Title: Genevra; or, the history of a portrait,: by an American lady. A resident of Washington City.
Author: Fairfield, Genevieve Genevra
Language: English
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*** Start of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Genevra; or, the history of a portrait,: by an American lady. A resident of Washington City." ***
PORTRAIT, ***



                                 GENEVRA;
                          HISTORY OF A PORTRAIT,

                           BY AN AMERICAN LADY.
                      A RESIDENT OF WASHINGTON CITY.

                         COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.

                              Philadelphia:
                  T. B. PETERSON, No. 98 CHESNUT STREET.
                          ONE DOOR ABOVE THIRD.

        Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by
                             T. B. PETERSON,
  In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States,
             in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.



                                    TO
                            MARIE DE CARVALLO,
                         MINISTERESS FROM CHILI;
       AS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION AND ESTEEM, THIS
                    WORK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY
                               THE AUTHOR.



GENEVRA; OR, THE HISTORY OF A PORTRAIT.



CHAPTER I.


“Clarence, my dear fellow, pray ring the bell, and let us know when that
confounded dinner will be ready; the carriage will be here before we are
ready for a drive to the Campagna.”

I felt out of spirits and in an ill mood; but mechanically I rose
and rang the bell. Our Italian attendant soon made his appearance.
“Peppo,”—demanded my friend, the Hon. Augustus Morton, in a mixture
of bad Italian and French, which he had learned during our two weeks’
sojourn at Rome,—“Peppo, when will dinner be ready? Don’t you know I told
you this morning to prepare for us a nice English dinner, and have it
early too?”

“Si Signor,” replied Peppo, standing with his toes bent in, twisting a
dirty velvet cap in his hand, ornamented round the edge with tarnished
gilt lace, “ma Signor Inglese, say cinque bra, non rolamente che tre ora
adesso.”

“O, it’s only three, eh—how came I to make such a mistake?” He looked
at his watch: it had stopped. “Well, Peppo,” he continued, in Italian,
“can’t you tell them to hurry their operations, and let us have our
dinner now. We have an engagement. Go and see if they cannot serve it at
once.”

Peppo made his obeisance, and disappeared through the low, narrow door.
“It is unfortunate that I did not think to set the time. We need not have
returned from Tivoli for an hour.”

“I am not at all sorry, for my part,” I rejoined. “I take but little
interest in broken columns, decayed monuments, and old ruins, places of
assignations for owls and bats; in fact, one half the persons who visit
Rome care no more about these remains of Rome’s ancient grandeur than the
doves who make their nests amid the ruins. It has become fashionable of
late years to visit Rome, and carry home from the city a collection of
antique relics, busts, and every variety of curiosities, all of which are
treasured as rare trophies of travel in classic land; a feeling I cannot
at all sympathize with. You have the enthusiasm of the grandeur of Rome
almost entirely to yourself, my friend. I assure you I have had but few
attacks of the fashionable epidemic since my arrival.”

“You are in an ill humor to day, I see, Clarence,” goodnaturedly replied
Morton, as he walked to and fro in our dingy dining-room with his hands
under his coat tails; “but it is not Rome that vexes you, half as much as
the comfortless dreary way in which they manage everything here. If we
could only transport our English neatness and comfort to this beautiful
climate, it would be a heaven on earth.”

At this moment Peppo returned with the intelligence that the cook
absolutely could not serve dinner a moment before the time appointed.

“Well, what can’t be cured, must be endured,” responded Morton, with a
shrug of the shoulders. “But since we have two hours on our hands, and
nothing to amuse us in-doors, suppose we take a walk toward the Coliseum,
and take another look at it. It bears observation more than once. There
is a fine artist, Signor Carrara, who lives in that vicinity, and, with
your leave, we will drop in at his studio, and examine his gallery of
paintings.”

“As you please, Augustus,” I answered; for Morton being five years my
senior, naturally took the lead. We had graduated at Oxford together; and
on leaving England for a two years’ jaunt to the continent, my father had
particularly recommended his darling son to Morton’s fraternal care. We
had spent some time in Paris, flirting with the prettiest women we saw;
but that’s not saying much for them, after all; for the French women do
not depend for their attractions on beauty. They are sprightly, piquant,
and witty generally, but they do not possess that native beauty of form
and face, we meet with so frequently among the higher classes of the
German and English women. Taste in dress and the arts of coquetry, so
well understood and practised by the French women, supply the place of
greater personal beauty. While in Paris, Morton had purchased and shipped
for England a perfect cabinet shop of curiosities; but I, being less
influenced by the mania for everything foreign, bought but little.

We had descended the Rhine together, and together admired the wild
majesty of its scenery. And sometimes as our bark glided past one of
those perpendicular mountains, whose summit seems to kiss the clouds,
on top of which, you frequently see perched the ruins of one of those
castles built in the olden days of feudal war and terror. Sometimes, I
say, I felt a desire to fix my abode, and pass my days in solitude, far
from the busy haunts of men, on the banks of that noble river. But then,
the thought recurred to my mind: A life spent in dreamy abstraction is a
useless one. A life without action, is like a body without a soul. The
busy world; the cares, disappointments, and numberless vexations one
meets with, all tend to develope many faculties of mind, which, buried in
the depths of solitude, might remain forever undiscovered.

We had visited Vienna, the seat of elegance and learning; and after
spending sometime in the smaller towns of Germany and Switzerland, we
found ourselves one bright day at Rome. During a fortnight we had been
occupied every day in sight-seeing; visiting the Vatican, Saint Peter’s,
his Holiness the Pope, and all the wonders of the eternal city; and
eternal to me, in sober truth, it seemed, as, entering the ancient town
by Romulus’ gate, the city dawned upon my view like a vast ocean before
me.

But where did I leave my friend? Oh, he took his hat, and so, cautious
reader, will I take mine, and follow him. We traversed several grass
grown streets, faced on each side, by old houses, built in the Italian
style, now fast tottering to decay. Before one of these, stood a company
of street singers. A man advanced in years, whose gray hair was illumined
by the bright rays of the sun, stood playing on a hand-organ, while a
sweet little girl of eight or nine years, with light hair and fine blue
eyes, jingled a tambourine at his side. There was something in the sad
subdued look of the child, as she timidly advanced toward us, perceiving
we were strangers, that almost called the tears to my eyes, as Morton
and myself simultaneously threw a gold piece into the old tambourine she
extended to receive it.

We passed on, and the next corner hid them from our view. “What a pity
such a pretty child should be trained to beggary,” remarked I, as we
walked on.

“Yes, it is; but such things are so common in this country, they have
ceased to astonish me: indeed, it would be difficult to say what had best
be done for the amelioration of the Italians; like everything else, they
have had their day; and now night and darkness are hanging over them.”

I scarcely heard him; for now we came full in view of that massive
structure, the Coliseum. One side of it is much decayed and crumbled
away, and forms a gap in the round outline. We entered through one of
the ivy-hung arches, and found ourselves in the vast interior. Several
little shrines, the devout offerings of humble superstition, occupied
the vast space, where, so many hundred years ago, the gladiators had
fought in the yearly games. At one of these, covered with a white cloth,
on which were placed a crucifix and bottle of holy water, knelt a young
woman with her hands clasped in prayer. She wore the picturesque costume
of the Neapolitans. The attitude of devotion contrasted strangely with my
recollection of the scenes of which that place had once been the theatre
of action.

“This is a most extraordinary structure, so immense!” exclaimed Morton,
whose ideas were of the most matter-of-fact description.

I made no reply. My mind was abstracted, it had flown back to the olden
times. I thought I saw the dying gladiator leaning on his sword, while
the arena rung with shouts of triumph for his conqueror. I saw start
up from all parts of the old ruin, that vast wall of human faces, all
gazing upon the dying man; but what mattered it to him, the world and all
its cares was vanishing fast from his view; his glazed eyes close, his
clenched hands stiffen, and his spirit leaves its earthly tenement with
the last shout of applause for his conqueror.

I started from my day-dream, and looking for my friend, saw him standing
at the other end of the amphitheatre, gazing wistfully up at the sky,
through the gap which yawned above us. As I approached him, he exclaimed,
“We had better go, or we shall not have time to see Signor Carrara’s
paintings before dinner, as we have been here an hour.”

“An hour! impossible, it is not more than ten minutes.”

“I know it seems no more than that to you; but it is, nevertheless, an
hour since we entered here; and I am afraid of taking cold from the
dampness of the ground; but you were dreaming of the ‘Sorrows of Werter,’
or some other sentimental subject, and of course, thought not of time.
Come, mon ami, let us depart.” He linked his arm in mine and we passed
out into the street, leading to that part of the city he had designated
as the abode of Signor Carrara.

After a few minutes’ walk, he stopped before an old mansion, built in the
Venetian style, with a balcony and latticed windows, jealously closed.
The appearance of the house was antique and gloomy, even more so than
any of the private mansions I had yet seen in Rome. Morton ascended
the door-steps, and vigorously rang the bell. The sound seemed to echo
through the whole house, as though it were deserted. A moment after I
heard the grating of bolts being undone, the door swing back heavily
on its hinges; and, standing on its threshold, I saw an old domestic,
with a grave, sad countenance, and dressed with greater neatness than
the generality of Italian servants. He smiled gaily, and greeted Morton
with a respectful obeisance, saying something in Italian, which I did
not understand; for Morton was an old friend of the Signor’s, having
visited Rome four years before. His question, “Was the Signor at home?”
he answered, “Yes,” and requested us to follow him. We traversed a
long gallery, then ascended a lofty staircase, ornamented with fine
paintings and statues, placed in niches along the wall. At the end of
another gallery, the Italian stopped at a door, and knocked. An elderly
man, whose hair was slightly tinged with gray, attired in a plain suit
of black velvet, opened the door, and, upon seeing Morton, shook him
heartily by the hand, and welcomed him back to Rome, in terms of the
most polite affability. His manner seemed to partake more of English
cordiality than of the grave distant manner the Italians generally
preserve to strangers. To my surprise, he spoke to me in good English,
upon Morton’s presenting me as Mr. Mowbray of London. Augustus entered
the room with the air of one perfectly familiar to its precincts, and
seated himself in a crimson velvet arm-chair, near the artist’s easel.
Persia’s carpets covered the floor; curtains of crimson velvet fell in
heavy folds from the windows; but the splendid paintings with which the
walls of the studio were hung, constituted its greatest ornament. There
were the faces of youth, and the faces of age. Side by side they hung.
There were Cardinals in their black velvet hats, and the heavy folds
of their black robes. There were the handsome faces of many of Italy’s
proudest sons, and the fair, unfurrowed brow, the black eye, large and
languishing, of many a one of its fair daughters.

“You have not been long in Rome, I presume, Signor,” remarked Carrara, as
he returned to his easel, with his palette in his hand.

“But two weeks.”

“Two weeks! indeed, you owed an old friend a visit sooner,” addressing
Morton.

“I should have done myself the pleasure of calling on you before this,
but I have been engaged in such a continual round of business, that
I really could not snatch time.” What a confounded lie, thought I to
myself, as I stood with my back to them, attentively regarding a picture,
which hung encased in a magnificent frame, opposite me. But Morton would
say anything as an excuse, to avoid offending a friend, and Signor
Carrara, as I afterward discovered, had been to him a very kind one.

The picture upon which I gazed, was the portrait of a lady in the dawn of
youth. I felt certain that it was, or had been taken as the resemblance
of some earthly object. She was young and very beautiful. She could not
have numbered more than twenty summers when that was painted. She sat,
inclining forward, as if to speak. Her finger pressed to her rosy lip,
as though she said ‘beware.’ Her robe hung in light folds over the full
bust, and was confined at the waist by a scarf. A circlet of gems clasped
the small aristocratic head, and sparkled on the auburn hair. The hair,
put smooth back from the face, was gathered in two long braids behind,
which fell below the waist. The complexion, white as alabaster. The
eyes, so deeply beautifully blue. All these attributes combined to form
an expression of angelic purity and sweetness, such as I had never seen
expressed in any human countenance before.

“Of whom is this a portrait, Signor?” I inquired of the Italian,
interrupting his conversation with Morton.

Carrara’s black eyes rested sadly upon the picture a moment, then turned
suddenly away.

“It is the portrait of an Austrian lady. A Viennese,” he answered
abruptly.

“Is she living still?” I asked.

“No, she has been dead many years.”

“Is it not flattered? was she as beautiful as this?”

“She was far more beautiful than I have been able to portray her.”

“How long since it was painted?”

“More than twenty years ago.”

“What picture is it you are talking about, Clarence?” demanded Morton,
looking up from a portfolio of prints which lay upon the artist’s table.

“This one,” I replied, pointing to it.

“Ah, yes. I see a very handsome woman. I admire your taste. Pray, may
I ask her name, Signor Carrara, unless, indeed,” he added archly, “she
happened to be a beau ideal of yours; in that case, I waive the question.”

The Italian blushed to his very eyebrows, and looked almost angry for an
instant; but he answered immediately,

“You are welcome to ask the name of that or any other portrait in my
studio. Her name was Genevra Sfonza.”

“I like the style in which it is taken. Very fanciful and airy. She
almost seems to be floating on a cloud,” observed my friend, as he came
and stood by my side before it. “If I had a wife and were going to have
her portrait taken, I should choose such an attitude. But I am thankful
to be a bachelor, untrammelled and free. A single man can visit, seek
lady’s society, if he wants it; in short, do what he pleases, without
having some jealous Juno tearing after him, if he happen to look at any
other set of features than his ‘cara spanta’s.’”

Carrara smiled, and I laughed, as I always did at my friends’ drolleries.
“Come Clarence,” he exclaimed, seizing me by the arm, “let’s take a
general look at all the pictures, and then, if you are willing, return
home. Dinner will be waiting for us.”

“We took a general survey of the rest of the paintings, among which were
some valuable originals, by the old masters. But none of them, in grace
of attitude, or beauty of expression, could compare with that of the
lovely Viennese.

“I am quite in love with this picture,” I remarked to the artist, as I
again stopped before it; after looking at all the politicians, warriors,
sculptors, artists, and beauties portrayed on canvass.

“Almost every one who visits my room, admires it,” responded Carrara.

I felt almost jealous, as he said this, that any one but myself should be
allowed the pleasure of gazing upon that sweet face. I wished to have it
exclusively to myself, where I alone could come and look upon its beauty.
What selfish creatures men are.

The kind hearted Italian offered us a collation of Smyrna figs, grapes,
oranges, and light Catalonia wine. We partook slightly, and then took our
hats to depart.

“I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you frequently, during your stay
in Rome,” was his parting invitation, as he accompanied us through the
long galleries, and down the lofty stair-case we had ascended.

“We shall certainly trespass frequently on your politeness, Signor,” was
our parting response, as we passed into the street and wended homeward.

Arrived at our hotel by the same route we came; we entered our
comfortless dingy saloon, which served in the double capacity of
dining-room and parlor. The table was set for dinner, but no dinner
served, and Morton impatiently pulled the bell. Peppo answered the
summons, bearing in his hands a dish of roast beef, burnt almost black,
while treading close on his heels, came his female colleague, Jeannetta,
her hands loaded also with plates of different sizes, and looking as if
she bore the fate of Cato and of Rome upon her shoulders, attired in
all that dirty finery, for which the lower classes of the Italians are
distinguished. Peppo deposited, what he considered, this elegant repast,
upon the table, with the air of a conqueror offering his mistress the
spoil of foreign lands.

“Here, Signor, here be one English dinner, la veritable chose, tout
entierement l’Inglese,” exclaimed Peppo, who valued himself upon his
acquirements in the languages, understanding about a dozen words of
English, French, and Spanish; but like many another fool, if he was
happy in his ignorance, and imagined himself wise, why it was just the
same—at least to him the same. I have often wondered, whether it were not
better to slumber on in ignorance, rather than make some little progress
in knowledge, and after all, discover (even should we reach the highest
point of earthly wisdom) that all is doubt and conjecture.

“Come Mowbray, my friend,” cried Augustus, as he drew a chair to the
table, “come let us commence operations, for I am nearly famished. Peppo
where are the wine coolers and goblets, make haste and bring them. You
can go Jeannetta. Clarence what will you take?”

I requested a piece of the before-mentioned burnt beef, and helped myself
to some peas, which looked as if they had been grown beneath the burning
suns of Syria, dashed over with some description of Italian sauce; as
for potatoes, they are an eatable unknown in Italy; nature, however, has
kindly supplied the place of many of our northern vegetables, by the
luxurious fruits of the country; one scarcely needs any other food beside
the luscious champagne grape, the yellow orange, pine-apple, zapota, and
a dozen other fine fruits, the names of which escape my recollection.

“Here, Peppo, come take away this elegant English dinner of yours, and
serve dessert,” said Morton laughingly, after having tried in vain to
masticate some of the tough meats, and dried up vegetables. “Don’t make
another attempt in the English style, I beg of you, for really this one
is quite killing.”

“Le diner no good,” ejaculated Peppo, holding up both hands in amazement,
“apres tous les soins que j’ai pris; je vous assure, Signor, que c’est
une diner a l’Anglaise.”

“I assure you, my good fellow, that it is perfectly uneatable; here
take it all away, and hand the fruit and wine. I am sorry I told you to
attempt any thing in English style. I might have known we should get
nothing to suit us; however, make haste, for our carriage is at the door,
to take us to the campagna.”

Peppo, in great agitation, at the failure of his attempt, removed
the dishes, and as soon as we had dispatched dessert, we entered our
Stanhope, and drove to the campagna.

I kept my promise, and often visited Signor Carrara. I liked him more,
the better I became acquainted with him; there are some characters who
only show their fine traits upon a close acquaintance. We all of us,
more or less, feel an attraction of sympathy, or repulsion of antipathy
at first sight, an indefinite presentiment that we shall either like or
dislike; there was something in Carrara’s manner, so different to the
giddy light-heartedness of the generality of his countrymen, calculated
to inspire one with confidence in his integrity: his calm countenance
expressed benevolence, patience, and philosophical indifference. I might
have sought in vain for those deep traces of satiety and discontent,
which pleasure imprints upon the faces of her votaries. He seemed to be
at peace with all mankind, and among all his extensive acquaintance in
Rome, I never once heard him unkindly spoken of. I frequently passed
hours in his studio, while Morton was engaged in a continual round of
pleasure.



CHAPTER II.


Carrara inhabited but two apartments in his stately mansion, besides his
elegant studio, and a large exhibition room of magnificent paintings.
All the other apartments were locked up, and left untenanted, although
the old domestic, who had been a household fixture for more than
twenty years, informed me they were all splendidly furnished; although
uninhabited, and seldom opened, except twice a year, to be cleaned; I
could not help wondering that any man, especially a bachelor artist,
should keep a large, vacant house to himself, of no use to him, without
letting it to some one, as an Englishman would have done; unless, indeed,
he were a man of rank and fortune, but this Carrara, I presumed, was not,
and I had seen enough of him to be convinced of his unassuming mind, and
simple mode of living. Perhaps he had accumulated a comfortable fortune
by his unwearied application, and economy, and having secured sufficient
means for the future years of his life, thought it unnecessary to make
money by his house. Of his private circumstances I knew nothing, and,
therefore, dismissed the subject from my mind.

“How many different faces, and what varieties of character you must see
in the course of a year,” I one day remarked to him, as he stood at his
easel, a large bunch of brushes in his hand, busily employed in painting
a naked nymph, bathing in a limpid stream.

“Yes,” he replied, “an artist has ample opportunity, if he is capable of
doing so, of observing characters, as well as faces.”

“Are you a physiognomist?”

“I make no pretensions to being one.”

“Can you tell an honest man from a rogue?”

“I think I can.”

“Then tell me, my friend, tell me truly, what do you think of my face?”

I pushed back my hair from my forehead, as I asked the kind old Italian
this odd question; and he looked at me rather quizzically for a second,
as if to ascertain whether I was in earnest, or seeking to make game of
him; being assured, I suppose, by the grave expression of my countenance,
that I was serious, he answered:

“You have a frank, talented, amorous expression of face, such as many of
your countrymen, whom I have seen, possessed.”

“Amorous, is it possible you have made such a dreadful mistake?—you, a
man of so much penetration, to say such a thing as that; why my dear
Signor, I am as cold as the eternal snows of Russia’s mountains. I follow
the fashionable plan, and invariably treat all womankind with polite
rudeness; in fact, I think I hate women: the sexes are, of course,
natural enemies to each other.”

“You cold, about as cold as the crater of Mount Etna; how can you sit
there, and presume to tell me such shocking stories?” Carrara laughed;
he seldom laughed, or even smiled, but when he did, his face lighted up
with a sunny glow. I was about to deny this accusation flatly, merely for
the sake of a laughing argument, when, in looking for a stray engraving I
was copying, which had fallen on the floor, I knocked down an unfinished
picture, which stood with its face to the wall; I glanced at it, and was
about to replace it in its original position, when Carrara observed,
glancing at it as he spoke,

“Talking of variety of character, that woman certainly was an oddity in
her way: I never saw a more singular person.”

“The original of this picture, do you mean?” I asked, as I set it back
again.

“Yes,” replied the artist; “she was the friend of Prince Monteolene.
I painted a half length portrait for her, and began this one, but the
prince parted from her, after having lived with her three or four years,
and she left the city, leaving this picture unfinished on my hands.”

“She was handsome,” I remarked, as I looked at the face more
attentively—“a voluptuous, not a pure, or spiritual beauty.”

“Such was her character; she possessed some fine traits of disposition,
however, which, had they been accompanied by a well balanced mind,
trained to virtue, she might have been an ornament to society. She took
an interesting little girl from one of the nunnery schools, had her well
educated, and taught the science of vocal music thoroughly, then placed
her on the stage, through the influence of some of the professors of
music, who felt interested in the child; where she now is, a brilliant
star in the musical world. That action, certainly showed a kind, generous
disposition.”

“Such incidents of character, are extraordinary, even among the best of
human beings, leaving the immoral out of the question,” and, I added,
“you artists have every facility, here in Italy, in regard to obtaining
models.”

“We have more applications from poor girls, some reputable, some
disreputable, than we wish or require; many have offered themselves to me
as models, without price, and the very prettiest can be had for a small
sum.”

“Are any of these models virtuous?”

“I have known many who were correct in their behaviour, and, on the
contrary, many who were dissolute. A person, whether man or woman, reared
to all the comforts and elegancies of a luxurious life, can scarcely
conceive the many temptations to which these poor girls are exposed;
living in miserable huts, feeding upon the coarsest food; while men of
fashion and fortune, attracted by their pretty looks, frequently make
them liberal offers of protection, which they sometimes refuse, but
generally end by accepting. Besides, the standard of female virtue, does
not rank as high in our country as in yours; therefore, their departure
from the paths of virtue, is looked upon more in a philosophical point
of view, as a foible, incident to all humanity, and tolerated with more
leniency.”

“I sometimes think the Italian plan the best.”

“It may not be best, as regards the mass of the population, but
considered individually, I cannot but prefer it.”

“Do you never feel sad, Signor?”—I asked suddenly, after having been
silent some minutes, absorbed in thought—“do you never feel sad
sometimes, when you reflect upon the frailties and miseries of poor human
nature?”

“You are now, my young friend,” answered Carrara, “just on the dawn
of manhood, when, having indulged ideal dreams of what the world
_ought_ to be, you are gradually awakening to a perception of the vast
difference between the ideal and the actual; what now appears to you so
sentimentally sad, will gradually become a matter of course, and you
will grow fond of the world as it is; as your freshness of feeling,
and ideality of mind wears away, habit becomes a second nature; we
may dislike our habitation, but we dislike a change, because we are
accustomed to the old abode. Middle age and the decline of life, which
lessen our sense of enjoyment, increase our love of life for that reason;
and you will find, as you journey on, the longer you live, the more
tenaciously will you cling to life.”

“I presume you are right, and if I live long enough to realize your sage
prediction, then I will think of your words.”

I took my hat as I said this, considering that I had bored my kind friend
long enough, by a visit of three hours, and left the studio, with his
repeated invitation ringing in my ears, that I should come very soon
again, and pass every morning, if it pleased me, at his house. I directed
my steps toward modern Rome, and the Piazza del populo; as I passed along
the principal streets, I saw the shops adorned with every description of
masquerade dresses, and immense quantities of bonbons, in anticipation of
the approaching carnival; many of the giddy throng were already attired
in masquerade, passing each other; and all unlucky foot passengers, with
the “corfette” the Italians make such liberal use of during the carnival,
their animated gestures, and sprightly looks, forming a picturesque
scene. While above my head shone the cerulean sky, dotted with golden
clouds, and the horizon’s verge reflected the brilliant red of the
setting sun’s declining fires.

The happy dispositions and buoyant temperaments of these Italians, enable
them to bear misfortunes, and even the squalid poverty, to which they are
frequently subjected, with a serenity of temper, and happy confidence
in the future, unknown to the colder inhabitants of northern climes. A
proud Englishman would put an end to his existence, were he obliged to
encounter half what an Italian would endure with philosophic indifference.

I found the Piazza del populo crowded with equestrians, pedestrians, and
every description of equipages, giving a brilliant, showy effect, to this
classic and beautiful square. How many recollections of happy hours and
days, are connected in my memory, with the name of Rome; of weeks and
months, that sped like hours, borne only too rapidly away upon the wings
of Time.

The ladies talked, laughed, and flirted with the gentlemen, as they
promenaded up and down, just as we do in England, or any other civilized
land; the liveried footmen stood together in groups, and chatted, perhaps
of scandal transpiring in their little world of action; monks glided past
me, their heads bowed down, telling their rosarys while they stealthily
eyed the women; the peasant girls in their tasteful costume, the red or
blue woollen petticoat, ornamented with black horizontal bands, exchanged
love tokens with their lovers; the military rode through the square, with
much display; the nobility bowed and smiled to each other, as they drove
swiftly by in their stately carriages; all nature, and almost every face
wore a smile.

Leaving the gay scene, I passed out at the gate opposite to that through
which I had entered, and was standing gazing upon the lofty dome, and
magnificent colonnade of Saint Peter’s, which rose towering above all
other objects in the distance, when I felt my arm suddenly grasped, and
a stentorian voice exclaimed, “Why, good heavens, Clarence, is this you?
where in the name of wonder have you been all day? I’ve been wanting you
to accompany me to a hundred and one places, and here you are dreaming
about the Persian invasion, perhaps in the Piazza del populo. I’ve met
some very fine people here,” he continued, as he linked his arm in mine,
and gently turned me in the direction of our hotel. “Among others,
there’s a Countess Dettore, who having heard what a fine, agreeable
fellow you are, sends you an invitation, through me, to her grand party,
to-morrow night; come now, do be civil, and say you’ll go; I am going;
really, you have grown so desperately sentimental since your arrival
here, there’s no doing anything with you; you should go into society, be
gay, and enjoy yourself.”

“All people don’t have the same mode of enjoyment,” I replied. “I enjoy
myself in my way, and you in yours; but who is this Countess of whom you
speak; how came she to hear of me, and send me an invitation to her ball?”

“Oh, I knew her when I was here before, four years ago; she’s a pleasant,
chatty kind of person, gives nice balls, and that, you know, is the
principal thing; I dare say you’ll be pleased with her, however, when
you get acquainted; she’s often heard me speak of you since my arrival,
and so, being about to give a ball, took the liberty of sending you an
invitation, both verbal and written,” and he handed me a delicate little
note, superscribed in a small, feminine handwriting.

“You’ve been with Carrara, I suppose, the principal part of the day?
you seem to have become great friends in a very short space of time.
Carrara’s a kind-hearted, eccentric creature: I never knew him to take
so sudden a fancy to any one, as he has to you. I went to Tivoli again
this morning, after you left me,” added my rattling friend, without
waiting for an answer. “I was charmed; such pure air, delightful scenery;
met Coningsby, he’s just from home, says he’s coming down to see you
to-morrow; he’ll return before we do, so we can send letters by him, if
you like, to your parents.”

We passed the magnificent arch of Constantine, and I paused to admire
the exquisite fluting of the corinthian columns, and the statues of
Dacian warriors, with which its front is adorned; while Morton strolled
on ahead, picking wild flowers from the turf at his feet, and commenting
upon the absurdity of old ruined arches, and sentimentalizing on ancient
times.

We found, on reaching our hotel, that my valet Henri, had been passing
away the time during my absence, by getting up a slight row with another
fellow of his own stamp, in which he seemed to have got the worst of it,
for he made his appearance with a black eye, and numerous other small
wounds, in the shape of sundry scratches and knocks in the face from his
assailant’s fists. He had a long and grievous complaint to make me, of
the ill usage he had received, and finished his speech by cursing Rome
and everything Roman, wishing himself safe back again in the land of his
nativity, the green mountains of the Tyrol. I interrupted him, however,
by my stern commands and solemn adjurations, not to implicate himself in
another such a fracas, hinting the fact, that upon a second repetition of
the same thing, he would be obliged to enter the service of some other
individual than myself, as I could not tolerate such disgraceful conduct
in a personal attendant. The poor fellow looked remarkably foolish on
hearing my stern rebuke, and promised obedience for the future, adding in
extenuation of his behavior, “that he had not sought the row: Gustave had
provoked him beyond himself; when others let him alone, he let everybody
else alone.”

I afterward discovered, to my great amusement, that the whole affair
had originated from Gustave’s having taken a fancy to the same girl,
of whom my valet Henri was also desperately enamored; the result was,
Henri in a fit of jealous rage at her manifest preference for his rival,
said some insulting things to Gustave, which the latter would not take,
and they ended the matter by a personal encounter; not after the style
of the renowned knight of La Mancha, but in the genuine old fashion
of pummelling each other with their fists. Gustave possessing a more
athletic form and stronger muscles than my unfortunate valet, succeeded
in gaining a complete triumph over his rival in the courts of love.
The whole affair was vastly ridiculous, and Morton and myself laughed
vehemently at the discomfiture of poor Henri.

“After all,” laughed Morton, “isn’t it ridiculous to see what a devilish
fool a man will make of himself for love of woman: it’s all the same
thing from a king to a beggar; the feeling is the same, the manner of
showing it alone, is different. Now I really do wonder if any woman could
excite me to the pitch I’ve seen this poor fellow wound up to, to-day?”

“I dare say,” was my reply, “you and I are both human, and possess
passions and feelings in common with every one else.”

“Well, I haven’t lost _my_ heart since I’ve been here; that’s to say, if
I really possessed any when I made my advent into this confounded old
ruined place; as for you, I believe you’re in love with an inanimate
picture. I prefer the real Simon pure flesh and blood myself; this
falling in love with senseless canvass I consider quite absurd.”

“You need not take the trouble to tell me that, Morton,” I ejaculated,
bursting into a fit of uproarious laughter; “one need only look at
your face, to be assured that your feelings are not by any means _too
Platonic_.”

He laughed most heartily, although the jest was at _his_ expense; and
chancing to turn our eyes toward the door, we saw Peppo, who stood there
bowing with all his might, like a chinese mandarin, and he informed
us, after many demonstrations of respect and divers flourishes, that
dinner awaited us in the new saloon, which had just been completed a few
days previous. The saloon, which poor Peppo considered such a perfect
chef-d’œuvre of architecture, proved to be a large, barn-like room, built
of rough beams, stuccoed over with a coarse, inferior sort of plaster,
very cold and comfortless looking, destitute of carpeting, and furnished
with a long dining table, chairs set round it, and an iron lamp suspended
from the ceiling, on this grand occasion of inaugurating us into our new
dining-room; the dinner was extraordinarily fine, although everything was
covered with oil and cayenne pepper in abundance, and Peppo officiated
with becoming dignity.

This was Friday; the next day, Saturday, began the carnival, the great
annual fête of Rome. We breakfasted earlier than usual, and Augustus
joined the gay throng which crowded the streets in the direction of the
Corso, where I agreed to join him, after having paid a morning call on
Signor Carrara. Augustus declined accompanying me, as he said he wished
to observe the populace and the different costumes before the sport
began, and I, therefore, proceeded to Carrara’s house alone.

At the street door, I learned from his old attendant Guiseppe, that the
Signor had not yet risen, being somewhat indisposed from a slight cold
and sore throat; I sent in my card, and was about leaving to rejoin my
friend, when Guiseppe came running back, saying the Signor “would be
happy to see me in his room, if I would honor him.”

I followed the old man up the lofty stair-case, through the long
galleries past the studio, when he turned down a short passage and
ushered me into a small elegantly furnished room, where lay Carrara in a
black velvet gown and cap, reclining upon a sofa.

“So you are too sick to accompany us to the gay Corso to-day, my kind
friend?” I asked, after having cordially shaken hands with him and drawn
my chair close to his sofa.

“I do not feel well enough to venture out,” he replied; “nevertheless,
I thank you most sincerely for your politeness in calling for me; this
is a mere transient attack of sore throat, I presume; I have had many
such before, I shall be recovered from it in a day or two; I regret
not being able to see the horse races and the ball to-night, as I have
been an annual spectator for the last twenty years. You will attend the
masquerade ball this evening? of course, I need not ask, every one goes
to the carnival ball.”

“I have not yet made up my mind, perhaps I may: it will be a gay affair I
suppose?”

“Very: one sees such variety of costume, and variety of faces, it forms
altogether an interesting sight, especially to a stranger.”

“I should think,” I remarked, glancing around the quiet room, “I should
think, my dear Signor, that you would sometimes feel lonesome, shut up
alone in this spacious house of yours, especially when sick, with no
female relative or friend to nurse you?”

“Guiseppe generally answers all my purposes as nurse and attendant; he is
faithful and constant; when very ill I sometimes employ a hired nurse;
but as for other higher attentions, what is there about my person, a
poor, ugly old man, already tottering on the brink of the grave, what is
there about me to attract beauty’s gentle care? No, no, my dear young
friend, myself has sufficed thus far, and myself will suffice to the end;
my own thoughts and recollections of the past, are society enough for me.”

I had never heard Carrara speak so sadly before, for although philosophic
in his tone of mind, he was generally cheerful, sometimes even gay. I
attributed it to his slight indisposition and his solitude, and took my
leave, promising to call on the morrow, and bring an entertaining English
novel to read aloud to him.

As I mechanically traversed the long distance which intervened between
his house and the Corso, I soliloquized upon the lonely life a man
leads without wife or children. He seems to hang, as it were, a loose
disjointed member upon society, disconnected from the rest of his fellow
beings, by all those household ties, which seem to form the connecting
links of life. I thought of myself, and then my thoughts reverted to the
beautiful portrait in Carrara’s studio, and I ardently wished that I
might see the original of that picture. “Suppose you should see her this
day,” reason said, “will not time have changed her? where would be the
rosy hue of health and beauty’s bloom?” I suddenly remembered, Carrara
had told me she was dead. “She receives naught now, then, but the clammy
embraces of death; better that, however, than live to become a withered
hag, after having being so gloriously beautiful.”

I reached the Corso, and sought diligently for Augustus, amid the dense
crowd there; but nothing could I see of him in that multitude, moving
to and fro like the gigantic waves of the ocean. I tried several times
to pass over to the other side of the street, but was pushed back at
every movement I made; I gave up the attempt at last, in despair, and
was about fixing my temporary abode upon a large sign post, commanding
an extensive view of the street and the course where the horses were to
race, when I felt myself gently plucked by the sleeve, and turning, saw
a young peasant, who quietly requested me to follow him; he had spoken
to me in broken English, supposing, I presume, that I did not understand
Italian, but I boldly demanded in his native tongue, what he wanted of
me. Some recollections flashed through my mind of stories I had heard,
about strangers in Rome being entrapped at carnival time by brigands in
masquerade; but a single glance at the face of this unsophisticated child
of nature reassured me, and I felt that my suspicions in this instance
were absurd. He uttered a joyful exclamation at hearing me speak Italian,
and said that my friend, seeing me in the crowd, had sent him to find
me, and requested me to come to him on the balcony of one of the old
Palazzo’s fronting the Corso.

My peasant elbowed his way through the multitude to the steps of the
Palazzo; he then conducted me up stairs, through a splendid suite of
rooms, and out upon a balcony, where I was received by Augustus, who
anxiously inquired about the good old artist; and hearing that he was
too sick to accompany me, we mutually turned our attention upon the
gay scene at our feet. The Corso was already filled with coaches, and
persons on foot of every nation under the sun; but I saw but few masks.
A ceremony of some kind or other took place, I heard, at the Capitol,
which we did not see; in which a deputation of Jews formally petition
the governor of the city for permission to remain in it another year,
which he grants them upon condition of their paying the expenses of the
races. The military swept through the streets in their showy uniform; and
presently came the governor and senator (Rome’s fallen grandeur boasts
but one now) in a grand procession of gilded coaches, while behind them
came a great number of men, showily dressed, on horseback, bearing in
their hands beautiful banners, some of them elegantly embroidered and
presented by the ladies of Rome; after these had passed, the fun and
merriment began.

A general pelting commenced from the windows of showers of sugar nuts,
which were exchanged by those in coaches as they passed. The whole
street presented a scene of childish gayety and confusion, perfectly
indescribable, and, absurd as it appeared to me at first, I became much
interested in the sport, and filling my pockets with “corfette,” began
pelting as manfully as the silliest among them.

The windows and balconies were hung with rich silks and velvets, which,
waving in a gentle breeze beneath that glorious sunny sky, mingled with
the rich dresses, and often lovely faces beaming with smiles, as they
surveyed the animated multitude from the windows and balconies of their
homes. The loud laughter and sprightly movements of the crowd, all
combined to present a brilliant scene.

The amusements of the day concluded with the horse race; a trumpet was
sounded, and fifteen or sixteen ponies made their appearance, led by
grooms very gayly dressed; who, after some difficulty, arranged the fiery
little steeds behind a rope stretched across the street. At a given
signal the rope was dropped, and away they flew down the Corso, as if the
evil one was at their heels; at their sides were suspended leaden balls,
filled with needles, which lashed them as they spurred forward, and the
wild shouts of the crowd as they closed in behind them, sent them on with
the fleetness of the wind; they ran furiously for about a mile, to the
end of the street, where they were stopped by a large canvass, suspended
across the way; not more than half reached the goal, and three or four,
I noticed, who seemed to dislike these kinds of operations, ran off,
knocking down everything and everybody who obstructed their progress. The
races are repeated every evening near sunset, during the carnival.

The day’s sport being over, gradually this odd medly of human beings
left the Corso. I watched the different faces and forms as they slowly
disappeared; the women looking tired and languid, like drooping water
lilies; the robust peasant, and languid nobleman in his carriage; the
horse jockeys, and confused assortment of all sorts of vehicles, in the
course of a few moments had vacated the square.

Augustus and I also left our position on the balcony, he, rather
reluctantly, for he seemed to have been quite enchanted by a young
beauty, stationed upon the balcony of a large house next door to the
Palazzo, who had been making love to him with her lovely dark eyes
during the morning; he said he should like to know who she was sighed,
and seemed to feel the premonitory symptoms of one of those attacks of
sentiment he had so often deprecated in me.

A grand masquerade ball was to be given in the evening at one of the
theatres, for this purpose the pit was covered over, and the whole
establishment thrown open. One could wear costume or not, as they chose;
we preferred the civilian dress, and notwithstanding our preconceived
notions of its absurdity, and determined to be mere lookers on, we had
not been long there, before we became involved in the giddy whirl of fun
and nonsense, and talked and laughed as foolishly as any there; almost
all wore costume, but there were but few masks, many of the costumes
were tasteful and costly, others were wretched, and would have disgraced
the wardrobe of one of our strolling circus companys. I saw his satanic
majesty sipping ices with a Polish lady, while close behind them stood
a beautiful Aspasia, in another part of the room Achilles was savagely
flourishing his sword, and Venus sat at the feet of her Mars. Brother
Jonathan knocked against me, trying to make a first rate bargain; and
Paul Pry was there, attending to everybody’s business but his own. I was
deserted by Morton, who dashed after a blue domino, whom he took to be
his beauty of the balcony; he was disappointed, however, for although
the lady’s face was beautiful, it was not she. I saw many long-bearded
Turks, fops of a hundred years ago, and exquisites of the present day,
mad poets, quack doctors; and lastly, I saw what recalled to mind many
early associations—two handsome young persons, evidently lovers, in the
costume of Petrarch and his Laura; the girl’s face was fair and sweet
in its expression, she was a fine impersonation of that interesting
character, the records of whose life have been so blended with romance,
that we can with difficulty distinguish the real from the fictitious;
certain it is, however, that such a being as Laura once existed, and
that Petrarch, enamored of her real or fancied beauty, addressed to her
those eloquent sonnets, which are an ornament to the literature of his
time. I remembered to have read them when a boy, by a favorite sister’s
side, beneath the linden trees in the park of my father’s country seat;
now that sister slept the dreamless sleep of death, under the shade of
those very trees where in childhood she had played. The costume of these
lovers, and the recollection of the sonnets, and my companion in their
perusal, revived many a forgotten reminiscence of by-gone years.

Aurora had already begun to display her golden banner in the East, when,
fagged out, and nearly stupified by our potations of champagne, we left
the ball-room; daylight had begun to force its way into the salon de
dance, displaying to no very fine effect, the tinsel finery, glazed
muslins and pasteboards, of which the generality of the costumes were
composed.

“A ball is a stupid thing anyhow,” said Morton, yawning, “particularly
when its all over, and one has talked and danced one’s self nearly to
death.”

I felt too stupid myself to make any reply to this philosophical
observation, as I followed my friend into our carriage.

In such scenes passed off the gay carnival during eight days. Punch’s
performance, the gay masquerading, the odd tricks performed by itinerant
mountebanks, and divers absurdities of the populace themselves, formed
the daily routine, usually concluded at night by a ball. On the last
day, at night, after the races, the Corso appeared illuminated as if by
magic, with thousands of lights carried by those on foot, in carriages,
and displayed at all the windows; those are indeed unfortunate who
cannot afford a light on the occasion. It is every one’s business to
extinguish his neighbor’s light and preserve his own as long as he can;
it is impossible to give an idea of the effect produced by such an odd
scene, the glitter and confusion as they each endeavor to extinguish each
other’s torches and preserve their own, when viewed from the commanding
position we occupied on the balcony of the Palazzo, the effect was
singular and beautiful; gradually the lights became fewer and fewer,
until at last they disappeared, the noise of the multitude died away, and
the carnival was over.

The next morning, after breakfast, Augustus absolutely persisted
in making me promise to accompany him to Tivoli, to pay a visit to
Coningsby, who had hired a villa there; and although I cared little about
going, yet to oblige him I consented. I sent the novel I had promised
Carrara by my valet, with my compliments and inquiries about his health,
but we had started for Tivoli before Henri returned with an answer.

We remained a week with our friend, who, delighted to see us, entertained
us with noble hospitality. The tasteful arrangement of his villa, the
salubrious air and charming scenery of the surrounded country, over which
was scattered many an ancient ruin, successively claimed our attention
and admiration. Time spent agreeably flies rapidly away, on the contrary
moments passed in pain or sorrow, are anxiously numbered. When our
stanhope again stopped before the door of our hotel, it seemed but a few
hours since we had left it.



CHAPTER III.


It wanted two hours of dinner, and, leaving Augustus to scold the
servants and make whatever domestic arrangements he choose, I took my
hat and sought the way to Carrara’s house; the windows facing the street
were bolted and barred as usual; I knocked loudly at the street door,
but no one came; and after waiting a few minutes I knocked again, still
no answer; I concluded Carrara must be out of town, perhaps on a visit,
and was about going away when I saw old Guiseppe coming slowly toward the
house; I waited until he reached me, and then asked if his master was
well?

The old man looked at me with grave surprise, and mournfully exclaimed,
“Ah, Signor! I see you have not heard the sad news. Master died the
second day after you left for Tivoli, and was buried yesterday.”

“Carrara dead!” I shrieked, rather than spoke; “you or I must be
dreaming; it is impossible he could have died so very suddenly; he was
living a week ago when I left for Tivoli.”

“He had been sick, you know sir, all carnival time; it was only a simple
sore-throat, to be sure, but he neglected it, he said it would get well
of itself; but he grew worse instead of better, and gangrene had taken
place before he would allow me to send for a physician. It was then too
late; master became delirious, and talked constantly about you, and
somebody whom he called “Genevra.” He got his senses a little, just
before he died, and calling me to his bedside, told me to give you a
packet, which he placed in my hands. I told him you had gone to Tivoli
for a few days, and that when you returned I would do so. He said he was
very sorry you were not here to see him die; that he never should see
you again in this world. Shortly after, he became speechless, and the
second day after your departure, in the afternoon, he died; a relative
of his came to town just in time to witness his death, and attend to his
funeral. He had written upon the back of the will, that it was not to be
opened or read until your return, and Signor Terra told me to request you
to call upon him as soon as you could after your return to town.”

I scarcely heard him: I felt as if oppressed by a frightful nightmare.
The idea that that kind old man was dead, whom I had so lately seen in
good health and spirits; and dead so suddenly, so unexpectedly, was too
strange and unaccountable for me to realize. Mechanically I followed
Guiseppe into the house, and entered the studio, in which I had passed
so many pleasant hours since my arrival in Rome; nothing was displaced
from the position in which he had left it, when first taken sick; and
notwithstanding the consciousness of his death, I momentarily expected
to see his tall thin form, and benevolent face, appear at the open door.
Guiseppe had left the room, and I fell into a reverie, in which were
blended my sad regrets at this unexpected loss, when the old domestic
returned, and handed me the packet his master bequeathed me as a legacy,
together with the address of the lawyer who wished to see me. I put them
both in my pocket: and then turned to the old man, who stood by my side,
with his arms folded.

“And you, my good Guiseppe, what do you intend doing, now the good Signor
is dead, where do you think of going to?”

Tears startled in the old man’s eyes, as he replied—“I hardly know
myself, sir, what I shall do; I think I will return into the country with
Signor Carrara’s cousin; I only liked Rome, because I could live with my
dear, kind master; and now he’s gone, I would rather go than stay.”

“If you conclude to remain, Guiseppe, and if my influence can be of
service in obtaining you another situation, call on me, and I will do
whatever I can for you.”

“I thank you a thousand times, Signor,” answered the grateful Italian;
and I sadly retraced my steps to our hotel. Augustus was almost
as surprised as I had been, on hearing of the sudden death of his
artist-friend; he could scarcely believe it, so unexpected had been the
sad event, and expressed some curiosity to learn what I had to do with
Carrara’s will.

I had not spoken of the packet to Augustus: that was my own little
secret; and when night had assumed her reign, I took a “bougie” and
established myself in my chamber, with the door locked to prevent
intrusion, and proceeded to the examination of this mysterious package.
After taking off the paper wrapper, I saw a small silver casket, locked,
and the little gold key belonging to it, lying within the paper; upon
unlocking it, I saw a bundle of manuscript, and a letter addressed to
myself in Carrara’s handwriting. Some of the papers of the diary had
already become yellow from age. I hurriedly opened the letter, anxious
to learn what this singular present meant; it was dated some days back,
during carnival time; the contents were thus:—

    “MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND,

    “I feel a presentiment of my approaching dissolution; already
    the angel of death fans me with his wings, he beckons me to
    come to that unknown shore; he invites me to drink of the cup
    of oblivion, and forget all things in the quiet sleep of death.
    I am now an old man; I have experienced all that I shall ever
    experience of pleasure; the world is no longer either pleasing
    or new to me. Death, therefore, so far from appearing an enemy,
    seems like a dear friend, who comes to release me from future
    decrepitude and imbecility.

    “You will recollect you one day asked me, while gazing upon the
    portrait of the beautiful Countess Calabrella, what had been
    her character, and her destiny in life? you seemed to admire,
    and love to look upon, that picture; when living, no man ever
    looked upon her without loving her; the manuscript enclosed
    within the casket is a diary of her own life, which she,
    confiding in my discretion, promised, and sent to me, previous
    to her final departure from Rome.

    “The perusal of these sad recollections of her childhood,
    I feel confident, will interest you; they will, at least,
    exemplify the virtuous struggles of a noble soul, and that
    determined will, and perseverance in the paths of rectitude and
    morality, which sooner or later rises triumphantly over the
    transient contingencies of fortune.

    “Farewell my friend, farewell; a mist seems gathering around my
    eyes. Oh, it is nothing, I—”

This unfinished letter was scarcely legible from blots and blurs; my poor
friend had evidently indited it but a little while before his death,
when his mind, as well as his body, enfeebled by illness, was becoming
confused. He could not have bequeathed me a “memento” more acceptable to
myself than this autobiography.

I opened the papers, which were written in a bold free hand; snuffed the
candle, and began to read; as I did so, a small alabaster time-piece upon
my mantle struck nine.

                            THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

“While sitting to you for my portrait, you have often paid me compliments
upon my beauty. I will not say that the language of compliment is
unknown to me; yet, could you have seen me fourteen years ago, a ragged,
houseless, wandering orphan child, you would never be able to recognize
in my present self the same creature. My earliest recollections do not
extend beyond the age of six years; but I still retain an indefinite
remembrance of a tall, slender woman, who used to walk the floor with me,
and hush me to sleep in her arms; it seemed to be in the country, for
I remember hearing the mournful sighing of the winds, as they whistled
through the trees, and of being frightened at the sound; these may be,
however, merely the fancies or dreams of childhood.

“My first distinct remembrance, is of being a ragged, dirty child,—the
protegé, or rather the slave of an old hag, the inhabitant of a wretched
hovel; when not subjected to her abuse and savage tyranny, I was
generally the companion of any little vagabonds I chanced to meet playing
in the streets. What right that old woman had to my person, or how she
ever obtained possession of me, I never knew; chance or fate, whichever
it is that rules the actions of mankind, removed me so soon from her
pernicious influence, and depraved example, that I never learned how our
destinies came to be united. She sometimes sent me out alone at night, to
the most public squares in the city of Vienna, and commanded me not to
return without a certain number of _sous_, under penalty of being whipped
with rods, till the blood ran down my back; frequently she beat me from
sheer malice, merely to exercise her ill humor. In winter, my bed was
a heap of dirty straw, in the loft of this miserable hut, where I lay
and shivered with cold, while my Hecate-like protector, crouched in the
chimney corner of the only room the house contained, dozed, and muttered
over the embers of her fire. During summer I played about the streets, or
grown bold from habit, boldly asked pennys from the passers-by, while the
old woman performed her daily routine of thieving or begging in different
parts of the town.

“Thus passed two years, in this depraved and wretched way; I was then
eight years old, and reason began to shed some glimmering rays of light
upon my benighted mind. I saw that hundreds of other children did not
live as I did: some were beautifully dressed, their hair combed smoothly,
their faces and hands clean, while mine were as dirty as the rags I
wore. All this was a perfect mystery to me; I could in no way explain it
to myself, that other children, no prettier than myself, should revel
in luxury, while I was left a neglected beggar child; alas! knowledge
of the ways of the world has since then taught me the reason why. I
always experienced a sorrowful regret, when I saw other children gayly
dressed, smiling and happy. I did not envy _them_, but I wished to be so
situated myself. The old woman, whom I called Granny, sometimes imposed
upon the credulity of the vulgar, by telling fortunes; her wild eyes,
of a greenish color, and straggling gray hair, accompanied by strange
mysterious gestures, would not have disgraced the queen of the witches
herself; and I presume she would have taught me the same nefarious trade,
had not an unexpected event changed the whole course of my life.

“It was on a cold, dark evening in December; the air was keen and raw,
and flakes of snow came driving along on the wind, when, after having
treated me with unusual severity during the day, the old woman dismissed
me to one of the principal squares, and forbade me to return until I had
obtained ten _sous_.

“I took a little paper lantern, lighted by a bit of tallow candle, to
guide my steps through the dark and lonely streets, and went to the
square. I had been there sometime, and had collected but five _sous_,
from the unwilling charity of the passers-by; some of them, when I
timidly asked them for a _sou_, looked at me harshly, and passed on,
making me no reply; others gave it me in a contemptuous manner; and
one woman, as she swept past me, her long robe trailing the pavement,
remarked how absurd it was for the police to allow pauper children to
annoy people by their importunity. I felt so degraded and unhappy, that
unconsciously the bitter tears ran down my cheeks, and leaning my head
upon my arm, which rested on one of the iron seats of the piazza, I wept
bitterly; I longed to go home, but I dreaded the severe punishment which
I knew awaited me, if I did not return with ten _sous_.

“I heard heavy steps coming up the gravel walk, and rose upon my feet; it
was a tall, stout man, enveloped in a large cloak; I could not see his
face; my little lantern was extinguished, and the moon had hidden herself
beneath the snowy clouds. I extended one of my cold little hands, and
falteringly asked him for a _sou_.

“‘I haven’t a single _sou_ about me, my little one,’ he replied, in a
rough, kind voice, ‘nothing but a bank note.’

“He was about passing on, when trembling and animated by a sort of
desperation, I seized his cloak with both hands, and was beginning to
entreat him once more, when tears choked my utterance, and I sobbed
piteously; the man seemed touched by my grief, he stopped, and raising me
off the ground, exclaimed jocosely,

“‘What, all this weeping about one _sou_, come with me across the piazza,
and I’ll get a bill changed and give you a hundred, if that will dry your
tears, poor little one;’ and then, inquiring, ‘In what part of the town
do you live, and who is it that sends you out such cold, stormy nights as
this, to beg; have you a father or mother?’

“‘No sir.’

“‘Who takes care of you?’

“‘An old woman.’

“‘Is she kind to you?’

“‘No; she sends me out to beg, and beats and abuses me, if I don’t bring
her as many _sous_ as she bids me bring.’

“‘Why don’t you run away?’

“‘I can’t: there’s nobody to take care of me if I did.’

“‘Come with me, and let me see how you look.’ He took my hand, cast his
ample cloak around my shivering shoulders, and I walked by his side to a
small fancy shop, the other side of the square. He began singing an air
as he walked along; it sounded perfectly celestial to my ears.

“A pretty girl stood behind the counter, serving customers; she looked
like an angel to me then; and I thought that poor little shop must
certainly contain every beautiful thing on the face of the earth. After
getting a bank note changed, my new friend pushed back my matted hair
from my face, and attentively surveyed me from head to foot. I now saw
_his_ face; he was a tall, well made man, and his countenance bore
a good-humored expression; the result of his investigations seemed
satisfactory; for, turning to the shop girl, he said to her:

“‘Mademoiselle Marie, can you oblige me by having this child’s face and
hands washed clean?’ and pointing to a child’s dress of blue merino,
hanging on the wall; ‘fit her, if you please, with a robe of that
description, with suitable clothing, and I will pay whatever you may
charge.’ The young girl looked astonished at this; but her amazement
in no way equalled mine. To be presented with, what appeared to me, a
princely gift, from an utter stranger, seemed too beautiful to be true. I
imagined he must be my guardian angel, who had assumed humanity to watch
over me; I was too young to perceive that the man had any _motive_ in
doing this benevolent action.

“I followed the girl, whom he called Mademoiselle Marie, to a small, neat
chamber up stairs; where by dint of perseverance, and some strength, she
succeeded in restoring my face, neck and hands, to their original color;
she then took a comb and smoothed my tangled locks, put clean shoes and
stockings on my feet, clean under-clothing, and lastly, the pretty dress.
I walked across the room to a large mirror, and struck with astonishment,
contemplated my metamorphosis. I beheld a tall, slender child, with
an oval face, whose large blue eyes and auburn hair, gave a pensive
expression to the countenance; my complexion would have been a delicate
white, had it not been turned by constant exposure to the sun. Was it
possible that this interesting child was myself? I concluded it must be
an agreeable dream.

“Mademoiselle led me down stairs again, to my new protector. ‘She looks
much better now, sir; don’t you think so, now she’s dressed nice and
clean?’

“‘Wonderful,’ cried my new friend, ‘I should scarcely know her. Now, my
child, I’ll tell you why I give you this pretty dress; I want you to
leave the old woman who has you now, and come with me and learn to be an
actress; would you not like to be a great actress, rather than beg in the
streets?’

“‘I don’t like to ask money of people; I don’t like that way of living at
all; but I don’t know what you mean by an actress; what do they do?’

“‘Poor child,’ ejaculated Mademoiselle, ‘how dreadfully ignorant.’

“‘Oh, it is the most charming life in the world; perfectly delightful;
you may yet become a great actress, and a happy woman.’

“I could neither appreciate, not understand what greatness was; but
I felt a vague comprehension of the word happy, for I had never been
anything but unhappy. After paying for my new clothes, my protector asked
me to show him the house where I lived. I dreaded to return to the old
woman, lest she should deprive me of my new clothes, and replace them
with rags; I, therefore, earnestly begged him not to take me back to
her; told him she would beat and abuse me, and take away my clothes; he
laughed.

“‘Do you suppose,’ he answered, ‘that I care for an old hob-goblin witch.
I am merely going to see how much she will sell you for, and relinquish
all future right to your person; were I to take you without doing so, she
might trouble me hereafter.’

“‘Oh, I don’t want to be sold for a slave,’ I cried; struck with a sudden
fear; that perhaps he intended to make some kind of merchandise of me.

“‘A slave, my child; I have no intention of making a slave of you, or
any one else I know of, at present. You don’t understand, my little one;
therefore show me the way, and be silent.’

“I led him to the old woman’s house; she did not recognise me at first,
as I entered, followed by the man, and placed her withered hand over
her eyes, to shade the sudden light, and distinguish who I was; for my
companion carried a large lantern in his hand, which he raised high above
my head, as he came in behind me.

“‘It’s you, is it, you little devil; where have you been so long? where
did you get those new clothes; you stole them, didn’t you? I know you
did; oh, I’ll beat you, I’ll beat you.’

“She started, when she perceived my protector, who quietly closed the
door, and came toward her.

“‘What do you want here, fellow?’ she sharply demanded; ‘what are you
doing alone at night with my girl? I sent her out to beg, and you bring
her back to me with fine clothes on; she shan’t keep them; I’ll strip her
of every piece; she shall be a beggar, a hag like I am.’

“‘Look here, my good woman,’ said the man, in a low quiet tone; ‘look me
straight in the face, and let us talk quietly.’ She obeyed; and taking
her pipe from her mouth, fixed her gaggle green eyes on his. His cool
determined manner seemed to exercise a novel influence upon her unsettled
mind.

“‘This poor girl can be of little use to you; I should think, on the
contrary, she would be in your way?”

“‘Oh, yes, she’s a deal of trouble to me; so bad, I can’t—’ She left the
sentence unfinished, and began smoking her pipe again, as she bent over
the fire.

“‘I’ve taken a fancy to the child,’ he continued, ‘and came back with her
to-night, to offer you whatever sum you should ask, if you would give her
to me; I wish to bring her up, and educate her to the stage.’

“‘It’s satan’s own home; no, I’ll never consent that she shall be made an
actress. I mean to bring her up as I was brought up, to be a wandering
gipsy girl.’

“‘She is not your child, that is quite certain?’

“‘No, she is not mine.’

“‘How did you obtain her? did you steal her?’

“‘I shall not tell you.’

“He took a purse of gold from his pocket, and shook it between his hands;
the old woman eyed it eagerly; ‘come my good woman, you had better
consent to let me have the child; you may one day have the satisfaction
of seeing her a distinguished woman, and of knowing that it is the same
being you once took care of.’

“‘Great satisfaction will it be to me, when I shall be rotting in a
pauper’s grave; and great gratitude will she owe me for the kicks and
cuffs I’ve given her.’ The old woman laughed, a sneering, devilish laugh.
‘No,’ she continued in a low muttering tone, as if to herself; ‘my sand
is nearly run, almost gone; I see it in the embers; I feel it in my
bones. What difference does it make when you’re dead, whether you’re
buried in the ground, or burnt up? I’d as soon have a hole in the ground,
as a fine tomb.’

“During this dialogue I had remained silent, in a distant corner of the
room. The fitful gleams from the decaying fire, and the muffled light
of the lantern, partially illumined this witch-like apartment, and cast
fantastic shadows along the wall; in one corner was thrown a straw bed,
upon which the old woman slept; a table, two or three ricketty chairs
and a few pieces of broken crockery, constituted its sole furniture;
a ladder, placed against the wall, led to my sleeping place, to which
I nightly ascended through a hole in the ceiling. At length, arousing
herself from her reverie, she said,

“‘You may have the girl for ten louis; if you’ll give me that, you may
have her.’

“‘Will you sign a paper I shall draw up; promising never to seek to see
her, or speak to her after she leaves you, as I wish to change her turn
of mind, and teach her better things.’

“‘Oh, yes; the girl hates me, and what should we want to see each other
for. As for me, I hate the whole world; yes, I hate it, I have had my
revenge; I have robbed, I have stole, and begged; and steal and beg I
always will, until I’m put in the ground. The world owes me a living for
the troubles I’ve had. No, I shall never want to see her again, if she
leaves me.’

“In the meantime, my new friend took a piece of paper from his pocket,
and wrote something upon it in pencil mark. I did not even know my
alphabet then; it is therefore impossible for me to say what were the
contents of that paper. I presume it was merely a legal technicality,
transferring all her rights over to himself. When he had finished, he
handed it to her to sign.

“‘I can’t write,’ said she, ‘but I’ll make my mark.’

“‘Well, make a cross, that will do.’ She obeyed, and scrawled two lines
across each other; he took the paper from her hand, and put it in his
pocket-book; then counted ten louis from his purse, and placed them in
her withered claws. She carefully counted them over after him, and being
satisfied that the number was correct, deposited the money in a piece of
rag, torn off one of her garments, tied a string around it, and laid it
in her bosom.

“The man rose, and gathered his cloak around him.

“‘Come my child, my business with her is done; let us depart.’

“Strange anomaly in human nature; I, who one hour previous had desired
nothing so earnestly as to leave this wretched hag, now, on being offered
an opportunity of leaving, even for a new bright home, felt an undefined
sentiment of regret at doing so; perhaps it was the result of old
associations and habits, which we all of us, more or less, find difficult
to shake off.

“I timidly advanced toward her, to say farewell, for I had ever stood in
awe of her violence, and savage nature; but she sullenly turned her back
upon both him and me, and began chanting, with her eyes fixed on vacancy.

“‘You need not take the trouble of saying good bye, child,’ remarked
my self-appointed guardian, as he pushed open the latchless door—‘she
wouldn’t care a farthing if you were to die to-night. Come, little one,
are you ready?’ I took one hand; he grasped the lantern with the other;
she did not turn her face toward me as I went out. When my feet left the
threshold of that hut, I bade adieu to beggary forever, and entered upon
a new career in life.

“I felt shy, and almost afraid, as I walked quickly along to keep pace
with him; for now that all ties were forever severed between old Granny
(as I was wont to call her) and myself, I looked upon him as my saviour
and protector; he traversed many streets, turning now to the right, now
to the left, in parts of the city where I had never been before; I wished
he had taken me back to the little shop and Mademoiselle Marie, but we
went nowhere in the direction of the piazza. At length, he stopped before
some building, and knocked at the door; I could not judge of the size of
the house, or its appearance, the night was too dark; the door was opened
by a male servant, holding a heavy silver candlestick, with a wax candle
in it, in his hand; my protector said something to him, in a language
I did not understand, and the man shut the door after him, and removed
his cloak from his shoulders. I now saw, by the light of a large globe
lamp suspended from the ceiling, that we stood in a spacious hall, or
vestibule, off which opened on either side beautifully carved, mahogany
doors; from the farther end ascended a lofty stair-case. My new friend
opened one of these doors, and I followed him into an elegant apartment,
where a bright coal fire burned cheerfully in the grate; the walls were
hung with costly paintings and mirrors; numerous instruments of music lay
scattered round. Such a place I had never seen, scarcely even dreamed of;
surely this must be fairy land.

“‘Now child,’ said my friend, as he rolled a costly arm-chair before
the fire, and seated himself in it, ‘you must be hungry; have you had
anything to eat to-day?’

“‘Only a crust of bread this morning, sir.’

“‘Well, you shall have some supper, and then go to bed, and to-morrow we
will talk of your future prospects.’

“I had no idea of what ‘future prospects’ meant; but the idea of getting
something to eat delighted me; he rang a bell, and when the same domestic
answered the summons, who had opened the door for us, he again spoke to
him in the same unknown tongue. It was not German, or rather a degenerate
dialect I had always been accustomed to hear; it was a softer, a more
liquid language; he told me, in German, to go with the man, whom he
called Jean, and he would give me my supper, and if I wanted anything to
address him in German, and he would understand me.

“I followed Jean across the hall to an immense room, opposite the
drawing-room, extending the whole length of the house, beautifully
carpeted with Brussels; while up and down the apartment, on either side,
were placed stationary seats of scarlet velvet, fixed to the wall; a
magnificent chandelier hung from the ceiling; eight large windows on each
side, set with mirror plate, reflected and multiplied every object in
this handsome and commodious saloon.

“In a distant corner stood a small table, set with supper for two
persons, all sorts of cakes, preserves, dried fruit, and bread; on a side
table sat two silver urns, one containing coffee, the other tea; a warm,
delightful heat seemed to pervade the room; but I saw no fire, and could
not imagine whence it came; the atmosphere of peace and repose, which
seemed to reign within this house, so different to the scenes of strife
and destitution, to which I had alone been accustomed, shed a soothing
influence upon my mind. In the course of the last three hours, I had
thought more than I ever had during my whole dark, blank existence.

“Jean waited on me, while I ate ravenously. A comfortable meal was
something I had never enjoyed before; it is not, therefore, astonishing
that I was attentive to its merits; my usual repast had generally been a
few crusts of dry bread, sometimes the old woman gave me a bit of tough
meat, frequently tainted; this constituted my ordinary fare; yet, I was
then healthy and cheerful, notwithstanding my disconsolate condition.
I did not know for what purpose this man had taken me from the street,
this dark, tempestuous night, and placed me in so splendid a home; had
I been older, and wiser, I should naturally have suspected that he had
_some_ motive or object in this strange act of benevolence; as it was,
I enjoyed, with a keen sense of pleasure, the fine supper, and many
glittering objects I saw around me, without thinking, knowing, or caring,
what became of me hereafter. When I had finished supper, Jean reconducted
me to my protector, who still sat by the fire reading a newspaper;
he asked me if I had had supper enough; and upon my answering in the
affirmative, and gratefully thanking him for his kindness, he took me up
stairs to a little room in the second story, where he gave me in charge
to a neat-looking woman, dressed in black, with a white, frilled cap upon
her head; after telling her to attend me, and put me to bed, he returned
to the drawing-room. It was now past ten o’clock; and, fatigued by the
exciting events of the evening, I began to feel stupid and sleepy; the
waiting maid undressed me, and after seeing me comfortably wrapped up in
bed, left the room, and I fell speedily in a profound slumber.

“The waiting maid, whose name I learned to be Marguerite, came early to
dress me; and I found my friend already at his breakfast, in a small
breakfast room back of the drawing-room; he drew a chair to the table,
told me to help myself, and went on eating and singing at the same time;
I needed no second invitation, and complied. When he had completed
his breakfast, he leaned back in his chair, and producing a large
handkerchief, vigorously rubbed his face; then turning to me, who sat
quietly beside him, drinking my coffee, he asked:

“‘Did you sleep well last night, child?’

“‘Yes sir, very comfortably indeed.’

“‘It is awkward speaking to you, without calling you by name; by what
name did that old woman call you?’

“‘I don’t know that I ever had a name. Granny used to call me Nancy.’

“‘Nancy, that sounds harsh, I don’t like it;’ he seemed to think a
minute, and then said,

“‘Genevra is a pretty name: I will call you that, since you are
unprovided with one; hereafter, remember to answer to the name of
Genevra.’

“‘Yes sir, I will.’

“‘Now come here, and sit upon my knee; I want to tell you what I intend
doing for you.’ I obeyed, and he placed me on his knee.

“‘Now, Genevra, I call you by your right name; you remember hearing
me say last night to that old woman, that I intended educating you
for the stage, if I took you from her; you are too young yet to know
what that means, but you will learn in time. I have already adopted
two little girls, situated much as you were, and mean to educate them
also as actresses. I hope time will show that you possess a tractable
disposition, and sweet temper, without which no accomplishments can be
of advantage to you. You are to be placed at the same school with these
girls, who will, doubtless, be friends and companions to you in your
studies; in the course of five or six years, if you live, you will be
prepared, by dint of hard study and application, to make your _debut_.’

“One half of these remarks I had not understood; I only comprehended,
that I was required to perform something very difficult to be done; I
presumed a sort of punishment, which was to prepare me for some future
eclat; but after having experienced so much of destitution, slight
privations seemed light as air, and I joyfully welcomed the idea of, as I
thought, going to work.

“He told me to run up stairs, and ask Marguerite to find me some sort of
hood, or bonnet, to wear out in the street. After an active search, she
at length discovered a gingham hood, which I hastily tied on, and ran
back to my protector; he took my hand, and we passed out into the street;
it was a fine clear day, I remember; the sun shone bright, although the
air was somewhat cold; how different I felt in spirit, as I gayly trotted
along by his side; I did not feel the same acute sense of degradation
I had always felt with that depraved old hag; the happy buoyant sense
of being, which is the principal of happiness in youth, was gradually
springing up again in my heart, which had been, as it were, stunted and
depressed, by a malevolent genius.

“At a short distance from his own house, he stopped before a gloomy
looking dwelling, chequered alternately on the front, with red and
black brick; he knocked at a large gate, which seemed to form the only
mode of entrance to this convent-like abode; it was slowly unbarred
and opened by a stout german woman, dressed in the usual style of the
peasantry; my friend passed her without remark, and we ascended a heavy
stone stair-case, which wound upward from the court-yard; at the first
landing place he led me into a large parlor, furnished plainly, but
tastefully; the floor was uncarpeted, but waxed and rubbed till it shone,
and reflected every object like a mirror; a piano stood in one corner,
and all the chairs were covered with cushions, elegantly embroidered in
German worsted; two sofas were also ornamented with the same beautiful
work; there was no fire in the grate, however, and the room had a cold,
comfortless air about it; one mirror, inserted between the windows,
and opposite the door, as we entered, afforded me a full length view
of myself, and I started with astonishment at seeing the pretty form
reflected there; very different did it look from the ragged, dirty child,
I was accustomed to see reflected in the shop windows as I passed.

“We had been seated scarcely a moment, when the door opened, and a small
thin woman, with a sharp, bright expression of face, wearing a calico
dress, and wrapped in a red shawl, came tripping in; they spoke together
for some time, in the same unintelligible language I had heard the night
before; at length, turning to me, the lady said in German, ‘So my dear,
you are to be a pupil of mine, I hear; I trust I shall find you obedient
and diligent.’ They resumed their conversation, while I sat quietly
by the side of my new-found guardian; holding his hand in mine, for I
felt sad, at thus being obliged so soon to part from him. I heard the
sound of mirthful laughter, and noisy whispering, which seemed to be in
the vicinity of the parlor, and looking down the stone-paved gallery,
I saw at its farthest extremity a door open, and within the room many
young girls seated at desks, studying. The house, in its architecture,
resembled more one of those old gothic cathedrals, I have since seen
in my travels, than anything else I can compare it to; it was lofty,
antique, and gloomy, one almost felt like the ghosts themselves, as one
walked through its stone galleries, and heard one’s steps resound with a
hollow echo.

“When my guardian and the lady had finished their conference, which
lasted more than half an hour, he took his hat, preparatory to departure.
At the idea of losing this kind man, and being left in a strange house,
to form acquaintances with people whom I neither knew, nor cared for, I
burst into tears; the lady endeavored to console me, patting me on the
head, telling me I should be her little favorite, and she was sure I
would be contented and happy. Monsieur Belmont (I heard her call him so)
shook me repeatedly by the hand, saying he should see me regularly twice
a week; that I must obey Madame Deville in all things, and study hard,
that I might become an accomplished girl.

“‘I have no doubt she will be both happy and satisfied, when she becomes
a little accustomed to the pupils and myself,’ observed Madame to
Monsieur Belmont, as she stood beside me, pressing my hand in hers.

“‘I hope so,’ was his reply, ‘it will be at least three months, I
presume, before I can begin to give her instruction in music, she is so
totally uninformed.’

“‘Oh yes,’ cried she, with the sharp, quick intonation of a French
woman: ‘it will require at least that length of time to instruct her in
the rudiments; I shall try and do my best, Monsieur, I assure you, with
your protegé; before you go, would you not like to have Inez and Blanche
called from the school-room, that they may be introduced to their future
companion?’

“‘Yes,’ answered Monsieur, ‘if it is convenient, I should like to see
them.’

“Madame rang a small bell, which stood on a table beside her; a moment
after, a tall mulatto made his appearance. I had never seen any of the
negro race before, and was much astonished at, what I considered, the odd
color of his skin; he received her message, delivered to him in French,
and directed his steps toward the room at the end of the gallery, from
which he returned in a few minutes, leading by the hand two young girls,
both older than I; the one a brunette, the other a blonde; their manner
was lady-like, gentle, and winning. Inez’s hair was raven black, her eyes
large, voluptuous, and star-like in their expression; Blanche, on the
contrary, was timid as a fawn, in her look and ways: there was a dreamy
languor in her sad blue eyes, which seemed to tell of love’s present
or future reveries—a love, however, of a more spiritual kind than Inez
would ever be capable of feeling; a profusion of pale flaxen hair shaded
her sweet face, and hung nearly to her waist in long curls; they were
both dressed alike, in frocks of cheap calico; they bowed respectfully
to their teacher on entering her parlor, and upon Monsieur Belmont’s
presenting me to them as one who was to become a companion in their
studies, they politely kissed me on each cheek, and bade me welcome to
their school. I could not realize, while contemplating the refinement of
these two girls, that they had been taken, a few short years before, from
the same position in life, from which this philanthropic man had rescued
me but one day previous; truly, it is education, and the society in which
we mingle, which impress in youth that bias of mind for right or wrong,
which only leaves us when life does.

“‘You three will occupy the same room,’ said Madame. ‘I hope you will
be good friends. Inez and Blanche soon cultivated a friendship for each
other after they came.’

“The tears still flowed from my eyes; my heart in after days, became too
hard and dry to allow me to weep often; but then the fount of feeling was
a fresh, pure spring, uncontaminated by the mud and refuse of inferior
streams. I often look back, through the heavy mist time has left lowering
upon those early days, and regret the loss of those fallacious hopes;
those splendid castles built in air, which always crumbled into dust
whenever I attempted to approach them.

“Monsieur Belmont, after speaking to Inez and Blanche a moment, in
French, shook hands with me, bade me not cry, and departed. Madame
Deville reassuming the school-mistress deportment, and her gravity, which
had been laid aside to entertain a visitor, led me to the schoolroom,
and the two girls returned to their desks, their silence, and their
studies. It was a very large room, lighted by two enormous windows, one
at each end; the walls hung, not with superb paintings like Monsieur
Belmont’s elegant house, but with charts and maps; rows of desks were
ranged each side of the apartment, and more than a hundred girls, of all
sizes, shapes, and ages, were seated at them, busily engaged in coning
over their lessons for recitation. Upon my entrance, being a new scholar,
all eyes were bent on me, and a subdued whispering ran through all the
ranks of girls. Madame put me at a desk between Inez and Blanche, and
then taking her seat upon an elevated dias at the head of the room. She
struck her desk with a ruler, and called one of the classes; the girls,
who were called loudly, all rose, shut their books, and placed themselves
before her in a row. This class was composed of large girls, neatly
dressed, some of them were passably pretty; no two in the room, however,
could be compared to Inez and Blanche. They all stared at me as they
passed; it was a lesson in ancient history they were to recite. Madame
taking one of the books in her hand, asked the questions in a loud, clear
tone; and the pupils replied, some well, some wrong, according as they
had learned their lessons; the recitation ended, Madame marked those who
had missed upon a large day-book, which always lay open upon her desk
before her. Several smaller classes were heard, and Inez and Blanche left
my side for a while, to recite their lessons; then I heard the sound
of a deep-toned bell, rung for several minutes: it was now recess for
an hour; all the girls clamorously rushed from the school-room, seized
their sun-bonnets, and poured themselves into the court-yard. It was a
gloomy spot for a play-ground; there were no trees, no flowers, which we
are ever wont to associate in mind with children’s gambols. Nothing but
the square flag-stones, flanked on all four sides, by the brick walls of
the house, met my view. Inez and Blanche put up their books, and turning
to me, Blanche said, ‘Come, Genevra, come with us to the yard, and play
hide and seek.’ Inez also pressed me to go and play with them, for I
felt shy and strange, and would have preferred remaining where I was.
Blanche evidently was a favorite with Madame, for as she went out of the
school-room, to rest herself a few minutes in her parlor, before the
pupils returned to their studies, she kissed me, saying I must laugh and
play, and enjoy myself with the other children; and then said to Blanche,
‘Well, my dear, how is that fine soprano voice of yours, have you
practiced well this morning?’ Blanche smilingly replied she had; there
was a sweetness about that smile of hers, and an expression of guileless
innocence in her lovely eyes, I could never forget.

“How little did we three inexperienced girls imagine what the future
had in store for us. Could a magician, at that period of time, have
shown us in a magic mirror, our several destinies in life, would we have
believed, that the fatal sisters had allotted to us so chequered and sad
a career? I am certain _I_ would not. How grateful should we be to Divine
Providence, that all insight into futurity is forbidden us; how unable
would we be to contend with the many trials and difficulties, which
constantly assail us in the rough pathway of life; could we foresee the
sacrifices which are so frequently demanded of us as we journey on.

“Inez, Blanche, and myself, descended hand-in-hand to the court-yard; the
girls were all joyously at play. I always was a grave child; I cared but
little for the sports and amusements children so dearly covet, but on
this occasion I forgot my usual sadness and joined them in an animated
race, which lasted several minutes, when the bell again was rung; and
the girls arranging their disordered dresses, and composing their faces,
returned to the school-room in pairs, as they had left it.

“Order was restored, and the rest of the afternoon spent in recitation
and writing; I saw several teachers, whom I had not seen during the
morning, having been absent in different parts of the house, giving
lessons in music and dancing. They were all thin, and had a starved and
hungry look, excepting Miss Jones, a fat, good-humored English teacher.
I became quite fond of her during my long residence at the school. I
learned from Blanche, that Monsieur Belmont, was a Frenchman, from Paris,
manager of the Royal Italian Opera, and considered the most splendid
singer in Vienna; he also gave lessons in vocal music to some of the
pupils at the school, among whom were Inez and Blanche; the girl dwelt
with touching sadness upon the humble condition, from which this kind man
had taken both Inez and herself, what advantages of education had been
afforded them, and how grateful they felt towards him.



CHAPTER IV.


“Blanche had just finished her little story, related with an air of
childish simplicity, which gave infinite interest, when the loud sound
of a gun reverberated through the house. I had never heard one then, and
imagined it was thunder. Twilight’s dusky hue had stolen into the room,
before we were aware of its approach. Madame Deville commissioned my
future instructor, Madame Schiller, to attend to me, and, following her,
we went to the refectory; it was a long, low ceiled, narrow room; two
long tables extended almost as far as my eye could reach, covered with
snow-white table linen, and scanty portions of bread and butter; a glass
of water stood by each plate; weak tea was handed to the teachers, who
stood together in a group, apart from the girls, and chatted of their own
affairs. I could not help mentally comparing this meagre fare, with the
delicacies I had eaten the night before at Monsieur Belmont’s. It may
seem surprising, that a beggar girl should regret a style of living, of
which she had only caught a passing glance; but luxury is infinitely more
attractive than want; we sooner become accustomed to it, and lament its
loss when deprived of it. Very few would conscientiously prefer, had they
their choice, a life of rigorous self-sacrifice, to one of wealth and
splendor. It is generally a matter of compulsion and self-love induces us
to advocate that which we cannot change.

“An unbroken silence was preserved during the meal; nearly two hundred
girls were gathered around the tables; they ate their slices of bread
and butter quietly, and scarce a sound was heard in the room, save the
whispered conversation of the teachers. At its conclusion, Madame Deville
said grace, and we all proceeded up stairs, through a long gallery, paved
with stone, as were all the vestibules in the house, to the study room;
this was a large apartment, near the dormitories, fitted up in much the
same style as the saloon at Monsieur Belmont’s; the monthly exhibitions
of the pupils, Inez told me, were held here. Every evening, for two
hours, the girls studied their lessons for the following day; the two
hours seemed an eternity to me, while the scholars industriously applied
themselves to their books. Madame sat at the head of the room in a sort
of pulpit, and with her finger pressed to her lips, might have passed for
the goddess of Wisdom herself. The expression of her features, when in
repose, was somewhat stern, still there was a kindness blended with it,
which showed she possessed a benevolent heart. I still think of her with
love and respect, although the remembrance of those days is faint and
dim. Another bell rang; the movements of the whole household seemed to be
regulated by bells; bed-time had arrived; a certain number of girls were
allotted to each dormitory, over whom presided one of the teachers. I was
to become one of Madame Schiller’s little flock. A shrine, tastefully
decorated, was placed at the head of each sleeping room, and the ceremony
of the office was read every night before the girls retired to rest.
Madame Schiller, with her hands clasped, knelt upon the floor, and we
all gathered around her; the low and solemn voice with which she read
the ‘office,’ made a deep impression on my mind. Inez and Blanche, with
their heads bowed down, devoutly told their beads. The ceremony occupied
perhaps half an hour, then the girls hastily undressed themselves, and
hurried to bed; the beds were small, but the bedding neat and clean; they
were arranged like the desks in the school-room, in two rows each side
of the room; mine was next to that of Blanche. I heard Madame ask, ‘Are
you all in bed, children?’ Some one answered ‘yes;’ she extinguished the
lamp, and silence and darkness reigned. I fell asleep and had a singular
dream. I thought I saw myself grown to be a woman, a tall handsome woman.
I stood upon the deck of a ship, driving furiously before the gale,
upon a stormy sea; the dark clouds lowered above my head, the waves ran
mountains high: a crowd of helpless frightened beings lay around me. I
alone seemed the only one on board this doomed vessel who fearlessly met
my fate. We were rushing fast on the rocks off the coast. I stood with my
arms folded on the forecastle; onward dashed the ship, the masts shivered
to splinters, and sails flying like ribbonds in the wind. As we passed a
high black rock, which rose menacingly above our heads, I looked upward,
and upon its summit, saw a man, who stood with arms folded like myself,
calmly contemplating the unhappy bark. He looked like an angel stationed
there, that after the pangs of death were past, he might convey to heaven
our souls; instinctively I extended toward him my hands, and cried, ‘Save
me, oh save me!’ He also opened his arms to receive me, and answered,
‘Come.’ At this moment, the vessel struck the breakers; one wild
unearthly yell I heard, and was engulphed amid the waves; I struggled
violently, but in vain, to reach the shore; the water filled my mouth and
my ears. I was suffocated, and lost my senses. I awoke, covered with a
profuse perspiration, trembling with fear; it was not yet day, all was
quiet in the dormitory, every one asleep. I lay still for a few minutes,
and gradually realized the conviction, that it was all a dream. I went to
sleep again; this time I dreamed nothing, and was awoke by Blanche’s hand
being laid on mine. Madame was calling the girls; she said it was time to
rise. I rose, dressed myself, and washed my face and hands at Blanche’s
‘toilette,’ there being none yet provided for me. When all were dressed,
prayers were said. Day had just began to dawn, it was not more than five
o’clock, and very cold in the dormitory, sleeping without fire; I felt
chilled and stupified by the raw atmosphere; we descended the stairs
again, and traversed the long vestibules through which we had ascended
the night before; the girls looked almost like shades from the tomb, as
they flitted along, and their pattering steps reverberated as they passed.

“They went to the music room, where every morning, from five till seven
o’clock, the pupils in music practised in little cabinets, within each
of which was placed a piano; a glass window inserted in the door of each
room, enabled the teacher to observe whether they were attentive to their
duty. Not being a music scholar, I left Inez and Blanche to pursue their
practising, and went with Madame Schiller to the school-room; it was
dreary and cold. I sat down at my desk, and wished I knew how to read,
that I might entertain myself with a book. Several girls were in the
room, busily occupied with their lessons; having nothing to do, I leaned
my head on my desk and fell into a sort of doze; the time whiled slowly
away: at last I was startled by the loud sound of the gong; I started up,
sought out my two new friends among the crowd of girls in the gallery,
and having found them, went into the refectory to breakfast; the table
presented no novelty; the same slices of bread and butter, arranged as I
had seen at supper; a cup of weak coffee placed at each plate, instead of
the glass of water, constituted the only variation. I tasted mine, it was
execrable; yet ‘to the hungry man every bitter thing is sweet,’ and being
hungry myself, I ate my bread and butter, and drank my coffee, without
paying much attention to the taste of either; breakfast over, we returned
to the school-room, and I took my first lesson in my native tongue, by
beginning the alphabet. Madame Schiller was my teacher; Madame Deville
was also very attentive; she frequently said many kind, encouraging
things to me. I have described the routine of one day, so it was every
day, monotonous and regular as the ticking of a clock; at first I thought
it inconceivably dull; but gradually becoming accustomed to the school,
and being occupied and interested in my own mental culture, Time, which
at first dragged wearily along, flew more rapidly away, and I became
happy in my new home. I made several acquaintances among the pupils, and
these childish friendships added to my love of the school.

“Two days after my advent at Madame Deville’s, a trunk, containing
several complete suits of clothing, was sent me, labelled ‘Genevra
Sfonza,’ from Monsieur Belmont; Blanche read the superscription, for
I could not; while I, delighted, contemplated the contents of this
unexpected gift; how kind, I thought, to send me such pretty clothes; the
dresses were of worsted, made high and plain, suitable to the cold season
of the year, and my school occupations; how I longed to see my good
benefactor, that I might thank him for all his care and attention to me.

“The following day I saw him; he came to give Inez and Blanche their
singing lesson; I was called to the music room; I found Monsieur Belmont
there, talking to the two girls; they were the only tenants of the room;
at seeing me, he extended his arms and smiled; I ran in to them, with the
joyful glee of an infant re-united to its parent, for indeed, he seemed
to me more like a protector and friend, whom I had known for years,
than the self-constituted patron of a beggar-girl. He asked me if I was
an attentive, obedient pupil; if Inez, Blanche, and myself were good
friends, and if I were happy at the school. To all these questions I most
sincerely answered ‘yes,’ for the few days I had passed there, had been
the only happy ones of my whole life.

“‘Don’t you wish you were far enough advanced in music, to be able to
sing with your two friends?’ asked Monsieur, as Blanche took her seat at
the piano, and arranged her music before her.

“‘Indeed, I should like to sing very much; how long will it be before I
can begin to learn?’

“‘In the course of two or three months, if you are studious;’ and he
turned his attention to Blanche as she commenced her song. It was a
sweet melancholy air from one of the Operas; the words impassioned, and
reproachful. The clear, harmonious voice of Blanche, rose gradually from
a low, quiet tone, to a wild, bird-like burst of passion. She executed
the most difficult passages, with apparently, the greatest ease; higher
and higher, rose her tones; then slowly depressing them, they died
imperceptibly away. The song had ceased, and I had fallen into a reverie,
seated close to the piano, by Monsieur Belmont’s side; one might wonder
what I could have found to muse about, at that juvenile period of life;
but I always was a dreamy child, and still am a dreamy woman, with
this difference alone; my dreams now, are sorrowful regrets over the
past; then, they were the fanciful speculations of youth; my visions,
then, transported me to some sort of fairy, etherial existence, my
spirit seemed to leave my body and rove through infinite space; lovers,
or passion, had no share in those dreams of mine. I have since then
endeavored, but in vain, to recall those visions of fairyland; time, and
the bustle of an active life, have obliterated them from my mind.

“Monsieur praised her improvement, and bade her be diligent at her
practising; then Inez came to sing her piece: her voice was a fine, rich
contralto, deep and melodious in tone. She sang a bold naval song, with
great spirit and effect. The next monthly exhibition was approaching, and
all the music pupils were preparing their pieces for the occasion. Inez
and Blanche were considered the two best musicians at the institution.
Monsieur Belmont advanced them more rapidly, it was said, than he did
the other pupils; probably he wished to perfect them more thoroughly for
their future debut on the stage.

“Each took a lesson on a new piece, then our teacher departed.

“‘Don’t you ever get tired of singing and practising, Blanche?’ I asked,
as she stood leaning thoughtfully against the piano, her eyes downcast,
while Inez gazed from the window upon the dreary street below.

“‘Sometimes, yes; yet we know it is our duty to obey Monsieur, and if he
tells us to practise extra hours, we must do so.’

“‘How long do you practise each day?’

“‘Four, often five hours.’

“‘Oh, that must be very dull!’

“‘I am sure I think it is,’ exclaimed Inez, who was the most petulant of
the two; ‘I often wish I were a woman, and an actress; I should at least
be my own mistress, and obtaining money for myself; here I have been for
the last three, and you for the last two years; the same old monotonous
round of school duties to perform every day; no change, no home to go to
in vacation, always here. I don’t believe I shall ever live to get away;
when you have been here as long as we have, you will be tired of it too,
Genevra!’

“‘I don’t know; I hardly think I shall grow very tired; I like the
school; I love you and Blanche, and I am glad and grateful to have some
one to take care of me, and a home to stay in.’

“‘In a few years,’ said Blanche, ‘we shall leave the school, and go out
into the great world, to make our own way alone; then, perhaps, we may
look back and wish we were at school again.’

“At this moment one of the teachers made her appearance at the door,
and called us to our studies. Time passed quietly and regularly on for
two weeks; I learned my alphabet, and began to spell in words of two
syllables; the girls became used to my appearance, and no longer stared
and whispered when they saw me, as girls always do upon the advent of a
new scholar at a school. Inez was fourteen, Blanche twelve, and I eight
years old. In the course of a year or two, Monsieur Belmont intended
withdrawing Inez from Madame Deville’s, to teach her the art of acting,
preparatory to her entree into the gay world. That world, of which she,
nor any of us, as yet knew anything, and from which, in after years, I so
often turned away, disgusted with its heartlessness and insincerity, and
wished myself buried amid the inaccessible solitudes of Mount Lebanon.

“It wanted but a few days of the monthly ‘soiree;’ the servants were
cleaning and arranging the saloon, where it was to be given. Inez,
Blanche, and myself, had been running furious races together during the
recess; I felt fatigued, from the violent exercise, and sat down where a
strong current of air, from a door, blew full upon me for some minutes;
when we returned to our desks in the school-room, my cheeks burnt like
fire, and my head felt heavy; I could not take my usual interest in my
lesson; for anxious to improve, I diligently applied myself; the letters
seemed to turn red, blue, and yellow, and swam before my eyes; late in
the afternoon, noticing my languor, as I sat leaning my head on Blanche’s
shoulder, Madame Deville asked me, if I felt unwell; I answered, ‘no, I
did not, but my head ached.’

“‘You don’t look well, my dear; I am afraid you are going to be sick;
you must go to the infirmary to-night, and be attended to. Wilhelmina,’
addressing a tall, stout, flaxen-haired German girl, ‘take Genevra to the
infirmary, and tell Miss Jones to attend to her, and put her name on the
sick list, at least till to-morrow, when I will see how she is. Go my
dear.’

“The infirmary was a large, gloomy room, at the other end of the house,
where the pupils were sent, to be nursed, when the least indisposed, if
it was only a headache, or ordinary cold, and Madame happened to notice
a heavy eye, or listless demeanor, among any of her flock, they were
immediately dismissed to the sick room.

“I did not want to go; it was only a slight cold I had taken from
over exercise, but Madame’s word was law, and must be obeyed, and
I, therefore, reluctantly followed my conductress to the infirmary.
Wilhelmina repeated her message to Miss Jones, and then returned.
Twilight was stealing over that vast city, not the unclouded twilight of
a summer’s eve, but winter’s dusky clouds, mingled with the clear blue of
the atmosphere.

“Miss Jones, although English, spoke German well; she asked me if I felt
sick, and what ailed me? I replied, ‘only a slight headache and vertigo;
that I would have remained at my desk, but Madame, imagining I was ill,
had told me to come to the infirmary.’

“‘Madame is right, of course, my child; for all you know, these may be
the premonitory symptoms of a fever,’ and Miss Jones, with a learned air,
felt my pulse. I could scarcely help smiling at the comical expression
of assumed wisdom in the good-natured little woman’s face. ‘Your head is
hot,’ placing her hand upon my head, ‘and your eyes look heavy; sit down
quietly here; the doctor is coming soon, to prescribe for Miss Clarendon,
and then I’ll ask him what I shall do for you?’

“The little woman bustled about the room awhile, and then went out to
order some gruel made for one of the sick girls. I sat still, where she
had left me, in an arm-chair, near the window, and looked around the
room. Some half dozen girls were its occupants, all sick, and with the
exception of one, all in bed; my eyes dwelt more particularly upon her
than any other, being the most beautiful and conspicuous one among the
invalids, it was the young girl the teacher had called Miss Clarendon.
I afterwards learned from one of the pupils, that she was the daughter
of a widowed English nobleman, who had placed her at the institution to
complete her education, while he pursued his travels alone in the East.
She sat in a large fauteuil, nearly opposite me, on the other side of
the room; her whole person, except her etherial looking face, enveloped
in an enormous cashmere shawl. Her maid, a mulatto woman, stood by her,
bathing her pale face with eau de Cologne; her large blue eyes, heavy
and listless from ill health, and probably low spirits, were gazing on
vacancy; a slight, bright tinge of pink illumined each cheek, and gave a
brilliant expression of evanescent bloom to the countenance of this dying
beauty.

“For dying she evidently was, of that most insidious and deceptive of
all diseases, consumption; far away from the home and associations of
her childhood,—alone, in a land of strangers. I thought, while looking
at her, that I had never seen any one half as lovely. Inez and Blanche
were beautiful, but they were not to be compared to her; they did not
possess that elegant bearing, that innate consciousness of superiority,
which showed itself in the very looks of this girl. She looked so calm,
so lady-like; at intervals she pressed one of her small, delicate hands
to her mouth, as if to stifle the hacking cough, which seemed to convulse
her frame. Her attendant offered her a lozenge; she took it mechanically,
put it in her mouth, and still gazed on. I walked across the room and
took a seat near her; she looked at me languidly, but made no remark.

“‘Are you sick, Miss?’ I asked, curiously, for I wanted to hear her
speak. ‘Are you one of Madame Deville’s pupils? I have not seen you
before.’

“‘You are a new pupil, I suppose, and I have been sick for many weeks,’
she replied, in intelligible German, but with a marked English accent;
her voice was sweet, and intonation very clear, ‘Are you on the sick
list?’ she asked.

“‘Yes, Madame says so; she sent me here because I had a bad headache and
vertigo, but I don’t like the room, it’s so still and gloomy.’

“‘I wish I had nothing but a headache, I should not complain of the
gloomy room.’ Tears started in those soft blue eyes, and ran down her
cheeks. ‘Oh my father,’ she murmured in broken tones, ‘if you only knew
how desolate and lonely I am, I am sure you would come to me.’

“‘Don’t cry,’ I exclaimed, moved at her grief, and wishing to console
her, ‘I am sure you’ll get well yet.’

“‘Go away, child, you worry me; you cannot bring me what I long for, my
dear father.’

“‘Where is your father, is he very far from here? why don’t he come to
see you, when you want to see him?’

“‘He don’t know that I am ill, that I am dying; if he did, oh how quickly
would he fly to me.’

“‘Why don’t you write to him, and ask him to take you away from the
school?’

“‘I have written several times, but I know my letters are never sent, if
they had been, he would have been here long ago; I know I shall die soon;
it is now two years since father placed me here, and I have been sick for
more than a year. He went to Greece and Sicily. Oh, how I wish I were
with him. It must be a dreadful thing to die,’ she continued, after a
moment’s pause; ‘did you ever think about dying, child?’

“‘No, I never thought much about it; I always thought about being happy,
and wished to be so.’

“‘At home in dear England, I was happy, with all dear friends around us;
but to be ill in a strange country, among people I care nothing about,
and who care nothing for me, oh how dreadful it is.’ She hid her face in
her hands, and sighed, and sobbed. I wished I had been better acquainted
with her, I would have thrown my arms around her neck, and kissed her,
but I did not like to take such a liberty with an utter stranger. Miss
Jones stole suddenly upon us, followed by the physician, and I glided
back to my former position. He talked for sometime to Miss Clarendon in
a low voice, and she replied in the same subdued tone; I could not catch
any of their conversation. Then he passed to the bedsides of some of the
other invalids, and paused for some time at that of a little girl, who
was raving deliriously with typhus fever; her little hands lay outside
the coverlid, and she sometimes clasped them frantically above her head,
and demanded her golden crown. Poor little innocent, I hope she obtained
it in a better, brighter sphere; for, a few days after, I saw the same
slight form arrayed in its grave clothes, and she was borne to her last
and silent resting place.

“The physician prescribed for me abstinence for twenty-four hours, and
a dose of Epsom salts, both of which recipes I considered entirely
unnecessary, as fasting was a virtue which we, from necessity, were
constantly obliged to practise, and as for the salts, I really did not
need it. It was now quite dark, and two lamps, shedding a dim light, were
placed by the nurse on tables at either end of the room. I saw the young
English girl undress, and her servant assisted her into bed; she coughed
continually, and the traces of tears were still on her cheeks; how sorry
I felt for her, if I had been a carrier-pigeon, how willingly would I
have flown to Sicily, or anywhere on earth, to have told that beloved
parent of her sad condition, and restored him to her.

“I was permitted to remain up an hour longer, as it was only seven
o’clock; my head still felt heavy, and objects seemed to swim before my
eyes; in the background of the room, the nurse, in her austere dress of
black, stood by the side of one of the patients, pouring some drops of
liquid into a spoon, while the faithful mulatto, seated in a chair at
the bedhead, watched the uneasy slumber of her beautiful mistress; Miss
Jones walked quietly backward and forward. As I grew older, and became
more capable of observation and reflection, I often wondered how those
poor teachers managed to support life, dragging on from days to months,
from months to years, their monotonous, stupid existence: no prospect of
brighter days dawning on the future, nothing but a continual repetition
of school duties, repeated to an infinitude of times; habit, however,
becomes second nature, and constant occupation frequently prevents us
from dwelling with too much sensitiveness on personal misfortunes.

“After taking the medicine, a gentle, soothing influence came over me,
and I dropped asleep in my chair. I awoke during the night, I was
still in the same position. Miss Jones had left the room, and the nurse
slumbered with her head leaning on a table; I felt benumbed from my erect
attitude, but sleep again overpowered me, and daylight found me locked in
the arms of Morpheus. I don’t remember what happened afterward; for nine
days I lay deliriously tossing on a sick bed, with an attack of fever;
at the end of that time I began slowly to recover. Inez and Blanche,
my beloved little friends, spent every moment they could snatch from
their studies by my side, telling me stories to amuse me, and exercising
their ingenuity in a thousand artless ways, to beguile away the tedious
hours of convalescence. Madame Deville and Monsieur Belmont, during my
illness, had often visited my bedside; they said he had been apprehensive
lest my disease should prove mortal. Madame, in her bustling, active
way, came every day to the infirmary, encouraged the sick ones, ordered
what she thought proper for them, and then bustled away again; there
was no difference in her manner toward either rich or poor girls: all
were treated alike. I loved her for that trait of character; she only
showed perhaps, a slight partiality in favor of those who made the most
rapid progress in their studies. This induced the pupils to emulate
each other in improvement, that they might deserve the approbation of
their directress. When I was sufficiently recovered to observe what was
passing around me, I looked for Miss Clarendon, but she was no longer in
the room; Inez told me she was a parlor boarder, and had gone to Madame
Deville’s private parlor, where she took private lessons, and amused
herself as she chose; she spoke of her sweet disposition, and various
accomplishments, and said that she was generally beloved by all who knew
her in the school.

“It was a week after the fever had left me, before I was able to return
to the school-room; when I did so, Madame Schiller, and several of my
new acquaintances greeted me as if I had been an old friend; after
that I applied myself with energy and perseverance, and my improvement
was rapid. At the expiration of three months, Monsieur Belmont began
instructing me in vocal music; time, and intense assiduity at practising,
slowly developed my voice; he was a kind, but a severe and exacting
master; he obliged us to perform our allotted tasks, with punctuality and
exactness; if we did them well, he praised us quietly, but even slight
commendation from his lips was very gratifying.

“The musical soiree had occurred during my illness. Inez and Blanche, I
was told, had sung charmingly. Poor little girls! the momentary praise
bestowed at a school exhibition, but poorly repaid them for the many
hours of labor spent in acquiring those bird-like tones. Several months
elapsed before I was sufficiently advanced in music, to be able to sing
at one of Madame’s ‘evenings.’

“One morning I was directing my steps toward the music room, to practise
my lesson, when I saw Miss Clarendon come running down the gallery, and
with a wild, passionate expression of joy and surprise, threw herself
into the out-spread arms of a grave, elegant looking man, who stood
quietly awaiting her approach.

“‘Oh my dear father!’ she wildly exclaimed, as she impressed kiss after
kiss on his lips and forehead, ‘you have come at last to see your poor
sick child: I had expected to die without ever seeing you again.’

“‘You had expected to die! my darling child, what do you mean? I have
only this morning arrived from Greece: I have come to take you home to
England. Why do you speak in this sad way? Have you not been happy here?’

“‘I have been ill for several months,’ she sadly replied; ‘the doctor
says I have consumption; I have been so unhappy, too, away from you. How
happy I feel to be with you again, dear father!’

“The gentleman fondly stroked his daughters silky hair, and gazed with
paternal fondness upon that grief-worn, delicate countenance. She now
seemed happy and at rest, by the side of that parent, for whose presence
she had longed so earnestly; the surprise and pleasure of this re-union,
had lit up her face with an expression of feverish joy almost unearthly.
I remained a moment at the door of my cabinet and looked at them.

“‘You are really going to take me away from here, are you not, dear
father? we shall return to dear old England.’

“‘Yes, my beloved child, you shall go with me; could I have foreseen your
ill health and unhappiness, I never would have left you; I have been
thinking of you, my love, during my whole journey, in Athens, at Mount
Etna, everywhere you were constantly in my thoughts.’

“‘I wish I could have ascended Mount Etna with you: how I should like to
see it.’

“‘It would have been too tiresome a journey for you, my darling; now go
and pack up your clothing, while I speak to Madame Deville before our
departure.’

“He went into Madame’s parlor, and his daughter walked toward the
staircase with a quick light step; she was going to leave the school; in
all probability I should never see her again: I was determined to say
farewell, and, therefore, ran after her.

“‘Are you going away, are you going to leave us, Miss Clarendon?’

“She stopped and looked around; her face brightened with a sweet smile,
when she saw it was I who spoke to her. ‘Yes, Genevra, I am about leaving
you; my dear father has come to take me home to England.’

“‘Are you very glad to leave the school?’

“Yes, I am glad, because I am going to see many beloved friends, and
because I have suffered much since I have been here from ill health; but
I regret losing some of my school companions, and among them is yourself;
when I am gone, you must sometimes think of me, Genevra, and keep this in
remembrance of me.’

“She gently placed a small gold ring upon my finger, kissed me, and then
ran up stairs; I watched her till she disappeared, and then returned to
my piano, with the saddening reflection that we should never meet again.

“An hour afterward I saw, from the window of the music-room, a dark
blue barouche, drawn by four dapple gray horses, standing before the
entrance to the seminary. Lord Clarendon was buttoning up his great-coat,
and speaking to a servant, while a liveried footman assisted the young
lady into the carriage, presently the gentleman followed also. As the
equipage whirled away, she glanced up at the house, and observing me at
the window, bowed, and waved her small white hand; they were quickly out
of sight. The recollection of that sweet young lady remained fresh in
my memory for years; I often wondered whether she ever lived to reach
England, or whether death’s iron grasp had seized her in a strange land,
and I often wished to see her, but my wish was never gratified.

“Two years glided away: Inez had become a beautiful blossom; Blanche
was yet but a half-blown bud; I was a tall, slender child. During this
length of time I had made quiet, but steady progress in English, French,
and Italian, together with my native language; I had gained the love of
my preceptors, and I was happy, because I was occupied. We had become
a happy trio of firm friends, and notwithstanding women seldom agree,
we continued, from first to last, devotedly attached to each other. It
was, perhaps, my first grief of the heart, when Inez was withdrawn by
Monsieur Belmont from the school. True, I had suffered many privations in
early childhood, but they affected more my physical than mental system;
moreover the uncultivated mind of a child is incapable of reflection; but
now, from the beneficent influence of education, I could think—in after
years, I learned to reason too. Blanche and myself dwelt with sentiments
of regret upon our approaching separation from Inez; we seemed to love
her more, now she was about to part from us. I presume it was the
perversity of human nature, which enhances the value of those objects we
are about to lose.

“It was the morning of her departure. Inez stood with her shawl and
bonnet on, in our preceptress’ parlor; Madame was also there, conversing,
and gesticulating with French vivacity to Monsieur. Inez had bidden
farewell to all her acquaintances, and tears dropped heavily from her
large black eyes. It was a lovely summer day; I heard the chirping of the
birds; the sun shone brilliantly; all nature seemed to wear a gala dress;
we kissed her in silence, and stood by her, each pressing one of her
hands in ours.

“‘So, children, you are about to be separated,’ cried our mutual master;
‘you all look very sad about it, but Inez will be very happy, I know,
when she becomes a gay woman of the world; with her splendid voice, she
will make a sensation, and a fortune too. As for you, you will soon
forget your grief. Blanche’s turn will come next, and then you will be
left alone, Genevra.’

“‘Yes, sir, I know it,’ I mechanically replied, for I was thinking of
Inez.

“‘Genevra has improved much in looks of late. Do you not think so,
Madame?’ asked the gentleman.

“‘Yes,’ answered she, glancing at me momentarily. ‘I always thought her
a pretty child; she is obedient and polite, and very studious; but all
the pupils look better in warm weather, than during the cold inclement
season of the year; they will miss their schoolmate at first, I suppose,
but then they will soon grow reconciled to her absence, for children soon
forget.’

“Time demonstrated to me the truth of Madame’s observation, that
children, and sometimes men and women, ‘soon forget.’ Oh, beloved
companions of my childhood! how often have my thoughts reverted to the
innocent hours of pleasure, passed at that school. Where are now the
brilliant anticipations of the future? where are the devoted lovers, the
unfailing friends we fondly pictured to ourselves? Alas! like the shades
of Ossian’s heroes, they have faded into air, thin air.

“Our adieus to Inez were weepingly paid, and we saw her depart with our
teacher; he promised to send us an account of her debut, and kept his
word. A few months subsequently a literary Gazette was sent to Madame,
who, after reading it, showed it to us; a paragraph, marked with ink,
indicated an eulogium upon the personal appearance, and exquisite voice,
of the beautiful young cantatrice, Mademoiselle Inez Fontana. She had
made her debut at Berlin: this was a Berlin newspaper. How delighted she
must feel at her triumph. For the first time, it occurred to me that it
must be a fine thing to have the world’s applause. Blanche and myself
were pleased at her success; almost as well pleased as we would have
been at our own. One is generally gratified at hearing of a friend’s
celebrity; it flatters our self-love, since it is _our_ friend who has
obtained renown.

“The days and weeks, and months, still sped onward. At first, the loss
of Inez seemed almost irreparable; in all our amusements we had always
formed a little party among ourselves, now our ‘set’ was broken, and we
missed her joyous ways; different to my beloved, confiding Blanche; she
was apparently more impassioned, but in reality less so; there was an
under-current of strong, deep feeling, in the disposition and character
of my fair-haired favorite, her more volatile companion never possessed.

“At length Blanche also was removed by M. Belmont, and I was left alone;
rumors of her success, and of the popularity Inez had acquired, often
reached me in my retirement from the busy scenes, in which they now
occupied so conspicuous a position, and I felt happy in knowing that
they were admired; and morning and evening, when I knelt in prayer, with
my heart filled with devotion towards that one all-wise, all-creative
Influence, I never failed to breathe a prayer for their future happiness
and prosperity.

“My own turn came next, four years after; the time had dragged along
drearily since the departure of my two friends, and I longed to go;
eight years had now elapsed since my advent at the institution. I had
perfected myself in three languages, all of which I could speak fluently,
and translate well. Madame Deville, and dear Madame Schiller, were both
tenderly attached to me, and I bore toward each the most respectful
regard.

“‘I trust, my dear Genevra,’ said Madame Deville to me one day, as I sat
in her room, making for her some wax flowers; ‘now that you are about to
be removed from my protection, I most fervently trust that you will ever
bear in mind the principles of integrity and truth, with which I have
ever endeavored to inspire you; and never, I beg of you, allow yourself
to be deceived by the skilful tongue of flattery. A beautiful actress
is invariably exposed to many temptations, which other women, occupying
a more private position in life, are seldom subjected to; you possess
accomplishments, and personal attractions, which will procure you the
admiration of men, and the envy of women; but if you pursue a virtuous
course in life, and place your trust in God, I doubt not you will be
rewarded.’

“‘I hope I shall ever remain true to the principles of honor and virtue,
which have been taught me by you, Madame, since I have been your pupil,’
I responded. I admired and respected my good preceptress; but her
knowledge of life had been circumscribed, during twenty-five years, to
the narrow limits of her school. She drew her conclusions of what the
world ought to be from her own thoughts, and she supposed that honesty
and virtue are ever rewarded, because she had read in some half-dozen
moral novels I had seen her peruse, that such was the case. Had she
mingled in the gay vortex of society, she would have seen that unblushing
assurance, combined with knavery, passes with the multitude for genuine
talent; that unassuming merit is never appreciated, and generally
descends to the tomb unsought for, and unknown. All these things I
learned from experience; a harsh, yet at the same time a just master; the
only one, perhaps, who can practically convince us of the truth of an
hypothesis.

“‘My child,’ suddenly exclaimed Madame, ‘you are composing a
parti-colored lily: I want a white one.’

“In fact, absorbed in thought and dreams of the future, I had arranged a
lily of red, blue and white leaves; I smiled at the odd effect and began
another.

“‘Monsieur Belmont informed me, the other day, that he intended taking
you to Naples, to make your first appearance there at the San Carlo,’
observed Madame, as she turned a page of the book she was reading.

“‘Ah! indeed,’ for this was unexpected news. ‘I thought I was going to
rejoin Inez and Blanche; I should like to be with them.’

“‘I thought so too, but it seems not; neither are they with each other at
present. Inez still performs at Berlin, where, it seems, she is a great
favorite; and Blanche is at Munich; the journals speak of her as warbling
like a nightingale. It scarcely seems four years since she left us; you
were all dutiful, obedient pupils, and have done honor to the school by
your great musical talents.’

“Madame closed her book, and left the room; I laid the bouquet of wax
flowers which I had just completed, upon a table, and rose to go also;
as I did so, my eyes unconsciously rested upon the enormous mirror, in
which eight years ago, I had seen my tiny person reflected, the first day
I came to school. I again saw myself reflected on its smooth surface;
instead of a small, delicate child, I beheld a well developed girl, whose
long hair fell in ringlets to her waist; the expression of her features
was thoughtful, almost sad. While gazing upon this inanimate image of
myself, I fell into a reverie; every little incident that had ever
happened, during my long residence at the house, seemed to be vividly
revived by memory. I looked around upon the parlor and its furniture; I
wished to impress the appearance of that room upon my mind, that I might
be able to recall it, perhaps for my amusement; at some future day. I
was going into the world, to enter into a new sphere of life, among new
faces, and new scenes. Inez and Blanche had before this been initiated
into its mysteries; perhaps too, they had changed and become women of the
world, but I trusted not.

“The loud ringing of the bell, which was always rung at twilight, to
assemble the pupils for study, aroused me, and I joined my companions.



CHAPTER V.


“The following day I departed, Madame Deville kissed me several times,
and warmly embraced me. She seemed to feel more regret at parting from
me, than I had seen her manifest upon the similar occasions of bidding
adieu to Inez and Blanche; for myself, I felt sorry to leave, and yet
glad to go. To spend one’s existence in an automaton-like performance of
fixed rules, laid down for us by others, is surely not a life of action;
and action is the object and purpose of our being, that each should bear
his share of the joys, cares, and responsibilities of existence, is
evidently the intent of our being sent upon earth.

“Monsieur Belmont placed me in the hackney coach, which was to take us
to the post-house, whence we took the diligence, to one of the principal
towns on the road to Naples; my luggage was strapped on behind; my
teacher placed himself by my side and closed the carriage door; the
driver cracked his whip and we started. As I heard the rumbling of
the coach wheels on the rough stones of the pavement, a feeling of
loneliness, of isolation, stole over me. I, a simple schoolgirl, had left
the abode of years, and was about to be cast forth upon that great chaos,
the world; still I hoped that the invisible hand of some angel-guardian,
would guide me safely through the dark clouds of obscurity, even unto the
bright sun of the most perfect day. Since that day I have travelled over
half the inhabited world, but I never experienced a sadder feeling, than
on the day I bade farewell to the boarding-school at Vienna.

“It was a sweet morning in the month of May. Inez had left us in the
summer time, Blanche, when autumn’s yellow leaf strewed the ground;
but a fresh spring day heralded my departure. The brisk trot at which
we travelled soon carried us beyond the suburbs of the city, and the
magnificent metropolis of the Austrian empire, its monuments, splendid
churches, beautiful gardens, and glorious works of art, were left behind.
My eyes dwelt upon them admiringly, as they gradually receded from my
view; I was proud of the country, and place of my nativity; and in that
great city I had lived for so many years, and yet was as ignorant of
its gayeties, its vices and its crimes, as any poor countryman from the
neighboring mountains.

“Our road lay along a fertile plain, bordered on the right by a lofty
chain of mountains, on the left a small stream ran gurgling by; the
gentle murmur of its waters sounded like the regular sonorous breathing
of a sleeping child. Monsieur pulled out of his pocket a newspaper, and
went to reading politics. It was evident that beautiful scenery had no
charms for him. He left me undisturbed to my meditations, and I followed
them; I looked down on the long green grass at my feet, interspersed
with wild flowers, and I looked up at the blue heavens above my head,
traversed here and there by fleecy white clouds, and I felt thankful
to the beneficent Creator of all things, that he had placed me in so
beautiful a world. I glanced across the plain at the lofty dark blue
mountains, and then turned to the opposite side, where groves of tall
poplars and graceful lindens waved their dark green foliage in the
sunshine.

“Gradually, as we journeyed on, the scene changed; the plain was
distanced, and we ascended a hill and rode through a thick forest. I
listened to the mournful cooing of the doves, the chirping of the birds,
and the hollow sound of the breeze, as it whistled through the trees;
the snake glided through the brushwood and vanished at our approach, and
the deer ran startled away, little partridges ran about on the ground,
calling each other in the unintelligible language of the brute creation.
I enjoyed everything I saw with that untarnished freshness of feeling,
the attribute of early youth. Man becomes accustomed to anything, and
everything, and a continued repetition of the same thing, even if it be
beautiful, becomes tiresome. To love or appreciate a person or thing
long, we must throw around it, or them, an air of mystery, of reserve,
for undisputed possession sooner or later brings satiety. Poor frail
human nature! why is it, destined child of dust, that thou canst only
love ardently while the object of thy passion is unattained? A lover
will run all risks, do anything to obtain his mistress; yet when once
his own, grow weary of her in a month; the fervor of his passion will
cool down to positive indifference, sometimes degenerate into neglect or
personal abuse.

“Monsieur still sat coning over the news; he had journeyed that road
a hundred times before, and consequently did not care for trees, nor
flowers, nor green grass. Towards evening the driver drew up before the
door of a small, dirty-looking post-house, situated in a deep ravine,
surrounded by steep precipices; a waterfall ran bounding down the rocks,
with a wild, musical sound. The situation was picturesque and grand;
two women, upon their knees, on the edge of the stream, washing their
clothes, chatted to each other, and their faces wore the expression of
smiling content. Upon the steps of the house sat a beautiful girl, sewing
some ribbonds together; on which she was placing glass beads of different
colors. She smiled to herself as she did so, probably anticipating the
effect this piece of rustic finery would have upon the heart of some
village lover. A princess, while contemplating a tiara of diamonds, could
not have felt happier than did this cottage girl with her head-dress of
ribbonds. There is something charming in nature, and in rural life; it
is so natural, so pure, so unalloyed by the manœuvering, the hypocrisy,
the turmoil of social existence; it is the primitive state of being our
first parents led, and to its peaceful shades has many a hackneyed man
and woman of the world returned, as a tired child to its mother’s arms,
to seek for peace and repose.

“After waiting sometime the diligence made its appearance; we got into
it, ourselves the only passengers, and the carriage returned from whence
it came; the postillion winded his horn as we flew rapidly away. We
followed the course of the Danube; it was a dark night, the sky only
illumined by the stars; I could not obtain a distinct view of this
majestic river, still as we rolled along upon its beautiful banks, I
thought of the lessons I had so often repeated about the invasion of the
Goths and Vandals, and how they had crossed the great river on their way
to Rome.

“Our journey occupied the space of four days; we travelled without
stopping, and long before we reached Naples, my strength was nearly
exhausted from fatigue. When the boundaries of Italy were passed, and we
had entered upon the fertile plains of Tuscany, my eyes dwelt delighted
on all they saw. The peasantry in their fanciful costume, the blooming
vineyards, and pretty cottages, all, by turns, enraptured me. Monsieur
Belmont sometimes talked to me about Naples and my future career;
sometimes read the everlasting newspapers, in which he seemed to take so
lively an interest, and sometimes dozed away the time.

“We passed several beautiful villas, and fine plantations; in the latter,
numerous male and female peasants were at work in the fields. Their
care-worn faces, begrimed with sweat and dirt, bearing testimony to the
labor they performed; from my heart I most sincerely pitied them. To
stand for hours under the burning heat of the sun digging, ploughing, and
gathering the grape when harvest-time arrived, could be no enviable task;
the women were frightful, the sun had turned their naturally dark skins
to a copper hue; their short petticoats exposed their sinewy legs and
bare feet, large and ugly, from never having been compressed in shoes.
They scarcely looked like human beings, and my gaze wandered quickly away
in search of more romantic objects to dwell upon.

“We stopped an hour at Pisa to dine; and as everything is hurry and
confusion at an Italian Inn, upon the advent of a stranger, Monsieur,
learning that our dinner would not be ready for a quarter of an hour,
took me down the street to look at the celebrated Leaning Tower of Pisa.
We paused before its graceful front, and I looked up at the eight tiers
of white marble arches, each different from the other in architecture,
and each beautiful. We ascended to its summit by a circular stairway,
which wound round and round within the building, till my head became
confused; from the top I obtained a fine view of this ancient, and once
powerful city. I looked down upon its broad, well-paved, but almost
deserted streets, and recalled the warlike days of the republic. The
tranquil Arno still ran swiftly past, as it did then; the plain on which
the town stands was just as smiling and lovely, as in the days of yore,
but the spirit of enterprise and commerce, which had once animated and
enriched this classic town, had forever passed away.

“Dinner was ready when we returned. The excitement of the journey, and
visit to the Leaning Tower, had almost deprived me of appetite, but
my teacher made amends for my bad taste, by eating with the greatest
voracity; he seemed to wonder at my indifference to the viands set before
us.

“‘Why don’t you eat, child,’ he suddenly demanded, while masticating some
oranges, ‘are you not hungry? I should think you would be after such a
long ride; you had better eat something, for you will need nourishment
before we stop again.’

“‘I don’t want anything to eat at present, sir,’ I answered, ‘and I have
some biscuits in my pocket; if I feel hungry, I can eat them.

“Once more we were off; we now had company, in the shape of two Italians,
young students from one of the universities of Pisa, returning home to
Naples; they were handsome, talkative young men. The usual civilities
having been mutually exchanged, Monsieur and they soon became involved in
a long political discussion, interesting, I have no doubt, to them, but
tiresome enough to me, since we take but little interest in that which
we do not understand. Their conversation was sustained, apparently with
much animation on both sides, for some hours. Monsieur Belmont talked
well, he had seen a great deal of society, in all its different phases,
and was a perfect man of the world; he did not look upon it with the same
feeling of satiety, with which a _roué_ views this fair earth; he had not
the refinement, the elegance of mind necessary to form that character;
his was merely the worldliness of a business-like mind. The young men
with whom he conversed, were evidently inexperienced and unsophisticated;
their views of life, and society in general, were certainly more
theoretical than practical.

“It was the fourth day of our journey, we were rapidly approaching the
enchanting Parthenope, the far-famed Eldorado of Italy. Already I could
see the distant summit of Vesuvius, vomiting forth clouds of smoke. The
majestic castle of San Elmo, upon the hill, and that of Castle Nuovo,
by the harbor, looked like two faithful sentinels, watching over their
beloved city. Innumerable vessels, from all quarters of the globe, and of
all sizes and shapes, rode quietly upon the azure bosom of the beautiful
harbor. The domes and spires of its gothic churches rose high in air,
glittering in the sunshine. The character of the scenery had changed as
we neared the town; the dense, gloomy forests of Austria, and the wild
mountainous scenery of northern Italy, had given place to the rocky,
volcanic soil, and level plains of the environs of Naples, adorned with
grapevines and fruit trees, while far away in the distance I saw the
dark-blue tops of the Appenines. Well may the Neapolitan exclaim, with
patriotic ardor, ‘See Naples and die;’ he thinks it a piece of heaven
fallen upon earth, the garden spot of the world, and, with justice, may
he cherish this opinion.

“The coach horses dashed down the hill leading into the city, as if the
prince of darkness was at their heels, dragging the diligence after them
at furious speed. Our travelling companions left us as we entered the
gates; and after dashing through the fashionable thoroughfare, the street
called Toledo, the postillion drove in various directions, up one street,
and down another; now through broad, handsome streets, now through dirty
crooked lanes, until at length, he stopped before the door of a cottage,
built in gothic style, of gray stone; it faced upon a quiet, pretty
piazza, adorned with trees and flowers. Honeysuckle, myrtle and cypress
vine, hung gracefully around the latticed windows of this sylvan abode. I
wondered where my guardian was taking me to.

“At the noise of the coach wheels, the street door opened, and a woman
who had once been handsome, but whose interesting countenance now bore
the traces of age, attired in gray silk, stood upon the threshold. She
bowed and smiled to Monsieur as the diligence drew up; he undid the coach
door, jumped out, assisted me to do the same, and then presented her to
me as Madame Bonni.

“‘This is my little protegee, Madame, whom I wrote you I should bring
on to Naples this year to make her debut; we have had a long, and dusty
travel from Vienna.’

“‘I am delighted to see you, my friend, and you also, my child; but pray
enter my parlor, and I will order refreshments for you; you must feel
very much fatigued after so long a journey.’

“The good lady took my hand and led me into her parlor. Monsieur, after
giving some directions to the servants about the luggage, followed also.
It was really a fairy little room, hung with fine paintings on the
walls, damask curtains at the windows, several marble statues placed on
pedestals, while a melodious musical box, and a beautiful canary bird in
a cage, seemed to vie with each other in harmony. I took a seat near a
window, the lady sat opposite me, and Monsieur threw himself on a sofa,
and complained of the hot weather and trouble of travelling.

“‘So this is the young lady who sings so splendidly; but I understood
that you had three protegees to bring out: where are the other two?’
inquired the lady, after having attentively surveyed me for a moment.

“‘This one is the youngest of the three; they were all educated at the
same school together—Madame Deville’s, at Vienna—but Inez and Blanche
completed their education first, being the oldest, and have been
performing four or five years. Inez is making a fortune for herself at
Berlin, and Blanche I left at Munich.’

“‘I should like to hear the young lady sing, if she will oblige me with
a song; I have a fine piano here.’ She crossed the room, uncovered an
enormous German instrument, and ran her fingers over the keys.

“‘Certainly my pupil will be happy to do so,’ said my teacher, answering
for me. ‘She has no need to be afraid of singing: her voice is
magnificent; she will make the greatest singer of the day. Come, Genevra,
sing something from Norma for my friend.’

“I placed myself at the piano; I was confident of my own abilities, and
therefore felt no hesitancy in complying with the request. I chose an air
from Norma, and sang it. I recollected many years before how astonished
I had been at the power and compass of Blanche’s voice, but now my own
tones far excelled hers. I was almost surprised at myself, as I rose from
the piano.

“‘Magnificent!’ cried the lady, ‘I never heard such a voice, not even
among our best songstresses; so much sweetness and power combined; she
will make a great sensation in our city, when she makes her appearance.’

“Monsieur smiled; he looked pleased, but said nothing; I presume he was
afraid of spoiling me by too much praise. At this moment, a domestic
entered, bearing a tray of refreshments, and conversation for the moment
was postponed.

“Madame took me into her pretty garden, and showed me her birds and
flowers. She gathered me a bouquet of choice flowers, which I afterwards
placed in water. When I went to my room at night, she told me she was the
widow of an Italian army officer, and now lived upon an annuity paid her
by government; she never had any children, and felicitated herself upon
my visit, as that of a companion and friend. She was not intellectual,
nor pretty now, but kind-hearted and sincere, and sincerity and goodness
are certainly attractive. I did not in return confide to her the details
of my childhood, for I could not have done so without humbling myself in
my own, and in her esteem, and my pride would not allow me to do that,
but I spoke on general subjects; of the city, its beautiful scenery, and
splendid buildings, and of the beauty of the peasantry I had seen as I
journeyed toward it. On these subjects the enthusiastic Italian was at
home, for the Neapolitans are desperately enamoured of their own lovely
land. We passed an hour in pleasant conversation, then returned to the
parlor, where tea was served; my teacher favored us with a song; he sang
magnificently; and I also sang a duet with him, which elicited Madame’s
raptures. At ten o’clock, we retired to rest, I felt almost worn out
with fatigue; the lady conducted me up stairs, to a neat little chamber
opposite her own.

“‘I hope this room will suit you,’ said the kind-hearted woman, as she
followed me into it; ‘if you want anything, pray ring the bell and my
servant will attend you; I know you must long to go to rest, after so
long a journey, so I will not tire you by conversation. Good night, my
child.’

“‘Good night,’ I replied. The door closed, and I was left alone; I set
my little lamp in the fire-place, and after I had undressed and repeated
the rosary, I stepped into the pretty bed, draperied with white, and drew
its curtains close around me. I could scarcely realize that I was not in
Madame Schiller’s dormitory; and, at dawn, I started suddenly from my
slumber, imagining I heard her voice calling the girls to rise. Finding
myself wide awake, I thought I would get up, and did so; all was quiet in
the house, no one stirring; faint hues of morning sun were rising slowly
in the East. I heard the sound of deep, sonorous breathing, as I passed
a door at the head of the stairs, which I justly concluded were the
nocturnal tones of my guardian. I went into the parlor, and finding on a
table an interesting novel, took it in my hand, and sought the garden;
under a wide-spreading Acacia tree, I sat down upon a rustic bench; I
saw an old female domestic making a fire in the kitchen, and beginning
to prepare breakfast; I looked at her as she moved about, and wondered
if I should ever live to become as old and ugly as she; if my cheeks,
now so round and firm, should become shriveled and hanging like pieces
of dried skin; my form, attenuated and hideous; my hair turn gray and
fall out, and my eyes watery and blinking, like those of a sick lap-dog;
yet it was natural to suppose, that in the course of nature all those
things would come to pass. We see those who have once been handsome and
intellectual, grow ugly, old, and stupid; their beauty fades away like
a fleeting dream; their intellect declines with the vigor of body which
supported it. If mind is soul, and if the soul is immortal, should we
not reasonably suppose, that this etherial principal would preserve
itself bright and untarnished from the gathering gloom of years; that
time, instead of dimming, would only add new glories to its spiritual
splendor; but these thoughts were then too metaphysical for my youthful
comprehension.

“While thus I mused, the sun had risen high, and his bright rays fell
across the gravel walk where I sat; I heard footsteps in the vestibule,
and looking up, saw Madame Bonni attired in a white muslin wrapper; she
perceived me, and came into the garden.

“‘Why, my child, you are indeed an early riser,’ was her morning
salutation; ‘I expected you would sleep late after your journey; but you
look refreshed, and I am happy to see it.’

“‘At school, we always rose at dawn of day; from habit, I awake early,
and prefer spending the sweet morning hours in reading, rather than waste
them in slumber.’

“‘You are right in doing so; when I was young I was fond of reading
too, but since I have advanced in life, its busy cares have banished
literature and romance from my mind.’

“The old woman whom I had observed, now came to her mistress, and
announced that breakfast was ready; I followed Madame to the dining-room;
we sat down to a comfortable breakfast, served with exquisite neatness.
Monsieur joined us in a few minutes: he was yawning, and expressed
himself as feeling very dull; and, in fact, his appearance fully
corroborated the assertion.

“After breakfast, I accompanied him to the San Carlo Opera house, where
he took me, he said, that I might see the actors rehearse, and observe
stage trick and manner. Since then I have seen tricks enough played off
upon the stage of life, independent of the drama. We need not go to the
theatre to see actors and actresses. We ascended through the basement
story, the passage obstructed by old rubbish, stage furniture, to the
green-room—a miserable looking apartment, draperied with green baize;
several actors and actresses stood in groups, conversing, in their
ordinary dress; I looked out behind the scenes; I saw on all sides the
rough boards of the theatre, and the large open spaces through which
the actors went upon the stage, and the scenes were shifted backward
and forward; everything looked unfinished and bare, it looked like the
skeleton frame of a house, and in no way realized my romantic visions of
a theatre. Several of the actors held Opera books in their hands, which
they appeared to be studying; Monsieur went around the room, bowing, and
shaking hands with all, receiving, and paying compliments in return.

“‘Ah, my dear fellow,’ exclaimed a tall, dark-complexioned man, seizing
him by the arm, ‘when did you arrive? Glad to see you among us again. I
did not expect to see you for a year to come; thought you intended going
to Paris to perform. I was at Munich a few weeks ago, where I heard of
the brilliant success of a protegee of yours, a Mademoiselle Blanche
Ricorsi; I went several nights to see her play; a beautiful girl, she
sings divinely.’

“‘And here is another pupil of mine,’ said Monsieur, drawing me toward
him, ‘whom I intend shall astonish the fashionable world of Naples.’

“‘Ah, Mademoiselle, charmed to see you; hope you will do credit to so
distinguished a preceptor; you must sing something for me this morning;
I should like to hear your style of voice; we are now going in to
rehearsal. Come, ladies and gentlemen, are you ready? Allow me to escort
you, Mademoiselle.’

“With French politeness and volubility, he offered me his arm; at
that time, unacquainted with the ways and usages of society, I felt
momentarily surprised; but mechanically I accepted it, and the others
following behind, we stepped out upon the stage; it was an enormous
platform, and I felt, and looked, almost like a little child, as I walked
across its smooth boards. I wondered how I should feel when I should be
the most conspicuous object on that floor, when I should see before me
those successive walls of human faces, so terrifying to a novice,—the
eyes of all bent upon me.

“The actors walked toward the front of the stage; part of the orchestra
was in the musicians’ box, and accompanied their voices with instrumental
music; they were rehearsing for Norma; some of the voices were sweet and
thrilling, others grated harshly on my ear. The woman who was to perform
the part of Norma, was neither young nor pretty: she did not look the
beautiful stately priestess. The man who was cast for the character of
Polelio, was as ugly a person as one need wish to see. I stood leaning
against one of the side scenes and listened to them as they ran through
the Opera. When ended, the French manager requested me to sing a song,
which he chose. I felt somewhat diffident at exhibiting my voice before
so many strangers. I wished to refuse, but a look from Monsieur Belmont,
which spoke a command, changed my purpose, and I complied. I began almost
falteringly at first, but gathering courage as I went on, I forgot those
who were listening to me, and became absorbed in the sentiment of the
song. I think I can say without egotism, that I sang well; when I had
ceased the manager approached with a surprised air:

“‘Good heavens! Mademoiselle, you are a perfect nightingale, your high
notes are exquisite; I shall be proud to constitute you prima donna of my
troupe, when you are ready to appear; you must have applied yourself with
unceasing assiduity to have formed your voice.’

“‘I have been learning for six or eight years past, under the tuition of
Monsieur Belmont.’

“‘Your execution has indeed astonished me, in one so young; and I was
equally amazed when I heard Blanche, another pupil of my friend’s, sing
at Munich.’

“‘How is Blanche now? is she well? is she happy?’

“‘You know her, then?’

“‘Oh yes, we were educated at the same school.’

“‘I cannot answer you in regard to her happiness; but she looks
beautiful, and sings like a bird.’

“‘Did you ever see my other friend, who was also a pupil of Monsieur’s,
Inez Fontana?’

“‘A year ago, I saw her at Dresden; she left the following day to fulfil
an engagement at Berlin; she is a charming woman, handsome, dark; has a
deep, sweet, sonorous voice, but not the power or execution of yourself
or Blanche. There was a rumor afloat in town of her being about to marry
and leave the stage; it may be only report, however; I cannot vouch for
its truth.’

“‘It would seem very strange to me, to see my old school mate married.’

“‘Why, is it not natural to suppose, that a handsome young woman, with a
good reputation, should marry, and make some worthy man happy?’

“‘It is natural that women in private life should do so, but actresses
seldom do.’

“‘But when they have the opportunity, should they not embrace it?’

“I was about to reply, when my teacher, having finished his
confabulations with his acquaintances, approached me.

“‘Well, my friend,’ cried he, ‘what do you think of my little pupil, I
see you have been conversing with her?’

“‘I am afraid Mademoiselle would think I flattered her, if I spoke my
real sentiments,’ answered the gallant Frenchman, with his hand upon his
heart.

“Monsieur laughed; for compliments seemed to him, as they always seemed
to me, mere nonsense; things which are said without being felt, and
therefore valueless. The actors had now all left the stage; after
inviting his old friend to call upon him, Monsieur and myself returned
home.

“I pass over the space of four months, during which time, I was occupied
in learning the part of Norma; my preceptor gave me lessons every day
in acting, in a large unoccupied room, Madame Bonni appropriated to my
use for that purpose; determined to succeed, I studied with ardor and
assiduity, until at length, I perfected myself in my part, to his and my
own complete satisfaction.

“It was the night of my appearance: large placards announcing that fact,
with my name printed upon them in immense capitals, had been posted
in front of the theatre for several days previous; Monsieur said they
anticipated a crowded house. I had been in a state of feverish excitement
all day, which increased rather than diminished as evening drew near;
the costume of Norma I had prepared sometime before, and sent it to my
dressing-room at the theatre to await my coming. Madame Bonni, desirous
of hearing me sing, had engaged seats in one of the stage boxes for
herself and a gentleman friend.

“‘You do not feel apprehensive of a failure, do you, Genevra?’ asked
my teacher, as he, Madame, and myself, sat conversing together in the
parlor, in the afternoon.

“‘Not in the least, sir; I feel perfectly confident of success.’

“‘I am glad to hear you say so; I hope you will make a sensation; if you
feel self-possessed, you will act so, and consequently succeed. I expect
Blanche here in a few weeks to fulfil an engagement, and then you can
sing together.’

“‘Is Blanche coming to Naples? how glad I shall be to see her again, and
Inez, does she never come here to play?’

“‘Inez has often sang here since she left your school; you know it is six
years ago; but she generally prefers playing, alternately at Dresden or
Berlin, where she is extremely popular.’

“‘Is it true, what the manager told me, that she thought of marrying, and
leaving the stage?’

“‘I am not conversant with any of her matrimonial plans; you can ask
Blanche when she arrives; I presume they are each other’s confidants.’.

“Monsieur resumed his conversation with Madame about old times, and I
went to my favorite seat in the garden, to while away the time till
six o’clock. The air was soft and balmy; the delightful sea breeze,
which blows off the coast every morning and evening, was now refreshing
the air; under that clear, tropical sky, everything looks beautiful;
the flowers seem to be of brighter hue; the turf more verdant; the
people happier, than under those cold northern climes, where the bleak
winters, and cloudy skies, seem to chill and contract men’s souls.
The kind-hearted Neapolitan lives only in the present; he enjoys the
pleasures of to-day without thinking of the future; he is willing to
share what little he has, with any fellow creature less plentifully
endowed than himself; and is it not better to live and feel thus, than to
spend one’s lifetime in amassing treasures, which, when we die, we are
obliged to leave for others to enjoy; since nothing is truer than that,
man brings nothing into the world with him, neither can he carry anything
away. Death is a market place where all men meet; the king, noble, and
peasant, are all equal, when they meet in the bosom of mother earth. As
I soliloquized, twilight gathered upon the face of things animate and
inanimate; it is charming to watch the shades of evening gray descend
upon a land like that; to see the mellow hues of dusk come slowly on, and
the bright sun disappear, till finally they fade away into indefinite
night. I should have liked to have staid and watched the sky, but
Monsieur called me; it was time to go, he said; in fact, I had actually
forgotten all about my theatrical engagement.

“I went to my room and put on my bonnet and shawl, we got into a hack and
drove off; Madame would not come for an hour, as the curtain did not rise
till half-past seven.

“Entering, as I had done before, through the basement, my teacher went
to the green-room, where many of the actors were already assembled, and
I to my dressing-room, passing on the way numerous princes, grand dukes,
and nobles; who, like too many of their titled brethren, could boast no
other wealth than the insignia of their order. They all stared at me as I
hurried past them; curious, I suppose, to observe the new singer.

“I quickly arrayed myself in the long white robes, and mysterious girdle
of the priestess; scarcely had I completed my toilet, when there came a
knock at the door: I opened it, and saw the manager.

“‘Are you ready, Mademoiselle? It is time to go on; you know the part
perfectly, do you not?’ he continued, as we approached the side scene,
where I was to enter.

“‘Perfectly, Monsieur. Entertain no apprehensions on my account.’

“The gentleman smiled, bowed, released my arm, and I entered alone. I saw
an immense crowd of human faces and forms before me; the house presented
a brilliant array of fashion and beauty; the light of the chandeliers
was dazzling; far from feeling intimidated, I felt perfectly at home. I
had been fearful lest I should forget my notes, but they remained firmly
impressed on my mind; a tumult of applause shook the house as I came
forward to the foot-lights; when it had subsided I began to sing, almost
forgetful that there was any audience there, and thinking only of my
part. I acted naturally, and, therefore, pleasingly—for nature is ever
pleasing. At the conclusion of the first act, a round of applause again
greeted me; and when I went behind the scenes, Monsieur and the manager
warmly congratulated me on my self-possession, in the song Dele Conte,
a duet between Norma and Adelgisa; I was encored, and sang it twice;
my cheeks were flushed like crimson, and I felt elated at my manifest
triumph. At the conclusion of the Opera, a shower of bouquets and wreaths
were thrown at my feet; one splendid wreath of exotic flowers, which
struck my hand as it fell on the floor, was thrown from one of the stage
boxes; happening to uplift my eyes, as I was singing the last song of the
Opera, my gaze met that of a magnificent looking man, who stood quietly
contemplating me. There was something in the magnetic attraction of those
large languid black eyes, which sent a new thrill of life, a feeling
I had never experienced, rushing through my veins; what could that
inexplicable sensation mean? it was probably that man who had thrown the
wreath at my feet. One of the actors gallantly picked it up, and placed
it upon my head. Once more I heard myself applauded; delightful sound of
approval, and the curtain fell.

“I felt exhausted from my violent exertion of voice, and sat down in
the green-room, while the manager fanned me, and the other actors
complimented me. Monsieur Belmont seemed well pleased with me and
himself, and was in his best humor.

“‘You have made a decided hit, Mademoiselle,’ said my faithless husband
of the play; ‘although you are not yet perfect in stage trick and manner,
yet you have done wonders for the first time.’

“‘I am obliged to you for the compliment, Monsieur,’ I replied.

“One of the servants of the theatre came into the room, bearing an armful
of bouquets (the beautiful wreath still remained upon my head). When
deposited in my lap, the jewels amid the flowers sparkled in the lamp
light. ‘What do you intend doing with all these flowers, petite enfant?’
asked my guardian.

“‘Oh, I shall carry them home to Madame Bonni, as trophies of my triumph:
are they not beautiful, Monsieur?’

“‘Yes, very beautiful; some of those jewels among them I should think
were valuable; but it is time to depart. Let the servant carry your
flowers to the carriage.’

“The manager politely attended me to the door of the carriage, and placed
me in it.

“Madame Bonni had reached home before us, and we passed an hour in
discussing the events of the night. Good little woman! the world still
seemed fresh and new to her, although she had long since passed the
zenith of life. Even so trivial a thing as a visit to a theatre could
afford her pleasure. Happy are those, I say, who can be pleased by
trifles. What is our whole existence but a composition of trifles?

“I went to bed, but not to sleep for many hours. When I entered my room,
and stopped before the mirror, the diamonds among the flowers of my
wreath glistened like stars. I took it from my head, and after removing
the jewels, and a beautiful ring hanging to it, I placed it in water with
my bouquets. Sleep seemed to fly my eyelids. However, for long after I
had gone to bed, the plaudits of the audience, and the languid eyes of
the gentleman in the stage box, seemed alternately to ring in my ears,
or swim before my eyes. At last, the angel Sleep kindly weighed down my
eyelids with her rosy fingers, and I forgot the opera, the gentleman, and
the bouquets.



CHAPTER VI.


“I awoke in the morning, persuaded that it was all a fairy dream,
when, glancing at my toilet table, I was convinced of the reality of
my adventure, by seeing the flowers still lying where I had left them.
I examined the jewels, and found them as radiant by daylight as they
had been the night before, wondering at this unknown and munificent
gift. I laid them carefully away in my dressing-case, and descended to
the breakfast table, where I found my guardian and Madame Bonni busily
engaged in discussing the merits of my performance; both were praising
me—she with a woman’s impulse and enthusiasm, Monsieur in a man’s quiet,
reasoning way.

“‘How do you feel after last night’s effort?’ inquired the gentleman.

“‘Very well, sir, but rather fatigued,’ I answered.

“‘How sweet you looked in the last act, my dear; those white lace robes
were so becoming to you; and when the flowers were thrown on the stage,
and the actor placed that superb wreath upon your head, I thought the
effect exquisite,’ observed Madame, with feminine admiration of dress.

“‘I am glad you were pleased with me.’

“‘You sing again to-night, do you not, in the same opera?’

“‘Yes, for five nights in Norma.’

“‘I should like to see the morning journals, to know what they say of
you.’

“‘So should I,’ said Monsieur, as he rose from the table; ‘and as it is
unnecessary for you to attend rehearsal this morning, I will go out and
look in the newspapers, to see what is said about you, and when I return,
bring them to you.’

“He departed, and I spent the morning in practising some of my songs. At
noon he returned, and I had the satisfaction of reading a long panegyric
on my personal appearance, manner, and singing. They called me the
Austrian nightingale, a name which I was afterwards known by for many
years. That night, I played again, to a house crowded to overflowing. The
applause was as great as the evening previous, and flowers were again
thrown me, but when, as on leaving the stage, I timidly glanced upward to
the stage box, my eyes encountered, instead of the beautiful orbs which
had enchanted me the night before, an impertinent opera-glass directed
at my face. I felt disappointed, I scarce knew why; for what reason had I
to suppose that the same stranger should not be there again?

“A month after my first appearance, I received an invitation, through
Monsieur Belmont, to sing at the private soiree of a lady of rank, the
Countess Bramonti; and although the idea of being merely a singer for the
entertainment of others, was not gratifying to my sensitive pride, still,
to oblige my kind benefactor, who had been to me a perfect saviour, I
consented to go. I had suddenly become the rage of Naples. ‘I awoke one
morning,’ as a great poet has since said, ‘and found myself famous;’
numerous gentlemen had called on me, attracted, I suppose, by rumors of
my youth, my isolated position, and my good looks, for I can say without
vanity that, at sixteen, I possessed personal attractions. I only repeat
what others said, and one cannot remain long ignorant of that which is
universally known: we seldom appreciate the value of beauty, and the
great influence it exercises upon the minds of men, until it is on the
decline, and then we cling to and treasure its wrecks with jealous care.

“I dressed myself for the party in a white satin robe, and placed an
artificial wreath of silver oats in my hair. I had arranged it in smooth
bandeau, the heat of the weather rendering ringlets uncomfortable. When
attired, I glanced at myself in the mirror, and feeling satisfied with
my appearance, was, consequently, in a good humor; for it is said, that,
when pleased with one’s self, one is always pleased with others.

“Seeking for my gloves on the toilet table, my eyes rested momentarily on
the withered wreath, which I still preserved. The leaves hung lifeless;
the bright hues of the flowers had faded. Alas! poor ephemeral flowers,
is not your brief but beautiful existence a type of woman’s life also?
When young and lovely they are loved and cherished; led forth like
queens to be admired and adored, every wish anticipated, every caprice
gratified; but when Time’s rude hand has robbed these charms of their
pristine glory, lovers gradually disappear like twinkling stars at dawn
of day, and woman is left alone in the evening of her days, to think and
dream over the past.

“The Countess Bramonti resided in a noble mansion at the court end of
the city. To the marble steps of this aristocratic abode our carriage
whirled on the night of which I speak. The moon shone brightly; and as I
stepped from it, I saw, by its light, long lines of carriages, extending
from the house each way down the street. The liveried servants in the
grand hall escorted me to the dressing room, where I left my hood and
shawl. Several beautiful women, some of them of the nobility of Naples,
were dispersed about the apartment, conversing in subdued tones, and
arranging their dress before the long mirrors. Monsieur came for me at
the door, and, leaning on his arm, I entered the grand hall of reception.
At the head of this magnificent room, upon an elevated dias, covered with
crimson velvet, stood the Countess herself, a large, finely-formed woman,
perhaps forty years of age, becomingly dressed in full, flowing robes
of scarlet velvet, and ostrich plumes waved majestically in her dark,
luxuriant hair. She received me with that urbanity and politeness which
is ever the result of good breeding, and the attribute of an elegant mind.

“As I passed through the gay and apparently happy crowd of smiling,
lovely faces, many turned to look after me; but I felt the attention my
presence excited, was paid rather to my sudden notoriety as a cantatrice,
than to myself. Actresses, however virtuous, proud and talented they
may be, will always, from their false position, experience a feeling of
humiliation when introduced in private circles of society. They see and
feel how much more beautiful and attractive woman is when sheltered from
the rude gaze of the world, illumining only one mansion with her beauty,
and diffusing love and kindness only to her own family and friends.
Such a life is evidently, both from her mental and physical formation,
more suitable for her than the empty plaudits of a gaping mob, or that
applause of the world which exhilarates momentarily, and leaves an aching
void when gone. But we are all mere creatures of circumstance, and the
noblest souls are most frequently subjected to the stings and arrows of
outrageous fortune.

“These thoughts glanced across my mind, as the gay waltzers whirled
past me, and the fine band stationed in the gallery poured forth its
bewitching strains of music. The Countess had descended from her
position, and mingled in the crowd, attended by several gentlemen. As she
swept past me, gracefully supporting the train of her dress upon her arm,
a tall, handsome young man, of elegant bearing, who walked at her right
hand, bent his expressive blue eyes upon me for an instant, and then
appeared to inquire of her who I was. The lady had passed me, but she
looked back over her shoulder, as if to ascertain of whom he spoke, and
then whispered something in reply. He again turned, and looked at me, not
impertinently, but observingly. Numerous persons now intervened between
me and my lady hostess, and I lost sight of her and the gentleman. After
several quadrilles and waltzes had been danced, the music paused for a
while, and the Countess resumed her seat upon the throne. My guardian
told me she wished to hear me sing. I wondered how I should sing with no
instrument to accompany me; but that difficulty was soon solved; he led
me through the crowd, and ascended the dias, where I saw a grand piano,
which had been provided for the occasion. Monsieur Belmont seated himself
at it, and I stood by his side. We sang a duet from Lucia de Lammermoor.
I could not help observing that, during the whole song, the eyes of the
gentleman who had been previously observing me, and who still stood by
the Countess, were fixed upon me steadfastly—his earnest gaze almost
annoyed me. At its conclusion, the Countess, apparently at his request,
presented him to me as Monsieur de Serval.

“‘I have, then, the pleasure of seeing our new star in the world of song;
this is to me an unexpected pleasure,’ said the gentleman, as he inclined
his graceful form toward me. I bowed, and my eyes fell before his; no
reply was needed.

“‘We have to-night a gay assemblage,’ he continued, ‘and yourself one
of the fairest among us. During the last week, almost nothing has been
talked of but your personal appearance and your exquisite voice; and I
trust, Mademoiselle, you will confide in my sincerity, when I say that
the reality has not disappointed my ideal expectations.’

“I felt that this was an extravagant compliment, yet it was so
delicately, charmingly paid, I wished to accept it as truth. From early
youth, I have ever observed physiognomy, wishing to draw conclusions
from the countenance as to the mind, and now I attentively regarded
Monsieur de Serval. He was tall and delicately formed; his complexion
was fair, like my own; his eyes were large, deep blue in color, with an
expression of pensive thoughtfulness in their silent depths. This air
of pensiveness, almost melancholy, pervaded his whole appearance. When
speaking, his face would suddenly be lit up with a smile; then this look
of joyousness would as quickly die away; it was grave, severe, and gay;
it wore all expressions, it seemed to me, all at once. He was evidently
a singular man, different to any one I had yet seen in life; there was
a nameless something about him different to any man in that brilliant
assembly of rank and fashion; yet he was not by any means the handsomest
man there. When in repose, all expression seemed to vanish from his
face, to return as quickly when he spoke again. How many indescribable
nothings go to form a perfect whole. During ten minutes’ conversation on
indifferent topics, I had made up my mind that Monsieur de Serval was a
charming person.

“‘I perceive the company are wending their way to the banquet hall, will
you allow me to escort you?’ said he, after a moment’s pause.

“I assented, took his arm, and we joined the gay crowd which was pouring
through the parted leaves of the folding doors, into the gallery; this
gallery was elegantly adorned with statues and paintings; at the opposite
end another folding door stood open, and we entered a superb hall. The
choice and tastefully arranged supper, ornamented with flowers and
festoons of gold and silver tinsel, together with the dazzling light
of the chandeliers, the gay dresses and jewels of the guests, their
sprightly tones of conversation, and merry laughter, all formed a bright
and exhilarating scene.

“The Countess stood at the head of one of the long tables, chatting,
laughing to her beaux, and displaying her white teeth; while the diamond
necklace which adorned her neck, reflected a thousand prismatic rays.
The undulating motion of waving plumes, rich head dresses, and beautiful
necks and arms, alternately entranced my eager gaze.

“‘The Countess is looking well to-night; she is considered a fine looking
woman, do you not think so?’ asked the gentleman, as he handed me a dish
of ice cream.

“‘Yes, she is a handsome lady.’

“‘And no less benevolent and talented, than good looking.’

“‘Of the two, I would prefer being talented and benevolent without
beauty, to possessing beauty without them,’ I observed, almost
unconsciously.

“‘Ah, indeed, that is singular; young girls generally value their
personal attractions, far above the attributes of mind.’

“‘I must be very different to other women, then.’

“‘One need only look at your face, and hear you speak, to perceive that,
Mademoiselle Genevra.’

“‘Different in my oddity alone, I presume.’

“‘No, not in your eccentricity, but in your superiority to any girl of
your age I have ever seen; but of course you know this, and I am merely
repeating a trite compliment, which you will not thank me for, as you
must have heard it a hundred times before.’

“‘Indeed, you mistake me, sir, the language of compliment is entirely new
to me; and in fact, I am a perfect novice in the world’s ways; this is my
first appearance in the gay world, as my preceptor not long since removed
me from the boarding-school, where I was educated, at Vienna.’

“‘You say you are inexperienced in the world’s ways; well, remain so if
you can, young lady, for they are not a desirable acquisition.’

“A cloud seemed to gather over his face, as he said this; I was confirmed
in my indefinite presentiment, that he was a singular man. We seemed to
be conspicuous objects to the gay assembly, for the eyes of hundreds
were directed at us; they were probably commenting and wondering, how
the elegant man of fashion should be so pointedly attentive to an opera
singer. I had learned a great deal within one week of active life; my
fairy dreams were rapidly fading away; the world, I saw, was not what I
had imagined it. I saw no where those benevolent hearts, and generous
actions, which I had fondly dreamed of; and here, at this very ball, how
many bitter envies, rivalries, and antipathies, were agitating the hearts
of those very people, masked on the surface by smiles.

“‘Who is that Monsieur de Serval is with?’ I heard a voice, immediately
behind me, inquire of another.

“‘Ah, do you not know the new opera singer? the Countess invited her here
to-night to sing; do you like her voice?’

“‘Yes, well enough; but do you think her beautiful?’

“‘No, I do not, but every one to their fancy; the men have been raving
about her angelic looks for the last week.’

“I looked at Monsieur de Serval; a significant smile sat upon his firm
and finely chiseled lips, and I saw by the expression of his features,
that he had also heard this little by-play. The banquet hall gradually
thinned of its occupants; the guests returned to the ball room; we also
went thither. Shortly after my teacher came for me to depart.

“‘Permit me to see your pupil to the carriage,’ said Monsieur de Serval,
still retaining my hand upon his arm.

“‘I am extremely obliged for the civility, Monsieur,’ answered my
teacher. He led the way down the grand staircase, through the marble
hall, into the street; it was late, past two o’clock; the moon had
disappeared, and dark masses of heavy clouds overhung the deep blue vault
of heaven. Our carriage was ordered, and while it was driving up to the
pavement, Monsieur de Serval said to me in a low tone, my teacher being a
little in advance.

“‘I hope you will not deem me impertinent, Mademoiselle, if I ask
permission to visit you at the house where you now stay with your
preceptor.’

“‘I should be happy to see you, Monsieur.’

“‘Well then,’ said he, as he handed me into the carriage, ‘I will do
myself the honor of calling to-morrow; good evening, Mademoiselle; good
evening, Monsieur Belmont.’

“The musical tones of his voice rang in my ears, as the carriage drove
away.

“‘It was a splendid affair, was it not, my child? and the Countess is a
fine noble lady?’ said Monsieur, as we rattled over the stones.

“‘I admire her much,’ I replied.

“‘I perceive you are becoming a star here, a perfect magnet of
attraction; every one speaks of you in praise,’ was the next observation
of this worthy man, who was somewhat slow in making discoveries of any
kind, unless some one else had previously enlightened him.

“I made no reply to what he said; for by a train of ideas in thinking of
Monsieur de Serval, and what he had said to me, my thoughts reverted to
Blanche, and I wondered, and wished for her arrival in Naples; it was a
long time since I had seen her; she must have altered much; I wondered
if she still loved, and thought of me. My teacher had not specified any
particular day for her arrival, but merely said, he expected her in a few
days, or weeks. I longed for the society of some gentle one of my own
sex. I began to perceive the brilliance, but isolated loveliness of my
position; cut off from all social intercourse with other women; an object
of admiration in the eyes of men; of indifference, envy, or contempt to
women; I, therefore, longed to see my school-girl friend. Inez’s mind
had never so well assimilated to my own; there was too much of earth
about her; her feelings were too sensual, to suit my dreamy, abstract
speculations of an ideal love. Visions, I then had, in those fresh
young days of platonic sentiment, before my soul was rendered practical
by earthly passion; still Inez had grown a fine, handsome woman; and,
from what I had heard, notwithstanding the many temptations to which an
actress is ever exposed, had sustained an unblemished reputation. How
often have I seen individuals of both sexes, who possessed cultivated
minds, personal attractions, and elegant manners; the world considered
them irresistible; and I acknowledged, and appreciated their perfections,
yet their fascinations never reached my heart. It is a sympathetic tone
of mind which mutually attracts us; for does not every one think the
object they love beautiful? ‘Beauty is only in the gazer’s eye;’ and
the vanity of human nature induces us to believe that the object of our
preference must be charming.

“In the afternoon of the following day, as I sat alone in the parlor,
Madame Bonni being employed in domestic affairs, and Monsieur gone out
on theatrical business; Arla, a pretty female attendant of the house,
ushered into the room Monsieur de Serval. I was sitting by the window,
dressed in a sky blue tissue; my arms and neck bare. When he entered, I
was amusing myself by singing to the canary bird; and the winged warbler
hopped about his gayly gilded prison, and almost looked amazed, probably
imagining he heard a free brother of the forest. I scarcely heard the
light step of the gentleman, and he had already taken a seat near me, ere
I looked around. I had unconsciously fallen into a reverie, and I presume
my face wore an expression of sadness, for the first observation he made
in his sweet low voice, was,

“‘Your face wears a sadder expression by daylight, Mademoiselle, than it
did last night, at the brilliant ball.’

“‘That is its natural expression, Monsieur; the other was a momentary
exhilaration.’

“‘Ah, it is strange that one so young should ever feel sad; sadness
generally comes with experience and satiety.’

“‘But it seems to me that there is such a thing as living years in
advance of time, and so I feel sometimes; an indefinite presentiment of
unhappiness seems sometimes to hang over me, and so I have felt this
afternoon.’

“You should struggle against such feelings; they only render one morbid
to no purpose; they make us dissatisfied with the present, and skeptical
of the future; it only requires a slight effort of the will to overcome
these presentiments; if you indulge in them, Mademoiselle, they will
wither your freshness of heart, and impart to your gentle face an
expression of gloom.’

“A pause succeeded for a moment; Monsieur de Serval bit his lip, and
looked down at the floor; he appeared to be absent in mind and thinking.
I could not help admiring his elegant appearance, and classical face; he
was the first handsome, accomplished man, I had ever seen, secluded for
so many years within the walls of my school. The men I had seen there at
the monthly exhibitions, were generally commonplace and unattractive,
although many of them were of the nobility of Vienna. Elegance and grace
are indeed rare attributes, and almost as rarely to be met with among the
nobility, as among the commonalty.

“How fascinating is beauty, and the winning ways some persons possess;
how frequently it conceals a depraved heart and bad disposition. Oh,
had I known at that moment of time, what I now know, how many days of
sorrowful unhappiness might I have been spared the misery of enduring;
but youth is presumptuous, self-confident, and conceited. Knowledge of
the heart is only acquired by experience, and that generally comes too
late to be of use to one; but let me not anticipate: everything has its
time.

“Glancing around the room, Monsieur de Serval observed the canary bird,
who resting upon his perch, seemed to regard us attentively.

“‘Is that little feathered songster yours, Mademoiselle?’

“‘No, Monsieur, it is Madame Bonni’s little favorite.’

“‘Madame Bonni,’ he repeated, abstractedly.

“‘The lady to whom this house belongs, with whom my teacher and I board.’

“‘Ah, yes, I think I recollect having seen her once; she is a pleasant
woman, and companionable for you sometimes, I presume.’

“Since my arrival she has been extremely kind and attentive.’

“‘And how do you feel upon being thus suddenly brought forward, a bright
star in the etherial world of song?’

“‘The same as I did when a simple school girl; the change, although an
agreeable variation to school monotony, has made but little alteration in
me.’

“‘You are too philosophical to allow anything to disturb your equanimity
of mind, I suppose.’

“‘I do not know that I am a philosopher; I think the elevated tone of
mind, necessary to form such a character, is beyond my powers of thought;
but I endeavor to take the world as I find it, and quietly glide through
my lot in life.’

“‘A wise conclusion, Mademoiselle; the very remark shows you possess
a fine mind, and, if you follow your precepts, you will doubtless be
as happy as any human being ever is,’ he sighed, and a cloud seemed
to gather over his face. It struck me that he possessed himself a
considerable share of that morbidness of feeling, which he had a moment
before criticised and reproved in me; he seemed melancholy; perhaps, I
thought, he has been slighted in love; women invariably attribute any
sadness of look or manner, to some affair of the heart. I have grown
wiser since then, and now, with more truth and justice, trace back this
depression and gloom to an abuse of the affections, and consequently
satiety.

“An alabaster vase of rare exotic flowers, stood upon a small chinese
table, by my side; mechanically I had plucked one of the beautiful
camilla japonicas, and was twirling it between my thumb and fore finger;
the large blue eyes of Monsieur de Serval seemed to be attentively
contemplating this pretty vegetable beauty.

“‘I wish I were that flower, Mademoiselle,’ said he.

“‘Why, Monsieur?’ I asked, rather astonished by the abrupt remark.

“‘That I might experience the delight of being played with by those fairy
fingers.’

“‘I know of no enchantment by which I can metamorphose you into a flower;
but since I cannot turn witch, at least allow me to offer you the one
which elicited your compliment.’

“Playfully, I handed him the japonica; he took it with a smile, and
placed it in the button hole of the dark blue coat he wore.

“‘I shall preserve this as a precious souvenir, Mademoiselle Genevra.’

“‘A very trivial keepsake.’

“‘Ah!’ he replied, ‘it is our recollection of the donor, not the absolute
value of a gift, which endears it to our memory.’

“What a just remark: how often have I treasured valueless things with
loving care, from gratitude and love to the one who had bestowed them.
Shortly after, Monsieur de Serval took his leave. ‘Adieu, Monsieur,’ said
I, as he was about leaving the room, ‘a bientot.’

“‘Those words, ‘a bientot,” recall “la belle France,” and old
associations. Farewell, Mademoiselle.’ His tall and graceful form
disappeared from my view; unconsciously, I fell into a chair, and mused
upon the singularity of my new acquaintance, and his many fascinations,
when Madame Bonni joined me. She appeared surprised when I told her of
the visit of Monsieur de Serval.

“‘My dear child, he is a fascinating, attractive gentleman; but do you
know his reputation?’

“‘No, he is an utter stranger to me; I was introduced to him at the
Countess’ party. I know nothing of him.’

“Well, I must tell you, to warn you against these gay men of the world,
who are in fact not unfrequently like birds of prey; he has for many
years been considered a profligate man of fashion; he has run through
with a large fortune of his own, and draws largely upon an aunt of his,
for means to support his expensive way of living. He is said to have
squandered his money in gambling; among women of improper character; in
horse racing, and divers other fashionable vices. Knowing your virtuous
character, I take the liberty of cautioning you, Mademoiselle. You will
not be offended at me, I trust, for thus speaking?’

“‘On the contrary, I feel grateful for your kind admonitions; but it
seems strange to me that so interesting and graceful a gentleman can be
so depraved.’

“‘You may depend upon my veracity, I assure you; I know this to be a
fact; he is a man of seductive manners, and has always had the reputation
of being eminently successful among women; and I should suppose from his
gentle ways that he would be a favorite. I would not have mentioned this,
but your beauty, your isolated position in life; having no protector but
your innate sense of virtue, and Monsieur Belmont, who looks upon these
things in a philosophical point of view, and would care little what you
did; your great musical abilities, and the celebrity you are rapidly
acquiring, all these conspire to render you a conspicuous object of
pursuit to these gay men of fashion. Had I a daughter, as young, and as
beautiful as yourself, I should wish that some matron, experienced in the
world’s ways, might advise her of the snares of life; and, since you have
been here, I feel toward you almost the same affection a mother feels
for a child; you possess the sentiments and character of a lady; you
should have been born the daughter of some noble house, in which position
you might have passed your life in luxurious elegance, without being
subjected to this laborious and disagreeable profession.’

“I felt the truth of the good woman’s remarks, and thought upon them long
after she had left me; still I could not consent to believe _all_ that
she had said concerning Monsieur de Serval; perhaps he had been wild,
most young men are, and he was yet under thirty, perhaps extravagant; but
that he was a systematic, practised _roué_, I really could not think of
believing. The expression of his features was so sweet, so sincere; his
manner was so amiable; Madame might have been misinformed, or personal
prejudice had blinded her. Thus ever do we cheat ourselves where our
affections, or predilections are interested, we use every possible
sophism to convince ourselves, that those whom we fancy, are everything
our fond imaginations picture them as being; determinately closing our
eyes and ears against facts which speak to the contrary.

“I had not been to church since my arrival in Naples, so entirely had my
new profession engrossed my attention; my conscience almost reproached
me for this neglect of what I had been taught to consider so important
a duty. In Naples, I perceived that religion was regarded by the higher
classes as a matter of custom and form; few, save among the humble
peasantry, went to church from sincere faith, or love of prayer; the
poor, humble worms of earth, believe with blind confidence, whatever
their priests tell them; they are generally contented and happy, amid
the humble pursuits, the lowly joys, of their restricted sphere in life;
and sometimes, when contemplating these unsophisticated children of
nature, I have wondered whether they are not after all, wiser than those
great philosophers, who propel their minds into the regions of science,
and yet ultimately discover that we can learn nothing positive of that
futurity, which no mortal has the ability to comprehend; no one can doubt
but that they are happier, if not wiser than those learned skeptics,
however humble the former, or great the latter may be; and surely
that belief, be it Protestant or Catholic, which teaches us to bear
patiently the misfortunes and ills of life; to confide and trust in that
beneficent Spirit, the creator, from the beginning of time to eternity,
of all things; that abstract and immaterial principle which we, without
understanding, can only venerate and adore. Surely that wrapt devotion,
that blind reliance, is better than skepticism, in which we have nothing
to console us in regard to futurity, and yet are satisfied with our own
conclusions.

“Pardon me, my kind friend, these many digressions and reflections; yet I
cannot forbear making them, when I recall those old days.

“Madame Bonni had repeatedly invited me to attend mass with her: until
now I had declined; but on the Sunday following the conclusion of my two
weeks’ engagement, which had ended with much eclat for me and profit to
my teacher, I promised to go with her to early mass, at the French church
of Sacre Cœur.

“We rose with the dawn, and together bent our steps to the house of
prayer, which was situated perhaps half a mile from home. She attired in
her usual dress of gray silk, wearing a mantilla, thrown over her head,
without a bonnet. I in spotless white, a scarf of blue crape around my
shoulders, and a white chip pamela bonnet, then in vogue. Even at that
early hour, the streets were alive with pedestrians, summoned by the
bells to their devotions. Splendid equipages and humble calesso’s jostled
each other as they rattled along. Ladies, attended by their footmen,
carrying their prayer books, passed the poor sempstress; the lady’s maid;
the Neapolitan peasant, with her madonna-like coiffure, and classic face;
the pretty attendants of shops, hurrying to their devotions before they
began the business of the day; the gay, happy-looking peasant beaux,
dressed in their holiday clothes, sauntered along; and, in contrast to
them, the dignified, grave Italian noble, glided past with quick and
quiet pace.

“The enormous leaves of the bronze-gilt doors of the church were opened
wide, and a crowd of devotees were entering the edifice, as we also
went in. We walked up the great middle aisle, where, kneeling upon its
polished marble surface, were numerous worshippers, devoutly telling
their beads, and murmuring their prayers in whispered tones. Madame Bonni
walked to the foot of the sanctuary, and kneeling before it, repeated
her rosary. The bright sunlight began to cast a thousand different rays
through the stained glass of the gothic windows. Leaning against one
of the corinthian pillars of the centre aisle, I looked around; all was
still as the chamber of death; the sun had not yet fully illumined the
beautiful church; the distant corners, and niches, wherein statues were
placed, remained in dim twilight; even the sanctuary would not have been
clearly distinguishable, had it not been lighted by an alabaster lamp,
suspended over the altar. The priests had not yet made their appearance,
nor had the choir began to sing.

“Near me, inlaid upon the wall, was an oblong marble tablet; and engraved
upon it, I read the epitaph of one of the deceased cardinals of the
church. I do not know why, but the sight of that tablet, the associations
of time and place, the early hour of day, the solitude and silence of
the church, brought home more vividly to my mind than I had ever felt
before—the thought of death. I had seen grave stones and epitaphs a
hundred times before, but had always glanced at them carelessly, without
fully realizing that they were actually the abodes of the dead; of
beings who, when living, had been animated with the same hopes, fears,
and passions as myself; but who now slumbered on unheeded and unheeding.
Yet why should we mourn for the dead, even for those we most love and
cherish? to die in this life, is only to begin a new existence in
some other state of being; and since we cannot penetrate beyond that
dark abyss, the boundary of life, we must look forward with hope, and
confidently trust in our Creator.

“I had stood facing the sanctuary, and absently gazing upon it, when the
door of the vestry opened, and the train of priests and boys entered;
at the same moment the music began. In looking at the splendid robes
which the priest wore, as the representative of Christ, I could not help
recalling to mind the manner of _His_ life, who, when he was upon earth,
had not where to lay his head. His holiness, his self-denial, his purely
spiritual life, so poorly exemplified by the modern Italian priesthood;
the most miserable among whom fares sumptuously every day, compared to
the life his Master led.

“The mournful chant of the officiating priest re-echoed from
vaulted-ceiling to paved aisles, filling the empty space with the sad
sound; and alternately the thrilling tones of the voices in the choir,
sang the hymns of the service. Madame Bonni, in an attitude of wrapt
devotion, her head bowed down, still knelt at the sanctuary, and I at
the base of the pillar. A magnificent painting of the crucifixion, hung
over the altar; and upon the inanimate image of the Divine sufferer,
I fixed my eyes. During the service, the incense had been offered
before the altar; the priest and boys had disappeared, bearing with
them the consecrated host; and the last sweet cadences of the voices in
the gallery were hushed, ere I aroused myself from my reverie. There
was something beautifully solemn about that mass, celebrated at dawn;
the classic interior of the church, built in the grecian style; its
silence, the dim twilight which reigned, the sweet voices, concealed
from view by the crimson silk curtains of the gallery, the elegant robes
of the officiating priests and their attendants, and the grateful odor
of frankincense and myrrh, with which the altar was perfumed, together
formed a scene of impressive solemnity.

“One by one, the people stole away; we also departed. It was now bright
day: two hours had elapsed during mass. Madame Bonni proposed, before
returning home, to pay a visit to the convent of Sacre Cœur, to which the
church belonged. I willingly assented, and accompanied her.

“It was an antique mass of brick, of almost shapeless form; so many
different additions had at various times been made to the original
edifice. The little iron-grated window, set in the middle of the strong,
iron-barred gate, was opened by a small, thin-faced nun. She looked at
us with a quick sharp glance; after Madame had spoken to her a moment,
she turned away within the portal, leaving the window open, through
which I was enabled to see the interior. It was a small anti-chamber,
furnished with nothing, save the floor, the four walls, and three heavy
oaken chairs, chained to the wall. After several questions had been asked
by another nun, and responded to by the first, two or three bells rung,
and other mysterious preliminaries gone through with, our nun devoutly
crossed herself, and admitted us. Madame asked for the Lady Superior;
we were conducted through several long narrow passages, to the convent
parlor, where the nun left us, and went to summon her Superior. The room
was small and dark, very plainly furnished with a waxed floor of dark
wood, pictures of the saints on the walls, and an enormous crucifix in
one corner. The chairs were chained to the walls, as in the anti-chamber;
everything wore an air of monastic serenity. I heard the rustling of
silk, and looking round, saw a tall, slender woman, thin, almost to
attenuation. She wore the sombre dress of the order; the expression of
her features was at once benevolent and austere; her eyes were blue,
quiet, and grave; her face was of an oval form, and full; there was at
once, shrewdness, benevolence, and sternness, all expressed and impressed
upon that face.

“She greeted Madame Bonni with cordiality; me, with politeness; in her
right hand she carried a rosary of ivory beads, which, from time to time,
she passed mechanically through her small white hands. Having seated
herself upon a chair, she quietly regarded us.

“‘We have called thus early, Mother Cecilia,’ began Madame, in
extenuation of our unseasonable visit, ‘that we might obtain of you a
permit to go through the convent on Wednesday next, my young friend being
desirous of seeing it.’

“‘Ah!’ said she, fixing her eyes upon me, ‘is she a stranger in Naples?’

“‘She has been here but a short time.’

“The holy mother would probably have been horrified, had she known I
was an actress. Ah, blind bigotry of party faith, of sectarianism; ye,
who look at the occupation, the condition in life, without regarding
the honesty, the character, the heart; the mind’s the standard of the
man or woman, and not the accidental contingencies of fortuitous or
disadvantageous circumstances.

“I will with pleasure give you a permit, and you need not apologise
for the earliness of the hour, as we have long since begun the duties
of the day; the sisters attend mass at three o’clock, in the chapel of
the convent,’ she continued, still looking at me. ‘This young girl so
forcibly reminds me of one of my beloved ones, who is now, I hope, in a
state of beatitude, among the blessed around the throne of God. So great
a resemblance do you bear to her, I almost thought when I entered, that
it was herself revisiting earth; may I ask your name, Mademoiselle?’

“‘Genevra Sfonza.’

“‘Genevra,’ she absently repeated, ‘what a singular coincidence; it was
under that name she took the veil and left the world; yes, she was a holy
child; one of the few pure spirits which seem to emanate immediately from
the bosom of our Heavenly Father: may she rest in peace, and her soul be
made happy in the true faith.’

“She crossed herself; her lips moved: perhaps she murmured a prayer for
her favorite.

“‘Who was the young lady of whom you spoke, mother Cecilia?’ inquired
Madame Bonni.

“‘She was Signorina Lavona Carraggi, daughter of Prince Carraggi, one of
the oldest and noblest families in Naples: from early infancy she was
ever pious, very attentive to her devotional exercises, and absented
herself, as much as her high station would permit, from the vanities
of the world: at sixteen, her father, yielding to her solicitations,
consented she should take the white veil, which she did, but died of
consumption within the first year of her noviciate; but although she
is gone from us for ever, her memory still lives in the hearts of the
sisterhood, by whom she was tenderly beloved, and with justice, too, for
surely she was an admirable being.’

“‘I heard that it was some disappointment in an affair of the heart,
which induced the Lady Lavona to leave the world,’ observed Madame Bonni.

“‘Ah, no!’ replied the Abbess, with a pious shudder at the frightful
imputation upon the character of her deceased favorite; ‘that is mere
report; she left the world for the solitude of the cloister, because she
knew that its vanities and frivolities are incompatible with the practice
of true religion, and she wished to become worthy of being the bride of
Christ.’

“‘What a mistaken notion of religion,’ thought I, as I listened;
‘surely, the simple fact that the beneficent Creator has placed us here,
sufficiently demonstrates that the world of society is our proper sphere
of action, and not the seclusion and austerities of a convent.’

“‘How long has the young lady been dead?’ asked Madame.

“‘It is now a year ago: she died on the Eve of the Annunciation, at
midnight; while she was expiring in her cell, the nuns were celebrating
midnight mass in the chapel; suddenly her apparition appeared unto them,
standing in their midst, and then as suddenly vanished away; by this
miracle they knew that her spirit had departed, and it would seem as if,
lingering on the verge of eternity, it came back to take a last farewell
of that sisterhood by whom she was so much beloved. Upon going to her
cell, I found her quite dead, sustained in the arms of the nun who nursed
her. She is buried in the garden of the convent, and on reception days
numerous visitors come to see her grave.’

“My faith was not of sufficient india-rubber-like expansion to embrace
the miraculous apparition; but I could easily understand and appreciate
the fact, that the young lady had been beautiful and lovely, and that her
death was regretted by those who knew and loved her.

“After a few remarks, mutually exchanged, upon indifferent topics, the
Superior wrote a permit for Wednesday, and we rose to go. At parting, she
pressed my hand in hers, and again exclaimed,

“‘Ah! what resemblance; I should think it was herself: farewell, my
daughter, and if, in after years, the world and its frivolities satiate
and disgust you,—if your soul becomes weary with the cares of life,—come
then to the peaceful shade of the cloister; here you will find quiet and
repose.’

“‘I am too young, yet, to have become tired of a world which I am only
beginning to see.’

“‘So thought I, at your age; not so do I regard it now; and I look back
with regret upon those years spent in idle pleasures, which I should have
dedicated to the service of God. Few young people possess sufficient
self-denial to practice the austerities of religion. Lady Lavona was a
brilliant exception: she left a high station, the pomp and glitter of
nobility, to bear her cross and follow her Saviour.’

“There was something solemn and impressive in the look and manner of the
Abbess, as she spoke these grave words of advice; her face, marble-like
when in repose, lit up when she spoke, like those beautiful Chinese
vases, which only show the flowers painted upon the exterior when filled
with water within.

“‘Good morning, mother Cecilia.’

“‘Farewell, daughter: the peace of God be with you.’ The attendant nun
conducted us back the way we came, the heavy portal opened and shut
behind us, and we directed our steps homeward.

“The appearance and conversation of the Superior made a deep impression
on my mind. All the way home I thought of what she had said about the
lady whom I resembled; her description of her loveliness and purity of
life had interested me, still I had no desire to emulate her example
of sanctity, and become a nun; I have always thought the life of a
religieuse a useless one; to be pure, virtuous, and truly religious,
it is not necessary to seclude oneself from society within a convent’s
walls, perform penance and say prayers a hundred times a day; the duties
of a sincere, upright and active life, are the best offerings we can make
our Almighty Father, and, I feel confident, the most acceptable him.

“Monsieur Belmont had breakfasted and gone out, when we reached home; we
took ours; then Madame left me to attend to her domestic affairs, and I
went to my room to practice my part in a new opera. I had been engaged
thus two or three hours, when, looking out of my window, I saw a calesso
drive up and stop before the door; my teacher got out, accompanied by a
female, dressed in white, and enveloped in an enormous black lace veil. I
caught a glimpse of her tiny feet as she lightly tripped out. Something
familiar struck my memory as I glanced at that veiled form, an indefinite
association of something or some one, I could not tell which, or what.
They quickly entered the house, and I continued my musical studies,
imagining it was some visitor of Madame’s, when Arla requested me to
come to the parlor, a lady wished to see me. Many gentlemen had visited
me since my arrival in Naples, but possessing not a single female
acquaintance in the city, I puzzled myself in conjecture.

“Wondering who it could be, I descended the stairs; the sound of merry
voices and laughter greeted my ears from the parlour: on entering it, I
saw a group of three, standing in the middle of the room, their backs
toward me. The lady I had seen from the window, was playfully arranging
upon Monsieur’s broad shoulders her large lace veil; my guardian was
gayly conversing, while Madame stood by talking and laughing with Italian
enthusiasm. They formed a happy-looking, graceful trio. I paused a moment
to look at them. The lady, happening to turn her head, saw me, uttered
an exclamation of surprise, dropped the veil, and we rushed into each
other’s arms;—it was Blanche!

“‘Ah!’ cried Monsieur, still trembling with laughter, from some unknown
cause, ‘now I know Genevra will be happy; she has been wishing and
longing for your arrival. Are you not mutually glad to see each other?’

“‘Ah, yes,’ answered Blanche, as she raised her head from my shoulder,
and uplifted her beautiful dewy eyes to mine. ‘Genevra knows as well,
better than I can tell her, how very happy I am at seeing her once more,
after so many years of separation.’

“I said nothing myself, for it has ever been my nature to say the least
when I feel most. And now, after the first congratulations were over, I
looked at Blanche, to see what effect Time had wrought on her. She had
grown much taller, and her form was rounder in its voluptuous beautiful
outlines; her face still preserved its old expression of infantile
innocence and sweetness, yet there was something altered about it:
and, on attentively criticizing that fair face, I perceived a slight
expression of scorn in the almost imperceptible curl of the delicate
upper lip, and a melancholy languor, bordering on gloom, in the blue
depths of those large eyes. Had some disappointment crossed her, or
was she already weary of the world’s applause? She was a very handsome
woman,—no wonder she should be admired.

“Her laugh was the same as ever; her merry, child-like laugh; how often
had that joyous sound amused me amid the monotony of school discipline!

“Oh, my beloved friend! my beautiful Blanche! years have rolled their
dark mists on my soul since that re-union. I have lived to weep over thy
solitary grave: thy only mourner the hoarse resounding waves of the sea.
That graceful form has long ago been food for worms: those lovely eyes
glazed in death, and those long ringlets rotted to decay;—yet, whenever
I recall thy gentleness, thy winning ways, and lofty soul, tears will
start from their briny bed, to consecrate with grief thy sweet memory.
Yes, if there be ‘a land of pure delight’ beyond this terrestrial sphere,
I feel assured thy blest shade has entered beatitude.

“We went up stairs together to my room, and there she gave me a
description of the principal events in her life since leaving Vienna. She
was too sincerely unaffected and devoid of egotism to entertain me with
her own conquests or matrimonial offers; but she spoke with tenderness
of Inez; her well maintained popularity; her good temper; her still
cherished fondness for myself; and, lastly, her approaching marriage with
a wealthy merchant of Berlin, and consequent withdrawal from the stage.

“‘It is really true, then,’ I remarked, ‘that she is to be married.
I heard so, but did not know how true the report might be. And you,
Blanche, have you any idea of following her example?’

“A rose-tint, like the delicate hue of one of ocean’s shells, lingered
for an instant on the snowy cheek of Blanche. It quickly disappeared, and
she gravely, I thought, almost sorrowfully, replied:

“‘My dear Genevra, I seldom bestow a thought on matrimony. To say that I
_never_ think of marrying, would be an absurdity. All women _must_ think
sometimes of that which is most certainly their manifest destiny; but
my thoughts dwell but seldom on that subject. Single life presents no
terrors to me: and you know actresses scarcely ever have an opportunity
of marrying any save a professional character. Inez is an extraordinary
instance of virtue and beauty being rewarded; and most fortunate is
she in having obtained so generous and fine a gentleman for her future
husband.’

“‘Monsieur Belmont told me your beauty and your voice has set all Naples
wild,’ she continued. ‘Is it so, dear? But I need not ask; the journals
informed me of that fact. And does the applause that greets you in public
fully satisfy your heart? Do you never come home to the solitude of your
own room, from these grand triumphs, and there, safe from the observation
of others, sit and dream, and long for something, you scarce can divine
what yourself; and _then_, do you not feel how brilliant, yet how
isolated, are the lives we actresses lead? Have you never felt so?’

“‘Often,’ I replied, staring at her in amazement, at the sympathy of mind
there evidently existed between us. ‘Yes, I have often felt so, although
I am as yet on the outset of my new career. But I imagined I alone had
this misanthropy;—I little thought you shared it; but let us banish all
these gloomy reflections, which can do no good, and only tend to sadden
us, and speak of something more cheerful; and now I want to ask about
Munich, as I never was there. What sort of town is it?’

“‘A very beautiful, delightful place, to those who fancy it. It contains
many very splendid buildings, fine gardens, and much good society. I was
so constantly engaged in my profession, however, I scarcely noticed what
it was; and in truth, since I left you I have been in so many places,
that they seem all alike to me, and one town is as agreeable as another.’

“Here our conversation for the moment was suspended, and Blanche, at our
hostess’ request, went to take some refreshments after her journey, but
I plainly perceived, both from the words and looks of my friend, that
there was something wrong at heart; either the gay world had wearied her,
or else some disappointed or clandestine love was gnawing at her heart.
Which it was, I could not decide; so I trusted to events to develope this
mystery.

“Blanche became completely domesticated with us, and we were to each
other as sisters; yet she did not confide to me the cause of this
concealed sadness. In the meantime, Monsieur de Serval became a regular
visiter of mine. I presented him to Blanche,—he seemed pleased with
her, yet I perceived that, although he treated her with respectful
admiration, his eyes never rested on her with the same expression of
love and tenderness as they always did when wandering after me. They say
‘that love begets love.’ To a certain extent I think the saying true;
and perhaps the eager admiration of Monsieur de Serval quickened my
perception of his merits, and gave him additional interest in my eyes.
Be that as it may, my feelings had not as yet shaped themselves into
a downright sentiment of love. They were as yet in embryo, quiescent
friendship, when a strange and unexpected event turned the current of my
destiny.

“I was sitting alone in the little parlor before mentioned. Blanche had
a headache, and was in her own room. Monsieur was away somewhere,—he
generally spent his evenings out; and Madame Bonni had left the
apartment. I sat alone: it was now midsummer; the weather was extremely
hot; but I recollect on the evening of which I speak, a brisk north
breeze had sprung up at twilight, and blown steadily off the shore for
several hours, rendering the air quite chill and cool. The wind sighed
drearily around the little cottage, and seemed to dwell momentarily in
the tall poplar trees of the garden.

“One wax candle, from its silver candelabra, shed a subdued light
around, in its immediate vicinity, leaving the rest of the room in
shadow, and the full moon, from a window opposite me, darted long streaks
of silver rays along the floor; my book had fallen from my hand, being
unable to read by the feeble light, and with my hands folded together in
my lap, I was lost in contemplation, when a knock came at the door, and
without waiting for permission, it was opened, and Monsieur de Serval
entered. He did not look as well as usual, nor was his toilette as
carefully made. He scarcely returned my salutation, and drawing a chair
near me, seated himself in it, and leaning back, with his small right
hand, pushed back from his forehead the glossy waves of his flaxen hair.

“I spoke of several things: the opera, political debates, fashionable
literature; he answered abstractedly in monosyllables, and then relapsed
into silence. Suddenly starting from his chair, he began pacing the room
with rapid strides; his face looked flushed and strange. I had always
felt toward him an indefinite fear, arising probably from the magnetic
influence of his stern temper, and now the same sensation came creeping
over me as I sat, and wonderingly gazed upon the singular behaviour of
my visiter. Suddenly pausing in his walk, he came toward me, and again
seated himself at my side. He grasped both my hands in his, and bent the
stern gaze of his lustrous eyes on mine. I now began to apprehend what
was coming, and to tremble.

“‘Genevra,’ said he, in the low, deep tone of impassioned feeling, —and
as he said this, he took both my hands in his left hand, and with the
other he played with the curls of my hair—‘Genevra, I am about leaving
town, perhaps for some months; perhaps from contingency or fatality I
may never return to Parthenope. I have come to say farewell. I could, I
think, almost feel happy at going, could I for a moment suppose that a
heart so pure as yours, would cherish towards a forlorn, unhappy being
like myself a single sentiment of kindness or regret. Say, Mademoiselle,
may I hope I shall not be forgotten?’

“He grasped my hands fiercely as he said this, and looked closely in
my face. I felt frightened, and scarcely knew what to say. At last I
stammered out,—

“‘You have my best wishes, Monsieur, for your future happiness.’

“‘Best wishes! Is that all? Yes, I see I was a fool to suppose—’ He
stopped abruptly, and bending down his stately head to a level with my
eyes, riveted his gaze on mine. I could feel his warm breath hotly fan
my cheek, and the beams of moonlight showed his broad full chest as it
rose and fell with contending passions. Nearer and nearer did he draw me
to him, till his head sank upon my shoulder, his beautiful mouth sought
mine, and with his arms tightly clasped around my waist, I felt myself
irresistibly drawn into an embrace, which, by a strange paralyzation of
all power of will, I had no strength to avoid. He drew me forcibly off
my chair upon his lap, and there imprinted on my lips a hundred kisses
before I could summon strength and determination to break away. I forced
myself from his iron grasp and ran to the other side of the room. He
followed me, his beautiful face distorted by passion, and falling on his
knees, again seized my hands in his, and exclaimed,—‘Pardon me—oh! pardon
me, beautiful Genevra! but I love you with a wild, intense passion.
Forgive me if I have offended your pride or modesty. Take pity on me,
Genevra, and encourage me to hope that my love may meet with a return.’

“‘Monsieur de Serval!’ I cried, at length recovering breath to speak,
‘your conduct is incomprehensible, inexplicable:—what _can_ you mean
by it? Is it gentlemanly—is it honorable, thus wantonly to insult the
modesty and wound the pride of a defenceless girl?’

“‘By Jupiter, you misconstrue me!” he vehemently exclaimed; and starting
to his feet, he again traversed the room with rapid strides. ‘Has my
bearing toward you ever been anything save respectful?’

“‘Does not this look marvellously like insulting familiarity?’ I
indignantly demanded.

“‘I forgot myself for a moment. And are you so remorseless as to refuse
forgiveness for an unintentional fault? Yes, here in this very room, bear
me witness, all ye gods and goddesses, all ye saints and angels:—I do
swear I love you, and you alone. With a crazy passion have I adored since
our first meeting at the countess’;—till now I have stifled it, concealed
it as much as possible from your observation; but now, on the eve of
departure from Naples, I tell you how I love you, and honorably offer
you my heart and hand in marriage. If you will accept me, I will return;
otherwise, I presume, I never shall.’

“I had sunk into a chair, overpowered by this strange scene. Again, as if
impelled by some invisible influence, he came and put his arms around my
waist, and kissed me as before. This time, after what he had just said, I
did not resist him.

“‘I have sometimes thought,’ he whispered, ‘from the expression of your
eyes, that you loved me. Say, dearest, is it so? Put your beautiful arms
around my neck, and say, ‘Dear Rinaldo, I love thee!’

“Unconscious, almost stupefied, I mechanically complied, and whispered
after him, ‘Dear Rinaldo, I love thee!’ Then he remained motionless for
some minutes, seeming to have lost all recollection in a delirium of
sense, his arms tightly locked around my waist, his head resting in my
lap. His wild, impassioned manner had in some degree magnetized, and
inspired my naturally cold temperament with something like a return of
the volcano-like passion which animated him.

“‘Monsieur de Serval,’ I said, finding he made no effort to rise,
‘recollect yourself, I beg of you. Come, seat yourself here on the sofa,
and let us talk quietly. Why should you rage and storm thus? What is it
disquiets you? You say you love me; but surely love is a gentle feeling.
Where is the necessity of these tempestuous emotions? These bursts of
passion alarm me. Be composed, and tell me why you are miserable and
unhappy, as you just said you were. Explain your grief; and at least let
me endeavor to console you.’

“My quiet manner served to soothe him. He rose from his knees, and sat
reclining on the sofa, still holding my hands in his, while I wiped the
perspiration from his agitated countenance. I was not exactly in love
with him then, but my disposition always prompted me to compassionate the
sorrowful. He appeared to be unhappy, and I would have given much to have
known, shared, and alleviated his sorrow.

“‘You never heard, I suppose,’ he began, ‘anything of my private history?’

“‘No,’ I hesitatingly replied, ‘I never did.’

“‘You are not used to equivocating; I see that, Genevra. I am certain
that you _have_ heard from envious tongues, every thing that is bad
concerning me,—that I am a _roué_; a gambler; a worthless, reckless man
of fashion. My faults I do not pretend to conceal. Not to acknowledge an
error, is only worthy of a knave or a fool. I trust I am not either. Sit
nearer me;—let me hold your hand and see my eyes riding on the balls of
yours. Now I will begin. I will go back in imagination—thank God I am not
obliged to do it in reality—to childhood.’



CHAPTER VII.


“My father was descended from an ancient and noble family; one of the
most aristocratic in France. Our family chateau was in Normandy; there
we spent the principal part of the year, with the exception of visits to
Paris at distant intervals of time.

“Our chateau was beautifully and romantically situated on a gentle
plain. From its fine grounds I have often watched the sun decline behind
the distant mountains, which bordered on the east our valley-home; on
the west a gentle river glided by: along its flowery banks, oft, when
a child, have I, my two brothers, and little sister, played. I shall
never see its quiet waters more,—nor would I: they would revive too many
painful associations. Yet sometimes in fancy I transport myself back to
its loved shores; and again I see Francois, Pierre, myself, and Lelia,
all animated by the same childish love of fun, playing hide and seek, or
running races.

“Francois was the eldest, myself next, then Pierre, then our sweet
sister Lelia. My beloved mother, to whose memory I have ever retained,
through all my dissipations and frivolities, so great a veneration, was
in declining health. She was a tall, beautiful blonde; her gentle face
was the index to her soul,—all purity, sweetness and sincerity; were I
to live a thousand years, never could I forget my mother’s amiability,
her true nobility of soul. I was her favorite child, her ‘dear Rinaldo.’
At my birth, in a fit of romantic admiration of the fabulous Rinaldo,
of Italian story, she named me after him, and with woman’s romance,
fondly pictured to herself the great deeds I should one day perform. In
emulation of this poetical demi-god, what would not children become were
they to realize their parents’ wishes and expectations.

“My father and mother lived together in the greatest love and unanimity
of feeling, until the advent of a governess, when Lelia was eight years
old, to superintend her education. This woman, as sly and insinuating, as
she was bold and unprincipled, soon sowed the seeds of contention between
my parents, and alienated from the forsaken wife the lawful affections of
her husband. She was not handsome, but she succeeded by art, in acquiring
over my father’s mind an almost unlimited control. He forsook my mother’s
society, and surrendered himself to the fatal influence of Mademoiselle
Desportes. My mother was left to linger on and die alone, in her own
solitary apartments of the chateau.

“Little Lelia became fonder of her governess than of her mother, and
preferred at all times being with Mademoiselle, than with the desolate
and despairing Madame de Serval. Francois and Pierre, seduced by presents
and unlimited indulgence, grew to love her. I alone, of the whole family,
remained firm in my allegiance to my best parent. I alone spent hour
after hour, day after day, by her lone bedside, endeavoring to soothe
the saddened spirit, and calm its approach to eternity. My unfailing
devotion to her, gained me the bitter enmity of our governess; but I
defied and despised her malice. My father from that time henceforward,
till his death, regarded me with an eye of distrust; but for that too I
did not care: I felt convinced that he had forfeited all claim to the
title of husband or father; that he had debased himself by a vulgar,
dishonorable connection; disgraceful alike to himself and the ancient
name he bore. I owed my first duty to the deserted, not to the deserter;
I saw that this disgrace to her sex, aimed at my father’s hand; that she
wished to establish herself firmly in a high position; who the man was
mattered little to her, so long as he possessed rank and wealth; and,
unfortunately, for my opinion of women, I have seen but too many others
like unto her. My mother was a stumbling block to her ambition; I saw
all the manœuvring that was constantly going on through this woman’s
influence; yet what could I do, a young boy, without money or influence
in society? If a man chooses to turn against his own wife, the mother of
his children; abuse, neglect her, and take instead, a bad, intriguing
woman, as confidant and companion, what can the world say or do? nothing,
it is their own affair: every one says, let them settle it between them:
the public have nothing to do with family quarrels.

“Thus defenceless and unprotected, her parents dead, her relations
far away, my mother became a victim to this vile creature. Her health
declined with amazing rapidity during the first year of this woman’s
arrival; her hectic cough increased daily; her pale and hollow cheeks,
glassy eyes, and shrunken form, like a scroll of shriveled parchment,
showed the ravages of disease and gloom, preying upon both mind and body.
A little incident first gave me a horrid suspicion of the secret cause of
this decay.

“A physician from the village, and a mysterious looking monk from a
neighboring convent, regularly visited my mother twice a week; the one to
attend to her spiritual welfare, the other to administer to her wreck of
mortal frame. Father Ignatius I never liked; no love was lost between
us; my sentiments were freely returned; his step, gliding and noiseless;
his large eyes, always downcast with mock humility, and hands clasped
upon his breast, always inspired me with a presentiment of the vicinage
of some evil genius. Mystery, I have observed, is generally the cloak
of ignorant or knavish minds; in this case it was the latter. I felt
relieved when I saw his draperied form leave the chateau, as if some evil
influence had been withdrawn. Notwithstanding my dislike, he seemed to be
a favorite of my mother’s, and to please her I forbore saying any thing
to his disparagement. His conversation seemed to amuse and momentarily
enliven her; his voice was soft and low, and manner insinuating and
jesuitical. I said nothing against him to her or any one else, though
secretly distrustful, for I would not have added to her gloom, around
whose soul were gathering fast the shadows of the tomb.

“I was retiring to my mother’s room one evening at dusk, when as I
neared the anti-chamber, I heard voices within conversing, and my own
name mentioned; pausing at the door, and concealed by its deep shadow, I
listened; the speakers were Doctor Theodori, and Father Ignatius; they
appeared to have met accidentally.

“‘Well, Doctor,’ was the jocose salutation of Ignatius, ‘how fares thy
patient?’

“‘And may I not ask the same question of thee, oh, physician of the
soul?’ was the laughing reply of the fat, shrewd-looking Theodori.

“‘Between us two,’ said the monk, glancing round the anti-chamber, as if
to observe they were free from notice; the dusk of twilight far advanced,
reigned, and they could not see me; ‘between us, I say, she is failing
fast: the last few months have wrought a great change.’

“‘I plainly perceive it,’ was the cool reply of his worthy colleague;
‘she will not cumber the earth long, nor be in the way of Monsieur and
Mademoiselle Desportes.’

“‘You should be careful not to give the powders too often,—their effect
will excite suspicion,’ was the next remark of the holy father.

“‘Trust me, I know what I am doing; this is not the first case of the
kind I have managed; there will be no outward sign except the usual
appearance of disease; what has been promised you as reward, may I ask?’

“‘His influence at Rome with the college of cardinals, to obtain me
the position of the nuncio to the court of Vienna, and yours, _worthy_
Theodori?’

“‘When all is over, I shall accompany the naval expedition to Algiers;
in truth I scarcely feel safe in this affair; I sometimes catch myself
feeling my head, to ascertain if that important member still performs its
functions.’

“‘No matter, ejaculated the man of prayer, penance and fasting, so long
as we are rewarded for our services, and get safe out of the country,
which I am very desirous of leaving. But does not his infatuation appear
strange to you?—to me it is a riddle.’

“‘A problem, in my opinion, which I could never solve; but these sly
women do sometimes, you know, obtain great influence; he is weak and
infatuated; but men have been fooled before his time, and will be so for
ages yet unborn.’

“‘How long do you think she will live?’ asked the monk; and he drew his
cowl over his dark visage, and took a step forward toward the door, where
I stood concealed.

“‘Not longer than three months, if I am anything of a physician.’ They
both laughed, as two fiends may be supposed to laugh over a captured
soul, and withdrew through a side door, leading to my father’s part of
the mansion.

“The last echo of their footsteps died upon my ear, ere I tremblingly
emerged from my concealment; pale as a ghost from the tomb, and quivering
like an aspen, I comprehended perfectly well that some dark plot was
hatching to expedite my mother’s mortal doom. I tried to think of some
means to counter-work this devilish intention; but at that time almost
a child, my mind was not fertile in expedients, and even had I equaled
Mephistopheles at planning, what is the use of invention without the
power to execute. I determined to watch and endeavor to detect any
attempt this triumvirate of wickedness should make upon her life. I
childishly supposed I should _see_ something to expose; I did not know
their secret wiles, though I watched constantly, and was always with my
mother; yet I saw no powders given, nothing visible indicated _their_
secret malice, and _her_ onward progress to the grave.

“Mademoiselle Desportes, with cunning hypocrisy, came often with
professions of regard, to see Madame de Serval. Could I have had my way,
I would have kicked her out the room; but perhaps she chose the better
part, in treating with contempt so unworthy a creature; for that pure
soul, which was all harmony and love, could surely feel no rivalry with
one so immeasurably beneath her.

“My father seldom came to our apartment. I should have thought shame
would have deterred him from brazenly insulting the deserted wife with
his presence. I forgot that the man who could act thus, would of
necessity be incapable of shame. Thus lingered for three months longer my
gentle, lovely mother, and then she died, devoutly hoping to be reunited
to her loved ones in a future state of being. She died at midnight; we,
her children, and the nurse, her only attendants; it was in the autumn
time, and the wind blew in fitful gusts around the isolated chateau; the
mournful sound, as the blast rose and fell, and whistled through the
forest trees, and through the cracks and crevices of the wainscotting,
seemed in harmony with the sad departing soul.

“She sat upright in bed, supported by pillows: her hands convulsively
clasped on her sunken chest, her sad blue eyes fixed on vacancy, as if
seeking to penetrate the impenetrable mysteries of eternity; her long
hair, escaped from its confinement, strayed wildly around her shoulders:
thus she sat, motionless and silent, for several hours, though not
speechless; she retained her voice and senses to the last.

“Little Lelia sat on the bed by my mother’s side, and with tearful
eyes gazed wonderingly on her parent; my brothers and I stood by the
bedside; I, speechless, tearless, from intense grief: they, sobbing
in loud lamentation; and the old nurse sat in the chimney corner, an
uninterested, yet sympathizing spectator of the death bed. My father had
made an excuse of going on a hunting party, some days previous, to avoid
witnessing his wife’s last sufferings; and his wicked favorite had shut
herself in her own rooms: we, therefore, were the sole attendants. And
the priest and his delightful friend had gone, I know not where—probably
departed for their respective places of destination—apprehensive of
discovery.

“The old brass clock in the anti-chamber struck the midnight hour, and
its hoarse, reverberating tone, had scarcely ceased, ere Madame de Serval
aroused herself from her stupor; decaying life appeared to resuscitate,
momentarily, in that attenuated form, like the spasmodic flicker of a
lamp, whose flame is about to be extinguished. She extended her arms,
as if beckoning to the shades—uplifted her eyes, as if praying for
grace—then, suddenly breaking the portentous silence which had hung over
us so long, she said, ‘Dear children, beloved little ones, come close to
me.’ We gathered close around her. ‘Your poor mother is going the way of
all the earth—she is going to leave you—and her memory will be as though
she never had been. I entreat you to be kind to each other; to love and
cherish each other’s friendship, practice virtue and good works, that ye
may become worthy of heavenly rewards, and meet your mother above.’

“Her face was animated with almost supernatural energy for an instant;
she pointed upwards with her finger for an instant, then her clay-cold
fingers shrank from my clasp: she fell backward on her pillow; her
eyes were glazed in the mists of death; and they, hardened in their
expression, became fixed and cold; her arms stiffened, and fell rigid to
her side: her whole form collapsed and changed. Death had claimed its
own; all was over: the wrongs she had endured, her joys, her sorrows,
were like a tale that is told; they were lost in the womb of time—past
and forgotten.

“Petrified with fear to the spot—horror struck—we gazed upon the
inanimate clay; then, after the first spasm of terror was past, we rushed
to the nurse, and gathered round her, seeking consolation for that loss,
which no power—mortal, or immortal—could restore to us.

“We wept ourselves to sleep that night, in our respective chambers. I,
more than all the rest, felt wretched. God alone knows how miserable I
was. And when I recalled my mother’s gentleness, her forbearance, her
enduring love for a worthless man, _and its reward_, oh! that added the
last bitter drop in the cup of wo!

“My father returned next day; he seemed neither surprised nor grieved
when told of her death: how should he be, when he had planned, and
premeditated it: ‘her health had been so feeble within the last two
years,’ he said, ‘the event was not an unexpected one.’ Mademoiselle came
not near us, and, absorbed in grief, I had forgotten her very existence.

“When the corpse was laid out, we all went to take a last fond look of
that loved form, and bid it a temporary, perhaps eternal, adieu.

“She lay in state upon a costly bier, dressed as for a bridal. The white
satin robe she was attired in, was not whiter than her marble face and
hands: the wreath upon her hair scarcely outvied them in purity of color;
and her face bore that expression of almost unearthly beauty, which rests
upon the faces of the dead the first few hours after death. So calm,
so pure and beautiful did she look, I almost thought her sleeping, and
imagined I saw the grave-clothes rise and fall, with the respiration of
life, upon that dead bosom. Oh, my mother! wert thou conscious of the
tears I shed, thou wouldst have pitied me!”

Monsieur de Serval paused; his voice was inarticulate from emotion.
Dropping my hand, he covered his face with both his, and trembled with
grief. A man is generally ashamed to show such feelings before a woman;
but the recollections of his youth had completely unmanned him. I thought
it indelicate to proffer words of condolence, and, therefore, waited till
he became quieted, and went on.

“The grief of my two brothers and sister partook more of wonder and fear
than sorrow; but my soul was literally devoured with despair, and at that
moment I most sincerely wished myself dead and buried with her. I had
lost my best friend: the only one who could console my boyish vexations
and advise my actions.

“A splendid marble tomb was erected over the broken heart it enshrined,
in the cemetery of the church belonging to the chateau, and an
epitaph inscribed, testifying to the virtues of the departed, and the
inconsolability of the bereaved widower. How I despised the man, even
though my own father, who could thus add hypocrisy to villany!

“Within three months after her death, he outraged even the usual
conventional forms of mourning, and espoused the governess. From that
time henceforth, completely throwing off the mask of affection she had
previously worn, my brothers and sister, as well as myself, felt her
iron rule. We were aliens and strangers in our own home: all obeyed the
imperious will of the new Madame de Serval;—we were neglected and left
alone.

“Through her influence on the mind of her husband, he decided on
sending me away to college. Me she most particularly disliked, and
on all occasions treated me with studied contempt. There was a tacit
understanding between us that we mutually understood each other. _She_
knew me to possess penetration: _I felt_ that she was a vile intriguante.
She saw it would be far better for her control over my brothers and
sister, that I should be away. My elder brother, Francois, was never very
bright. Pierre (younger than myself) was no more so than need be: he was
extremely amiable and easily influenced; and Lelia, any one could manage.
Of the whole four I was most capable of resistance; consequently it was
most desirable to get me out of the way.

“A celebrated college, in a distant district, was selected as my
destination, and the day appointed for my departure. I asked if Francois
could not be sent to the same college for the completion of his
education, that we might be companions to each other in our studies. My
request was sternly refused by my father, and I was bade attend to my
own business, and not trouble myself about Francois’s movements. Thus
silenced, I made a merit of necessity, and obeyed, because I could not
help myself, resolving mentally, however, that, when grown to man’s
estate, I would shake off the underhand tyranny of this woman, and enlist
in the army as a foot soldier, sooner than submit to her petty malice.
She planned this merely to annoy me, knowing the society of my brother
would be pleasing to me. What my father intended doing with either
him or Pierre, neither they nor I knew: Lelia would remain under the
guardianship of her former governess.

“Thus were we separated. I bade them farewell and departed, glad to be
removed from the evil atmosphere of a depraved woman.

“I soon became a favorite with my preceptors at the institution. Francois
corresponded with me regularly the first year. Little Lelia, he said,
was in delicate health; her stepmother treated her with harshness and
severity; Pierre drooped in listless languor. He was in daily expectation
of being ordered off to join his regiment,—father having bought him
a commission in the 49th hussars. Of his own feelings, or the state
of affairs between Monsieur de Serval and his wife, he never spoke;
perhaps, I thought, he had forgotten our mother’s wrongs, grown politic,
conciliated the kindness of his stepmother, and consequently was more
tolerated; but I hoped not. I trusted the remembrance of the injuries of
that angel-woman were too deeply impressed on his mind, to allow him to
be so easily seduced into love or kindness to her betrayer. The tone of
his letters was reckless and gloomy: these feelings I regretted seeing in
one so young, and wished he were within the sphere of my influence, that
I might win him to better things.

“Subsequently I heard from him after his arrival in the Barbary
States, whither he had been ordered. He described the climate as being
insupportably hot, and a soldier’s life a hard one; yet, having entered
the service, was determined to remain and fight his way to distinction.

“The large patrimony my mother brought my father, had, upon her
ill-starred marriage, been exclusively settled on herself (subject to her
control alone), and, at her death, she bequeathed it to her children,
divided equally amongst us. Upon the completion of my education, I paid a
short visit home, to claim my share of the patrimony, and see my brother
and sister. Lelia, grown tall and graceful, welcomed me with joy; my
father, with cold civility; the ex-governess, with haughty coldness.
When I inquired for Pierre, they directed me to the church-yard where my
mother reposed, and where her youngest son now slumbered by her side, in
the blessed sleep of forgetfulness. I did not weep over his grave with
the same wild lamentation with which I had bewailed her loss: on the
contrary, as I stood over the little mound which held the human earth, I
almost felt a secret satisfaction that the boy had been taken away from
the evils to come; that his pure young mind had not remained here to
become contaminated by mingling with inferior, less elevated souls.

“Lelia told me how he died of a fever, and how he had wished to see me;
but was ungratified in the wish in his dying hour. Father had commanded
that no word should be sent me of his illness or death; thus I had
remained in ignorance of either. When she told me this, a suspicion
flashed across me, that, perhaps, he had been dealt with like his poor
mother; but reflection convinced me that his stepmother could have had no
object in putting him out of the world. He was an amiable, inoffensive
boy; he interfered with her in no way; and as she was a woman of strong
mind and good reasoning faculties, it was not probable she would have
committed a deed, the execution of which could in no way have benefited
her. At any rate he was dead; and as I looked on Lelia, her youth, her
beauty, and the atmosphere of innocence and grace which seemed to hover
round and adorn her, I wondered what destiny had in store for her, and I
prayed that the angel-shade of our mutual parent—or some other invisible
inhabitant of a better land—might preside over her future years, and
shield them from all evil.

“But the halls of my ancestors were no longer a home for me, and I felt
it strongly during the few days I spent there. The absurd spectacle of
the blind infatuation of a man, already on the decline of life, who fed
and cherished his vanity into the ridiculous belief that he was still
loveable and beloved by a young and artful woman, was—had I been an
uninterested spectator of the farce—more laughable than anything else;
but, as it was, indignation, instead of merriment, stirred my feelings,
and I wished to be out of sight of so disgraceful an exhibition of
superannuated folly; and my father, while doting upon his minion, and
squandering his fortune upon her in every description of extravagance,
actually believed himself to be as attractive and fascinating as any
young man of twenty-five. When I recurred to this portion of my father’s
life in after years, I always thought of what a young Parisian girl once
said to me: ‘Are not those two words, man and vanity, synonymous?’ That
young and handsome men should be vain of conquest is not astonishing; but
that old men, hackneyed and worn, from misuse of the senses, possessing
all the vices of the young, without their personal attractions or their
virtues,—that _such_ men should be candidates for the affections of young
women, or dare to suppose they can obtain or possess them, is scarcely
more reprehensible than ridiculous. The world has always seemed to me a
perfect farce—a play: a stage on which all act, and those who play the
best are thought the best in the eyes of the undiscriminating world.
What part my father and his favorite would have taken in the drama, I am
unable to say; but my own opinion is, that a fool’s cap for him, and the
symbol of knavery for her, would have suited to a charm.

“Lelia was liberally provided with many attendants, teachers for various
languages, and every thing the child could wish in the way of dress or
equipage. Being satisfied that her welfare and comfort was attended to, I
arranged with father to draw upon his banker in Paris for my means; and,
bidding Lelia farewell—who sobbed and wept grievously at my departure—I
glanced good-bye to the turreted towers, the lofty archways and imposing
battlements of the homes of my forefathers, and took my way to the
capital of France, intending to pursue the study of the law.

“But, alas! for the self-promised virtue of youth and inexperience! I had
not been in the gay city many weeks before the giddy vortex of Parisian
society had enthralled me, and overcame many of my stoical resolves: so
little do we know what we shall do until tasked by practice. I at first
wondered at the wild and unrestrained dissipations of the youth of the
metropolis; but, insensibly, by degrees this wonderment ceased, as I
became accustomed to, and shared in these frivolities.

“An old lawyer—in former years a devoted friend of my father—now, in
turn, performed the offices of friend to me; _i. e._ gave me good advice
on the temptations and snares of life; the dangers of love affairs,
particularly illicit ones; the beauty of propriety of demeanor; the
respectability of religion—at least its external appearance, no matter
about the _sincerity_ of the heart; and, lastly, the propriety of placing
myself under his guidance, and steadfastly following his counsels.
Fortunately, I did not take advantage of the kindness extended me; for,
had I followed his counsels—or, rather, what one might suppose _would_
have been his counsels, twenty years before—I should have been engulphed
in ruin long ago. I followed the dictates of a young, and, at that time,
pure heart; and pursued my own way, naturally enough concluding, that
every man has a right to his own way of thinking, and his own rule of
action, provided he interfered with no one else.

“I studied law with my _moral_ friend for some time; and might at this
moment, perhaps, have been an advocate, had not unforeseen events changed
the current of my life otherwise.

“While in Paris I became acquainted with a lady of noble rank and ancient
family; and, since I am giving you a faithful chronicle of my days,
Genevra, I will not conceal from you, that once, and once only, have I
loved, in by gone years, a lady, as beautiful, though not as virtuous, or
talented, as yourself—loved, I say, as fondly, as blindly, as I now love
you.

“Her name was Madame Anacharsis Valliere; and she was the youthful wife
of an old banker; she was then one of the most fashionable and admired
of any in Paris. I first met her at a ball, and afterwards visited her
at her house constantly. I cannot describe the artlessness and playful
witchery of her ways, nor that light and play of feature which allured
and captivated me—even though I saw the risk I ran, both for myself and
her: the remembrance of her haunted me for years after the love had died
away, and both passion, and the reciprocity it had met with from her
confiding fondness, had faded from my mind.

“That was my first ‘grande passion!’ The woman who pleased me then, would
not please me now: so do our tastes and habits change as we go onward:
but then, young and warm, yet shy, I required to be led on to love: now,
I would rather seek it myself: consequently, I prefer one who rather
shrinks from than advances to me.

“Her husband, absorbed in business, and money speculations could not
find time to devote much attention to his fair wife; and, trusting to
her honor, her sense of duty, and shrinking modesty, to preserve her in
the right way, he allowed her to do as she pleased, and go with whom she
pleased; it often pleased her then to go with me. He had great confidence
in me; I am sorry to say it was misplaced; but undesignedly, at least,
I can with conscience say that, I did not intend to love the wife, or
injure the husband. When I first became acquainted with them, little by
little she grew to love me; if I did not come at the appointed hour,
Madame Anacharsis, forgetting her embroidery, music, flowers, visitors,
everything, would sit at the window facing the street, whence she
regularly expected me, and muse and watch for me; then the sudden start,
the smile of welcome when I came, the tears which suffused her eyes when
I departed, by all these tokens, and a hundred others, I knew as well as
words could speak it, that she loved me; what man is virtuous enough to
slight the manifest love of a beautiful woman? I saw my triumph and I
felt happy, for my feelings echoed hers.

“I then became her constant visitor, her devoted admirer; I was with her
continually, at her morning concerts, her evening soirees: I was ever at
her side. The old husband, infatuated in his idolatry of his young wife,
saw nothing, suspected nothing; thus we went on till passion crowned
the whole; nothing was left for me to wish for. Was I happy then? In the
possession of all that I had thought so admirable, so angelic, I have
often asked myself that question, and never have been able to answer it
satisfactorily. I lost myself then in the mysteries of love, and forgot
everything but her.

“We had been wrapt up, bound up in each other for the space of three
months, and the old man still blundered on in confidence, though I was
ever at his wife’s side like her shadow. He frequently consulted me on
business matters, and both in public and private, expressed the highest
opinion of me. I could not but regret the moment when he would be
undeceived, and perceive the _real_ state of things; yet the whole affair
had been involuntarily on both sides. Society, which always decides so
arbitrarily in these matters, would at once have pronounced that either
I was a rake, or she a bold, frail woman. Neither was the case, a woman
possessed of more true modesty and integrity than Madame Anacharsis I
have never seen; her fault was over self-confidence, and reliance on me;
and I, not dreaming of love, cherished to maturity the germ of a passion
with which I had already inspired her.

“We had been planning a fête champêtre, and one evening I bent my steps
to her house, with a portfolio of beautiful costumes; one, handsomer than
the others, I had chosen, and wished to induce her to adopt it for the
occasion.

“The attendants were absent from the anti-chamber, and I entered the
salon de reception unannounced; Madame was there, alone. She sat upon a
low ottoman, her profile toward me; she wore a blue satin dress, made
so low in the neck that half her fair bosom was exposed; but it was the
fashion then, and when fashion countenances an impropriety, it no longer
seems one. She seemed absorbed in thought, for she had slid half off the
stool, her small hands clasped, and brown eyes upward fixed in thought,
or absentness.

“She started, and rose up on hearing my step, and I now saw that her
cheeks were wet with tears; surprised at these unwonted tokens of sadness
in one usually so gay, I asked the cause.

“She wiped the tears from her eyes, and seating herself by my side,
placed her little hands in mine, (where they had often been before,) and
looking me straight in the face, suddenly addressed me thus,

“‘Rinaldo, my husband has discovered our love: he knows all.’

“‘Good heavens, how could he, how should he?’ I cried.

“‘Indeed he has: this very afternoon he told me that he has watched you
and me for sometime past, without our knowing it. He spoke so gently, so
kindly to me of my fault, that his very leniency made me feel a hundred
times more miserable than all the reproaches in the world could have
done; he said he knew I was young enough to be his child,—that so great a
disparity of years must preclude much happiness; but when he reminded me
of the unlimited indulgence with which I had been treated, the tenderness
with which all my wants, and even my most fantastic whims had been
anticipated; _then_, indeed, I felt how unjustly I had served him. He
told me too, how much confidence he had ever reposed in me, allowing me
to go with whom I liked, and where I liked, without question; and turning
my eyes inward, I saw how far I had fallen from my own high standard of
female virtue.

“‘I said nothing in extenuation of my fault, and in silence acquiesced
to guilt; but when my husband took me to his arms again, and told me he
would forgive me, even though he became the laughing stock of Paris, on
condition I would solemnly swear never to commit the same offence again;
and also to send you away, and never more to see your face; then I saw
how magnanimous he was in his love, how infatuated in his devotion to me,
unworthy me.

“‘And now we must part, dear Rinaldo, I mean to say, Monsieur de Serval,
we must never meet again, or if we do meet in public, as strangers. It
will be a very hard task for me to tear your image from my heart, but I
_must_; I ought to love my husband: has he not been so kind to me? Oh,
yes, I must forget you, and of course you will forget me: very soon some
other will usurp my place. Oh, I wish I were dead and buried.’

“She fell down upon her knees and wept: it seemed to be so difficult for
her to surrender me; and it was equally severe for me, for I was tenderly
attached to her. The husband’s discovery had been startling news: I had
not dreamt that Valliere had suspected us; it only remained for us now to
say farewell,—a sad word to be spoken at any time, but most particularly
in an affair of the heart: it was some minutes before I could calm
her sufficiently to speak, and then she only spoke of her fault, her
unhappiness, and her jealous dread of my loving some other better than
herself.

“‘Oh, you will not entirely forget me, will you, Rinaldo? Although
hereafter we shall never see each other, you will sometimes think of me;
think how unhappy I am; how unwise I have been; but do not despise my
weakness; do not think of me with contempt, perhaps, at some future day,
when you may love a woman of sterner virtue than myself.’

“‘Dear lady, I can never think of you with any other sentiment than
admiration. What is there to contemn in one so beautiful and amiable?
We have erred unwittingly; if any is to blame, it is myself, not you.
May God, who sees all things, forgive me if I have caused you a moment’s
pain.’

“‘It is very hard to say farewell forever,’ she kept repeating, as
she hung upon my hand; ‘but it must be said,’—and after mutual sighs,
regrets, tears, and kisses, I sorrowfully tore myself away. She fell
fainting on a sofa as I left the saloon, and I brushed tears from my own
cheeks as I rushed down the marble terrace steps of her elegant abode.

“My feelings were wild, incoherent, and bitter,—yes, bitter as wormwood,
for none but honorable loves yield satisfaction and repose to the soul.
I regretted ever having come to Paris, or ever having crossed the bright
pathway of so young and innocent a creature; but her husband would still
countenance and love her. She was not abandoned or cast away to neglect
or shame; that was a great consolation to me; and trusting that her gay
and child-like disposition would interest itself in the world, and that
new associations would obliterate me from her memory, I became calmed,
and returned to my ordinary pursuits.

“Not long after, I received news of my brother’s death, at Tunis. He had
been shot in a duel. The cause of the encounter was not explained. My two
brothers were both dead, and I became heir to my father’s estate.

“Francois and myself had never been sufficiently alike in disposition to
become tenderly attached. Nevertheless, I regretted his death, as one
is in duty to the laws of nature bound to do. Rumor said the charming
Madame Anacharsis Valliere had withdrawn from all gay society, and lived
entirely in the country. Her health was said to be declining. This
was some months after our separation; and possessing the clue to her
new love of solitude, I was vain enough to attribute her ennui to sad
reminiscences of me.

“I had now been in Paris two years, when I suddenly resolved, one day, to
go home, and if my father treated me with such incivility as to render a
long residence disagreeable, I could, in that case, return to Paris. I
had lost much of the wildness I had brought to the city, and had sobered
down. My old friend, the lawyer, had proved himself to be a real friend
to me, notwithstanding some lingering traces of youthful vanity. Small
foibles are, however, forgiveable when counterbalanced by other good
qualities; and I was grateful to him for his kindness. He advised me to
stay and pursue the practice of the law. But yielding to some strange
presentiment, which bade me go, I promised him soon to return, and set
off.

“I arrived at the castle after twilight had deepened into sombre night.
A dense forest of lindens surrounded the old homestead of my childhood,
on one side of the building, for more than a mile; and riding through
the thicket of trees had, perhaps, pre-disposed me to sadness, for I
certainly felt so, when I arrived. No porter was, as usual, at the
lodge, and the gardens bore evidence of neglect. I rode on; passed the
drawbridge, and dismounting, left the horse to find his way alone to the
stables. I went into the inner court of the castle, through the massive
gateway, and after traversing that, into the servants’ hall. None of
the domestics were there. I was amazed at this; for among the numerous
attendants my father was want to keep around him, surely some of them
would be at their posts. Everything looked so familiar, that even the old
wainscotting seemed to welcome me back.

“I went up stairs into the enormous banquetting hall, where in the olden
time, had often been heard sounds of uproarious conviviality, the coarse
jest, and loud song, and shone beauty’s gentle presence; but it was now
silent and deserted; cobwebs wandered unmolested on its walls; and the
rich crimson drapery of the window curtains was thick with dust,—the
result of years of neglect. No one was here either; and I began to
conclude that I had in truth come to the abode of death, when suddenly
recollecting the day of the month, I remembered that it was the annual
holiday, on which servants had permission to visit the village for the
day. This explained _their_ absence; but where was Lelia, my father,
and step-mother? Had they deserted the house; or were they all dead? I
began to feel infected with superstitious gloom. I went up the grand
staircase, and sought the different bed chambers of the family. They
were tenantless. In Lelia’s, several articles of wearing apparel lay
scattered about, and a miniature of our mother—an exquisite painting set
in gold, and adorned with pearls and emeralds—was lying on her toilet
table, entangled with other trinkets, as if thrown down in haste; but the
presiding nymph of the boudoir was not there.

“As I stood in the centre of the room staring around me, and wondering
what had become of them all;—as I stood thus, a wild shriek of fear,
revenge, agony, despair,—it sounded like a compendium of all these
emotions—burst startlingly upon my ears. Amazed, I listened intently. I
heard no more: all was still, save the flapping of the venetian blinds,
as they swung to and fro in the wind, and the mournful cooing of the
doves. A curse seemed to have come and laid its blight and ban upon
this unhappy domicile. The living appeared to have deserted it;—perhaps
celestials, mayhap demons, had substituted themselves in their place. I
determined to ascertain what that strange sound meant, and directed my
steps to the quarter whence I thought it proceeded.

“I had forgotten to look in my step-mother’s drawing room. It was on the
same floor with Lelia’s room. The scream seemed to have come from there.
Thither I went. As I neared the door, I heard a low hissing laugh. The
house must be haunted. Surely devils were here. Three steps brought me
full before the open door, and, oh, great God! I saw a sight that froze
my heart with horror!”

Monsieur de Serval here started to his feet, as if he still beheld what
he described. He stared wildly before him a moment; then recovering
himself sat down, and continued:

“Yes, there, in the middle of the room, stood the accursed priest,
Father Ignatius; his arms folded, and sinister features expanded into a
demoniacal smile. Yes, he who hastened my mother’s death, was there; and
he now contemplated with the eyes of cold contempt, the death agonies of
two other unhappy beings.”

“Who were they?” I suddenly demanded, breaking in upon the thread of the
narrative.

“My miserable father and his wife. She lay stretched upon the floor, the
red life-blood gushing in torrents from a deep wound in her neck; and she
shook her clenched fists in impotent revenge at her husband and murderer.
Her face, hands, and hair were smeared with blood, and with the energy of
death and despair, she muttered curses on his head.

“And he, unhappy being, I could not help feeling some pity for him;—he
was my father. In him life seemed quite extinct. He had fallen on a
sofa, and lay to all appearance dead: his gray hair fallen back from his
death-pale countenance, and his arms hanging listlessly down from his
side; marks of blood were also on his person.

“Horror-struck I gazed. This was my welcome home. Then animated by a
strange desire to add a third to this goblin group, and kill that vile
priest, I strode up to him, and seized him by the arms.

“‘Vile, degraded wretch,’ I cried, ‘and is it you who has done this? Have
you added downright murder to the indirect means you used to accomplish
my mother’s death? Say, say!’ I gasped, ‘is it _your_ deed?’

“The monk turned black with rage; but he controlled himself, and said
quietly:—

“‘My son, I am as innocent of their deaths as yourself. Only a few
minutes ago I arrived here, having just returned from Vienna. Finding no
one about the castle, I came in here seeking for your father and madame.
Approaching, I heard loud words, and on entering, saw your father stab
your step-mother, then turn the weapon against himself, when they both
fell as you see them now. The cause of his conduct I am unacquainted
with.’

“I did not credit him, and was about to inflict summary vengeance upon
him, or compel him to tell me the truth, when the dying woman, raising
herself half way on her elbow, after several attempts at speech, feebly
articulated:

“‘Not he, but he,’ pointing to my father; ‘_he_ did it.’

“A frightful convulsion of pain distorted her face. She pressed her hand
to her neck, whence the blood issued, and falling back on the floor,
after a slight spasm, expired. All this happened in a much shorter space
of time than it requires to tell it you. It seemed as if the invisible
hand of fate had conducted me there to behold this horrible spectacle.
What insanity could have urged my father to such a deed?

“This abandoned woman was dead—stone dead. Her career of deceit and
extravagance was ended, and my martyred mother’s manes appeased. After
looking attentively at the corpse, to see if life was entirely extinct, I
turned my attention to my father; but he was already dead. Her features
retained in death their expression of lowering darkness, and his the same
look of concentrated iron will they had worn in life.

“‘Oh, most gracious God!’ I ejaculated, sinking on my knees in earnest
prayer;—‘Oh, vouchsafe to have mercy on their souls; grant them thy
grace.’

“‘Amen,’ said the monk; and he had glided from the apartment before I
could arrest his departure. I wished to detain him, at least till I had
procured a physician and coroner, and had an inquest on the bodies; but
he was gone. Had the devil sent him there also to witness the death
of his accomplice? or accident, or what? There was none to answer my
questions, but the solitary castle itself;—but could walls have spoken,
I presume they would have told me many a strange tale, of strange scenes
that had happened since I had left them.

“Assistance must be had, and as none of the servants had yet returned, I
mounted my horse and rode to the village, whence I soon returned with a
physician and magistrate.

“Their unaccountable deaths puzzled the man of law much; but when I had
explained all the circumstances to the sensible, quiet physician, he
appeared perfectly satisfied that they had come to their deaths as I
surmised,—she from his hand, and he from self-infliction.

“‘And you have no clue, no idea of the cause of this terrible event?’ he
said, after I had told him all.

“‘None whatever. I found them as you see them now,’

“‘It is most unaccountable,’ said the magistrate. ‘I cannot imagine of
anything so despicable, as a man to commit suicide. This is not only
suicide, but murder, too; perfectly atrocious. I never could have thought
your father capable of such a deed.’

“‘We know not what we shall do till we are tried. Let us pray God to
preserve us from temptation,’ said the wise physician; and we left the
room, locking the door, until some one should come to lay out the bodies.

“The physician and magistrate stayed an hour with me in the banquetting
hall, discussing the strange affair. At least _they_ discussed it, with
professional indifference. For myself, I was stupified, satiated with
horror, and said almost nothing. Then some of the domestics returned, and
the gray-haired butler, the male nurse and companion of my childhood,
listened with stupid surprise to my account of his master’s death.

“‘Why, sir,’ stammered he, as if in doubt of his own identity, ‘I left
them both well, and together in madame’s parlor. How could master so
suddenly have taken it into his head to kill her, and then kill himself?’

“‘Have there ever been any violent quarrels between your master and
mistress, that you have been aware of?’ I inquired.

“‘Oh! yes, sir, a great many: for the last two years they have scarcely
done any thing but fight. I’ve often heard him tell her he would send
her off, and call you back, and make you master here. Miss Lelia fretted
much about you; she wished to see you; and madame always abused her.
Master seemed to take a great dislike to his wife in the last two years;
whenever he spoke of you, she always got into a perfect fever; she
really seemed wild; and she would dare him to do something which he said
he would do, if she did not do as he told her. Oh! we’ve had a deal of
trouble since you went away.’

“‘I see the whole affair plainly now,’ said the magistrate; ‘they had
become involved in one of these quarrels; words ran high; he probably
struck her; and then, becoming infuriated as his anger rose, murdered
her; and, either from dread of discovery, or disgust of life, killed
himself: thus it must have been; and a most deplorable affair it is, too.’

“‘Where is my sister Lelia?’ I asked of Juan.

“‘She went some days ago to spend a week with some lady friend of hers.’

“‘How far is she from here?’

“‘Some six miles, sir.’

“‘Take one of the fastest horses and go after her: say only her brother
has arrived, and wishes to see her—nothing more.’

“‘Yes, sir:’ the servant departed.

“Some lay sisters were sent for, and came from the neighboring convent to
lay out the bodies. Scarcely was their mournful task completed, when Juan
returned with Lelia. The beautiful girl burst into tears as she rushed
to embrace me; and her grief redoubled when I told her of that day’s sad
events.’

“‘My brother, dear, you little know the many lonely days I’ve passed
since you left us, and how often I have wished for you; that bad woman
always treated me with contempt, and father never cared for me; I have
passed my days alone, always alone, dreaming and regretting: father
changed much, however, in his opinion of you, and would have had you back
again, but madame always opposed it; but I little thought, when I left
here a week ago, that I should find them both dead on returning.

“I consoled poor Lelia as much as possible, and promised her many future
years of happiness; and so far as that happiness depended on myself, I
kept my promise. When shown the dead body of her father, she burst into
torrents of tears, and fell fainting over the corpse. We removed her
to her own room, and the bodies were consigned to mother earth without
her again seeing them. With pious care my sister had tended on her
mother’s grave: and flowers of all hues, all species, grew there in wild
luxuriance: and a spirit of holiness seemed breathed around it, as if
the pure soul that had animated that mortal clay, still hallowed, still
guarded the casket the immortal gem had once inhabited, and preserved it
from evil influence.

“They were then all gathered together in death: my legitimate father and
mother, the bold usurper of her just rights, and my gentle brother. The
governess I buried without a tombstone; she was not worthy of any; the
common earth I could not refuse her, but even that I thought too good for
her: but I will no longer speak of her, nor trouble you with my personal
animosities, but will hasten to the conclusion of my tale.

“I took possession, as sole and natural heir, of the remnant of fortune
and estate left me; but finding the castle so deeply mortgaged, that
it was more trouble to keep than it was worth, I sold it; I was partly
induced to do so from Lelia’s nervous dread of remaining in the house
where so terrible a murder had been committed, and partly from my
incapacity to sustain so expensive an establishment with such small
means. I felt much regret at parting with the halls of my ancestors,
but the desolate castle would have made a gloomy home for so young a
creature as Lelia; she was now at an age when society and gay life would
please and captivate; and I determined to take her to Paris with me.
The prospect of leaving the solitude and isolation, to which her whole
lifetime had been alone devoted, charmed her.

“The home of my childhood passed into stranger-hands. Previous to our
departure I caused diligent search to be made in the vicinity for the
wicked father Ignatius; but he had disappeared as strangely as he came,
and left no trace of his coming or exit. I was convinced, however,
from numerous circumstances, traced to their cause, that he was not
concerned in or any way accessory to my father’s and stepmother’s death.
Judging from what the domestics told me, and from what I gathered from
the neighboring gentry whom my father visited, I surmised that remorse
had at last seized upon that man of iron nerve: becoming tired of the
governess, or else conceiving a hatred to her, from recollection of the
evil deed she had induced him to commit, violent quarrels, crimination
and recrimination, was the natural result of alienation of affection;
when under the influence of anger we lose our self-consciousness, and
know not what we do: in a fit of rage he killed her; and, dreading the
consequences, and disgrace, added the last act to this tragedy of sin,
and committed suicide. That death scene I shall never forget; no, not
if I were to live a thousand years: it haunts me yet with frightful
vividness.

“I took Lelia with me to Paris, where she afterwards married, well and
happily, the man of her choice, and lives there still.

“I resumed the practice of the law, and became distinguished in that
profession. From association with the gayeties of the metropolis, I
confess I contracted habits I regret having acquired: my disposition
was ardent and excitable, and it carried me too far. I played high,
and was seldom fortunate,—almost invariably losing. From mixing with
society of a certain class, I acquired the reputation of a _roué_ in many
instances; that, also, was undeserved; although at that time young and
vain, I was more easily caught in love snares than at present. Thus, for
some three years longer, I led a gay, wild, yet unhappy life. Then I
began to weary of this futile way of spending time. My health had become
impaired by excess, and satiety had taken the place of levity. I wished
to find some woman in whose integrity I could confide, and marry her, and
become a better man; but among all the gay, the rich, the talented, the
beautiful women with whom I was acquainted, none suited me, none equalled
my expectations. Sometimes I saw a woman whose _personelle_ pleased
me; but, on acquaintance, I always discovered something wanting in the
mind,—something I could wish added or taken away. I could no where find
my Psyche. I gave up my profession, although it yielded me a fine income,
and came here to Naples.

“Here I have been living since, unhappy and listless amid pleasures,
longing for something I have never yet found, and have thought, till I
saw you, I never should find; but at the countess’ ball, where first I
saw your gentle face, I felt irresistibly attracted toward you: nor has
acquaintance disappointed the illusion of fancy; but, on the contrary,
strengthened it, and I now love, where first I admired: your upright
principles, your beauty, your unblemished reputation and pure heart, have
won my love and esteem. Nature evidently designed you for private life,
cultivated and elegant society. Let me then be that faithful friend,
lover, and husband,—three principles in one person—who shall guard and
guide your steps through the quick-sands of life. Consent to redeem me
from past errors: teach me to shape my course more worthily in future.
Woman’s influence, when she exerts it in the right way, is great; do
you then become my Mentor, and I will be as docile and obedient as
Telemachus.”

Monsieur ceased. Meanwhile the bougie was extinguished, and the rays of
moonlight, as they tremblingly broke through the clouds, alone illumed
the room. I did not like to be sitting there so late at night, and with a
gentleman alone.

“It is late: I know I am intruding upon you,” said he, and he rose upon
his feet; “yet, before I go, say that I may hope—say, dearest Genevra,
that you accept me.” He pressed my hands in his. I heard him; but did not
take the sense of what he said. I was in a dream: one of those delightful
waking dreams of fairy land, in which I have so often indulged.

“No answer still, Genevra. Are you angry?”

“Oh, no! Monsieur, not with you.”

“With others?”

“I don’t know.”

“A woman’s answer, which means you do: give me the legitimate right to
be your champion? Ah! let me be your husband and defender?”

“I am afraid that, if I marry you, you will some day regret your
condescension and your love, which induces you to descend below your rank
to marry an actress.”

“No, never!” cried he, in an indignant tone, “do you take me for a
child—a fool, who knows not his own mind; for none but fools act without
pre-consideration.”

“You have my consent then, Monsieur: may I prove worthy of you and your
expectations.”

Joyously he kissed me. “Now, at last, I hope to realize my dreams of
domestic happiness and love. Good night then, my pet; to-morrow I shall
see you again, before I leave on my journey to the north of Italy, where
business demands my presence.”

“How long will you be gone?”

“One or two weeks only: I shall hasten to rejoin you. Good night.”

Reluctantly he departed. I withdrew to my own room, and, when in bed,
endeavored to analyze his memoir. I tried to be impartial, and judge
by reason alone, if he were worthy of my affection; but love confused
reason, or rather the mischievous god construed everything in his own
favor, and demanded blind faith, which, like charity, covers a multitude
of sins. Inexperienced, too, in the ways of men, I knew not of that
seductive eloquence which dazzles the mind through the heart; besides, I
was so young and confiding—it was so charming a thing to be loved—that I
did not care to inquire too closely into cause and effect, and crediting
all, and happy in the belief, I fell asleep.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next day my lover came and spent two hours with me. He brought me a
beautiful diamond ring, the token of our engagement—the gems set in the
form of a star,—and a miniature of himself, which he placed around my
neck.

“This will serve to recall me to your memory sometimes, while I am gone,”
he remarked, playfully.

“If a woman loves a man, she needs nothing to recall him to mind, and if
she does not, where is the use of a portrait?”

“Ah! you little logician;—little philosopher, you confute me at all
points.”

“Am I not right, though?”

“Yes; you are always right, at least in my opinion.”

“I shall sing in the Opera of Somnambula to-morrow night; will you be
there to hear me? but I forget, you will leave this evening, and of
course cannot come.”

“Yes, I go this afternoon. The time will seem tiresome and tedious until
re-united to you. If it were possible, I would excuse myself from this
journey: it must absolutely be performed, and I must tear myself away
from you and happiness for the present.”

“And I shall feel lonely, too, until your return: it is so new, so
strange and delightful to be loved, I hardly can realize its truth.”

“I trust many bright years to come, we shall experience its happiness,
and time will convince you of its reality.”

After he was gone, I hastened to Blanche, to confide my secret to her—for
a woman must have a confidant of some sort. I found her sitting musingly
at an open window, her fair face pillowed on her hand. She listened with
kindness and interest to my relation of Monsieur de Serval’s sudden and
unexpected offer, and appeared gratified at the seeming good fortune
which awaited me, when I asked her if she thought him an honorable man
and serious in his intentions. She replied:

“It is difficult to tell, my dear Genevra, who is _really_ honorable and
who is not, for many possess the outward semblance to perfection, without
the quality; but that he wishes and intends to marry you, I question
not. What object could he have in formally proposing and making these
presents, if he did not intend it? The first time I saw him in your
society, I discovered that he loved you. It is a fortunate event which
enables you, thus early in your professional career, to marry, and leave
this disagreeable business.”

“Don’t you wish to marry and leave it also, dear Blanche?”

“I don’t know what I wish, my dear: I wish I was dead sometimes,” sighed
my friend.

“Come, cheer up, dearest,” said I, kissing her; “don’t give way to
melancholy. You who are so young, so admired and beautiful,—what have you
to grieve about? Let me persuade you to be gay: you know we are to sing
together to-morrow; is your costume ready?”

“Oh, yes! I always have everything prepared in advance.”

“What can I do to amuse you? Oh, Blanche!” I exclaimed, a thought
suddenly striking me, “there is an old fortune-telling witch living out
on the Posillippo road, let us take a walk out there this evening and
hear our destiny; it will be at least amusing, if not instructive. Will
you go with me?”

“Yes, certainly, if it will oblige you; but I have no faith in
fortune-tellers.”

She quickly dressed, and we set out. After ascending the steep hill of
the Castle of San Elmo, we took the shady road—bordered on each side by
linden trees—which led to the pretty village of Posillippo. I had been
told that old Acte inhabited, sybil-like, a cavern in the rock of a steep
hill, about half way to the village. We examined all the rocks as we went
along; but no traces of fairies’ haunts, or witches’ caverns did we see.
After walking on some distance, we reached the brow of a rising hill,
and as I gazed staringly up its steep sides, endeavoring to discover the
celebrated abode of the prophetess, I saw a deep cavity in the rock—the
opening half overgrown with ivy and wild flowers; a small foot-path
wound up to it amid the grass. It had a wild, mysterious appearance, and
conjecturing that must be the place, we ascended to it.

“Dear Genevra!” cried Blanche, tremblingly, as I stooped at the small
aperture on entering, “pray be careful. Are you sure this is old woman’s
abode? you may be mistaken;—this may be a wild beast’s den.”

“This is the place, I know, from description. Don’t be afraid: give me
your hand; I will assist you in.” Grasping my hand from fear, Blanche was
dragged by me through the opening. When fairly through, we rose upright
upon our feet, and looked at our localities.

We stood in a large chamber, excavated from the solid rock;—no light of
day penetrated this haunted dungeon home; but in the far corner, opposite
me, an immense chimney and fire-place illumined with a blaze of fire
light the singular apartment; and, sitting before the fire, her back
toward us, was a strange form crouching on the floor of the cavern: its
gray hair was matted, and hung straggling down its back,—and it wore a
long black garment, something like the gown of a priest; every instant
one of its thin, skeleton-like hands, or rather claws, was projected
from its lap, depositing something (I could not tell what) in a large
vessel hanging over the flame,—so gathered up and misshapen was the
form, I could not distinguish whether it was man, woman, or beast;—the
appearance of the place, and this _outré_ figure, forcibly reminded me of
my childhood, and the old woman I called Granny. Blanche had turned pale
as a ghost from fear, and I regretted having come.

The figure did not at first perceive us; and we had stood some minutes
unobserved spectators of its singular operations, when, pausing, it
turned its head, and I beheld a human face,—but so wild, so wizard-like,
it scarcely resembled a woman’s countenance. She rose to her feet, and
confronted us. She was tall in stature, and the long, straight robe
added to her height. She regarded us with a piercing glance, and then
beckoned our approach.

“Be seated,” said she, pointing to two stools near her; “you have come to
consult me. I knew I should have visiters this evening; the signs said
it.”

“We had some difficulty in finding you,” I observed; “your home is so
secluded.”

“So much the better,—it keeps fools from troubling me,” was the sharp
reply. As she spoke, she stepped toward a dark corner of the cave, and
after stooping, and apparently feeling about a moment, came back with a
bottle, filled with water, in her hand. She resumed her position on the
floor before the fire, and then abruptly demanded,—

“Which will learn their fate first?”

“Blanche, do you.”

“Oh, no, dear; let her tell you first, and then I will try,” answered
Blanche, falteringly.

“Well, then, good mother, tell mine.”

She turned the bottle of water slowly head downwards; then raising it,
apparently contemplating something she saw in the liquid, shook her head,
and said,—

“A short lived happiness; then clouds, darkness, and sadness await you;
yet out of this sadness shall come a lasting, quiet joy; durable, because
it shall be based on proper feelings; and love shall crown all, in future
years.”

“But, mother, your words are mysterious, incomprehensible to me. Pray
tell me in plain language what awaits me. I cannot understand your
symbols.”

“I have said all I can say; recollect my words,—their meaning will be
clear as sunlight, when they shall be verified in times to come. Now
you,” to Blanche. Again the bottle was reversed, and she pored over its
hidden meaning.

“A short but bright career; an ill-fated love; a sudden and violent
death, and a solitary grave;—this your fate,” and she glared at Blanche
with those wild eyes.

I noticed the sudden start of surprise, and glowing blush which
overspread the face of my friend at these words. Had she in secret
conceived an “ill-fated love?” or was it the unexpectedness of the
prophecy caused that start?

“Is my destiny then so sad;—is there nothing brighter in store for
me;—are none of my fair visions to be realized?” said she, pensively.

I placed but little reliance on what she said, considering it the
mummery and trick of her trade; but Blanche, although she had expressed
incredulity on the subject of fortune-telling, for the moment seemed
saddened by the prophecy. Wishing to divert her mind from the subject, I
began talking to the old woman.

“Have you lived here long, mother?”

“Eighteen summers have been and gone since I first came here.”

“You have seen, then, many changes in the city during that time.”

“Yes, many have been born, and many have died since eighteen years ago.”

“And do you like to live in this old damp cavern? could you not find a
better home?”

“No; I desire no better home than a cave among the rocks nature made, and
it is not for me or any other mortal to disdain her works. I have been as
happy here as I should have been in a fine house.”

“Have you many visiters?”

“Not as many as I used to have. I am growing old and dull, and those who
have their fortunes told generally go for amusement and ridicule; and now
that age and disease have made me severe and grave, they seek others who
can entertain them better.”

I was about to propose other questions, but observing that Blanche had
gone to the entrance, and was beckoning me, I placed a gold piece in the
woman’s hand, and joined her. Acte followed me to the door of the rock.

“I shall see you again, I feel I shall. At some future day you will find
me a true prophet, although now you disbelieve my words. Farewell to both
of you.”

We descended the hill whence we came; Blanche thoughtful and depressed,
and I somewhat influenced by Acte’s mysterious predictions. The shadows
of evening gathered round us as we entered the fashionable street,
Toledo, now thronged with the beauty and fashion of Naples, enjoying
their daily rides, drives, and promenades, along the beautiful shores of
the bay.

As we walked along the street toward our own home, ourselves observing
and observed, an elegant English phæton, driven by a footman, in blue
and orange, and occupied by a young man, lovely as an angel, indolently
lolling against its cushions, came gliding by. As it passed us, the
gentleman stared long at Blanche, and then bowed; her face flushed to
crimson, as she returned the salutation. I noticed also he leaned out of
the carriage, and looked after her.

“What a splendid looking man,” I involuntarily exclaimed; “who is he?”

“The Lord of Glenfells; a Scottish nobleman. I saw him at Munich,”
answered she, hesitatingly.

“Are you well acquainted with him?”

“Yes, he has visited me.”

“Oh, is he not handsome!”

“Yes, very; I always thought him fine looking.”

Blanche evidently did not wish to speak further about him; and with that
strange intuition with which woman divines woman, I surmised that it was
from something of a secret partiality.

Madame Bonni was waiting tea when we reached home.

“My two nightingales, where have you been to? I have been waiting an
hour for you; and the French manager has called to see you. He stayed
sometime, but finding you did not come, went away, saying he should call
in the morning. He has something particular to say to you.”

“We have been taking a long walk toward Posillippo and Virgil’s tomb,
which detained us longer than we had intended,” said I, not wishing to
tell her our real adventure.

“Ah! have you? Did you go within it?—is it not an interesting sight?”

“No, we did not extend our walk so far as to reach it; but some day,
soon, I intend visiting it for that purpose.”

My thoughts reverted to Monsieur de Serval, and wondering and wishing he
were back again with me, I spent the evening in my room, leaving Blanche
to entertain our kind hostess.

When alone, I always thought of my lover, as lovers generally do, I
believe. I admired and loved him, but this love was so sudden, so
incomprehensible;—men seldom court women on the instant of acquaintance,
propose and marry them, especially actresses. Then I recalled what
Madame Bonni and rumor had said of his character; his extravagance and
bad conduct: but then had he not frankly, and with sincere contrition,
admitted his faults, and promised amendment in future? What could be
sadder, more touching than that history itself? related so charmingly,
in his graceful way. His childhood had been soured by a bold, bad woman,
and subsequently thrown upon the sea of life, like a bark without a pilot
or rudder to steer it. Temptations, in their most attractive forms, had
beset him, and he had done only as other men would have done, not even
as bad as that. Much allowance should be made for his youth and beauty,
and lonely position in life. But my excuses for my lover were endless. I
cannot follow them all. When love amounts to infatuation, it is useless
to reason; and it was foolish for me to attempt it. I wished he were with
me;—I counted the hours and days as they passed.

The other gentlemen who visited me, no longer pleased me. I did not want
to see them;—their society only bored me. I usually deserted the parlor,
leaving Blanche to do the honors, while I nursed my reveries alone; and
she, so gentle and amiable, was willing to do anything to oblige another,
and always anticipated and gratified my wishes,—even my strangest whims.

The next morning after our visit to Acte, we were summoned to the
parlor to see the manager. We found that worthy individual intently
engaged in self-admiration of his own person, reflected in one of the
long mirrors. He started on perceiving that _we_ had discovered _him_
in this interesting employment, which might seem to indicate, perhaps,
some slight vanity, (a foolish quality, however, never possessed by the
sterner and wiser sex!) Advancing toward us on tip-toe, he smilingly paid
the salutations of the day, and then said:

“Mesdemoiselles, the object of my visit is to inform you, that a new
opera has been written by a distinguished musician of this city, and I
wish to secure your services for its representation. I wish to produce
it within a fortnight; new scenery and costumes have been added to the
Opera house, and everything which can add to the splendor of effect, I
intend shall be done; may I hope to have the co-operation of the two
nightingales?” he bowed and chasseed before us.

“What is the name of the new opera, Monsieur?” I inquired.

“It is called Ajesha, or the Maid of Kars, a magnificent production of
genius; the plot is romantic and beautiful, the music divine; some of the
songs are exquisite. Stay, I will sing you one of the men’s, that you may
form something of an opinion about it.”

He seated himself at the piano and sang a spirited, sweet thing,
beginning with, ‘My home is on the storm-bound deep.’ We listened
intently, and admired it.

“That is one of the gems of the opera, and there are many others equally
beautiful; some of the women’s songs are exquisite, and you, fair ladies,
I know will do them justice. I wish to bring it out within two weeks. In
the course of that time the royal family return to the city, and will
grace the theatre with their presence; may I consider your services
engaged, Mesdemoiselles?”

“Blanche is free to decide for herself, Monsieur,” I replied; “but for
me, my guardian must decide.”

“Ah, yes, but Belmont of course will be perfectly willing. I shall see
him this morning and ask him, but you Mademoiselle Ricorsi, you are
independent and can choose for yourself,—will you be the Ajesha?”

“I have never yet played in Naples; you know my terms, monsieur; are you
willing to pay me what I have been in the habit of receiving at Munich?”

“Of course, Mademoiselle, your price is my price.”

“Then I shall be happy to sing, monsieur.”

“All is agreed then, and I shall be happy to see you at rehearsal to
morrow, ladies, when we will run through the opera, and cast your parts,”
and the polite Frenchman bowed himself out of our presence.

I omit the rehearsals, the confusion of preparation, and getting ready
the costumes for the occasion, and pass to the night when this beautiful
opera was produced for the first time on the Neapolitan boards.

It was a tragedy; the plot is a singular one: Ajesha, the Maid of Kars,
is a Circassian, as her name denotes; she is sold into slavery from her
native land, and carried to the town of Kars, where she becomes the
property of a Turkish Emir; he loves her intensely, and of course is most
intensely jealous. She, a beautiful, spiritual creature, does not love
this illiterate Turk, distinguished for nothing, but his immense wealth
and brutality.

A noble and handsome Englishman is taken prisoner by this Turkish
commander, the English and Turks then being at war; he is imprisoned in
a house opposite the harem of Ajesha; news of his youth and beauty is
brought to the lady; he becomes ill from the severity of his treatment,
and Ajesha, in the disguise of a page, visits, and nurses him. The
consequence is, they conceive a mutual and desperate love for each other.

At first their meetings are undetected by the jealous Mussulman, but
Ajesha dreading future discovery, appoints the cemetery, the city of the
silent, as their rendezvous. A treacherous slave betrays her confidence
to the Emir; he surprises them one evening, and stabs her in the arms of
her lover; then attempting to punish the Englishman, he himself is killed
by the enraged lover, and dies by the side of his fair slave.

This is the outline, as well as I remember it, of one of the most
exquisite things I ever saw performed. The character of Nina I was cast
for, voluntarily resigning the principal character in favor of my friend;
and oh, how beautiful, beyond the power of description, did she look the
night she played it.

She first makes her appearance in the Circassian costume, when she is
sold from the home of infancy, and carried to a strange land; and the
dress Blanche wore, was of white silk, ornamented with gold lama lace; a
turban of tissue, spangled with gold stars, surmounted her flaxen curls
waving on her shoulders; the graceful trousers gathered into a gold
bandelette at the ancle, exposed fully to view her tiny feet, encased in
their little Circassian slippers. The affectionate, sad farewell to her
parents and young acquaintances, and the song she sings, ‘My native land,
farewell,’ shook the house with applause. Every one had heard of, but
none had yet seen the Munich nightingale; curiosity had been on the alert
for some time, to witness our combined appearance, and glancing out from
the side scenes I observed the royal box occupied, and the queen leaning
forward with an air of rapt attention.

I personated the friend and companion of Ajesha. Nina accompanies her
into captivity, but is finally redeemed by her friends, and returns
home. The music of the farewell scene between Ajesha and Nina, was very
sweet; when they bid each other adieu, and sing, ‘We have been friends
together in sunlight and in tears;’ and we mutually felt indeed we had
been friends together. The queen enthusiastically applauded, clapping
her hands like a girl; and bouquets were promiscuously showered upon us
from all parts of the house: two wreaths were cast at our feet by the
king and queen. The coincidence struck me, it was on a similar occasion,
the night of my debut in that theatre, that the wreath had been thrown
me; not by royalty, but by one whose gemmed, singular face had strangely
haunted me since, and as we both uplifted our eyes to the royal box, who
should I see gazing on me behind their majesties, but the same face, the
same large liquid eyes that had magnetised mine two months before. My
astonishment was so great, I could scarcely recollect myself enough to
step backward as the heavy drop curtain fell.

Who could that man be accompanying the royal family? and apparently on
familiar terms with them. I could not doubt it was the very same one, the
donor of the diamonded wreath, those beautiful flowers I had preserved
for so many days with so much care, who seemed to regard me with an air
of so much interest.

I had no time for reflection, Monsieur Belmont hurried us to our
dressing-rooms, to dress for the palace scene, when Ajesha and Nina are
first presented to the Emir.

I could not help mentally contrasting the absurd difference between
the acting on the stage, and the motley confusion behind the scenes;
the heaps of stage furniture, costume, old scenery, the scene shifters
running hither and thither, black mutes, soldiers, noblemen, the women of
the harem, in the most charming stage of negligee, nearly approaching to
that of genuine nature, and above all other tones, I heard those of the
worthy manager, who was directing the men how to arrange the grand salon
de reception, into which we were to be carried in close litters.

“Here,” shouted he, “make haste; what are you all about? where’s the dias
for the salon? place it here, spread out the carpet; now, is that done?
arrange yourselves in a row behind the throne, to the guards; light the
lamps; get the instruments of music.”

I entered the little room, where I dressed amid his reiterated
injunctions and commands to the assembled court.

What an empty show, thought I, as I hastily attired myself in the rose
colored satin petticoat, and black velvet boddice, and placed a waving
plume of white feathers in my hair.

The Count Godolpho, an old _roué_ and _habitué_ of the “scenes” for years
back, stopped me with a fine compliment, as I was getting into the veiled
litter by the side of Blanche.

“What! Mademoiselle Sfonza, is it you? fair as a star-lit nymph of
air!” This was a poetical fancy of his own: I never met with the like
expression in print. “Our pet child of song, stay a moment, let me look
at you.”

“I cannot now, Marquis, indeed, see they wait our entry.”

“Where then can I see you, wilful fay? one never gets a sight of you
except at the play: then only for an instant, and you are gone; where do
you live?”

“On earth now, in heaven I hope some day,” I smartly answered,—making
a faint attempt at wit, to rid myself of this worn out old coxcomb, as
I had no wish or intention to receive his visits; and the black mutes
raising the litter, we were borne past him on the stage.

Although conscious it was a mere show, still in the last act, the death
scene of Ajesha and her lover, the touching pathos of Blanche’s acting,
her dreamy, etherial tones, melted me to tears; and I almost cheated
myself into the delusion that it was reality. Her death song, ‘Beloved, I
die,’ seemed indeed like the last breathings of a dying spirit, and oh,
merciful heaven, was it not prophetic of her future fate?

When the curtain fell on the last act, we were loudly called for, and our
teacher, proudly elated at this great triumph, led us before the curtain,
where we made our curtesies, kissed hands to the audience and passed off.

The morning papers were filled with praises of our performance, and the
plot, music, and libretto of the new opera. I laughed myself to sleep
that night when I thought of the discomfiture of the count, and his
absurd manner; then again, unconsciously and mysteriously, my thoughts
reverted to the gentleman I had seen in the royal box—you will think,
perhaps, I did not love my affianced lover, since my attention and
thoughts could be so easily distracted to another, but in truth I did;
I loved him with my whole soul; every wish, every thought was his; this
interest in a stranger, a casual spectator of my performance, was not
love, nor curiosity; it was a prophetic, a magnetic attraction, a feeling
that seemed to tell that in future—but no matter, I will no longer
digress; let me strictly adhere to the tenor of my tale.

Blanche had long before fully compensated monsieur for his care of her
childhood, and presented him beside with a handsome sum of money. Her
industry had accumulated quite a small fortune, within the four years she
had been performing for herself; the receipts of our joint acting each
night were enormous, and Monsieur Belmont had no reason to regret his
patronage of the Viennese beggar girl.

He often said, himself, that we three poor girls had gained him more
money and celebrity than any pupils he ever had. As I said in the
beginning of my memoir, there is always a _motive_ in these apparently
beneficent actions. His motive was to feed, clothe, and educate us
brilliantly for the stage; for this purpose it was much better to select
girls from the lowest walks of life, friendless, uncared-for ones,
unprotected and unprovided for, over whom he could have absolute control.
True, he had saved us from starvation, but then he had realized a fortune
from our exertions, and I was anxious to absolve myself from my debt of
gratitude and obligation, and become mistress of my own actions, which
every sensible rational being desires and ought to be.

My teacher knew nothing of my secret engagement. I had not told him, and
wondered, when told, what he would say and think of it. Of course he
would be astonished at its suddenness, and, in a worldly point of view,
at the condescension of Monsieur de Serval. I did not even know that
he would give his consent, as he had a right to command my services. I
trusted, however, to his uniform kindness to me, to arrange that matter.
I felt sure he would not force me to do any thing I did not wish to do;
that he would allow me to discontinue my theatrical career if I felt so
inclined.

We were visited daily by many of the fashionable men of Naples; we were
escorted to and from the theatre by numerous beaux, and the gay cavaliers
vied with each other in their attentions; yet the compliments, the
civilities paid to actresses, are of a different tone to those rendered
to ladies of private life. There is a tone to all expression, a gradation
to every human feeling; there is an imperceptible something in expression
which we can feel but cannot describe; and it was this something that I
felt, but could not describe, when I regarded the opposite of attentions
to a lady of rank, and compliments to an actress.

I endeavored to console myself for all regrets in philosophy, but
sometimes _feeling_ triumphed over even that, stoical as I thought
myself. Sometimes attributing every thing to fate, sometimes believing in
chance, I surrendered myself to the current of life’s troublous stream,
and blindly glided on.

Among other visiters to the house, there came the beautiful Lord of
Glenfells. I say beautiful, because handsome, manly, fine-looking, are
not terms to express his ideal, his exquisite, shadowy, captivating
loveliness. He often visited Blanche. I never obtruded on their
interviews; and, save the ordinary civilities of etiquette, never had any
acquaintance with him; yet, though I saw him frequently, the impression
of his personal attractions ever seemed new to me. I know not if he were
intelligent or otherwise. I once or twice spoke of him to her, but the
embarrassment and rosy blush told of interested feeling, and perceiving
she did not wish to converse about him, I ever afterwards waived the
subject.

Busy gossiping tongues, however, with which the world is filled, who make
it their business to attend to every body’s but their own, reported him
as a man of immense wealth, travelling for amusement, or pleasure, which
with the rich, and great, and fashionable, means the same thing. This was
all I gathered concerning him; yet from what I saw of him, I considered
him a man of dangerous attractions; artful, without appearing to be
so, possessing a mournful tenderness, an abandon of manner, peculiarly
attractive to a woman like Blanche. Though younger, I was superior in
perception of the realities of life. I was not so dreamy, perhaps not so
pure as she, my embodied concentration of the great, the beautiful, the
good. God bless her! Let me not dilate upon that purity, that goodness. I
feel my praise is inadequate to her merits; my commendations cannot add
to the halo of immortality that surrounds her in the Elysian shades.



CHAPTER VIII.


The three weeks’ absence of Monsieur de Serval, was occupied in
fulfilling our engagement in Ajesha, which was performed twenty nights,
and obtained great popularity for itself and glorious fame for us. Upon
the return of my lover, my comet-like career was to terminate into
marriage and retirement into private life. Blanche still adhered to her
resolution of remaining unmarried, though many good offers had been made
her; and of the opinions of Inez in that particular, we had been duly
informed by a letter from herself, describing her happiness, and pleasant
home, and husband’s love.

The prophecy of old Acte lingered in my mind and constantly haunted me,
and Blanche also seemed painfully impressed by her words. I observed
for some days before M. de Serval’s return, that she would sit for
hours—often all day—in absent thought, noticing no one, answering no
one, if spoken to. Wondering at this neglect of my kindness in her,
who had always from childhood manifested so much attachment to me, I
felt a reproach to this coolness rise to my lips; but when I glanced at
that calm, sweet face, and saw the pre-occupation of sad thought, all
anger vanished, and quietly coinciding with her wish, I left her to her
meditations.

The night before the day on which my lover returned, I sought my pillow
early; but sleep fled my eager embrace. Restlessly I tossed: I could not
rest. Madame Bonni had a library of select works fitted up in a little
room on the ground floor; I remembered this, and wanting to amuse me
till repose should come, I arose, slipped on an opera-cloak of blue
satin, which happened to be lying near the bed, and thrusting my feet
in slippers, descended the stairs: all the household were retired. I
got my book from the library, and was about returning, when passing
the door which led into the garden, at that late hour I was surprised
to see it open. The resplendent moonlight streamed brightly through,
disclosing my favorite seat beneath the blooming Acacia and those beds
of roses so odorous, and that pretty garden looked so inviting, that I
stepped out in the moonlight and looked around. All nature was hushed to
repose,—that delightful calm which, unlike death, tells of prostrated
strength presently to be revived. As I stood upon the porch, gazing
vacantly around, voices struck my ear. Who could be there at that late
hour? I thought of robbers, and trembled with fear. A moment’s listening
re-assured me: it was a woman’s sweet tones I heard, and then those of a
man in reply.

Far down the gravel-walk, at the extreme end of the garden—by the margin
of a little fountain which had once played there, but whose source was
now neglected and obstructed by weeds and stones—I thought I perceived
two forms. Determined to ascertain who and what they were, I stole
noiselessly down the walk, to the shade of my favorite tree, which now
cast its deep shadow far down the way, and concealing myself behind the
broad trunk, peeped from around it, and beheld, to my astonishment, Lord
Glenfells and Blanche!

I saw her leaning on his full chest, her arms encircling his neck, her
little mouth united to his, her soft eyes fixed on his, and he was gazing
into hers with the same fondness—only more animal passion added to it.
Tears fell like pearly dew from her eyes, and I saw him pause, as he
spoke, and wipe them away with his small hand. I listened to hear their
voices speak again, unable to explain to myself this singular scene.

“Is not love the same? Can an empty ceremony—said over two lovers—render
more binding the greatest, best, and noblest sentiment of our nature.
Say, Blanche!—my beautiful one, my ocean pearl!—could the words of the
matrimonial service make me more constant,—make me love you more than I
now do? You, my heart’s worship, my idol! shall I not give you my whole
soul; and what more can I do? If an unhallowed, a conventional form into
which I was persuaded—forced; if that wretched link of earth binds me,
in earthly form, to another,—what matters it? Consider, love, it is the
same, so long as we are constant to our attachment: that constitutes the
perfidy. Oh! listen not to the world’s prudence—to the cold calculations
of a prudish moral. Let feeling usurp its place, and that I know will
triumph—will plead my cause. Come with me this night—now; beneath the
light of yonder bright silver. We will seek some other land, or a distant
part of this country, where your fault—if that can be called fault which
consumates my bliss—will be unknown, unheard of; and we will live in
blest harmony and love. Come, dearest; come?”

“No, no!” and her voice was choked by tears. “My love is all wrong: it is
unhallowed. You are a married man. If I fly with you, disgrace follows
me: you have a wife in England: you must forget me, and I, you. Even were
you free, would you marry me? Consider your rank, and _I_ an actress.”

“Blanche, you mean not what you say, when you tell me to forget you. Do
you really wish me to return to England to my dull wife—ten years my
senior—and the stupidity of home—a home like that? Do you really wish it?
If so,—farewell.”

He made a movement to turn away; but she clung still closer to his bosom,
and buried her head there.

“Cruel! oh, cruel! I do not want you to go.”

“Consent, then, to go with me. Come now, this moment? I will get a
carriage, and morning light shall find us far away. Decide, Blanche,
between my loss and my happiness. No answer? Blanche, are you dreaming,
love?”

“No; I was thinking of Genevra, my faithful friend. What will she think
of my conduct! How mysterious it will seem to her: how ungrateful! but I
love her,—oh, so dearly! She is the only woman who ever loved me, and I
return her feelings with usury, too. Let me at least run up to her room,
and, as she sleeps, kiss her farewell. I feel, for the last time, and
here,—while the moon shines so bright above—while I consent to forfeit,
for your sake, my good name, inviolate till this moment,—here let me
gaze upon those starry spheres, and call down upon her young head their
resplendent blessings. Oh, Heavenly Spirit! preserve her as she now
is—beautiful and pure as the lily of the valley. Preserve her from that
error of the heart which I now commit, which leads me to sin—knowing
that sin. Grant that, in some future state, our souls may meet—may hold
communion with each other, and be conscious of affinity. Holy influences
of heaven! spirit of night and air! grant my prayer.”

I saw her sink upon her knees, clasp her hands on her white neck, and
fix her eyes on the starry firmament. Thus she remained a moment, in a
breathless ecstacy of thought, when Lord Glenfells gently raised her, and
once more folded her to his bosom.

“Why this tumult of passion, dearest? What agitates you so?”

“Get a carriage: bring it round to the garden-gate: I shall soon be ready
for you. Meanwhile, let me go and kiss her good by?”

I saw her break away from his fond arms; and, quick as thought, I
retreated to my chamber, unobserved as I had come. I would not for worlds
that she should have known that I had overheard her. I got into bed
again, and closed my eyes. She passed my door, and ascended to her own
room. Her hasty steps sounded overhead for some time,—hurriedly packing
up, I suppose,—then she again descended, and paused at my door.

The lock turned, and her sylph-like form glided to my bed side. She
stooped over me—imagining I slept—and smoothed my hair beneath my cap
with her tiny hand; then she kissed my forehead, and murmured,—

“Genevra! dear Genevra! dear friend! when you awake in the morning you
will seek me, but find me not: perhaps you may miss me for a little
while,—may sometimes think of me with love and kindness: I hope so. I go
to a new life—the life of love! I go to accomplish my destiny.”

Once again she kissed me, then glided from the room. I heard her tell
Lord Glenfells to bring the carriage to the garden-gate. My room looked
on the street. I rose again from bed, and directed my steps to a little
back room, near my own, which overlooked this gate. I wanted to see her
go, though she knew not I was a witness of that departure. Her behaviour
was an enigma I could not solve, and the reasons for which ever remained
a mystery. If she was determined to become the associate of this man,
why not go to him in broad daylight: what prevented her? She was her own
mistress: no one did, or had the right to control her. She had long ago
emancipated herself from her teacher’s guardianship; what, then, was the
reason of this secret flight? I knew not then: I know not now.

I had stood watching at the window of the room for some time, when I
saw Lord Glenfells and Blanche emerge from the shadow of the porch, and
pass through the gate; he put her in the landau, saw the baggage placed
behind; seated himself by her, and, like lightning, they vanished from my
sight.

       *       *       *       *       *

The amazement of our hostess can better be imagined than described, when,
on going to her room next day, she found it unoccupied—the stage and
personal wardrobe of its fair proprietress gone also: and whither had she
taken her flight? how strange the gifted child of song should yield to
a momentary infatuation; and, listening to impulse, forgetting reason,
abandon herself to such a life: what demon possessed her?

I had expected a violent storm on the part of M. Belmont; but, to my
astonishment, he received my recital of the night’s adventure with
perfect indifference: and remarked, with imperturbable phlegm, that “it
was her own affair; she ought to know best what she was about.” I had
expected some surprise, sorrow, or at least an emotion of some sort; but
I forgot that my teacher had been hardened in the ways of the world; and
births, deaths, marriages, seductions, and every other evil thing, was a
matter of course to him. He always maintained that every sensible person
should be the best judge of their own conduct: like a true Frenchman, he
did as he pleased, and allowed every one else to do the same, unmolested,
undisturbed by criticism or advice.

After breakfast, Madame Bonni and I sat together speculating and
mystifying about Blanche’s strange behaviour: the problem, however, could
not be solved by us. It was past elucidation, and the more we talked,
the farther we got from the point—the motive of action. While we were
discussing, I was called away; my lover had returned.

I found him standing on his feet, hat in hand, facing the door, where
I entered—his face calm and happy in expression—and it warmed and
brightened when I came towards him; catching my hands in his, he pressed
them fervently, and, kissing me, asked,

“Have you missed me, darling?”

“Oh! very much, dear Rinaldo.”

“And I have been dreaming of you during my whole journey; I scarcely
had sense enough left from reverie to attend to my business, and I have
hurried back, leaving it half incomplete, to be arranged by lawyers.”

“But where is it you have been to, dearest?”

“Genoa and the frontier of Austria: an estate left me I was in danger of
losing, through the perfidy of relations; but, thank heaven! their malice
is defeated, and I am safe: now, love, come sit here by me on this sofa,
and tell me all you have been doing. I left the night Somnambula was to
be performed: tell me about it; did it succeed?”

I described the opera, and singing: its success, and subsequently the
disappearance of Blanche with Lord Glenfells, the night before.

“Gone with Lord Glenfells! what an unwise action: but who is he?”

“A gay young Englishman, travelling on the continent for amusement;
dear Blanche, who would have dreamed, after all the temptations she has
evaded, who would have thought she would have acted thus?”

“No one in truth; it is very strange: your friend appeared so gentle,
so indifferent to men’s society, and fond of solitude; of all women, I
should have thought her the very last one to commit so rash an action.”

“Blanche is one of those strange, impulsive beings, who, if you can only
thoroughly warm and interest, will go all lengths to love and please
you. Lord Glenfells has acquired a great influence over her, and she has
consented to forego respectability, society, everything for him. Oh, how
I wish she had not done so; how I regret her loss.”

“She may repent this imprudence some day, and return to propriety;
and you, do not grieve about her; summon your stoical philosophy, and
practice your favorite aphorism. Never regret that which is past.”

“Yes, I know I ought to practice my precepts: philosophy triumphs over
past and future ills, but present troubles overmaster philosophy.”

“True, love: a wise remark.”

“We were engaged to sing five nights yet, to complete our engagement; now
she is flown, I shall have to finish alone,” I observed, absently; for,
notwithstanding my joy at seeing my lover again, my thoughts reverted to
the absent Blanche.

Monsieur de Serval drew me gently toward him, as he sat upon the sofa.

“Come hither dearest, come sit close by me, your presumptive and future
lawful protector; do not look so sad; cheer up, and let us talk of
happiness and love, and delightful scenes, and conversations, all in
store for us in times to come.”

But I could not feel my usual cheerfulness, even for _his_ sake, and
after a slight conversation he went away, and I retired to my own room
and my solitude; and then I wept for Blanche’s loss, and Blanche’s shame.

Nothing is sooner dried than a tear; and, as de Serval had said, my
regrets could not restore her, could not undo her behaviour; and the
deprivation of her sweet society, made me fonder still (if that could be)
of that of Monsieur de Serval; my whole heart now exclusively centered in
him. I performed my last engagement on the Neapolitan boards, and bade
adieu to the distinguished patronage of royalty, and the humble, yet
heartfelt admiration of the people. The journals doled forth newspaper
sentiment and lamentations at the dramatic loss; and private circles
wondered at my good fortune. For myself I did not think whether it was
good fortune or not. I only knew, I only thought I loved him, and was
willing to go any where, do anything, make any sacrifice for him. I
will not describe the few weeks of courtship that intervened before my
marriage; such scenes can only be felt, be experienced, they cannot be
told; they are sad, yet sweet episodes in my memory, and though painful
to recur to, yet mentally I treasure them, for that was my _first_ love.

Signor, I married him; my wedding was simple, and celebrated with but
little display; his noble friend, the Countess Bramonti honored it with
her distinguished presence; and my guardian, teacher, and benefactor,
Monsieur Belmont, gave me away. I was united to him in the pretty church
of Sacre Cœur, where, some weeks before I had attended mass with Madame
Bonni; it was filled with spectators, every one wishing to see the new
singer married; and my kind hostess kissed me at the conclusion of the
ceremony, and wished me happiness, with tears in her eyes, and smiles on
her lips.

“May many blissful days and years be thine, fair girl,” said the countess
in her deep tones, as she swept her majestic form toward me, and clasped
me in her arms; “may you love each other, and in that love be happy.”

Monsieur Belmont conducted me to the carriage, which was to bear me
away to my future home, in a valley, amid the cloud-capt Appenines.
Immediately on arrival there, I promised to write to him, and regularly
maintain a correspondence. My husband, (how strange the word sounded
to my ears,) joined me, and I was whirled away from the scene of my
short-lived, yet brilliant triumphs.

Our journey to his mountain home occupied two days; and during the time
my husband exhibited a frenzy of emotion, which terrified more than it
pleased me. But the ways and loves of men were then Isiac mysteries
to me, and you know their translation of the word love, is rendered
differently to ours.

On the evening of the second day of our travel, he told me we were
approaching the “Chateau of the Ravine,” for that was the traditionary
name of the castle. The scenery was sublime, and lost in contemplation
and thought, reposing my head on his shoulder, I silently admired it.

Stupendous rocks, rising perpendicularly in the air, to an immense
height, faced the smooth road on either side for some distance; as these
declined away, a broad vista of the dark blue mountains far in distance,
and a beautiful level plain, such as I had seen when first I came to
Naples, met my gaze. Like a panorama these swiftly disappeared, and we
entered on a broken chain of the Appenines themselves; the carriage
slowly wound round and round the upward ascent of the rocky pass, barely
wide enough to allow the vehicle room to roll along; then we descended
as rapidly as we had come up, and thus continued on for some miles, when
the ridge of mountains suddenly terminated, and I looked down from the
great height on which we stood, and beheld at my feet the ravine, and in
the midst of it, presenting an imposing appearance of grandeur and decay,
the chateau. It had been built, my husband said, in the ancient times of
feudal splendor, but its successive possessors, either for want of means
or inclination, had suffered it to moulder away, as time, year after
year, diminished its magnificence. He said he intended refitting it, and
renovating the antique style, and I was pleased to hear the promise that
so fine a structure should be rescued from decay.

A few minutes brought us to the gates, which were thrown wide open to
receive us, and the carriage rumbled into the great court-yard. M. de
Serval alighted, lifted me out, and leaning on his arm, I ascended a
marble staircase, and entered a pretty salon, tastefully furnished, where
I sat down, quite wearied by fatigue. He left the room for a moment, to
order lights and supper to be prepared, for twilight was stealing over
us, and leaning back on the couch, I languidly closed my eyes, and was
almost dropt asleep, when a heavy footstep startled me; looking up, I saw
standing before me, and fixedly looking at me, an old woman; there was
nothing strange in the simple fact of her being old, for old women are
plentiful as stars; but this one was peculiarly singular in appearance;
she wore a scarlet woollen petticoat, black stockings, and a little cap
of green; her long, thick, and coarse black hair, fell below her waist in
tangled braids; her eyes were piercing in expression, and they seemed to
sparkle and glance fire as she fixedly stared at me. She appeared to be
beating time to her own thoughts, for she repeatedly struck her breast
with her right hand. Perceiving that I saw her, she curtesied, and in a
lofty tone said,

“Welcome to your home, fair mistress; welcome to the ‘Chateau of the
Ravine.’

“Do you belong to the household of Monsieur de Serval?” I asked,
strangely impressed by her manner and appearance.

“Yes, madame: I came here a long time ago, in the service of the first
lady.”

“The first lady! who was she?”

“You know, madame, of course, the Lady Isodore, Monsieur’s—”

Abruptly she paused; and, turning, I saw my husband’s stern gaze fastened
on her: she cowered beneath that look; and well she might, for even I
could not have met it unabashed.

“Pasiphae, you can go; your young mistress is tired; she needs repose
after her long travel.”

Silently she retreated.

“Who is that old woman, dearest? her strange ways surprised me.”

“An old domestic I have retained in my service, though almost useless;
come Genevra, your chamber is prepared, and supper arranged in the
banqueting hall.”

Thither we went: the apartment was magnificent, and one of the tables set
with dainties that might have delighted an epicure; the lamps, shrined
in vases of alabaster, shed a sweet, soft light; the hush of stillness
and repose reigned within and without; and, more than all, my husband’s
accents of tenderness, and the tumult of love that had usurped the place
of gentler emotions in my breast, have impressed that scene in indelible
traits on my memory.

After supper we returned to the salon, and entertained ourselves, till
the clock struck the hour for retiring, with a conversation in which
_words_ had all to do, not thoughts: _they_ were differently employed.

Then, at ten o’clock, we retired to our bedchamber; the same old woman
stood at the door of the room as I entered: an ominous smile sat on her
lips; she opened her mouth, as if to speak; but, perceiving my husband
close behind me, she went away without expressing the thoughts which
seemed to tremble on the point of utterance.

Then, when the door closed behind us, suffocated with joy, we fell into
each other’s arms—let me draw a veil over that night, and pass to other
scenes.

       *       *       *       *       *

I wish I could make you realize the ecstatic rhapsody in those first days
of wedded love: such emotions as I experienced one can only experience
once in a lifetime: for the novelty wears away; they also disappear.
I wish I could make you feel as I felt, as we roved together, like
children, hand in hand, through those flowery glades, and through the
blooming gardens of this old castle—sometimes reading, sometimes talking,
always loving, and picturing a continued increase of happiness, and
everlasting bliss.

Alas! poor frail human nature! Poor frail, inconstant mortals! What a
strange mockery does it not seem to our own hearts to look back after
years have changed these delusions of fancy, and stripped them of their
false lustre; what a mockery does it not seem to think over what we once
thought—and see the folly of dreaming of affections unaltered, and hearts
that never could grow cold?

Old Pasiphae was my attendant. I preferred her to another, a younger
girl, who had come to the castle to engage in my service. She was a
very odd woman, and strongly infected with the popular superstitions of
that section of the country. She was avoided by the other domestics as
a half lunatic: for low, ignorant, or vulgar minds, always attribute
eccentricity of mind or manner to mental perturbation; and, surely, the
wise have every inducement to become insane, if they pay attention or
depend for happiness on the stupid fools of which the greater portion of
mankind are composed.

The chateau was built with two wings each side of the main building: the
right wing was always closed, bolted and barred. I had been married two
months, when curiosity induced me, one day, to ask Monsieur de Serval
the reason why that part of the mansion was unopened, unoccupied, and
neglected. He answered carelessly, that the castle was so large, he had
not thought it necessary to refit that side of it;—it was more decayed
than the rest. This reply satisfied me for the moment, but woman’s
curiosity was on the alert, and I wished, I scarce know why, to see the
interior of that gloomy side of the chateau.

Six months had glided swiftly on since my marriage. Oh, days of hope! oh,
hours of happiness! with what mournful pleasure do I retrace your flight!
and with what lingering sadness detail the strange contrast which time
developed all too quickly to my wondering eyes!

I had heard several times from my worthy teacher. No tidings had reached
him of Blanche. He had heard nothing; knew not if she were dead or alive.
This distressed me, even amid my own joy. Madame Bonni was well, and
often sent her love; and the theatrical world, they said, still mourned
my irreparable loss;—the journals still dwelt upon my merits.

It was at this moment of time that Rinaldo left me for three days, for
a hunting party, to come off some fifty miles from the castle. He bade
me farewell with great tenderness, and departed. This was a favorable
opportunity, I thought, for the execution of my long-cherished project of
gaining admission to the closed and, I imagined, haunted rooms. The key
my husband always kept locked up in a small casket, and I knew where the
key of that was to be found.

Having unlocked the casket and obtained the key, I took a lamp from my
dressing table, and directed my steps to that quarter of the house. The
quivering flame was often nearly extinguished by gusts of wind, and the
shaking of the great oriel windows reminded me of the tread of ghosts.
My feet often faltered from fear; but I continued on, and reached the
great door in the centre of the long gallery, which gave admission to the
interdicted apartments.

When I inserted the key in the lock, and unlocked the door which gave
entrance to these deserted rooms, my heart quite failed me, and I
regretted my curiosity. What was there to see about old unfurnished,
desolate apartments? How foolish of me to pry into nothing! Yet an
impulse I could not overcome bade me go onward; and accordingly I pushed
open the door, which opened harshly. I went in; the first room was a
large anti-chamber, like that on the other side of the house, naked and
lonely. Crossing this, I opened another door, which led, as I supposed,
into a similar apartment, when, to my utter amazement, I beheld what
struck me dumb with astonishment.

The salon in which I stood was well furnished. A Grecian couch occupied
one corner; books, and toys, and instruments of music were scattered
round, and reclining on this couch lay a woman of handsome form, but
wild, haggard features, and insane expression; and on a low stool at her
feet sat Pasiphae, my attendant.

Hearing the door open, she glanced around, and seeing me, shrieked, and
covered her face with her hands:

“Gracious heavens! madame, how came you here? what brought you to these
fated rooms?”

“What does this mean? speak, I command you! Who is this woman?—what are
you doing here?”

“Ah, madame, why did you come here? Alas! alas! how unhappy; how
unfortunate,” was the only reply she made, as she rocked herself to and
fro.

“Tell me! tell me quickly,” I cried, seized with a horrible suspicion of
the truth. At this the strange woman raised herself to a sitting posture,
and regarding me with a countenance of melancholy wildness, said,
clasping her hands together as she spoke:

“Oh, ask him, won’t you, to take me out of this;—I will be good, indeed I
will: I never will come near him, if he don’t want to see me, if he will
only take me away. Oh, do ask him: pray do?”

I went toward her mechanically, so stunned and stupid was I with
astonishment. I sat down beside, and more closely observed the poor
lunatic. I could plainly see fine traits in that blurred face; traces
of mind, now scarred and erased, like a blotted crimpled page. Love,
jealousy, humanity, and disgust, all told me that in this unhappy one I
saw my husband’s victim. What could he mean by shutting her up there?
Old Pasiphae still sat with her head bowed between her hands, and she
momently exclaimed,—“What will master say? oh, how he will curse me!”

“No, no, Pasiphae; you shall not be blamed. Monsieur de Serval shall
never know of my visit here. Get up, and tell me what this strange scene
means.”

The maniac stared at me with her great black eyes, and then continued on
in her sad tones. “No, no ball to-night; I cannot dance: he is coming
for you to-morrow,—I cannot dance when I expect him; take away the
dress; send away the carriage; I am going to sleep to dream of him,”
and languidly closing her eyes, she sunk back on the couch, and lay
perfectly still. Thinking the poor creature had fainted, I uttered an
expression of fear, when Pasiphae, motioning me to silence, bent over her
watchfully. Presently the sound of her regular breathing assured the old
domestic that she slept. Smoothing back from her forehead the tangled
masses of her hair, and covering the thin form with a large shawl,
Pasiphae composed her delicate hands upon her breast, and then rising,
took my hand in hers, and said mournfully:

“Come, dear lady, this can be no pleasant sight for you;—if you will
return to your own room, I will tell you all. I have been on the point of
doing so several times, but fear of master’s anger prevented me; and I am
old and broken down, and were he to discharge me, might suffer and die
from want. Come, lady, ere she awakes. Poor thing; she will soon be dead
and far away. She has been very troublesome of late,—I could scarcely
manage her; but now she sleeps quietly—the first time in many days.”

I silently contemplated the fitful repose of the madwoman for a moment
before going, and in that instant I saw the whole fabric of delusive
happiness I had erected on unstable air, shattered to the earth. I
gazed on the neglected, cast-off victim of my lord’s caprice, in whose
emaciated form and desert mind I saw the records of long mental and
bodily suffering.

Pasiphae interrupted my reverie by twitching my robe; and, after she had
arranged the light on the antique mantel-piece, and adjusted her window
drapery, taking my lamp in her hand, we left the salon, locking the door
upon her insane ward.

The outer door of the anti-chamber she also locked; and, satisfied
that if awaking she could not follow us, I returned to my chamber,
and overwhelmed with sickness of the soul, threw myself despairingly
into a chair, and burying my face in my hands wept bitterly. I felt
disappointed—heartbroken;—disappointed that the man in whom I had
centred all my hopes, should so utterly have ruined them;—heartbroken at
the melancholy sight I had seen. Sobbing like a child I sat and wept,
forgetful of my own identity, or Pasiphae’s presence. At length my grief
in a slight degree abated, and wiping my eyes, I looked up and perceived
the poor old woman sorrowfully looking at me.

“I know, dear Lady Genevra, how sad you feel at this proof of your
husband’s infidelity; and sorry am I that you should have come to those
rooms and seen my poor charge,” said Pasiphae; and sympathy almost
rendered her voice sweet, and almost metamorphosed that weatherbeaten
face into one of youth and beauty.

“How long has she been insane?” I asked, my voice almost choked with sobs.

“This autumn coming will be two years.”

“Who was she? how came she here?”

“She was always called the Lady Isodore, that is the only name by which
I ever knew her. Four years ago master brought her here one night in a
fine carriage, and commanded us to treat her the same as if she were our
lawful lady: we always did so, and she ruled the household: master seemed
very fond of her; and, although he never took her travelling with him,
and no one visited her, yet her great love for him appeared to supply
the place of all other society. Two years after she came, he seemed to
grow tired of her, and they often had furious quarrels; one night, in a
difficulty of this sort, forgetting himself, he struck her violently with
the butt end of a pistol he held in his hand; she fell upon the floor,
and when revived, from that hour was mad. In vain did my unhappy master
use every endeavor to restore her: reason had fled—never to return. Since
then she has been sometimes wild and gay, sometimes sad—as this evening
you saw her. Master, at first, was nearly mad himself with remorse and
despair; but, after a while, he recovered from his grief; and, having
fixed those rooms up for her, consigned her to my care, and no longer
troubled himself about her. From habit I have acquired great influence
over her; and even in her wildest moods she will obey me. I think, dear
lady, that crime will always meet its just reward, even here on earth;
and when I look at master sometimes, I think within myself, ‘the hour of
retribution for thy sin will surely come some day.’”

“When he came down to the castle some months ago, and told me to have
it cleaned and fitted up for the reception of its future lady, I could
scarcely credit my ears; and wondered who would marry, and risk her
happiness, with a man like him: and when he brought you here, and I saw
how beautiful and innocent you were, I trembled for the future. I never
intended to tell you this; and master trusted to my fidelity to him,
that you should never discover the secret of the uninhabited wing of the
castle. You are not more grieved than I that chance or curiosity should
have directed you there; your trust in monsieur I know is broken; but,
dear lady, I feel it my duty to tell you, that you lean upon a broken
stick if you depend on him for faith.”

“Hush! Pasiphae; oh! be still; don’t say any thing against him: how
miserable I feel! I cannot believe that my Rinaldo can be so depraved;
that he, whom I trusted to reform, to render a better, wiser man, could
act with such brutality towards a woman.”

My soul sickened with horror at such an inhuman action; and I
soliloquized, “This was the man whose glowing description of the wrongs
and troubles of his childhood had so interested and beguiled me; this
was the man who had begged me to exert my influence to reform and purify
his heart; who had promised, were I his Mentor, to be as gentle as
Telemachus; who had entreated me to be his guardian angel, to warn him
from the evils he had committed, yet deprecated: this was the man.”

Truly, reason might have reproached me with over self-confidence, and
blind trust in the boy-god Cupid, who had so cheated me. And I had
dreamed of future years of tranquil happiness and companionship, after
the first flush of love had faded, and that profiting by past errors,
virtue hereafter should be his patroness; and this was the man on whom I
purposed working these miracles. He, who could wantonly inflict personal
violence on a woman, and then keep a senseless idiot housed like a dog in
an uninhabited part of the house. The veil which shrouded my eyes, was
being lifted off, like the mysterious veils of Isis, which conceal the
grotesque absurdity of the image adored.

Perceiving Pasiphae still standing before me, her eyes filled with
sympathetic tears, I said, “Pasiphae, my good woman, you can go; I would
rather be alone; I feel very sad; you had better return to the room; she
may awake and miss you.”

“You look very unhappy, dear lady, had I not better stay a little while
with you?”

“No, no, I prefer being alone; go.”

She departed; and then thought usurped her sway; I wished my husband
were there then, at that moment, to have told him what I thought of his
conduct; but when I reconsidered it, I saw it would do no good; for to
reproach a man with his vices, only alienates his affections, and gains
his dislike; it does not convince his understanding, for that will not
be convinced; nor better his heart, for he always thinks that could
not be bettered; and indeed, I think they are quite right, not often
being troubled with any. A roar of words is generally the only result,
and contempt and hatred the inevitable consequence. I was determined,
however, to speak of it to Monsieur de Serval on his return. Then,
distressed in mind, caring not if I died that night, I sought my pillow,
and wept till lost in the oblivion of slumber.



CHAPTER IX.


Two days afterwards, my husband returned from his hunting party, bringing
some game with him. It was now late in the fall, and the forest trees
were tinted with many and various dyes, but the charms of nature had
no charms for me then, it was all dark and desolate, like my soul.
This strange, unlooked for event in my new married life, carried back
my thoughts to the miserable days of infancy, and the lonely hours I
spent as a wandering beggar girl in the streets of Vienna; the ideas the
speculative mind of childhood then indulged in, again returned to me, and
I began to take an inverted view of everything, and to look on nature and
human beings with an abstracted gaze.

The evening of my husband’s return, I was standing on the balcony of the
castle, when he rode up to the gates, followed by his grooms; he rode
well, and his appearance was distinguished on horseback; seeing me, he
lifted his hat, and smiled, then disappeared under the gateway.

Knowing he would expect me to meet him, I slowly dragged myself to the
banqueting hall, for so entirely were my feelings toward him changed,
that now I would have avoided, where formerly I should joyfully have
sprung to his arms.

He stood surrounded by his dogs and servants, giving directions to the
grooms: saddles and housings, and game were lying about.

“My love, excuse me a moment; I will see you in your drawing-room
presently,” said Monsieur de Serval, as I came toward him. Seeing him
occupied with his retainers and servants, and glad to be alone, I went to
my salon, and sat down to my piano; I began a sweet air from one of the
operas I had formerly performed; it was Norma’s reproach to Polileo, and,
as I sang it, I felt how applicable it was to my own case. A heavy hand
was laid firmly on my shoulder, and turning, I saw Pasiphae.

“My lady, Monsieur de Serval has come back; I saw him just now in the
hall.’

“I know it, Pasiphae, I have just seen him; how is she, is she quiet?”

“No, my lady, rather wild and noisy this evening; oh, you had better not
let him know what you have discovered.”

“I shall tell him the truth; I am not afraid to speak the truth,
Pasiphae; it should at all times be spoken; no blame shall fall on you;
be quieted, you are safe.”

The sudden entrance of my husband interrupted us, as I was about
asking some question about the unhappy Isodore. At the sight of him,
notwithstanding the injury I was satisfied he had done that poor woman,
the thousand fascinating remembrances of the last six months crowded
fast upon me; and, in looking on his fair face, whatever wickedness that
face concealed, I felt I loved him still. It was a delusion, when I
imagined I could so quickly learn to hate him. In fact, the transitions
of human feelings are like the seasons of the year, so gradually do we
pass from one line of feeling to the other extreme, that we are ourselves
unconscious when the end is attained. Thus it was with me; I did finally
consummate the climax of indifference and contempt towards my husband,
but not then: I had not reached it then.

Pasiphae made a low obeisance to her stern master, and left us alone.

As usual, Rinaldo kissed me; I submitted to the caress without returning
it: noticing my coldness, a cloud gathered on his brow.

“You receive me very indifferently, Genevra, on my return from a perilous
bear hunt.”

“I feel indifferent at this moment, Rinaldo.’

“Pray, may I inquire, signora, the cause of this change?” said he, and
drew his stately figure to its full height, and regarded me searchingly.

“I can easily explain it, monsieur: I have been in the right wing of the
castle, and have seen the lunatic you keep shut up there, Lady Isodore.”

He started back, as if shot; then rage shone in his eyes, and he angrily
exclaimed,

“You have been to those deserted apartments: how dared you go there, what
took you there?”

“My feet, of course, were the mechanical operators on the occasion,
monsieur,” answered I, derisively; “but curiosity was the only motive I
had at first, till gaining access, I beheld the victim of your cruelty.”

“You, Genevra, _you_, to pry into my secret affairs: you, whom I have
taken from a disgraceful profession, and elevated in rank to any lady in
the land, to talk to me of cruelty;” and foaming with rage he tore up and
down the room like a madman.

“Would, monsieur, for my peace of mind, my happiness, that you could
undo what you consider so great an honor, and restore me to that
‘disgraceful profession,’ which I have every reason to regret having
left for the arms of a libertine; and a home that has been desecrated
by wanton violence. Yes, when the night before last I went to those
rooms, and gazed with feelings of intense pity upon that forlorn being, I
plainly beheld the life you have hitherto led, and to which you will of
course return, after the novelty of my love has worn away. Oh, little did
I think, when I pledged you my whole heart and soul at the altar, little
did I dream that my affection would be thus requited by living witnesses
of shame and horror like this.”

I felt excited to a terrible degree: the recollection of her injuries,
and my own shame, had excited me to a point I should, ordinarily, have
believed myself incapable of: with his arms folded and head depressed, my
husband contemplated me.

“If you have finished, signora, I should like to take the liberty of
speaking,” said he, ironically.

“No, I have not done; I never could find words sufficiently strong to
express my disgust and horror of such actions. Other women, perhaps,
creatures of sensual, vulgar souls, might feel jealous of the husband’s
love, forgetting the villany extended to the betrayed one; but I do not.
I blame you, not her—whoever she may have been, whatever she may have
done.”

“Will you hear me, lady?” again demanded he, in the same cool tone as
before.

“Yes, monsieur; speak on. I have expressed my thoughts: now speak yours.”

Haughtily I flung myself on a couch, and, looking him in the face,
awaited his remarks.

“The unfortunate woman you have seen,” said Monsieur de
Serval—endeavoring to compose his features and his voice to
calmness—“that unfortunate is a Spanish woman, from Madrid—her name is
Lady Isodore Dosamados—she was of a noble, but impoverished family: when
I first became her lover, I never enticed her from habits of morality;
she voluntarily became my companion. When I passed through Spain, on my
return to Italy, she attached herself to me, and I brought her here: it
was her own jealous temper, exasperating my irritable one, which brought
her to her present condition. If she chose to excite me to a quarrel, and
work upon my feelings until, losing all consciousness, I inflicted a blow
that crazed her, it was her own fault; I did not intend to harm her; but
immoral women, when enraged, are more like wild beasts than human beings:
thus it was with her. I have provided for her during her insanity, and
will continue to do so as long as her wretched life continues.”

“I do not believe all you wish to impress me with as truth, in regard to
your moderation and kindness to her,” I replied, as he paused, evidently
expecting me to say something. “I don’t believe all you say; for
Pasiphae”—I stopped abruptly, remembering my promise not to implicate her.

“What of her?” cried he, sternly.

“Nothing.”

“I know what you would say: that she has told you many delightful tales
of my cruelty, as you call it; well, let the old woman have her say:
women and children should never be contradicted; her crazy ward will
not live long; I only retain her now because she can manage her better
than any other. When Isodore dies she shall go quickly: and as for you,
signora, learn that I take neither reproof nor advice from my wife
however much I love her: and beware how you provoke my anger thus a
second time.”

He stamped out of the room, and his heavy tread re-echoed along the
corridor. Amazed at his temper, I sat still, thinking over what he had
said, and wondering if he had spoken the truth: which, in that case,
would have been some extenuation of his fault, when Pasiphae came rushing
into the room, her face expressing the greatest terror, and frantically
wringing her hands, she threw herself on her knees before me, and stared,
without speaking.

“What is the matter, Pasiphae? what has happened? what ails you?” I cried.

“Oh, terrible! my lady. When I went back to the rooms, an hour ago—when I
left you here with master—I found Lady Isodore had got out of her room.
Frightened nearly to death, I went to hunt her. It seems she had wandered
along the corridor, which is dark and gloomy in the evening, and not
seeing the great staircase, tripped over it, and fell from top to bottom,
fracturing her skull, and bruising her body dreadfully. I found her lying
senseless at the bottom of the steps, and got the men to carry her up to
bed. Oh! come with me, dear lady; come quickly? she may be dead even now.”

I needed no urging to fly through the dim galleries, to the deserted
apartments: Pasiphae following as fast as her legs would carry her.
There, stretched on her couch, apparently lifeless, her wild face cut
and gashed with wounds, blood streaming from her head, lay poor Isodore.
The physician was already in attendance, bathing the blood from her face
and head, and two or three of the household domestics, in astonishment,
beheld what they had never dreamed of before,—that the deserted wing
of the castle was tenanted by a lunatic. Her existence there, during
the period of her insanity, had always been a mystery,—known but to one
or two, who carefully guarded the secret,—and they now stood gaping in
stupid wonder.

I assisted the physician in bandaging that poor head, and applied
aromatic vinegar to her hands and nose. The esculapius eyed her with that
peculiar expression physicians bestow on those whose case they consider
hopeless. For an hour, perhaps, she lay insensible. I stood rubbing her
hands, while tears fell fast from my face on that poor distorted one.

Presently a slight shiver ran through her frame, her eyes opened
spasmodically, then closed again: she opened and shut her hands like one
in intense pain, then she groaned sorrowfully. Old Pasiphae buried her
weeping countenance in the pillows of the bed.

“Doctor,” said I, “tell me the real truth; will she recover from these
terrible wounds?”

“My dear signora, to be candid with you, I must say, judging from the
severity of the fracture on the skull, she never will. She may linger a
day or two; but I scarcely think she will survive that length of time;
the poor woman has killed herself.”

This announcement, delivered with the habitual coolness of gentlemen of
that profession, was a thunder-bolt to me.

“Going to die, do you say? Oh, heavens! how dreadful.”

After leaving a potion to be taken at a certain hour, the physician went
away, promising to call at day-break, and we were left with the sufferer
alone. Monsieur de Serval had been informed of the sad event. Pasiphae
said he made no remark, but strode past her to his room, and locked
himself in. Probably if he felt any sentiment at all, it was one of joy
at the prospect of release from his illicit tie. Oh! how selfish are men
where their pride or vanity is touched, or their vices exposed.

All night I watched beside her. She remained in a state of stupor,
manifesting no life, save by a feeble groan now and then, and sometimes
opening those great eyes, and then relapsing into lethargy.

The physician was punctual to his promise, and the gray dawn had scarce
been born ere he came. He administered something which momentarily
revived her, and in the course of the day she spoke. Oh! strange
problem,—spoke sanely! with that singular precision we frequently see
in the insane restored to mind. Her memory reverted and dated from the
fatal moment when the blow was given which shattered that fair temple of
reason.

I had not seen Rinaldo since the hour of ten, the night before, and as
he was acquainted with the sad disaster, I wondered at his indifference
to what the physician too prophetically foresaw—her death-bed. Alas!
thought I, as I leaned over her and watched the slow dawning of mental
consciousness, and the confused look and air of intense agony her face
showed,—alas! it seems to be my fate to be connected with the worthless
and unhappy. My husband, whom I thought so perfect—so repentant of former
follies and determined to amend in future—has sadly disappointed me.
The world I imagined so beautiful an Elysium, I find the abode of fair
deceit, and corrupt and rotten at the core. Oh, life! where are thy
pleasures unmingled with the alloy of pain? or is it thus in everything?
No sooner do we possess it, than we discover it to be like those lovely
apples of the shores of the Red Sea, very fair to look upon; but, when
tasted, bitter as wormwood—rotten as dust.

Pasiphae disturbed the sad tenor of my thoughts, by directing my
attention to the door, at which stood Monsieur de Serval. Thinking his
presence the indication of a better mood,—of a feeling of compassion
toward his unhappy mistress,—I sprang toward him, and, forgetting our
quarrel, caught his hand in mine. He looked melancholy; and I thought I
could trace remorse on those delicate features.

“Oh, Rinaldo!” I cried, “you see what has happened. Last night, while
the nurse was absent from the room, she left the apartment, and not
seeing the great staircase, stepped off it and fractured her skull. The
physician says she cannot survive. How terrible it is—is it not—to see
one die who has led such a life? Come close to her; she is regaining her
senses—her right mind.”

My husband started. He evidently expected to see her crazed still, and
did not want to meet face to face, with reason restored, the woman he
had brutalized; but as she lay there and looked at him, intellect shone
in those dark oriental eyes,—not the quick, sharp, wandering stare of
insanity. She recognised him, and feebly beckoned with her hands. I
gently drew him to the bed-side. She made a motion as if to be raised,
and I lifted her in my arms and laid her head on my breast. The blood
had oozed out from the bandages, and her hair was clotted with it: her
face was deadly pale, and the mists of death had already settled there;
her eyes were growing languid and dim, and hands and feet very cold.
My husband looked at her with that expression of self-consciousness of
having inflicted wrong which alone can impress the human features, ere
the heart is altogether hardened and depraved. As I have said, her
memory flew back four years before, and she thought the quarrel and the
deed had just occurred.

“Nevermind, dear Rinaldo, I forgive you. Don’t grieve, though I die from
it. I know I am high tempered; I provoked you to do it; I did not mean to
make you angry: don’t grieve. Here, Pasiphae, bandage my head; put me to
bed: when I recover I will try and be a better woman—more deserving of
your love.”

In agony I glanced at the physician; she had no idea of her real state;
she knew not that death, in a few hours, would take her for his own. The
good man eyed her with an air of interest, for this was a strange case.

He approached her, perceiving my wish; and, taking one of her hands in
his, said quietly,

“My good lady, listen to me. You are not aware of your condition at
present; you are only this moment regaining your mind; you have been
insane for several years, till last night, escaping from the room, you
fell down stairs, and that sudden concussion has been the means of
restoring your mind. It is my duty to tell you that a very few hours will
close your life; you cannot live longer than to-morrow.”

“Been insane,” repeated she, with a scornful, indignant air, “you are
dreaming, man; it was only a moment ago Rinaldo and I were quarrelling,
and, enraged, he struck me with a pistol. I am very sorry; but, oh! how
strangely my head feels: oh! how painful! what ails me? why am I lying
here surrounded by people? how dim everything looks. I cannot distinguish
anything: why is this? Get lights: I must arise and dress. I must find
Rinaldo: where is he?”

She pushed me violently away from her, and with the last effort of
strength, sprung from her bed to her feet. Seeing my husband, she threw
herself on his neck, and wildly sobbing, kissed him. It was an awful
sight, to behold that woman, already in the embraces of death, hugging
and clinging to what had once constituted her joy of existence. I felt
no jealousy, for I ever possessed this peculiar trait; the moment an
object of affection disappoints me, that moment affection and infatuation
disappear. I felt a sentiment of bitter shame and regret that I had given
myself to such a man;—that is what I experienced as I witnessed this
strange scene.

He looked annoyed,—not grieved; and once or twice tried to lay her down
on the bed, but her personal strength, to which was added additional
power by the strong excitement under which she labored, frustrated
his endeavor. Her disordered hair hung down her back; the bruised and
bandaged head, covered with blood, presented a ghastly sight. Her thin
hands, which clasped his neck, scratched and wounded; and the long night
robe she wore dabbled with blood.

“No, no, no,” she cried; “I have you; I have you: now you shall not go
till you promise to love me, and forgive me my anger.”

“Take her away, Pasiphae: rid me of the mad woman,” shouted my husband.
“Why do you stand there, stupidly inactive, when you see me thus annoyed?
Take her off my neck: put her in bed.”

At the sound of his loud vindictive voice she relapsed her hold,
staggered back, and mournfully gazing on his enraged face, shivered,
turned, if possible, more pale,—then fell flat on the floor!

“Oh, miserable man!” I exclaimed, as the nurse raised the death-stricken,
inanimate form, and laid it on the bed, while the doctor darted looks of
contempt at him. “Oh, apology for humanity! and have you no pity for the
unhappy sufferer from your vices?”

“Why did you summon me here, madam, to witness this mummery? We all must
die some day, it matters not how. Do I wish to behold the death-bed of a
lunatic? Can _I_ assist her final departure? Why have you called me?—to
anger me, I suppose.”

“Well, monsieur, if you think it too great a condescension to see her
die, go; leave the room,—I will attend the poor dying creature.”

Without replying, save by a look of scorn and anger, he departed. I could
easily understand that he felt doubly angered when he reflected (as he
must have done) that my discovery of his illicit connexion necessarily
would weaken, if not wholly obliterate, my love for him. It was this
that inspired his rage, and made him hate the unfortunate object of it.
His love for me was still unabated;—not so mine. A bar of ice seemed
placed between us. In this respect women and men differ greatly, for
though a man may indulge himself in many loves, yet he generally returns
to the lawful one. On the contrary, when a woman’s affections are
once thoroughly alienated, they seldom return to the first object of
attachment.

I cannot think of that woman’s death-bed without bitter regret, nor
write this portion of my memoir without dropping tears upon the page.
Recovering from the stupor into which she had fallen when he repulsed
her,—her eyes roved anxiously round in search of him. Not seeing him, she
closed them again, and remained motionless. An hour passed by: finding
she did not stir, I felt her hands and feet,—they were growing colder and
colder, and her eyes more dim. She was an hour nearer death.

“She will be dead before twilight, lady,” said the physician, having
felt her pulse. “Poor thing! her death is very painful; she has suffered
much.”

“Yes, I have suffered much,” was her audible reply, to our astonishment,
and she uplifted her eyes and joined her hands as if praying. I
remembered Monsieur de Serval’s description of his mother’s death-bed,
and wondered how he could treat thus the last moments of his neglected
mistress. So easy is it to express fine sentiments which one does not
feel, and never practise! Fine words cost nothing, and may be equally
well said by a bad as a noble soul; but fine actions _must_ result from a
good heart.

Gradually twilight drew near, and she was sinking momently. Raised on my
breast, I held one hand in mine;—she seemed laboring to say something. I
stooped to the level of her ear, and tried to catch the sound. Her voice
was low, faint, and broken.

“Dear lady,” at last I thought I heard her say; “I thank you for your
kindness, whoever you may be, and—,” she paused, as if to reflect, “tell
him I forgive him the injury he has done me.”

Backward she fell from my supporting arms on her pillow: slower and
slower came her breath; more fixed grew her eyes; her hands grasped
convulsively at the bed clothes. I heard a rattling sound from her
throat; then the eyelids remained half closed, the mouth half open;
the hands released their hold, and the physician, bending over her,
said,—“Madame, she is dead!”

I burst into tears, and fled from the chamber of death to my own room,
and there wept long and bitterly, both for her and for myself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Pasiphae told me, some days after, that the corpse had been buried in
a cemetery two miles from the castle,—that M. de Serval had gone to
the room and looked at the dead, and she saw, or fancied she saw, him
shed tears. The old woman, now her insane charge was dead,—so strong is
habit,—really seemed to regret the loss, and continually talked of her.
For myself, I felt wretched, and wept at early dawn, at bright noon, and
again when dark night came on. I thought of my husband: I regretted his
behaviour; and notwithstanding all, I wished—oh, I don’t know what I
wished; but one thing I know is certain, that death, had he come then,
would not have found me unwilling to go.

For two weeks after Isodore’s death, I remained alone in my apartments.
The communication between them and monsieur’s having been, by my order,
closed, lest he might intrude upon me. I neglected my dress, and my long
ringlets hung in wild disorder around my face. I wore a black dress,
as if in mourning, for my soul was mourning; and thus attired, and thus
lonely, I sat opposite a mirror, in which I beheld myself,—not the joyous
bride of six months ago, but pale, dejected, and melancholy; and thus I
sat and mused to no purpose, when my waist was clasped by a well known
hand, and a mouth, whose kisses I can never forget, imprinted one on my
cheek, as Rinaldo’s voice murmured in my ear:

“Genevra, I am miserable, living thus without you. Let the past be
forgotten and forgiven: let us love each other as we did before this sad
affair. You cannot so quickly have learned to hate me, have you?”

I hesitated a moment, I confess: then love triumphed over every other
feeling, and throwing myself into his arms, we fervently kissed each
other, and he promised to lead a better life. Of that, however, from what
I now comprehended of my husband’s character and habits, I had little
hope; for any habit, when once confirmed, be it _rouéism_, gambling, or
drinking, obtains such fascinating influence over the mind, that it is
rarely, if ever, relinquished. Still I endeavored to cherish a fondness,
which I felt his outlandish behavior would soon oblige me to abandon.

The novelty of possession had now worn off, and he began to wish for
other society than mine; accordingly he resumed his acquaintance with the
neighboring nobility, and frequently the banqueting hall resounded with
their boisterous conviviality to a late hour of night. Then my husband
would be carried in the arms of his grooms in a state of drunkenness to
bed, while his guests were borne off in a similar condition to theirs. At
first, when I gently reproached him with his excesses, he seemed grieved,
listened to me quietly, and answered sorrowfully, that he knew he did
wrong; but soon this gentleness changed to roughness, and if I spoke
reprovingly, he sternly bade me be silent, and not presume to admonish
him, of what he was the best judge of. Thus in alternations of coldness,
reproaches, quarrels, and reconciliations, a year of married life passed
away.

As I became more estranged from him, I missed the gayeties and pleasures
of Naples, which his affections had for a few months compensated me for
the loss of. I often thought of Blanche, of my teacher, and the kind
Madame Bonni. Monsieur Belmont had heard nothing of Blanche, though
within the year, inquiry had often been made by him concerning her.
My kind hostess had not forgotten me, and her love was often sent; my
teacher’s letters I carefully treasured, and read each one with double
care; they seemed like tidings of life: for the quiet chateau, the
rustic neighborhood, could scarcely be designated by that name; and my
regular existence, systematic as a clock, partook largely of lifeless
monotony. Rinaldo, it is true, made amends to bacchus for my dullness,
for night after night found him at the gaming table, playing high, or
carousing with his noisy companions. When, sometimes, I saw him excited
with wine, I could with difficulty realize that it was the same refined
man, whose sweet voice, and gentle ways had won my virgin heart, on
the beautiful shores of Parthenope. Guilo, my husband’s valet, said
that although his master had always lived high and been very gay, yet,
during the first months of our marriage, he had behaved much better than
formerly, and the worthy domestic appeared astonished to see him return
to his old habits; but he did not reflect, that the object for which this
good behavior was cultivated was attained, and there was no longer any
need of playing a part.

I sometimes took long walks through that fair valley, and among the lofty
hills which majestically surrounded it. I amused and entertained myself
with the observation of nature, in its many different, yet all beautiful
modifications; I saw the birds, as they floated on the wing; I saw the
waving of the foliage of the forest trees, and the clouds as they moved
through the dewy atmosphere, for an eternal mist ever hung over those
mountains and that valley. The shepherds tended their flocks there, and
thither in harvest and vintage time came the pretty village girls, and
the hardy mountaineers, to gather the fruitful grape. Sometimes sitting
beneath some lofty tree, I reflected on the sottishness of the heart,
which, the more it possesses, the more it wants; I wondered if there was
any such thing as happiness, in what it consisted, and where to be found;
and then I wondered if it was exemplified by the epicurean belief, that
happiness must consist in banishing from the mind all painful thoughts,
and wholly surrendering oneself, spiritually and bodily, to pleasure:
or if the doctrine of the stoics was true, that happiness or misery,
pleasure or pain, was a principle of the mind, and could not be affected
by external objects; that if the mind was properly tutored, it would be
incapable of any other feeling than that of rational, quiet contentment;
it would be insensible to the cares and sorrows of life, regarding all
things with the proud eyes of ethereal, idealized philosophy. I inclined
towards the stoics, and resolved, if possible, so to school my mind, that
no earthly disappointment should surprise or vex me; but, unfortunately,
it is much easier to make resolves, than to keep them.

Sometimes I extended my rambles to Isodore’s grave,—a simple mound of
earth, unmarked by tablet or tomb-stone. She had now been dead several
months, and the grass and wild flowers grew luxuriantly above the mound.
I often sat down on it, and fixing my eyes on the starry worlds over
head, at twilight time, sought to penetrate the secrets of futurity, and
read my destiny in their eternal light. I thought of the thousands and
thousands of years that had passed into eternity since first they were
hung there. “Why! oh, why?” I cried aloud from the fulness of my heart;
“why is it that the beautiful, the great, the good, all moulder back
to dust, and are forgotten, while these shine on, bright as when first
placed there, coeval with the Great Spirit, from time to eternity?—while
we die, and, oh, worse than all! know not what is to come hereafter!”
Such gloomy thoughts occupied my mind, as I slowly returned home after
twilight had deepened into sombre night, my clothes damp with dew.

“Pasiphae,” said I, as I flung myself into my fauteuil, tired and
sorrowful; “get me some dry clothes, and arrange the fire. Where is
Monsieur de Serval? is he at home?”

“Master was inquiring for you, my lady, this evening, and I sought for
you, but could not find you, when Guilo told me he saw you go out the
castle gate, and take the forest road. I told master, and he went away to
his shooting gallery.”

As she spoke he entered the room, in his hunting dress, looking very
pale after his night’s carouse. We kissed each other; but the salute had
little of the fervor of former days.

“I was looking for you this evening, Genevra, but you were not in your
apartments.”

“No; I went to take a walk in the woods.”

He began whistling as he walked up and down, evidently wishing Pasiphae
gone. Anticipating his wish, after I had changed shoes and stockings, I
dismissed her.

“I wished to see you,” said he, after she had gone, “to tell you that I
am going away again, a hundred miles back into the country, on a hunting
party, to be absent a week. When I return I shall bring a friend with me,
the Count Calabrella, to spend some days.”

“Yes,” said I, mechanically.

Continuing his walk, he looked at me as I sat.

“You don’t look well of late, Genevra; your face has lost its freshness;
your eyes their brightness.”

“I feel altered externally and internally.”

“I think I am something changed myself within the last year. Let me
see,” said he, reflectively; “yes, this is the anniversary of our
marriage:—the year has been an eventful one to me.” He seemed to expect
some remark, and I determined to touch him to the quick.

“Yes,” I replied, as if unconsciously; “it is five months since Isodore
died: how sad her death-bed was!”

His face flushed, and he exclaimed fiercely:

“Why do you speak of that woman? why do you remind me of her? She
is dead; well, let her rest in peace, and cease to torment me with
recollections of her.”

But I wished him to hear of her. I thought it only an act of justice to
her injured memory, and I continued quietly:

“You feel, then, no remorse for your past conduct toward her, monsieur?
no regret, yet she loved you much; and if she erred, it may have been
through unhappy circumstances, or through an overweening attachment to
you.”

“She sinned through nothing of the sort,” cried he sharply,—“her affair
with me was not the only one she ever had. She had been a notorious
woman long before I ever saw her. As for the deep regrets you talk of, I
feel none. I consider I acted honorably in taking care of a lunatic, and
suffering myself to be frequently annoyed by the antics of a crazy woman.
She is better off where she is.”

I saw my husband was impenetrable to any feeling on the subject, and
feeling misanthropic myself, I cared not to enter into a wordy war.
Relapsing into silence and thought, I sat motionless. One thing I plainly
perceived, that he was piqued that I pitied the dead Isodore, and
manifested neither anger, contempt, nor hatred for her memory; he would
rather have seen me furiously jealous, retaining the recollection of her
error, and hating her name. But I had lost all hatred for anything and
everything, and was sinking into a listless apathy.

“Well, farewell till we meet again,” said Monsieur de Serval, abruptly,
after a moment’s pause.

“Farewell, monsieur.”

We shook hands, and he departed. I watched from my window, and saw his
close travelling carriage rolled into the court-yard. Guilo placed
numerous packages, boxes of cigars, and comfites on the front seat; then
my husband entered it, his hat slouched over his eyes, and enveloped in
his great coat. Guilo mounted behind; the postillion huzza’d, and they
rattled away down the valley road.

I did not miss him; his society was no longer necessary to my very
existence. We could live apart for days, weeks, months, without the
same regrets and longings we should have experienced during the first
months of married life. During his absence I busied myself in household
affairs, rode on horseback, played and sang, and endeavored to kill time
as fast as possible. I was very young, and my tastes and habits still
bordered closely on girlhood—I might almost say childhood. Pasiphae,
with her weird-like countenance, as she sat over the fire in the
banqueting hall on those chilly autumnal nights, and told me strange
ghost stories, often laughed at the childish alarm I showed at her tales.
She was my confidante, and, in fact, only friend, in that wild region.
To her I confided all my thoughts, my griefs, and fears, and hopes. She
sympathized with, but could not advise me.

The week of his absence passed quietly away: nothing of moment occurred
worth relating, and I was sitting in my salon reading a romance, when
Pasiphae entered, saying Guilo had arrived in advance of his master, and
announced that Monsieur de Serval would be with me within half an hour.
Upon the delivery of his message I consulted my mirror. Pasiphae declared
herself satisfied with my appearance. I remember with vivid distinctness
the dress I wore: it was a dark, deep crimson velvet, made high in the
neck, and long sleeves concealed my arms: the rich, heavy folds of
the robe swept the floor; a Grecian head-dress of lama lace formed my
coiffure, and my hair fell in long ringlets to my waist.

“Ah, my lady; I never saw you look so beautiful,” said the faithful
creature, in an ecstacy of delight; for the slightest thing will throw an
Italian into a fit of enthusiasm. “That head-dress is so charming, and
the robe so handsome! Ah, if fine dress only made people happy, it would
be worth wishing for.”

“Pasiphae, I think I heard monsieur’s carriage driving into the
court-yard. See if it is him.”

As I spoke, I heard voices and heavy steps in the hall, and before she
could reach the door, it was opened hastily, and my husband entered,
followed by a figure so wrapped up in coats and shawls, that I could
scarcely discern what it was. Pasiphae hastened to relieve this muffled
form of its encumbrances, after disburdening my husband: and when the
stranger, stepping toward me, bowed,—the first glance at his face told
me that I beheld the stranger of the opera. The same beautiful eyes were
bent upon me, and the low deep tones of his voice struck my ear as he
said:

“Madame, I am happy to make the acquaintance of the wife of my friend.”

I felt the blood rush to my brow, my neck, my very hands, as I
tremblingly replied:

“Count, you are most welcome to our home.”

Rinaldo did not notice my embarrassment; he was occupied in giving orders
about the luggage, the game, and a hundred other things; and when he
had completed these commands, turning to me, who had been saying some
confused nothings to the visitor, he said:

“Come, count, and you, madame, let us proceed to the supper room, and
after we have rendered our duties there, we will return hither for
conversation.”

All my husband’s movements were abrupt and singular, otherwise I should
have been astonished at this sudden interruption. Count Calabrella
offered me his arm, and leaning on that strong arm, and looking on that
handsome, energetic face, which afterwards became, oh! how dear to me,
I followed my stern lord, who strode before, to the banqueting hall.
Rinaldo sat at the head of the table, myself and his guest at each side.
By the brilliant light of the lamps around us, I could more fully observe
the stranger. The count was opposite in appearance to my husband; he was
taller, of an athletic form, strong, and manly. His eyes, large, languid,
yet sparkling, sometimes flashed fire, sometimes were the impersonation
of repose. His hands, and feet were rather large, not so delicate as
Monsieur de Serval’s. His whole appearance was rather massive, not
feminine or soft, as was the look, the whole person of my husband.

Rinaldo’s face was flushed from wine, and he talked loudly and gayly,
not to me, but to his friend. He talked most of his ill success on the
bear hunt, cursing the ill attendance of the servants and grooms. He
drank glass after glass of wine, and his evanescent spirits grew higher
and higher under the influence. I regarded him with feelings of painful
regret, but he seemed not to observe my earnest looks, save by a return
glance of scorn.

The count appeared embarrassed. I saw he felt for me and for his friend,
and looked relieved when the repast was over, and we returned to the
salon. He must have seen the coldness existing between my husband and
myself, for he also seemed infected by it, and after several efforts
at a general conversation, asked me to favor him with a song. I did
so with alacrity, to relieve the tedium which seemed to pervade the
drawing room: yet though I sang, I did so mechanically. One idea dwelt
in my mind—who was this Count Calabrella, this man, whose beautiful eyes
had so long before haunted me, like a foreshadowing dream of futurity?
How strange that he should so unexpectedly cross my path now, when a
married woman; now, when his acquaintance could be nothing to me. Still,
the same presentiment haunted me, that my destiny in future would have
something to do with him; and as I glanced around at him, as he sat near
my husband, listening to the song, leaning on the arm of the sofa, his
strongly marked features distinctly shown by the glancing firelight, what
a contrast did that manly form, so energetic, breathing, living,—speaking
of nobility of soul,—what a contrast did it not present to my fair, yet
dissipated, reckless husband! He had thrown himself in an attitude of
ease upon a sofa, and with his eyes closed, seemed half asleep. That was
scarcely polite to his guest, but Rinaldo cared not what any one thought;
he cared more for his own comfort, than for fixed rules of etiquette.

The count drew his chair towards me, and remarked, “Your castle, madame,
is delightfully situated here, in this beautiful ravine; I have often
heard Monsieur de Serval speak of his mountain home, but never, till now,
had an opportunity of seeing it.”

“Yes, the castle is a charming summer residence, though rather dreary in
winter.”

“I have never,” continued he, “been so far north before; my attendance
on his majesty has hitherto prevented me from travelling to any great
extent; and Naples and its environs, you know, do not afford any great
variety to one who has been accustomed to it a lifetime.”

“You are, then, from Naples, beautiful Naples!” Numerous recollections
were recalled by that name; and I looked down, and almost unconsciously
sighed. When I raised my eyes, I met those of the stranger, bent
curiously on my face: he seemed endeavoring to read my thoughts; and I
blushed as I met that look, though I scarce knew why myself.

“Yes,” said he, in reply to my remark, “beautiful Naples was my
birth-place; and there I have lived the principal part of my life.”

Here Rinaldo, raising himself from his recumbent posture, joined us, and
began turning over the music leaves on the piano.

“My wife sings one of these songs magnificently, count,” said he, as he
sought among the other music for it. “Oh! here it is: oblige us madame,
by singing it.”

It was the song for Ajesha: ‘We have lived and loved together in sunlight
and in tears;’ and I felt the tears gush into my own eyes, as I executed
it. It brought back, bright as yesterday, the night of its first
representation—Blanche’s spirited acting—the presence and applause of
the royal family. The tones lingered on my lips, as if they obeyed the
impulse of my heart, and by remaining, could recall bygone hours more
forcibly to mind.

“That is a charming melody,” said the count; “and it is needless to
admire that voice, whose far-spread fame has roused all Italy.”

I felt weary, and, as it was growing late, on a look from my husband, we
retired; he, accompanying his friend to a bedchamber, and I returning to
my cheerful apartment; where, by the blazing fire, I sat down to dream
and reflect, on what, alas! on what too many mortals while away existence
in—dreams, unsubstantial, unreal dreams.



CHAPTER X.


I had for some weeks remarked the visits of several mysterious looking
strangers, who came often, and were closeted long with Monsieur de Serval
in his studio. These men were dressed in the costume of the peasantry,
but they all wore brown cloaks, with cowls drawn over their faces,
which they jealously preserved from sight, perhaps from pity to those
unfortunate hearts on whom they should bestow their glances. There was
something very strange about them; and as none of the domestics knew from
whence they came, or whither they went, I determined to ask my husband
their business at the castle.

The morning after his arrival I rose early. I heard my husband move about
his room till a late hour, when silence proclaimed he had gone to rest.
We no longer sank to rest, cradled in each other’s arms—and sometimes
when my lonely, impassioned heart, fairly ached for companionship, I
compared our present estrangement with the joyful hours we had formerly
spent together; and then the midnight hour saw convulsions of passion,
I should have been ashamed any one should witness, save that faithful,
silent monitor, time; but it was no fault of mine: the gay _roué_, whose
fickle fancy was momently caught by my beauty and virtue, had wearied by
possession; the same face, the same enduring love, no longer attracted
him; he had not known his own heart when he promised fidelity: he was
incapable of it. I sometimes felt disposed to forgive him the wild life
he had led during the past year, could I have seen any indications of
a reformation; I could have returned to my old love, and have been
happy once more, would he have acted differently, but he would not: to
reproaches, alienations, and recriminations, had succeeded a polite
coldness, which, between husband and wife, means far more than the
alternations of hot and cold feeling.

I often wept myself to sleep, hugging my pillow to me for company; my
mind dwelt in the past, or speculated on the future: it was void and
empty, for it is only when we are with one we love that we live in the
present, and who loved me now, who save old Pasiphae?

I sought the salon, where, to my surprise, I saw the count seated.
On entering, he rose, placed a chair for me, and made some general
observation on the beautiful day. I replied, seated myself, and fixed my
eyes on the fire, for there was a magnetic attraction in those orbs that
influenced me strangely when I met them;—the gentleman suddenly remarked,

“Madame, you are much improved since I first saw you, the night of your
first appearance at Naples.”

“Ah! you saw me then at that time?”

“Yes, and I shall never forget your look, your manner, your acting and
whole appearance: the tones of your voice, indeed the whole scene is
engraven on my mind.”

The _tone_ in which he said this, made the expression, and sent the blood
to my cheek. How true it is, that looks and tones give the sense to
conversation, far more than the words themselves; I knew not what reply
to make to this extravagant compliment, and bowed in silence.

“I never thought my friend would ever marry,” he continued, I thought to
relieve my obvious embarrassment,—“he used to be so volatile and gay; but
I am glad he has, and that the correction of youthful errors has fallen
to the guidance of one so gentle.” And as he looked at me, the same light
shone in his eyes. “We have been almost like brothers for many years; at
one time he was aide-de-camp to his majesty, and during that period we
were constantly together; being older than he, I naturally advised and
guided him; but now I see how much better he is tutored by that power
that rules the world, the influence of love.”

The arch smile that played upon his lips, called the blushes to my
cheeks, while my mournful heart, alas, too truthfully denied the
assertion.

At this moment a servant announced the breakfast, and the count rising
offered me his arm, and we went in together; Rinaldo was not there: I
sent to request the honor of his presence, while the count entertained
me delightfully, with a description of his journey to the shores of the
Dead Sea, and travels in Arabia. His descriptive powers were fine,
and I listened eagerly; we were thus engaged when Rinaldo entered; the
lassitude and dissipated air my husband had acquired of late, from
negligent habits, had never so forcibly struck me before, as then,
when he came towards me; his eyes were sunken, his form thin, and the
expression of his features cadaverous; he looked worn out: he smiled on
his friend, said ‘good morning’ to me, then sat down on the other side of
the table.

“The morning is fine, count,” he remarked, as the attendant handed him a
cup of coffee; “it is a charming day for rambling, and I will show you
over the grounds.”

“I shall go with pleasure,” answered he, and then continued his
description of Mecca, and the grave of the Prophet.

“Of what are you speaking?” asked my husband.

“My travels in Arabia,” said the count, “I have been there within the
last three years. Since we parted at Naples, I travelled through the
East.”

“Ah!” said Rinaldo, “I did not know that; how desolate those countries of
the Levant are now: what a contrast they present when we recall the olden
time.”

“Desolate enough, and the means of travelling miserable, and stopping
places filthy.

“All life, all commerce, all enterprise seems progressing onward to the
North of Europe, leaving the East, and even us, far behind; we are on the
decline, never probably to be revived again.

“Thus it is with every thing on earth, every thing has its beginning,
its zenith, and its fall. But do not let us involve madame in a didactic
controversy, we will continue our philosophies when alone, my friend,”
said he, bowing to me, as I accepted his escort to my salon, when my
husband and himself departed for their walk.

As I crossed the corridor to my bed chamber for my tapestry, to amuse
myself during the morning, I again met some of those shrouded forms which
seemed to haunt, like ghosts, the castle. One of them, pushing partially
back the cowl he wore, disclosed to my view a remarkably sunburnt,
repulsive physiognomy, whose harsh dark features appeared to me the index
to a harsh dark soul.

“God save thee, lady, but I wish to see the master, Monsieur de
Serval,—is he at home?”

“No, my good fellow,” said I, in a gentle tone, wishing to ascertain what
these men wanted; “what is your business with him, tell me, and I will
communicate it to him when he returns?”

“We have orders, lady, from our chief,”—at that one of the others
frowned on him, and he confusedly went on, “that is—I mean to say—it is a
private matter of business with the master, I cannot tell any other than
him.”

“Well,” said I, “you can go to the lower hall and wait for him, he
will return soon;” and calling Guilo, I bade him conduct them thither,
and added, in a whisper, an admonition to watch and not permit them to
depart till my husband returned. They seemed unwilling to remain, and the
chief said he would come again at a more convenient season, but I gently
detained them, bidding them wait monsieur’s return; reluctantly they
followed Guilo, who regarded them with suspicious glances.

An hour afterwards I was walking on the terrace, when I saw Rinaldo
approaching, with Count Calabrella; he was speaking with great
earnestness, and peering with penetrating eyes into those of his friend;
they were evidently engaged in some deeply interesting discussion, in
which the count, from his cloudy brow and downcast eyes, did not seem to
acquiesce.

As they ascended the stone steps, at the summit of which I stood, both
became silent, and the count, lifting his hat to me, made some remark
about the beauty of the grounds. I hastened to tell my husband about the
strangers.

“Monsieur de Serval,” addressing him by his surname, as was most polite,
“three strangers of very mysterious appearance, whom I have often seen
here before, now await you in the lower hall. As you were out, I asked
their business, but they declined telling, and preferred waiting your
return.”

“In the lower hall did you say?” said he abruptly, and with a disturbed
look. “Why did you not send them to the studio? It must be him,” he
added as if to himself; “what can have happened? how strange!” and,
without saying another word to me, he walked rapidly away, and entered
the castle. I looked after him with surprise, for by his startled
looks and distorted manner, I plainly saw that this was some affair of
importance, and could not refrain from wondering what it was. I had a
vague presentiment that his conversation with the count in some way
related to these men. I could have wished to have asked the count what
had been the subject of their conversation, but he was almost a perfect
stranger. I could not do so with propriety, and so, silently, he and I
retired to the salon. There was something so inexpressibly delicate and
gentle in his manners, in his looks, in every thing he said or did, that
it threw a charm around him, and this magic influence soon extended to
those of his acquaintance. He had sojourned with us but two days, and
yet had ingratiated himself into the good graces of the domestics, and by
his fine conversational powers had whiled away some of the many lonely
hours I daily passed. My husband too possessed, at first sight, the most
attractive and winning ways, but these soon gave place to capricious
variations of feeling, which soon ended in complete indifference, like
all _roués_ the difficulty constituted the charm; that overcome, the
graces, the charms soon vanished.

I often regretted—as I sat alone, gazing on the fickle fire-light—often
regretted having left the stage and having exchanged the certainty of a
brilliant fame, unbounded admiration, and a fortunate perspective, for
the uncertainty of love.

My husband had been closeted with his visitors two or three hours when I
saw them depart, and he came from the room, pale and anxious; with hasty
strides he reached the court-yard, and having ordered one of the fleetest
horses to be saddled, mounted, quick as lightning and rode off.

I pulled the bell, and Guilo answered the appeal.

“Guilo, where in the name of heaven has Monsieur de Serval gone to? I
this moment saw him depart on horse-back.”

“I know not, madame. He seemed very angry at something: he swore and
muttered to himself as he mounted. I supposed you knew where he was
going, my lady.”

“No; I know not. I have no idea.”

“I wish I could tell you, my lady; but master has acted so singularly
lately, I am not surprised at anything he does. I never saw him seem so
queer.”

“Did the strange men take the same road your master did?”

“No, my lady; they went away before him and took the opposite direction.”

“Very well, Guilo, you can go.”

“Will you be pleased to have dinner served now?”

“What is the hour?”

“Five o’clock, Madame.”

“Well, serve it, and announce it to the count.”

Guilo did so. When I went to dinner, my guest had preceded me: he looked
very thoughtful. When I said that we must excuse Monsieur de Serval, he
having been called away by a matter of business, his face clouded; but it
passed quickly away, and he was as entertaining as usual.

That night, after I had retired to rest, the clattering of horses’ hoofs
sounded on the valley road; they neared the house; now they were beneath
my window; then stopped: then I heard the stamping of heavy boots, and
loud voices in the hall; then I distinguished Rinaldo’s piquant voice—for
he had a bright voice, soft and cheering; and next I heard him enter
his own room. Satisfied that he had returned safe, I composed myself
to sleep, wondering what this mystery could mean,—longing to ask, yet
restrained by pride.

Next day Rinaldo appeared to have recovered himself entirely from his
temporary agitation, and I ventured to inquire, indirectly, the cause of
his sudden journey. He carelessly replied, that it was a small matter of
business which demanded his presence, and avoided the subject. I was not
satisfied, however; I knew better; but I also waived the subject, as I
could elicit nothing by questions.

A fortnight of dubious calm succeeded. Three gentlemen of the
neighborhood, my husband’s friends, came to visit him. The same old
scenes of riot and late hours were enacted over again; but I observed
that the count avoided, as far as was consistent with politeness, all
participation in these midnight revels, and often retired early to his
chamber to avoid them. This added to his attractions in my eyes; and
meeting me one evening, as I was gliding past the banquet-hall,—whence
I heard the drunken revels, the noisy songs and clamorous uproar of my
husband and his friends,—he came to my side, and, quietly placing my arm
in his, silently conducted me to my salon, closed the door, to shut out
those noisy sounds, drew my fauteuil to the fire, then placed another for
himself, and looking at me very sadly, said in mournful tones:

“This behaviour of your husband is very distressing to you, I know.”

“Yes, it saddens me much to see him wasting his life in such
dissipations.”

“Has he always led this sort of life since he married you?”

“The first months of our wedded life we spent happily. He acted
differently then.”

“Rinaldo always was very wild, very unprincipled in his views of women,
yet the first day or two of my arrival here, I confidently thought you
had reformed him.”

“Alas! that is not so. I wish it were.”

“Marriage is a mere lottery at best,” said the count, thoughtfully.
“I have always viewed it in that light, and my observation of its
unhappy results, has deterred me from choosing a wife. Some frequently
draw prizes; most get blanks. You, dear lady, have unfortunately—” He
paused, and did not complete the sentence, probably fearing to wound my
feelings; for so strange it is, though you may despise your husband, yet
to hear him depreciated, will wound.

“In a month from now, I shall probably be at Epirus. I only feel happy in
continual motion: travelling, war, politics—something to excite. Onward,
seems to be my watchword; onward, as we on our little planet continually
whirl round, and other worlds follow us, unceasing, eternal, in the
sublime organization of nature.”

I had never seen my guest so animated before; his eyes sparkled, his
alabaster face lit up with the warm glow of feeling and enthusiasm. The
announcement of his intended departure, somewhat surprised me, as we had
expected to retain him for several weeks.

“We shall regret your departure, count,” said I, trying to force a smile,
but it was a sad one. “Monsieur de Serval intimated that we were to have
the pleasure of your society for some time to come.” As I spoke, my eyes
met his, and their expression of intense interest riveted mine: those
beautiful, sad eyes,—those eyes of love, of ingenuousness, of truth and
fidelity. He sighed, and withdrew them, and I resumed my contemplation of
the carpet of the salon.

A long, loud laugh, from the apartment where my husband was revelling,
startled me. I thought I heard footsteps coming, and not wishing to see
him in his present condition, I rose to return to my room.

“Good night, dear lady,” said the count. “Remember me in your prayers,
for I need them.” Glance met glance, but I tore mine away, and I felt, as
I sought my repose, that my fluttering heart, and crimsoned cheek, told
sad tales against me.

Rinaldo was ill next day from excitement, and his friends in much the
same condition. Monsieur D’Artagnan, and Monsieur Porthos, were men of
middle age, corpulent and lazy; high livers, high drinkers, fond of
all sorts of rural sports, and all sorts of amusements. They generally
favored, or rather bored, me with their compliments and society every
day after dinner, when Rinaldo usually lounged about a little while,
ere he and they disappeared together, to arrange their plans for the
evening. The count spent hours and hours with me, reading, singing,
conversing, receiving and imparting information. These consolations,
these sympathies, between a married woman and a handsome male friend,
are dangerous. The loneliness of heart, the isolation a woman who has
been slighted in her affections feels, strongly induces her to love the
society, and the self-deluding friendship of an interesting man. This
friendship soon becomes love, and then—where are they?

       *       *       *       *       *

Some evenings after this, twilight found me in the beautiful garden of
the castle, seated beneath a widespreading palm tree, that threw far
before me its blooming branches. From beneath this natural bower, lulled
to repose by the beautiful scene before me; by the sweet, balmy air that
played around me, and the glorious sky above me, I contemplated the
landscape.

The sun went down behind a veil of heavy purple clouds, whose ragged
edges were tinted with his parting rays; his smile dwelt lingeringly
along the mountain’s brow, as if he _must_, yet wished _not_, to say
farewell. The warm, oriental light illumined the summits of the trees,
and showed forth more distinctly the tall gothic turrets of the castle.
Part of the building remained in shadow, and the rising ground of terrace
behind me concealed my view of the court-yard and its marble fountain.

The grounds, disposed in flower beds of divers shapes and patterns,
were thickly planted with exotic flowers, which, as if tired of their
admiration of the god of day, now drooped their heads in mournfulness
at his departure;—the golden butterfly flew gayly from flower to
flower; his purple and gold wings glittering in the glowing light;—the
grasshopper hopped on the tall thick grass; and the birds sang in the
trees, carrolling their love-notes so thrillingly, I almost envied them
their joy. Their songs were the only voices of the hour, and in listening
to them I felt soothed, consoled: sweeter, calmer thoughts came over
me,—etherealized feelings,—and leaning my head against the rough bark of
the trees, I fell into a gentle slumber.

Cracking of brushwood, breaking of boughs, aroused me from my dreamy
trance. I started, looked around;—I heard the sound of coming feet, and
presently my husband emerged from the copse. The sun had disappeared,
and the mellow dusk was gathering her dusky veil around me. Arousing
myself from dreams, I spoke to him as he seated himself by me. He
looked absorbed with melancholy preoccupation, as was his wonted air of
late:—his dress was disordered.

“What an exquisite evening!” he observed; “how gloriously that sun
declines along the hills.”

“Yes, it is indeed beautiful. I have been watching his departure for the
last hour.”

“I have been on a long hunt through the forest: some of the people said
they thought they had discovered a bear’s trail; but I sought in vain;—I
found no traces of one.”

“How can you like those bear hunts; they are so dangerous?”

“They are exciting:—I like excitements.”

“We mutually became silent, watching the clouds drifting across the sky,
and the different hues of eve, as they blended into one. The air began to
distil dew heavily. I rose, apprehensive that my health would be injured
by exposure to it. As I rose upon my feet, a strange sensation came over
me. Earth, air, mountains, clouds,—all objects seemed to swim before my
eyes. I felt as if falling, I knew not where, and stretching out my hands
for support, instinctively, I was received into my husband’s arms, and
lost all consciousness.

“When I recovered life, I found myself in my salon, my husband and
Pasiphae anxiously bending over me: my bodice was unloosed, my hair
undone. I gasped for breath, and partly raising myself, leaned on
some one’s shoulder;—it was Rinaldo’s. Everything in the room seemed
indistinct, confused.

“Dear lady, what ails thee? what has happened?” I heard poor Pasiphae
say, as she bathed my face and rubbed my hands.

“Your mistress fainted as we sat in the garden together,” was my
husband’s reply, rendered inarticulate by tears. He kissed me repeatedly,
smoothed my hair, and manifested by his emotion the grief he felt, not
only at my illness, but his own incomprehensible, cruel, conduct.

When strong aromatics had thoroughly brought back to earth my truant
senses, Pasiphae watched that night my fitful slumber, broken only by
strange starts and convulsive movements that half affrighted her: my
husband tenderly attended me. For days (they said) my life hung on a
thread: and when exhausted nature resuscitated to life and health once
more, I had a beautiful, a lovely boy!

My health for weeks after his birth continued delicate. I seldom left my
room: that cherished infant, whose life had so nearly been purchased by
my own, my constant companion. And Rinaldo was kinder in those days; if
our old feelings were not renewed, at least our child formed a connecting
tie,—we seemed drawn more nearly to each other. Pasiphae manifested, at
seeing the child, the joy of a child itself at seeing a new toy: she
would carry the little thing in her arms, admire its undefined features,
and playfully caress its tiny hands.

Count Calabrella, at my husband’s urgent entreaty, prolonged his visit,
and often came to pay his compliments; the charms of his conversation and
manners won daily upon my esteem; I never could look upon that animated
face, nor listen to that melodious voice, which distilled such noble
thoughts, such chivalrous sentiments, without wishing that Rinaldo was
more like him,—that he did not desecrate to unworthy uses the abilities
with which nature had endowed him. Time fleeted, and I again resumed
my walks in the castle garden, and on the terrace, in which Pasiphae
sometimes followed me, bearing the child.

We named him Raphael, a fancy of his father’s it was to bestow on the
little one the name of the great painter. As day by day developed his
senses and he became conscious of the difference of persons, and would
extend his baby hands toward me, and weep if I left him, I realized in
this love a mother’s pride, a mother’s joy; often when caressing him I
imagined I saw him grown to manhood, noble in his principles, handsome in
appearance, and that he would reward me by his tenderness and duty for
all the mental anguish I should have to endure before that time came.
When he pressed his little hands on my face, or tried to bite my finger
as infants do, I always kissed that sweet little mouth, and sometimes
tears followed the kiss and fell upon that face.

On one occasion when I was passing through the corridor, on my way to
take my daily promenade, the door of my husband’s studio was suddenly
thrown open, and the mysterious stranger who had accosted me before in
that corridor rushed violently passed me, and disappeared down the marble
staircase. The sight of that shrouded form inspired me with a vague
foreboding of horror. I had never been able to gather from my husband the
object of their frequent visits, and I often attributed his dejection and
gloom to his communications with them.

“Who can that man be, Pasiphae? and what can he and his companions want
with monsieur?”

“Indeed, my lady, I know not; they come very often I know, and I dislike
them much.”

“God grant they bring no ill fortune here; but I feel as if contaminated
by their vicinage,” I devoutly exclaimed, as we stepped from the oriel
window out upon the terrace. We did not walk much that day, the wind
blew hard; the infant gasped for breath and hid his face on his nurse’s
shoulder: we went in.

The next day I was occupied in my apartment with my tapestry, when Guilo
abruptly entered, without knocking, and with a countenance pale and
troubled, requested me to come immediately to his master: he wanted me.
Laying aside my embroidery, I left Pasiphae with Raphael, and went. What
was my amazement, when entering the banqueting hall, I found it filled
with strange men, wearing the uniform of state officers, and seated
in their midst, Monsieur de Serval and Count Calabrella; my husband
affrighted and shrinking, the count self-collected and calm as usual.
I moved hastily toward my husband, and seated myself at his side; the
officers making way for me as I passed them.

“What does this mean, Rinaldo? what do these men want?” I cried, seized
with a strange presentiment that their presence in some way related to,
or was concerned with the visits of the mysterious strangers.

“Be composed, poor child,” replied Rinaldo. “I will tell you; I must
leave here, I must go away.”

“Leave your castle, go away! Wherefore? for God’s sake, explain?” I
demanded, perfectly bewildered.

“It is a dreadful thing to tell, but it must be told; I am arrested
by these men for high treason; they have come to take me before my
sovereign; I am utterly ruined; my castle is no longer mine; I am a
bankrupt.”

“Oh God!” I exclaimed, as if struck by a sudden blow. I fell down upon my
knees, burying my face in my hands.

“It is but too true. I have suffered myself to be engaged in a piratical
expedition against the government; it has been discovered, destroyed, and
I am commanded to answer the charges laid against me; I am to leave here
to day in company with these men.”

“Engaged in a piratical expedition against the government; to be
arrested; perhaps imprisoned for life; and where are they to take you?
cannot I also go?”

“_You_ go with me to ignominious disgrace, to a prison’s walls; oh no,
that cannot be: and yet you cannot stay here. This house will pass into
other hands; I know not what to do with you, where to send you. I must
return to Naples, but I do not wish you there, amid the general contempt,
the disagreeable publicity that will attend me; no, you will be far
better off away; I want you to go to Baie; you can remain there until the
issue of affairs is known; then, if favorable, you can come to me.”

“I will obey you; I will go there if you wish it; but tell me one thing,
Rinaldo, I entreat you; are not those singular men who used to visit you,
the cause of this?”

“Yes,” said he, hesitatingly, “they are.”

“I knew it. I felt they came for no good purpose.”

“Gentlemen,” said my husband, addressing the king’s officers, “will you
allow me a private conversation with my wife before I go?”

“Certainly, monsieur,” replied the principal of the officers; and with
their officials they filed slowly from the apartment. The count, who had
not spoken during our dialogue, following them with a dejected air. When
the great door of the banqueting hall shut heavily behind them, Rinaldo,
as if overcome by this sudden, unlooked for misfortune, threw his arms
around me, and, weeping, kissed me.

“Genevra, my poor Genevra, we are about to separate, and it may be you
will never see your unhappy husband again! I have not been to you the
kind husband I should have been; my conduct has often been harsh and
cruel: my love for you has been an enigma to myself. I have not acted
rightly towards you; and now, a strange fatality—as unlooked for as
strange—is about to tear me from you and that dear child.”

Sighing, he kissed me again.

“Let the past be forgotten and forgiven,” I answered, as I folded my arms
around his neck: “let it go; it is done; it is nothing; I have forgotten
it: only let me accompany you now. Why should sorrow separate a wife from
a husband? I can share imprisonment with you, and take Raphael with me: I
fear not its isolation, nor its gloom.”

“No, no; do as I wish. What could be more brutal than to enclose in
prison walls a young woman and her child—shut out from God’s air and
human society! Go to Baie; you will not be far from me; you shall hear
from me often. Perhaps this unfortunate affair will be happily ended:
then, reunited, we will seek some new home—since this will no longer
acknowledge me as master; some sweet, quiet place, where our days shall
be spent more happily than the best part of our married life has been.”

“But that prospect is far distant; perhaps it may never come; you may be
convicted of high treason; oh, heaven! you may be decapitated.”

“Well, if that is my fate, I shall meet it bravely: I am not afraid to
die, let death come in what shape it will.” And he laughed recklessly.
“No, Genevra, I fear no such catastrophe; I shall be able to clear
myself: tremble not for me.”

“How unfortunate this has been; how disastrous for you to have embarked
in this ill-omened business. Why did you do it?”

“Talk not of that which is past, Genevra,” said he, with something of his
former sternness; “but come with me; the officials wait: let us bid each
other farewell at the bedside of my child.”

He took my hand in his: the officials stationed without the door
respectfully made way for us; we ascended to our bedchamber, where,
slumbering in his oaken cradle, lay Raphael—his rosy hands crossed upon
his bosom, which rose and fell with his gentle breathing; his long night
robe hung without the cradle, and the calm little face, so innocent, so
passionless, expressed the unconscious happiness of infancy. A large
lamp, the shade depressed, to shield the glare of light from his eyes,
sat on a table near; and his nurse sat by the cradle side and watched
him—her strongly marked features of dusky hue, and fantastic dress,
thrown strongly into relief by the effect of the lamp.

I sent her away, not wishing a witness of this scene; and my husband,
kneeling by the cradle, gently took up the child in his arms, but did
not awaken him; he still slept on. He looked at the babe long and
wistfully: his very soul seemed gushing into his eyes as he contemplated
the features of his son. He seemed looking forward into future years; he
seemed inspired; he took one of the little hands in his, and kissed it:
the child, with a slight start, withdrew it, and recrossed his arms on
his bosom.

“Sweet little lamb, as yet innocent of guile, pure as thy Maker: of such,
if there is a heaven, should it be composed; sleep on, and mayst thou
ever remain as innocent as now.”

His thoughts appeared too deep for words; he replaced the babe, laid its
satin coverlid over it, and rose on his feet, once more he wistfully
regarded it, then turned to me.

“Let us kiss each other; adieu here, Genevra. You had better not come
down stairs again; those officials are rude sometimes, and I, being under
arrest, cannot protect you against whatever they choose to extend to
you. Farewell! you shall hear from me soon; be comforted, you know your
religion teaches you that out of much tribulation shall arise joy; be
comforted, all is not lost.”

But I would not be put off with that abrupt farewell. I went down with
him into the lower hall, where, standing around on the marble floor, in
various attitudes, were the king’s functionaries. Count Calabrella had
offered large sums of money to the chief, making himself responsible for
Monsieur de Serval’s appearance for his trial in any state they should
name, but the men were inexorable. Their commands from government were
to bring him in person to Naples. No influence, no money could shield
him. The count was traversing the hall with hasty strides, and gloomy
expression of countenance, his steps resounding as he walked; seeing me
approach on Rinaldo’s arm, on which I leant heavily, he came towards us,
endeavoring to conceal his uneasiness by a forced smile.

“This is a most singular affair. How came Alcantara to be detected?” he
inquired, speaking in a low tone.

“The stupid fool had the impudence to boast of what we were doing in the
coffee houses, some persons informed the government, which led to my
exposure.”

“I have been trying to persuade them to return alone, naming some day for
your appearance, promising to come with you myself, but they will not
consent,—what is to be done, my friend?” he anxiously inquired, looking
sorrowfully at Rinaldo.

“What is to be done? why I am to go, of course, my dear Alfieri. Don’t be
annoyed, don’t be alarmed at this: you know I told you weeks ago I was
prepared for the worst: all that troubles me is the welfare of my wife
and child. This old castle, though partly ruinous, is still a home, but
even this I am obliged to part with. I sold it some days ago to a friend,
to raise money for this expedition; and that is also gone. She and the
infant must leave here; I wish you to attend her to Baie, where she will
be not far from Naples, and can hear from me often. Promise me to see her
safely there to-morrow.”

“I will do all that mortal man can do for Madame de Serval, you may be
sure; whatever she wishes I will perform,” said the count, with fervor.

“Thank the fates, then, I do not leave them friendless,—utterly uncared
for,” ejaculated Rinaldo.

The chief of the officers now came out of the banqueting hall, and
whispered to my husband.

“Very well,” said he in reply, “in an hour I shall be ready, if you wish
it, to start.”

“In an hour! are you going in an hour?” I cried. “Oh cannot they stay
till to-morrow? do make them stay till then.”

“To-morrow, child, to-morrow I shall be far away from you.”

We three continued to walk up and down: I tearful, desponding; the count
abstracted, silent; Rinaldo with a sort of affected reckless gayety,
assumed, doubtless, to conceal his real feelings. The men were sent away
into the servants’ hall, and what little luggage my husband was allowed
to take with him, brought down. I imagined I had a world of things to say
in that hour, yet, when I went to speak, they escaped my recollection. I
could think of nothing but the suddenness of this separation, and my own
sad situation. The hour elapsed, it fled,—the man came to summon Rinaldo,
the carriage was ready, the luggage was placed behind, the officers got
into their carriages, the chief came to escort my husband to his!

“I regret extremely that it should be my misfortune to convey such
disagreeable tidings, and to be the cause of bringing sorrow to such a
lady,” said the man, politely raising his cap to me.

“It is not your fault; we excuse you; you merely act officially. If the
carriage is ready, I am. Proceed, sir.”

I walked with him to the court yard, notwithstanding he cautioned me
not to do so, saying I would catch cold. Four carriages contained the
inferior men, and their principal occupied the same carriage with
my husband. He did not kiss me farewell there before others, but
relinquishing my hand with stoical energy, he entered it with his
companion, and closed the door. He shook hands convulsively with the
count, who went round to the carriage window to bid him adieu. I did not
move; I was riveted to the spot where I stood. The carriage started, it
whirled through the avenue, it passed the lodge, it was gone, the others
following it. When my eyes could no longer discern any traces of it; when
I was fully convinced that it was reality, no dream, but reality, stern
reality; I turned within the hall, went up stairs, fell upon my knees by
the child’s bedside, laid my cheek by his, and wept bitterly.



CHAPTER XI.


Reason almost failed me, when I awoke the next day. I wandered into the
banqueting hall, calling for Rinaldo. The count followed me, entreated me
to recollect myself, to bear misfortunes with calmness, with fortitude;
asked what he could do for me. I answered not: I began to doubt my own
identity. I only remembered distinctly that I was to leave that day, to
go to Baie: every thing else seemed blank, intangible.

I summoned Guilo to my salon, and told him that the castle was sold
by my husband to another, who would come in a few days to claim it. I
offered to pay his expenses to any city he chose to go, or he might stay
in the vicinity of the castle, and endeavor to obtain employment of the
new owner. He thanked me for my kindness to him, and said he preferred
remaining. The other domestics were sent away; my household was broken
up. Pasiphae determined to accompany my precarious fortunes as the
nurse of Raphael, and so all things being definitely arranged, Count
Calabrella, myself, Pasiphae, and my beloved babe, started that afternoon
for Baie. I, almost unconscious, allowed myself to be placed in the
barouche, and without looking back at those proud turrets and massive
walls, within whose confines I had passed two years of alternate joy and
grief, I was borne away. We rode all day. The count, anxious to beguile
me from sad thoughts, conversed charmingly, but though ever agreeable
and fascinating, yet my mind was too pre-occupied to listen, and the
object so kindly intended failed of its purpose; nor did my melancholy
abstraction cease, when, on the second day of our travel, we entered Baie.

Oh, Baie! classic, beautiful, time-honored Baie! when again shall I
revisit thy tranquil, lovely shores? when again shall I gaze upon thy
pellucid waters, or roam over thy gentle, verdant hills, once the home
of happy thousands,—thrilling with life, hope, perhaps happiness,—now
silent, deserted; the seat of ruins, the abode of solitary peasants, who
lead their flocks over the spot where once rose stately Roman villas,
temples, theatres, and all the haunts of what _was_ human vanity and
life;—all which have faded into fragments, into dust, leaving those few
remains to tell that the tide of human life had once passed there.

“Why am I not also gone?” thought I despondingly, as the barouche
rolled over the smooth road, among the ruins. “Why do I still live on,
unfortunate, unhappy? my husband arrested for high treason; myself and
child alone and desolate; our home lost to us forever! What has the
future for me but disappointment, continued isolation and my child, my
Raphael! what is to become of him?”

The stopping of the carriage aroused me from my gloomy reflections. It
paused at a small cottage kept as a place of accommodation for strangers.
Tired, faint, and weary, I found myself in the parlor of this rustic
abode, scarce knowing where I was. The apartments were comfortable and
scrupulously clean, but in contrast to the elegant home I had just left,
they appeared contemptible to me. An image of the virgin stood in one
corner, under it a crucifix: some pictures decorated the plastered walls,
and flowers were trained to creep outside the latticed windows;—a gaily
colored parrot, in a gilded cage, mockingly imitated our words, repeating
them after us in playful tones: the hostess, a peasant vinter’s wife,
came courtesying in to receive us, wearing a Neapolitan dress, which
reminded me forcibly of Naples. The domestics of the castle, wearing
another style, embarrassed and awkward at the sight of one, so far
superior in worldly station. Ah! how far happier, if they did but know
it, are those lowly ones of earth! how quiet; how untinctured by ambition
are their lives! Very little envy is theirs; very little of those fierce
hatreds we see in society! Calm, peaceful, obscure, they walk to their
graves, seldom known; seldom wishing to be known, yet often tasting much
real, substantial happiness.

The count explained that I wished apartments for myself, nurse, and
child, and the woman left the room to prepare them.

“And you, my friend,” I said to him, “you also are going to stay here?”

“Until to-morrow I shall have that honor,” said he, “but after that I
shall not have the pleasure of being near you.”

“Oh!” I cried, “will you also desert me? shall I be utterly alone?”

“Alone! oh, no! not all alone with the companionship of your own sweet
thoughts and your lovely child. Do not grieve; to meet to separate is the
inevitable law of nature. Why should we cavil at that we cannot change?
Existence is, as I have often told you, a play, a farce;—do not let us be
its most miserable actors. Your husband will doubtless be liberated soon.
You will be restored to him;—life will put forth new buds and blossoms
from its giant tree. In his renewed affection you will find new joys; and
I shall pursue my solitary travels, rejoicing at your happiness.”

“But if you were not there, the measure of our joy would be incomplete.
If what you predict comes to pass, will not you partake of our joy?”

“I! what shall I be to you but a strange dream, associated with unhappy
circumstances, disagreeable to your memory? I shall have been but the
witnesser of one of those vicissitudes of fortune, which always fall to
the lot of the talented and beautiful. No! I had better be forgotten. To
be forgotten! how mortifying is the reflection. Yet, has it not always
been the law of destiny?”

“Do not philosophize now; let us be matter of fact. I thought, when my
husband was so cruelly taken away, that you, who have always been so
kind, would be spared me—at least for some time—till I should recover a
little from this violent shock; but I am disappointed in this, as in all
other things.”

“Lady,” said he, bending a piercing glance upon me from his expressive
eyes, “the request you make would be as dangerous to myself (if granted),
as it would be useless to you. The charms of your person, your judgment
and talent, I appreciate to their fullest extent, and nothing could give
me more delight than to revel in the sunshine of such presence; but that
enjoyment would be as injurious to you as perfidious in me to my friend.”

The sad tones of his voice and significant manner of expression, did
not allow me to misunderstand him. In my careless innocence I never
recollected the cruel interpretation malice would put upon such
companionship.

“My departure,” he continued, “will be all the more advantageous to
you, since to-morrow I will proceed immediately to Naples, and perhaps,
through intercession with his Majesty, be the means of liberating your
husband. I shall, of course, see him immediately, wherever he is, and
write you a description of affairs.”

He became silent, and mechanically stroked my infant’s rosy, downy
cheeks. The vinter’s wife came tripping into the room, saying she would
attend me to the apartments. Pasiphae, sad and quiet, preceded me,
carrying Raphael; the count remained absorbed in thought. The rustic
stairs were climbed, and with many low courtesies I was ushered into a
large chamber, in which I noticed nothing but an immense fauteuil, into
which I sank mechanically, completely overpowered. After making numerous
demonstrations of respect and duty, the hostess withdrew.

In the meantime, Raphael, who had slept nearly all the way from the
Chateau of the Ravine, awoke from the slumber in which he had been wrapt
all day, and looked inquiringly for me. I took him in my arms and kissed
him. The little one laid his tiny hands on my face and raised his large
eyes wistfully to mine. He was too young to miss his father, or know that
father’s fate,—that unhappy, wayward man who now inhabited, perhaps, a
prison’s gloom: and as I childishly toyed with the ribbons of his dress
and watched the light and play of his features, I wished—oh! what does
not a mother wish?

I did not go down stairs again that afternoon and evening; but I
distinctly heard the footsteps of the count as he continued to pace the
floor of the lower room till a late hour. My own heart was the prey of
contending emotions—of conflicting thoughts. Raphael fell asleep on my
breast—his tiny hand clasped in mine—with an expression of conscious
happiness on his smiling countenance. I fixed my gaze upon a crucifix
which hung in a corner, and invoked to my support that invisible
influence whom we worship in an earthly form. I conjured up before me
visions of persecuted martyrs, dying saints, nuns devoted alone to the
service of God; but, in spite of myself, other thoughts came stealing
over me, and the recollections of the happy days of love and sunshine I
had passed during the first part of my married life, were mingled with
regrets at my husband’s misfortunes.

A glorious morning sun beaming through the lattice, awoke me at an
early hour; a beautiful landscape met my eyes on going to the window;
it commanded a view of the sea coast, which was not far distant; and I
beheld with delight the blue rolling waves of the ocean, crested with
foam, and swelling proudly as they rolled onward, and came and beat
against the rocks on the shore, with a hoarse echoing sound; the high
cliffs at the water’s edge, matted into quiet unassuming hills as they
disappeared in the distance. The light fishing skiffs of the fishermen,
chained to the shore, danced on the bosom of the blue waters, and the
joyous song of the men as they drew in their nets, was wafted to my ears
by the clear morning breeze. The shepherds and their flocks browsing on
the hill tops, diminished by distance to the size of mice, were dimly
visible. On that classic, quiet shore, silence and repose kept vigils
gentle and imposing as such presence should be.

When I descended I found the count below in the parlor; he said his sleep
had been disturbed by dismal dreams, and his sad face bore testimony to
his words. After breakfast, at which little was said, he proposed a walk
on the beach; mechanically I consented, put on my bonnet and shawl, and
we went forth together.

We pursued a path through a small forest of palm, linden, and fir trees;
their thick shade formed an impenetrable bower, relieved at their base
by wild flowers of every description; the meandering course of numerous
rivulets ran through the wood.

We continued on, the count occasionally making some remark about the
beauty of the scenery, to which I responded by monosyllables; my mind
was too intensely absorbed to talk. The forest was passed: the sun broke
brightly from a cloud, and the beach and the murmuring waves lay before
us; a small schooner, contending against the tide, was drifting slowly
along.

“That bark, struggling for anchorage, is like your life, dear lady;
now it rises, now falls amid the waters; the sails gathered in, the
pilot endeavoring to gain a position of safety; presently she will rest
quietly, securely anchored on the bosom of the bay; so will it be, I
predicate, of thee.”

“God grant it may,” I murmured.

As he said, after many tacks and manœuvres, the little bark succeeded in
gaining safe anchorage, where riding tranquilly it rested. The birds of
the ocean surrounded it, flapping their wings, and making the air resound
with their mournful cries.

A road wound along the shore, bordered by a footpath: on this we wandered
at random, stooping sometimes to pick the flowers strewing the way. The
count philosophized on nature in his sweet voice, and nature smiled upon
us wearing her fairest dress; at last, after we had gone some distance,
he looked at his watch.

“The hour has come, dear lady, I must go: the carriage will be at the
house to bear me away, and your forebodings will be relieved when I shall
arrive at Naples and write you.”

Seeing that he was really bent on going, we retraced our steps to the
house; the barouche which brought us was already there; he did not enter
the dwelling, but pressing my hand with earnest fervor, stepped into it
and drove away.

       *       *       *       *       *

A week of quiet daily routine, and intense mental anxiety, succeeded the
count’s departure; the days sped slowly in monotonous regularity; the
nights were lonely, and would have been terrible had it not been for my
child and faithful servant.

The evening of the sixth day after he went to Naples, I was sitting at
the window of my room abstractedly gazing on vacancy, when I saw a man
rapidly approaching on horseback, urging his spurs into the animal’s
sides, and moving his arms in such a ridiculous manner, that, had my
mind been at ease, I should have laughed at his absurd gestures; but in
my grief they were unnoticed; suddenly reining in his horse at the door,
he handed a letter to the peasant, who was taking his siesta before the
door, and rode away as rapidly as he had come; the man brought it to me,
and I eagerly, yet tremblingly, opened it and devoured the contents; it
was from my husband, superscribed in the count’s handwriting, and as
follows:

                                    “_Barberinni Prison, June 11th._

    “DEAREST GENEVRA:—

    “Count Calabrella will find means to send you this. Were it not
    for him you would hear nothing of my condition, as I am under
    such close surveillance that nothing concerning me escapes
    suspicion. The principal agent in this sad affair exposed all
    by his blunders, and this has brought me, perhaps, to a felon’s
    death. It is not known when my trial will take place,—I hope
    soon, as I have secured powerful mediation in my behalf. These
    prisons are dark and cold—frightful from their solitude. I
    sit in one corner of my cell and write this by the light of a
    lantern, while the count waits to take it away. I wish I could
    see my boy again; but the strange inexorable fate which has
    pursued me from my earliest years will probably continue its
    malice to the close of my life. Farewell,—farewell,—take care
    of yourself,—remain at Baie till the result of this is known.
    You shall hear from me soon again.

                           “Yours till death,

                                                            SERVAL.”

This strange epistle, written on a piece of paper evidently torn from
some book, and almost illegible from blots and blurs, was too general
and incoherent to satisfy me. Perhaps, for fear of being surprised by
the jailor or some of the officials, he was unable to write more; yet he
told me of nothing that had transpired. Perhaps it would have harrowed my
heart too much had he told me all,—he wished to spare me the sorrow.

Then came a note, within the other, from Count Calabrella.

    “MOST RESPECTED LADY:—

    “Immediately upon my arrival I asked permission to be admitted
    to see your husband, but was refused the favor, and only
    obtained it yesterday through the intercession of a cardinal of
    the church, a friend of mine. I then hastened to see Monsieur
    de Serval. I found him sad, but not as desponding as I had
    expected. Of course you can imagine what was said of you,—and
    I should be rude to repeat to you what you will have already
    anticipated. We then conversed upon this ill-fated affair.
    I told him that Alcantara was arrested, of which fact he
    was ignorant,—the minor confederates had fled. We conferred
    as to what was best to be done; and I decided on soliciting
    the intercession of the foreign ministers, and some of the
    cardinals, together with as many others as I could secure.

    “When I left him I hastened to the house of the French
    minister. I was admitted to an audience. He received me most
    politely,—listened attentively to my explanation of the facts
    of the case, (which it is needless to trouble you with,)—I
    entreated him to interest himself for his countryman. He did
    not definitely say he would, but deferred the question for
    reconsideration. I think, however, I shall be able to persuade
    him into doing something. I have secured the interests of
    several cardinals, and intend to do much more before the trial
    comes on. Believe me, every thing that is within the range
    of human possibility shall be done. I do not despair: and I
    entreat you, also, to be consoled,—to hope.

                            “Yours in faith,

                                                        CALABRELLA.”

This letter partially revived my drooping spirits, for it breathed
hope and elasticity of mind. My husband’s was gloomy, but that was
attributable to his unhappy situation. I had expected an explanation,—I
received only general assurances of brighter times, which to me seemed
far distant,—dubious,—if not impossible.

I resigned myself to the course of circumstances, and patiently abided my
time. Beautiful sunny days, and moonlight nights, fell upon Baie at that
time,—the warm, bright glow of the sun, and the calm sweet light of the
moon was soothing as its rays. I often walked, beneath its light, up and
down the road on which the house faced.

One evening I started before sunset and walked in the direction of some
curious ruins, situated on a cliff on the shores; the road diverged in
a fork leading down to the beach. I preferred this walk and followed
it; when I had walked some distance I reached the beach, the waters now
quietly swelling and falling beneath the brilliant rays of the sun;
the road was thickly strewn with shells, some of which I picked up and
examined; then, my mind naturally running back to philosophy, I compared
human life, human joys, human expectations, to those shells at my
feet, and those ruins on the cliff before me. As the light played upon
the broken archway, the desolate court-yard, the ruined chambers, the
falling turrets, I felt my old feelings of gloom and morbid thought come
wandering back.

I ascended the hill by a beaten pathway, and wandered in and around the
little temple; myself and my thoughts were the only inhabitants of the
place. I gathered a bouquet of flowers and was preparing to return, the
moon having now arisen: when, glancing up at the sky, I saw that which
had been a few moments before so serene, dark and lowering; the horizon
obscured by immense black clouds, which were rapidly spreading over the
sky; heavy gusts were borne bellowing along, and the glaring foam of the
waves was visible faraway.

It was impossible to take the beach road under such circumstances, the
tide having arisen, I was in danger of drowning; it was impossible to
go through the woods the other side of the ruins, I was in danger of
being lost in their density. I knew not what to do: meanwhile the sky
continued to darken; the moon was completely overcast; the wind continued
to howl around me; the only thing to do was to remain in the temple, and
claim the precarious benefit of its shelter. I could scarcely see to
re-enter the ruins, and seated myself on a broken column in their midst;
everything was buried in stones and darkness; the gloom was so intense I
felt it.

The storm increased rapidly; the waves lashed to fury, broke against
the rocks with a roaring noise; the waves in the distance shone with
phosphoric light; the clouds swept hither and thither over the face
of the sky; now in tremendous masses, now scattered, white, dim and
ghostlike; such a scene as this, was calculated to inspire any one with
horror, and the blood ran cold in my veins, as I sat and listened.

Thus it raged for I know not how long: I could not reckon time in such
a place. I thought it must be two hours. Then another sound was mingled
with the gale: a strange crashing, a wild unearthly yell rang out on
the storm; then all was absorbed in the rushing gale. Presently another
interval of calm succeeded to the hellish sounds, when the waves and
winds apparently paused to take breath, and gather their strength for
another onset. The uproar of echoes, reverberating around me, was
frightful; I almost thought demons from a lower world were playing their
fantastic tricks within the old ruins. The weather during the day had
been delightful, but the storm had rendered the air severe; and, as I sat
shivering on the column, my hair standing on end, and teeth chattering
with fear, the moon momentarily broke through the clouds, and disclosed
the lurid landscape, strange and unearthly looking by the mysterious
light. I could not express on paper the agony I suffered, till by the
faint streaks of morning light in the east, I perceived day would soon
dawn. The roar of the gale gradually subsided, the clouds became less
strongly dark, the ocean’s waves less tumultuous; and an hour afterward,
when I could fully perceive objects, I saw the light of day; and it shone
upon a strange scene! When assured that the danger was over, I summoned
strength to rise; my trembling limbs almost refused to support me. I
wished to return to the house, anxious about my child. Walking down the
hill towards the beach, my attention was attracted by pieces of spars,
rigging, and a small boat stranded by the waves; this explained to me
the horrid sound I had heard during the storm. A ship had been wrecked
off the coast, which in that part abounded in breakers; numerous other
objects now caught my astonished eyes: a little farther on a number of
bales and some personal property lay scattered about; an object clothed
in white, was stretched across my way; going towards it I knelt down and
sought to distinguish what it was; it was a corpse, a female form; the
drapery concealed the face. I raised the robe from the countenance, and
beheld! yes,—no,—yes—it _was_ Blanche!

Blanche! Great heaven! what could it mean? Yes, it was her! There she
was dead: the same calm, sweet features; the same graceful form, dressed
in white; the fair arms crossed on the breast. From the position in
which I found her, she seemed not to have made the slightest effort to
save herself: the angels of heaven seemed to have fanned her with their
wings,—so innocently calm, so pure looked she. But how came she on board
this unhappy bark? Where was she going to? I had supposed that when she
fled from Naples, it was to some foreign land, not to remain in Italy.
And where was her lover? I resolved to leave the body, and go to some
fishermen’s huts on the cliff behind the ruin, and seek assistance, to
have the body conveyed to town. As I prepared to do so, several other
bodies presented themselves to my gaze, and in the corpse of a man,
lying with his face exposed, I recognized Lord Glenfell. He was dressed
in royal blue cloth, such as he had always worn (preserving his English
customs) at Naples. One hand was buried in his bosom, the other hung
stiff and cold by his side; and even in death he retained his perfect
beauty. This unexpected, incomprehensible event, coming so suddenly upon
me, after my own sorrows, and the fright from the storm, overpowered me,
and sitting down on a fragment of stone, I wept over the bodies. Along
the beach for a quarter of a mile the wreck was strewed in confusion:
masts, cargo, rigging, luggage, all lay in different positions. The
principal part of the passengers and crew probably had perished. One or
two bodies came floating along as I franticly rushed up the hill again,
in the direction of the fisher’s huts. They were not there when I reached
them:—gone, an old woman told me, to plunder the wreck. She and a young
girl were the only occupants of the tent, and I earnestly entreated
them to return with me to the shore, and carry the body of Blanche to
their house, to remain there till I could obtain assistance from Baie.
They consented to accompany me, and we returned together, they talking
incessantly about the storm and the wreck, wondering what the name of
the vessel was, and whence it came. The bodies were undisturbed when I
reached them. The woman, apparently used to such scenes, carelessly took
up the inanimate form of my beloved friend, and strode away to the house
again, while the girl remained to watch that of Lord Glenfell’s.

Meanwhile the sun had fully risen, and threw his golden rays on the
scene. The waves had subsided somewhat: they were growing calmer. The sky
was bright and glowing: the hues of morning lit up the shores.

The wreckers were busy at their plunder, wretchedly dressed; some of them
in tatters, running here and there: even the dead bodies they spared not.
The girl sat down on the sand near the gurgling waves, and I, standing on
my feet, regarded the fair young Englishman. His eyes, which in life had
been a soft brilliant blue, were wide open, and their unnatural glare
startled me. The deadly pallor of his features, and the languid air his
form and face bore, too surely showed that life was not there. Presently
the old woman returned, and with the aid of her husband, an athletic
peasant, they raised the corpse, and I and the girl following, went back
whence we came.

They laid the two beautiful, yet guilty lovers, side by side on a rustic
bed, poor and lowly as the lot of them to whom it belonged. Then the
woman began to wash away the sand which thickly obscured their faces,
and gathered on their clothes, all the while uttering sad cries that two
so beautiful should die. Wiping the tears from my eyes, I turned to the
peasant, and asked him if he could proceed immediately to my house at
Baie, and procure biers to take the bodies thither, and tell my maid and
some of the peasants there to come also? He replied with alacrity that he
would, and departed.

When the sand and red clay of the shore was entirely cleared from their
persons, I regarded the corpses more attentively. Two years had not
changed my Blanche; she was as beautiful as in those times past, when we
sang together at Naples. I remembered the night of her departure, and
her nocturnal farewell—so sad, so strange. Where had she gone then, and
whither was she going now in this ship? Perhaps again to Parthenope, when
the scissors of the fatal sisters, cut short the thread of her days. Oh!
unhappy fate,—sad destiny.

Lord Glenfells then continued faithful to his vows of faith and love. Oh!
marvellous instance of attachment in a man, that his love should last two
years. Perhaps, if there were more women like her, their love would last
longer. Together they had died, and now it was my sad task to see them
buried amid the wild, romantic scenery of Baie.

I was alone with the bodies for more than an hour, ere the peasant came
back with my poor, astonished Pasiphae, accompanied by several men,
bearing hand biers. News of the shipwreck had reached the town, and great
fear had been entertained lest some evil had befallen me, as hour after
hour passed away, and I came not, and the terrible storm arose. Great
was their amazement when they beheld me watching two corpses, and when
they saw the agony imprinted on my face. The sympathizing Pasiphae threw
herself at my feet, and weepingly buried her face in the folds of my robe.

“This is a most inexplicable affair, my poor Pasiphae,” said I. “I will
tell you some other time. I could not return to you last evening. I spent
the night in the ruins of the temple to avoid the storm. I wish to get
home quickly.”

“The sweet child wept much last night, my lady, but I hushed him to sleep
at last,” said my faithful servant.

I turned to the men, who had placed upon the bier Lord Glenfells and his
beautiful Blanche, and after paying the women for their attention, the
mournful cortege set out.

We took the road along the beach to the fork, whence it diverged to the
house; then following that, we soon arrived at home. The women came
rushing to the door to see so strange a sight, and scarce believed their
eyes when they beheld what I brought. They were carried up stairs into an
empty room, next to mine, placed on a bed, covered with a white coverlid;
and I left the room, locking the door and taking the key with me. I
returned to my child.

       *       *       *       *       *

I buried them at Baie. They have a lonely grave on that rock-bound coast,
at the top of the cliff on which the ruined temple of fortune stands. The
ocean’s waves wash the base of the rocks, and the flowers and trees are
gathered thickly around it. No splendid monument marks the last repose of
one of England’s brightest, handsomest sons;—no inscription tells of the
fair, ill-fated songstress. Her death, like her life, was isolated. But
her memory at least is still fondly cherished by one who knew and loved
her well.

When last I visited their graves, I found them overgrown with
flowers,—odorous and beautiful as had been the character of Blanche.
There the rose, the acacia, japonica, myrtle, and cypress, form unfading
bowers, unfailing mourners, over their graves. When the sea is calm,
the quiet murmur of its waves seems to utter unknown regrets. In storms
their swelling tumult sounds like a requiem. Vain would it be for me
to describe the many sad hours I passed there, silently offering as an
ovation the grief of a sincere heart. During my stay at Baie, not a day
elapsed but found me a visiter there. There the sadness of the scene
taught me to moderate my own regrets,—taught me to uplift my heart to
God,—taught me to be humble, thankful, and resigned.

A month passed without my hearing anything farther from my husband or
Count Calabrella. I was terribly anxious: I dreaded lest something of a
frightful character had happened, and that they feared to tell me it. I
sometimes walked half the night up and down my room, conjuring my brains
to imagine the reasons of this mysterious silence; but I could bring my
mind to no clear explanation. I could resolve on nothing; everything
was dark to me. At length the dreaded, yet wished for explanation came.
Another courier came with another letter, which I have still preserved.
I submit it to you:—

    “I have made my escape. I have left Naples and Italy for ever.
    Had I awaited my trial, I know I should have been utterly
    lost. I jeoparded my life in getting out of prison; but am
    safe now. I release you from all faith, all allegiance to me;
    forget me: heaven never intended us for each other. Return to
    the gay world: may you be happy. Kiss my child for me. I had
    a presentiment, when I stood over his cradle, that I should
    never see him more: his baby-features are imprinted on my soul;
    they will only be obliterated when I shall cease to breathe.
    Remember me in those prayers you so fervently offer to your
    God, and may that God watch over you.

    “I go to seek a new fortune in some foreign land; as yet I know
    not where: everything in the future is dark and uncertain.
    Farewell! Farewell!

                                                            SERVAL.”

When I had read this strange epistle, and fully comprehended it, I
remained petrified with amazement: the tone of it was so reckless,
wild—almost incoherent—I scarcely believed it to be my husband’s. He gave
me up; he told me to forget him; to return to the world I had quitted for
him. He seemed to write without feeling any regret, any sadness at this
eternal separation. His child alone elicited a sentiment of humanity; and
this was all the reward I received for the forbearance I had manifested
toward him,—the devotion I had practiced for more than two years to that
unhappy man. I was thrown off—cast away!

After reflection, I resolved to go to Naples to learn something definite.
Our travelling arrangements were soon made, and the following afternoon
we left Baie.

The classic ruins, the ocean, the beautiful shore, and the graves of
Blanche and Lord Glenfells, were soon lost to my longing eyes, in the
windings of the road. The town, the mountains, sea, rivulets, ruins and
all, were enveloped in the blue mists of heaven.

The next day I again beheld the fair city of Naples rising on the hill,
with her lofty towers, gardens, churches, castles and splendid private
dwellings, rearing their superb height one above the other; and again I
drove through the beautiful street Toledo. I hastened to the house of
Madame Bonni; but two years had created changes in Naples. The good woman
was gone, and another dwelt in her house. I secured apartments, however,
in one of the most retired hotels, and then sent for the Court Guide, to
ascertain the residence of Count Calabrella, whom I regarded as my only
friend in this great trouble; it was brought, and after ascertaining his
address, I sent mine to him.

He came immediately. When he entered my parlour I rushed toward him, and
showing him the letter I held in my hand, exclaimed:

“Is this true? Oh! tell me, dear count, is it true?”

“Be calm, dear lady, I entreat you; be composed; this is an unexpected
meeting. I had intended coming to you at Baie to-morrow to tell you the
strange news.”

“But tell me, I entreat you, is it true? has my husband really escaped
from prison? has he left me in this way?”

“He has escaped, and gone I know not where. Three days ago I visited him
to tell him some favorable news regarding himself; he seemed cheerful;
spoke much of you, and confidently of the result of the trial. Yesterday
it was noised abroad that he had fled from Naples; doubting whether it
was not mere rumor, I inquired, and found it true: it astonished me much.
Knowing your husband’s determined character, I had been actively engaged
in obtaining all the influence I could in his favor. I doubt not, myself,
had he awaited his trial, it would have terminated favorably.”

“Gone! gone!” I cried—thinking only of the desertion—“for ever gone! and
what is to become of me and the child?”

“Don’t give way to grief, madame; be comforted; you will find numerous
friends: those who have known and loved you before your marriage.”

“Oh, count! I feel as if this were the acme of my misfortunes!”

“I know life has had many changes for you; but sorrow will not last for
ever; and destiny sometimes presents a pleasant face.”

Thus for an hour he endeavored to divert my mind from dwelling with
too much intensity on this inexplicable affair; but in vain did I try
to talk or think of something else; and he, perceiving the abstraction
of my thoughts, probably thought that quiet and repose would be the
best consolers at that moment: and, after repeated adjurations to be
calm, to hope, he went away. I appreciated the delicacy of his behavior
in not reverting to any thing that could pain me: he had impressed me
agreeably at first, and acquaintance had not dissipated that impression.
I was determined, however, to learn more concerning my husband; and
that day calling a calesso, bade him drive to the Barberinni prison. It
was situated in an obscure quarter of the city, down near the harbor,
surrounded by dark and dirty looking buildings on all sides, and itself
presenting an appearance of dark, impenetrable gloom. I alighted and
entered the keeper’s room, where he sat, amid old papers of all
descriptions, reading from a great book, which looked to me like a
ledger. Great bunches of keys adorned the smoked walls, dirty and old as
their proprietor; and an old writing-desk stood in one corner, with a
high stool before it.

He rose civilly as I entered, and asked in what he could please me. I
told him that I had come to ask the particulars of my husband’s escape;
and then informed him that I was the wife of Monsieur de Serval. He
seemed surprised at that; and, on my requesting to be shown my husband’s
cell, immediately acquiesced, locking the door of his stronghold previous
to accompanying me.

We threaded several long stone galleries, off which, on either side,
opened the doors of the cells. Then we descended a long flight of stairs;
then came another gallery; then he paused, and unlocked an iron door, and
ushered me into the dreary cell, lighted by one window, in which Rinaldo
had written me the letter I received at Baie. One of the iron bars of
the window was gone; the keeper pointed to it, and said: “Through that
aperture your husband made his escape two nights ago. I know not how he
obtained possession of the file with which he sawed apart the bar; but he
did so, and swam probably to the opposite shore: at any rate, nothing has
been learned of him, though government has sent spies every where to look
for him.” I looked down at the stone pavement at my feet—and up at the
dim light above my head—and soliloquized, that a month in a dungeon like
that must be equivalent to ten years in the world.

“Did no one come to see my husband during his imprisonment?” I asked,
wishing to learn if any one besides Count Calabrella had visited him.

“A tall, dark gentleman came often, and once another man came, but he
wore a cloak, and I could not see his face; as he presented a permit, I
admitted him.”

“That must have been the man who was accessary to his departure,” thought
I: and having nothing farther to say to the keeper, I left the cell and
returned to the carriage, and was driven home to the hotel.

All the inquiries I made were baffled; all my suppositions were useless;
nothing further concerning my husband’s dubious fate was learned. I
found myself once more thrown out on the world, obliged to resort to my
musical talents for a support. The old manager of the San Carlo, hearing
I wished to return to the stage, called on me, and I entered into an
engagement with him to perform in one of my old operas. I cannot describe
the heartaches I experienced at being obliged to resume the laborious and
distasteful profession I had so gladly resigned: but something must be
done;—I could not remain idle;—I knew of no other means by which I could
maintain myself as well as by singing, and therefore decided on that.

The night of my reappearance, a crowded house awaited me: and the
Austrian nightingale, in her misfortunes, was more admired than had been
the gay Genevra; yet could those brilliant crowds have looked into my
heart, and have seen the bitter sadness imprinted there, even my rivals
would have pitied me; but the world only beheld the celebrated beauty,
the great singer, and my rivals could see nothing; their envy blinded
them. My only joy was to return from those crowded houses; to run away
from the plaudits of the multitude, the dubious admiration of the men,
the patronizing envy of the women, and bury myself in the solitude of
my own room; devote myself to my smiling, happy boy. It was generally
understood that I denied myself to all visitors, consequently I was
not annoyed by any of those disagreeable attentions so often extended
to actresses. I even wished to deny myself to the count, dreading
the consequences of such companionship; but gratitude forbade such
incivility, and he came.

One evening Raphael had fallen asleep on a sofa, after creeping about
on the floor till sleep overcame him. His pretty mouth, like a blooming
rose-bud, was half open, showing two new teeth, and his long white robe
swept along the sofa as he lay;—as I sat near him, listening to his
gentle breathing, I heard a light step on the carpet, and turning, saw
the count. He sat down on the sofa, at the feet of Raphael, and looking
at him, said:

“How sweetly he slumbers; how innocent is the sleep of a child.”

“Yes, their unsuspicious innocence is a charming attribute which they
soon lose.”

I never could raise my eyes when the count was present without
encountering his fixed gaze, and I met it now as I looked up from my
child. He turned his away as I did so, and turned his hat from one hand
to the other with a confused air.

“Can nothing be thought of? can nothing be done, to find out something
more about Monsieur de Serval?” I suddenly inquired, reminded more
strongly by the presence of the count of my unhappy lord.

“Everything that the ingenuity of the government could devise, or I,
or others, suggest to find him out, has been done, but in vain. He has
baffled pursuit. Perhaps some day in future will find you reunited to
him on some fair isle, of which you and your child will form the Venus
and Cupid, your husband the Mars: then, in those days of sunshine, all
recollections of unhappy hours will be forgotten: that will be another
sphere of existence.”

“It is very kind of you to re-assure me, but I am convinced that will
never be.”

“It is possible, and whatever is possible is probable; as for me,” he
continued, “I wonder what fate has in store for me; a life of loneliness
I suppose, as it always has been, travelling, wandering alone.”

“Oh, say not so,” I cried, and anxious to soothe, I laid my hand on his;
“not if you were near me, should you be lonely; friend to me and my
husband, I would always cheer you.”

“You,” he exclaimed, catching my hand; “oh, heaven itself would seem
to dawn upon me, could I always be near you as I am now.” Then, as if
amazed at the fervor with which he had spoken, he dropped my hand, and
confusedly looked down. An agitated silence followed: this singular
avowal had been so abrupt, it startled me into a tumult of thoughts I had
not dreamed of for a long time past: my cheeks blushed carnation hues as
I looked away; my confusion, however, did not last long, for the count,
as if struggling against some feeling he wished to hide, rose abruptly,
and ejaculated, as if with an effort,

“I have alarmed you; I have acted foolishly; but God knows it was
involuntary; I did not intend to wound your feelings; forgive me, dear
Lady Genevra, forgive me; good night.” He extended his small, thin hand
for mine; with my head averted, I placed mine within his. He shook it
gently, and when I looked up he was gone. Oh, how fervently I wished I
had a right ever to retain that hand, ever to lean on that arm, and gaze
into those star-lit eyes; to feel that some one human being on earth
cared for me, was true to me, would not desert me or disdain my love.
Oh, how I wished for that faithful heart. And then to think I had found
it, but under such circumstances that it was guilt itself to think of
it! Had I not better determine never to see him again, to deny myself
the siren-like attraction which was drawing me I know not where? Ought
I not to think of my husband, to mourn his loss, regret his destiny?
Yet he had himself bade me forget him, abandon all allegiance to him,
be happy without him. What was to become of me? whither should I turn
for consolation? Monsieur Belmont had gone to Paris, to direct the opera
there; Madame Bonni had left the city; sweet Blanche was dead, and Inez
far away. Oppressed with these thoughts, I sank into a reverie, when my
child stirred, and turning, I took him in my arms.



CHAPTER XII.


In my loneliness I reminded me of the words of the superior of the
convent of Sacre Cœur, and resolved to visit her. The same nun admitted
me, and I again found myself in the little convent parlor.

Presently I heard the rustling silk dress, and the superior stood before
me. Her features bore the same calm expression of severity; her manner
the same impressive solemnity. She immediately recognised me, and
pressing my hand, almost cordially said,

“Well, daughter, I see you again; you have remembered me; and how fares
the world with thee? has not its hollow-heartednesss already tired you?”

“I feel tired of it sometimes, mother, and remembering the invitation to
visit you, which you gave me two years age, I have come.”

“You have done rightly, daughter: I am glad to see you. I think you told
me you were a catholic; I hope you still remain faithful to our blessed
faith?”

“It has often been a consolation to me in much trouble.”

I was about to enter into more general conversation, when other visitors
came, and I took leave, the Superior cordially bidding me adieu, and
inviting me to come to mass in the chapelle of the Sisters.

Thinking upon the solitude of a convent life—the austerity of such
an existence—I sought my room, where I found the count playing with
Raphael’s baby-rattle to amuse him. He came toward me, as if doubtful of
his reception after the incident of our last meeting; but forgetting the
slight peak I then felt—thinking only of the happiness of seeing him—I
smiled and extended my hand.

“You see I have been endeavoring to amuse little Raphael during your
absence.”

“For which I am very much obliged;” and not knowing what to say—for his
presence, of late, always embarrassed me—I sat down on the sofa, and as
the infant began to cry, told Pasiphae to take it away, which she did,
and we were left alone, I turned, momentarily, to look from the window on
the busy street: an audible sigh fell on my ear, when I turned round, the
count was at my feet.

“Genevra! Let me call you by that name,” said he. “Why should I seek to
conceal a passion which I know you must have already discovered? why
should I hesitate to declare that, of all the women I have ever seen
in all the lands I have ever been, I single you out as the fairest, the
noblest of all; that when I first saw you in the opera, I was struck
with your beauty, and afterwards in that lonely castle, where you led so
isolated a life, a personal acquaintance did not dispel that illusion.
Now, when I see you struggling against the adverse tide of life—forsaken
by your husband,—surrounded by envy, with no happiness save the society
of your child,—why will you not let me consecrate to your pleasure a soul
which would be only too happy to dedicate itself to you? Why will you
evade my sympathy? Why not let me be the sharer of those sorrows which
you try to conceal?”

“Oh, count!” I cried, bursting into tears, as he held my hands; “you must
not talk thus to me; remember I am a married woman; respect my situation.
Whatever may be my sentiments toward you, I must smother them, and you,
for my sake, must do the same.”

“I? No, never can I do that! your sweet image is too deeply impressed
upon my heart: there shall it remain a sacred solace to me. Oh! why did
we not meet before your marriage, when you first made your appearance
here? why do we only understand each other when it is too late?”

“Yes; ask the question of fate: in vain have I demanded it. Why do I
continually long for a shade which eludes my grasp? Why does solitude
ever haunt my footsteps?”

“But I offer you society, happiness; everything on earth that I can
command shall be yours. Has not your husband deserted you? what faith do
you owe to him? If you returned my love; if you would honor me by your
confidence, imagine, my Genevra, what days of happiness might be in store
for us.”

“Count!” I exclaimed, clasping both hands before my eyes, “forbear: I
pray you forbear. I do like you, I acknowledge it; but this must be
our last meeting. This must be the first, last, only expression of my
feelings; and I feel I am doing wrong even in saying this. Consider,
what happiness could I feel in doing anything that could reflect upon
my character, hitherto so unblemished? What joy could I experience in a
future clouded with shame? How differently should I regard you from that
calm-abiding sentiment of security with which a wife regards her husband?
What a tempest of emotions would succeed the happy quiet I have always
enjoyed! And can you wish me to change even the uncertain life I now lead
for such a scene? Depend upon it, dear count, we are better as we are.
The feelings we now entertain for each other are pure; do not let us dim
them by guilt.”

“You love me then?” he whispered, still holding my hands; “you
acknowledge it; say it again;—if we are to be hereafter separated, let me
at least be sure of that,—say so, Genevra.”

“Why, oh, why do you still tempt me? if you know I like you, you know it
without my telling you: words are easily spoken: they might deceive you.”

“Not words from your mouth, my Genevra. I distrust the world generally,
but I know in whom to confide; and who could distrust you?”

“Oh! if you only knew how miserable I feel, you would pity me,” I
passionately exclaimed, comprehending the necessity of our separation,
yet feeling wretched at that thought. “Let us talk of something else; let
us try and remain friends only.”

“Friends!” said he, vehemently, starting from his knees, dropping my
hands, and rapidly walking the room. “My feelings could never answer to
so cold a title, nor could yours if they are what I wish them to be. No,
dear lady, we can never again be merely _friends_,” and he emphasized the
word scornfully. He walked on for some minutes, then suddenly pausing
before me, looked long at my face.

“How beautiful, how truthful you are! how misplaced is your present
position!” then, as if animated by a frenzy of feeling, he again caught
my hands, and drawing me to the open window, said:—“Genevra, look there;
look at that beautiful scene! see how the sun gilds the lofty domes; the
tall trees, the gardens, the flowers! see how he warms whatever he looks
upon, and his light might also warm two loving hearts, if my prayer was
heard. Fly, Genevra, fly with me,” and he moved, drawing my hand toward
the door; but I, though penetrated by a profound emotion, remained
immovable, and suppressing all external indications of it, quietly drew
him back to the casement, and pointing to the clear blue sky, now near
twilight, said to him:

“You spoke to me allegorically: I will answer you the same. As you said
to me at Baie, when we together stood upon the shore, watching the little
schooner struggling for anchorage, which it at last secured, and you
predicted that thus would it be with me; so do I say to you now,—behold
that heavy white cloud, obscuring the light of the sky; see it gradually
moves away, and the light shines clear again: so will destiny alter for
us; wait and hope;—everything is comprised in these words.”

“No, Genevra, I have no hope now: this is not an occasion on which hope
is permitted me. If this is our last meeting (and your refusal has
signified it), give me one of those fair curls, that when I look upon
it, I may recall the lovely head on which it grew: yes, give me one of
them, and let me paint your beautiful eyes, your lips, your cheeks, your
whole face, your whole figure, on my heart; but memory has been the
artist: who could paint as well as she?”

A pair of tapestry scissors lay upon the table; he took them up, and
tremblingly severed one of my curls. It was soft and silky, and at least
half a yard long. He smoothed the glossy tress, then laid it in his
bosom, and turned from me as if to go. I saw nothing, felt nothing, but
that he was going away.

“Stay! stay! you are not going from me thus indifferently; not thus
forever?”

“Have you not said so? have you not bade me go? am I not obeying you?”

“Yes, you are obeying me. I meant what I said: but stay yet awhile; I
have something to say. I——,” overpowered by my own sadness, my head sank
upon his shoulder, and with my hands pressed to my eyes, the tears forced
their way through them. Suddenly he encircled me with his arms, and
bowing that proud yet noble head on mine, smoothed the ringlets from my
brow.

“My beautiful Genevra—you will let me call you mine, will you not?” I
bowed acquiescence;—I could not speak. “Since you refuse my love, decline
my visits, I shall write you: you will not refuse me that pleasure, will
you?”

“No,” I stammered.

“To-morrow then, a letter shall explain. Farewell, now,—farewell,
beautiful one.”

He went toward the door. I stood motionless. As he turned half round
before opening the door, I involuntarily stepped toward him. He extended
his arms,—I rushed into them, and clung convulsively to him, as a
drowning man catches at a straw.

“My God! how hard it is,” he ejaculated, as he tore himself away, and the
echo of his footsteps died away on my ear. I still grasped at air, as if
seeking him, and it was some moments before I could convince myself that
he was really gone. Then I went to the windows, pushed back the curtains,
admitted air and light, and sought to cool my burning forehead,—to recall
my scattered thoughts,—but neither air nor light brought me relief.
Objects were dim; nothing appeared as it had in the morning. The sound
of voices and carts in the streets below sounded strange and unnatural.
One only thought haunted me, dwelt in my mind, lingered in my ears,—he
was gone—I had sent him away. I knew I had acted honorably, uprightly;
that I had shown myself to be virtuous and high principled; but I was
miserable,—utterly wretched. I recalled his winning ways, his lofty mind,
his handsome person: I imagined my destiny united to his,—imagined myself
his wife:—I could be his on no other terms. Then I revelled in ideal
happiness,—then no invidious fate stood between us, but I stood lawfully
by his side;—then I was happy.

Thus pre-occupied, agitated and desponding, I sat till dusk had thrown a
veil over the fair city. I did not notice, but dreamed on, and was only
aroused from my meditations by the entrance of Pasiphae with lights.

       *       *       *       *       *

The next morning, more dead than alive, I went to rehearsal. The
performance was tedious—the theatre cold. I hurried through, glad to
escape from the tiresome scene, and returned home, where Pasiphae handed
me a letter. In haste and confusion I opened it. It was from the count:—

    “You have told me I cannot be to you what I wish to be. You
    have bade me be your friend, and as I cannot be that with
    safety either to you or myself, we must see each other no
    more; at least not now, as you say; but to me the prospect
    of a future lawful re-union is very dim and remote. But you
    have not denied me the honor and pleasure of writing you, and
    that shall be a slight link of friendship between us when I am
    far away,—for I intend leaving, a few days hence, for Epirus,
    having to-day resigned my commission as chamberlain to his
    majesty,—and I shall treasure the precious replies you send me
    as mementos breathing your own pure spirit.

    “I shall resume my lonely wanderings in the Levant, where two
    years ago, I spent many happy hours in silent contemplation.
    To those scenes I shall transport your fairy form, and in your
    imaginary society, the ruined grandeur of Athens,—the stately
    remains of Agrigentum,—the classic shores of Troy,—will acquire
    new beauties for me from association. Would that you were
    with me,—that your dreamy, philosophic mind, might conjure up
    visions of past magnificence, and revel in the recollections of
    what it was, contrasted with what it is.

    “But why do I wander into dreams again? Suffice it to say,
    that I must go while yet I have the will to do so, and in
    bidding _you_ farewell, I feel as if bidding adieu to life.
    But most generally in life so it is. No sooner have you found
    a sympathetic mind,—one in whose society existence would wing
    itself away only too delightfully,—than some fatal accident
    tears her away, as if Providence envied human felicity, so
    rarely is it found on earth. I know, however, that that angelic
    virtue which has so nobly sustained you thus far, will continue
    to do so to the end; and that it will, of itself, be a great
    reward. And that heaven may shower upon your pathway roses, the
    brightest, the most beautiful, is the fervent prayer of your own

                                               “ALFIERI CALABRELLA.”

Below his signature, was written in small characters,—“I shall write you
next from Epirus, and expect an answer there.”

I read it again and again,—I kissed the words and examined the
handwriting,—then I folded it, and carefully laid it away in an album.
Within a week, then, he would be away on his journey to Epirus. Far
away from me: I should only hear from him through the indifferent
communication of letters; and how unhappy I should feel when I actually
saw him depart. But I felt in my own heart that I had acted rightly, and
the consciousness of moral rectitude upheld me.

That night I played the part of Norma to a crowded house. Again the lips
and eyes of royalty applauded me. Never did I look better: the excitement
of my mind had sent the hot blood to my cheeks, and my long auburn hair,
falling to my waist in spiral ringlets, relieved my face. An unwonted
inspiration came over me that night, and my voice was unusually clear;
the house was in an uproar of delight, but neither elated by my triumph,
nor caring for the admiration I elicited, I was about leaving the
stage, when the silk curtains of the lower stage box were drawn aside,
and the beautiful, but pale and sad face of the count presented itself
to my view. So sudden was the encounter of our eyes, so strange this
unexpressed adieu, that I scarcely had recollection enough to leave the
stage.

Determined to avoid the crowd which always awaited me in the green-room,
I requested the manager to hand me to my calesso, which he did, and I
drove to my hotel.

It was one o’clock. Pasiphae sat in the bedroom near an open
window,—Raphael lay on his bed in a sweet slumber. I thought I saw
something glitter on my dressing table: going towards it, I perceived a
small Tripoli chain, with a tiny gold heart attached to it, and a slip of
paper pinned to it, with these words written upon it:

    “Let the child wear this in remembrance of me.

                                                            CALABRELLA.”

I asked Pasiphae who had brought it. She said an African servant had left
it an half hour before. It was a delicate parting gift to my child, and
a souvenir for me: but no, I was mistaken—so slight a present was not
intended indirectly for me. Three days after a small package was handed
me. I opened it, and beheld an exquisite miniature of the count, set in
brilliants. The beautiful black eyes seemed to smile on me with their
languid fervor; the clear white complexion, the long nose, slightly
aquiline, and waving black hair, were all detailed naturally; the
blending and commingling of expression, which gave an air of haughtiness
and benevolence to his countenance, was all there.

That was his parting gift: that day he left Naples.

If I had been unhappy in the struggle between love and duty, how much
more so was I not when left utterly alone in that great city; when I
looked forward and saw nothing, when I looked back on strange scenes, and
at the present which was so unsatisfactory.

I renewed my engagement, and continued to sing; from my unprotected
position, I was necessarily exposed to covert attacks of the most
dishonorable character; and one such I received from a Baron Reichstadt,
in the shape of an impertinent note, which I answered as it deserved, and
dismissed him. One or two other innuendos I met with, and although I bore
them all with an outward calm of stoicism; yet within I felt the bitter
humiliation of a proud woman, that such indignities should be put upon me.

The stagnant calm of a monotonous routine, requires little detail; to
rise early, attend to my child, then go to rehearsal as often as a new
opera was to be performed; practise my favorite songs, then walk on
the Toledo, and dine at six, completed my daily existence. I received
a glowing letter from the count, dated Epirus, in which he thrillingly
described the country, dwelt upon its associations, its desolate, ruined
condition now; then delicately bringing the subject back to reality,
spoke of himself, of me. I will not insert it here, nor the many others
he sent me equally beautiful; my story is drawing to a close, my kind
friend, and I am convinced its length must have already tired you.

He continued his travels in the Levant and through the East, while I went
to Florence, to fulfil an engagement there. The charming society of that
fair town; the fine scenery of the city itself, and the air of repose
so different to the busy activity of Naples, combined to cheer and calm
me. There I remained a month, and when I left, it was with feelings of
regret. I carried away with me (they said) the hearts and imaginations
of all; but if I did so, it was unconsciously, for never had I exerted
myself less.

Genoa next claimed my attention, and it was three months ere I saw
Naples again. The laurels I won seemed to me to adorn the head of a
corpse, so listlessly did I regard my fame.

Visions of my husband and the count haunted my dreams, and I always saw
them under strange circumstances, in strange places, when I would seem to
be trying to reach either one or the other, but could not get near them,
some obstacle always interposed,—then in my despair, I would feel as I
felt at parting with the count. From these tumultuous dreams I awoke in
terror, thankful they were mere dreams; and my perceptions being rendered
more acute by these nocturnal visitations, I would renew my anxious
searches for my husband, and send new agents to endeavor to discover him;
but in vain, I heard nothing more of him.

Six months elapsed in the same quiet way, when one day, as I was walking
up and down my parlor, leading Raphael by the hand, a servant announced
that an old man wished to see me.

“Show him in,” said I, and he presently returned, ushering in a tall
man, attired in sailor’s clothes. He came towards me, holding his
tarpaulin-hat in his hand, and apparently confused at my presence.

“Is this the lady?” asked he, bashfully.

“I am Madame de Serval, do you wish to see me?”

“Yes, lady, I have a letter for you from Pondicherry.”

“From Pondicherry,—who can it be from?—I know no one there. Give it me.”

I extended my hand, and the sailor placed in it a letter, coarsely folded
and sealed. I hastily tore it open, and read the following:

    “A gentleman giving his name as Monsieur de Serval, committed
    suicide in my house six days ago, by blowing his brains out
    with a pocket pistol. Having by accident seen a Neapolitan
    paper, containing a description of a Madame de Serval, a
    great singer, I address this letter to the lady in question,
    thinking, from the names, that there may be some relationship
    between the dead gentleman and the lady. If there is, I beg
    she will answer this, and tell me what is to be done with
    his effects, which consist of several large chests, heavily
    locked with padlocks, and four trunks, together with a toilette
    case of rare value, the interior being set with gold, and the
    utensils of the same metal, adorned with precious stones.

    “The gentleman was buried in the English burying ground, and a
    small sum of money in his purse paid for the interment.

                                                      “JEROME TOBIA.

    “_Pondicherry, January 10th._”

When I had read this fatal letter, I endeavored to look around for the
man who had brought it, but I could not see him: the room darkened,
and, with a wild shriek, I fell into Pasiphae’s arms, and lost all
recollection.

       *       *       *       *       *

I must carry you onward another year. When I had sufficiently recovered
from the shock of this unexpected news, I sent to Pondicherry, and had
the remains of my unfortunate husband brought to Naples. I thought I
should have gone mad when I saw the body: and with bitter sadness did I
consign it to mother earth. A marble tombstone was placed over him in the
cemetery of the convent of Sacre Cœur. Of his adventures, or the cause
of his going to Pondicherry, I never knew. All I learned was, that he
came there, boarded at the house of the man who had written me, and was
gentlemanly and reserved. They knew nothing of him. He told no one any
thing concerning himself. He had been there some weeks at the period of
his self-destruction; and it was merely from accident that the landlord
had supposed, that perhaps there might be a relationship between two
persons of the same name. Thus, through the merest chance, after six
months of anxiety and sadness, did I once more, and for the last time,
look upon my Rinaldo’s face.

There is a feeling between husband and wife—that is to say, between
husbands and wives of any sensibility, who have ever loved—there is,
I say, a feeling of affection, which will sooner or later return,
however alienated the parties may have become. As I stood over that
lifeless form, and thought of his erratic career, and wayward, uncertain
character; of his love for me, and subsequent desertion; his entering
into a conspiracy against the government; then carried as prisoner of
state to Naples; his escape and after-wanderings—all rushed through my
mind. Why had he acted thus? Why had he not been honest, upright? Why? Of
whom could I ask that question? The earth falling on the coffin was my
only reply.

Let me pass over those times.

It was in the dawn of spring, I occupied a small Gothic cottage about
a mile from Naples. Two domestics and my child—now a lisping, rosy
boy—together with Pasiphae, were its sole tenants. The grounds of
this sylvan abode were beautifully laid out, and the fairest flowers
planted there. There, too, a marble fountain threw high in air its airy
spray—cooling the air and adorning the garden by its beauty.

Several rustic arbors, formed of the pliable bamboo, and shaped in
Gothic turrets, were placed at intervals along the gravel walks, which,
meeting in one broad attic before the porch ended there; the birds sang
their sweetest songs in the day time; and, at night, the spiritual
warbling of the nightingale was the inspirer of the hour.

Here, one sunny afternoon, I sat under the shade of a tree, watching
Raphael, and Zoe, his pet dog, running races. The frolicksome glee of the
child, the graceful antics of the dog, as he sometimes ran after his baby
master,—sometimes solicited pursuit in return,—amused and diverted me. As
the child grew older I could trace his father’s lineaments in his young
features: and the thoughts which were recalled by that resemblance only
rendered me sadder than I was. I was reading Petrarch’s sonnets, a volume
of which had been presented me by my husband during the first months of
my marriage: their gloomy descriptions of love and beauty entranced my
soul; and, absorbed, I read on, forgetful even of the playful cries of
Raphael, when I saw Pasiphae coming towards me, her face lighted with
more than usual animation: and with a gleeful voice she told me a man
desired to see me in the salon.

“Ask him to send me word what he wants, Pasiphae. I do not wish to see
any one this morning. Why did you not deny me yourself? you know I do not
want to talk,” was my reply; for I was indisposed to see visitors, or
answer business engagements.

“Do come, my lady; do come,” said Pasiphae, urgently, and joyfully;
“indeed you won’t regret it; the person has something particular to say.”

Thus urged, and wondering what it could be, I rose, leaving my book on
the seat, and taking Raphael by the hand, followed by the dog, went into
the house. The rooms were all on the ground floor; a broad hall ran
through the house, and opening off it were four rooms; two were fitted
up as salons, the other two constituted my bed-room and dining-room.
They were furnished alike with red velvet drapery, Turkey carpets, and
mirrors. Pasiphae regularly each day placed fresh flowers in the Chinese
vases on the marble consoles, and their delightful perfume scented the
rooms with oriental fragrance.

I entered the room holding Raphael by the hand, and coming from the clear
light of the garden into the crimson light of the salon, I could scarcely
discern objects.

A tall figure stood with its back towards me, facing the window. As I
stepped forward on the carpet, it turned, and I beheld Count Calabrella.
Animated with a supernatural joy, I sprang toward him.

“It is you!” I cried; “oh, is it you? You have come! you have come!”

“Yes, beloved one,” answered he, as he clasped me in his arms. “At last
we are united: now the unstable dreams which have buoyed me up through
this long separation, and my lonely wanderings are realized; now we meet,
not to feel again the same sorrow we mutually experienced at our last
parting.”

“Oh, let me die now!” I answered, as I laid my head on his breast, “for
now I am happy, and life cannot have many repetitions of such emotions
for me.”

“Instead of dying, let us picture long years of happiness, and be
determined they should be verified,” replied my Alfieri, laughingly.

       *       *       *       *       *

Naples once again saw me as a bride; not as at the first, blooming
with health and joy, my mind in an ecstatic rhapsody of romance, but a
woman chastened by experience, that best of monitors. Subdued, but not
downcast, was my mien the morning of my bridal: the sobered happiness of
my husband’s face was mirrored in mine, and surely I could not have had a
more beautiful mirror.

And in that marriage I was supremely happy; my life glided like a fairy
dream away. The elegance of mind and manner which captivated at first,
did not prove, on mature acquaintance, a fictitious dress, worn merely
for ornament. Judgment, tempered by feeling, guided him, and in obeying
such a guide, how could he fail to act rightly? The calm good sense, the
nobility of soul, and sweet disposition of Alfieri, day by day, more
completely gained my love and esteem.

Before leaving Naples, on a journey we took, soon after our marriage, to
the north of Italy, I chanced to meet in the suburbs of the town—while
walking with my husband—old Acte, the sybil of the rock. She stopped my
way, and looking at me with her piercing eyes, said, “Well, fair lady, we
meet again: I knew we should; and the other, where is she? You need not
tell me: I know already;—she is dead. She lies on the shore, where the
winds howl and the waters beat. Say, lady, say, have not my words proved
true?” demanded she, in her shrill tones.

“Yes, good woman, you were right,” was my hasty reply, as I and my
husband hurried away, anxious to avoid any farther conversation with the
weird-woman.

Soon after we took our departure on a tour through the north of Europe.
Those magnificent cities, beautiful scenery, and the different nations
we visited, acquired new interest in my eyes, when viewed in such
society. Then, after we had satiated our eyes and ears with the wonders
of other lands, we came finally to the Eternal City, where I have had the
pleasure of forming your acquaintance; and I number it as one of the most
agreeable episodes of my life: so, also, does my husband.

My tale is done. You have asked it of me, and knowing your integrity, I
feel no hesitancy in complying with the request. The hours I have passed
in your studio have been among the pleasantest I have spent in Rome.

Should the count and myself never have the pleasure of seeing you again,
at least the copy of my portrait and this diary will seem to be an
invisible link to the chain of thoughts between us three.

Adieu, dear Signor Carrara: we shall leave to-morrow, and have completed
this in haste to leave with you.

                                                       GENEVRA CALABRELLA.

_Rome_, _April_ 6th, ——

       *       *       *       *       *

The latter part of this diary was very old, yellow, and much torn, from
apparently repeated readings: I had some difficulty in decyphering it.
Its perusal had deeply interested me, so I folded it up, and rose upon
my feet. I saw my little time-piece indicated the hour of one, and a
moment after there came a violent knocking at the door, and then Morton’s
stentorian voice was fully audible.

“Clarence, I say Clarence, are you within? if you are, for God’s sake
answer; there’s some infernal thing in my room which has kept me from
sleeping for the last hour. I don’t know what it is, and I can’t find
out, for my light’s gone out; come here and bring a candle for pity’s
sake.”

I seized my expiring candle and rushed into his apartment, where stood
in the middle of the floor my friend, apparently in a state of great
bewilderment; the chairs were thrown about in confusion, and clothes were
lying here and there; the curtains of the bed half pulled down.

“What is it, Morton? what’s the matter?” I cried, bringing the luminary
to bear upon the chaos.

“What’s the matter? why that’s just what I want to know myself; for the
last hour I have heard nothing but chairs upset, the hangings scratched
at, and my own hair and face most delightfully scratched. When I
stretched out my hands, seeking to discover the cause of the mischief, I
grasped empty air; I could see nothing, all was darkness: and thus have
I been bored; now take your candle and try and find out what it is.”

I began a tour of the apartment, but saw nothing, except luggage piled
on luggage, dressing cases, brushes, combs, &c., &c.; when going around
the bed, I heard a sardonic laugh, and looking up, saw perched on the
tester, a monkey; the property of a fellow boarder, who, by some means,
had contrived to secrete himself in my friend’s room, and consequently
annoy him by his tricks. Taking the mischievous animal by his fore legs I
put him out the room, much to Morton’s relief, who exclaimed,

“Is that the thing? well, it has been troubling me enough, the plague; I
thought satan himself was here. Thank you, Clarence, my dear fellow; what
time is it?”

I told him, then went to bed.

The next day I waited on Signor Ferra, the attorney; he lived in a dark,
dirty street, in an old tumble-down house. Upon opening Carrara’s will,
I found, to my utter amazement, that with the exception of the house in
which he lived, and the gallery of paintings, he had made me heir to
his considerable property in Rome and the environs, together with the
beautiful portrait of Genevra. My kindness to the solitary old artist,
had not been ill repaid; so impossible it is for us in this strange
existence, to foresee the result of even the slightest action; and, which
only more fully demonstrated to me the propriety of always being polite.

A few days after, Morton and myself left Rome for Athens.


THE END.



*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Genevra; or, the history of a portrait,: by an American lady. A resident of Washington City." ***


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