 | CHAPTER V. Monaldi |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
It was about two years after the events recorded
in the preceding chapter, that Monaldi arrived in
Rome; where his reception was such as might
have amply satisfied him, had he been far more
ambitious of popular admiration. To say, however,
that he was wholly insensible to praise, would
not be true; so far as he believed it an expression
of sympathy, it was justly valued, nay, it was then
most dear to him as one of the graces of our social
nature; nor did he affect an indifference to
that posthumous sympathy with excellence — that
purest form of fame to which so many noble
minds, under poverty and neglect, have patiently
looked — and looked, alas, for their only reward.
Yet the love of fame was less a passion with Monaldi
than the result of a sober law of his mind,
which won his obedience, because it carried with
it the assurance of an enduring nature. But he
had no craving for distinction, much less for notoriety,
or what is popularly called reputation; indeed,
buried reputations not to have learned how their
common tenure, the fashion of one age is valued
by another.
With such an artist it cannot be supposed that
a mere adulator of his name could have found
much favor, nor, when it is added that Monaldi's
was one of those kindly natures to which the duty
of repelling is at all times painful, will it be thought
singular that a person of this description should
have been to him an object of especial annoyance.
It was to escape from one of these unmeaning flatterers,
who seldom failed to fasten upon him whenever
they met, that Monaldi one day turned into a
gateway in an obscure street, where one of his
figure was rarely seen. The passage leading from
it was somewhat dark, and he hoped to conceal
himself there till his persecutor had passed, when
he observed a person from within coming towards
him. The awkwardness of his situation obliged
him either to retreat, or to explain it, and he spoke.
“Your pardon, Signor — I pray you excuse this
intrusion.” The stranger started. “Nay,” added
Monaldi, “it will be but for a moment. In truth
I am an unlucky artist, who would merely avoid
a troublesome acquaintance.”
“Begone!” said the stranger.
“Good heaven!” cried Monaldi, “sure that
voice” — But the stranger had disappeared.
“It is — it must be,” said he, and without further
thought he entered the court. They were now
under the open sky. The stranger stopped, —
and Monaldi beheld his long lost friend.
“Maldura!” — was all his full heart could utter.
Maldura spoke not a word; but he suffered his
hand to remain passively within the grasp of his
friend.
“I see 't is with you as myself,” said Monaldi
at last. “But how can words add to the joy of
this meeting?”
“Words! — True — they are idle.” Maldura
was no hypocrite, and his manly spirit revolted at
expressing what he did not feel — and what he
felt his heart was not yet hard enough to utter.
Yet something must be said — and that neither
unkind nor hollow. “You look well, Monaldi;
even better than when we parted at Bologna.”
“That's a long time — very long,” said Monaldi.
“Yet, long as it is, I need hardly tell Maldura
that I could not recall many days when he has
been out of my mind — especially since I lost
trace of you. But where have you been all this
while? you know not how many ill bodings I have
had on account of your strange disappearance —
might have embarked for Spain — as you once
talked of doing — and been shipwrecked; then in
a more cheerful mood, I would suppose you voluntarily
banished to some quiet solitude, that you
might give your whole mind to some great work —
for I remembered your favorite maxim, that the
sacrifice of a whole life were but a cheap price for
fame; then again my apprehensions would take
the worst conclusion — that you had been robbed
and murdered. Tell me, where have you been?
what have you been doing?”
“ 'T is of little consequence,” replied Maldura.
“The past is past — and the wisdom of Solomon
could not make it better or worse: let it rest
then.”
“Nay, I would not ask you to recall what might
give you pain, deeply as I am interested.”
“I did not say it would give me pain — I said
it was useless.”
“I would know then no more than will give you
pleasure. So we will talk of what remains of the
past. Your active mind cannot have been idle,
and the world expects much of you.”
“The world!” This was touching a galled
spot. Maldura's eyes flashed; but a smile of
fiercer scorn succeeded? “We will talk of the
better than an idiot's slaver. But for ourselves —
we shall be better in the house: 't is not a palace,
as you see — but 't will afford us shelter from the
sun.”
“You know I am not dainty,” answered Monaldi.
“Or if I were, the place would be the last
thing I should think of at this time.”
“I was not apologizing for it,” said Maldura,
somewhat proudly, “the knaves and fools that live
in palaces might reconcile a wise man to one much
worse.”
“Maldura's mind,” said Monaldi — and he said
it in a tone that spoke anything but abatement of
his youthful reverence — “such a mind would dignify
any palace.”
Maldura's heart softened in spite of himself.
He hated the world, but not its praise; and he led
the way into the house with less reluctance than
he had expected.
When the friends left school, they had engaged
to write to each other, and their correspondence
had continued with little interruption up to the
time of Maldura's first failure; when, from the
fear of betraying the secret misery occasioned by
that event, he discontinued it. Since then, Monaldi
had never heard any tidings of his friend,
part of the world, he could never learn. Maldura,
however, had long been apprized of all the other's
movements, his success, and fame; but the more
he heard of them, the less did he incline to renew
their intimacy; indeed the contrast which they
formed to his own situation was among the sorest
aggravations of his misery. Had it been a stranger
— any other man — so courted and followed,
he thought he could have borne it; but to find an
object of envy in his humble schoolfellow, on
whom he had once looked down, was a degradation
which he could not forgive.
With feelings like these, it is not surprising that
Maldura forbore to seek out his friend; nor, when
accident had brought them together, and he recognised
his voice in the gateway, that he should have
sought to avoid him. But his heart was not yet
entirely hardened, and his late interview with Monaldi
had touched it. Yet so new seemed to him
the consciousness of any kind feeling, that it was
a considerable time after Monaldi's departure before
he could realize what had passed; and then
he felt as if something had gone from him which
he hardly knew whether to regret or not. With
one thing, however, he was satisfied — that his
friend had conceived no suspicion of the change
still a secret coveting of the esteem of others: so
that, upon the whole, he almost doubted if he
were sorry for the meeting. In fact, he was much
better pleased than he was willing to admit: for
however a misanthrope may pride himself on the
sovereignty of his hatred, as long as he continues
in this world, he can never so entirely destroy his
social nature but that some leaven of it will work
within him.
The intercourse thus renewed between the two
friends could not but differ in many respects from
that of their earlier years. Monaldi, however,
hailed it as a promise of many pleasures. His
affectionate disposition had long felt the want of a
friend; but his studious habits, added to his natural
reserve, had hitherto prevented his forming any
second intimacy; and he now dwelt with delight
on the thought of pouring out his heart into the
bosom of his early friend. But he soon found
that Maldura was not that open, social being he
had once known, that he had become cold, absent
and gloomy: though the change grieved him and
repressed his confidence, it did not lessen his attachment;
and, ascribing it to some secret sorrow,
he imagined that his sympathy was more than ever
needed. His efforts, however, were in vain — the
every act of kindness.
It is the natural consequence of a fruitless endeavor
to alleviate the afflictions of those who are
dear to us to become ourselves partakers of their
sufferings. And if the cause of our pain be not
hateful, we feel, or rather fancy that we shall feel,
relieved, the nearer we are to it. Monaldi's visits
to his friend, however, were seldom followed by
the effect he desired; being for the most part
passed in mutual silence, or in a few common remarks
on indifferent topics.
It was after a morning of more than usual depression
and concern on his account, that Monaldi
one day called on his unhappy friend. Maldura's
apathy seemed for the moment overcome; and he
could not help expressing surprise at such an unwonted
visit; for it was scarcely past mid-day, and
he knew that nothing short of necessity could tempt
the devoted artist to leave his studio at that hour.
Monaldi simply replied, that he had felt indisposed
to work; and he drew a chair to a window. The
apartment being in an upper story, and the house
somewhat elevated, commanded an extensive view
of the southern portion of the city, overlooking the
Campo Vaccino, once the ancient forum, with its
surrounding ruins, and taking in a part of the
was a thin yellow haze over the distance like that
which precedes the scirocco, but the nearer objects
were clear and distinct, and so bright that the eye
could hardly rest on them without quivering, especially
on the modern buildings, with their huge
sweep of whited walls, and their red-tiled roofs,
that lay burning in the sun, while the sharp, black
shadows, which here and there seemed to indent
the dazzling masses, might almost have been fancied
the cinder-tracks of his fire. The streets of
Rome, at no time very noisy, are for nothing more
remarkable than, during the summer months, for
their noontide stillness, the meridian heat being
frequently so intense as to stop all business, driving
everything within doors, with the proverbial
exception of dogs and strangers. But even these
might scarcely have withstood the present scorching
atmosphere. It was now high noon, and the
few straggling vine-dressers that were wont to stir
in this secluded quarter had already been driven
under shelter; not a vestige of life was to be seen,
not a bird on the wing, and so deep was the stillness
that a solitary foot-fall might have filled the
whole air; neither was this stillness lessened by
the presence of the two friends — for nothing so
deepens silence as man at rest; they had both sat
unconscious of the lapse of time, till the bell of
a neighboring church warned them of it.
“Yes,” said Monaldi — as if the sound had
suddenly loosed his tongue — “there is a chain
that runs through all things. How else should the
mind hear the echo of its workings from voiceless
rocks? Mysterious union! that our very lives
should seem but so many reflections from the face
of nature; and all about us but visible types of the
invisible man! Even the works of man, the passive
combinations of his hand — they too have
found a tongue in the elements, and become oracular
to his heart — even as that proud pile of
Titus, so dark and desolate within, now speaks
from without, in the gorgeous language of the sun,
to mine. Look, Maldura: here is to me a book
of history and prophecy. You see in that distant
mist the prefigurement of my future; for my present
state you need but look beneath us — on this
oppressive splendor; but for the past — thank
heaven, that is still mine — the blessed past! how
soothingly it speaks to me in this humble shade!”
Maldura's distorted vision saw nothing in this
but a covert sally of pride, and a half suppressed
sneer passed over his features; but his confiding
friend gave it a different name.
“You seem incredulous — why should you doubt
that I look on the past with envy?”
“Some,” answered Maldura, “might think that
it needed at least faith; especially to believe it of
the favorite of popes and cardinals — for you look
back to obscurity.”
“But not you, Maldura. For you know that
that obscurity was happy — because those I loved
were happy; and because in them I had a true
home for all my wishes; for we build not for ourselves
alone — at least anything that can satisfy,
or is worthy the heart; and mine was never subordinate
to the head. Others, who remember
nothing of my youth but its reserve, might perhaps
doubt it; but not you. If I was reserved, you
well know it was neither from coldness or gloom;
but that I was so moulded by early and severe
misfortunes. I was left an orphan ere I hardly
knew the blessing of kindred. This was the first
misfortune. Then followed another. That my
scanty patrimony might be husbanded, I was
doomed to waste the first ten years of my life
amongst illiterate boors — though, to do them
justice, they were honest. And, though unlettered
then myself, the thousand obscure longings, and
“deep and anxious questionings,” on what I saw
and felt, which everywhere haunted me, and which
me that I had but little in common with those
about me; nay, the very expression of my thoughts
was often answered by a laugh, or by the nicknames
of idiot and dreamer You cannot wonder
then that I shrunk into myself, nor that I at length
became indeed a dreamer; for my whole world
was within me, and would have been so now but
for one being — bless her memory. That being
was my sister.”
Monaldi here appeared to be overcome by some
tender recollection; but after a moment's pause
he proceeded, as if in continuation of his thoughts.
“No, it would be selfish to wish her back. You
remember her, Maldura?”
The question seemed to rouse Maldura from his
abstraction, and he raised his eyes with a vacant
look. But, wishing to avoid an explanation, he
nodded in assent.
“It was in my twelfth year that we met for the
first time since my infancy; for you may remember
that she had been brought up by a distant relation
at Modena. What a strange faculty is this
memory! I can see her now almost as distinctly
as if she were before me. She was only five years
older than myself, and yet when she kissed me and
looked upon me, it was with such a maternal look
tone so solicitous, so tender, that I could never
from that hour either think or speak of her but
with the veneration of a son. — Yes,” continued
Monaldi, while the recollection seemed to give a
deeper fervor to his manner, “it was she first
taught me that I had a heart — and too large for
self; who made it the companion, nay, controller,
of my intellect, giving it direction and purpose;
and it was her praise that made me long for fame;
for I felt that it would make her happy. But she
was taken from me before the world knew that
such a candidate for its praise was in being, or she
herself had anything to dwell on save the prophetic
visions which her sisterly love had travelled for into
the future. But it is right, all right — she is happier
where she is. I need not name the other
being who came to supply her loss — nor how
kindly! Even now too I can see the stone seat in
our play-yard, at Bologna — that good seat! associated
with so many nameless acts of kindness,
which no one can understand but an orphan boy;
and one as sensitive as desolate, and left to the
cold, boisterous gaiety of a public school. Yes,
Maldura, you alone in the wide world seemed to
feel for my loss; and in that you did so you became
to me more than the world. I exulted in
and I looked to your future fame even with my
poor sister's eyes, when she looked to mine. Why
the last has not been realized I marvel — that such
a mind — ”
Maldura ground his teeth.
Monaldi saw the change in his countenance, and
stopped: then added, “If I have touched on what
is displeasing to you, forgive me. And yet it cannot
be that the expression of a regret so natural — ”
“The less that is said of it the better,” said
Maldura, with a bitter smile. “As for yourself —
you have the world's trumpet. Keep it — I would
none of its blast; 't is made up of the breath of
fools, or it may be knaves. Keep it, then, and be
content. Good or bad, 't is yours, they say; and
will be, even when the grave shall have walled up
your ears.”
“No, Maldura — you have forgotten, or you
mistake, my heart, if you think that fame alone
can fill it. The very retrospect I have just made
is proof enough. Why else should I dwell on
scenes that are past, and quit the palpable present,
to commune with shadows? But I miscall them;
they are shadows only to my bodily eyes — to my
affections they are substance — in effect the truest,
so long as through the mysterious memory they
realities deny. No; the solitude of neglect were
better borne than solitary grandeur. We are not
made to enjoy alone — least of all things fame;
't is a fierce splendor, that needs to be conducted
off by others; if it rest with ourselves, it becomes
a fire that, sooner or later, must shrivel up the
heart. Had I parent or kindred — could the grave
give me back such shares of my fame — but I will
not think of it. Or — would you, Maldura — ”
Maldura started from his seat.
“Again forgive me,” said Monaldi, “I ought
not so to obtrude my regrets upon you.”
Maldura turned from him as if he would hear
no more; then, stopping awhile, said, “You have
had your marvel; so too may I. If you count
fame nothing, why do you toil?”
“Because I could not be idle and live; and
because I love my art for its own sake. I should
still paint, had I the means, were I thrown on a
desolate island.”
“Yet you have one thing, which many in the
world would think included all — wealth; though
some indeed have called it trash — at least in
books.”
“And do you think so, Maldura? I know you
do not. Yet — ” the thought now glanced on
poverty; his face lighted up, and he grasped Maldura's
hand.
“What is it disturbs you?” said Maldura, coldly
withdrawing his hand.
“Disturb! oh no! I owe you a thousand thanks
for this discovery. How could I have been so
blind! This obscure retreat, these sorry lodgings,
speak it but too plainly.”
“Speak what?” asked Maldura, in amazement.
“Your secret. 'T is now mine.”
The blood rushed to Maldura's forehead, and
he felt as if he could have annihilated himself, Monaldi,
and all who had ever known him.
“And it has made me happy,” added Monaldi;
“for now I have something to live for.”
The conclusion of this sentence relieved Maldura
from the horror of his suspicion, but it left
him still perplexed for its meaning.
Monaldi continued. “But why should I waste
time in useless words. You have unwittingly betrayed
the cause of your distress, Maldura; and,
pardon me that I rejoice at it. You suffer from
the want of that “trash” with which fortune has
overwhelmed, nay, oppressed me. Let me then
put it to its right use, to the service of genius and
virtue; and where do these live purer and nobler
will allow me to call the moiety of it yours.”
As Maldura listened, his face became of an
ashy paleness, his lips quivered, and his knees
shook. “Pshaw!” said he; and he instantly recovered
himself.
Monaldi was about to repeat his offer, when,
suddenly turning upon him, Maldura gave him a
look — such a look — Monaldi felt as if it had
passed through him.
“Nay, what's the matter?” said Maldura,
while a half compunctious feeling brought the
blood back to his cheek.
“Tell me, have I offended you, Maldura?”
“No. Though I do not jump at your offer,
you must not think it offends me; for, indeed, I
ought to — that is — I do thank you. But — ”
“Do not say that you decline it.”
“I must; for I am above want.”
“In spirit — ”
“Ay, and in purse too.”
“Then I will press you no further,” said Monaldi.
A silence of several minutes followed.
“I fear,” said Maldura at last, “I fear that I
have not appeared so sensible to your kindness as
I ought to be; but, I am rather unwell to-day —
it.”
“Nay,” returned Monaldi, if you did appear a
little proud of your independence, I ought not to
blame you: though you should not have thought
that your sharing my useless pelf would have made
you the less free.”
“But I do thank you. Will you not believe it?”
“I do,” said Monaldi, “from the bottom of my
soul.”
Maldura grasped his hand, and, pausing a moment,
added, in a hollow voice, “Monaldi! you
have indeed a noble heart; and you deserve —
yes, you deserve — all you possess.” He then
turned away and passed into another room.
“Alas!” thought Monaldi, as he walked homeward,
“I fear his brain is unsettled.” The thought
sunk into his heart, and seemed to fix his friend
there more firmly than ever.
“I have said it!” said Maldura when alone.
“Yes, it went from me in spite of — Oh, that I
had bestowed that word, so justly merited, on any
other man. But I have said it; and, true — it
ought to have been said.” Then, as if he would
flee from his thoughts, or, rather, return to his
wonted mood by a change of place, he snatched
up his hat, and hurried into the street; he had no
mechanically to the desolate baths of Caracalla.
These baths had long been his favorite haunt, for
there was something in their ruins he felt akin with
his fortunes, and he would often spend whole days
and nights there, sometimes sitting in their dark
recesses, and given up to misery, and sometimes
wandering to and fro, as if inhaling a kind of savage
refreshment from walking over the wreck of
prouder piles than his own.
| CHAPTER V. Monaldi | |