“What picture is it you are talking about, Clarence?” demanded Morton, looking up from a portfolio of prints which lay upon the artist’s table.
“This one,” I replied, pointing to it.
“Ah, yes. I see a very handsome woman. I admire your taste. Pray, may I ask her name, Signor Carrara, unless, indeed,” he added archly, “she happened to be a beau ideal of yours; in that case, I waive the question.”
The Italian blushed to his very eyebrows, and looked almost angry for an instant; but he answered immediately,
“You are welcome to ask the name of that or any other portrait in my studio. Her name was Genevra Sfonza.”
“I like the style in which it is taken. Very fanciful and airy. She almost seems to be floating on a cloud,” observed my friend, as he came and stood by my side before it. “If I had a wife and were going to have her portrait taken, I should choose such an attitude. But I am thankful to be a bachelor, untrammelled and free. A single man can visit, seek lady’s society, if he wants it; in short, do what he pleases, without having some jealous Juno tearing after him, if he happen to look at any other set of features than his ‘cara spanta’s.’”
Carrara smiled, and I laughed, as I always did at my friends’ drolleries. “Come Clarence,” he exclaimed, seizing me by the arm, “let’s take a general look at all the pictures, and then, if you are willing, return home. Dinner will be waiting for us.”
“We took a general survey of the rest of the paintings, among which were some valuable originals, by the old masters. But none of them, in grace of attitude, or beauty of expression, could compare with that of the lovely Viennese.
“I am quite in love with this picture,” I remarked to the artist, as I again stopped before it; after looking at all the politicians, warriors, sculptors, artists, and beauties portrayed on canvass.
“Almost every one who visits my room, admires it,” responded Carrara.