The Italian | Page 9

of Naples on the strand below, and, spreading far among the
hills, its terraced roofs crowded with spectators, and the Corso
tumultuous with carriages and blazing with torches.
While Bonarmo surveyed this magnificent scene, Vivaldi turned his
eyes to the residence of Ellena, part of which looked out from among
the trees, with a hope that the spectacle would draw her to a balcony;
but she did not appear, nor was there any light, that might indicate her
approach.
While they still refted on the turf of the orangery, they heard a sudden
rustling of the leaves, as if the branches were disturbed by some person
who endeavoured to make his way between them, when Vivaldi
demanded who passed. No answer was returned, and a long silence
followed.
"We are observed," said Bonarmo, at length, "and are even now,
perhaps, almost beneath the poinard of the assassin: let us be gone."
"O that my heart were as secure from the darts of love, the assassin of
my peace," exclaimed Vivaldi, "as yours is from those of bravos! My
friend, you have little to interest you, since your thoughts have so much
leisure for apprehension."
"My fear is that of prudence, not of weakness," retorted Bonarmo, with
acrimony; "you will find, perhaps, that I have none, when you most
wish me to possess it."
"I understand you," replied Vivaldi; "let us finish this business, and you
shall receive reparation, since you believe yourself injured: I am as
anxious to repair an offence, as jealous of receiving one."
"Yes," replied Bonarmo, "you would repair the injury you have done
your friend with his blood."

"Oh! never, never!" said Vivaldi, falling on his neck. "Forgive my
hasty violence; allow for the distraction of my mind."
Bonarmo returned the embrace. "It is enough," said he; "no more, no
more! I hold again my friend to my heart."
While this conversation passed, they had quitted the orangery, and
reached the walls of the villa, where they took their station under a
balcony that overhung the lattice, through which Vivaldi had seen
Ellena on the preceding night. They tuned their instruments, and
opened the serenade with a duet.
Vivaldi's voice was a fine tenor, and the same susceptibility, which
made him passionately fond of music, taught him to modulate its
cadence with exquisite delicacy, and to give his emphasis with the most
simple and pathetic expression. His soul seemed to breathe in the
sounds, -- so tender, so imploring, yet so energetic. On this night,
enthusiasm inspired him with the highest eloquence, perhaps, which
music is capable of attaining; what might be its effect on Ellena he had
no means of judging, for she did not appear either at the balcony or the
lattice, nor gave any hint of applause. No sounds stole on the stillness
of the night, except those of the serenade, nor did any light from within
the villa break upon the obscurity without; once, indeed, in a pause of
the instruments, Bonarmo fancied he distinguished voices near him, as
of persons who feared to be heard, and he listened attentively, but
without ascertaining the truth. Sometimes they seemed to sound heavily
in his ear, and then a death-like silence prevailed. Vivaldi affirmed the
sound to be nothing more than the confused murmur of the distant
multitude on the shore, but Bonarmo was not thus easily convinced.
The musicians, unsuccessful in their first endeavour to attract attention,
removed to the opposite side of the building, and placed themselves in
front of the portico, but with as little success; and, after having
exercised their powers of harmony and of patience for above an hour,
they resigned all further effort to win upon the obdurate Ellena. Vivaldi,
notwithstanding the feebleness of his first hope of seeing her, now
suffered an agony of disappointment; and Bonarmo, alarmed for the
consequence of his despair, was as anxious to persuade him that he had

no rival, as he had lately been pertinacious in affirming that he had one.
At length, they left the gardens, Vivaldi protesting that he would not
rest till he had discovered the stranger, who so wantonly destroyed his
peace, and had compelled him to explain his ambiguous warnings; and
Bonarmo remonstrating on the imprudence and difficulty of the search,
and representing that such conduct would probably be the means of
spreading a report of his attachment, where most he dreaded it should
be known.
Vivaldi refused to yield to remonstrance or considerations of any kind.
"We shall see," said he, "whether this demon in the garb of a monk,
will haunt me again at the accustomed place; if he does, he shall not
escape my grasp; and if he does not, I will watch as vigilantly for his
return, as he seems to have done for