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.