“Illusion or reality, oh! it was blessed for Italy, thrice-blessed for the poet!” answered Antonio, with such unaffected fervour, that it extended to his companion. “Without Beatrice, what had Dante been? A poet, perchance, but wanting the glow, the life, the thrilling beauty, now gushing so eloquently from every line. Beauty, and such as hers, ethereal from first to last, till nought but his own heart and heaven retained her. Oh, Guiseppe, the glance of her eye, the touch of her hand, was all-sufficient to ignite the electric lamp of genius, which, without such influence, perchance, had been buried in its own smouldering gloom, and never flung its rays upon a world.”
“Thinkest thou, then, Tonin, that the influence of beauty could, indeed, be so experienced, by one who, though so mighty in intellect, was still only a boy in years?”
“Do I think so, Guiseppe?—yes, oh yes! It filled up all the yearning void so dark before; it threw a sunshine and a glory over all of life and earth; it gave a semblance and a shape to all the glowing images of mind; and as the countless rays down-gushing from one sun, it poured into the poet’s breast infinity from one!”
Guiseppe Falieri looked on the enthusiast, feeling far more than Antonio himself the glorious gifts that boyish heart enshrined; and loved, aye, reverenced him—him, the peasant boy, though he himself was noble, the younger son of an illustrious Venetian house. But what, he felt, was rank of birth compared to rank of intellect? and with that peasant boy the youthful noble remained for hours, only leaving that lowly room to wander forth with him, as their souls had freer, more delicious communion, under the blue vaults of heaven than in confining walls. To enjoy the society of his humble friend in their brief visits to Venice, Guiseppe Falieri ever relinquished the more exciting pleasures of the boon companions of his rank and station; and ere the mantle of age descended upon him, how did he glory in the penetration of his boyhood!
II.
It was morn in Venice: her seventy islets were lighted up with a flood of sunshine of transparent brilliance known only to fair Italy, but falling with soft and mellowed rays within the gallery of the proud Farsetti Palace. Thrown open to the youth of both sexes studying the fine arts, private munificence had gathered together the most perfect specimens of ancient and modern art—all that could forward the eager student in his darling pursuit, ensuring priceless advantages even to the poorest and the humblest, fostering in every individual breast the gift peculiarly his own. Oh, truly is that country where such things are the nurse of Genius! Truly may her children decorate her with the fruits of those resplendent gifts with which Heaven has endowed them! Truly may her poets breathe forth lays to mark her as themselves—immortal! Italy, beautiful Italy, how does the heart burn, the spirit love, when we write of thee!
To this gallery the young Antonio was a constant visitor, and he was so persevering in his studies as to attract the attention and rivet the friendship of its noble owner, at whose order he executed the first specimen of that sculpture which was to enrol his lowly name amid the mighty spirits of his native land, and bear to distant shores the echoes of his fame. Morning after morning found him in the Farsetti gallery, engaged either in drawing, modelling, or painting from antique casts, or from those modern ones to which the possessors of the establishment directed his notice. No difficulty could deter, no more tempting model could allure. Severely, faithfully true to the path marked out, every other student shrunk from competition with him, as pigmies from a giant.
Wrapt as Antonio ever was in his task, however severe or little interesting, generally so absorbed as to be unconscious of all outward things, it was strange that a voice had power to rouse him from such preoccupation, and bid him, half-unconsciously yet inquiringly, look round. Soft, low, silvery, it thrilled to the boy’s soul, as a voice that had haunted his dreams, and was yet to reality unknown. And the being from whom it came? Had he ever seen one like to her, or was it the mere embodying of all those visions of beauty, which, sleeping or waking, haunted his soul? He knew not. He only knew he sat entranced, breathless, awestruck, as though some angelic being had stood before him, demanding adoration. Young, very young, she seemed yet older than himself; and pale, but oh! so exquisitely lovely—with all of heaven, nought of earth! E’en the deep feeling resting on that full bright lip; the dark, lustrous, deep-souled eye; the rich, the glorious intellect sitting throned upon that beauteous brow; the smile flitting round that chiselled mouth, as an emanation from the soul; nay, every movement of the sylph-like form, too light, too spirit-like, for coarser earth—all whispered to the boy’s full heart with power, eloquence, unfelt though often dreamed before. And matter of astonishment it was to him, that the other students so calmly continued their labours, content with one glance of admiration on the stranger.
Leaning on the arm of a friend or attendant, she advanced up the gallery, and took her seat as one of the students. The model was selected, her drawing materials arranged, and silently she pursued her task.
Little more did Antonio do that day; for the strange, tumultuous emotions of his bosom seemed from that time to paralyse his hand. He worked on, indeed, mechanically till the hour of closing, and then, oh! how grateful was the fresh breeze of heaven, the free, active movement of a rapid walk. Yet even then—strange incongruity of feeling—he yearned for the morrow to find himself anew by her side; and then a trembling was upon him, that it was all illusion, all a sweet, bright vision, which would fade as it had come.