University of Virginia Library

THE SCULPTOR OF FLORENCE AND THE MYSTERIOUS
STRANGER.

(Translated from the Italian.)

The leaves which shaded the window of Julio's workshop
were tinged with gold by the rays of the setting sun. The
most promising sculptor of Florence was there, studying the
principles of the art by means of which he hoped to obtain
that slow reward of genius—the admiration of posterity. The
valleys by which Florence is surrounded, illumined by that
splendid light, presented a scene so picturesque and so beautiful,
that it diverted for a moment the attention of Julio from
the model he was endeavoring to finish, and his thoughts from
their darling object—his beloved Berta.

While he stood contemplating with all the ardor of an artist
the surrounding landscape and the distant mountains, the hum
of the busy city, the soft murmur of the Arno, and the sound
of the evening bells, threw him by degrees into a deep reverie.
At length he said to himself: “Truly, this spectacle is very
beautiful, and yet it makes me sad: something oppresses me;
an unaccountable feeling of bitterness rises out of that vast
field of beauty, and weighs upon my heart like lead. How
strange! that the contemplation of such grandeur should at the
same time charm the eye, and cloud the soul by the gloomy
thoughts that it awakens. But away with this folly! I will
go to Berta: if she should lose her walk on my account, I
will return without having enjoyed her smile, which is a
thousand times sweeter to me than the fairest view in Italy.”

And he was proceeding to leave the shop, when the door opened,
and a stranger stood before him.

He was a man whose noble aspect and dignified deportment
impressed the beholder with a sense of his superiority. He
was dressed in the deepest mourning; his features bespoke a
calm resignation to the ills of humanity, and bore an undefinable
expression, calculated to excite at the same time fear
and respect.

The stranger commenced the conversation. “Signor Arnolfo,”
said he, “although I have never known you personally,
still I have formed an intimate acquaintance with you through
your works, and I have discovered in them the traces of an
accomplished artist. (Arnolfo bowed.) I have accordingly
selected you to execute a group for a tomb. It must be executed
by you!”

“It must! it must!” said Arnolfo to himself; “these two
words were hardly necessary, if my labor is to be rewarded
by fame and fortune.”

But the stranger continued:

“The subject is to be a young man weeping over the body
of his betrothed. I give you 5,000 crowns, and twelve months
from this day to finish it. Make whatever terms you please,
except as to the time—this cannot be changed. Within a year
it must be completed.”

“A plague upon your must,” thought Arnolfo; and addressing
the stranger—“Signor,” said he, “although proud of the
task you have intrusted to me, I am far from supposing that I
deserve this mark of your confidence. I shall try, however,
to prove my gratitude by my zeal and punctuality.”

“I doubt it not, Signor Arnolfo. But as I am about to quit
Florence, and shall not return until the twelve months shall

have expired, will you be so good as to give me your ideas
respecting the work which I have ordered?”

“Willingly: and first, if you will agree with me, I would
prefer for the subject a lover watching his expiring mistress.
It is an object as touching as that which you mentioned, and
I like it better for this reason, that it has in it nothing of the
horrible. But I hazard a conjecture which does not, perhaps,
accord with the purpose you intend it for. May I ask what is
to be its destination?”

“Time shall explain this. There is little difference between
the glassy eyes of the dying and the closed eyes of the dead;
yet, slight though that difference be, it marks the transition
from one state to another, and between these states there is
an abyss. As to the arrangement of the figures, I will endeavor
to describe what I desire.”

He took up a piece of chalk, and drew upon the wall a
sketch, hasty, yet exhibiting all the perfection of art. As the
chalk followed the outline, animation seemed to spring up beneath
it: but the young artist was astonished to see that he
omitted the heads of both the figures.

“Signor,” said he, “I fear that my performance will not
surpass the expectations of so great an artist. I feel that in
carrying out your idea, I shall produce a great work, indeed.”

“I feel flattered,” replied the stranger; “but my intention
was to assist you, and not to dictate.”

“Pardon me,” continued Julio, whose admiration increased
the more attentively he examined the sketch. “Pardon me,
but I cannot conceal my surprise that so great a master as
you should have omitted the heads of these figures. Surely
you have some other reason than an apprehension of failing
in the attempt?”

“Oh, there are plenty of reasons, and good ones too. Here

is one: I admire the judgment of that Greek artist who used
to veil the face of his statues because he despaired of ever
painting their passions with truth, and wished rather to leave
them to the imagination of the spectator. But it grows late.
The sum I have offered—do you think it sufficient?”

Julio, amazed at the stranger's liberality, expressed his lively
gratitude.

“Here then is your money, Signor Arnolfo; but remember,
it must be all completed in twelve months. Farewell!”

He laid upon the table a purse filled with gold, and departed.”

Julio again applied himself to the examination of the design
upon the wall; the beauty and truth of its execution threw
him into an ecstasy. The more closely he observed it, the
more his surprise increased. But when he recollected the
solemnity with which his new patron had insisted on having
the group completed within the appointed time—when he
thought of his mysterious arrival, and of his refusal to tell the
destination of the work, he felt a deep repugnance to the undertaking;
and if the stranger had not gone away, he would
probably have declined it altogether.

But Julio was not of a character to give way to vain apprehension.
Having put his workshop in order, and arranged his
toilet like an amorous artist, as he was, he set out for the residence
of Berta; and scarcely had he reached her door, when
all these clouds disappeared, and with the pleasure of a child
he told her what had occurred.

It was a pleasant interview that evening between the lovers,
for it was the first time they saw happiness within their reach.
The tender heart of Berta showed itself in the tears which she
shed in abundance; while Julio, with his usual ardor, narrated
his plans, and drew lively pictures of future enjoyment. At

one time he would buy a villa on the banks of the Arno, where
the presence of Berta would lend a charm to his labors: again,
he resolved on remaining at Florence, and enjoying, together
with his beloved, the sweets of that society into which his
talents would soon introduce him. The fire of his looks, the
rapidity of his utterance, the high tone of his voice, were indications
of that superhuman joy which is believed to be the
infallible mark of future woe.

Some months had passed away, and the work was not as
yet commenced, nor did it appear likely that it would be finished
within the appointed time.

Berta, who had inherited from her mother a delicate constitution,
began about this time to exhibit alarming symptoms of
consumption. The circumstance was fatal to the studies of
Julio; for it told him he would not long enjoy the presence
of his beloved. He spent his whole time in endeavoring to
divert and soothe her, anticipating from her gestures and looks
her most trifling wants.

Towards the close of a day in spring Berta was slumbering,
while the unhappy Julio sat watching by her side. A little
lamp, lighted before the image of the Virgin, cast a feeble light
through the apartment. The cool breezes of evening played
amongst the white curtains of the window before which she
sat, and invited that repose which the oppressive heat of the
day had not permitted her to enjoy. Julio fixed his look upon
those pale and faded cheeks which a short while before were
clothed with so many charms; and coldness fell upon his heart
when he thought how rapidly all those charms had disappeared,
and how all his dreams of happiness had passed away.

These thoughts filled his soul with bitterness—his eyelids
were wet with tears, but they would not flow—his heart was

bursting, yet he could not sigh. With the anxious care of a
nurse and the ardent affection of a husband, he leaned over
the wasted body of Berta, whose mind was recalling in sleep
the memory of departed joy. She was wandering on the
flowery banks of the Arno with Julio by her side—a stream of
tender pleasure stole softly round her heart, and with the
energy of deep love she cried aloud, “Julio! Julio! wilt thou
be always mine?”

Ah! who can tell what Julio felt when he heard these
words? The madness of love and the coldness of despair
met within his bleeding heart. But his hour of trial had not
yet passed—he was doomed to drink the cup of grief to the
dregs.

Stunned and motionless beneath the weight of his affliction,
he allowed his eyes to wander unconsciously about the room.
Suddenly he is seized with horror. The wall, on which his
shadow and that of Berta are reflected, presents the most
fearful resemblance to the sketch of the stranger. He saw at
once, in the events of the few last months, the hand of a
mysterious Providence, and the thought of approaching death
fell heavily upon his heart; he felt his strength by degrees
forsaking him, and he sunk down senseless upon the floor.

The noise of his fall brought Giacomo, the brother of Berta,
together with the nurse-tender, into the chamber; it also
awakened Berta, and brought on such alarming symptoms,
that Julio lay altogether neglected. To her all their care
was directed, but the crisis was fatal. Her lungs were completely
worn away, and the bursting of a blood-vessel put her
forever beyond the reach of the sufferings of this world.

How mysterious are the ways of Providence! Julio, whose
grief had known no bounds, and who, on recovering his senses,
had found so much fresh cause for sorrow, bore this cruel loss

without a tear. A little before, and he would not be consoled:
now, he was able to administer consolation to others.
So true is it that God, who visits us with afflictions, gives us
strength to bear them, even as “He tempers the wind to the
shorn lamb.”

While the young maidens, arrayed in robes of white, were
carrying the mourned remains of Berta to the tomb—while
they strewed flowers upon her coffin, they said—“Death has
taken from Florence its fairest flower.”

Giacomo, overwhelmed with grief, was obliged to lean for
support upon the arm of Julio, who, with calm demeanor and
a tearless eye, approached the tomb in which they were about
to lay the remains of his beloved. The bystanders beheld
him with amazement: no one attributed his resignation to a
want of feeling, yet they knew not its cause.

The ceremony being concluded, Julio returned to his workshop
to banish by labor the sad recollection of his sorrows
He resumed with ardor the work he had so long neglected,
allowing no one to see him at his task, and never leaving it
unless when compelled by the solicitations of a few friends.
A quiet melancholy took possession of him; and when his
friends saw in his emaciated looks the indications of rapid
decay, they expressed their profound regret at seeing him
persevering with so much obstinacy in his unremitting labors.
Night and day he was eagerly engaged in his mysterious task;
he rose before the sun, and when midnight came his lamp was
lighted still.

But this could not last. One day Giacomo, who was a
painter, wished to consult Julio on a question relating to his
art. The signal which he used to make at the door received
no reply. Giacomo, somewhat surprised, repeated it, but
without success. This silence alarmed him—“Arnolfo, my

beloved friend,” he cried, “I wish to see you—speak to me, I
pray you—if you are engaged, tell me at what hour I shall
call again.” The protracted silence excited in his mind a
terrible suspicion: he applied his shoulder to the door and
forced it open—and what was his amazement when he beheld
Arnolfo seated before a group of the most sublime expression,
his head leaning upon his hand, and apparently asleep. He
tried to awaken him, but the icy coldness of his hands told
too plainly that the sculptor's sleep was the sleep of death.

At the foot of the group a small book lay open, and on the
first page the following words were written:

“By the love which I bore your sister, and by the friendship
which has existed between us, I conjure you to fulfil the
last request of a dying man. Let my body be laid in the
same tomb with that of Berta, and let this monument be
placed upon it, which, thanks to the Virgin, I have lived to
finish. As to the gold which I have earned by my death,
employ it in works of charity and in masses for the repose of
our souls. Be not afraid that any one will every come to claim
it. He from whom I received it belongs not to this world.
Adieu!”

Giacomo was performing the last sad offices for his friend,
when a man, wrapped in a large travelling-cloak, knocked
loudly at the door. Provoked by what he conceived to be a
rude intrusion into the house of mourning, he came forth to
rebuke the untimely visitor; but he soon discovered, by the
questions which the stranger asked, that he was the same
mystic being whose former visit had been followed by such
fatal results. He explained to him in a few words what had

occurred; and wishing to dispose of the statues according to
the request of the artist, he offered to restore the money which
Julio had received. But the stranger, though apparently disappointed,
refused to take back his gold. Bidding adieu to
Giacomo, he departed, and was heard of no more.

The tomb of the lovers was long an object of curiosity, as
well for the perfection of the figures that adorned it, as for the
story with which it was connected. About the middle of the
last century, the church in which it stood was consumed by
fire, and this magnificent work was mingled with the dust of
its ruins. These lines are now the only memorial of the
Sculptor of Florence and the Mysterious Stranger.