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.