Love-dealings and Deceit, says an ancient poet, were born into the world
together, daughters of Night; and several dry-hearted old critics, who
never were in love and perhaps never deceived anybody in their lives,
have had so much trouble in understanding why these divinities should
have made their appearance in the world at the same time, that they have
suspected the passage and written pages of learned trash about what
Hesiod probably wrote instead of 'Love-dealings,' or the pretty word for
which I can think of no better translation.
Pignaver was not a particularly truthful person himself, but he exacted
strict truthfulness from others, which is good business if it is bad
morality; and Ortensia had been brought up rigidly in the practice of
veracity as a prime virtue. She had not hitherto been tempted to tell
fibs, indeed; but she had always looked upon doing so as a great sin,
which, if committed, would require penance.
Yet no sooner had she fallen in love with Alessandro Stradella than she
found herself telling the most glaring untruths every day, with a
readiness and self-possession that were nothing short of terrifying. For
instance, her uncle often asked her to tell him exactly what she had
been studying with the music-master, and he inquired especially whether
the latter ever sang any of his own music to her. To these questions she
answered that she was too anxious to profit by the lessons she was
receiving, through her uncle's kindness, to waste the precious time in
which she might be studying his immortal works.
She used those very words, without a blink, and Pignaver swallowed the
flattery as a dog bolts a gobbet of meat. She added that the Maestro
himself was so enthusiastic about the Senator's songs that he now cared
for nothing else.
Yet the truth was that Stradella had summed up his criticism in a few
words.
'They are all so much alike that they almost produce the impression of
having been written by the same person.'
That was what he had really said, and Ortensia had laughed sweetly and
cruelly; and even Pina, busy with her lace-pillow, had smiled with evil
satisfaction in her corner, for she was a clever woman, who had been
educated above her present station, and she understood.
Further, the Senator asked whether Stradella ever attempted to enter
into conversation with his pupil, between one piece of music and the
next.
'Conversation!' cried the young girl indignantly. 'He would not dare!'
If Pignaver noticed the slight blush that came with the words, he set it
down to just anger at the mere suggestion that his future wife could
stoop to talk with a music-master. Yet, being of a suspicious nature,
he also made inquiries of Pina, whom he unwisely trusted even more than
Ortensia herself.
'Conversation, Excellency? Your Excellency's niece in conversation with
a fiddler, a public singer, a creature little better than a mountebank!
My lady Ortensia would as soon talk with a footman! Shame, my lord! The
suspicion is unworthy! I would scarcely answer to the young man himself,
if he spoke to me, though I am only a poor servant! A fiddler, indeed! A
lute-strummer, a catgut-pincher, and a Neapolitan into the bargain!'
Thus did Pina express herself, and while her rather hard grey eyes
seemed to flash with anger, her mouth, that had once been handsome,
curved in lines of scorn that were almost aristocratic.
It is as easy to deceive a very vain person in matters where vanity has
a part to play as it is to cheat a blind man, and Pignaver was
hoodwinked without difficulty by his niece and her nurse, and the love
that had sprung up between the two young people almost at first sight
grew at an amazing rate while they sang and looked at one another over
their lutes.
But the first word had not been spoken yet, though it had been sung many
times by both, separately and together. It was not that Stradella
doubted how it would be received, if he spoke it when Pina was out of
the room, nor was Ortensia not eager for it long before it came. Yet she
could not be the first, and he would not, for reasons she understood so
little that at last she began to resent his silence as if it were a
slight. Few Italian girls of her age have ever known that sensation,
which is familiar enough to many women of the world.
Stradella found himself faced by a most unexpected circumstance. He was
not only in love; that had happened to him at regular intervals ever
since he had been barely fourteen years old, when a beautiful Neapolitan
princess heard him sing and threw her magnificent arms round his neck,
kissing him, and laughing when he kissed her in return; and she had made
him the spoilt darling of her villa at Posilippo for more than three
weeks.
Since then he had regarded his love affairs very much as he looked upon
the weather, as an irregular succession of fine days, dark days, and
stormy days. When he was happily in love, it was a fine day; when
unhappily, it was stormy; when not at all, it was dull--very dull. But
hitherto it had never occurred to him that any one of the three
conditions could last. Like Goethe, he had never begun a love-affair
without instinctively foreseeing the end, and hoping that it might be
painless.
But to his amazement, though he had been prepared to be as cheerfully
cynical and as keen after enjoyment as usual, he now felt, almost from
the first, that there was no end in sight, or even to be imagined. The
beginnings had not been new to him; it was not the first time that
beauty had stirred his pulse, or that a face had awakened sympathy in
that romantic region of feeling between heart and soul which is as far
above the brute animal as it is below the pure spirit. Before now his
voice had brought fire to a woman's eyes, and her lips had parted with
unspoken promises of delight. That was what had happened on the first
day when Pina had left him alone with Ortensia and he had sung to her;
that had all been normal and natural, and only not dull because the
fountain of youth was full and overflowing; that might have happened to
any man between twenty and thirty.
He had gone away light-hearted after the first lesson, with music in his
heart and ears. Was not every beginning of new love a spring that
promised summer, and sometimes a rich autumn too, all in a few weeks,
and with only a dull day or two to follow at the end, instead of winter?
But the next time he saw Ortensia it was a little different, and after
that the difference became greater, and at last very great indeed, till
he no longer recognised the familiar turnings in light love's short
path, and the pretty flowers he had so often plucked by the way did not
grow on each side within easy reach, and the fruit of the garden seemed
endlessly far away, though he knew it was hidden somewhere, far sweeter
than any he had tasted yet. For it was a maiden's garden in which no man
had trod before; and the maiden was of high degree, and could not wander
along the path with him, yielding her will to his.
His light-heartedness left him then, his face grew grave, and his temper
became melancholy, for the first time in his life. He was only to give
her a few lessons, after all, and Pina would leave him with her for ten
minutes, scarcely more, each time he came. One minute would be enough,
it was true; if he spoke she would listen, if he took her hand she would
let him hold it. But what would be the end of that? A kiss or two, and
nothing more. When the lessons were finished he would be told by the
Senator that his teaching was no longer needed, and after that there
would be nothing. He might see her once a week in her gondola, at a
little distance; but as for ever being alone with her again in his life
for five minutes, that would be out of the question. Could he, a
musician and an artist, a man sprung from the people, even think of
aspiring to the hand of a Venetian senator's niece? In those days the
idea was ludicrous. And as for her, though she might be in love with
him--and he felt that she was--would she entertain for a moment the idea
of escaping from her uncle's house, from Venice, to join her lot with a
wandering singer's? That was still greater nonsense, he thought. Then
what could come of it all but a cruel parting and a heartache, since
this was real love and could not end in a laugh, like the lighter sort
he had known so well? She was a mere child yet, she would forget in a
few weeks; and he was a grown man, who had seen the world, and could
doubtless forget if he chose, provided there were never anything to be
forgotten beyond what there was already.
But if he should speak to her in one of those short intervals when they
were alone, if she stretched out her hand, if he clasped her to him, if
their lips met, things would not end so easily nor be so soon forgotten.
He had the careless knowledge of himself that many gifted men have even
when they are still very young; he knew how far he could answer for his
own coolness and sense, and that if he allowed himself to cross the
limit he would behave like a madman and perhaps like a criminal.
Therefore he set himself to be prudent till the lessons should be over,
and he even thought of ending them abruptly and leaving Venice. His
acquaintance with Ortensia would always be a beautiful recollection in
his life, he thought, and one in which there could be no element of
remorse or bitterness. He was not a libertine. Few great artists have
ever been that; for in every great painter, or sculptor, or musician
there is a poet, and true poetry is the refutation of vulgar
materialism. In all the nobler arts the second-rate men have invariably
been the sensualists; but the masters, even in their love affairs, have
always hankered after an ideal, and have sometimes found it.
When the Senator ushered in Stradella one morning and quietly announced
that the lesson was to be the last, Ortensia felt faint, and turned her
back quite to the open window, against the light, so that the two men
could not see how she changed colour. The nurse's hard grey eyes
scrutinised Pignaver's face for an instant, and then turned to
Stradella; he was paler than usual, but grave and collected, for the
Senator had already informed him that his services would be no longer
needed after that day.
Everything was to take place as usual. As usual, Ortensia was to sing
one of her uncle's ninety-seven compositions to him while Stradella
accompanied her; as usual, Pignaver would then go away; lastly, at the
customary time, Pina would go out for ten minutes and reappear with
water and sherbet.
Ortensia was shaking with emotion when the ordeal began, and for a
moment she felt that it was hopeless to try to sing. Some sharp
discordant sound would surely break from her lips, and she would faint
outright in her misery.
She was on the very point of saying that she felt a sudden hoarseness,
or was taken ill, when her pride awoke in a flash with a strength that
amazed her, the more because she had never dreamed she had any of that
sort. Stradella should not guess that she was hurt; she would rather die
than let him know that her heart was breaking; more than that, she would
break his, if there was time, and if she could!
She stood up by her chair and sang far better than she had ever sung
before in Pignaver's hearing; she threw life and fire and passion into
his mild composition, and she remembered every effective little trick
Stradella had taught her for improving the dull melody and for
emphasising the commonplace verses it was meant to adorn.
The Senator was surprised and delighted, and Stradella softly clapped
his hands. She hated him for applauding her, yet she was pleased with
the applause.
'What music, eh?' cried the Senator, with a grin of satisfied vanity.
'It is music indeed!' answered Stradella with a grave emphasis that
gave the words great weight. 'It has been my endeavour to do justice to
it, in instructing your gifted niece.'
'You have succeeded very well, dear Maestro,' Pignaver answered with
immense condescension. 'The world will be much your debtor when it hears
my melodies so charmingly sung!'
With this elephantine compliment the Senator nodded in a patronising way
and took himself off, while Stradella bowed politely at his departing
back.
When the curtain fell before the door, the singer turned to his pupil
and sat down in his accustomed seat, with great apparent
self-possession. Ortensia watched him, and her new-born resentment
increased quickly.
'What will it please you to study to-day?' he inquired, just as easily
as if it were not the very last time.
She felt much inclined to answer 'Nothing,' and to turn her back on him,
but somehow her pride found a voice for her, as indifferent as his own,
though she avoided his eyes and looked out of the window.
'It does not matter which song we take,' she answered. 'They are very
much alike, as you have often said!' She even laughed, quite lightly and
carelessly.
It was his turn to be surprised. Her tone was as natural and unstrained
as a child's. At the sound of it, he asked himself whether this slip of
a thing of seventeen years had not been acting emotions she had not
felt, and laughing at him while he had been singing his heart out to
her. Any clever girl could twist herself on her chair, and lay her cheek
to the back of it, turning away as if she were really suffering, and
twining her hands together till the little joints strained and turned
even whiter than the fingers themselves.
At the thought that she had perhaps made a fool of him, Stradella nearly
laughed, and he came near being cured then and there of his latest and
most serious love-sickness. His lute was lying on his knees; he began to
strum the opening chords of Pignaver's dullest composition, in the dull
mechanical way the music deserved. He thought the effect might be to
make Ortensia laugh and to change her mood.
But, to his annoyance, she rose, laid one hand on the back of the chair,
and proceeded to sing the song with the greatest care for details,
though by no means with the dashing spirit that had made him applaud her
first performance that morning. She was evidently singing for study, as
if she meant to profit by his teaching to the very last moment.
He accompanied her mechanically, wondering what was going to happen
next, and when she had finished he eyed her with curiosity, but said
nothing. She seemed completely changed.
'Why do you look at me in that way?' she asked with great calmness. 'Did
I make any bad mistake?'
He smiled, but not very gaily.
'No,' he answered, 'you made no mistakes at all. You are admirable
to-day! I quite understand that my services are no longer needed, for I
can teach you nothing more!'
'I have done my best to improve under your instructions,' answered
Ortensia primly.
She rested both her elbows on the back of the chair now and looked
calmly out of the window at her favourite tree. Stradella pretended that
his lute needed tuning, turned a peg or two and then turned each back
again, and struck idle chords.
'When you are rested,' he said, 'I am at your service for another song.'
'I am ready,' Ortensia answered with a calmness quite equal to his own.
Pina, watching them from a distance and neglecting her lace-pillow, saw
that something was the matter, and got up to leave the room at least
half-an-hour earlier than usual; but because the Senator might come back
unexpectedly during this last lesson, she went out through the other
door beyond which a broad corridor led to his own apartments, and she
stood where she could not fail to hear his steps in the distance if he
should return.
Ortensia was still standing by her chair when Stradella left his seat
and came towards her, holding his lute in one hand. It did not suit his
male dignity to take leave of her without finding out whether she had
been playing with him or not, though half-an-hour earlier he would not
have believed it possible that vanity could enter into any thought he
had of her.
He stood quite near her, and she met his eyes; she was rather frightened
by his sudden advance, and shrank back behind the chair.
'You will find me in your loggia to-night, outside that window,' he
said, pointing as he spoke. 'I shall be there an hour before midnight,
and I shall wait till it is almost dawn.'
He paused, keeping his eyes on hers. She had started back at the first
words, and now a deep colour had risen in her cheeks; he could not tell
whether it meant anger or pleasure.
'I shall be there,' he repeated; 'I shall be there to say good-bye, if
you will have it so, or to come again if you will. But if you do not
open the window, I will come twice again at the same hour, to-morrow and
the night after that, and wait for you till dawn.'
Ortensia turned from him without speaking and went out into the covered
loggia. It was her instinct to look at the place where he was to be, and
for the moment she could not answer him, for she did not know what to
say; she herself could not have told whether she was angry or pleased,
she only felt that something new was happening to her. Her mood had
changed again in a few seconds.
He followed her to the threshold of the window, and stood behind her in
the flood of sunshine, so near that he could whisper in her ear and be
heard.
'There is love between us,' he said. 'We have seen it in each other's
eyes ever since we first met, we have heard it in one another's voices
every day! I will not leave you without saying it for us both, just as
much for you as for myself! But I must say it all many times, and I must
hear it from you too. Therefore I shall be here an hour before midnight
to wait, and you will come, and you will open the window when you see
me standing outside, and we shall be together! And if you will, we need
never part again, for the world is as wide as heaven itself, for those
who love to find a safe resting-place.'
She raised one hand as if to stop him, without turning round. While he
spoke, she had turned pale again by soft degrees, and she drew her
breath sharply once or twice, with an effort. He caught the hand she put
out and kissed it slowly three times, as if he would leave the print of
his young lips on the smooth white skin for a memory. She let him have
his way, though she shook her head, and would not turn to him.
He was so near her that he could have bent and kissed her, just above
the broad lace collar, behind her little ear, where the strong auburn
hair sprang in silken waves from the ivory of her neck. The scent of
lavender and violets rose from her dress to his nostrils in the warmth.
'You will come,' he whispered.
'How can I?' she asked, very low.
Then they heard Pina's voice behind them, not loud, but sharp and
imperative.
'The Senator is coming back!' she called to them, as she dropped the
curtain after entering and hastened to her seat.
Stradella crossed to the other side of the window in an instant, raising
the lute he still carried in one hand.
'Sing!' he commanded, and he was already playing the accompaniment to
one of Pignaver's everlasting songs.
As pride had helped her before, sheer desperation strengthened her now,
and, without moving from her place, she began to sing, not very steadily
at first, for her heart was beating terribly fast, but carefully, as if
she were studying.
A moment later Pignaver noiselessly lifted the velvet curtain and looked
in, confident that he had surprised them, and perfectly satisfied with
the result. Beyond the fact that they were standing in the sunshine to
sing and play, on opposite sides of the great window, everything was
precisely as he had expected. When the song was ended, he revealed his
presence by a word of approbation, and he installed himself to hear the
rest of the lesson. When it was over, he himself accompanied Stradella
to the stairs.