CHAPTER XII.
In my loneliness I reminded me of the words of the superior of the convent of Sacre Cœur, and resolved to visit her. The same nun admitted me, and I again found myself in the little convent parlor.
Presently I heard the rustling silk dress, and the superior stood before me. Her features bore the same calm expression of severity; her manner the same impressive solemnity. She immediately recognised me, and pressing my hand, almost cordially said,
“Well, daughter, I see you again; you have remembered me; and how fares the world with thee? has not its hollow-heartednesss already tired you?”
“I feel tired of it sometimes, mother, and remembering the invitation to visit you, which you gave me two years age, I have come.”
“You have done rightly, daughter: I am glad to see you. I think you told me you were a catholic; I hope you still remain faithful to our blessed faith?”
“It has often been a consolation to me in much trouble.”
I was about to enter into more general conversation, when other visitors came, and I took leave, the Superior cordially bidding me adieu, and inviting me to come to mass in the chapelle of the Sisters.
Thinking upon the solitude of a convent life—the austerity of such an existence—I sought my room, where I found the count playing with Raphael’s baby-rattle to amuse him. He came toward me, as if doubtful of his reception after the incident of our last meeting; but forgetting the slight peak I then felt—thinking only of the happiness of seeing him—I smiled and extended my hand.
“You see I have been endeavoring to amuse little Raphael during your absence.”
“For which I am very much obliged;” and not knowing what to say—for his presence, of late, always embarrassed me—I sat down on the sofa, and as the infant began to cry, told Pasiphae to take it away, which she did, and we were left alone, I turned, momentarily, to look from the window on the busy street: an audible sigh fell on my ear, when I turned round, the count was at my feet.
“Genevra! Let me call you by that name,” said he. “Why should I seek to conceal a passion which I know you must have already discovered? why should I hesitate to declare that, of all the women I have ever seen in all the lands I have ever been, I single you out as the fairest, the noblest of all; that when I first saw you in the opera, I was struck with your beauty, and afterwards in that lonely castle, where you led so isolated a life, a personal acquaintance did not dispel that illusion. Now, when I see you struggling against the adverse tide of life—forsaken by your husband,—surrounded by envy, with no happiness save the society of your child,—why will you not let me consecrate to your pleasure a soul which would be only too happy to dedicate itself to you? Why will you evade my sympathy? Why not let me be the sharer of those sorrows which you try to conceal?”
“Oh, count!” I cried, bursting into tears, as he held my hands; “you must not talk thus to me; remember I am a married woman; respect my situation. Whatever may be my sentiments toward you, I must smother them, and you, for my sake, must do the same.”
“I? No, never can I do that! your sweet image is too deeply impressed upon my heart: there shall it remain a sacred solace to me. Oh! why did we not meet before your marriage, when you first made your appearance here? why do we only understand each other when it is too late?”
“Yes; ask the question of fate: in vain have I demanded it. Why do I continually long for a shade which eludes my grasp? Why does solitude ever haunt my footsteps?”
“But I offer you society, happiness; everything on earth that I can command shall be yours. Has not your husband deserted you? what faith do you owe to him? If you returned my love; if you would honor me by your confidence, imagine, my Genevra, what days of happiness might be in store for us.”
“Count!” I exclaimed, clasping both hands before my eyes, “forbear: I pray you forbear. I do like you, I acknowledge it; but this must be our last meeting. This must be the first, last, only expression of my feelings; and I feel I am doing wrong even in saying this. Consider, what happiness could I feel in doing anything that could reflect upon my character, hitherto so unblemished? What joy could I experience in a future clouded with shame? How differently should I regard you from that calm-abiding sentiment of security with which a wife regards her husband? What a tempest of emotions would succeed the happy quiet I have always enjoyed! And can you wish me to change even the uncertain life I now lead for such a scene? Depend upon it, dear count, we are better as we are. The feelings we now entertain for each other are pure; do not let us dim them by guilt.”
“You love me then?” he whispered, still holding my hands; “you acknowledge it; say it again;—if we are to be hereafter separated, let me at least be sure of that,—say so, Genevra.”
“Why, oh, why do you still tempt me? if you know I like you, you know it without my telling you: words are easily spoken: they might deceive you.”
“Not words from your mouth, my Genevra. I distrust the world generally, but I know in whom to confide; and who could distrust you?”
“Oh! if you only knew how miserable I feel, you would pity me,” I passionately exclaimed, comprehending the necessity of our separation, yet feeling wretched at that thought. “Let us talk of something else; let us try and remain friends only.”
“Friends!” said he, vehemently, starting from his knees, dropping my hands, and rapidly walking the room. “My feelings could never answer to so cold a title, nor could yours if they are what I wish them to be. No, dear lady, we can never again be merely friends,” and he emphasized the word scornfully. He walked on for some minutes, then suddenly pausing before me, looked long at my face.
“How beautiful, how truthful you are! how misplaced is your present position!” then, as if animated by a frenzy of feeling, he again caught my hands, and drawing me to the open window, said:—“Genevra, look there; look at that beautiful scene! see how the sun gilds the lofty domes; the tall trees, the gardens, the flowers! see how he warms whatever he looks upon, and his light might also warm two loving hearts, if my prayer was heard. Fly, Genevra, fly with me,” and he moved, drawing my hand toward the door; but I, though penetrated by a profound emotion, remained immovable, and suppressing all external indications of it, quietly drew him back to the casement, and pointing to the clear blue sky, now near twilight, said to him:
“You spoke to me allegorically: I will answer you the same. As you said to me at Baie, when we together stood upon the shore, watching the little schooner struggling for anchorage, which it at last secured, and you predicted that thus would it be with me; so do I say to you now,—behold that heavy white cloud, obscuring the light of the sky; see it gradually moves away, and the light shines clear again: so will destiny alter for us; wait and hope;—everything is comprised in these words.”
“No, Genevra, I have no hope now: this is not an occasion on which hope is permitted me. If this is our last meeting (and your refusal has signified it), give me one of those fair curls, that when I look upon it, I may recall the lovely head on which it grew: yes, give me one of them, and let me paint your beautiful eyes, your lips, your cheeks, your whole face, your whole figure, on my heart; but memory has been the artist: who could paint as well as she?”
A pair of tapestry scissors lay upon the table; he took them up, and tremblingly severed one of my curls. It was soft and silky, and at least half a yard long. He smoothed the glossy tress, then laid it in his bosom, and turned from me as if to go. I saw nothing, felt nothing, but that he was going away.
“Stay! stay! you are not going from me thus indifferently; not thus forever?”
“Have you not said so? have you not bade me go? am I not obeying you?”
“Yes, you are obeying me. I meant what I said: but stay yet awhile; I have something to say. I——,” overpowered by my own sadness, my head sank upon his shoulder, and with my hands pressed to my eyes, the tears forced their way through them. Suddenly he encircled me with his arms, and bowing that proud yet noble head on mine, smoothed the ringlets from my brow.
“My beautiful Genevra—you will let me call you mine, will you not?” I bowed acquiescence;—I could not speak. “Since you refuse my love, decline my visits, I shall write you: you will not refuse me that pleasure, will you?”
“No,” I stammered.
“To-morrow then, a letter shall explain. Farewell, now,—farewell, beautiful one.”
He went toward the door. I stood motionless. As he turned half round before opening the door, I involuntarily stepped toward him. He extended his arms,—I rushed into them, and clung convulsively to him, as a drowning man catches at a straw.
“My God! how hard it is,” he ejaculated, as he tore himself away, and the echo of his footsteps died away on my ear. I still grasped at air, as if seeking him, and it was some moments before I could convince myself that he was really gone. Then I went to the windows, pushed back the curtains, admitted air and light, and sought to cool my burning forehead,—to recall my scattered thoughts,—but neither air nor light brought me relief. Objects were dim; nothing appeared as it had in the morning. The sound of voices and carts in the streets below sounded strange and unnatural. One only thought haunted me, dwelt in my mind, lingered in my ears,—he was gone—I had sent him away. I knew I had acted honorably, uprightly; that I had shown myself to be virtuous and high principled; but I was miserable,—utterly wretched. I recalled his winning ways, his lofty mind, his handsome person: I imagined my destiny united to his,—imagined myself his wife:—I could be his on no other terms. Then I revelled in ideal happiness,—then no invidious fate stood between us, but I stood lawfully by his side;—then I was happy.
Thus pre-occupied, agitated and desponding, I sat till dusk had thrown a veil over the fair city. I did not notice, but dreamed on, and was only aroused from my meditations by the entrance of Pasiphae with lights.
The next morning, more dead than alive, I went to rehearsal. The performance was tedious—the theatre cold. I hurried through, glad to escape from the tiresome scene, and returned home, where Pasiphae handed me a letter. In haste and confusion I opened it. It was from the count:—
“You have told me I cannot be to you what I wish to be. You have bade me be your friend, and as I cannot be that with safety either to you or myself, we must see each other no more; at least not now, as you say; but to me the prospect of a future lawful re-union is very dim and remote. But you have not denied me the honor and pleasure of writing you, and that shall be a slight link of friendship between us when I am far away,—for I intend leaving, a few days hence, for Epirus, having to-day resigned my commission as chamberlain to his majesty,—and I shall treasure the precious replies you send me as mementos breathing your own pure spirit.
“I shall resume my lonely wanderings in the Levant, where two years ago, I spent many happy hours in silent contemplation. To those scenes I shall transport your fairy form, and in your imaginary society, the ruined grandeur of Athens,—the stately remains of Agrigentum,—the classic shores of Troy,—will acquire new beauties for me from association. Would that you were with me,—that your dreamy, philosophic mind, might conjure up visions of past magnificence, and revel in the recollections of what it was, contrasted with what it is.
“But why do I wander into dreams again? Suffice it to say, that I must go while yet I have the will to do so, and in bidding you farewell, I feel as if bidding adieu to life. But most generally in life so it is. No sooner have you found a sympathetic mind,—one in whose society existence would wing itself away only too delightfully,—than some fatal accident tears her away, as if Providence envied human felicity, so rarely is it found on earth. I know, however, that that angelic virtue which has so nobly sustained you thus far, will continue to do so to the end; and that it will, of itself, be a great reward. And that heaven may shower upon your pathway roses, the brightest, the most beautiful, is the fervent prayer of your own
“Alfieri Calabrella.”
Below his signature, was written in small characters,—“I shall write you next from Epirus, and expect an answer there.”
I read it again and again,—I kissed the words and examined the handwriting,—then I folded it, and carefully laid it away in an album. Within a week, then, he would be away on his journey to Epirus. Far away from me: I should only hear from him through the indifferent communication of letters; and how unhappy I should feel when I actually saw him depart. But I felt in my own heart that I had acted rightly, and the consciousness of moral rectitude upheld me.
That night I played the part of Norma to a crowded house. Again the lips and eyes of royalty applauded me. Never did I look better: the excitement of my mind had sent the hot blood to my cheeks, and my long auburn hair, falling to my waist in spiral ringlets, relieved my face. An unwonted inspiration came over me that night, and my voice was unusually clear; the house was in an uproar of delight, but neither elated by my triumph, nor caring for the admiration I elicited, I was about leaving the stage, when the silk curtains of the lower stage box were drawn aside, and the beautiful, but pale and sad face of the count presented itself to my view. So sudden was the encounter of our eyes, so strange this unexpressed adieu, that I scarcely had recollection enough to leave the stage.
Determined to avoid the crowd which always awaited me in the green-room, I requested the manager to hand me to my calesso, which he did, and I drove to my hotel.
It was one o’clock. Pasiphae sat in the bedroom near an open window,—Raphael lay on his bed in a sweet slumber. I thought I saw something glitter on my dressing table: going towards it, I perceived a small Tripoli chain, with a tiny gold heart attached to it, and a slip of paper pinned to it, with these words written upon it:
“Let the child wear this in remembrance of me.
Calabrella.”
I asked Pasiphae who had brought it. She said an African servant had left it an half hour before. It was a delicate parting gift to my child, and a souvenir for me: but no, I was mistaken—so slight a present was not intended indirectly for me. Three days after a small package was handed me. I opened it, and beheld an exquisite miniature of the count, set in brilliants. The beautiful black eyes seemed to smile on me with their languid fervor; the clear white complexion, the long nose, slightly aquiline, and waving black hair, were all detailed naturally; the blending and commingling of expression, which gave an air of haughtiness and benevolence to his countenance, was all there.
That was his parting gift: that day he left Naples.
If I had been unhappy in the struggle between love and duty, how much more so was I not when left utterly alone in that great city; when I looked forward and saw nothing, when I looked back on strange scenes, and at the present which was so unsatisfactory.
I renewed my engagement, and continued to sing; from my unprotected position, I was necessarily exposed to covert attacks of the most dishonorable character; and one such I received from a Baron Reichstadt, in the shape of an impertinent note, which I answered as it deserved, and dismissed him. One or two other innuendos I met with, and although I bore them all with an outward calm of stoicism; yet within I felt the bitter humiliation of a proud woman, that such indignities should be put upon me.
The stagnant calm of a monotonous routine, requires little detail; to rise early, attend to my child, then go to rehearsal as often as a new opera was to be performed; practise my favorite songs, then walk on the Toledo, and dine at six, completed my daily existence. I received a glowing letter from the count, dated Epirus, in which he thrillingly described the country, dwelt upon its associations, its desolate, ruined condition now; then delicately bringing the subject back to reality, spoke of himself, of me. I will not insert it here, nor the many others he sent me equally beautiful; my story is drawing to a close, my kind friend, and I am convinced its length must have already tired you.
He continued his travels in the Levant and through the East, while I went to Florence, to fulfil an engagement there. The charming society of that fair town; the fine scenery of the city itself, and the air of repose so different to the busy activity of Naples, combined to cheer and calm me. There I remained a month, and when I left, it was with feelings of regret. I carried away with me (they said) the hearts and imaginations of all; but if I did so, it was unconsciously, for never had I exerted myself less.
Genoa next claimed my attention, and it was three months ere I saw Naples again. The laurels I won seemed to me to adorn the head of a corpse, so listlessly did I regard my fame.
Visions of my husband and the count haunted my dreams, and I always saw them under strange circumstances, in strange places, when I would seem to be trying to reach either one or the other, but could not get near them, some obstacle always interposed,—then in my despair, I would feel as I felt at parting with the count. From these tumultuous dreams I awoke in terror, thankful they were mere dreams; and my perceptions being rendered more acute by these nocturnal visitations, I would renew my anxious searches for my husband, and send new agents to endeavor to discover him; but in vain, I heard nothing more of him.
Six months elapsed in the same quiet way, when one day, as I was walking up and down my parlor, leading Raphael by the hand, a servant announced that an old man wished to see me.
“Show him in,” said I, and he presently returned, ushering in a tall man, attired in sailor’s clothes. He came towards me, holding his tarpaulin-hat in his hand, and apparently confused at my presence.
“Is this the lady?” asked he, bashfully.
“I am Madame de Serval, do you wish to see me?”
“Yes, lady, I have a letter for you from Pondicherry.”
“From Pondicherry,—who can it be from?—I know no one there. Give it me.”
I extended my hand, and the sailor placed in it a letter, coarsely folded and sealed. I hastily tore it open, and read the following:
“A gentleman giving his name as Monsieur de Serval, committed suicide in my house six days ago, by blowing his brains out with a pocket pistol. Having by accident seen a Neapolitan paper, containing a description of a Madame de Serval, a great singer, I address this letter to the lady in question, thinking, from the names, that there may be some relationship between the dead gentleman and the lady. If there is, I beg she will answer this, and tell me what is to be done with his effects, which consist of several large chests, heavily locked with padlocks, and four trunks, together with a toilette case of rare value, the interior being set with gold, and the utensils of the same metal, adorned with precious stones.
“The gentleman was buried in the English burying ground, and a small sum of money in his purse paid for the interment.
“Jerome Tobia.
“Pondicherry, January 10th.”
When I had read this fatal letter, I endeavored to look around for the man who had brought it, but I could not see him: the room darkened, and, with a wild shriek, I fell into Pasiphae’s arms, and lost all recollection.
I must carry you onward another year. When I had sufficiently recovered from the shock of this unexpected news, I sent to Pondicherry, and had the remains of my unfortunate husband brought to Naples. I thought I should have gone mad when I saw the body: and with bitter sadness did I consign it to mother earth. A marble tombstone was placed over him in the cemetery of the convent of Sacre Cœur. Of his adventures, or the cause of his going to Pondicherry, I never knew. All I learned was, that he came there, boarded at the house of the man who had written me, and was gentlemanly and reserved. They knew nothing of him. He told no one any thing concerning himself. He had been there some weeks at the period of his self-destruction; and it was merely from accident that the landlord had supposed, that perhaps there might be a relationship between two persons of the same name. Thus, through the merest chance, after six months of anxiety and sadness, did I once more, and for the last time, look upon my Rinaldo’s face.
There is a feeling between husband and wife—that is to say, between husbands and wives of any sensibility, who have ever loved—there is, I say, a feeling of affection, which will sooner or later return, however alienated the parties may have become. As I stood over that lifeless form, and thought of his erratic career, and wayward, uncertain character; of his love for me, and subsequent desertion; his entering into a conspiracy against the government; then carried as prisoner of state to Naples; his escape and after-wanderings—all rushed through my mind. Why had he acted thus? Why had he not been honest, upright? Why? Of whom could I ask that question? The earth falling on the coffin was my only reply.
Let me pass over those times.
It was in the dawn of spring, I occupied a small Gothic cottage about a mile from Naples. Two domestics and my child—now a lisping, rosy boy—together with Pasiphae, were its sole tenants. The grounds of this sylvan abode were beautifully laid out, and the fairest flowers planted there. There, too, a marble fountain threw high in air its airy spray—cooling the air and adorning the garden by its beauty.
Several rustic arbors, formed of the pliable bamboo, and shaped in Gothic turrets, were placed at intervals along the gravel walks, which, meeting in one broad attic before the porch ended there; the birds sang their sweetest songs in the day time; and, at night, the spiritual warbling of the nightingale was the inspirer of the hour.
Here, one sunny afternoon, I sat under the shade of a tree, watching Raphael, and Zoe, his pet dog, running races. The frolicksome glee of the child, the graceful antics of the dog, as he sometimes ran after his baby master,—sometimes solicited pursuit in return,—amused and diverted me. As the child grew older I could trace his father’s lineaments in his young features: and the thoughts which were recalled by that resemblance only rendered me sadder than I was. I was reading Petrarch’s sonnets, a volume of which had been presented me by my husband during the first months of my marriage: their gloomy descriptions of love and beauty entranced my soul; and, absorbed, I read on, forgetful even of the playful cries of Raphael, when I saw Pasiphae coming towards me, her face lighted with more than usual animation: and with a gleeful voice she told me a man desired to see me in the salon.
“Ask him to send me word what he wants, Pasiphae. I do not wish to see any one this morning. Why did you not deny me yourself? you know I do not want to talk,” was my reply; for I was indisposed to see visitors, or answer business engagements.
“Do come, my lady; do come,” said Pasiphae, urgently, and joyfully; “indeed you won’t regret it; the person has something particular to say.”
Thus urged, and wondering what it could be, I rose, leaving my book on the seat, and taking Raphael by the hand, followed by the dog, went into the house. The rooms were all on the ground floor; a broad hall ran through the house, and opening off it were four rooms; two were fitted up as salons, the other two constituted my bed-room and dining-room. They were furnished alike with red velvet drapery, Turkey carpets, and mirrors. Pasiphae regularly each day placed fresh flowers in the Chinese vases on the marble consoles, and their delightful perfume scented the rooms with oriental fragrance.
I entered the room holding Raphael by the hand, and coming from the clear light of the garden into the crimson light of the salon, I could scarcely discern objects.
A tall figure stood with its back towards me, facing the window. As I stepped forward on the carpet, it turned, and I beheld Count Calabrella. Animated with a supernatural joy, I sprang toward him.
“It is you!” I cried; “oh, is it you? You have come! you have come!”
“Yes, beloved one,” answered he, as he clasped me in his arms. “At last we are united: now the unstable dreams which have buoyed me up through this long separation, and my lonely wanderings are realized; now we meet, not to feel again the same sorrow we mutually experienced at our last parting.”
“Oh, let me die now!” I answered, as I laid my head on his breast, “for now I am happy, and life cannot have many repetitions of such emotions for me.”
“Instead of dying, let us picture long years of happiness, and be determined they should be verified,” replied my Alfieri, laughingly.
Naples once again saw me as a bride; not as at the first, blooming with health and joy, my mind in an ecstatic rhapsody of romance, but a woman chastened by experience, that best of monitors. Subdued, but not downcast, was my mien the morning of my bridal: the sobered happiness of my husband’s face was mirrored in mine, and surely I could not have had a more beautiful mirror.
And in that marriage I was supremely happy; my life glided like a fairy dream away. The elegance of mind and manner which captivated at first, did not prove, on mature acquaintance, a fictitious dress, worn merely for ornament. Judgment, tempered by feeling, guided him, and in obeying such a guide, how could he fail to act rightly? The calm good sense, the nobility of soul, and sweet disposition of Alfieri, day by day, more completely gained my love and esteem.
Before leaving Naples, on a journey we took, soon after our marriage, to the north of Italy, I chanced to meet in the suburbs of the town—while walking with my husband—old Acte, the sybil of the rock. She stopped my way, and looking at me with her piercing eyes, said, “Well, fair lady, we meet again: I knew we should; and the other, where is she? You need not tell me: I know already;—she is dead. She lies on the shore, where the winds howl and the waters beat. Say, lady, say, have not my words proved true?” demanded she, in her shrill tones.
“Yes, good woman, you were right,” was my hasty reply, as I and my husband hurried away, anxious to avoid any farther conversation with the weird-woman.
Soon after we took our departure on a tour through the north of Europe. Those magnificent cities, beautiful scenery, and the different nations we visited, acquired new interest in my eyes, when viewed in such society. Then, after we had satiated our eyes and ears with the wonders of other lands, we came finally to the Eternal City, where I have had the pleasure of forming your acquaintance; and I number it as one of the most agreeable episodes of my life: so, also, does my husband.
My tale is done. You have asked it of me, and knowing your integrity, I feel no hesitancy in complying with the request. The hours I have passed in your studio have been among the pleasantest I have spent in Rome.
Should the count and myself never have the pleasure of seeing you again, at least the copy of my portrait and this diary will seem to be an invisible link to the chain of thoughts between us three.
Adieu, dear Signor Carrara: we shall leave to-morrow, and have completed this in haste to leave with you.
Genevra Calabrella.
Rome, April 6th, ——
The latter part of this diary was very old, yellow, and much torn, from apparently repeated readings: I had some difficulty in decyphering it. Its perusal had deeply interested me, so I folded it up, and rose upon my feet. I saw my little time-piece indicated the hour of one, and a moment after there came a violent knocking at the door, and then Morton’s stentorian voice was fully audible.
“Clarence, I say Clarence, are you within? if you are, for God’s sake answer; there’s some infernal thing in my room which has kept me from sleeping for the last hour. I don’t know what it is, and I can’t find out, for my light’s gone out; come here and bring a candle for pity’s sake.”
I seized my expiring candle and rushed into his apartment, where stood in the middle of the floor my friend, apparently in a state of great bewilderment; the chairs were thrown about in confusion, and clothes were lying here and there; the curtains of the bed half pulled down.
“What is it, Morton? what’s the matter?” I cried, bringing the luminary to bear upon the chaos.
“What’s the matter? why that’s just what I want to know myself; for the last hour I have heard nothing but chairs upset, the hangings scratched at, and my own hair and face most delightfully scratched. When I stretched out my hands, seeking to discover the cause of the mischief, I grasped empty air; I could see nothing, all was darkness: and thus have I been bored; now take your candle and try and find out what it is.”
I began a tour of the apartment, but saw nothing, except luggage piled on luggage, dressing cases, brushes, combs, &c., &c.; when going around the bed, I heard a sardonic laugh, and looking up, saw perched on the tester, a monkey; the property of a fellow boarder, who, by some means, had contrived to secrete himself in my friend’s room, and consequently annoy him by his tricks. Taking the mischievous animal by his fore legs I put him out the room, much to Morton’s relief, who exclaimed,
“Is that the thing? well, it has been troubling me enough, the plague; I thought satan himself was here. Thank you, Clarence, my dear fellow; what time is it?”
I told him, then went to bed.
The next day I waited on Signor Ferra, the attorney; he lived in a dark, dirty street, in an old tumble-down house. Upon opening Carrara’s will, I found, to my utter amazement, that with the exception of the house in which he lived, and the gallery of paintings, he had made me heir to his considerable property in Rome and the environs, together with the beautiful portrait of Genevra. My kindness to the solitary old artist, had not been ill repaid; so impossible it is for us in this strange existence, to foresee the result of even the slightest action; and, which only more fully demonstrated to me the propriety of always being polite.
A few days after, Morton and myself left Rome for Athens.
THE END.