The Italian | Page 4

mother in her evening ride on the Corso, where, in every gay
carriage that passed, he hoped to see the object of his constant thought;
but she did not appear. His mother, the Marchesa di Vivaldi, observed

his anxiety and unusual silence, and asked him some questions, which
she meant should lead to an explanation of the change in his manners;
but his replies only excited a stronger curiosity, and, though she forbore
to press her enquiries, it was probable that she might employ a more
artful means of renewing them.
Vincentio di Vivaldi was the only son of the Marchese di Vivaldi, a
nobleman of one of the most ancient families of the kingdom of Naples,
a favourite possessing an uncommon share of influence at Court, and a
man still higher in power than in rank. His pride of birth was equal to
either, but it was mingled with the justifiable pride of a principled mind;
it governed his conduct in morals as well as in the jealousy of
ceremonial distinctions, and elevated his practice as well as his claims.
His pride was at once his vice and his virtue, his safeguard and his
weakness.
The mother of Vivaldi, descended from a family as ancient as that of
his father, was equally jealous of her importance; but her pride was that
of birth and distinction, without extending to morals. She was of
violent passions, haughty, vindictive, yet crafty and deceitful; patient in
stratagem, and indefatigable in pursuit of vengeance, on the unhappy
objects who provoked her resentment. She loved her son, rather as
being the last of two illustrious houses, who was to re-unite and support
the honour of both, than with the fondness of a mother.
Vincentio inherited much of the character of his father, and very little
of that of his mother. His pride was as noble and generous as that of the
Marchese; but he had somewhat of the fiery passions of the Marchesa,
without any of her craft, her duplicity, or vindictive thirst of revenge.
Frank in his temper, ingenuous in his sentiments, quickly offended, but
easily appeased; irritated by any appearance of disrespect, but melted
by a concession, a high sense of honor rendered him no more jealous of
offence, than a delicate humanity made him ready for reconciliation,
and anxious to spare the feelings of others.
On the day following that, on which he had seen Ellena, he returned to
the villa Altieri, to use the permission granted him of enquiring after
the health of Signora Bianchi. The expectation of seeing Ellena agitated

him with impatient joy and trembling hope, which still encreased as he
approached her residence, till, having reached the garden-gate, he was
obliged to rest for a few moments to recover breath and composure.
Having announced himself to an old female servant, who came to the
gate, he was soon after admitted to a small vestibule, where he found
Signora Bianchi winding balls of silk, and alone; though from the
position of a chair which stood near a frame for embroidery, he judged
that Ellena had but just quitted the apartment. Signora Bianchi received
him with a reserved politeness, and seemed very cautious in her replies
to his enquiries after her niece, who, he hoped, every moment, would
appear. He lengthened his visit till there was no longer an excuse for
doing so; till he had exhausted every topic of conversation, and till the
silence of Signora Bianchi seemed to hint, that his departure was
expected. With a heart saddened by disappointment, and having
obtained only a reluctant permission to enquire after the health of that
lady on some future day, he then took leave.
On his way through the garden he often paused to look back upon the
house, hoping to obtain a glimpse of Ellena at a lattice; and threw a
glance around him, almost expecting to see her seated beneath the
shade of the luxuriant plantains; but his search was every where vain,
and he quitted the place with the slow and heavy step of despondency.
The day was employed in endeavours to obtain intelligence concerning
the family of Ellena, but of this he procured little that was satisfactory.
He was told, that she was an orphan, living under the care of her aunt,
Signora Bianchi; that her family, which had never been illustrious, was
decayed in fortune, and that her only dependence was upon this aunt.
But he was ignorant of what was very true, though very secret, that she
assisted to support this aged relative, whose sole property was the small
estate on which they lived, and that she passed whole days in
embroidering silks, which were disposed of to the nuns of a
neighbouring convent, who sold them to the Neapolitan ladies, that
visited their grate,