 | MORNING, NOON, AND EVENING. Reveries of a bachelor, or, A book of the heart |  |
A Roman Girl.
—I remember the very words—“non parlo Francesce,
Signore,—I do not speak French, Signor”—
said the stout lady,—“but my daughter, perhaps, will
understand you.”
And she called—“Enrica!—Enrica! venite,
subito! c'è un forestiere.”
And the daughter came, her light brown hair falling
carelessly over her shoulders, her rich hazel eye
twinkling and full of life, the colour coming and going
upon her transparent cheek, and her bosom heaving
with her quick step. With one hand she put back
the scattered locks that had fallen over her forehead,
while she laid the other gently, upon the arm
of her mother, and asked in that sweet music of the
south—“cosa volete, mamma?”
It was the prettiest picture I had seen in many a
day; and this, notwithstanding I was in Rome, and had
come that very morning from the Palace of Borghese.
The stout lady was my hostess, and Enrica—so fair,
so young, so unlike in her beauty, to other Italian
beauties, was my landlady's daughter. The house
was one of those tall houses—very, very old, which
stand along the eastern side of the Corso, looking out
upon the Piazzo di Colonna. The staircases were
very tall, and dirty, and they were narrow and dark.
Four flights of stone steps led up to the corridor
where they lived. A little trap was in the door; and
there was a bell-rope, at the least touch of which, I
was almost sure to hear tripping feet run along the
stone floor within, and then to see the trap thrown
slyly back, and those deep hazle eyes looking out
the corridor, under the daughter's guidance, (until I
had learned the way,) I passed to my Roman home.
I was a long time learning the way.
My chamber looked out upon the Corso, and I could
catch from it a glimpse of the top of the tall column
of Antoninus, and of a fragment of the palace of the
Governor. My parlor, which was separated from the
apartments of the family by a narrow corridor, looked
upon a small court, hung around with balconies.
From the upper one, a couple of black-eyed girls are
occasionally looking out, and they can almost read
the title of my book, when I sit by the window. Below
are three or four blooming ragazze, who are
dark-eyed, and have Roman luxuriance of hair. The
youngest is a friend of our Enrica, and is of course
frequently looking up, with all the innocence in the
world, to see if Enrica may be looking out.
Night after night, a bright blaze glows upon my
hearth, of the alder faggots which they bring from the
Albanian hills. Night after night too, the family
come in, to aid my blundering speech, and to enjoy
the rich sparkling of my faggot fire. Little Cesare, a
dark-faced Italian boy, takes up his position with pencil
and slate, and draws by the light of the blaze
genii and castles. The old one-eyed teacher of
Enrica, lays his snuff box upon the table, and his
upon his nose, and his big fingers on the lesson, runs
through the French tenses of the verb amare. The
father a sallow-faced, keen-eyed man, with true
Italian visage, sits with his arms upon the elbows of
his chair, and talks of the Pope, or of the weather.
A spruce count from the Marches of Ancona, wears
a heavy watch seal, and reads Dante with furore.
The mother, with arms akimbo, looks proudly upon
her daughter, and counts her, as well she may, a gem
among the Roman beauties.
The table was round, with the fire blazing on one
side; there was scarce room for but three upon the
other. Signor il maestro was one—then Enrica, and
next—how well I remember it—came myself. For I
could sometimes help Enrica to a word of French;
and far oftener, she could help me to a word of
Italian. Her face was rich, and full of feeling; I
used greatly to love to watch the puzzled expressions
that passed over her forehead, as the sense of some
hard phrase escaped her;—and better still, to see the
happy smile, as she caught at a glance, the thought
of some old scholastic Frenchman, and transferred it
into the liquid melody of her speech.
She had seen just sixteen summers, and only that
very autumn was escaped from the thraldom of a
convent, upon the skirts of Rome. She knew nothing
happiness, lay as yet in her childish hopes. It was
pleasant to look upon her face; and it was still more
pleasant to listen to that sweet Roman voice. What a
rich flow of superlatives, and endearing diminutives,
from those vermillion lips! Who would not have
loved the study, and who would not have loved—
without meaning it—the teacher?
In those days, I did not linger long at the tables
of lame Pietro in the Via Condotti; but would hurry
back to my little Roman parlor—the fire was so
pleasant! And it was so pleasant to greet Enrica
with her mother, even before the one-eyed maestro
had come in; and it was pleasant to unfold the book
between us, and to lay my hand upon the page—a
small page—where hers lay already. And when she
pointed wrong, it was pleasant to correct her—over
and over;—insisting, that her hand should be here,
and not there, and lifting those little fingers from one
page, and putting them down upon the other. And
sometimes, half provoked with my fault-finding, she
would pat my hand smartly with hers;—but when I
looked in her face to know what that could mean, she
would meet my eye with such a kind submission, and
half earnest regret, as made me not only pardon the
offence,—but tempt me to provoke it again.
Through all the days of Carnival, when I rode
wander up, from a long way off, to that tall house
upon the Corso, where I was sure to meet, again and
again, those forgiving eyes, and that soft brown hair,
all gathered under the little brown sombrero, set off
with one pure white plume. And her hand full of
bon-bons, she would shake at me threateningly; and
laugh—a musical laugh—as I bowed my head to the
assault, and recovering from the shower of missiles,
would turn to throw my stoutest bouquet at her balcony.
At night, I would bear home to the Roman
parlor, my best trophy of the day, as a guerdon for
Enrica; and Enrica would be sure to render in
acknowledgment, some carefully hidden flowers, the
prettiest that her beauty had won.
Sometimes upon those Carnival nights, she arrays
herself in the costume of the Albanian water-carriers;
and nothing, one would think could be prettier, than
the laced crimson jacket, and the strange head gear
with its trinkets, and the short skirts leaving to view
as delicate an ankle as could be found in Rome.
Upon another night, she glides into my little parlor,
as we sit by the blaze, in a close velvet boddice, and
with a Swiss hat caught up by a looplet of silver, and
adorned with a full blown rose—nothing you think
could be prettier than this. Again, in one of her
girlish freaks, she robes herself like a nun; and with
veil,—relieved only by the plain white ruffle of her
cap—you wish she were always a nun. But the wish
vanishes, when you see her in a pure white muslin,
with a wreath of orange blossoms about her forehead,
and a single white rose-bud in her bosom.
Upon the little balcony Enrica keeps a pot or two
of flowers, which bloom all winter long: and each
morning, I find upon my table a fresh rose bud; each
night, I bear back for thank-offering, the prettiest
bouquet that can be found in the Via Condotti. The
quiet fire-side evenings come back;—in which my
hand seeks its wonted place upon her book; and my
other, will creep around upon the back of Enrica's
chair, and Enrica will look indignant,—and then all
forgiveness.
One day I received a large pacquet of letters:—
ah, what luxury to lie back in my big arm-chair,
there before the crackling faggots, with the pleasant
rustle of that silken dress beside me, and run
over a second, and a third time, those mute paper
missives, which bore to me over so many miles of
water, the words of greeting, and of love! It would
be worth travelling to the shores of the ægean, to
find one's heart quickened into such life as the ocean
letters will make. Enrica threw down her book,
and wondered what could be in them?—and snatched
intensity over that strange scrawl.—What can it
be?—said she; and she lay her finger upon the little
half line—“Dear Paul.”
I told her it was—“Caro mio.”
Enrica lay it upon her lap, and looked in my face;
“It is from your mother?” said she.
“No,” said I.
“From your sister?”—said she.
“Alas, no!”
“Il vostro fratello, dunque?”
“Nemmeno”—said I—“not from a brother either.”
She handed me the letter, and took up her book;
and presently she laid the book down again; and
looked at the letter, and then at me;—and went out.
She did not come in again that evening; in the
morning, there was no rose-bud on my table. And
when I came at night,with a bouquet from Pietro's
at the corner, she asked me—“who had written my
letter?”
“A very dear friend,” said I.
“A lady?” continued she.
“A lady,” said I.
“Keep this bouquet for her,” said she, and put it
in my hands.
“But, Enrica, she has plenty of flowers: she
gather them by scores to make garlands of.”
Enrica put her fingers within my hand to take
again the bouquet; and for a moment I held both
fingers and flowers.
The flowers slipped out first.
I had a friend at Rome in that time, who afterward
died between Ancona and Corinth: we were sitting
one day upon a block of tufa in the middle of the
Coliseum, looking up at the shadows which the
waving shrubs upon the southern wall, cast upon the
ruined arcades within, and listening to the chirping
sparrows that lived upon the wreck,—when he said to
me suddenly—“Paul, you love the Italian girl.”
“She is very beautiful,” said I.
“I think she is beginning to love you,” said he,
soberly.
“She has a very warm heart, I believe,” said I.
“Aye,” said he.
“But her feelings are those of a girl,” continued I.
“They are not,” said my friend; and he laid his
hand upon my knee, and left off drawing diagrams
with his cane,—“I have seen, Paul, more than you
of this southern nature. The Italian girl of fifteen
is a woman;—an impassioned, sensitive, tender
creature—yet still a woman: you are loving—if you
loves—as a ripe heart should.”
“But I do not think that either is wholly true,”
said I.
“Try it,” said he, setting his cane down firmly,
and looking in my face.
“How?” returned I.
“I have three weeks upon my hands,” continued
he. “Go with me into the Appenines; leave your
home in the Corso, and see if you can forget in the
air of the mountains, your blue-eyed Roman girl!”
I was pondering for an answer, when he went on:—
“It is better so: love as you might, that southern
nature with all its passion, is not the material to
build domestic happiness upon; nor is your northern
habit—whatever you may think at your time of life,
the one to cherish always those passionate sympathies
which are bred by this atmosphere, and their seenes.”
One moment my thought ran to my little parlor,
and to that fairy figure, and to that sweet, angel
face: and then, like lightning it traversed oceans, and
fed upon the old ideal of home, and brought images
to my eye of lost—dead ones, who seemed to be
stirring on heavenly wings, in that soft Roman
atmosphere, with greeting, and with beckoning.
—“I will go with you,” said I.
The father shrugged his shoulders, when I told
guide. His wife said it would be cold upon the hills,
for the winter was not ended. Enrica said it would
be warm in the valleys, for the spring was coming.
The old man drummed with his fingers on the table,
and shrugged his shoulders again, but said nothing.
My landlady said I could not ride. Cesare said it
would be hard walking. Enrica asked papa, if there
would be any danger? And again the old man
shrugged his shoulders. Again I asked him, if he
knew a man who would serve us as guide among the
Appenines; and finding me determined, he shrugged
his shoulders, and said he would find one the next
day.
As I passed out at evening; on my way to the
Piazzo near the Monte Citorio, where stand the
carriages that go out to Tivoli, Enrica glided up to
me, and whispered—“ah, mi dispiace tanto—tanto,
Signor!”
| MORNING, NOON, AND EVENING. Reveries of a bachelor, or, A book of the heart | |