To thee and to me.
Weep, weep that the shroud, with its lily-white hue,
Must ere long be mine;
Aye, weep for the destiny, blighting and drear,
That made my heart thine.
The next moment she had disappeared, and Melburn turned to look at Giovanni. His head was bowed upon his hand, and he breathed quickly, as if overpowered by suppressed emotion. There was a long and heavy pause. “Melburn,” said he at last, “have you ever loved?”
A stern, cold expression passed over the countenance of the young Englishman, which did not escape the quick eye of Rosa, and he resumed; “A portion of the veil has been lifted which hides from you the secret of my unhappiness. Despise me not, Melburn, when I tell you that I have ceased to love her. Why, why was I born to bring blight upon others as well as upon myself? Left an orphan at an early age, penniless and friendless, I have struggled thus far through life, just earning the bread that supports me. Burning with an ambition to excel in the godlike art I worship, I have drained but one or two scanty drops of fame for years of intense study. I have seen influence and patronage draw out of obscurity talent less deserving than mine, while I have been left to grovel in the dust of neglect and poverty. With bitterness of spirit I have tasted the injustice of the world, and its bought smiles have withered almost to the root the hopes that I dared to cherish. In the midst of my loneliness and sorrow there beamed a vision of comfort upon my soul; and the impassioned being, whose song just met your ear, wreathed a charm around my heart which I mistook for love. You of a colder clime know not the fearful fire that gives intensity to every emotion, and makes the life-blood rush with the impetuosity of a torrent. Conventional prejudices would make you judge harshly of the love that overpowers reason, propriety, and prudence; but Bianca was a child of nature, and in loving me, she cast all her heart’s treasure into my arms. We were both poor—we could not marry; but she was to have been my wife. Fate threw in my way another from your own cold clime. Ah, the beautiful! how I worshiped it in her. We met at the Vatican, where she was copying a sketch by Rubens. A celebrated painter introduced me to her. She visited my pictures, and the meed of approval that fell from her lips sank into my soul. She was gentle, with all the winning gentleness of woman; but the chaste snow was not more cold. I gazed upon her beauty as we gaze upon a pure and distant star; and as each speaking lineament told of elevated desires, and proud aspirations, I bent in adoration at her shrine, and laid my offering there. We had met frequently; and although I feared that my love was hopeless, still I could not tear myself from the fascination of her presence. She saw, with a woman’s quick perception, that I loved her deeply; and she strove to destroy by coldness the illusion that might be fatal to my peace. I could not bear it; it was better to know the worst. We were left alone one evening, and with trembling lips and incoherent words, I strove to tell her of my love. She did not suffer me to proceed, but kindly took my hand in hers and said, ‘Signor Rosa, from childhood my heart has been another’s.’ Darkness came over me, and the sable pall will never be drawn aside.”
He paused for a moment, and then continued; “I would not, could not see Bianca. The romance of life was at an end. I shut myself up among the creations of my pencil, but they failed to awaken my spirit from its lethargy; and I find the energies of my soul withering daily, and my frame consuming with the fire that will not be quenched.”
Tears glistened in the eyes of the sensitive Italian, and he hurried on. “I love you, Melburn; you would save me from myself, and you have made me feel that there is disinterested kindness in humanity. There have been times, my friend, when a whispering demon seemed urging me to rid myself of the load that oppressed me—‘it is but a drop of opiate—it is but the keen point of the dark blue steel—it is but the flash of a moment, and all will be over.’ Then there came thoughts of the dread loneliness and degradation of the grave—perhaps the judgment! and—”
“Giovanni,” said Melburn solemnly, interrupting him, “brave not the Most High. Life is a precious deposit, and it is not for man to interfere with the will of Omnipotence. Suicide is the crime of a coward, perpetrated in moral darkness; it is a crime which leaves not a moment for repentance or for pardon, but ushers the blood-stained soul unshriven into the presence of its God.”