“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 his leave 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 of soul. 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 I will know! her alone 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.