Chapter III: Part 3

I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at
balls, at concerts; at the promenades in the gardens of San
Georgio; at the grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark;
among the throng of merchants on the Exchange by the Rialto. He
seemed, in fact, to seek crowds; to hunt after bustle and
amusement; yet never to take any interest in either the business
or gayety of the scene. Ever an air of painful thought, of
wretched abstraction; and ever that strange and recurring
movement, of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not know
at first but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest; or
perhaps from dread of assassination. But, if so, why should he go
thus continually abroad; why expose himself at all times and in
all places?

I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by
that Romantic sympathy that sometimes draws young men towards
each other. His melancholy threw a charm about him in my eyes,
which was no doubt heightened by the touching expression of his
countenance, and the manly graces of his person; for manly beauty
has its effect even upon man. I had an Englishman’s habitual
diffidence and awkwardness of address to contend with; but I
subdued it, and from frequently meeting him in the Cassino,
gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserve on
his part to contend with. He seemed on the contrary to court
society; and in fact to seek anything rather than be alone.

When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himself
entirely upon my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man.
He would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St.
Mark—or he would sit until night was far advanced in my
apartment; he took rooms under the same roof with me; and his
constant request was, that I would permit him, when it did not
incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. It was not that he
seemed to take a particular delight in my conversation; but
rather that he craved the vicinity of a human being; and above
all, of a being that sympathized with him. “I have often heard,”
said he, “of the sincerity of Englishmen—thank God I have one at
length for a friend!”

Yet he never seemed disposed to avail himself of my sympathy
other than by mere companionship. He never sought to unbosom
himself to me; there appeared to be a settled corroding anguish
in his bosom that neither could be soothed “by silence nor by
speaking.” A devouring melancholy preyed upon his heart, and
seemed to be drying up the very blood in his veins. It was not a
soft melancholy—the disease of the affections; but a parching,
withering agony. I could see at times that his mouth was dry and
feverish; he almost panted rather than breathed; his eyes were
bloodshot; his cheeks pale and livid; with now and then faint
streaks athwart them—baleful gleams of the fire that was
consuming his heart. As my arm was within his, I felt him press
it at times with a convulsive motion to his side; his hands would
clinch themselves involuntarily, and a kind of shudder would run
through his frame. I reasoned with him about his melancholy, and
sought to draw from him the cause—he shrunk from all confiding.
“Do not seek to know it,” said he, “you could not relieve it if
you knew it; you would not even seek to relieve it—on the
contrary, I should lose your sympathy; and that,” said he,
pressing my hand convulsively, “that I feel has become too dear
to me to risk.”

I endeavored to awaken hope within him. He was young; life had a
thousand pleasures in store for him; there is a healthy reaction
in the youthful heart; it medicines its own wounds—

“Come, come,” said I, “there is no grief so great that youth
cannot outgrow it.”—“No! no!” said he, clinching his teeth, and
striking repeatedly, with the energy of despair, upon his
bosom—“It is here—here—deep-rooted; draining my heart’s blood. It
grows and grows, while my heart withers and withers! I have a
dreadful monitor that gives me no repose—that follows me step by
step; and will follow me step by step, until it pushes me into my
grave!”

As he said this he gave involuntarily one of those fearful
glances over his shoulder, and shrunk back with more than usual
horror. I could not resist the temptation to allude to this
movement, which I supposed to be some mere malady of the nerves.
The moment I mentioned it his face became crimsoned and
convulsed—he grasped me by both hands: “For God’s sake,”
exclaimed he, with a piercing agony of voice—“never allude to
that again; let us avoid this subject, my friend; you cannot
relieve me, indeed you cannot relieve me; but you may add to the
torments I suffer;—at some future day you shall know all.”

I never resumed the subject; for however much my curiosity might
be aroused, I felt too true compassion for his sufferings to
increase them by my intrusion. I sought various ways to divert
his mind, and to arouse him from the constant meditations in
which he was plunged. He saw my efforts, and seconded them as far
as in his power, for there was nothing moody or wayward in his
nature; on the contrary, there was something frank, generous,
unassuming, in his whole deportment. All the sentiments that he
uttered were noble and lofty. He claimed no indulgence; he asked
no toleration. He seemed content to carry his load of misery in
silence, and only sought to carry it by my side. There was a mute
beseeching manner about him, as if he craved companionship as a
charitable boon; and a tacit thankfulness in his looks, as if he
felt grateful to me for not repulsing him.

I felt this melancholy to be infectious. It stole over my
spirits; Interfered with all my gay pursuits, and gradually
saddened my life; yet I could not prevail upon myself to shake
off a being who seemed to hang upon me for support. In truth, the
generous traits of character that beamed through all this gloom
had penetrated to my heart. His bounty was lavish and
open-handed. His charity melting and spontaneous. Not confined to
mere donations, which often humiliate as much as they relieve.
The tone of his voice, the beam of his eye, enhanced every gift,
and surprised the poor suppliant with that rarest and sweetest of
charities, the charity not merely of the hand, but of the heart.
Indeed, his liberality seemed to have something in it of
self-abasement and expiation. He humbled himself, in a manner,
before the mendicant. “What right have I to ease and affluence,”
would he murmur to himself, “when innocence wanders in misery and
rags?”

The Carnival time arrived. I had hoped that the gay scenes which
then Presented themselves might have some cheering effect. I
mingled with him in the motley throng that crowded the place of
St. Mark. We frequented operas, masquerades, balls. All in vain.
The evil kept growing on him; he became more and more haggard and
agitated. Often, after we had returned from one of these scenes
of revelry, I have entered his room, and found him lying on his
face on the sofa: his hands clinched in his fine hair, and his
whole countenance bearing traces of the convulsions of his mind.

The Carnival passed away; the season of Lent succeeded; Passion
week arrived. We attended one evening a solemn service in one of
the churches; in the course of which a grand piece of vocal and
instrumental music was performed relating to the death of our
Saviour.

I had remarked that he was always powerfully affected by music;
on this occasion he was so in an extraordinary degree. As the
peeling notes swelled through the lofty aisles, he seemed to
kindle up with fervor. His eyes rolled upwards, until nothing but
the whites were visible; his hands were clasped together, until
the fingers were deeply imprinted in the flesh. When the music
expressed the dying agony, his face gradually sunk upon his
knees; and at the touching words resounding through the church,
“_Jesu mori_,” sobs burst from him uncontrolled. I had never seen
him weep before; his had always been agony rather than sorrow. I
augured well from the circumstance. I let him weep on
uninterrupted. When the service was ended we left the church. He
hung on my arm as we walked homewards, with something of a softer
and more subdued manner; instead of that nervous agitation I had
been accustomed to witness. He alluded to the service we had
heard. “Music,” said he, “is indeed the voice of heaven; never
before have I felt more impressed by the story of the atonement
of our Saviour. Yes, my friend,” said he, clasping his hands with
a kind of transport, “I know that my Redeemer liveth.”

We parted for the night. His room was not far from mine, and I
heard him for some time busied in it. I fell asleep, but was
awakened before daylight. The young man stood by my bed-side,
dressed for travelling. He held a sealed packet and a large
parcel in his hand, which he laid on the table. “Farewell, my
friend,” said he, “I am about to set forth on a long journey;
but, before I go, I leave with you these remembrances. In this
packet you will find the particulars of my story. When you read
them, I shall be far away; do not remember me with aversion. You
have been, indeed, a friend to me. You have poured oil into a
broken heart,—but you could not heal it.—Farewell—let me kiss
your hand—I am unworthy to embrace you.” He sunk on his knees,
seized my hand in despite of my efforts to the contrary, and
covered it with kisses. I was so surprised by all this scene that
I had not been able to say a word.

But we shall meet again, said I, hastily, as I saw him hurrying
towards the door.

“Never—never in this world!” said he, solemnly. He sprang once
more to my bed-side—seized my hand, pressed it to his heart and
to his lips, and rushed out of the room.

Here the Baronet paused. He seemed lost in thought, and sat
looking upon the floor and drumming with his fingers on the arm
of his chair.

“And did this mysterious personage return?” said the inquisitive
gentleman. “Never!” replied the Baronet, with a pensive shake of
the head: “I never saw him again.” “And pray what has all this to
do with the picture?” inquired the old gentleman with the
nose—“True!” said the questioner—“Is it the portrait of this
crack-brained Italian?” “No!” said the Baronet drily, not half
liking the appellation given to his hero; “but this picture was
inclosed in the parcel he left with me. The sealed packet
contained its explanation. There was a request on the outside
that I would not open it until six months had elapsed. I kept my
promise, in spite of my curiosity. I have a translation of it by
me, and had meant to read it, by way of accounting for the
mystery of the chamber, but I fear I have already detained the
company too long.”

Here there was a general wish expressed to have the manuscript
read; particularly on the part of the inquisitive gentleman. So
the worthy Baronet drew out a fairly written manuscript, and
wiping his spectacles, read aloud the following story:

THE STORY OF THE YOUNG ITALIAN

I was born at Naples. My parents, though of noble rank, were
limited in fortune, or rather my father was ostentatious beyond
his means, and expended so much in his palace, his equipage, and
his retinue, that he was continually straitened in his pecuniary
circumstances. I was a younger son, and looked upon with
indifference by my father, who, from a principle of family pride,
wished to leave all his property to my elder brother.

I showed, when quite a child, an extreme sensibility. Every thing
affected me violently. While yet an infant in my mother’s arms,
and before I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought upon to a
wonderful degree of anguish or delight by the power of music. As
I grew older my feelings remained equally acute, and I was easily
transported into paroxysms of pleasure or rage. It was the
amusement of my relatives and of the domestics to play upon this
irritable temperament. I was moved to tears, tickled to laughter,
provoked to fury, for the entertainment of company, who were
amused by such a tempest of mighty passion in a pigmy frame. They
little thought, or perhaps little heeded the dangerous
sensibilities they were fostering. I thus became a little
creature of passion, before reason was developed. In a short time
I grew too old to be a plaything, and then I became a torment.
The tricks and passions I had been teased into became irksome,
and I was disliked by my teachers for the very lessons they had
taught me.

My mother died; and my power as a spoiled child was at an end.
There was no longer any necessity to humor or tolerate me, for
there was nothing to be gained by it, as I was no favorite of my
father. I therefore experienced the fate of a spoiled child in
such situation, and was neglected or noticed only to be crossed
and contradicted. Such was the early treatment of a heart, which,
if I am judge of it at all, was naturally disposed to the
extremes of tenderness and affection.

My father, as I have already said, never liked me—in fact, he
never Understood me; he looked upon me as wilful and wayward, as
deficient in natural affection:—it was the stateliness of his own
manner; the loftiness and grandeur of his own look that had
repelled me from his arms. I always pictured him to myself as I
had seen him clad in his senatorial robes, rustling with pomp and
pride. The magnificence of his person had daunted my strong
imagination. I could never approach him with the confiding
affection of a child.

My father’s feelings were wrapped up in my elder brother. He was
to be the inheritor of the family title and the family dignity,
and every thing was sacrificed to him—I, as well as every thing
else. It was determined to devote me to the church, that so my
humors and myself might be removed out of the way, either of
tasking my father’s time and trouble, or interfering with the
interests of my brother. At an early age, therefore, before my
mind had dawned upon the world and its delights, or known any
thing of it beyond the precincts of my father’s palace, I was
sent to a convent, the superior of which was my uncle, and was
confided entirely to his care.

My uncle was a man totally estranged from the world; he had never
relished, for he had never tasted its pleasures; and he deemed
rigid self-denial as the great basis of Christian virtue. He
considered every one’s temperament like his own; or at least he
made them conform to it. His character and habits had an
influence over the fraternity of which he was superior. A more
gloomy, saturnine set of beings were never assembled together.
The convent, too, was calculated to awaken sad and solitary
thoughts. It was situated in a gloomy gorge of those mountains
away south of Vesuvius. All distant views were shut out by
sterile volcanic heights. A mountain stream raved beneath its
walls, and eagles screamed about its turrets.

I had been sent to this place at so tender an age as soon to lose
all Distinct recollection of the scenes I had left behind. As my
mind expanded, therefore, it formed its idea of the world from
the convent and its vicinity, and a dreary world it appeared to
me. An early tinge of melancholy was thus infused into my
character; and the dismal stories of the monks, about devils and
evil spirits, with which they affrighted my young imagination,
gave me a tendency to superstition, which I could never
effectually shake off. They took the same delight to work upon my
ardent feelings that had been so mischievously exercised by my
father’s household.

I can recollect the horrors with which they fed my heated fancy
during an eruption of Vesuvius. We were distant from that
volcano, with mountains between us; but its convulsive throes
shook the solid foundations of nature. Earthquakes threatened to
topple down our convent towers. A lurid, baleful light hung in
the heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by the wind,
fell in our narrow valley. The monks talked of the earth being
honey-combed beneath us; of Streams of molten lava raging through
its veins; of caverns of sulphurous flames roaring in the centre,
the abodes of demons and the damned; of fiery gulfs ready to yawn
beneath our feet. All these tales were told to the doleful
accompaniment of the mountain’s thunders, whose low bellowing
made the walls of our convent vibrate.

One of the monks had been a painter, but had retired from the
world, and embraced this dismal life in expiation of some crime.
He was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in the solitude of
his cell, but made it a source of penance to him. His employment
was to portray, either on canvas or in waxen models, the human
face and human form, in the agonies of death and in all the
stages of dissolution and decay. The fearful mysteries of the
charnel house were unfolded in his labors—the loathsome banquet
of the beetle and the worm.—I turn with shuddering even from the
recollection of his works. Yet, at that time, my strong, but
ill-directed imagination seized with ardor upon his instructions
in his art. Any thing was a variety from the dry studies and
monotonous duties of the cloister. In a little while I became
expert with my pencil, and my gloomy productions were thought
worthy of decorating some of the altars of the chapel.

In this dismal way was a creature of feeling and fancy brought
up. Every thing genial and amiable in my nature was repressed and
nothing brought out but what was unprofitable and ungracious. I
was ardent in my temperament; quick, mercurial, impetuous, formed
to be a creature all love and adoration; but a leaden hand was
laid on all my finer qualities. I was taught nothing but fear and
hatred. I hated my uncle, I hated the monks, I hated the convent
in which I was immured. I hated the world, and I almost hated
myself, for being, as I supposed, so hating and hateful an
animal.

When I had nearly attained the age of sixteen, I was suffered, on
one occasion, to accompany one of the brethren on a mission to a
distant part of the country. We soon left behind us the gloomy
valley in which I had been pent up for so many years, and after a
short journey among the mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous
landscape that spreads itself about the Bay of Naples. Heavens!
How transported was I, when I stretched my gaze over a vast reach
of delicious sunny country, gay with groves and vineyards; with
Vesuvius rearing its forked summit to my right; the blue
Mediterranean to my left, with its enchanting coast, studded with
shining towns and sumptuous villas; and Naples, my native Naples,
gleaming far, far in the distance.

Good God! was this the lovely world from which I had been
excluded! I Had reached that age when the sensibilities are in
all their bloom and freshness. Mine had been checked and chilled.
They now burst forth with the suddenness of a retarded spring. My
heart, hitherto unnaturally shrunk up, expanded into a riot of
vague, but delicious emotions. The beauty of nature intoxicated,
bewildered me. The song of the peasants; their cheerful looks;
their happy avocations; the picturesque gayety of their dresses;
their rustic music; their dances; all broke upon me like
witchcraft. My soul responded to the music; my heart danced in my
bosom. All the men appeared amiable, all the women lovely.

I returned to the convent, that is to say, my body returned but
my heart and soul never entered there again. I could not forget
this glimpse of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so suited
to my natural character. I had felt so happy while in it; so
different a being from what I felt myself while in the
convent—that tomb of the living. I contrasted the countenances of
the beings I had seen, full of fire and freshness and enjoyment,
with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre visages of the monks; the
music of the dance, with the droning chant of the chapel. I had
before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome; they now
became intolerable. The dull round of duties wore away my spirit;
my nerves became irritated by the fretful tinkling of the convent
bell; evermore dinging among the mountain echoes; evermore
calling me from my repose at night, my pencil by day, to attend
to some tedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion.

I was not of a nature to meditate long, without putting my
thoughts into action. My spirit had been suddenly aroused, and
was now all awake within me. I watched my opportunity, fled from
the convent, and made my way on foot to Naples. As I entered its
gay and crowded streets, and beheld the variety and stir of life
around me, the luxury of palaces, the splendor of equipages, and
the pantomimic animation of the motley populace, I seemed as if
awakened to a world of enchantment, and solemnly vowed that
nothing should force me back to the monotony of the cloister.

I had to inquire my way to my father’s palace, for I had been so
young on leaving it, that I knew not its situation. I found some
difficulty in getting admitted to my father’s presence, for the
domestics scarcely knew that there was such a being as myself in
existence, and my monastic dress did not operate in my favor.
Even my father entertained no recollection of my person. I told
him my name, threw myself at his feet, implored his forgiveness,
and entreated that I might not be sent back to the convent.

He received me with the condescension of a patron rather than the
kindness of a parent. He listened patiently, but coldly, to my
tale of monastic grievances and disgusts, and promised to think
what else could be done for me. This coldness blighted and drove
back all the frank affection of my nature that was ready to
spring forth at the least warmth of parental kindness. All my
early feelings towards my father revived; I again looked up to
him as the stately magnificent being that had daunted my childish
imagination, and felt as if I had no pretensions to his
sympathies. My brother engrossed all his care and love; he
inherited his nature, and carried himself towards me with a
protecting rather than a fraternal air. It wounded my pride,
which was great. I could brook condescension from my father, for
I looked up to him with awe as a superior being, but I could not
brook patronage from a brother, who, I felt, was intellectually
my inferior. The servants perceived that I was an unwelcome
intruder in the paternal mansion, and, menial-like, they treated
me with neglect. Thus baffled at every point; my affections
outraged wherever they would attach themselves, I became sullen,
silent, and despondent. My feelings driven back upon myself,
entered and preyed upon my own heart. I remained for some days an
unwelcome guest rather than a restored son in my father’s house.
I was doomed never to be properly known there. I was made, by
wrong treatment, strange even to myself; and they judged of me
from my strangeness.

I was startled one day at the sight of one of the monks of my
convent, gliding out of my father’s room. He saw me, but
pretended not to notice me; and this very hypocrisy made me
suspect something. I had become sore and susceptible in my
feelings; every thing inflicted a wound on them. In this state of
mind I was treated with marked disrespect by a pampered minion,
the favorite servant of my father. All the pride and passion of
my nature rose in an instant, and I struck him to the earth.

My father was passing by; he stopped not to inquire the reason,
nor indeed could he read the long course of mental sufferings
which were the real cause. He rebuked me with anger and scorn; he
summoned all the haughtiness of his nature, and grandeur of his
look, to give weight to the contumely with which he treated me. I
felt I had not deserved it—I felt that I was not appreciated—I
felt that I had that within me which merited better treatment; my
heart swelled against a father’s injustice. I broke through my
habitual awe of him. I replied to him with impatience; my hot
spirit flushed in my cheek and kindled in my eye, but my
sensitive heart swelled as quickly, and before I had half vented
my passion I felt it suffocated and quenched in my tears. My
father was astonished and incensed at this turning of the worm,
and ordered me to my chamber. I retired in silence, choking with
contending emotions.

I had not been long there when I overheard voices in an adjoining
apartment. It was a consultation between my father and the monk,
about the means of getting me back quietly to the convent. My
resolution was taken. I had no longer a home nor a father. That
very night I left the paternal roof. I got on board a vessel
about making sail from the harbor, and abandoned myself to the
wide world. No matter to what port she steered; any part of so
beautiful a world was better than my convent. No matter where I
was cast by fortune; any place would be more a home to me than
the home I had left behind. The vessel was bound to Genoa. We
arrived there after a voyage of a few days.

As I entered the harbor, between the moles which embrace it, and
beheld the amphitheatre of palaces and churches and splendid
gardens, rising one above another, I felt at once its title to
the appellation of Genoa the Superb. I landed on the mole an
utter stranger, without knowing what to do, or whither to direct
my steps. No matter; I was released from the thraldom of the
convent and the humiliations of home! When I traversed the Strada
Balbi and the Strada Nuova, those streets of palaces, and gazed
at the wonders of architecture around me; when I wandered at
close of day, amid a gay throng of the brilliant and the
beautiful, through the green alleys of the Aqua Verdi, or among
the colonnades and terraces of the magnificent Doria Gardens, I
thought it impossible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa.

A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty purse was
exhausted, and for the first time in my life I experienced the
sordid distress of penury. I had never known the want of money,
and had never adverted to the possibility of such an evil. I was
ignorant of the world and all its ways; and when first the idea
of destitution came over my mind its effect was withering. I was
wandering pensively through the streets which no longer delighted
my eyes, when chance led my stops into the magnificent church of
the Annunciata.

A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment superintending
the placing of one of his pictures over an altar. The proficiency
which I had acquired in his art during my residence in the
convent had made me an enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the
first glance, with the painting. It was the face of a Madonna. So
innocent, so lovely, such a divine expression of maternal
tenderness! I lost for the moment all recollection of myself in
the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my hands together, and
uttered an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceived my
emotion. He was flattered and gratified by it. My air and manner
pleased him, and he accosted me. I felt too much the want of
friendship to repel the advances of a stranger, and there was
something in this one so benevolent and winning that in a moment
he gained my confidence.

I told him my story and my situation, concealing only my name and
rank. He appeared strongly interested by my recital; invited me
to his house, and from that time I became his favorite pupil. He
thought he perceived in me extraordinary talents for the art, and
his encomiums awakened all my ardor. What a blissful period of my
existence was it that I passed beneath his roof. Another being
seemed created within me, or rather, all that was amiable and
excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse as ever I had been at
the convent, but how different was my seclusion. My time was
spent in storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas; in
meditating on all that was striking and noble in history or
fiction; in studying and tracing all that was sublime and
beautiful in nature. I was always a visionary, imaginative being,
but now my reveries and imaginings all elevated me to rapture.

I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had
opened to me a region of enchantment. I became devotedly attached
to him. He was not a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither
by the solicitation of several of the nobility, and had resided
there but a few years, for the completion of certain works he had
undertaken. His health was delicate, and he had to confide much
of the filling up of his designs to the pencils of his scholars.
He considered me as particularly happy in delineating the human
countenance; in seizing upon characteristic, though fleeting
expressions and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas. I was
employed continually, therefore, in sketching faces, and often
when some particular grace or beauty or expression was wanted in
a countenance, it was entrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was
fond of bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my
actual skill, and partly by his partial praises, I began to be
noted for the expression of my countenances.

Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an
historical piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were
to be introduced the likenesses of several of the family. Among
these was one entrusted to my pencil. It was that of a young
girl, who as yet was in a convent for her education. She came out
for the purpose of sitting for the picture. I first saw her in an
apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces of Genoa. She stood
before a casement that looked out upon the bay, a stream of
vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory round her
as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was but sixteen years
of age—and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like a mere
vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down
and worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets
and painters, when they would express the _beau ideal_ that
haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable perfection.

I was permitted to sketch her countenance in various positions,
and I Fondly protracted the study that was undoing me. The more I
gazed on her the more I became enamoured; there was something
almost painful in my intense admiration. I was but nineteen years
of age; shy, diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with
attention and encouragement, for my youth and my enthusiasm in my
art had won favor for me; and I am inclined to think that there
was something in my air and manner that inspired interest and
respect. Still the kindness with which I was treated could not
dispel the embarrassment into which my own imagination threw me
when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated her into
something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisite for
earthly use; too delicate and exalted for human attainment. As I
sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my eyes occasionally
riveted on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me
giddy. My heart alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached
with despair. Now I became more than ever sensible of the violent
fires that had lain dormant at the bottom of my soul. You who are
born in a more temperate climate and under a cooler sky, have
little idea of the violence of passion in our southern bosoms.

A few days finished my task; Bianca returned to her convent, but
her image remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt on
my imagination; it became my pervading idea of beauty. It had an
effect even upon my pencil; I became noted for my felicity in
depicting female loveliness; it was but because I multiplied the
image of Bianca. I soothed, and yet fed my fancy, by introducing
her in all the productions of my master. I have stood with
delight in one of the chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the
crowd extol the seraphic beauty of a saint which I had painted; I
have seen them bow down in adoration before the painting: they
were bowing before the loveliness of Bianca.

I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say delirium, for
upwards of a year. Such is the tenacity of my imagination that
the image which was formed in it continued in all its power and
freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative being, much given
to reverie, and apt to foster ideas which had once taken strong
possession of me. I was roused from this fond, melancholy,
delicious dream by the death of my worthy benefactor. I cannot
describe the pangs his death occasioned me. It left me alone and
almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to me his little property;
which, from the liberality of his disposition and his expensive
style of living, was indeed but small; and he most particularly
recommended me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman who had
been his patron.

The latter was a man who passed for munificent. He was a lover
and an encourager of the arts, and evidently wished to be thought
so. He fancied he saw in me indications of future excellence; my
pencil had already attracted attention; he took me at once under
his protection; seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and
incapable of exerting myself in the mansion of my late
benefactor, he invited me to sojourn for a time in a villa which
he possessed on the border of the sea, in the picturesque
neighborhood of Sestri de Ponenti.

I found at the villa the Count’s only son, Filippo: he was nearly
of my age, prepossessing in his appearance, and fascinating in
his manners; he attached himself to me, and seemed to court my
good opinion. I thought there was something of profession in his
kindness, and of caprice in his disposition; but I had nothing
else near me to attach myself to, and my heart felt the need of
something to repose itself upon. His education had been
neglected; he looked upon me as his superior in mental powers and
acquirements, and tacitly acknowledged my superiority. I felt
that I was his equal in birth, and that gave an independence to
my manner which had its effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw
sometimes exercised on others, over whom he had power, were never
manifested towards me. We became intimate friends, and frequent
companions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the
reveries of my own imagination, among the beautiful scenery by
which I was surrounded.

The villa stood in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely
decorated With statues and fountains, and laid out into groves
and alleys and shady bowers. It commanded a wide view of the
Mediterranean, and the picturesque Ligurian coast. Every thing
was assembled here that could gratify the taste or agreeably
occupy the mind. Soothed by the tranquillity of this elegant
retreat, the turbulence of my feelings gradually subsided, and,
blending with the romantic spell that still reigned over my
imagination, produced a soft voluptuous melancholy.

I had not been long under the roof of the Count, when our
solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant. It was a daughter
of a relation of the Count, who had lately died in reduced
circumstances, bequeathing this only child to his protection. I
had heard much of her beauty from Filippo, but my fancy had
become so engrossed by one idea of beauty as not to admit of any
other. We were in the central saloon of the villa when she
arrived. She was still in mourning, and approached, leaning on
the Count’s arm. As they ascended the marble portico, I was
struck by the elegance of her figure and movement, by the grace
with which the _mezzaro_, the bewitching veil of Genoa, was
folded about her slender form.

They entered. Heavens! what was my surprise when I beheld Bianca
before me. It was herself; pale with grief; but still more
matured in loveliness than when I had last beheld her. The time
that had elapsed had developed the graces of her person; and the
sorrow she had undergone had diffused over her countenance an
irresistible tenderness.

She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and tears rushed into her
eyes, for she remembered in whose company she had been accustomed
to behold me. For my part, I cannot express what were my
emotions. By degrees I overcame the extreme shyness that had
formerly paralyzed me in her presence. We were drawn together by
sympathy of situation. We had each lost our best friend in the
world; we were each, in some measure thrown upon the kindness of
others. When I came to know her intellectually, all my ideal
picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness to the world, her
delightful susceptibility to every thing beautiful and agreeable
in nature, reminded me of my own emotions when first I escaped
from the convent. Her rectitude of thinking delighted my
judgment; the sweetness of her nature wrapped itself around my
heart; and then her young and tender and budding loveliness, sent
a delicious madness to my brain.

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as something more than
mortal; and I felt humiliated at the idea of my comparative
unworthiness. Yet she was mortal; and one of mortality’s most
susceptible and loving compounds; for she loved me!

How first I discovered the transporting truth I cannot recollect;
I believe it stole upon me by degrees, as a wonder past hope or
belief. We were both at such a tender and loving age; in constant
intercourse with each other; mingling in the same elegant
pursuits; for music, poetry, and painting were our mutual
delights, and we were almost separated from society, among lovely
and romantic scenery! Is it strange that two young hearts thus
brought together should readily twine round each other?

Oh, gods! what a dream—a transient dream! of unalloyed delight
then passed over my soul! Then it was that the world around me
was indeed a paradise, for I had a woman—lovely, delicious woman,
to share it with me. How often have I rambled over the
picturesque shores of Sestri, or climbed its wild mountains, with
the coast gemmed with villas, and the blue sea far below me, and
the slender Pharo of Genoa on its romantic promontory in the
distance; and as I sustained the faltering steps of Bianca, have
thought there could no unhappiness enter into so beautiful a
world. Why, oh, why is this budding season of life and love so
transient—why is this rosy cloud of love that sheds such a glow
over the morning of our days so prone to brew up into the
whirlwind and the storm!

I was the first to awaken from this blissful delirium of the
affections. I had gained Bianca’s heart: what was I to do with
it? I had no wealth nor prospects to entitle me to her hand. Was
I to take advantage of her ignorance of the world, of her
confiding affection, and draw her down to my own poverty? Was
this requiting the hospitality of the Count?—was this requiting
the love of Bianca?

Now first I began to feel that even successful love may have its
bitterness. A corroding care gathered about my heart. I moved
about the palace like a guilty being. I felt as if I had abused
its hospitality—as if I were a thief within its walls. I could no
longer look with unembarrassed mien in the countenance of the
Count. I accused myself of perfidy to him, and I thought he read
it in my looks, and began to distrust and despise me. His manner
had always been ostentatious and condescending, it now appeared
cold and haughty. Filippo, too, became reserved and distant; or
at least I suspected him to be so. Heavens!—was this mere coinage
of my brain: was I to become suspicious of all the world?—a poor
surmising wretch; watching looks and gestures; and torturing
myself with misconstructions. Or if true—was I to remain beneath
a roof where I was merely tolerated, and linger there on
sufferance? “This is not to be endured!” exclaimed I; “I will
tear myself from this state of self-abasement; I will break
through this fascination and fly—Fly?—whither?—from the
world?—for where is the world when I leave Bianca behind me?”

My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled within me at the idea
of being looked upon with contumely. Many times I was on the
point of declaring my family and rank, and asserting my equality,
in the presence of Bianca, when I thought her relatives assumed
an air of superiority. But the feeling was transient. I
considered myself discarded and contemned by my family; and had
solemnly vowed never to own relationship to them, until they
themselves should claim it.

The struggle of my mind preyed upon my happiness and my health.
It seemed as if the uncertainty of being loved would be less
intolerable than thus to be assured of it, and yet not dare to
enjoy the conviction. I was no longer the enraptured admirer of
Bianca; I no longer hung in ecstasy on the tones of her voice,
nor drank in with insatiate gaze the beauty of her countenance.
Her very smiles ceased to delight me, for I felt culpable in
having won them.

She could not but be sensible of the change in me, and inquired
the cause with her usual frankness and simplicity. I could not
evade the inquiry, for my heart was full to aching. I told her
all the conflict of my soul; my devouring passion, my bitter
self-upbraiding. “Yes!” said I, “I am unworthy of you. I am an
offcast from my family—a wanderer—a nameless, homeless wanderer,
with nothing but poverty for my portion, and yet I have dared to
love you—have dared to aspire to your love!”

My agitation moved her to tears; but she saw nothing in my
situation so hopeless as I had depicted it. Brought up in a
convent, she knew nothing of the world, its wants, its
cares;—and, indeed, what woman is a worldly casuist in matters of
the heart!—Nay, more—she kindled into a sweet enthusiasm when she
spoke of my fortunes and myself. We had dwelt together on the
works of the famous masters. I had related to her their
histories; the high reputation, the influence, the magnificence
to which they had attained;—the companions of princes, the
favorites of kings, the pride and boast of nations. All this she
applied to me. Her love saw nothing in their greatest productions
that I was not able to achieve; and when I saw the lovely
creature glow with fervor, and her whole countenance radiant with
the visions of my glory, which seemed breaking upon her, I was
snatched up for the moment into the heaven of her own
imagination.

I am dwelling too long upon this part of my story; yet I cannot
help Lingering over a period of my life, on which, with all its
cares and conflicts, I look back with fondness; for as yet my
soul was unstained by a crime. I do not know what might have been
the result of this struggle between pride, delicacy, and passion,
had I not read in a Neapolitan gazette an account of the sudden
death of my brother. It was accompanied by an earnest inquiry for
intelligence concerning me, and a prayer, should this notice meet
my eye, that I would hasten to Naples, to comfort an infirm and
afflicted father.

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition; but my brother
had never been as a brother to me; I had long considered myself
as disconnected from him, and his death caused me but little
emotion. The thoughts of my father, infirm and suffering, touched
me, however, to the quick; and when I thought of him, that lofty,
magnificent being, now bowed down and desolate, and suing to me
for comfort, all my resentment for past neglect was subdued, and
a glow of filial affection was awakened within me.

The predominant feeling, however, that overpowered all others was
transport at the sudden change in my whole fortunes. A home—a
name—a rank—wealth awaited me; and love painted a still more
rapturous prospect in the distance. I hastened to Bianca, and
threw myself at her feet. “Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “at length I
can claim you for my own. I am no longer a nameless adventurer, a
neglected, rejected outcast. Look—read, behold the tidings that
restore me to my name and to myself!”

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca rejoiced in the
reverse of my situation, because she saw it lightened my heart of
a load of care; for her own part she had loved me for myself, and
had never doubted that my own merits would command both fame and
fortune.

I now felt all my native pride buoyant within me; I no longer
walked with my eyes bent to the dust; hope elevated them to the
skies; my soul was lit up with fresh fires, and beamed from my
countenance.

I wished to impart the change in my circumstances to the Count;
to let him know who and what I was, and to make formal proposals
for the hand of Bianca; but the Count was absent on a distant
estate. I opened my whole soul to Filippo. Now first I told him
of my passion; of the doubts and fears that had distracted me,
and of the tidings that had suddenly dispelled them. He
overwhelmed me with congratulations and with the warmest
expressions of sympathy. I embraced him in the fullness of my
heart. I felt compunctious for having suspected him of coldness,
and asked him forgiveness for having ever doubted his friendship.

Nothing is so warm, and enthusiastic as a sudden expansion of the
heart between young men. Filippo entered into our concerns with
the most eager interest. He was our confidant and counsellor. It
was determined that I should hasten at once to Naples to
re-establish myself in my father’s affections and my paternal
home, and the moment the reconciliation was effected and my
father’s consent insured, I should return and demand Bianca of
the Count. Filippo engaged to secure his father’s acquiescence;
indeed, he undertook to watch over our interests, and was the
channel through which we were to correspond.

My parting with Bianca was tender—delicious—agonizing.

It was in a little pavilion of the garden which had been one of
our favorite resorts. How often and often did I return to have
one more adieu—to have her look once more on me in speechless
emotion—to enjoy once more the rapturous sight of those tears
streaming down her lovely cheeks—to seize once more on that
delicate hand, the frankly accorded pledge of love, and cover it
with tears and kisses! Heavens! There is a delight even in the
parting agony of two lovers worth a thousand tame pleasures of
the world. I have her at this moment before my eyes—at the window
of the pavilion, putting aside the vines that clustered about the
casement—her light form beaming forth in virgin white—her
countenance all tears and smiles—sending a thousand and a
thousand adieus after me, as, hesitating, in a delirium of
fondness and agitation, I faltered my way down the avenue.

As the bark bore me out of the harbor of Genoa, how eagerly my
eyes Stretched along the coast of Sestri, till it discerned the
villa gleaming from among trees at the foot of the mountain. As
long as day lasted, I gazed and gazed upon it, till it lessened
and lessened to a mere white speck in the distance; and still my
intense and fixed gaze discerned it, when all other objects of
the coast had blended into indistinct confusion, or were lost in
the evening gloom.

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal home. My heart
yearned for the long-withheld blessing of a father’s love. As I
entered the proud portal of the ancestral palace, my emotions
were so great that I could not speak. No one knew me. The
servants gazed at me with curiosity and surprise. A few years of
intellectual elevation and development had made a prodigious
change in the poor fugitive stripling from the convent. Still
that no one should know me in my rightful home was overpowering.
I felt like the prodigal son returned. I was a stranger in the
house of my father. I burst into tears, and wept aloud. When I
made myself known, however, all was changed. I who had once been
almost repulsed from its walls, and forced to fly as an exile,
was welcomed back with acclamation, with servility. One of the
servants hastened to prepare my father for my reception; my
eagerness to receive the paternal embrace was so great that I
could not await his return; but hurried after him.

What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the chamber! My father,
whom I had left in the pride of vigorous age, whose noble and
majestic bearing had so awed my young imagination, was bowed down
and withered into decrepitude. A paralysis had ravaged his
stately form, and left it a shaking ruin. He sat propped up in
his chair, with pale, relaxed visage and glassy, wandering eye.
His intellects had evidently shared in the ravage of his frame.
The servant was endeavoring to make him comprehend the visitor
that was at hand. I tottered up to him and sunk at his feet. All
his past coldness and neglect were forgotten in his present
sufferings. I remembered only that he was my parent, and that I
had deserted him. I clasped his knees; my voice was almost
stifled with convulsive sobs. “Pardon—pardon—oh my father!” was
all that I could utter. His apprehension seemed slowly to return
to him. He gazed at me for some moments with a vague, inquiring
look; a convulsive tremor quivered about his lips; he feebly
extended a shaking hand, laid it upon my head, and burst into an
infantine flow of tears.

From that moment he would scarcely spare me from his sight. I
appeared the only object that his heart responded to in the
world; all else was as a blank to him. He had almost lost the
powers of speech, and the reasoning faculty seemed at an end. He
was mute and passive; excepting that fits of child-like weeping
would sometimes come over him without any immediate cause. If I
left the room at any time, his eye was incessantly fixed on the
door till my return, and on my entrance there was another gush of
tears.

To talk with him of my concerns, in this ruined state of mind,
would have been worse than useless; to have left him, for ever so
short a time, would have been cruel, unnatural. Here then was a
new trial for my affections. I wrote to Bianca an account of my
return and of my actual situation; painting in colors vivid, for
they were true, the torments I suffered at our being thus
separated; for to the youthful lover every day of absence is an
age of love lost. I enclosed the letter in one to Filippo, who
was the channel of our correspondence. I received a reply from
him full of friendship and sympathy; from Bianca full of
assurances of affection and constancy.