The providence of Nina had prepared for them a little surprise--a
table spread with refreshments, under a neighboring tree. They talked
of other matters besides music, and Louis recovered spirits enough to
enter on a lively conversation with the young lady about the climates
of Germany and Italy. While the elder guests were deep in their
discourse, she proposed a walk down to the water.
The day was delicious; the blue, clear waters reflected the sunshine
and the foliage on their bank. An avenue of chesnut and linden trees
followed the windings of the river. Nina stood on the bank, smiling as
she looked on the lovely scene; Louis was beside her, but a strange
conflict agitated his bosom. Her evidently superficial apprehension of
art, of that which formed the great object of his life, disappointed
him so deeply, that his regard for her seemed nipped in the bud.
After a long silence, he ventured on the question that oppressed his
heart. “We are alone;” he said to her in an earnest tone of entreaty;
“tell me, was it you who sang last night? I beseech you, answer me
truly.”
Nina looked at him, and burst into a mischievous laugh. “So,” she
cried, “you are still haunted by the unknown singer? A strange
adventure--in truth; you must have heard a witch! Now I understand
why you did not praise my singing just now! And our poor innocent
countryman, Rossini, must suffer for it! A young man hears a singer
at midnight, and fancies her perfection; next day I sing an air which
does not please him, because _I_ have not that good fortune! I thank
you, sir, for your flattering confession!” and she made him a mocking
curtesy.
“But tell me, I conjure you,” persisted Louis, “was it not you--”
“Hold!” cried Nina; “not so solemn. I think if I say yes, I can win you
for an admirer of Rossini; so I will say, yes! I am a sort of siren,
sir, who entices young artists by her song to worship Rossini even
against their will.”
“Nay, then,” answered the young man, “last night’s song was not such an
one. Now I really believe you were _not_ the singer. Heaven knows how I
could be mistaken; but I see such must have been the case.”
“Then,” replied the maiden, “blame not me; I am innocent; I hope
sincerely you will soon find out your mysterious singer, who seems to
have so captivated you. Be not unkind, meanwhile, to me, because you
did not like my song; I have a favor to beg; take me out on the water;
yonder is a boat. The shade of the trees on the bank will protect us
from the heat.”
She spoke with so much gentleness and sweetness that Louis felt his
growing coldness melt away. He hastened to push off the boat, took
up the oars, and gave Nina his hand to help her in. She leaped in
gracefully and seated herself opposite him. The boat soon glided
swiftly over the smooth waters: Louis looking straight forward, or at
his fair companion’s shadow on the water; for a feeling he could not
explain, prevented him from looking at herself.
They went on for half an hour without speaking. The boat now glided
into a small inlet, shaded by the foliage on high banks. “Let us stop
awhile here,” said Nina; and Louis took up his oars. The young girl
laid aside her straw hat, pushed her ringlets from her fair brow, and
looked on the sweet picture with an expression of delight. Behind the
wooded shore rose the walls of the ancient looking hunting-castle,
embosomed in picturesque woods. The inlet was in deep shadow, which
contrasted with the gleam of sunshine on the waves beyond; and the
light flashed like jewels in the foliage above. The soft air, the
refreshing coolness of the shade, and the fragrance of flowers that
filled the wood, completed the effect of this charming scene. The heart
of our young artist was full. He looked at Nina; her head was drooped
slightly, but as she raised it with a sudden motion, he saw that tears
were in her eyes. “You weep?” said he, taking her hand sympathizingly.
“No,” she answered softly, and with a smile, “but there is so much
beauty here!” After a moment she withdrew her hand; but not before
a light pressure had responded to the expression of her feelings.
So passed some minutes, till recovering her vivacity, she suddenly
exclaimed--“Mercy! how late it is growing! We must make haste back, or
my father will be uneasy!”
They were shortly at the landing-place again; but found the old people
had suffered no uneasiness on their account. Both Ricco and his friend
were leaning against the trees, fast asleep. Nina awoke the merchant
with a mischievous tickling of his red nose, and he started up from a
dream of orchestras and violins. After a walk in the castle garden,
they returned to their carriage, and drove back to the city.
The next night saw Louis walking for two hours in front of the
chapel-master’s house, in hopes of hearing again the mysterious singer.
But all remained silent, and he returned disappointed to his lodgings.
As soon as he thought it proper, he paid a visit to Signor Ricco. On
the steps he met Nina, going to visit a friend. After replying to his
polite inquiry how she had been since the excursion into the country,
she had already left him, when she suddenly turned back, saying, “While
I think of it, I have found out your wonderful singer; but I cannot
approve of your taste!” A flush rushed to the brow of the young
artist. “And who is she?” he cried, eagerly. “Oh, sir,” answered Nina,
“I can keep a secret, I assure you.”
“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.
Meanwhile the clouds were gathering thickly over head. Large drops
fell, and the wind rushed hoarsely through the trees. Presently a vivid
flash clove the darkness, making the whole street light as day, and
half blinding our two friends; it was followed by a tremendous crash of
thunder, and then the rain came down in torrents.
“Der Teufel!” cried the merchant; “’tis time we were gone! Come, we
shall find shelter in the _café royal_!” And seizing Louis by the
arm, he dragged him away. Both ran down the promenade to the café,
from the windows of which shone a welcome light. “Never mind,” said
Heissenheimer, as they entered, “such a song was worth a drenching. Let
us drink the singer’s health.”
It is needless to record all that was said between the friends, on this
occasion: the result was an appointment to dine together next day, and
meanwhile, Heissenheimer pledged himself to do his utmost to unravel
the mystery.