Stradella | Page 8

marry her himself. Their offers were constantly
presented to him, sometimes by their fathers or mothers, and sometimes
by ingenious elderly friends who undertook such negotiations for a
financial consideration. But Pignaver always returned the same answer,
politely expressing his thanks for the honour done his niece, but saying
that he had 'other views for her.'
Pina, however, hated him for reasons of her own, which he had either
forgotten, or which he disregarded because, in his opinion, she was
under the greatest obligation to the house. Pina's hatred of her master
was more sincere, if possible, than her affection for Ortensia, and her
contempt for his intelligence was almost as profound as his own belief
in its superiority over that of other men.
These facts explain why Pina acted as she did, though they could not
possibly excuse her evil conduct in the eyes of righteous persons like
the Senator and others of his class, who would have thought it a
monstrous and unnatural thing that a noble Venetian girl should fall in
love with a music-master, though he were the most talented and famous
musician of his day.
This was what Pina did. In the middle of the fourth lesson she
deliberately laid aside her lace-pillow and left the room, well knowing
that her master would have her thrown out of the house at once, and
ducked in the canal besides, if he ever heard of it. But he was a man of

unchanging habits. Each time that Stradella came he led him in, sat
down, listened while Ortensia sang one of his own pieces, and then
went away, not to return that morning. So when Pina was quite sure
that his coming and going had settled to a habit, she boldly ran the risk,
if it was one, and left the two together.
Alessandro Stradella was a Sicilian on both sides, though he had been
born in Naples, and he wasted no time when his chance came. He tried
no little trick of word or glance, he did not gaze into Ortensia's eyes
and sigh, still less did he boldly try to take her hand and pour out a
fervid declaration of his love; for by this time, without the exchange of
a word, the girl had taken hold of his heart, and he saw her eyes before
him everywhere, in the sunlit streets and canals, and at night, in the
dark, and in his dreams.
He did none of these things. He was the master singer of his age, and he
himself had made divine melodies that still live; he knew his power,
and he trusted to that alone. The velvet curtain had scarcely fallen
behind Pina as she went out, when he bent over his lute, and with one
look at Ortensia began to sing. But it was not one of those ninety-seven
compositions on which the Senator prided himself: it was a love-song
of Stradella's own that he had made within the week in the secrecy of
his own room, and no one had heard it yet; and it was his masterpiece.
Ortensia felt that it was hers. That strange voice of his that was not
deep, yet never seemed high-pitched, breathed softly through and
through her being, as a spring breeze through young leaves, more felt
than heard, yet a wonder to hear. The notes vibrated, but did not
tremble; they swelled and grew strong and rang out fiercely, but were
never loud; and again they died away, but were not quite silent, and
lingered musically in the air, though a whisper would have drowned
them.
The girl's eyes grew dark under their drooping lids, and her face was
luminously pale; her delicate young lips moved now and then
unconsciously, and they were icy cold; but she felt a wild pulse beating
at her throat, as if her heart were there and breaking to be free.

She felt his look on her too, but she could not answer it, and when the
song ended she turned from him and laid her white cheek against the
high back of the chair, looking out at the cypress against the sky. She
could not tell whether it was pain or pleasure she felt, but it was almost
more than she could bear, and her hands strained upon each other,
clasped together just on her two knees.
In the silence the velvet curtain was lifted and fell again, and Pina's step
was heard on the marble floor.
'I have brought you some water to drink,' said the nurse quietly; and
speaking to both, 'Your throats must be dry with so much singing!'
Ortensia took one of the tall glasses and drank eagerly before she
turned her face from the window.
'Thank you,' she said, recovering herself and smiling at