Picciola

by X.-B. Saintine

With a silent smile did Charney contemplate this phantasmagoric display of piebald civilization. That which had once excited the bitter sneers of the man of the world, now served to divert him, as the memento of the wasted years spent by his native country in shallow, theoretic experiments, exposing it to the contempt of Europe.

At times, brilliant orchestras appeared to strike into animating and joyous measures; and lo! the opening of the ball! Charney fancied he could recognise the favourite airs of former days, but more impressive than at their first hearing. The glittering radiance of the lustres, their prismatic reflection in the numerous mirrors, the soft and perfumed atmosphere of a ball-room—the aroma of a banquet—the mirth of the guests—the wild hilarity of the waltzers, who rustled against him in the mazy round—the light and frivolous topics which excited their merriment, all tended to stimulate him to a degree of joyousness such as the reality of the dream had never succeeded in producing.

Women, too—ivory-shouldered, slender-waisted, swan-throated—women, arrayed in sumptuous brocades, gauzes striped with gold, and gems of sparkling lustre, thronged around him, smiling as they returned his salutations. One by one, he recognised those lovely beings; the grace and ornaments of his entertainments, when, opulent and free, the Count de Charney was cited as one of the favoured ones of the earth. There figured, unrivalled, the majestic Tallien, arrayed in the classic tunic of Greece, and covered with gems and costly rings, even to the toes of a foot from which might have been modelled that of some Venus of antiquity, naked but for the slight concealment of a golden sandal; the fair Recamier, to whom Athens would have erected altars; and Josephine, ci-devant Countess of Beauharnais, who, by dint of grace and affability, often passed for the fairest of these three graces of the Consulate. But even by the side of these, a hundred lovely women distinguished themselves, by their beauty or their elegance; and how exquisite did they now appear in the dreaming eyes of Charney! How much fairer, how much softer, than when they courted his smiles! How gladly had he now commanded liberty of choice among so many consummate enchantresses!

Sometimes, in the wildness of his reveries, he did venture on selection!—from the brilliant crowd he singled out one—undistinguished, however, by the lustre of ivory shoulders or a tiara of diamonds. Simple in attire as in deportment, his beauty lingered behind the rest, with downcast eyes, and cheeks suffused with blushes; a girl, a young girl, arrayed in simple white, and the no less spotless array of perfect innocence. She had never shone in his galas of other times; though now she stood out prominent on the canvas, while all others vanished into shade. At last, she seemed alone; and Charney began to reconsider her, charm by charm, feature by feature. His feelings were gently agitated by the lovely vision. But how much more when, on raising his eyes to the dark braids of her raven hair, he beheld a flower blooming there, his flower, the flower of Picciola! Involuntarily he extended his arms towards the beauteous apparition, when, lo! all grew confused and misty; and the distant music of the orchestra became once more audible, as the fair maiden and fair flower appeared to melt into each other. The fragrant corolla, expanding, enclosed with its delicate petals the loveliest of human faces, till all was hidden from his view. Instead of the gorgeous hangings and gilded walls of the ball-room, a hovering exhalation presented itself to the eyes of the Count. The lustres gradually extinguished, vanished in the distance, emitting a feeble arch of light on the outskirts of the gathering clouds. Rude pavement replaced the smooth and lustrous floor; stern Reason reappeared to take possession of her throne; and the gracious illusions of fancy expired at her approach. A touch of the fatal wand of Truth dispelled at once the dream of the captive.

Charney woke to find himself musing on his rustic bench, his feet resting on the stones of the courtyard, and the daylight fading over his head. But Picciola—thanks be to Heaven, Picciola is still before him!

The first time the Count became conscious of this species of vertigo he noticed that it was only when meditating in the atmosphere of his plant that such gentle visions descended upon his mind. He recollected that the emanations of certain flowers are of so intoxicating a nature as even to produce asphyxia. It was, therefore, under the influence of his favourite, that these delicious dreams visited his imagination; and for his fête—his houris—his banquets—his music—he was still indebted to Picciola.

But the fair girl—the modest, gentle girl by whose image he had been so powerfully impressed—from whence has he derived her image? Did he ever behold her among the haunts of men? Is she, like the other divinities of his dream, the creature of reminiscence? Memory had nothing to reply! The past afforded no prototype for her charms! But the future—if the vision his fancy has created should be the creature of anticipation, of presentiment rather than of recollection? alas! of what avail anticipations—of what avail revelations of the future to the unfortunate Charney! In a sentence of imprisonment for life, the destinies of the captive are accomplished.

All human hope, therefore, must be laid aside. The young girl of blooming blushes, and draperies of virgin white, shall be the Picciola of his imagination—Picciola in the poetical personification of a dream—his idol, his love, his bride. The sweet countenance and graceful form revealed to him shall image forth the guardian spirit of his plant: with that, his reveries shall be brightened, and the aching void in his heart and soul filled up for ever! She shall dwell with him, muse with him, sit by his side, accompany his lonely walks, reply to him, smile upon him, enchant him with her ethereal love! She shall share his existence, his breath, his heart, his soul. He will converse with her in thought, and close his eyes to gaze upon her beauty! They shall form but one, in order that he may be alone no longer.

These emotions superseded the graver studies of the prisoner of Fenestrella, the enjoyments of the heart succeeding to those of the mind. Charney now gave himself up to all that poetry of existence, from whose sphere the soul returns laden with perfumes, as the bee, after extracting from the breast of the flower a harvest of honey. There was a life of daily hardship and captivity to be endured; there was a life of love and ecstasy to be enjoyed; and united, though apart, they completed the measure of existence of the once envied, but most unhappy Count de Charney. His time was shared between Picciola, his mortal flower, and Picciola, his immortal love: to reason, or rather reasoning, succeeded happiness and love!