Stradella | Page 4

lean back and think, and wonder,
watching the familiar outline of the dark cypress against the open sky.
She had been learning a song by a new composer, of whom she had
never heard till now, and the manuscript lay open on a cushioned stool
beside her. For a time she had followed the notes and words carefully
with her voice, picking out the accompaniment on her lute from the
figured bass, as musicians did in those days. At first it had not meant
much to her; it was difficult, the intervals were unexpected and strange,
she could not find the right chords, the words would not quite make
sense, and some of them were unfamiliar to her.
But she was patient, and she had talent, and she had tried again and
again, very soft and low, so that the woman in grey had nearly fallen

asleep over her lace, nodding visibly and recovering herself each time
with a little grunt.
Then, all at once, the breath of spring came in, like the breath of life,
with the warm scent of the garden below, and the sunlight had stolen
across the Persian carpet to her feet. She turned from the manuscript
she had been studying, and without it her fingers suddenly found the
chords, and her lips the words, and the melody floated out with them
into the stillness, low, trembling, and passionate as the burden of a
love-dream, a wonder to hear.
But she scarcely heard it herself, for it came unconsciously. The
meaning had dawned upon her unawares, and she understood without
ears, as if the music were all in her heart, and much nearer to her life
than it could come by hearing alone.
It stirred delicious depths within her; the spring and the sun and the
melody waked that in her which had slept the long sleep of childhood,
while her beautiful outward self was maturing to the blossom.
She understood, and yet she did not; it was a bewildering joy, but it was
a longing; it was an exquisite satisfaction, yet it was also a secret,
unspeakable wish; it was the first thrill of a feeling too exquisite for
words to describe, but with it there came a mysterious forelightening of
something unknown that troubled her maiden peace.
Her lips quivered, her voice died away to a whisper, while her body
vibrated still, like the last string she touched on the lute; a sudden
warmth came to her face then, and sank suddenly away, and all at once
it was all past, and she was gazing at the dark top of the cypress, and a
strange, listless, half-sweet loneliness had come upon her, wherein
nothing mattered any more, nor could anything ever matter again.
That was what had just happened. But the woman in grey had not
noticed it, though she was wide awake now and busily plying her
bobbins.
Then the heavy velvet curtain before the door was lifted, and a man's

footstep was heard on the marble floor, and there was another step after
it. Ortensia turned her head carelessly against the back of the chair to
see who was coming, and then rose quickly to her feet.
The Senator had entered and was ushering in a man she had never seen,
a handsome young man of five-and-twenty or so, with a thoughtful face
and deep-set eyes, of a rather dark complexion, as if he came from the
south; his manner was grave, and he was soberly dressed in a black
velvet coat with purple silk facings, and wore a plain broad collar of
linen instead of the fashionable lace; he was a man of middle height
and well made, and he moved easily. In his left hand he carried a
musical instrument in a purple bag.
[Illustration: '"This is the celebrated Maestro Alessandro Stradella of
Naples"']
He bowed very low as soon as the Senator stood still before Ortensia.
'This,' said the master of the house, 'is the celebrated Maestro
Alessandro Stradella of Naples, by far the greatest musician and
composer in Italy, who has very kindly consented to hear you sing, and
to give you a few lessons if he finds you sufficiently advanced.'
Ortensia was surprised, and anything but displeased, but she showed no
emotion. The young man before her was the composer of the song she
had been studying, the very one that had so strongly disturbed her a few
minutes ago; this of itself would have been interesting, even if he had
not been such a singularly handsome young man.
The woman in grey, who was her nurse, had risen too, and was looking
at the musician with more curiosity than might have been expected in a
sober person of her years.
Ortensia bent her head a little, in acknowledgment