The Englishman uttered an exclamation of surprise, and said, “You are not, then, entirely unknown to me. I have heard of you as the most promising of the young painters of Italy.”
“Ah!” sighed the Italian, “to win immortality for the name of Giovanni Rosa would reconcile me to life, barren and blasted as it is.”
“You are too young to speak thus despondingly of life, Signor Rosa; believe me, all have their peculiar trials, and with an honorable career before you, these trials should be met and overcome. We will talk of this hereafter.”
The carriage stopped; Melburn alighted at the door of his hotel, and, after arranging an interview for the morrow, the two newly made friends separated.
It was a great disappointment to our young traveler to find, upon his arrival at Rome, that his uncle’s family, which he had expected to meet there, had left but a week or two before. He was to have joined their party; but, owing to the miscarriage of his letters, they had proceeded on their journey, leaving information for him that they should soon retrace their steps, and probably pass the winter in Rome. After some deliberation, Melburn concluded that it was as well for him to remain and wait their return, although his heart beat more quickly as he thought of his long anticipated meeting with his beautiful cousin, Alice Templeton, whom he had not seen for more than a year. He had cherished a preference for her from early boyhood; but as they had met rarely, and then at long intervals, that preference had not yet acquired the strength of love. Yet there were pure, sweet memories connected with her; for in childhood he had often smoothed her golden curls as her little head lay upon his bosom, and in later years he had seen the mantling blush overspread her countenance, as he pressed the kiss of meeting or of parting upon her brow. But he was in Rome—this reconciled him to the delay; and as his mind wandered back again to its treasured lore, he felt that he trod the courts of a temple consecrated to dead empires, and that the very dust beneath his feet was hallowed.
Accompanied by the enthusiastic Italian, with what exquisite satisfaction did he visit the ruined monuments of the ancient mistress of the world, the queen of nations! How time flew by, as from spot to spot he traced the steps of desolation and decay; and when memory reverted to the three hundred triumphs that had been celebrated within the walls of the seven-hilled city, he felt how hollow and frail a thing was the pageantry of earth. The empty sepulchres, the ruined temples, the mouldering arches, the tottering piles—these were but the scattered fragments of Rome’s glory; the broken and tarnished jewels of her matchless crown.
It was on a mild, beautiful afternoon, about a month after his arrival, that Arthur Melburn sat alone in the studio of the young painter. They had made an engagement to visit the Coliseum together by moonlight; and Melburn, not finding him at home, concluded to wait for his return. As he looked upon the pictures which the glowing pencil of Rosa had traced upon the canvas, he saw how each bore the stamp of the wild beauty that characterized the mind of the painter. In his designs there was a dreamy mystery and gloom that seemed to cast a shadow upon the sunny tints; and made you feel as if storm and calm, hope and despair, were struggling for the mastery. One picture, a mere sketch, soon attracted the attention of Melburn. There was a wild torrent rushing over dark and pointed rocks. Upon one side of the stream was a towering oak whose leaves were still green and luxuriant, although it had been riven to its very centre by the thunderbolt; while its scorched and blackened trunk stood in strong contrast with the fresh verdure that surrounded it. Upon the stream, where all was calm, there floated a little bark, moored safely in its glassy haven, with a female figure reclining listlessly at its prow; while, driving on among the rocks and whirlpools, and hurrying to destruction, was another boat, in which knelt the figure of a man. His face was turned toward the serene and quiet haven, but he was not aware of the perils that surrounded him; for his gaze was riveted upon that vision of beauty, and the oar, fallen from his hand, had already been carried over the edge of the fearful torrent. Melburn was so intent contemplating the powerful effect produced by the lights and shades of the painter’s pencil, that he did not notice his entrance until he stood with folded arms beside him.
“It is thus with life, is it not, Melburn?” murmured the soft, low tones of Giovanni. “A few sunny hours upon the glassy bosom of its stream, and then the threatening waves and foaming surges bear us wildly on. In the distance is some bright vision—the Egeria of our hearts—embodying all that youth, and hope, and love can sigh for. Alas! the unattained; how it woos and mocks, but to woo and mock again. We are but the sport of destiny; and as that destiny grows dim and dark, fate looks on with a smile, and we are hurried into the still waters of oblivion.”
Melburn turned his calm eye upon the excited countenance of the speaker. “Giovanni, life is indeed a troubled stream, and man is launched in a frail bark upon its waves; but the means to stem those waves, and to guide that bark, are given him, and if those means be cast aside, why call it destiny that hurries him to destruction? Your matchless picture has called up stern and solemn thoughts. Look at it, Giovanni; the oars are fallen overboard, the rudder is useless at the helm, the compass vibrates, but meets not the eye it was given to guide. Is the recklessness that suffers the vessel with its priceless freight to near the torrent’s brink—is that recklessness destiny?”
“Are we not what we are, Melburn, by an inevitable necessity? Can I change the course of events, which in themselves are fixed and unalterable? As soon may you gather up the burning fluid of the thunderbolt in your hand, as arrest or turn aside the decrees of fate.”