CHAPTER V.
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 Louis divined 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 a pretty damsel! 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 my discovery. 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 future life, 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 have quite 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 observed her 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—
“I feel ’tis gone, ’tis lost for aye,
The bliss of love,” etc.
She sang in an under-tone; but this very suppression of her voice revealed so much, that our artist was deeply moved. He could no longer contain his emotion. Gently he opened the door of the room where she sat singing in darkness; and as the song ended, he threw himself at her feet, seized her hand, and pressed it to his burning lips. She sprang from the piano, terrified, snatched her hand away, and hurried out of the room.
Louis stood confused for a moment, then walked up and down the apartment, filled with emotions of delight. Then he seated himself at the piano, and poured forth the feelings of his heart in music. Just at the height of his rapture the hall-door opened, and presently a loud voice cried, “No more of that; you play dissonances! Away with your Mozartish stuff!” It was Ricco. The artist rose, and saluted him with some embarrassment.
“What is the meaning of this Egyptian darkness?” cried the Italian; “and why are you playing here all alone?” He pushed open the doors, and the light shone in from the tea-room, where Nina was seated.