A week later fashionable Rome was gathered together at the Palazzo
Riario to a feast of poetry and music. Christina had just founded the
Academy which survives to this day in that state of mediocrity above
which it has never risen in nearly two hundred and fifty years, for the
idea had suggested itself to her when she found how easy it was to
attract starving talent to a good dinner. 'Feed the hungry' is a good
motto for those who aim at being patrons of the fine arts, like the
ex-Queen in Rome, or Pignaver in Venice; the only condition is that the
hungry shall be clever or witty starvelings who can pay for their
dinners with their brains. However, when men of talent cease to be
hungry they generally become snobs, and will take the fly of the season
with as much voracity as any trout in May.
The literary and musical receptions at the Palazzo Riario took place in
the portico that opened upon the gardens in those days; for the whole
palace was afterwards rebuilt by the Corsini, and many parts of it were
changed. Christina had been in Paris and had seen Louis Fourteenth dance
as Alcibiades in Benserade's ballet, a sight to rejoice the gods of
Olympus, who must certainly have laughed even louder at the bewigged
King's mincing steps than they did at Vulcan's limp; for with many
gifts, the Sun-King possessed no more sense of humour than Don Quixote,
who stood on his head before Sancho as a proof that love was driving him
mad. The ex-Queen was already dreaming of a wonderful pastoral play, in
which Don Alberto Altieri was to appear as Endymion, and she herself,
the elderly and slightly bedraggled virgin queen, would play Diana.
There was Guidi to write the verses, Stradella should compose the music,
and Christina herself would get most of the credit for the work.
In the meantime, though she had nothing so complete to offer, she
invited the Romans to hear such poetry as she could provide, and some
excellent music; and Bernini, who could make anything look like anything
else by means of whitewashed wooden columns, coarse draperies stiffened
and whitened with wet plaster, and caryatides modelled in plaster and
pasteboard, had improvised a Temple of Art for the performance. In the
midst of this sanctuary, amongst laurels and roses, he had placed the
clay model of his bust of Christina herself, in a wig like the French
King's. He afterwards cast it in bronze, and considering that he must
have done his best to make the portrait pleasing, it is appalling to
think what the original must have been.
The little temple stood just outside the portico, facing inward like a
stage, on which the performers appeared in turn, the audience being
gathered under the portico. Beyond it, the beautiful gardens stretched
away in terraces and grades to the high distance. Christina herself sat
on a sort of throne, facing the clay image of herself, while her
courtiers and satellites were grouped behind her. Her intimate friend
Cardinal Azzolino sat on her right, because Cardinal Altieri, who should
have been there, had not come, and half-a-dozen other cardinals in
scarlet occupied the huge gilt arm-chairs on both sides, each having one
or two of his especial parasites behind him in readiness to do his
bidding or to laugh at his jokes, as the case might be. There were not
more than fifty other seats in the portico, and they were all occupied
by the ladies of Rome, who came to applaud the performances of their
countrymen and to laugh at the hysterical 'Minerva of the North,' who
paid the poets and musicians, and went into such convulsions of
appreciation when their works pleased her that the stability of her huge
black wig was in danger. The ladies' chairs were not close together, but
scattered about, as in a drawing-room, and almost every lady had her own
little court of admirers or parasites according to her age and looks.
Many of the younger ones were standing, or strolling about, in the
intervals of the entertainment, each closely attended by one or two fine
gentlemen; but as soon as a recitation of verses began, or a piece of
music, they all stood still where they were, and the hum of voices
instantly gave way to profound silence.
Ortensia was there too. She had come with her husband, and had been
graciously received by the Queen, who evidently knew nothing of Don
Alberto's serenade; but Stradella had then left her to join his
musicians, for he was to direct a part of his new oratorio as well as
sing an air in it himself, and Ortensia necessarily stayed behind with
the audience. Don Alberto Altieri at once came forward to take care of
her, and nine-tenths of the Roman ladies present immediately asked of
their attendant gentlemen who the handsome young woman in straw-coloured
silk might be, whose hair had 'quite the Venetian tinge,' and whom 'dear
Don Alberto seemed to know so well.' The result was that the occasion
was Ortensia's first real appearance in Roman society; and before her
husband was ready to go home, she had made the acquaintance of nearly
all the great ladies present.
The young man was delighted to show off his power and popularity before
her as he led her about, being convinced that it could not fail to make
an impression on her; for wherever he turned he was met by smiling faces,
and she was followed by eyes that envied the distinction conferred upon
her by the nephew of 'both the reigning Popes,' as the Romans called Pope
Clement and Cardinal Paluzzo Altieri. At the same time, the gossips were
beginning to wonder what Queen Christina-Minerva-Diana would say to her
favourite's conduct if she saw anything of it, though Don Alberto kept
well behind her as he piloted Ortensia from one great lady to another.
Then, all at once, the two had disappeared unnoticed. A dark young girl
with sad eyes and a sensitive though slightly irregular mouth had just
appeared on the stage, dressed as one of the Muses; that is to say, she
wore an ample garment of purple silk, of no particular shape, but cut
low at the throat and having wide sleeves which displayed a pair of
rather nervous white arms; her black hair was knotted low at the back
of her neck, and she wore a wreath of fresh bay laurel that was very
becoming to her young face. She was one of those strangely talented
creatures, still found in Italy, and most often amongst the people, who
have the gift of improvising very creditable verses and music on any
subject that is given them, or even upon a set of rhymes, after
concentrating their thoughts for a time which rarely exceeds two
minutes, and is often only a few seconds.
Don Alberto, who knew the programme of the entertainment, had
manoeuvred skilfully. The girl appeared on the stage, lute in hand,
and began to approach the wet clay bust of Christina with the mournfully
inspired air of a Cassandra going up to the altar and image of Apollo;
at the same moment Don Alberto found himself with Ortensia before an
open door on the left side of the portico, a little farther back than
the hindmost of the audience. Every one was watching the stage.
'An "improvisatrice,"' the young man whispered quickly. 'Tiresome
rubbish! I will show you the statues while it is going on.'
Ortensia obeyed his gesture and passed through the door into a large
hall where a quantity of fragments of antique statues were lying on the
stone floor, or were propped upright against the walls, while
half-a-dozen of the best were already set up on Corinthian capitals, or
ancient altars, which served as pedestals.
Don Alberto had quietly closed the door behind him when he followed
Ortensia into the hall. It was the first time he had succeeded in being
alone with her since the night of the serenade.
'I trust you will accept my humblest excuses, dear lady,' he said as
they both stood still, 'for having unwillingly broken off my little
serenade the other night. I had intended it as a welcome to you and your
husband on the first night you spent under my roof, but I had not
thought of bringing a brace of cut-throats with me, as my rival did!
They were too much for me--I wish I knew his name!'
Don Alberto laughed pleasantly and looked at her, waiting for an answer.
At the word 'cut-throats' she made a slight movement of surprise, and
was on the point of indignantly attacking him for applying such a word
to the friends who had brought about her marriage with Stradella; but
she checked herself, hardly knowing why.
'I was very tired that night, after moving to the palace,' she said
calmly. 'My husband spoke of a noise in the street, but I must have been
more than half asleep.'
But Altieri had seen her start and did not believe a word of what she
said. He was partially satisfied, however, since she chose to take no
notice of a scandalous affray which might easily have reflected on her
own good name. He laughed again.
'As it was such a miserable failure, I am glad you were not awake to
hear it,' he said. 'It was intended as a welcome, as an expression of my
profound and devoted admiration, in which I hope you will believe now,
though you were asleep that evening!'
'Your admiration is exaggerated, sir,' Ortensia answered with a light
laugh, 'but if, by devotion, you mean friendliness to my husband and
myself, I accept it for him and for me with all my heart!'
'I am grateful to your ladyship,' said Don Alberto in the same jesting
tone, 'but, with your leave, I distinguish, as they taught me to say in
the schools when I was nearly entrapped into a fallacy by a clever
antagonist!'
'But I am neither your antagonist nor clever,' objected Ortensia,
fencing gaily; 'therefore you need not make any fine distinctions!'
The young man changed his manner and tone with really dramatic effect;
his face grew suddenly grave, his voice was sad, and he gazed into
Ortensia's eyes with a wistful lover-like expression that women rarely
resisted.
'You are unkind,' he said. 'You know what such words mean to me, and you
say them willingly, meaning to hurt me--as you do!'
It was so well done that Ortensia was deceived, as well she might be,
seeing how young she was, though years counted not then as they do with
us, and every girl of fourteen was taught to be on her defence against
men of every age and station.
'I did not mean to be unkind,' Ortensia said incautiously.
'Then pity me!' he cried with a sudden burst of real or affected
passion. 'Are you blind, or are you cruel? Or are you only heartless? I
do not believe that you were not at the window the other night! Your
lips say one thing, your eyes another! You were looking down, you saw
me wounded by that villain, and you listened to his master's serenade
till I came back with the watch, only to be defeated a second time by a
brace of hired fencing-masters! No! It was not out of friendship for
your husband, I confess it frankly, it was for love of you, it was
because you have turned my blood to fire and my heart to flame----'
'Hush!' Ortensia laid one hand warningly upon his arm, and at the same
time she drew herself up with great dignity, and her face was proud and
cold. 'I give no man the right to speak of love to me----'
'Wait!' interrupted Altieri. 'Wait, forgive, pity if you can, but hear
me out! Far be it from me to slight your honour, soul of my soul, heart
of my body!--for my own is gone, and you are in its place, and without
you I should surely die! No--do not fear me! See, I stand back from you,
you cannot even reach me with your hand as you did just now. But I must
speak, and you shall hear me. I know your story, for the Venetian
Ambassador has told all Rome how you lived in your uncle's house in
miserable slavery, and how he meant to force you to be his wife, and
that rather than submit to such an outrage you ran away with your
music-master--we all know the truth about it, from the Pope, and my
uncle the Cardinal, and the Queen, to the little page who carries
Princess Colonna's train at a papal audience! There is nothing more
romantic and adventurous in all the tales of Boccaccio and Bandello, and
whatever the Senator Pignaver may attempt by way of revenge you may be
sure that Rome will protect you. But now that you are free, now that the
world lies before you and at your feet, will you not choose a man worthy
of your birth and name?'
'A lover, sir?' asked Ortensia indignantly.
She had slowly moved backwards while he was speaking, till she leaned
against the pedestal of a colossal bust of Juno.
'Heaven forbid!' said Don Alberto. 'I mean a husband----'
'You seem to forget that I am married,' Ortensia replied, with rising
anger.
'I would quarrel with any man who dared suggest that you do not believe
it,' said Don Alberto gravely.
'What do you mean?' She started, and a quick flush rose to her cheeks,
but subsided instantly, leaving her pale.
'It takes more than a mere sacristan's trick to make a real marriage,'
answered Don Alberto enigmatically. 'Do not be indignant, dearest lady!
Let me speak. You were married in the sacristy of San Domenico at
Ferrara. Do not be surprised that I know it. The Legate there, Monsignor
Pelagetti, is afraid of getting into trouble for having imprisoned
Stradella by mistake, and he has sent my uncle a full and precise
account of all that happened. The Mother Superior of the Ursulines
informed him of what had been done in the sacristy. Her intention was
good, no doubt, but it is very uncertain whether the result is valid!'
'And why should it not be?' Ortensia was very angry. 'There were
honourable witnesses, too! What can any one say against my marriage?'
'One thing is that the witnesses were not as honourable as you thought
them, my lady! The two gentlemen who helped you have turned out to be
two of the most famous Bravi in Italy----'
'Bravi?'
'Yes. Their pockets are full of pardons for the atrocious murders they
have committed for money, and they are as well known in Rome as Romulus
and Remus! As for the woman who signed the register after them, she is a
runaway nun, whose mere presence as a witness would discredit any
ceremony!'
'A runaway nun? Pina? What folly is this? She has been with me since I
was seven years old!'
'And she is forty now! There was time for a great many things to happen
to her before you knew her. Has she not one thumb unlike the other? You
see, I am well informed, for the Cardinal knows everything; and if he
says that your marriage is not valid, you may be sure that he is not
speaking carelessly or without full information.'
Ortensia was now very pale, and her breath came quickly as she leaned
against the pedestal of the Juno.
'It is not possible!' she cried, staring at Altieri in horror.
'It is more than possible that the priest may not have been a priest at
all,' he answered, 'and that the whole scene was cleverly prepared to
trick you. But the rest I know beyond a doubt and can prove. Your two
friends are well-known Bravi and are at present lodging at the Orso inn,
where you were, and your serving-woman is Filippina Landi, who escaped
from a convent in Lombardy with a young Venetian and was abandoned by
him. She was arrested in Ferrara some nineteen or twenty years ago and
confessed the truth under torture, but was soon afterwards pardoned by
the intervention of your uncle, the Senator Pignaver.'
'My uncle?' Ortensia almost forgot her new anxiety in her surprise.
'Yes, dear lady. Your uncle was, in fact, the young Venetian who had
carried her off out of the convent, promising to marry her! It was no
doubt in order to be revenged on him that she helped you to run away.'
Ortensia's hand strained upon the corner of the pedestal till Altieri
could count the small blue veins and purple arteries that showed through
the white skin. She was terrified by what he had told her, for it
explained Pina's whole manner and conduct too well not to make what
Altieri had said about the marriage seem vaguely possible. But if she
had been deceived, so had Stradella; of that she was more sure than of
anything else, and if it had been possible she would have gone to him
instantly to tell him what she had heard.
Altieri saw how much disturbed she was and came towards her, for they
were now half-a-dozen steps apart. He meant, no doubt, to offer her some
consolation in her new trouble, unless he was going to fall on his knees
and implore her pardon for having caused her such uneasiness. As a
professional love-maker either course was open to him. But Ortensia
stopped him with a gesture, keeping down her emotion.
'Listen,' she said, 'for I have something to say. You meant to shake my
faith in my husband, but you have made a mistake, and instead you have
done us both a great service. If, as you pretend, we are not validly
married, nothing can be easier than to obtain a proper marriage in Rome,
and we shall do so at once; but as for the rest, you are profoundly
mistaken about me. I left my uncle's house because I loved Alessandro
Stradella, and for no other reason, and while we both live we shall love
each other as dearly as we did from the first, and I pray heaven that
our lives may end together, on the same day and in the same hour. Do you
understand? As you have seemed a friend to us both, be one in earnest,
for you are wasting your time in playing at being in love with me!'
She smiled at the last, as cleverly as any skilful woman of thirty could
have done, offering him the chance of laughing away the barrier his
ill-considered declaration had made, and of taking up pleasant relations
again, as if nothing had happened to disturb them; for she had regained
her self-possession while she was speaking, and had determined to profit
by what he had told her rather than to suffer by the facts he had
revealed, if they proved to be true.
He was quick to accept the means of reconciliation, whatever his own
intentions really were.
'I will indeed be your friend,' he said, with amazing earnestness,
'since you give me no hope of ever being anything more, and are willing
to forgive the madness of a moment. Henceforth, command me what you
will! In pledge of pardon, may I have your hand?'
She let him take it; he dropped on one knee as he touched her fingers
with his lips, and then rose lightly to his feet again.
'Now let us go back,' she said, 'for we have been too long away.'
He led her out of the hall by another door and she found herself quite
in the farthest recess of the portico and behind all the assembled
company, just as the dark-haired Muse was finishing her last
improvisation in an attitude of inspired wonder before the hideous bust
of the Queen. At the last line of her sonnet she took the laurels from
her head, and with a graceful movement that showed her nervous but
well-shaped white arms to great advantage she placed the wreath upon the
damp clay effigy of the great Christina's portentous wig; then, cleverly
kicking the train of her long purple silk robe out of the way behind
her, she backed towards the side exit, stretching out her hands and
bending her body while still keeping her upturned eyes on the bust with
an air of rapt adoration, like a Suppliant on an Etruscan vase.
Every one applauded enthusiastically, knowing that applause was expected
in payment for having been invited to such a feast of the soul; but the
wise Muse paid no attention to the sounds. To the last her gaze was on
the bust, even when she lifted the dark velvet curtain with one hand
and backed out with a sweeping courtesy that looked very well.
A good-looking young man of the people, dressed in his best Sunday
clothes, was waiting for her at the head of the wooden steps. As she met
his glance, she jerked her thumb backwards over her shoulder towards the
stage and the Queen.
'May an apoplexy seize her,' whispered the Muse, with a strong
Trastevere accent, 'her, and her friends, and all the family! You shall
take me to supper on Monte Mario to-night! There we shall breathe! Bring
the guitar, too. Old Nena is waiting to help me dress. No--no, I
say--not here!'
For the handsome young fellow had caught her just as she was beginning
to descend the steps, and he planted a very substantial kiss on the nape
of her neck before he let her go; which was no great harm after all,
since they were to be married in a fortnight or so, before the Feast of
Saint John.
It was Stradella's turn after the Muse had disappeared, and while the
improvisatrice was going down from the stage on one side, four liveried
footmen were bringing up chairs on the other, with music-desks for the
little orchestra, which immediately made its appearance. There were not
more than a dozen musicians in all, and they ranged themselves in an
orderly manner on each side of the laurel-crowned bust, in the order of
the pitch of their instruments, the violins and flutes being in the
middle, while the bass viol was at the extreme left, and the bass
cornopean on the right. Next came a small chorus of eight singers, who
took their places, standing behind the seated musicians; and last of
all, amidst much clapping of hands, Stradella himself appeared in front,
and bowed low to the Queen, standing a little on one side so as not to
hide the bust from the audience.
He looked very handsome as he stood there, dressed in black velvet and
black silk, with a low collar of soft linen that showed his strong white
throat, and having his lawn wristbands turned back over the cuffs of his
coat.
As he bowed Queen Christina smiled graciously, and waved her hand to him
in greeting, whereupon the applause became still louder.
Don Alberto had found a seat for Ortensia, and stood beside her, as the
other cavaliers stood each beside the lady of his choice. Altieri
thought it good policy to pose himself as Ortensia's official adorer
from the first, at such a very select gathering of Roman society; for
few would care to try their chances against him after that. Ortensia
herself was dimly conscious that if she could keep him in his place, as
she had done to-day, his admiration would protect her against other
would-be worshippers.
While the music lasted she never took her eyes from Stradella, whether
he was turned from the audience towards his musicians to direct them,
beating time in the air with a thin roll of ruled music-paper, or when
he faced the audience and sung himself, to the accompaniment of only
four stringed instruments.
'Admirable!' whispered Alberto, bending low to Ortensia's ear. 'It is
supreme genius, nothing less!' he whispered again, as she took no
notice.
But Ortensia did not even hear him, and sat quite still in her chair,
gazing with fixed eyes at the man she loved, and listening to his music
as in the entrancement of a spell. Don Alberto looked down thoughtfully
at her beautiful motionless head, though his ears were open too, for he
loved music; but just then he was even more in love with the beautiful
Venetian, and though he had been worsted in his first attempt, he was by
no means ready to give up the siege. He was wondering what treasure
could be found in all Rome that could induce Ortensia to take her eyes
from her husband while he was singing or conducting his own music.
But when it was finished and the applause had died away, and he had
bowed and left the little stage, she could not wait a moment.
'Take me to him,' she said to Don Alberto, rising from her seat.
'He will come here himself in a few minutes,' objected Altieri.
'Take me to him,' she repeated more imperiously. 'If you will not, I
shall go alone.'
There was nothing for it but to obey, and Don Alberto led her quickly
out of the portico to the carriage entrance at the back, then through a
vaulted passage, and up a flight of half-a-dozen steps to the room to
which the performers retired, and which had another exit towards the
garden and the back of the stage.
When Don Alberto opened the door Stradella was just within, evidently
about to come away, and he started in surprise when he saw his wife
enter. The other musicians were standing in groups of three and four,
with their instruments in their hands, for the place was completely bare
of furniture; there was not so much as a table on which to lay a fiddle
or a flute, but across one corner a piece of tattered canvas had been
hung to cut off a dressing-room for the improvisatrice, who had already
got into her own clothes and was gone away with old Nena and the
handsome young man.
Stradella met his wife with a happy smile and nodded a greeting to Don
Alberto, who remained in the door-way.
'Can you take me home at once?' Ortensia asked. 'Or must you go in?'
Stradella saw her look of distress as he took her outstretched hand in
both of his.
'I am not wanted, am I?' he asked, looking at young Altieri. 'My wife
wishes to go home, you see----'
'I will make your excuses to the Queen,' Don Alberto answered readily.
'My carriage is waiting and shall take you to the palace and come back
for me.'
'How kind of you!'
Ortensia thought he was already beginning to fulfil his promise of
friendship to her. He had, in fact, brought the couple to the Palazzo
Riario in his own carriage, for there were no hackney coaches in Rome in
that century, and people who owned no equipage were obliged to have
themselves carried in sedan-chairs, from one end of the city to the
other if necessary, unless they preferred to ride on mules or donkeys,
which was not convenient in full dress.
In five minutes Stradella and his wife were driving rapidly over the
cobble-stones towards Ponte Sisto, and Ortensia was telling the
astonished musician what had taken place between her and Don Alberto,
with all he had told her about Pina, Trombin, and Gambardella.