University of Virginia Library

THE FLORENTINE.

1. CHAPTER I.

`Let us forth, Anina,' said Antonio to his betrothed,
who was seated, in a pensive attitude, near the
window, and feigning to watch the coming on of
evening over the sky, though the tears which filled
her eyes might have betrayed, to a nearer observer,
that the object of her vision was meditative and
within,—`Let us forth, and if the eve of parting cannot
be joyous, our sadness will not be increased if

its hours be passed in rambling where we have been
wont, at this very hour, to yield up our spirits, in
glad unison, to the blest influences of nature. Let
me once more renew the brightest associations of my
being, in beholding, with the clear perception of
expectant separation, the river's bank, whereon I
vented, in sportive glee, the gay spirit of boyhood;
the square where, with the music of the Pergola just
dying on my ear, I have so often paused, in the still
air of midnight, and fancied that the old statues
moved in the gloom,—and the garden, ay, the garden-mount,
whence we have gazed beyond the cypress
grove and the river, and seen the sun go down
behind the hills; in these scenes, which I am so soon
to exchange for a strange country, let us linger away
the moments, till the hour approaches which calls
me from Florence and from thee!'

They were soon threading the gaily-peopled walk
of the Cacine, their desultory converse or silent
musings being, ever and anon, interrupted by the
passing salutation of numerous acquaintances. Occasionally,
too, a friend, mindful of Antonio's approaching
departure, would leave the party whose
companionship was enlivening the evening promenade,
accompany them for a space, and then, with a
buona sera, uttered with more than usual tenderness,
and that expressive though silent indication of
delicate sympathy which distinguishes the natural
language of the Tuscans, glide away from the

thoughtful pair. They experienced a sensation of
relief when the shades of evening advanced, and the
walk became more solitary. At that season, even
the kindly words of friendship disturbed rather than
solaced. The moonlight fell in soothing luxuriance
upon the almost inaudible ripple of the Arno, as they
approached one of the bridges which span its waters.
There are memorable instances of effect produced
by the combination and mutual influence of nature
and art. One of the most beautiful imaginable
now, familiar though it was, arrested the attention of
Anina and her companion. The bridge of Santa
Trinita, in the light which now revealed it, seemed
suspended by the spell of fancy, rather than supported
by deeply laid pillars and massive workmanship.
So symmetrically and gracefully are hung its arches,
that the idea of weight is banished from the mind of
the spectator. Its aerial form, antiquated hue, and
white escutcheons, about which the weeds of age are
clustered, form an image that serves admirably to
relieve the aspect of the heavier architecture around.
They paused, and, leaning upon the parapet, Anina
broke the silence which they had almost involuntarily
suffered to prevail. `I know not how it is, Antonio,
but this spot seems singularly associated with
the prominent shades of my destiny. Do you remember
the story my old nurse tells? One evening
she was conveying me home from the Porta Fedriano,
where we had been to see the cavalcade of the
Duke; we did not leave the house of Signor Andrea,
from the window of which we had seen the pageant,
until the crowd had quite dispersed. Yet the Lung'
Arno was quite thronged, and several gentlemen on
horseback were reining in their steeds here upon the
bridge, and endeavouring to make their way harmlessly
through the throng; poor Bianca was hurrying
on to avoid danger—when I persisted in stopping
to drop a crazia into the old poverino's hat.
Meantime the tumult increased; a carriage, in addition
to the crowd, now blocked up the way; the
horses became more restive, and volumes of sparks
flashed from the polished flags beneath their feet.
Bianca, murmuring our old proverb, uomini sopra
cavalli, sepolti sono aperti,[1] drew me from the expectant
beggar and was hastily carrying me forward,
when the carriage started, and the Count P's. horse,
notwithstanding the curb, sprang after it, and threw
Bianca and her unruly burden upon the pavement.
The Count instantly dismounted, and leaving his
horse with a groom, hastened toward me. Bianca
was more alarmed than injured, but I was taken up
insensible. At this sight he seemed deeply distressed,
and taking me in his arms, bore me directly to
the Caffé di Colonna. The restoratives applied
restored me; and, to the relief of the Count, I
was soon on my way home, forgetting, in contemplating
the comfits he had given me, the slight contusion
which the accident had occasioned. You
know the consequence of this event—how the kindhearted
man visited us the next day, and through his
influence with the Duke, obtained for my brother
the office which has since so comfortably supported
us. Nor is this all, my Tonino; here, on this
bridge, at such an hour—'

`Were our vows first plighted!'—exclaimed Antonio;
`and, O, Anina, let the memory of all we are
to each other come over us anew, now that from this
green spot of life we gaze over the desert of absence.
Strange! alas, how strange, that necessity thus forces
me forth from my home; and such a home! Before I
knew thee, Anina, I knew not myself. The external,
the exciting, the whirl of passion—this was
what I called life. The fountains around me were
perverted by the lips they would have refreshed.
Nature!—her voice was lost. Music!—I loved only
her most tragic inspiration; the pathos,—the soft,
stealing melody which delights me now, then but
irritated and inflamed. I was a wanderer in a wild
scene, such as Salvator loved to depict; a light step
aroused me—I looked up—and in the light of thine
eye a new world opened;—the peaceful yet deep
sense of joy which comes over the soul when pondering
on one of the Madonnas of Raffaelo, played
around my heart, and threw the rosy quiet of a summer
evening over the restless deep within. Wonder

not that I hasten from thee with forebodings---that
I mourn that my day of peace is so soon to be superseded
by one of lone travailing---for thou knowest
my impetuous spirit must unfold itself. Thy memory,
the hope of return, confidence in the love
of such a heart---will such consolations ever fail or
disappoint me?'

Anina had listened in the attitude and with the
expression of one in whose mind a prevailing sentiment
precluded the admission of minor emotions.
She had lifted her gaze from the glittering element
below as he proceeded; the constrained smile, and
disposition to withdraw her own and his thoughts
from dismal anticipations, which had pervaded her
manner, at the commencement of the interview, now
gave place to an expression indicative of high purpose.
Her Tuscan hat shaded without obscuring her
features, as she stood erect in the full light of the
careering luminary. She was above the ordinary
height of the women of her country, and her figure,
when in repose, might have suggested to the experienced
eye of a continental sojourner, the idea of a
more northern extraction than she boasted. Her
dress, too, with the exception of the hat, bore no
distinctive indications whereby a stranger could have
directly surmised that she claimed affinity with the
denizens of the Etrurian Athens. But one glance
at the countenance would have dispelled the illusion
of the casual observer. The complexion, the hair,

and, above all, the peculiar depth and expressive fire
of the eye, proclaimed Anina a legitimate daughter
of Italy.

`Antonio,' she replied, `there is nothing but the
thought of what we shall gain by this separation,
that, with the blessing of the Virgin, enables me to
think of it calmly. I feel that my presence has
proved but a sad inspiration to your pencil; and
when I remember what was prophesied of your
genius, but a year since, I feel almost as if expiating
a sin in resigning you to the full influence of absence
from every thing which will enervate the energy,
or distract the attention of your mind; then I feel it
will pour itself forth in the exercise of your art; and
who may predict the result? This—this must comfort
me, when left to abide ceaseless opposition,
while my Tonino is winning afar what will satisfy
the views of others, though it cannot alter my own;
there, if ever he gives a thought, amid his busy
hours, to—to—' and at the mere idea of her lover's
forgetfulness, she passed, Italian-like, from a high
and womanly seeming, to the distrustful sadness of
a child;—she abruptly paused, and the tears flowed
freely. It was now for Antonio to rise to a higher
strain of feeling; with the ardent gesture and impassioned
utterance characteristic of his country, he
soon unburthened his oppressed heart, and changed
the mood of the listener. `And now, Anina,'—he
continued, `let us move homeward. Forget not,
twice every month, to place in the hands of our

faithful Ipolito, tidings of your welfare, which will
steal like rays of sunlight across my solitary pathway;—nor
shall the old man fail to bring thee tokens
of the fidelity and experience of thy betrothed. Let
us go.' They left the bridge; and the first glimmering
of dawn found Antonio sitting, accoutred as
a traveller, his passport beside him, his trunk at his
feet, and himself inditing yet another addio to one
who, at that moment, was looking tearfully from
her casement, starting at the distant rumbling of a
vettura rolling along the deserted streets, and as it
died away, breathing a prayer for the safe return
of her lover.

2. CHAPTER II.

From the little metropolis of Tuscany—the birth-place
of Dante, Boccacio, and Machiavelli, let us
pass to an abiding-place of man less blessed by contiguity
to the grand and beautiful in nature, and
from among its multitudinous representatives of humanity,

seek out and note the few individuals with
whom our story is connected. The first scene
breathes not the air of the outer and common London
world. It is a richly furnished chamber; the
quiet that reigns, and every little arrangement, suggests,
at once, that it is the chamber of sickness;
but the abandoned couch and the attitudes of the
occupants, assure us that the crisis of disease has
passed, or is yet to come. Upon a rich arm-chair
reclines one whose gray hair and slightly furrowed
brow speak either of a long or laborious life—perhaps
of both;—the compressed lip and unyielding
manner in which the head accommodates itself to
its comfortable support, bespeaks a pertinacity of
will, a firmness of purpose, that even bodily weakness
has failed to subjugate. At a light and exquisitely
wrought table beside the convalescent—for
such he is—sits one of those beings which, in certain
moods, a meditative man would rather gaze
upon than aught else in the wide world. Mary
Ellmsley might not be called what is generally understood
by the term beauty; she was too small in
figure, too mild in manner, too thoughtful in expression,
to win the admiration of fashion's votary, or
attract the attention of the amateur observer of the
world's inhabitants. And yet there was something
in her very gentleness, something in her full blue
eye, fair complexion, and light tresses, `brown in
the shadow and gold in the sun,' contrasted with the
mourning habiliments in which she was clad, that
insensibly charmed. A lover of Wordsworth's poetry,
a partaker of Wordsworth's spirit, would have
felt spontaneously and irresistibly interested as he
beheld her. At a slight movement of the sick man,
indicating his revival from the half-sleeping state in
which he had remained for some time, she arose,
and stepping, fairy-like, about the room, seemed to
busy herself in some little preparations for the invalid's
comfort; but, now and then, she would steal
an anxious glance toward him; and when she saw
that his eye was following her motions, she abruptly
returned to her seat, and again bent over the book
upon which she had previously been intent. But
her gaze was fixed, and it was plain her mind was
busied inwardly; and the subject of her musing
could not have been altogether pleasing, for her fingers
mechanically thrummed upon the table, and
twice she opened her lips to speak, and then, with
an embarrassed and conscious air, checked herself.
At length, in a decisive manner, she closed the volume
and placed it away with some little care, and
breathing a half-suppressed sigh, drew her chair
nearer to the cheerful grate, and looked up to the
face of the invalid.

`You need not grieve, Mary, for the troubles of
the heroine of that tale,' said the old man; `you
know, as a matter of course, all must turn out well
at last.'

`All is well with her now,' she replied, `for the
groundless suspicions of man cannot harm him who

is favoured of God, and so ought Micol to feel, and
therein be comforted.'

`An odd name that for a heroine, Mary; but novelists
must be sadly puzzled now-a-days, both for
names and subjects.'

`The author of the volume I have been reading
depended little upon such externals. His whole
mind is given to developing his characters and plot,
and polishing the language in which both are portrayed;
at least so Mr.—I mean so I believe;—for,
in truth, I have not read enough yet to understand
perfectly.'

`Pray, what is this wonderful book? I thought
you were in the midst of the new novel Lady Emily
sent this morning.'

`I was trying to read something I began some
time ago, father, but which I was prevented from
going on with by circumstances—by your unexpected
illness, I should say; but I can't get along
with it now; I could not well understand it, and
perhaps if I did, I could not have read—'

`What could'nt you understand, child; what was
you trying to read?'

`Alfieri's Saul, father.'

`If you had comprehended it, why could you not
read?'

`My tears blinded me, father.'

`I really begin to believe, Mary, that I have been
to blame in allowing you to share so long my confinement;
you need the fresh air, child. What with

our late affliction (and here the old gentleman brushed
away a tear) and the dull duty of attending on a
sick old man's humours, you are scarcely yourself,
girl,—crying over a story you do not understand!—
Nonsense—'

`O, father, you mistake; it was'nt the story that
made me weep; but I read on a little way, and came
to a difficult part, and then I—I thought—'

`The meaning would come by your crying?'

`No, father, I thought who would tell me all
about it, and thinking of that made me weep.'

`Worse and worse; who do you mean? who
would explain?'

`Mr.'—and she looked fearfully up, `Mr. Lino,
father.'

The pale cheek of the convalescent was now sallow;
his features worked impatiently, and he sat
erect. `Did I not forbid you to breathe the name
of that accursed man?' he fiercely exclaimed. `How
can you speak of him without a shudder, when you
remember the peril into which his villanous arts
brought me? Have you no feeling for your own kin?
Can you look upon me, but just escaped from a violent
and awful death, and not feel?'

`Father, he may be innocent,' Mary sobbed out.

`May be innocent? You saw the cunning smile
with which he proffered the treacherous gift; you
heard the Professor declare that he had detected
poison; you witnessed the convulsions, the death-like
stupor—'

`Oh, speak not of them, my father! But had
we not better ask him about it? I am sure he knew
not—'

`Mary,' he continued more calmly, `you are but
a child; I will once more explain, for your satisfaction,
the reasons of my conduct, and then I shall
expect you, as a reasonable girl, to cease henceforth
and forever, to allude to a subject which, in your
father's mind, is associated with the most painful
remembrances. I received Mr. Lino as your teacher,
with no recommendation but the impression made
upon me by his appearance. In this I was indeed
to blame; but my interest was highly excited; I
thought I befriended a noble spirit—an exile from
a depressed yet glorious country. I received the
Tuscan wines, not wishing to refuse what was
offered as a token of friendship. Happily in my
own person I first experienced the workings of the
insidious poison, and prompt medical aid has availed
where it well might have despaired. And I live—
live to punish a villain—live to make an example
of one of the thousand specious renegades from the
continent, who insinuate themselves into the homes
of Englishmen, to abuse their hospitality, to overreach,
ay, and to work their ruin!'

`What possible motive could have induced even
the thought of such an act?'

`Do you suppose I shall tax my imagination to
discover the motives of a treacherous Italian?' I
leave all such labour to the law. Let it have its

course. I have done my duty to myself and my
country.'

`But not to the exile, father!—Do but see him;
perhaps he can explain.'

`I am not equal to a visit to the Old Bailey, to-night,
Mary.'

His gentle auditor started back, and burst into
tears; she knew not of the arrest. But soon recovering,
she lifted up her face to that of her parent,
who beheld, with surprise, an expression of dignified
and wounded feeling, such as he had never witnessed
before.

`Father! my mother used often to speak to me of
one who in the agony of a cruel death, said prayerfully
of his enemies, “they know not what they
do”—and she bade me thus ever feel toward whomever
I should deem wrongful or unkind. Father,
forgive me!—you know not what you do. I feel
that the stranger is not guilty of the awful crime
with which he is charged. It cannot be,—the impression
you first received is true; he is a nobleman
in soul. Oh, suffer not such a spirit to be wounded.
But I fear not for him, for he has told me that all
great minds are renewed by trial, and gather
strength from persecution. He has told me of a
philosopher of his country who was shut up in a
dungeon because he declared that the earth went
round the sun; and about a poet whom they called
mad, and imprisoned away from the fields and
bright sunlight which he loved, and then he became

mad indeed. I weep not for him, father; but in
the pleasant home of his youth, there is one who
will shed grievous tears, when the dismal tidings
arrive; I mourn for her. Father! forget your anger,
and to know that he whom thou falsely deemest
thine enemy is free, his reputation unsullied,
and his betrothed unstricken, will prove to thee
more reviving than the bitter cup of revenge. Father!
forgive me. Vain, I see, are the words of
your Mary. May God protect the Italian, for he
is guiltless!'

A week subsequent to the conversation we have
related, toward the close of day, a young man sat
with folded arms and a rivetted gaze, in an apartment
which, in the twilight that then revealed it,
presented an aspect of stern solidity, yet not devoid
of comfort. An easel rested against the wall; a
pallet, with some painting utensils, lay confusedly
upon the floor, and a few books were scattered upon
a small table. `Yes, Anina spake well and truly'—
soliloquized the occupant.—`I did need separation.
I did require a pressure from without, or a void
around me to quicken the impulses within. I have
lamented this catastrophe, I have bitterly scorned
this disgrace, long enough. And now I will wrench
sublime consolation from the very gloom of misfortune.
I have done all that can be done. Ere this,
Ipolito must have received my letter; true, he

knows not that I am an incarcerated man;—but he
knows the suspicions under which I am placed; he
will obtain the needful testimonials; he will keep
the circumstance from Anina; the trial will at
length come on—I shall be, I must be, triumphantly
acquitted, and none will recognize in my English
appellation the name of Antonio. And, meantime,
I have succeeded in effecting my purpose (and he
looked complacently upon the materials of his art)—
here is light, and something of quiet. O that the
vision of yesternight would return! I must transfix
it—I must embody the idea. Yes, ere long the
face of my beloved shall beam upon me, even in this
prison. I feel that I shall succeed. They have
taken my liberty—but the mind is free! O for the
morning light! I yearn for day. Let me reflect.
A beautiful nun listening to the Miserere,—the attitude
that of a suppliant, the eye tearful, ay, but
enraptured by the melody, and raised in devotion,
like Raphael's St. Cecilia; the expression with a
shade of sadness—but impassioned—exalted; and
the model—ah! the model shall be Anina!'

3. CHAPTER III.

The rays of sunlight fell obliquely upon the Lung
'Arno, where a goodly concourse were moving to
and fro, or conversing in stationary groups. It was
evidently one of those days when the Italian yields
himself, with especial freedom, to the `dolce far
niente.' Nodding and smiling, with a buona festa
for as many of the gay throng as glanced at her
playful demeanour, the flower-girl distributed her
violets embedded in leaves of geranium; the blind
man touched his guitar, while an urchin beside
him accompanied the monotonous strains with the
constant invocation `dartemi qualchecosa,' and the
licensed pauper rattled his tin cup, and implored
the lightsome beings who glided by—`per amore di
Dio'—to give of their substance. The equipage of
the Grand Duke passed rapidly from the palace toward
the Cacine; but the Grand Duke himself preferred
a promenade to a ride with the ladies of his
household, as one might learn from the universal and
respectful recognition manifested by the crowd of
pedestrians toward the gentleman in a brown coat,
so plainly fashioned, that it would infallibly obtain
for him the cognomen of Quaker, in certain localities
far beyond the limits of his own little duchy.

Two disputants, beginning to perceive that their war
of words was becoming too obstreperous for the
scene and occasion, hastily emerged from the crowd,
into an open and comparatively vacant square, in
order to renew their colloquy at ease. Thither we
will follow.

`Mark me, Carlo, I speak of the action, the expression,
the performance throughout, and I speak
of Ronzi when she is herself.'

`And then you will persist, Luigi, in maintaining
that Malibran is surpassed in the Norma?'

`That will I, caro mio, against whoever will gainsay
it.'

`Thou hast then undertaken to oppose thy single
judgment to the universal sentiment. Hast heard
of Garcia's adventure at Arezzo?'

`And was not I one of the torch-bearing multitude
that attended cara Ronzi home from the Pergola?
But to the point, amico mio; didst thou not perceive,
last night, in her speaking countenance, every
minute shade of varying expression? Did not her
commanding figure, dignified air, eloquent eyes,
and, above all, her mellifluous voice, bring home to
thee most touchingly the passionate ideas involved
in the Norma?'

`I tell thee, Luigi, that Italy has settled the question;
thou art dreaming of Ronzi as she was. Malibran
is in her prime, and Europe has awarded her
the palm.'

`There are those in Florence, Carlo, without the

precinets of thy wine-shop, who would contend with
thee on that point.'

`Not one, save thyself, Luigi.'

`Santissima Virgine! there was but one voice
in the parterre, on the first representation.'

`Ah, poverino! thy wits are unsettled by music;
thus thou speakest of each prima donna in turn;
she is always better than all who preceded. But
caro, thou shalt not make all Firenze share thy perversity.
Nay, have patience; thou shalt be convinced.
If the first passer-by who hath seen the
Norma, as performed by both, doth not agree with
me, then Carlo Pisani will do thy bidding, so that it
be not to displease a customer, nor to break law.'

`I am content.'

`Here is a grave and stately cavalier;—ah, he
would light his cigar.' `Ecco Signor,' said Carlo,
approaching the stranger, and proffering his flint;—
`Signor, can'st say if there will be any necessity for
entering the parterre an hour before the time, tonight?'

`Is not the Norma inimitably executed?' said
Luigi.

`I have so seen it.'

`And by La Malibran?' inquired Carlo.

`By her superior in that character, at least,' was
the reply.

`Bravo!' exclaimed Luigi. `There, Carlo,' he
added triumphantly, `you see De Begnis has one
more votary.'

`That one is not me,' said the cavalier.

It was now Luigi's turn to feel disappointed.
`Prithee, Signor,' he continued, `who dost thou
think is inimitable in the Norma?'

`Signora Pasta.'

`Excuse me, you are a—'

`Milanese,' replied the stately gentleman, as he
walked away, complacently exhaling the fragrant
smoke.

The smile and the shrug of the amused friends
were scarcely enacted with true Italian expressiveness,
when their attention was directed to the advancing
figure of a primly attired old man. Luigi recognized
him as an acquaintance from Prato, and
after they had interchanged a greeting, asked if he
had visited the city to attend the Opera. `Not altogether,'
he answered. Carlo felt again encouraged.
`Doubtless,' continued Luigi, `you think our prima
donna cannot be sufficiently admired?'

`I ne'er knew but one of whom I could thus
speak,' said the old gentleman, `and she is yonder.'

`At rehearsal?' asked Luigi, hopefully.

`Does Catalani rehearse for her private entertainments?
I had thought that, in her villa in the environs,
music was wholly a pastime.'

`C'e caduto il formaggio su maccaroni'[2] said

Carlo, pointing to the opposite street. `Here comes
Signor Bartolomeo, who, thou well knowest, is uninfluenced
by local prejudice, and not so old as to
sympathize only in retired opera-performers; for
thy comfort, too, know, Luigi, that he is a connoisseur
in dramatic as well as in musical efforts.'

`And thou art not aware of his opinion of Ronzi?'

`Only generally, and not in the Norma.'

`Pardon, Signor,' said Luigi, as he took the hand
of the new comer, `tell me how you are pleased with
Bellini's new opera and its present representation.'

`It is a glorious thing, and who can do it greater
justice than the still beautiful—'

`Malibran Garcia, interrupted Carlo.

`Ronzi de Begnis,' exclaimed Bartolomeo.

`Name thy requirement,' said Carlo, looking impatiently
at Luigi.

`To-morrow,' said his friend, smilingly; `I must
consider; but fear not. I shall not be very severe;
and, for the present, addio.'

Ascending one of the neighbouring elevations,
whence is obtainable an extensive view embracing
the thickly clustered dwellings of Florence, her
mammoth Duomo, and the adjoining and encircling
Apennine, Luigi came upon a quiet road walled on
one side and overlooking, on the other, a broad valley
covered with olive trees, and containing several
villas and small dwellings. Here, during most of
the day, the sun exerts its full influence, and the
walled hill-side shields the solitary road from the

wind; and here, in view of the soothing landscape,
an elderly and somewhat portly man, with a countenance
bland in its aspect, though slightly shaded
with seriousness, was enjoying a retired promenade.
He was so intently occupied with his own thoughts,
as not to be aware of Luigi's presence until the latter
had audibly saluted him.

`One would think, Signor Ipolito, that thou wert
not the guardian of Firenze's fairest daughter, judging
from thy sober visage and unwontedly lonely
walk.'

`And it may be, Luigi mio, that what thou deemest
a consoling office (and God knows it hath been)
can become the occasion of anxious musings.'

`Has aught inauspicious, caro, happened to thy
charge? Ne'er have I seen a more beauteous and
joyful face than was hers, when last I saw her in the
arbour-walks of the Boboli.'

`The poor child is harassed, Luigi, by one who
should prize her peace beyond the vagaries of prideful
hope.'

`Ah! I understand you. The old lady still opposes
the addresses of Antonio. Corpo di Bacco!
she may wait till too late, to realize her fond project
of uniting Anina to one of noble birth. True, she
sacrificed her own wealth and nobility to the good
Francisco that's gone; but 'tis scarcely fair to force
poor Anina to regain them with the sacrifice of her
affections.'

`It is the mother's inconsistency that provokes

me. High birth has been her sine qua non when the
name of Anina was mentioned in connection with
matrimony. And the lack of this has been the only
fault she could find with Antonio; for a kindlier and
more gifted giovenotto is not to be found in Florence.
Yet at our last conversazione, when all the
company were talking of the artist with whose fame
London is ringing, the Marchioness, glad of an opportunity
to depreciate Antonio, said to me, “Signor
Ipolito, thou hast often told me that Anina's absent
admirer possessed nobility of soul and of intellect, if
not of birth; why could not he manage to get imprisoned
and astonish the world with his painting,
as well as this unknown Florentine, if he indeed be
one?”

`Were it so, Signora mia, I replied, thou wouldst
not think better of him, for he would still be a plebeian.

“`I tell thee,” exclaimed she, energetically,
“Anina should marry him.”

“`Why, mother,” said Anina timidly, “the artist
would still be Antonio—a mere native of Florence.
Tell me in what differs Carmilini, in this respect,
from the famed artist who is even known only as a
Florentine?”

“`As the Florentine, you mean,” returned the
Signora, with emphasis. And therein, Luigi, did she
find an attraction equal even to her much-loved family
greatness. Oh, it is a mere vain ambition that
divides Antonio and Anina. Ere long, the Miseri

cordia must take away their old brother, and I
could die more peacefully, was Anina under the
conjugal protection of such a man as Antonio.
I did trust that this day month, when she will attend
her cousin Beatrice to the altar, would see them also
united. Would that parental opposition were the
sole trouble, or that she had a more powerful friend
than old Ipolito!'

`And would that the friendship I bear thee entitled
me to share thy perplexities.'

`Luigi, thou shalt know all, though it is vain to
expect a secret kept in Florence. Yet thou can'st
surely restrain thy tongue when the happiness of
such an one as Anina is involved.'

`Trust me,—per St. Giovanni—'

`Bene. Know, then, that Antonio had a goodly
quantity of our Florence wines sent to London; for
(would you believe it?) they tell me a flask of Aleatico
costs two or three francisconi there;—and Tonino
rightly fancied such a luxury would furnish an
acceptable gift to his English friends. The first he
presented nearly destroyed a nobleman; suspicion
was excited; the wines were examined, and found to
contain poison. For a long time I have been sifting
the matter secretly, for Tonino charges me to be circumspect
lest Anina learns his peril; and makes as
light as possible of the danger by which he is surrounded.
Carlo Pisani acknowledges he bought the
flasks of an apothecary, and that his people transferred
the wine, by mistake, before they were

cleansed, and several of them contained the sediment
of baneful drugs. Thus the circumstance is explained;
but Carlo will not be persuaded to furnish an
affidavit to the facts which will alone avail, until
Antonio's safety absolutely demands it, and such he
is not convinced is the case now; he says such a declaration
from him will ruin his business, and he
knows I am too fearful of the affair being known, to
appeal to the Police. Thus I have been kept at
bay, and I know not what course to adopt. One of
the two evils must be chosen. And each is inimical
either to the wishes or the safety of Antonio.'

The countenance of Luigi brightened. `Thou
hast told thy dilemma,' said he, `to one able to extricate
thee. Ere the post leaves to-morrow, thou
shalt have the affidavit.'

`Think not to persuade Carlo; what means have
you more than I? Explain.'

`Pazienza! He is under a promise. Dine with
me to-morrow at Marché's, and you shall be informed
more fully. Trust me wholly. Hast aught
else to say?'

`Naught, save to thank heaven and thee.'

4. CHAPTER IV.

A group, consisting chiefly of females, in whose
attire white was the predominant colour, stood in
cheerful converse upon the broadly-paved esplanade
before the church of Santa Croce. The morning
was not far advanced, yet so warmly did the sun
beat upon the marble pavement, that the long snowy
veils in which two of the party were arrayed, were
put aside, and the breeze from the mountains played
sportively among the dark ringlets of Beatrice, and
over the more pensive countenance of her cousin.
The arrival of an additional pair seemed a signal for
their commune to cease; and joining hands, the
several couples stood in order, each bearing a
wreath of flowers; and when a lad, in the habit of
the church, raised on high the heavy curtain which
hung before the entrance, the solemn tones of a
chant were faintly heard, and the little band reverently
entered. It was evidently a marriage procession.
As they walked silently up the long avenue,
the light tread of the fair train echoed softly in

the pauses of the chant, and one might have fancied,
as he gazed from a distance, through the shadowy
expanse, that a company of spirits were passing
from their resting-place beneath, forth to some
earthly ministration. Nor were the objects around
unfavourable to the indulgence of such an idea. The
majestic figure of Dante leaning over from above
the tomb prepared in vain to receive his dust, with
his stern expression of dignified grief, the marble
personification of Italy standing in the attitude of a
mourner above the sepulchre of her great tragedian;
the dense entablatures, the heavy architecture,
breathed, in the dim light, a mystic solemnity. But
all these were still, and cold, and senseless; while
the bright eyes, the moving lips, the fresh and fragrant
roses of the bridal party, spake of life, of life
in its conscious beauty and promise. And when
the gentle forms encircled, with a statue-like quietude,
the railing of the altar, the tremulous accents
in which the responses were uttered, the low quick
breathings, the glistening tears—these spoke, indeed,
of the spiritual, but of the spiritual while yet environed
with the attributes of humanity.

A slight bustle denoted that the ceremony was
concluded; yet was there no sign of immediate
separation. The officiating priest was soon engaged
in a discourse with Beatrice, which appeared to
rivet the attention of the group. The old man had
been her confessor from infancy, and with a truly
paternal interest, he was speaking of her duties and

destiny. Anina felt herself gently drawn aside, and
obeying the signal of Ipolito, she followed him to
the opposite side of the church. Soon after, the
attention of the party was aroused by a faint cry,
but whether of surprise or fear, was not clearly indicated,
and, for a moment, their eyes were directed
to the point whence it seemed to proceed; but there
being no repetition, and the words of the priest becoming
more and more interesting, they were soon
absorbed again. Advancing footsteps now aroused
them, not the measured and scarcely audible tread
with which they had approached the altar, but the
firm, quick steps of confidence and expectancy.
Anina appeared, led on by a manly and graceful
cavalier, whom all present immediately recognized
as Antonio. Returning their eager inquiries and
salutations only with a smile and a nod, he immediately
addressed the now silent priest: `Father, if
thou art not weary, a new bridal service awaiteth
thee, after which thy blessing and exhortation may
be doubly bestowed.' Astonishment was in every
face, yet the manner of Antonio proved singularly
effective, and all yielded to its influence, none without
surprise, yet all with alacrity; and when the
campanile announced that the sun had reached his
meridian, Antonio was the reigning star of a gay
assemblage in the house of the Marchioness, and
Anina was his bride. At a moment when her guests
were all occupied, she stole away, and entered her
mother's apartment.

`Mother, I knew not that Antonio could boast
relationship with a Count, still less that he had inherited
his title.'

`Nor I, Anina. You do not mean —'

`Nay, I would question thee, mother.'

`It is a vain question, my daughter, you know it
admits but one answer,' and the old lady sighed.

`And yet the untitled Antonio is my husband;
and, unless Ipolito reversed his message with thine
approval,—'

`Anina, thou knowest what renders renowned
the much talked of picture called the “Miserere,”
purchased at such a price by Lord Ellmsley.

`They say it is the face of the nun.'

`Anina, they say, too, that face resembles thine,'
and the mother embraced her child, and then gazed
meaningly upon her.

A glow of delight thrilled to the heart of Anina.
`I see it all,' she exclaimed. `Antonio Camilini,
my Antonio, is The Florentine!'