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.’