“This is a most extraordinary structure, so immense!” exclaimed Morton, whose ideas were of the most matter-of-fact description.
I made no reply. My mind was abstracted, it had flown back to the olden times. I thought I saw the dying gladiator leaning on his sword, while the arena rung with shouts of triumph for his conqueror. I saw start up from all parts of the old ruin, that vast wall of human faces, all gazing upon the dying man; but what mattered it to him, the world and all its cares was vanishing fast from his view; his glazed eyes close, his clenched hands stiffen, and his spirit leaves its earthly tenement with the last shout of applause for his conqueror.
I started from my day-dream, and looking for my friend, saw him standing at the other end of the amphitheatre, gazing wistfully up at the sky, through the gap which yawned above us. As I approached him, he exclaimed, “We had better go, or we shall not have time to see Signor Carrara’s paintings before dinner, as we have been here an hour.”
“An hour! impossible, it is not more than ten minutes.”
“I know it seems no more than that to you; but it is, nevertheless, an hour since we entered here; and I am afraid of taking cold from the dampness of the ground; but you were dreaming of the ‘Sorrows of Werter,’ or some other sentimental subject, and of course, thought not of time. Come, mon ami, let us depart.” He linked his arm in mine and we passed out into the street, leading to that part of the city he had designated as the abode of Signor Carrara.
After a few minutes’ walk, he stopped before an old mansion, built in the Venetian style, with a balcony and latticed windows, jealously closed. The appearance of the house was antique and gloomy, even more so than any of the private mansions I had yet seen in Rome. Morton ascended the door-steps, and vigorously rang the bell. The sound seemed to echo through the whole house, as though it were deserted. A moment after I heard the grating of bolts being undone, the door swing back heavily on its hinges; and, standing on its threshold, I saw an old domestic, with a grave, sad countenance, and dressed with greater neatness than the generality of Italian servants. He smiled gaily, and greeted Morton with a respectful obeisance, saying something in Italian, which I did not understand; for Morton was an old friend of the Signor’s, having visited Rome four years before. His question, “Was the Signor at home?” he answered, “Yes,” and requested us to follow him. We traversed a long gallery, then ascended a lofty staircase, ornamented with fine paintings and statues, placed in niches along the wall. At the end of another gallery, the Italian stopped at a door, and knocked. An elderly man, whose hair was slightly tinged with gray, attired in a plain suit of black velvet, opened the door, and, upon seeing Morton, shook him heartily by the hand, and welcomed him back to Rome, in terms of the most polite affability. His manner seemed to partake more of English cordiality than of the grave distant manner the Italians generally preserve to strangers. To my surprise, he spoke to me in good English, upon Morton’s presenting me as Mr. Mowbray of London. Augustus entered the room with the air of one perfectly familiar to its precincts, and seated himself in a crimson velvet arm-chair, near the artist’s easel. Persia’s carpets covered the floor; curtains of crimson velvet fell in heavy folds from the windows; but the splendid paintings with which the walls of the studio were hung, constituted its greatest ornament. There were the faces of youth, and the faces of age. Side by side they hung. There were Cardinals in their black velvet hats, and the heavy folds of their black robes. There were the handsome faces of many of Italy’s proudest sons, and the fair, unfurrowed brow, the black eye, large and languishing, of many a one of its fair daughters.
“You have not been long in Rome, I presume, Signor,” remarked Carrara, as he returned to his easel, with his palette in his hand.
“But two weeks.”
“Two weeks! indeed, you owed an old friend a visit sooner,” addressing Morton.
“I should have done myself the pleasure of calling on you before this, but I have been engaged in such a continual round of business, that I really could not snatch time.” What a confounded lie, thought I to myself, as I stood with my back to them, attentively regarding a picture, which hung encased in a magnificent frame, opposite me. But Morton would say anything as an excuse, to avoid offending a friend, and Signor Carrara, as I afterward discovered, had been to him a very kind one.