CHAPTER III.
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. “She has 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 staggered me. 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 that were 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 sky cloudless; 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 the chapel-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.