University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

The Psyche was finished. Nothing from the
chisel of the young sculptor had equalled it. Fortune
had thrown into his hands a block of marble
matchlessly perfect; pure and stainless as her
whose attributes it imbodied. Soft fell the drapery,
as if waving with the air; and so exquisitely graceful
were the tender limbs, so sweet and appealing
the virgin face, that the spectator held his breath
and trod with a hushed step, as if the heavenly
vision, thus betrayed in its visible beauty on the
gross earth, would start from his gaze, and die of
shame.

The artist withdrew a few paces, and, leaning
against a colossal but half-hewn Jupiter, folded his
arms, and waited the examination of his friend and
patron. He had placed the figure on a revolving
pedestal, and arranged the shutters to send down
on it the light most favourable to the potent spell of
imagination. On his auburn hair, veiling even from

friendship the interest with which he watched the
effect of his power, a dark crimson cap was drawn
down over his eyes, as if carelessly; his arms were
folded; his head thrown slightly back; over his
handsome face a smile had stolen—just lighting his
gaze—just parting his lips.

The sense of excellence in works of art had
entered deep into Norman's soul. This delicious
dream of loveliness threw him off his guard. He
forgot the presence of the author. He gazed in
rapture—walked round it again and again with
never-tiring delight, murmuring ever and anon, in
the tone that comes only from the heart—

“Oh, beautiful! beautiful! Lovely as the soul!
Radiant as the morning!”

He breathed at length, as his attention relaxed,
and turned suddenly towards Angelo. The sculptor
stood, as if himself a statue, in the same unstirring
attitude; but a change had come over his
countenance: the deep, delighted smile had faded
from his lips, and his eyes were full of tears.

“Is it not a high art,” he said at length, “to cope
with the very hand of nature!”

“Even so,” replied Norman. “When I look on
a statue, it is ever with a thrill. Immortality is
written on it, as well as genius.”

“Ay,” rejoined Angelo, his face again lighting
up; “will it not go down the tide of ages—will it
not? When kings, who now roll by me as if I
were dust beneath their chariot-wheels, shall be
dust themselves—when beauties, who deem me,
and such as I, too humble even to look on their radiance,
shall be kissed by the worm—when cities,
now thriving and roaring with their millions, shall
be unpeopled, crumbling, grass-grown, and silent—
shall not this little image, in which I have again

timidly traced her lineaments, shall it not live
among the yet unborn myriads?”

Norman saw he was excited, and drew him
gently to the window. It looked out upon a wide
and gorgeous garden, where huge vases of orange-trees
and lemons were ranged against the sunny
wall, and statues and fountains gleamed through
the leaves.

“Angelo,” said he, “I have observed, of late,
that you have grown more unquiet and gloomy than
is your wont. Does any misfortune prey upon
you? Can I serve you? It has pleased Heaven
to make me wealthy: I know you entertain wild
opinions on many subjects, and on this in particular.
But the adage, that wealth is not happiness,
is truer than you suppose.”

“Wealth may not be happiness,” replied the
sculptor; “but poverty I know is misery—deep,
writhing misery. Were all the wealthy such as
you, I could be content to behold the golden abundance
and profuse beauty of the magnificent globe
monopolized, as it is, by a few. But those who
possess it are but too often the grasping, the cold,
the narrow-minded, and the mean. I look back on
my past years. What has life been to me? One
long, burning curse. I have drunk insult and humiliation
with every breath. Am I less high and
noble than the creeping reptile to whom the laws
of this degenerate land have given yonder palace
—those stately fountains—these scented groves?
This man has spurned me from his gates. He did
not know me. Let him look to himself. We may
one day meet again.”

“You alarm me, Angelo. What is it you mean?”

“Nothing,” said the sculptor, with some confusion.
“When I speak on this theme I rave.
See,” he added, as if to change the subject, “with

the aid of your liberality I have been able myself
to perform a generous action. This picture—it
was the property of a poor old painter, who was
obliged to sell most of his articles for bread.
Many of the Florentine artists assisted him as far
as they were able. I could only take this.”

The production he alluded to stood on the floor,
with its face against the wall. He reversed it, and
discovered the head of a fine dog, full of spirit.
There was about it a life and animation exceedingly
attractive; it evidently came from a pencil practised
in the higher walks of the art. “I bought it,”
continued Angelo, “because the circumstances of
the poor man's life interested me greatly. With a
powerful genius, and high and noble character, it
has been his misfortune to suffer a life of bitter
poverty—a continual struggle against ghastly want.
A fashionable artist, in his own walk, has always
eclipsed him; and he is, at this moment, ill, and
has been actually almost starving.”

“Poor fellow!” said Norman. “Has he other
productions for sale?”

“Several,” answered Angelo.

“And do you know him to be a deserving object
of attention?”

“Come and see for yourself,” said Angelo.
“Let us walk forth and taste the breeze. Your
Psyche shall be sent to the palace to-morrow. At
present let us leave it, as I am weary of confinement.
Walk with me to Signore Ducci's—so the
painter is named—and you shall judge of him and
his paintings for yourself. It lies without the
walls, and up the hill of Bellesguardo. Poverty
has already driven him, body as well as soul, from
the haunts of his fellow-creatures.”

The two friends pursued their way towards the
abode of the unfortunate artist, along the black,

discoloured, and wretched lanes and alleys of the
far-famed town overhung as they are with immense
eaves, and sternly redeemed, ever and anon,
by a huge and gloomy palace, or a ponderous arch
flung across the street; or the heavily-sculptured,
but unfinished facades of cathedrals; or the huge
blank walls of a convent; or the turret of some immense
antique tower.

They passed towards the Piazza Santa Trinita.
The groups of Vetturini, ever lounging before the
black and stupendous Palazzo Strozzi, assailed
them with their usual clamorous importunities—
“Per Roma, Splugen, Napoli, Venezia.”

Upon the bridge, the light and beautiful work of
Ammannati, their course was impeded by a crowd.
A friar, who had won the right of saintship, stood
in the centre of the pavement, receiving, in advance,
the adoration of the Florentines. He was
a coarse, common-looking man, barefooted and
bareheaded, with a cowl and frock, a cord around
his waist, and a pair of brawny shoulders, which
might have better spent their strength in cultivating
the earth than in usurping the honours of Heaven.
The multitude thronged around him with lively
signs of reverence and worship; knelt before him,
kissed the hem of his garment, and stretched their
eager hands tumultuously to touch the stones ere
evaporated the divine virtue imparted by his sacred
feet. The face of Angelo grew almost pale as
Norman turned towards him with an inconsiderate
and incredulous smile, which an instant's reflection
checked.

“Can you wonder,” he said, “dear Montfort, that
I hate”—he gave the word that strong and bitter
emphasis natural to his ardent constitution—“that
I hate, deeply, eternally, those who have brought
my noble country to this? those who keep her

trampled down in this abasement? Nature gave
me a gentle and a loving heart. I sadden over the
pain of a wounded bird. I cannot see a sheep
slaughtered without a recoiling horror. But for
the tyrants of my country I have no mercy. It
has been drained utterly from my bosom by years
of bitter experience and observation. I hate them.
Oh! how I hate them! I would lay down my life
—nay, that were nothing, for often I feel that I
should be glad to be rid of it on any terms; but
were it bright in reality, as it sometimes is in fancy;
—had I wealth and power—were Antonia by my
side—mine, for ever mine,—I would even then
lay it down to hurl into the dust these proud,
haughty oppressors. Am I not right?”

“No,” said Norman, “not in practice, although
you may be in theory. As your unhappy country
is situated, it resembles the fox in the fable, who
preferred to have his blood sucked by flies already
half sated rather than by a new swarm more fierce
and ravenous. Every revolution, even the most
gloriously successful, is, at first, an appalling evil;
but a failure only rivets and tightens the chain—
strengthens the tyrant—weakens the hope of future
relief, and pours out that very blood most noble
and most feared by those in power.”

“You think, then,” said Angelo, “that the patriot
who now strives to break the fetters of Italy, only
inflicts upon her an injury?”

“Yes, decidedly.”

“And no plan to free her would have your approbation?”

“No, by no means. Italy will only be regenerated,
if she be ever regenerated, by the slow influence
of opinion; and her first aid will come from
abroad. She might be freed by her own revolutions
a thousand times, and she would only fall

back again into slavery and degradation. Austria,
Russia, France, must be first changed: in her
struggles she copes with the colossal energies of
all these.”

“Had your own glorious countrymen thought
so, Montfort, the world had wanted the grandest
example of history.”

“My own countrymen,” said Norman, “you
must remember, are separated from Europe.
They breathe an atmosphere all their own; and
were morally prepared to govern themselves long
before they became their own masters.”

“Oh!” said the sculptor, “how I have hung
over the romantic story of your country!—over its
sublime moral fabric—over its godlike statesmen
and soldiers, higher, because more enlightened,
than those of either Rome or Greece. Your government
and your heroes have been disinterested.
The happiness of their race is their sole object.
Your nation steps along the career of moral right;
never reels with the drunkenness of glory—with
the thirst after empire. Instead of involving millions
in war, pestilence, and famine, in pursuit of
such designs as, for so many thousand years, have
shaken this old world, you would not, however
easy the enterprise, acquire by force or fraud the
wealthiest portion of the globe. You possess the
principle of growth hidden in an acorn, which, in
its humble origin, affords you at once a hope and
a lesson. Like that insignificant seed, you were
borne by adverse winds to a distant and savage
shore; you were planted by accident, and grew in
neglect; and now you appear flinging abroad your
branches to heaven, striking your roots deep into
the earth, bending and groaning sometimes beneath
the storm, but never yielding to its fury, and tow
ering above the surrounding woods, till the remote

revolutions of time and nature shall lay your lofty
honours in the dust. Oh that I had been born in
such a land! where I could tread amid the still
woods and mountains, and feel myself not a slave.”

Surprised at his eloquence and agitation, Norman
replied—

“How differently you speak from many of your
European brethren!”

“No,” said Angelo, “do not wrong us. Thousands
of hearts, I know, beat like mine at the mention
of your distant and noble country. `As Rome
was and America is,' thus runs their whisper when
they form high schemes for their own land. And
are your cities like ours? And is nature bright?
And are there millions who live ever free, contented,
and in peace?”

“Even so,” said Norman. “You would be enraptured
to behold my native town. It lies even
more beautiful than Venice; on a flood, and overarched
by a sky, as lovely.”

“And all are supplied with the necessaries of
life?”

“All.”

“None of these beggars and kings, rioting and
starving side by side? No saints and friars? And
the laws are just and benevolent, and the religion
rational and pure, and the government aids, and
never crushes those beneath it?”

“All,” said Norman, “all these blessings gather
under the shelter of my country.”

Angelo paused a moment, and added—

“And what would they deserve who could here
build up another as independent and happy! If
blood must flow, how noble a death thus met in
the pursuit of just laws and human happiness!”

He looked around as he finished speaking. They
had been for some time surrounded by a throng of

beggars, orphans, cripples, the blind, the ulcerous,
the dumb—creatures blasted by disease, age, and
accident, the refuse of hospitals, the wreck of wars.
They gathered around, soliciting aid “for the love
of God and the Madona!” Norman emptied his
purse among them. A handsome girl, who led
her blind father, received nothing from the scramble.

“See,” she said, “he has no eyes.”

“But I have no more,” said Norman; “nothing
but the purse—”

“Well, then give me the purse!” she cried,
snatching it from his hand.

At this moment the cry went forth that the sovereign
approached.

“The duke! the duke!” exclaimed the needy
crew, as they shrank on either side against the
wall. The royal party made their appearance in
the most magnificent equipages, covered with velvet
and gold, everywhere blazing with the imperial
arms, and each carriage drawn by six prancing
steeds, clothed in trappings of gold, surrounded by
chasseurs, outriders, postillions, and guards. The
horses' hoofs clattered against the pavement—the
dazzling ornaments flashed and glittered in the sun
—and the snowy plumes floated in the air. As
the imposing procession advanced, passengers of
all descriptions stopped to give it way. Vehicles
belonging to strangers unacquainted with the customs
of the place, at a sign from a postillion, remained
stationary. The starving mendicants bent
the knee, and the passers-by uncovered their heads
with profound humility. The peasant, with his
frail cart and skeleton ass, crouched to salute his
master. All hats were doffed—all heads lowered
—all eyes drawn towards the single man, who,
with one or two careless responses to the general

salutations, was whirled, flashing, trampling, and
glittering, on his course.

“I do not mind,” said Angelo, “the oppression
of the body so much as the abasement of the mind
—the foul opinions with which they blight the
young and the beautiful. Montfort, what think
you! Antonia, they tell me, is going to bury herself
in a convent.”

“I have spoken to her of it,” replied Norman.
“She seems to have been educated in the idea, and
has answered my persuasions with the most enthusiastic
pictures of that gloomy life.”

“I would even rather see her there,” said Angelo,
“than in the arms of another. Yet I know I am
mad, worse than mad, to let her image thus haunt
me. Her proud cousin Alezzi, her old father,
would spurn me as a dog, could they think I had
dared to dream—”

“Banish it, my friend,” said Norman, kindly.
“You are young and ardent; the thought will pass
away.”

“Yes, when—”

He stopped suddenly, as if about to reveal something
which he desired to keep secret.

They soon arrived at the poor old painter's. He
had a miserable room on the eminence of Bellesguardo,
and was ill—confined to his bed. The two
visitants just sufficiently communicated with him to
announce that he could dispose of several of such
pictures as he chose to part with immediately, and
at his own price. He named a modest sum for the
only two he had left. Norman trebled it, and paid
the money down. The good old man, with a grateful
look and pressure of the hand, thanked and
blessed his generous patron; who, promising to
send his domestic for the purchase, also assured
him of another visit, and more aid.

He was preparing to pass the evening in solitary
study, when his servant came in with the pictures
from the unfortunate painter. Norman had not
looked at them before. He now turned them towards
the light for examination. The one was a
half-finished saint, with a halo around its brow, a
crucifix, a scull on the table, and a string of angels'
heads, peeping down from the walls and ceilings.
The other was the face of a blooming and lovely
boy of six, of such remarkable beauty, as, when
once seen, could scarcely be forgotten. Over the
right eye was a scar.

Norman gazed at it a few moments with the most
lively surprise.

“Yes,” he said, with a smile of pleasant recollection,
“that brilliant sleighing day in New-York,
seven years ago, and this delicious little face I
saved from the fury of those mad horses. I know
the eyes perfectly. I shall never forget them; and,
now I remember, they are also those of the mother,
to whose singular and beautiful face Howard called
my attention—her life I also saved; and she,” he
said, rising in interest and animation, “is the one,
unremembered till this moment, whose image last
night I so vainly strove to conjure up, and whom
that remarkable Countess D— so closely resembles.
It is strange. Can it be? Can this fair
countess have been in America? Does she really
owe to me her life? But why concealment? Why
disguise herself? Why deny that she had been
out of Europe? I will meet those haughty eyes
again, as, I swear, I have met them before. Yet,
why should I? If the lady choose to deny her
travels, and to be somebody else, it is no affair of
mine. This child I know, and there is the scar;
but for the mother, I saw her only once—years
have gone by. Besides, what is it to me?”