University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

With men of very vivid imaginations it would
seem as if the greater charm were rather in the
shadow than the substance. At least, it is true
that they are often so well content with a pleasing
image as long to overlook in its object the immediate
attraction, whether of mind or heart, which
first gave it interest; nor is it surprising that,
when it is contemplated in the enchanted atmosphere
of revery, it should seem to possess a satisfying
charm, to the exclusion, for the time, of all
consciousness of any personal relation to the living
original. It was in this peculiar atmosphere that
Monaldi's spirit was now reposing. Though he
could think of nothing with which the image of
Rosalia was not in some way or other blended, and
spent hours together in rebeholding, and rehearing
every particular of their late-interview, yet he
never dreamed of asking wherefore. If he dwelt
on her beauty, her grace, her voice, they were
never referred to any wishes of his own; to himself

they were as nothing; indeed his power of
reflection seemed for the time suspended; and he
yielded to their influence, feeling only their presence,
wrapt as it were, passive and listless, in some
delicious spell.

But this aimless revery had a nearer relation to
himself than he was then aware of; and the most
imaginative dreamer must awake at last. Though
availing himself of Landi's invitation, he had already
several times met Rosalia, yet seeing her
only in her father's presence, their conversation
had been too general to lead to anything which
might betray to him the state of his heart. But
he was now to see her on a nearer view; being
invited to pass a musical evening at the Advocate's.
On entering the drawing room he found the daughter
alone. This was so unexpected, that he hardly
knew whether to be pleased or not. Before he
entered the house he would have thought of such
a tete-a-tete with delight; for he had always conversed
freely with Rosalia, and felt while talking
with her as if the charms of her discourse made
even his own more than usually eloquent, and he
had often wished that the pleasure of listening and
replying to her had been less interrupted by a third
person. But now that he was without such interruption,
he suddenly found that he had not a word

at command. He felt as if something had bewildered
him, but, instead of stopping to inquire
what, he began to make such violent efforts to feel
at ease that the palpitation of his heart became
almost audible, and he was fairly wishing himself
out of the house, when Landi made his appearance.
The relief which Monaldi felt at the father's
entrance might now have explained the
mystery, had not his attention been diverted by
the Advocate's inquiries concerning the progress
of his picture. But he was not doomed to remain
long in ignorance.

Skill in music is so common in Italy that Rosalia
hardly considered it an object of ambition; she
had studied it merely for her own gratification and
her father's amusement, and her execution, though
good, was far from being what a connoisseur
would call brilliant; but she had something better
— an exquisite voice, and the power of enthralling
even the coldest hearer. Her power
consisted not in the mere expression of concords,
but in that science of the heart which no written
music can supply, in those delicate inflexions which
seem to imbue sound with life, conveying thought
and sentiment; and when to these was added the
accompaniment of her face — the tremor of her

lips, and the scarcely perceptible elevation and
depression of the lids of her dark, steel-grey eyes,
following the movement through all its subtile
undulations — what unconscious lover could look
and listen, still unconscious?

In order that his guest might become acquainted
with her style, her father proposed her playing one
or two pieces alone, and she began with a passage
from Corelli.

Monaldi took his station behind her chair; but
a mirror back of the piano brought them face to
face. This circumstance was too common to discompose
Rosalia, and she went through the piece
in her usual manner, except that once when she
caught his eye, she had, some how or other, skipped
a few notes.

To Monaldi, however, whose embarrassment had
been increasing with her performance, the situation
became so uneasy that nothing but the fear of
appearing rude prevented his sitting down. But
when she began to sing that tender air from
Metastasio,

and he beheld her devoted look, and heard her
impassioned tones, it seemed as if something
within him spoke — and all he felt, and what he
felt, rushed to his brain. “I love her!” said he
to himself — “I love her!”

Monaldi had scarcely made this discovery, when
he was called upon for his accompaniment. He
started, and taking up his violin, he began hurrying
over the strings with such rapidity that Rosalia
was obliged to request a slower movement. Then
he became too slow, drawing out his notes as if
performing a requiem. “A little quicker,” said
Landi. Monaldi changed his time. It became
worse; neither quick, nor slow, but a mixture of
both, like the long and short gallop of a battle
piece.

“Signor Monaldi!” cried the Advocate. Monaldi's
instrument fell from his hand.

The dead silence which followed this unlucky
crash brought Monaldi to himself, and the whole
train of his blunders came at once before him.
He felt his ears burn, and stood dumb with confusion.
Landi, seeing his distress, kindly endeavored
to laugh it off: but his efforts were in vain; Monaldi
could not even make an attempt to rally;
the thought of having appeared ridiculous, and
appeared so before Rosalia had quite overcome
him. He remained for a moment irresolute; then
uttering a kind of half intelligible apology about
sudden indisposition, he made a hurried bow and
withdrew.

“So,” said Landi, as the door closed upon his
guest, “I find we are left to finish the evening
tete-a-tete. Well, 't is no great hardship; 't is
not the first time I shall be indebted to you for
my evening's entertainment. Sit down, my dear,
and play me something from Pergolesi.

Rosalia obeyed.

“What is it you are playing?”

“Your favorite.”

“Well, go on.”

Rosalia continued, but her father listened in
vain; he could catch no sound like Pergolesi's.
He heard her through, however, with kindness
and patience, and then very considerately recollected
that he had letters to write.