University of Virginia Library

THE STORY
OF
THE YOUNG ITALIAN.

I was born at Naples. My parents, though
of noble rank, were limited in fortune, or rather
my father was ostentatious beyond his means,
and expended so much in his palace, his equipage,
and his retinue, that he was continually
straightened in his pecuniary circumstances. I
was a younger son, and looked upon with indifference
by my father, who, from a principle
of family pride, wished to leave all his property
to my elder brother.

I showed, when quite a child, an extreme
sensibility. Every thing affected me violently.
While yet an infant in my mother's arms, and
before I had learnt to talk, I could be wrought
upon to a wonderful degree of anguish or delight
by the power of music. As I grew older

my feelings remained equally acute, and I was
easily transported into paroxysms of pleasure
or rage. It was the amusement of my relatives
and of the domestics to play upon this irritable
temperament. I was moved to tears, tickled to
laughter, provoked to fury, for the entertainment
of company, who were amused by such a tempest
of mighty passion in a pigmy frame. They
little thought, or perhaps little heeded the dangerous
sensibilities they were fostering. I thus
became a little creature of passion, before reason
was developed. In a short time I grew too old
to be a plaything, and then I became a torment.
The tricks and passions I had been teased into
became irksome, and I was disliked by my
teachers for the very lessons they had taught me.

My mother died; and my power as a spoiled
child was at an end. There was no longer any
necessity to humour or tolerate me, for there
was nothing to be gained by it, as I was no favourite
of my father. I therefore experienced
the fate of a spoiled child in such situation, and
was neglected, or noticed only to be crossed and

contradicted. Such was the early treatment of
a heart, which, if I am judge of it at all, was naturally
disposed to the extremes of tenderness
and affection.

My father, as I have already said, never liked
me—in fact he never understood me; he looked
upon me as wilful and wayward, as deficient in
natural affection:—it was the stateliness of his
own manner; the loftiness and grandeur of his
own look that had repelled me from his arms. I
always pictured him to myself as I had seen him
clad in his senatorial robes, rustling with pomp
and pride. The magnificence of his person had
daunted my strong imagination. I could never
approach him with the confiding affection of a
child.

My father's feelings were wrapped up in my
elder brother. He was to be the inheritor of the
family title and the family dignity, and every
thing was sacrificed to him—I, as well as every
thing else. It was determined to devote me to
the church, that so my humours and myself
might be removed out of the way, either of tasking

my father's time and trouble, or interfering
with the interests of my brother. At an early age,
therefore, before my mind had dawned upon the
world and its delights, or known any thing of it
beyond the precincts of my father's palace, I was
sent to a convent, the superior of which was my
uncle, and was confided entirely to his care.

My uncle was a man totally estranged from
the world; he had never relished, for he had
never tasted its pleasures; and he deemed rigid
self-denial as the great basis of Christian virtue.
He considered every one's temperament like his
own; or at least he made them conform to it.
His character and habits had an influence over
the fraternity of which he was superior. A more
gloomy saturnine set of beings were never assembled
together. The convent, too, was calculated
to awaken sad and solitary thoughts. It
was situated in a gloomy gorge of those mountains
away south of Vesuvius. All distant views
were shut out by sterile volcanic heights. A
mountain stream raved beneath its walls, and
eagles screamed about its turrets.

I had been sent to this place at so tender an
age as soon to lose all distinct recollection of the
scenes I had left behind. As my mind expanded,
therefore, it formed its idea of the world
from the convent and its vicinity, and a dreary
world it appeared to me. An early tinge of melancholy
was thus infused into my character;
and the dismal stories of the monks, about devils
and evil spirits, with which they affrighted my
young imagination, gave me a tendency to superstition,
which I could never effectually shake off.
They took the same delight to work upon my
ardent feelings that had been so mischievously
exercised by my father's household.

I can recollect the horrors with which they
fed my heated fancy during an eruption of Vesuvius.
We were distant from that volcano,
with mountains between us; but its convulsive
throes shook the solid foundations of nature.
Earthquakes threatened to topple down our convent
towers. A lurid, baleful light hung in the
heavens at night, and showers of ashes, borne by
the wind, fell in our narrow valley. The monks

talked of the earth being honey-combed beneath
us; of streams of molten lava raging through
its veins; of caverns of sulphurous flames roaring
in the centre, the abodes of demons and the
damned; of fiery gulfs ready to yawn beneath
our feet. All these tales were told to the doleful
accompaniment of the mountain's thunders,
whose low bellowing made the walls of our convent
vibrate.

One of the monks had been a painter, but
had retired from the world, and embraced
this dismal life in expiation of some crime. He
was a melancholy man, who pursued his art in
the solitude of his cell, but made it a source of
penance to him. His employment was to portray,
either on canvass or in waxen models, the
human face and human form, in the agonies of
death, and in all the stages of dissolution and decay.
The fearful mysteries of the charnel house
were unfolded in his labours—the loathsome
banquet of the beetle and the worm.—I turn
with shuddering even from the recollection of
his works. Yet, at the time, my strong but illdirected

imagination seized with ardour upon
his instructions in his art. Any thing was a variety
from the dry studies and monotonous duties
of the cloister. In a little while I became expert
with my pencil, and my gloomy productions
were thought worthy of decorating some of the
altars of the chapel.

In this dismal way was a creature of feeling
and fancy brought up. Every thing genial and
amiable in my nature was repressed, and nothing
brought out but what was unprofitable and ungracious.
I was ardent in my temperament; quick,
mercurial, impetuous, formed to be a creature
all love and adoration; but a leaden hand was
laid on all my finer qualities. I was taught nothing
but fear and hatred. I hated my uncle, I
hated the monks, I hated the convent in which I
was immured. I hated the world, and I almost
hated myself, for being, as I supposed, so hating
and hateful an animal.

When I had nearly attained the age of sixteen,
I was suffered, on one occasion, to accompany
one of the brethren on a mission to a distant

part of the country. We soon left behind us the
gloomy valley in which I had been pent up for
so many years, and after a short journey among
the mountains, emerged upon the voluptuous
landscape that spreads itself about the Bay of
Naples. Heavens! how transported was I, when
I stretched my gaze over a vast reach of delicious
sunny country, gay with groves and vineyards;
with Vesuvius rearing its forked summit to my
right; the blue Mediterranean to my left, with
its enchanting coast, studded with shining towns
and sumptuous villas; and Naples, my native
Naples, gleaming far, far in the distance.

Good God! was this the lovely world from
which I had been excluded! I had reached that
age when the sensibilities are in all their bloom
and freshness. Mine had been checked and chilled.
They now burst forth with the suddenness
of a retarded spring. My heart, hitherto unnaturally
shrunk up, expanded into a riot of vague
but delicious emotions. The beauty of nature
intoxicated, bewildered me. The song of the
peasants; their cheerful looks; their happy avocations;

the picturesque gayety of their dresses;
their rustic music; their dances; all broke upon
me like witchcraft. My soul responded to the
music; my heart danced in my bosom. All the
men appeared amiable, all the women lovely.

I returned to the convent, that is to say, my
body returned, but my heart and soul never entered
there again. I could not forget this glimpse
of a beautiful and a happy world; a world so
suited to my natural character. I had felt so
happy while in it; so different a being from what
I felt myself when in the convent—that tomb of
the living. I contrasted the countenances of the
beings I had seen, full of fire and freshness and
enjoyment, with the pallid, leaden, lack-lustre
visages of the monks; the music of the dance,
with the droning chant of the chapel. I had
before found the exercises of the cloister wearisome;
they now became intolerable. The dull
round of duties wore away my spirit; my nerves
became irritated by the fretful tinkling of the convent
bell; evermore dinging among the mountain
echoes; evermore calling me from my repose

at night, my pencil by day, to attend to some
tedious and mechanical ceremony of devotion.

I was not of a nature to meditate long, without
putting my thoughts into action. My spirit
had been suddenly aroused, and was now all
awake within me. I watched my opportunity,
fled from the convent, and made my way on foot
to Naples. As I entered its gay and crowded
streets, and beheld the variety and stir of life
around me, the luxury of palaces, the splendour
of equipages, and the pantomimic animation of
the motley populace, I seemed as if awakened to
a world of enchantment, and solemnly vowed
that nothing should force me back to the monotony
of the cloister.

I had to inquire my way to my father's palace,
for I had been so young on leaving it, that I
knew not its situation. I found some difficulty
in getting admitted to my father's presence, for
the domestics scarcely knew that there was such
a being as myself in existence, and my monastic
dress did not operate in my favour. Even my
father entertained no recollection of my person.

I told him my name, threw myself at his feet,
implored his forgiveness, and entreated that I
might not be sent back to the convent.

He received me with the condescension of a
patron rather than the kindness of a parent. He
listened patiently, but coldly to my tale of monastic
grievances and disgusts, and promised to
think what else could be done for me. This
coldness blighted and drove back all the frank
affection of my nature that was ready to spring
forth at the least warmth of parental kindness.
All my early feelings towards my father revived;
I again looked up to him as the stately magnificent
being that had daunted my childish imagination,
and felt as if I had no pretensions to his
sympathies. My brother engrossed all his care
and love; he inherited his nature, and carried
himself towards me with a protecting rather
than a fraternal air. It wounded my pride,
which was great. I could brook condescension
from my father, for I looked up to him with awe
as a superior being; but I could not brook patronage
from a brother, who, I felt, was intellectually

my inferior. The servants perceived that
I was an unwelcome intruder in the paternal
mansion, and, menial-like, they treated me with
neglect. Thus baffled at every point; my affections
outraged wherever they would attach
themselves, I became sullen, silent and desponding.
My feelings driven back upon myself,
entered and preyed upon my own heart. I remained
for some days an unwelcome guest
rather than a restored son in my father's house.
I was doomed never to be properly known there.
I was made, by wrong treatment, strange even
to myself; and they judged of me from my
strangeness.

I was startled one day at the sight of one of
the monks of my convent, gliding out of my
father's room. He saw me, but pretended not
to notice me; and this very hypocrisy made me
suspect something. I had become sore and susceptible
in my feelings; every thing inflicted a
wound on them. In this state of mind I was
treated with marked disrespect by a pampered
minion, the favourite servant of my father. All

the pride and passion of my nature rose in an
instant, and I struck him to the earth.

My father was passing by; he stopped not to
inquire the reason, nor indeed could he read the
long course of mental sufferings which were the
real cause. He rebuked me with anger and
scorn; he summoned all the haughtiness of his
nature, and grandeur of his look, to give weight
to the contumely with which he treated me. I
felt I had not deserved it—I felt that I was not
appreciated—I felt that I had that within me
which merited better treatment; my heart swelled
against a father's injustice. I broke through
my habitual awe of him. I replied to him with
impatience; my hot spirit flushed in my cheek and
kindled in my eye, but my sensitive heart swelled
as quickly, and before I had half vented my passion
I felt it suffocated and quenched in my tears.
My father was astonished and incensed at this
turning of the worm, and ordered me to my
chamber. I retired in silence, choaking with
contending emotions.

I had not been long there when I overheard
voices in an adjoining apartment. It was a consultation
between my father and the monk, about
the means of getting me back quietly to the convent.
My resolution was taken. I had no longer
a home nor a father. That very night I left
the paternal roof. I got on board a vessel about
making sail from the harbour, and abandoned
myself to the wide world. No matter to what
port she steered; any part of so beautiful a world
was better than my convent. No matter where
I was cast by fortune; any place would be more
a home to me than the home I had left behind.
The vessel was bound to Genoa. We arrived
there after a voyage of a few days.

As I entered the harbour, between the moles
which embrace it, and beheld the amphitheatre
of palaces and churches and splendid gardens,
rising one above another, I felt at once its title
to the appellation of Genoa the Superb. I landed
on the mole an utter stranger, without knowing
what to do, or whither to direct my steps. No
matter; I was released from the thraldom of the

convent and the humiliations of home! When I
traversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova,
those streets of palaces, and gazed at the wonders
of architecture around me; when I wandered
at close of day, amid a gay throng!of the
brilliant and the beautiful, through the green alleys
of the Aqua Verdi, or among the colonnades
and terraces of the magnificent Doria Gardens;
I thought it impossible to be ever otherwise than
happy in Genoa.

A few days sufficed to show me my mistake.
My scanty purse was exhausted, and for the
first time in my life I experienced the sordid distress
of penury. I had never known the want
of money, and had never adverted to the possibility
of such an evil. I was ignorant of the
world and all its ways; and when first the idea
of destitution came over my mind its effect was
withering. I was wandering pensively through
the streets which no longer delighted my eyes,
when chance led my steps into the magnificent
church of the Annunciata.

A celebrated painter of the day was at that

moment superintending the placing of one of his
pictures over an altar. The proficiency which
I had acquired in his art during my residence in
the convent had made me an enthusiastic amateur.
I was struck, at the first glance, with
the painting. It was the face of a Madonna.
So innocent, so lovely, such a divine expression
of maternal tenderness! I lost for the moment
all recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my
art. I clasped my hands together, and uttered
an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceived
my emotion. He was flattered and gratified
by it. My air and manner pleased him, and he
accosted me. I felt too much the want of friendship
to repel the advances of a stranger, and
there was something in this one so benevolent
and winning that in a moment he gained my
confidence.

I told him my story and my situation, concealing
only my name and rank. He appeared
strongly interested by my recital; invited me to
his house, and from that time I became his favourite
pupil. He thought he perceived in me extraordinary

talents for the art, and his encomiums
awakened all my ardour. What a blissful
period of my existence was it that I passed
beneath his roof. Another being seemed created
within me, or rather, all that was amiable and
excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse as
ever I had been at the convent, but how different
was my seclusion. My time was spent in
storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas;
in meditating on all that was striking and noble
in history or fiction; in studying and tracing
all that was sublime and beautiful in nature. I
was always a visionary imaginative being, but
now my reveries and imaginings all elevated me
to rapture.

I looked up to my master as to a benevolent
genius that had opened to me a region of enchantment.
I became devotedly attached to him.
He was not a native of Genoa, but had been
drawn thither by the solicitation of several of the
nobility, and had resided there but a few years,
for the completion of certain works he had undertaken.
His health was delicate, and he had

to confide much of the filling up of his designs
to the pencils of his scholars. He considered me
as particularly happy in delineating the human
countenance; in seizing upon characteristic,
though fleeting expressions, and fixing them
powerfully upon my canvas. I was employed
continually, therefore, in sketching faces, and
often when some particular grace or beauty or
expression was wanted in a countenance, it was
entrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond
of bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps,
through my actual skill, and partly by his partial
praises, I began to be noted for the expression
of my countenances.

Among the various works which he had undertaken,
was an historical piece for one of the palaces
of Genoa, in which were to be introduced
the likenesses of several of the family. Among
these was one entrusted to my pencil. It was
that of a young girl, who as yet was in a convent
for her education. She came out for the
purpose of sitting for the picture. I first saw
her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous palaces

of Genoa. She stood before a casement
that looked out upon the bay: a stream of vernal
sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of glory
round her as it lit up the rich crimson chamber.
She was but sixteen years of age—and oh how
lovely! The scene broke upon me like a mere
vision of spring, and youth, and beauty. I could
have fallen down and worshipped her. She was
like one of those fictions of poets and painters,
when they would express the beau ideal that
haunts their minds with shapes of indescribable
perfection.

I was permitted to sketch her countenance in
various positions, and I fondly protracted the
study that was undoing me. The more I gazed
on her the more I became enamoured; there was
something almost painful in my intense admiration.
I was but nineteen years of age; shy,
diffident, and inexperienced. I was treated with
attention and encouragement, for my youth and
my enthusiasm in my art had won favour for me;
and I am inclined to think that there was something
in my air and manner that inspired interest

and respect. Still the kindness with which I was
treated could not dispel the embarrassment into
which my own imagination threw me when in
presence of this lovely being. It elevated her
into something almost more than mortal. She
seemed too exquisite for earthly use; too delicate
and exalted for human attainment. As I sat
tracing her charms on my canvas, with my eyes
occasionally riveted on her features, I drank in
delicious poison that made me giddy. My heart
alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached
with despair. Now I became more than ever
sensible of the violent fires that had lain dormant
at the bottom of my soul. You who are born in
a more temperate climate and under a cooler sky,
have little idea of the violence of passion in our
southern bosoms.

A few days finished my task; Bianca returned
to her convent, but her image remained indelibly
impressed upon my heart. It dwelt on my
imagination; it became my pervading idea of
beauty. It had an effect even upon my pencil;
I became noted for my felicity in depicting female

loveliness; it was but because I multiplied
the image of Bianca. I soothed, and yet fed my
fancy, by introducing her in all the productions
of my master. I have stood with delight in one
of the chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the
crowd extol the seraphic beauty of a saint which
I had painted; I have seen them bow down in
adoration before the painting: they were bowing
before the loveliness of Bianca.

I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost
say delirium, for upwards of a year. Such
is the tenacity of my imagination that the image
which was formed in it continued in all its power
and freshness. Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative
being, much given to reverie, and apt to foster
ideas which had once taken strong possession
of me. I was roused from this fond, melancholy,
delicious dream by the death of my worthy
benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his
death occasioned me. It left me alone and almost
broken hearted. He bequeathed to me his
little property; which, from the liberality of his
disposition and his expensive style of living, was

indeed but small; and he most particularly recommended
me, in dying, to the protection of a
nobleman who had been his patron.

The latter was a man who passed for munificent.
He was a lover and an encourager of the
arts, and evidently wished to be thought so. He
fancied he saw in me indications of future excellence;
my pencil had already attracted attention;
he took me at once under his protection;
seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable
of exerting myself in the mansion of my
late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn for a
time in a villa which he possessed on the border
of the sea, in the picturesque neighbourhood of
Sestri de Ponenti.

I found at the villa the Count's only son Filippo:
he was nearly of my age, prepossessing
in his appearance, and fascinating in his manners;
he attached himself to me, and seemed to
court my good opinion. I thought there was something
of profession in his kindness, and of caprice
in his disposition; but I had nothing else near
me to attach myself to, and my heart felt the need

of something to repose itself upon. His education
had been neglected; he looked upon me as
his superior in mental powers and acquirements,
and tacitly acknowledged my superiority. I
felt that I was his equal in birth, and that gave
an independence to my manner, which had its
effect. The caprice and tyranny I saw sometimes
exercised on others, over whom he had
power, were never manifested towards me. We
became intimate friends, and frequent companions.
Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge
in the reveries of my own imagination,
among the beautiful scenery by which I was surounded.

The villa stood in the midst of ornamented
grounds, finely decorated with statues and fountains,
and laid out into groves and alleys and
shady bowers. It commanded a wide view of
the Mediterranean, and the picturesque Ligurian
coast. Every thing was assembled here
that could gratify the taste or agreeably occupy
the mind. Soothed by the tranquillity of this
elegant retreat, the turbulence of my feelings

gradually subsided, and, blending with the romantic
spell that still reigned over my imagination,
produced a soft voluptuous melancholy.

I had not been long under the roof of the Count,
when our solitude was enlivened by another inhabitant.
It was a daughter of a relation of
the Count, who had lately died in reduced circumstances,
bequeathing this only child to his
protection. I had heard much of her beauty from
Filippo, but my fancy had become so engrossed
by one idea of beauty as not to admit of any
other. We were in the central saloon of the villa
when she arrived. She was still in mourning,
and approached, leaning on the Count's arm. As
they ascended the marble portico, I was struck
by the elegance of her figure and movement, by
the grace with which the mezzaro, the bewitching
veil of Genoa, was folded about her slender
form. They entered. Heavens! what was my
surprise when I beheld Bianca before me. It
was herself; pale with grief; but still more matured
in loveliness than when I had last beheld
her. The time that had elapsed had developed

the graces of her person; and the sorrow
she had undergone had diffused over her countenance
an irresistible tenderness.

She blushed and trembled at seeing me, and
tears rushed into her eyes, for she remembered
in whose company she had been accustomed to
behold me. For my part, I cannot express what
were my emotions. By degrees I overcame the
extreme shyness that had formerly paralyzed me
in her presence. We were drawn together by
sympathy of situation. We had each lost our best
friend in the world; we were each, in some measure,
thrown upon the kindness of others. When
I came to know her intellectually, all my ideal
picturings of her were confirmed. Her newness
to the world, her delightful susceptibility to every
thing beautiful and agreeable in nature, reminded
me of my own emotions when first I escaped
from the convent. Her rectitude of thinking
delighted my judgment; the sweetness of her
nature wrapped itself round my heart; and then
her young and tender and budding loveliness,
sent a delicious madness to my brain.

I gazed upon her with a kind of idolatry, as
something more than mortal; and I felt humiliated
at the idea of my comparative unworthiness
Yet she was mortal; and one of mortality's
most susceptible and loving compounds;
for she loved me!

How first I discovered the transporting truth
I cannot recollect; I believe it stole upon me
by degrees, as a wonder past hope or belief.
We were both at such a tender and loving age;
in constant intercourse with each other; mingling
in the same elegant pursuits; for music,
poetry and painting were our mutual delights, and
we were almost separated from society, among
lovely and romantic scenery! Is it strange that
two young hearts thus brought together should
readily twine round each other?

Oh gods! what a dream—a transient dream!
of unalloyed delight then passed over my soul!
Then it was that the world around me was indeed
a paradise, for I had woman—lovely, delicious
woman, to share it with me. How often
have I rambled over the picturesque shores of

Sestri, or climbed its wild mountains, with the
coast gemmed with villas, and the blue sea far
below me, and the slender Pharo of Genoa on
its romantic promontory in the distance; and
as I sustained the faltering steps of Bianca,
have thought there could no unhappiness enter
into so beautiful a world. Why, oh why is this
budding season of life and love so transient—
why is this rosy cloud of love that sheds such a
glow over the morning of our days so prone to
brew up into the whirlwind and the storm!

I was the first to awaken from this blissful delirium
of the affections. I had gained Bianca's
heart; what was I to do with it? I had no wealth
nor prospects to entitle me to her hand. Was I
to take advantage of her ignorance of the world,
of her confiding affection, and draw her down to
my own poverty? Was this requiting the hospitality
of the Count?—was this requiting the
love of Bianca?

Now first I began to feel that even successful
love may have its bitterness. A corroding care
gathered about my heart. I moved about the

palace like a guilty being. I felt as if I had
abused its hospitality—as if I were a thief within
its walls. I could no longer look with unembarrassed
mien in the countenance of the Count.
I accused myself of perfidy to him, and I thought
he read it in my looks, and began to distrust and
despise me. His manner had always been ostentatious
and condescending, it now appeared cold
and haughty. Filippo, too, became reserved and
distant; or at least I suspected him to be so.
Heavens!—was this mere coinage of my brain:
was I to become suspicious of all the world?—a
poor surmising wretch; watching looks and gestures;
and torturing myself with misconstructions.
Or if true—was I to remain beneath a
roof where I was merely tolerated, and linger
there on sufferance? “This is not to be endured!”
exclaimed I, “I will tear myself from
this state of self abasement; I will break through
this fascination and fly—Fly?—whither?—
from the world?—for where is the world when
I leave Bianca behind me!”

My spirit was naturally proud, and swelled
within me at the idea of being looked upon with
contumely. Many times I was on the point of
declaring my family and rank, and asserting my
equality, in the presence of Bianca, when I
thought her relatives assumed an air of superiority.
But the feeling was transient. I considered
myself discarded and contemned by my family;
and had solemnly vowed never to own relationship
to them, until they themselves should
claim it.

The struggle of my mind preyed upon my
happiness and my health. It seemed as if the
uncertainty of being loved would be less intolerable
than thus to be assured of it, and yet not
dare to enjoy the conviction. I was no longer
the enraptured admirer of Bianca; I no longer
hung in ecstacy on the tones of her voice, nor
drank in with insatiate gaze the beauty of her
countenance. Her very smiles ceased to delight
me, for I felt culpable in having won them.

She could not but be sensible of the change
in me, and inquired the cause with her usual

frankness and simplicity. I could not evade the
inquiry, for my heart was full to aching. I told
her all the conflict of my soul; my devouring
passion, my bitter self upbraiding. “Yes!”
said I, “I am unworthy of you. I am an off-cast
from my family—a wanderer—a nameless,
homeless wanderer, with nothing but poverty for
my portion, and yet I have dared to love you—
have dared to aspire to your love!”

My agitation moved her to tears; but she saw
nothing in my situation so hopeless as I had depicted
it. Brought up in a convent, she knew
nothing of the world, its wants, its cares;—and
indeed, what woman is a worldly casuist in matters
of the heart!—Nay, more—she kindled into
a sweet enthusiasm when she spoke of my fortunes
and myself. We had dwelt together on
the works of the famous masters. I had related
to her their histories; the high reputation, the
influence, the magnificence to which they had
attained;—the companions of princes, the favourites
of kings, the pride and boast of nations.
All this she applied to me. Her love saw nothing

in their greatest productions that I was not
able to achieve; and when I saw the lovely
creature glow with fervour, and her whole countenance
radiant with the visions of my glory,
which seemed breaking upon her, I was snatched
up for the moment into the heaven of her own
imagination.

I am dwelling too long upon this part of my
story; yet I cannot help lingering over a period
of my life, on which, with all its cares and conflicts,
I look back with fondness; for as yet my
soul was unstained by a crime. I do not know
what might have been the result of this struggle
between pride, delicacy, and passion, had I not
read in a Neapolitan gazette an account of the
sudden death of my brother. It was accompanied
by an earnest inquiry for intelligence concerning
me, and a prayer, should this notice meet
my eye, that I would hasten to Naples, to comfort
an infirm and afflicted father.

I was naturally of an affectionate disposition;
but my brother had never been as a brother to
me; I had long considered myself as disconnected

from him, and his death caused me but little
emotion. The thoughts of my father, infirm and
suffering, touched me, however, to the quick;
and when I thought of him, that lofty magnificent
being, now bowed down and desolate, and suing
to me for comfort, all my resentment for past neglect
was subdued, and a glow of filial affection
was awakened within me.

The predominant feeling, however that overpowered
all others was transport at the sudden
change in my whole fortunes. A home—a name
—rank—wealth awaited me; and love painted
a still more rapturous prospect in the distance.
I hastened to Bianca, and threw myself at her
feet. “Oh, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “at length I
can claim you for my own. I am no longer a
nameless adventurer, a neglected, rejected outcast.
Look—read, behold the tidings that restore
me to my name and to myself!”

I will not dwell on the scene that ensued. Bianca
rejoiced in the reverse of my situation, because
she saw it lightened my heart of a load of
care; for her own part she had loved me for myself,

and had never doubted that my own merits
would command both fame and fortune.

I now felt all my native pride buoyant within
me.. I no longer walked with my eyes bent
to the dust; hope elevated them to the skies; my
soul was lit up with fresh fires, and beamed from
my countenance.

I wished to impart the change in my circumstances
to the Count; to let him know who and
what I was, and to make formal proposals for the
hand of Bianca; but the Count was absent on a
distant estate. I opened my whole soul to Filippo.
Now first I told him of my passion; of the
doubts and fears that had distracted me, and of
the tidings that had suddenly dispelled them. He
overwhelmed me with congratulations and with
the warmest expressions of sympathy. I embraced
him in the fullness of my heart. I felt compunctious
for having suspected him of coldness,
and asked him forgiveness for having ever doubted
his friendship.

Nothing is so warm and enthusiastic as a sudden
expansion of the heart between young men.

Filippo entered into our concerns with the most
eager interest. He was our confidant and counsellor.
It was determined that I should hasten at
once to Naples to re-establish myself in my father's
affections and my paternal home, and the
moment the reconciliation was effected and my
father's consent insured, I should return and demand
Bianca of the Count. Filippo engaged to
secure his father's acquiescence; indeed, he undertook
to watch over our interests, and was the
channel through which we were to correspond.

My parting with Bianca was tender—delicious
—agonizing. It was in a little pavilion of the
garden which had been one of our favourite resorts.
How often and often did I return to have one more
adieu—to have her look once more on me in
speechless emotion—to enjoy once more the rapturous
sight of those tears streaming down her
lovely cheeks—to seize once more on that delicate
hand, the frankly accorded pledge of love,
and cover it with tears and kisses! Heavens!
There is a delight even in the parting agony of
two lovers worth a thousand tame pleasures of

the world. I have her at this moment before my
eyes—at the window of the pavilion, putting aside
the vines that clustered about the casement—her
light form beaming forth in virgin white—her
countenance all tears and smiles—sending a thousand
and a thousand adieus after me, as, hesitating,
in a delirium of fondness and agitation, I
faltered my way down the avenue.

As the bark bore me out of the harbour of
Genoa, how eagerly my eyes stretched along the
coast of Sestri, till it discerned the villa gleaming
from among trees at the foot of the mountain.
As long as day lasted, I gazed and gazed upon it,
till it lessened and lessened to a mere white speck
in the distance; and still my intense and fixed
gaze discerned it, when all other objects of the
coast had blended into indistinct confusion, or
were lost in the evening gloom.

On arriving at Naples, I hastened to my paternal
home. My heart yearned for the long-withheld
blessing of a father's love. As I entered
the proud portal of the ancestral palace, my
emotions were so great that I could not speak.

No one knew me. The servants gazed at me
with curiosity and surprise. A few years of intellectual
elevation and development had made
a prodigious change in the poor fugitive stripling
from the convent. Still that no one should know
me in my rightful home was overpowering. I
felt like the prodigal son returned. I was a
stranger in the house of my father. I burst into
tears, and wept aloud. When I made myself
known, however, all was changed. I, who had
once been almost repulsed from its walls, and
forced to fly as an exile, was welcomed back with
acclamation, with servility. One of the servants
hastened to prepare my father for my reception;
my eagerness to receive the paternal embrace was
so great that I could not await his return; but
hurried after him.

What a spectacle met my eyes as I entered the
chamber. My father, whom I had left in the
pride of vigourous age, whose noble and majestic
bearing had so awed my young imagination, was
bowed down and withered into decrepitude. A
paralysis had ravaged his stately form, and left

it a shaking ruin. He sat propped up in his
chair, with pale relaxed visage and glassy wandering
eye. His intellects had evidently shared
in the ravage of his frame. The servant was
endeavouring to make him comprehend the visiter
that was at hand. I tottered up to him and
sunk at his feet. All his past coldness and neglect
were forgotten in his present sufferings. I
remembered only that he was my parent, and
that I had deserted him. I clasped his knees;
my voice was almost stifled with convulsive
sobs. “Pardon—pardon—oh my father!” was
all that I could utter. His apprehension seemed
slowly to return to him. He gazed at me for
some moments with a vague, inquiring look; a
convulsive tremor quivered about his lips; he
feebly extended a shaking hand, laid it upon my
head, and burst into an infantine flow of tears.

From that moment he would scarcely spare
me from his sight. I appeared the only object
that his heart responded to in the world: all else
was as a blank to him. He had almost lost the
powers of speech, and the reasoning faculty

seemed at an end. He was mute and passive;
excepting that fits of child-like weeping would
sometimes come over him without any immediate
cause. If I left the room at any time, his
eye was incessantly fixed on the door till my return,
and on my entrance there was another gush
of tears.

To talk with him of my concerns, in this ruined
state of mind, would have been worse than
useless: to have left him, for ever so short a
time, would have been cruel, unnatural. Here
then was a new trial for my affections. I wrote
to Bianca an account of my return and of my actual
situation; painting in colours vivid, for they
were true, the torments I suffered at our being
thus separated; for to the youthful lover every
day of absence is an age of love lost. I enclosed
the letter in one to Filippo who was the channel
of our correspondence. I received a reply
from him full of friendship and sympathy; from
Bianca full of assurances of affection and constancy.

Week after week; month after month elapsed,
without making any change in my circumstances.
The vital flame, which had seemed
nearly extinct when first I met my father, kept
fluttering on without any apparent diminution.
I watched him constantly, faithfully—I had almost
said patiently. I knew that his death alone
would set me free; yet I never at any moment
wished it. I felt too glad to be able to make any
atonement for past disobedience; and, denied
as I had been all endearments of relationship in
my early days, my heart yearned towards a father,
who, in his age and helplessness, had
thrown himself entirely on me for comfort. My
passion for Bianca gained daily more force from
absence; by constant meditation it wore itself a
deeper and deeper channel. I made no new
friends nor acquaintance; sought none of the
pleasures of Naples which my rank and fortune
threw open to me. Mine was a heart that confined
itself to few objects, but dwelt upon those
with the intenser passion. To sit by my father,
and administer to his wants, and to meditate

on Bianca in the silence of his chamber, was my
constant habit. Sometimes I amused myself
with my pencil in portraying the image that
was ever present to my imagination. I transferred
to canvas every look and smile of hers
that dwelt in my heart. I showed them to my
father in hopes of awakening an interest in his
bosom for the mere shadow of my love; but he
was too far sunk in intellect to take any more
than a child-like notice of them.

When I received a letter from Bianca it was
a new source of solitary luxury. Her letters,
it is true, were less and less frequent, but
they were always full of assurances of unabated
affection. They breathed not the frank and innocent
warmth, with which she expressed herself
in conversation, but I accounted for it from
the embarrassment which inexperienced minds
have often to express themselves upon paper.
Filippo assured me of her unaltered constancy.
They both lamented in the strongest terms our
continued separation, though they did justice to
the filial feeling that kept me by my father's side.

Nearly eighteen months elapsed in this protracted
exile. To me they were so many ages.
Ardent and impetuous by nature, I scarcely
know how I should have supported so long an
absence, had I not felt assured that the faith of
Bianca was equal to my own. At length my father
died. Life went from him almost imperceptibly.
I hung over him in mute affliction, and
watched the expiring spasms of nature. His
last faltering accents whispered repeatedly a blessing
on me—alas! how has it been fulfilled!

When I had paid due honours to his remains,
and laid them in the tomb of our ancestors, I arranged
briefly my affairs; put them in a posture
to be easily at my command from a distance,
and embarked once more, with a bounding
heart for Genoa.

Our voyage was propitious, and oh! what
was my rapture when first, in the dawn of morning,
I saw the shadowy summits of the Apennines
rising almost like clouds above the horizon.
The sweet breath of summer just moved us
over the long wavering billows that were rolling

us on towards Genoa. By degrees the coast of
Sestri rose like a sweet creation of enchantment
from the silver bosom of the deep. I beheld the
line of villages and palaces studding its borders.
My eye reverted to a well-known point, and at
length, from the confusion of distant objects, it
singled out the villa which contained Bianca. It
was a mere speck in the landscape, but glimmering
from afar, the polar star of my heart.

Again I gazed at it for a livelong summer's
day; but oh how different the emotions between
departure and return. It now kept growing and
growing, instead of lessening and lessening on
my sight. My heart seemed to dilate with it.
I looked at it through a telescope. I gradually
defined one feature after another. The balconies
of the central saloon where first I met
Bianca beneath its roof; the terrace where we
so often had passed the delightful summer
evenings; the awning that shaded her chamber
window—I almost fancied I saw her form beneath
it. Could she but know her lover was in the
bark whose white sail now gleamed on the sunny

bosom of the sea! My fond impatience increased
as we neared the coast. The ship seemed to
lag lazily over the billows; I could almost have
sprung into the sea and swam to the desired
shore.

The shadows of evening gradually shrowded
the scene, but the moon arose in all her fullness
and beauty, and shed the tender light so dear to
lovers, over the romantic coast of Sestri. My
whole soul was bathed in unutterable tenderness.
I anticipated the heavenly evenings I should
pass in wandering with Bianca by the light of
that blessed moon.

It was late at night before we entered the harbour.
As early next morning as I could get released
from the formalities of landing I threw
myself on horseback and hastened to the villa.
As I gallopped round the rocky promontory on
which stands the Faro, and saw the coast of Sestri
opening upon me, a thousand anxieties and
doubts suddenly sprang up in my bosom. There
is something fearfu in returning to those we love,
while yet uncertain what ills or changes absence

may have effected. The turbulence of my agitation
shook my very frame. I spurred my horse
to redoubled speed; he was covered with foam
when we both arrived panting at the gateway that
opened to the grounds around the villa. I left my
horse at a cottage and walked through the grounds
that I might regain tranquillity for the approaching
interview. I child myself for having suffered
mere doubts and surmises thus suddenly to overcome
me; but I was always prone to be carried
away by these gusts of the feelings.

On entering the garden every thing bore the
same look as when I had left it; and this unchanged
aspect of things reassured me. There
were the alleys in which I had so often walked
with Bianca; the same shades under which we
had so often sat during the noontide heat. There
were the same flowers of which she was fond;
and which appeared still to be under the ministry
of her hand. Every thing around looked and
breathed of Bianca; hope and joy flushed in my
bosom at every step. I passed a little bower in
which we had often sat and read together. A

book and a glove lay on the bench. It was Bianca's
glove; it was a volume of the Metestasio
I had given her. The glove lay in my favourite
passage. I clasped them to my heart. “All is
safe!” exclaimed I, with rapture, “she loves me!
she is still my own!”

I bounded lightly along the avenue down which
I had faltered so slowly at my departure. I beheld
her favourite pavilion which had witnessed
our parting scene. The window was open, with
the same vine clambering about it, precisely as
when she waved and wept me an adieu. Oh!
how transporting was the contrast in my situation.
As I passed near the pavilion, I heard the
tones of a female voice. They thrilled through
me with an appeal to my heart not to be mistaken.
Before I could think, I felt they were Bianca's.
For an instant I paused, overpowered
with agitation. I feared to break in suddenly
upon her. I softly ascended the steps of the pavilion.
The door was open. I saw Bianca seated
at a table; her back was towards me; she
was warbling a soft melancholy air, and was occupied

in drawing. A glance sufficed to show
me that she was copying one of my own paintings.
I gazed on her for a moment in a delicious
tumult of emotions. She paused in her singing;
a heavy sigh, almost a sob followed. I could no
longer contain myself. “Bianca!” exclaimed
I, in a half smothered voice. She started at the
sound; brushed back the ringlets that hung
clustering about her face; darted a glance at
me; uttered a piercing shriek, and would have
fallen to the earth, had I not caught her in my
arms.

“Bianca! my own Bianca!” exclaimed I,
folding her to my bosom; my voice stifled in
sobs of convulsive joy. She lay in my arms
without sense or motion. Alarmed at the effects
of my own precipitation, I scarce knew what to
do. I tried by a thousand endearing words to
call her back to consciousness. She slowly recovered,
and half opening her eyes—“where am
I?” murmured she faintly. “Here,” exclaimed
I, pressing her to my bosom, “Here,! close to

the heart that adores you; in the arms of your
faithful Ottavio!”

“Oh no! no! no!” shrieked she, starting into
sudden life and terror—“away! away! leave
me! leave me!”

She tore herself from my arms; rushed to a
corner of the saloon, and covered her face with
her hands, as if the very sight of me were baleful.
I was thunderstruck—I could not believe
my senses. I followed her, trembling, confounded.
I endeavoured to take her hand, but
she shrunk from my very touch with horror.

“Good heavens, Bianca,” exclaimed I, “what
is the meaning of this? Is this my reception
after so long an absence? Is this the love you
professed for me?”

At the mention of love, a shuddering ran
through her. She turned to me a face wild with
anguish. “No more of that! no more of that!”
gasped she—“talk not to me of love—I—I—am
married!”

I reeled as if I had received a mortal blow.
A sickness struck to my very heart. I caught

at a window frame for support. For a moment
or two, every thing was chaos around me. When
I recovered, I beheld Bianca lying on a sofa;
her face buried in the pillow, and sobbing convulsively.
Indignation at her fickleness for a
moment overpowered every other feeling.

“Faithless—perjured—” cried I, striding
across the room. But another glance at that
beautiful being in distress, checked all my wrath.
Anger could not dwell together with her idea in
my soul.

“Oh Bianca,” exclaimed I, in anguish, could
I have dreamt of this; could I have suspected
you would have been false to me?”

She raised her face all streaming with tears,
all disordered with emotion, and gave me one
appealing look—“False to you!—they told
me you were dead!”

“What,” said I, “in spite of our constant correspondence?”

She gazed wildly at me—“correspondence!—
what correspondence?”

“Have you not repeatedly received and replied
to my letters?”

She clasped her hands with solemnity and
fervour—“As I hope for mercy, never!”

A horrible surmise shot through my brain—
“Who told you I was dead?”

“It was reported that the ship in which you
embarked for Naples perished at sea.”

“But who told you the report?”

She paused for an instant, and trembled—

“Filippo!”

“May the God of heaven curse him!” cried I,
extending my clinched fists aloft.

“Oh do not curse him—do not curse him!”
exclaimed she—“He is—he is—my husband!”

This was all that was wanting to unfold the
perfidy that had been practised upon me. My
blood boiled like liquid fire in my veins. I gasped
with rage too great for utterance. I remained
for a time bewildered by the whirl of horrible
thoughts that rushed through my mind. The
poor victim of deception before me thought it
was with her I was incensed. She faintly murmured

forth her exculpation. I will not dwell
upon it. I saw in it more than she meant to reveal.
I saw with a glance how both of us had
been betrayed. “'Tis well!” muttered I to myself
in smothered accents of concentrated fury.
“He shall account to me for this!”

Bianca overheard me. New terror flashed in
her countenance. “For mercy's sake do not
meet him—say nothing of what has passed—for
my sake say nothing to him—I only shall be the
sufferer!”

A new suspicion darted across my mind—
“what!” exclaimed I—“do you then fear him
—is he unkind to you—tell me” reiterated I,
grasping her hand and looking her eagerly in the
face—“tell me—dares he to use you harshly!”

“No! no! no!” cried she faltering and embarrassed;
but the glance at her face had told
me volumes. I saw in her pallid and wasted
features; in the prompt terror and subdued
agony of her eye a whole history of a mind broken
down by tyranny. Great God! and was
this beauteous flower snatched from me to be

thus trampled upon. The idea roused me to
madness. I clinched my teeth and my hands;
I foamed at the mouth; every passion seemed to
have resolved itself into the fury that like a lava
boiled within my heart. Bianca shrunk from
me in speechless affright. As I strode by the window
my eye darted down the alley. Fatal moment!
I beheld Filippo at a distance! My brain
was in delirium—I sprang from the pavilion,
and was before him with the quickness of lightning.
He saw me as I came rushing upon him
—he turned pale, looked wildly to right and left,
as if he would have fled, and trembling drew his
sword:—

“Wretch!” cried I, “well may you draw your
weapon!”

I spake not another word—I snatched forth
a stiletto, put by the sword which trembled in
his hand, and buried my poniard in his bosom.
He fell with the blow, but my rage was unsated.
I sprang upon him with the blood-thirsty feeling
of a tiger; redoubled my blows; mangled him
in my frenzy, grasped him by the throat, until
with reiterated wounds and strangling convulsions

he expired in my grasp. I remained glaring
on the countenance, horrible in death, that
seemed to stare back with its protruded eyes upon
me. Piercing shrieks roused me from my delirium.
I looked round and beheld Bianca flying
distractedly towards us. My brain whirled. I
waited not to meet her, but fled from the scene
of horror. I fled forth from the garden like
another Cain, a hell within my bosom, and a
curse upon my head. I fled without knowing
whither—almost without knowing why—my
only idea was to get farther and farther from the
horrors I had left behind; as if I could throw
space between myself and my conscience. I fled
to the Apennines, and wandered for days and
days among their savage heights. How I existed
I cannot tell—what rocks and precipices I
braved, and how I braved them, I know not. I
kept on and on—trying to outtravel the curse
that clung to me. Alas, the shrieks of Bianca
rung for ever in my ear. The horrible countenance
of my victim was for ever before my eyes.
“The blood of Filippo cried to me from the
ground.” Rocks, trees, and torrents all resounded
with my crime.

Then it was I felt how much more insupportable
is the anguish of remorse than every
other mental pang. Oh! could I but have cast
off this crime that festered in my heart; could I
but have regained the innocence that reigned in
my breast as I entered the garden at Sestri; could
I but have restored my victim to life, I felt as if
I could look on with transport even though Bianca
were in his arms.

By degrees this frenzied fever of remorse settled
into a permanent malady of the mind. Into
one of the most horrible that ever poor wretch
was cursed with. Wherever I went the countenance
of him I had slain appeared to follow me.
Wherever I turned my head I beheld it behind
me, hideous with the contortions of the dying
moment. I have tried in every way to escape
from this horrible phantom; but in vain. I
know not whether it is an illusion of the mind,
the consequence of my dismal education at the
convent, or whether a phantom really sent by

heaven to punish me; but there it ever is—at all
times—in all places—nor has time nor habit had
any effect in familiarizing me with its terrors.
I have travelled from place to place, plunged
into amusements—tried dissipation and distraction
of every kind—all—all in vain.

I once had recourse to my pencil as a desperate
experiment. I painted an exact resemblance
of this phantom face. I placed it before me in
hopes that by constantly contemplating the copy
I might diminish the effect of the original. But
I only doubled instead of diminishing the misery.

Such is the curse that has clung to my footsteps—that
has made my life a burthen—but
the thoughts of death, terrible. God knows what
I have suffered. What days and days, and
nights and nights, of sleepless torment. What
a never-dying worm has preyed upon my heart;
what an unquenchable fire has burned within
my brain. He knows the wrongs that wrought
upon my poor weak nature; that converted the
tenderest of affections into the deadliest of fury.
He knows best whether a frail erring creature

has expiated by long-enduring torture and measureless
remorse, the crime of a moment of madness.
Often, often have I prostrated myself in
the dust, and implored that he would give me a
sign of his forgiveness, and let me die.—

Thus far had I written some time since. I
had meant to leave this record of misery and
crime with you, to be read when I should be no
more. My prayer to heaven has at length been
heard. You were witness to my emotions last
evening at the performance of the Miserere; when
the vaulted temple resounded with the words of
atonement and redemption. I heard a voice
speaking to me from the midst of the music; I
heard it rising above the pealing of the organ
and the voices of the choir: it spoke to me in
tones of celestial melody; it promised mercy and
forgiveness, but demanded from me full expiation.
I go to make it. To-morrow I shall be
on my way to Genoa to surrender myself to
justice. You who have pitied my sufferings;
who have poured the balm of sympathy into my
wounds, do not shrink from my memory with

abhorrence now that you know my story. Recollect,
when you read of my crime I shall have
atoned for it with my blood!

When the Baronet had finished, there was an
universal desire expressed to see the painting of
this frightful visage. After much entreaty the
Baronet consented, on condition that they should
only visit it one by one. He called his housekeeper
and gave her charge to conduct the gentlemen
singly to the chamber. They all returned
varying in their stories: some affected in
one way, some in another; some more, some
less; but all agreeing that there was a certain
something about the painting that had a very odd
effect upon the feelings.

I stood in a deep bow window with the Baronet,
and could not help expressing my wonder.
“After all,” said I, “there are certain mysteries
in our nature, certain inscrutable impulses
and influences, that warrant one in being superstitious.
Who can account for so many persons

of different characters being thus strangely affected
by a mere painting?”

“And especially when not one of them has
seen it!” said the Baronet with a smile.

“How?” exclaimed I, “not seen it?”

“Not one of them!” replied he, laying his finger
on his lips in sign of secrecy. “I saw that
some of them were in a bantering vein, and I did
not choose that the momento of the poor Italian
should be made a jest of. So I gave the housekeeper
a hint to show them all to a different
chamber!”