The Italian | Page 5

at a very high advantage. He little thought, that a
beautiful robe, which he had often seen his mother wear, was worked
by Ellena; nor that some copies from the antique, which ornamented a

cabinet of the Vivaldi palace, were drawn by her hand. If he had known
these circumstances, they would only have served to encrease the
passion, which, since they were proofs of a disparity of fortune, that
would certainly render his family repugnant to a connection with hers,
it would have been prudent to discourage.
Ellena could have endured poverty, but not contempt; and it was to
protect herself from this effect of the narrow prejudices of the world
around her, that she had so cautiously concealed from it a knowledge of
the industry, which did honor to her character. She was not ashamed of
poverty, or of the industry which overcame it, but her spirit shrunk
from the senseless smile and humiliating condescension, which
prosperity sometimes gives to indigence. Her mind was not yet strong
enough, or her views sufficiently enlarged, to teach her a contempt of
the sneer of vicious folly, and to glory in the dignity of virtuous
independence. Ellena was the sole support of her aunt's declining years;
was patient to her infirmities, and consoling to her sufferings; and
repaid the fondness of a mother with the affection of a daughter. Her
mother she had never known, having lost her while she was an infant,
and from that period Signora Bianchi had performed the duties of one
for her.
Thus innocent and happy in the silent performance of her duties and in
the veil of retirement, lived Ellena Rosalba, when she first saw
Vincentio di Vivaldi. He was not of a figure to pass unobserved when
seen, and Ellena had been struck by the spirit and dignity of his air, and
by his countenance, so frank, noble, and full of that kind of expression,
which announces the energies of the soul. But she was cautious of
admitting a sentiment more tender than admiration, and endeavoured to
dismiss his image from her mind, and by engaging in her usual
occupations, to recover the state of tranquillity, which his appearance
had somewhat interrupted.
Vivaldi, mean while, restless from disappointment, and impatient from
anxiety, having passed the greater part of the day in enquiries, which
repaid him only with doubt and apprehension, determined to return to
the villa Altieri, when evening should conceal his steps, consoled by

the certainty of being near the object of his thoughts, and hoping, that
chance might favour him once more with a view, however transient, of
Ellena.
The Marchesa Vivaldi held an assembly this evening, and a suspicion
concerning the impatience he betrayed, induced her to detain him about
her person to a late hour, engaging him to select the music for her
orchestra, and to superintend the performance of a new piece, the work
of a composer whom she had brought into fashion. Her assemblies
were among the most brilliant and crowded in Naples, and the nobility,
who were to be at the palace this evening, were divided into two parties
as to the merits of the musical genius, whom she patronized, and those
of another candidate for fame. The performance of the evening, it was
expected, would finally decide the victory. This, therefore, was a night
of great importance and anxiety to the Marchesa, for she was as jealous
of the reputation of her favourite composer as of her own, and the
welfare of her son did but slightly divide her cares.
The moment he could depart unobserved, he quitted the assembly, and,
muffling himself in his cloak, hastened to the villa Altieri, which lay at
a short distance to the west of the city. He reached it unobserved, and,
breathless with impatience, traversed the boundary of the garden;
where, free from ceremonial restraint, and near the object of his
affection, he experienced for the few first moments a joy as exquisite as
her presence could have inspired. But this delight faded with its novelty,
and in a short time he felt as forlorn as if he was separated for ever
from Ellena, in whose presence he but lately almost believed himself.
The night was far advanced, and, no light appearing from the house, he
concluded the inhabitants had retired to rest, and all hope of seeing her
vanished from his mind. Still, however, it was sweet to be near her, and
he anxiously sought to gain admittance to the gardens, that he might
approach the window where it was possible she reposed. The boundary,
formed of trees and thick shrubs, was not difficult to be passed, and he
found himself once more in the portico of the villa.
It was nearly midnight, and the stillness that reigned was rather