University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

A Sculptor sat alone in his studio. The sun-shiny
air of his apartment gave almost the warmth
of flesh to the cold marble figures scattered around
here and there on the floor, or leaning from shelves
and frames. A large opened window admitted the
tempered breeze, laden with stolen sweets from the
orangery of an adjoining palace. Large blocks of
the material in which he worked, lay in the court
and antechamber, soon perhaps to be awakened
into those half-breathing shapes which peopled the
solitude of his apartment. The artist was youthful,
and of a most interesting appearance. A character
of melancholy and intellectuality peculiar to his profession—peculiar,
indeed, to all whose studies lead
them from the outer world into the higher realms
of thought and imagination—was impressed at once
upon his air, form, and features. Slender, but gracefully
formed, you saw at a glance that his labours
were not of the body, but of the mind. It was beneath

the expanded forehead that the glorious circle
of his life and genius lay; and that the intensest toil
might weary or reward him, even in the hour when
to other eyes he seemed most at rest. His countenance
was of that high and classical mould frequently
found among cultivated Italians. Pale,
noble, intelligent—you marked him immediately as
one of no common cast. Large black eyes glanced
a softened and shaded ray when unexcited; but,
with animation came light and fire, and a certain
beauty and expression denied to his features in their
ordinary repose, and implying genius—enthusiasm
—the yearnings and deep aspirations of a far-reaching
soul. Many women would have found in him
the dangerous faculty to feel love in its most passionate
moods; and not only to feel, but to excite
it. His face, too, was full of candour and manly
mind. His smile, when he did smile, was sweet
and still; but the habitual expression was that of
thought and abstracted melancholy. Something
winning and endearing there was, both in the chiselled
mouth, and the lustrous eyes, and the dazzling
teeth, which shone through his smile. His hair was
profuse for the fastidious fashion of the day, but the
quality made ample amends; and the rich auburn
masses about his white blue-veined temples, and
the two slight curls which added so much to the
expression of his lips, gave his whole bust a striking
air for a picture. Many a young, bright-hearted
girl would have imbodied in him her favourite
hero of romance. With all that was amiable and
gentle, too, came ever and anon over his air a hauteur
and sternness, as the mood of his mind varied.
He was a beau ideal for genius.

Before him stood the bust of a young girl. Never
shone a face so sunny and beautiful. Was it some
ideal creation there beaming in immortal marble

—the brilliant imbodying of female loveliness—of
girlhood—of hope, joy, and purity—as these attributes
exist in a most fervid imagination? Did not
he who had awakened such a dream of softness and
light from the passionless and inert stone—did he
not tremble with the exquisite appreciation of his
inspired work? Did not his eyes sparkle with triumph
and joy? Did not his heart heave with the
fulness of a fairy vision for once realized by his
hand?

No. As Angelo gazed on the graceful head, and
the girlish and bright face, his reveries seemed to
partake more of sadness than delight; and after a
long silence, and kissing with an impulse of love the
cold forehead and the unstirring tresses, he sighed,
and the flush of an excited thought came over his
cheek.

“Yes,” he said, “I must lose even this—even
the work of my toil—the produce of my own eye
and my own hand. I must part with the dear impress
and faint reflection of what haunts me so—
even to this—dull, unanswering marble as it is—
I must bid farewell, because fate has cast my lot
in penury—bitter, heart-gnawing, soul-corroding
penury. Beautiful, adored, celestial image!”—he
kissed again the silent head—“I love thee, although
dim and dark compared with her. Oh, how
I love thee!”

He paused, still regarding it, and then continued:
“Dim, did I say? Why, I wonder I have dared to
hew out this unworthy thing to image forth her bewildering
charms. Thou, Antonia?—why, where
are those eyes, more soft than ever gazed from the
fearful fawn? Where the tinges that float over the
tresses? Where the smile that steals across the
rose-bud mouth? Where the voice that so fills and
bewilders my soul, that a thousand thousand times

I would have flung myself at her feet—wept—
prayed—and adored her—but for that cold priest,
who leers and treads so stealthily about with her,
as if he were my evil demon? Where are the
words that rise from those lips—beautiful words
—all, bright as flowers—or seashells—or any
thing that nature made most bright and fair: and
yet,” he said, relenting towards the unconscious
object of his displeasure, “even this would be a
companion. This—nameless, friendless, obscure
as I am—I might love without dishonour—without
scorn. Leave me those pouting lips, sweet heaven!
dead as they are to my audacious kisses; and
leave me those drooping eyes—even though unseeing.
Better, perhaps, that they should not view
my presumptuous homage, lest their marble orbs
dart fire and contempt upon me.”

He started up, and paced across the room.

“Yes, contempt on me—whose companionship
is with the divinities of the past; whose tread is in
the track of Phidias and Praxiteles—of Angelo and
Cellini; whose hand can thus remould the fleeting
features, conferring an immortality which nature refused:
on me—whose name and whose productions
shall endure when the frail original of this beautiful
thing lies mingling with the common dust. But,
thank the great God of freedom, the time draws
near. My country—my bleeding, groaning, trampled
country! Thy deep, low voice rises to me
from a thousand hills. Why should I waste my
golden youth in idle and unanswered love? Why
should I pursue disappointment, and woo scorn?
Why should I?—and yet—and yet how fiercely
burns this bewildering passion in my heart for that
careless girl! Shall I yield to it? Shall I leave
my ambition and chain myself with love's flowery
fetters for ever to her feet? Yet she loves me not:

oh, no! not even my madness can dream it. But
will she not?—may she not, should this deep-laid
plot succeed? Her proud couzin Alezzi is a leader,
and so am I. Should it succeed, wealth and
fame may be mine. Whose star would then burn
more gloriously than the poor artist's? Oh, I
would people a gallery with her lovely shape!
All my marble should turn to Antonia—nothing
but Antonia.”