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.