“Thou wast right—my Leonora! and then?”
“He refused to believe me! I called Beatrice, who witnessed our marriage, with her husband. My father softened; I knelt at his feet, and implored forgiveness.”
“And he?” asked Tartini, breathlessly.
“He pardoned me—he embraced me as his daughter; but required me to renounce thee forever.”
The young man dropped the hand he had held clasped in his.
“Wilt thou—Leonora?” he asked.
“Never—Giuseppe!”
“Beloved! let us go forth; I will claim thee in the face of the world.”
“Nay, my husband—listen to me! I have seen our friend, the good Father Antonio—and appealed to him in my distress. He counsels wisely. Thou must leave Padua, and that instantly! My father’s anger is not to be dreaded so much as that of my haughty uncle, who would urge him to all that is fearful. They would sacrifice thee—Giuseppe! Oh, thou knowest not the pride of our house! They would shrink from no deed—”
Here the speaker shuddered—and her fair cheek grew pale as death.
“I have no fears for myself—Leonora. They cannot sever the bonds of the church that united us; my own life I can defend.”
“Ah, thou knowest them not! the dungeon—the rack—the assassin’s knife—all will be prepared for thee. As thou lovest me, fly!” And gliding from his embrace, she sank down at his feet.
“Forsake thee—my wife! Abandon thee to the Cardinal’s vengeance—”
“I have naught to fear from him. Oh, hear Antonio’s advice! When thou art gone, the Bishop’s anger will abate. A few months may restore thee to me. Go—Giuseppe: there is safety in flight—to stay is certain death! Must Leonora entreat in vain?”
Their interview was interrupted by Beatrice, the nurse, who came in haste to warn Tartini that her master, with his brother the Bishop of Padua, was approaching the house, and that they were accompanied by several armed servants. There could now be no doubt of their intentions towards the offender. He comprehended at once, that even the forbearance the Count had shown his daughter had been dictated by a wish to secure his person. To stay would be utter madness; and yielding to the passionate entreaties of his young wife, he clasped her for the last time to his heart, pressed a farewell kiss on her forehead, and was gone before his pursuers entered the house.
That night, while the emissaries of the Bishop of Padua were searching the city, with orders to arrest the fugitive, and to cuthim down without mercy should he resist, Tartini, disguised in a pilgrim’s dress, was many miles on the way towards Rome.
More than two years after the occurrence of this scene, one evening in the winter of 1713, the Guardian of the Minors’ Convent at Assisi was conversing with the organist, Father Boëmo, on the subject of one of the inmates, whom Boëmo had taken under his peculiar care.
“The youth is a relative of mine,” continued the Guardian; “but considerations of humanity alone moved me to grant him an asylum, when, poor, persecuted and homeless, he threw himself on my compassion. Since then his conduct has been such as to secure my favor, and the respect of all the brethren.”
“In truth it has,” said Boëmo, warmly. “And believe me, brother, you will have as good reason to be proud of him as a kinsman, as I of my pupil. It is my knowledge of his worth that causes me such pain at his loss of health.”
“The wearing of grief, think you?”
“Not wholly. His anxiety for the safety of his wife was set at rest long ago by intelligence of her welfare. He knows well that the only daughter of so proud a house must be dear to her kinsmen—even by their unwearied efforts to discover his retreat. And I have taught him to solace the pains of absence.”
“Fears he still the Bishop’s resentment?”
“Oh, no; these convent walls are secure, and his secret well guarded, since only in your keeping and mine. His enemies may ransack Italy; they will never dream of finding him here.”
“What is the source, then, of his depression?”
“It is a mystery to me. I have marked it growing for weeks. And sure I am, it is not weariness of the solitude of this abode. Since his spirits rose from the sadness of his first misfortunes—since he breathed the air of comparative freedom, and joined in the exercises of our pious brethren, Giuseppe has been a changed man. Sorely hath he been tried in the furnace of affliction, andhe hath come forth pure gold. The religious calm of this retreat has taught him reflection and moderation. His past sorrow has chastened his spirit; the holy example of the brethren has nourished in his breast humility and resignation and piety. The ardent aspirations of his nature are now directed to the accomplishment of those great things for which Heaven has destined him. Never have I known so unwearied, so devoted a student.”
“With your training and good counsel, brother, he might well love study,” said the Guardian, with a smile.
“Nay, brother,” replied Boëmo, modestly, “I have but directed him in the cultivation of his surprising genius for music. And you know he excels on the violin. It is for that he seems to have a passion—a passion that I fear is consuming his very life.”
They were interrupted by one of the brethren, who had some business with the Guardian; and Father Boëmo proceeded to the cell of his pupil, whom he was to accompany to vespers.
He found the object of his care seated by his table, on which he leaned in a melancholy reverie. His form was emaciated; his face so pale that the good monk, who had seen him but a few hours before, was even startled at the increased evidence of indisposition. His violin was thrown aside neglected—strongest possible proof of the malady of one who had worshipped music with an idolatry bordering on madness.
Boëmo laid his hand kindly on his pupil’s shoulder, and said, in a tone of mild reproof—“Giuseppe!”
The young man made no reply.
“This is not well, my brother!” continued the worthy organist. “The gifts of God are not to be thus slighted; we offend Him by our despondency, which, save abuse of power, is the worst ingratitude.”
“It is your fault!” said the youth, bitterly, and looking up.
“Mine—and how?”
Giuseppe hesitated.
“How am I to blame for this sinful melancholy you indulge?”
“Your lessons have given me knowledge.”
“And does knowledge bring sorrow?”
“Saith not your creed thus? Since Adam tasted the fruit—”
“Of a knowledge forbidden.”
“So is all knowledge—of things higher than we can attain to. To aspire—and never reach—that is the misery of humanity.” And the speaker again buried his face in his hands.
“I understand you, my brother;” said Boëmo, after a pause. “I have been to blame in suffering you to pursue your studies in solitude. Knowing nothing of the outer world, you have wrought but in view of that ideal which, to every true artist, becomes more glorious and inaccessible as he gazes—as he advances. You despond, because you have labored in vain after perfection. Is it not so?”
“I have mistaken myself;” answered Tartini; “you have mistaken me. It was cruel in you to persuade me I was an artist.”
“And who tells you you are not?”
“My own judgment—my own heart.”
“It deceives you, then.”
“It does not,” cried Tartini, with sudden energy, and starting up with such violence that the worthy monk was alarmed. “It is you who have deceived me. You have taught me to flatter myself; to imagine I could accomplish something; to thirst for what was never to be mine. You have pointed me to a goal toward which I have toiled and panted—in vain—while it receded in mockery. You have given me wishes which are to prove my everlasting curse. Yes,”—he continued, striking his forehead, “my curse. What doom can be more horrible than mine?”
“You have but passed,” answered Boëmo, mildly, “though the trial of every soul gifted by Heaven with a true perception of the great and the beautiful.”
“It is not so,” exclaimed his pupil, passionately. “I have striven to soar—and fallen to the earth, never more to rise. I have dreamed myself the favorite of art—and awaked to find myselfoutcast and scorned. My soul is dead within me. You must have foreseen this. Why prepare such anguish for one already the victim of misfortune?”
“Young man,” said the organist, impressively, “this feeling is morbid. I will not reason with you now; come with me, and let us see what change of subject——”
“Ay,” muttered Tartini, his face distorted, “to show the brethren what you have done; that they, too, may mock at me! I see them now—”
“Holy Mother! what ails you, my son?” cried Boëmo, much alarmed at the wild looks of his pupil.
“You will deem me mad, good father;” said Giuseppe in an altered voice, and grasping the monk’s arm; “but I swear to you—’tis the truth. I see them every night!”
“See whom?”
“The spirits—the demons, who come to mock at me! They range themselves around my cell—and grin and hiss at me in devilish scorn. As soon as it is dark they throng hither. See—they are coming now! stealing through the window——”
“My brother! my brother! is it come to this?” cried Boëmo in a tone of anguish.
“Sometimes,” said his pupil, “I have thought it but an evil dream. I strove against it till I knew too well it was no delusion of fancy.”
“Why—why did I not know of this before?”
“It was needless. I would not grieve you, father. Besides—I would not have the demons think I sought aid against them. That would have been cowardly! No—they do not even know how much their malice has made me suffer.”
“This must be looked to!” muttered the monk to himself; and drawing Giuseppe’s arm within his, he led him out of the cell and down to the chapel, intending after the evening service to confer with the Guardian respecting this new malady of his unfortunate friend.
They decided that it was best to leave Giuseppe no more aloneat night. The melancholy he had suffered to prey so long on his mind had impaired his reason; repose and cheerful conversation would restore him. Father Boëmo resolved to pass the first part of the night in his cell; but as he had to go before the hour of matins to pray with a poor invalid, he engaged a brother of the convent to take his place at midnight.
When the organist the next day saw his pupil, he was surprised at the change in his whole demeanor. Giuseppe received him in his cell with a face beaming with joy, but at the same time with an air of mystery, as if he almost feared to communicate some gratifying piece of intelligence.
“You passed a better night, my son,” said the benevolent monk. “I am truly rejoiced. I have prayed for you.”
“Listen, father!” said Giuseppe, eagerly. “I have conquered them. I have put them all to flight.”
“The evil one fleeth from those who resist him,” said Father Boëmo, solemnly.
“But I have done better; I have made a compact with him.”
“Giuseppe!” The monk crossed himself, in holy fear.
“Nay, father Boëmo! I have yielded nothing. The devil is my servant—the slave of my will. Last night the demons came again so soon as you were gone, and while brother Piero slept, to torment me. They mocked me more fiercely than ever. I was in despair. I cried to the saints for succor.”
“You did right.”
“The evil spirits vanished; but the mightiest of all, Satan himself, stood before me. I made a league with him. Do not grow pale, father! Satan has promised to serve me. All will go now according to my will.”[1]
Boëmo shook his head, mournfully.
“As a test of his obedience, I gave him my violin and commanded him to play something. What was my astonishment when he executed a sonata, so exquisite, so wonderful, that I hadnever in my life imagined anything approaching it! I was bewildered—enchanted. I could hardly breathe from excess of rapture. Then the devil handed the violin back to me. “Take it, master,” said he, “you can do the same.” I took it, and succeeded. Never had I heard such music. You were right, father! I have done wrong to despair.”
The monk sighed, for he saw that his poor friend still labored under the excitement of a diseased imagination. He made, however, no effort to reason with him, but sought to divert his mind by speaking of other matters.
“You shall hear for yourself,” cried Tartini; and seizing his violin, he walked several times across the room, humming a tune, and at last began to play. The music was broken and irregular, though in the wild tones he drew from the instrument, the ear of an artist caught notes that were strangely beautiful. It seemed, in truth, the music of a half-remembered dream.
Again and again did Giuseppe strive to catch the melody; at length throwing down the instrument, he struck his forehead and wrung his hands in bitterness of disappointment.
“It is gone from me!” he cried, in a voice of agony. Father Boëmo sought in vain to lead his mind from this harrowing thought. Now he would snatch up the violin and play as if determined to conquer the difficulty; then fling it aside in despair, vowing that he would break it in pieces and renounce music forever.
After a consultation with the Guardian, Father Boëmo summoned medical assistance, and that night himself administered a composing draught to his young friend. He had the satisfaction of seeing him soon in a profound slumber; and having given him in charge once more to Piero, withdrew to spend an hour or two in prayer for his relief.
Just before matins the organist was aroused by a cry without. Being already dressed, he hastily descended to the court where the brother who had given the alarm stood gazing upward in speechless terror. Well might he shake with fear! Upon theedge of the roof stood a figure, clearly visible in the moonlight, and easily recognized as that of the unhappy Giuseppe.
“Hush! not a word—or you are his murderer!” whispered Boëmo, grasping the arm of the affrighted monk. Both gazed on the strange figure; the one in superstitious fear—the other in breathless anxiety. Boëmo now perceived that Giuseppe held his violin. After a short prelude he played a sonata so admirable, so magnificent, that both listeners forgot their apprehensions and stood entranced, as if the melody floating on the night wind had indeed been wafted downward from the celestial spheres.[2]
A dead silence—a silence of awful suspense, followed this strange interruption. Neither dared to speak; for Boëmo well knew that a single false step would cost his friend’s life. And he was well aware that the sleep-walker often passes in safety over places where no waking man could tread. The great danger was that his slumber might be suddenly broken.
The sonata was not repeated. The figure turned and slowly retraced his steps along the roof, taking the way to Tartini’s cell. Father Boëmo breathed not till his pupil was in safety; then with a faint murmur of thanksgiving he sank on his knees, while the liberated monk hastened to communicate to the superior what he had seen. The worthy organist watched by the bed of his friend, after blaming severely the negligence of the brother who had been left to guard him. Giuseppe awoke feverish and disturbed—the workings of an unquiet imagination had worn out his strength and an illness of many weeks followed. During all this his faithful friend scarcely left him, but sought to minister to the diseased mind as well as the feeble frame. His care was rewarded. With returning health, reason and cheerfulness returned.
It was a holiday in Assisi. The inhabitants came in crowds to the church to join in the services; in fact so goodly an assemblagehad never been seen in that old place of worship. The fame of the admirable music to be heard there formed a powerful attraction. It is almost needless to say that the execution was that of the brothers of the Minors’ Convent.
Much curiosity had been excited among the people by the circumstance that a curtain was drawn across a part of the choir occupied by the musicians, during all parts of the service. As usual, general attention was fixed by the least appearance of mystery. The precaution had, in fact, been adopted for the sake of Tartini, who played the violin. He still stood in fear of the vengeance of the Cornaro family, who had spared no pains to discover his abode.
The service was nearly ended. While the music still sounded, the wind suddenly lifted the curtain and blew it aside for a moment. A suppressed cry was heard in the choir, and the violin-player ceased. He had recognized in the assembly a Paduan who knew him well.
The Guardian and Father Boëmo, when informed of this discovery, opposed Giuseppe’s resolution of quitting the convent. Both pledged themselves to protect him against the anger of the Bishop of Padua; besides, who knew that the same accident had discovered him? Even among the brethren he passed by an assumed name; it was probable that all was yet safe.
“Come, Giuseppe, you must play to-day in the chapel; the Guardian has guests, who have heard of our music, and we must do our best.”
The grateful pupil and the pleased instructor did their best. When the service was over, Father Boëmo took his young friend by the arm and led him into the parlor of the convent.
A lady of stately and graceful form, her face concealed by a veil, stood between two distinguished looking men, one in the robes of a cardinal. Tartini gave but one glance; the next instant—“Leonora!—my wife!” burst from his lips, and he clasped her, fainting, in his arms.
“Receive our blessing, children,” said the cardinal Cornaro. “Years of religious seclusion, Giuseppe, have rendered thee more worthy of the happiness thou art now to possess. Not to the wild disobedient youth, but to themanof tried worth, do I give my niece. Give him thy hand, Leonora.”
The young couple joined hands, and the cardinal pronounced over them a solemn benediction.
“In one thing, my son, thou art to blame,” he resumed—“in hiding thyself from us, instead of trusting our clemency. We have sought thee, not for the purpose of vengeance, but to restore thee to thy wife and country. But for a happy chance, we should still have been ignorant of the place of thy retreat. Yet Heaven orders all for the best. Sorrow has done a noble work with thee.”
“And it has made thee only more beautiful—my beloved!” whispered the happy artist, “my own Leonora—mine—mine forever!”
We do not question the sincerity of Tartini’s joy at his reunion with his lovely wife. But we must have our own opinion of his constancy, when, not long after, we find him leaving her side and flying from Venice for fear of the rivalship of Veracini, a celebrated violin-player from Florence. Perhaps this want of confidence was necessary to the development of his qualities as an artist. But we leave his after life with his biographer. One thing, however, is certain; of all his compositions, the most admirable and the most celebrated is “The Devil’s Sonata.”
FOOTNOTES:[1]Lalande, to whom Tartini himself communicated this curious anecdote, relates it in his Travels in Italy.[2]It may be seen by a reference to any detailed biography of Tartini, that nearly all the incidents recorded in this little tale are real facts.
[1]Lalande, to whom Tartini himself communicated this curious anecdote, relates it in his Travels in Italy.
[1]Lalande, to whom Tartini himself communicated this curious anecdote, relates it in his Travels in Italy.
[2]It may be seen by a reference to any detailed biography of Tartini, that nearly all the incidents recorded in this little tale are real facts.
[2]It may be seen by a reference to any detailed biography of Tartini, that nearly all the incidents recorded in this little tale are real facts.