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.