In this age of the world, when everybody has been everywhere, seen
everything, and talked with everybody, it may savor of an impertinence
if we ask of our reader if he has ever been at Massa. It may so chance
that he has not, and, if so, as assuredly has he yet an untasted
pleasure before him.
Now, to be sure, Massa is not as it once was. The little Duchy, whose
capital it formed, has been united to a larger state. The distinctive
features of a metropolis, and the residence of a sovereign prince,
are gone. The life and stir and animation which surround a court have
subsided; grass-grown streets and deserted squares replace the busy
movement of former days; a dreamy weariness seems to have fallen over
every one, as though life offered no more prizes for exertion, and that
the day of ambition was set forever. Yet are there features about the
spot which all the chances and changes of political fortune cannot
touch. Dynasties may fall, and thrones crumble, but the eternal
Apennines will still rear their snow-clad summits towards the sky. Along
the vast plain of ancient olives the perfumed wind will still steal at
evening, and the blue waters of the Mediterranean plash lazily among the
rocks, over which the myrtle and the arbutus are hanging. There, amidst
them all, half hid in clustering vines, bathed in soft odors from
orange-groves, with plashing fountains glittering in the sun, and
foaming streams gushing from the sides of marble mountains,--there
stands Massa, ruined, decayed, and deserted, but beautiful in all its
desolation, and fairer to gaze on than many a scene where the tide of
human fortune is at the flood.
As you wander there now, passing the deep arch over which, hundreds
of feet above you, the ancient fortress frowns, and enter the silent
streets, you would find it somewhat difficult to believe how, a very few
years back, this was the brilliant residence of a court,--the gay resort
of strangers from every land of Europe,--that showy equipages traversed
these weed-grown squares, and highborn dames swept proudly beneath these
leafy alleys. Hard, indeed, to fancy the glittering throng of courtiers,
the merry laughter of light-hearted beauty, beneath these trellised
shades, where, moodily and slow, some solitary figure now steals along,
“pondering sad thoughts over the bygone!”
But a few, a very few years ago, and Massa was in the plenitude of its
prosperity. The revenues of the state were large,--more than sufficient
to have maintained all that such a city could require, and nearly enough
to gratify every caprice of a prince whose costly tastes ranged over
every theme, and found in each a pretext for reckless expenditure. He
was one of those men whom Nature, having gifted largely, “takes out” the
compensation by a disposition of instability and fickleness that renders
every acquirement valueless. He could have been anything,--orator,
poet, artist, soldier, statesman; and yet, in the very diversity of his
abilities there was that want of fixity of purpose that left him
ever short of success, till he himself, wearied by repeated failures,
distrusted his own powers, and ceased to exert them.
Such a man, under the hard pressure of a necessity, might have done
great things; as it was, born to a princely station, and with a vast
fortune, he became a reckless spendthrift,--a dreamy visionary at one
time, an enthusiastic dilettante at another. There was not a scheme of
government he had not eagerly embraced and abandoned in turn. He had
attracted to his little capital all that Europe could boast of artistic
excellence, and as suddenly he had thrown himself into the most
intolerant zeal of Papal persecution,--denouncing every species of
pleasure, and ordaining a more than monastic self-denial and strictness.
There was only one mode of calculating what he might be, which was,
by imagining the very opposite to what he then was. Extremes were
his delight, and he undulated between Austrian tyranny and democratic
licentiousness in politics, just as he vacillated between the darkest
bigotry of his church and open infidelity.
At the time when we desire to present him to our readers (the exact year
is not material), he was fast beginning to weary of an interregnum of
asceticism and severity. He had closed theatres, and suppressed all
public rejoicings; and for an entire winter he had sentenced his
faithful subjects to the unbroken sway of the Priest and the Friar,--a
species of rule which had banished all strangers from the Duchy, and
threatened, by the injury to trade, the direst consequences to his
capital. To have brought the question formally before him in all its
details would have ensured the downfall of any minister rash enough
for such daring. There was, indeed, but one man about the court who had
courage for the enterprise; and to him we would devote a few lines as we
pass. He was an Englishman, named Stubber. He had originally come out to
Italy with horses for his Highness, and been induced, by good offers of
employment, to remain. He was not exactly stable-groom, nor trainer,
nor was he of the dignity of master of the stables; but he was something
whose attributes included a little of all, and something more. One thing
he assuredly was,--a consummately clever fellow, who could apply all his
native Yorkshire shrewdness to a new sphere, and make of his homespun
faculties the keen intelligence by which he could guide himself in novel
and difficult circumstances.
A certain freedom of speech, with a bold hardihood of character, based,
it is true, upon a conscious sense of honor, had brought him more than
once under the notice of the Prince. His Highness felt such pleasure in
the outspoken frankness of the man that he frequently took opportunities
of conversing with him, and even asking his advice. Never deterred by
the subject, whatever it was, Stubber spoke out his mind; and by
the very force of strong native sense, and an unswerving power of
determination, soon impressed his master that his best counsels were to
be had from the Yorkshire jockey, and not from the decorated and gilded
throng who filled the antechambers.
To elevate the groom to the rank of personal attendant, to create him
a Chevalier, and then a Count, were all easy steps to such a Prince.
At the time we speak of, Stubber was chief of the Cabinet,--the trusted
adviser of his master in knottiest questions of foreign politics, the
arbiter of the most difficult points with other states, the highest
authority in home affairs, and the absolute ruler over the Duke's
household and all who belonged to it. He was one of those men of action
who speedily distinguish themselves wherever the game of life is being
played. Smart to discern the character of those around him, prompt to
avail himself of their knowledge, little hampered by the scruples which
conventionalities impose on men bred in a higher station, he generally
attained his object before others had arranged their plans to oppose
him. To these qualities he added a rugged, unflinching honesty, and
a loyal attachment to the person of his Prince. Strong in his own
conscious rectitude, and in the confiding regard of his sovereign,
Stubber stood alone against all the wiles and machinations of his
formidable rivals.
Were we giving a history of this curious court and its intrigues, we
could relate some strange stories of the mechanism by which states are
ruled. We have, however, no other business with the subject than as it
enters into the domain of our own story, and to this we return.
It was a calm evening of the early autumn, as the Prince, accompanied
by Stubber alone, and unattended by even a groom, rode along one of the
alleys of the olive wood which skirts the sea-shore beneath Massa.
His Highness was unusually moody and thoughtful, and as he sauntered
carelessly along, seemed scarcely to notice the objects about him.
“What month are we in, Stubber?” asked he, at length.
“September, Altezza,” was the short reply.
“_Per Bacco!_ so it is; and in this very month we were to have been in
Bohemia with the Archduke Stephen,--the best shooting in all Europe, and
the largest stock of pheasants in the whole world, perhaps; and I, that
love field-sports as no man ever loved them! Eh, Stubber?” and he
turned abruptly round to seek a confirmation of what he asserted.
Either Stubber did not fully agree in the judgment, or did not deem
it necessary to record his concurrence; but the Prince was obliged to
reiterate his statement, adding, “I might say, indeed, it is the one
solitary dissipation I have ever permitted myself.”
Now, this was a stereotyped phrase of his Highness, and employed by him
respecting music, literature, field-sports, picture-buying, equipage,
play, and a number of other pursuits not quite so pardonable, in each of
which, for the time, his zeal would seem to be exclusive.
A scarcely audible ejaculation--a something like a grunt--from Stubber,
was the only assent to this proposition.
“And here I am,” added the Prince, testily, “the only man of my rank in
Europe, perhaps, without society, amusement, or pleasure, condemned
to the wearisome details of a petty administration, and actually a
slave,--yes, sir, I say, a slave--What the deuce is this? My horse is
sinking above his pasterns. Where are we, Stubber?” and with a vigorous
dash of the spurs he extricated himself from the deep ground.
“I often told your Highness that these lands were ruined for want of
drainage. You may remark how poor the trees are along here; the fruit,
too, is all deteriorated,--all for want of a little skill and industry.
And, if your Highness remarked the appearance of the people in that
village, every second man has the ague on him.”
“They did look very wretched. And why is it not drained? Why isn't
everything done as it ought, Stubber, eh?”
“Why is n't your Highness in Bohemia?”
“Want of means, my good Stubber; no money. My man, Landelli, tells me
the coffer is empty; and until this new tax on the Colza comes in, we
shall have to live on our credit or our wits,--I forget which, but I
conclude they are about equally productive.”
“Landelli is a _ladro_,” said Stubber. “He has money enough to build a
new wing to his château in Serravezza, and to give fifty thousand scudi
of fortune to his daughter, though he can't afford your Highness the
common necessaries of your station.”
“_Per Bacco!_ Billy, you are right; you must look into these accounts
yourself. They always confuse me.”
“I _have_ looked into them, and your Highness shall have two hundred
thousand francs to-morrow on your dressing-table, and as much more
within the week.”
“Well done, Billy! you are the only fellow who can unmask these
rogueries. If I had only had you with me long ago! Well! well! well! it
is too late to think of it. What shall we do with this money? Bohemia is
out of the question now. Shall we rebuild the San Felice? It is really
too small; the stage is crowded with twenty people on it. There's that
gate towards Carrara, when is it to be completed? There's a figure
wanted for the centre pedestal. As for the fountain, it must be done by
the municipality. It is essentially the interest of the townspeople.
You 'd advise me to spend the money in draining these low lands, or in
a grant to that new company for a pier at Marina; but I 'll not; I have
other thoughts in my head. Why should not this be the centre of art to
the whole Peninsula? Carrara is a city of sculptors. Why not concentrate
their efforts here--by a gallery? I have myself some glorious
things,--the best group Canova ever modelled; the original Ariadne
too,--far finer than the thing people go to see at Frankfort. Then
there's Tanderini's Shepherd with the Goats.--Who lives yonder, Stubber?
What a beautiful garden it is!” And he drew up short in front of a villa
whose grounds were terraced in a succession of gardens down to the very
margin of the sea. Plants and shrubs of other climates were mingled
with those familiar to Italy, making up a picture of singular beauty, by
diversity of color and foliage. “Isn't this the 'Ombretta,' Stubber?”
“Yes, Altezza; but the Morelli have left it. It is let now to a
stranger,--a French lady. Some call her English, I believe.”
“To be sure; I remember. There was a demand about a formal permission
to reside here. Landelli advised me not to sign it,--that she might turn
out English, or have some claim upon England, which was quite equivalent
to placing the Duchy, and all within it, under that blessed thing they
call British protection.”
“There are worse things than even that,” muttered Stubber.
“British occupation, perhaps you mean; well, you may be right. At all
events, I did not take Landelli's advice, for I gave the permission, and
I have never heard more of her. She must be rich, I take it. See what
order this place is kept in; that conservatory is very large indeed, and
the orange-trees are finer than ours.”
“They seem very fine indeed,” said Stubber.
“I say, sir, that we have none such at the Palace. I'll wager a zecchino
they have come from Naples. And look at that magnolia: I tell you,
Stubber, this garden is very far superior to ours.”
“Your Highness has not been in the Palace gardens lately, perhaps. I was
there this morning, and they are really in admirable order.”
“I'll have a peep inside of these grounds, Stubber,” said the Duke, who,
no longer attentive to the other, only followed out his own train of
thought. At the same instant he dismounted, and, without giving himself
any trouble about his horse, made straight for a small wicket which lay
invitingly open in front of him. The narrow skirting of copse passed,
the Duke at once found himself in the midst of a lovely garden, laid
out with consummate skill and taste, and offering at intervals the most
beautiful views of the surrounding scenery. Although much of what he
beheld around him was the work of many years, there were abundant traces
of innovation and improvement. Some of the statues were recently placed,
and a small temple of Grecian architecture seemed to have been just
restored. A heavy curtain hung across the doorway; drawing back which,
the Duke entered what he at once perceived to be a sculptor's studio.
Casts and models lay carelessly about, and a newly begun group stood
enshrouded in the wetted drapery with which artists clothe their
unfinished labors. No mean artist himself, the Duke examined critically
the figures before him; nor was he long in perceiving that the artist
had committed more than one fault in drawing and proportion. “This is
amateur work,” said he to himself; “and yet not without cleverness,
and a touch of genius too. Your dilettante scorns anatomy, and will not
submit to drudgery; hence, here are muscles incorrectly developed, and
their action ill expressed.” So saying, he sat down before the model,
and taking up one of the tools at his side, began to correct some of the
errors in the work. It was exactly the kind of task for which his skill
adapted him. Too impatient and too discursive to accomplish anything of
his own, he was admirably fitted to correct the faults of another, and
so he worked away vigorously,--totally forgetting where he was, how he
had come there, and as utterly oblivious of Stubber, whom he had left
without. Growing more and more interested as he proceeded, he arose at
length to take a better view of what he had done, and, standing some
distance off, exclaimed aloud, “_Per Bacco!_ I have made a good thing of
it--there 's life in it now!”
“So indeed is there,” cried a gentle voice behind him; and, turning, he
beheld a young and very beautiful girl, whose dress was covered by
the loose blouse of a sculptor. “How I thank you for this!” said she,
blushing deeply, as she courtesied before him. “I have had no teaching,
and never till this moment knew how much I needed it.”
“And this is your work, then?” said the Duke, who turned again towards
the model. “Well, there is promise in it. There is even more. Still, you
have hard labor before you, if you would be really an artist. There is a
grammar in these things, and he who would speak the tongue must get over
the declensions. I know but little myself--”
“Oh, do not say so!” cried she, eagerly; “I feel that I am in a master's
presence.”
The Duke started, partly struck by the energy of her manner, in part by
the words themselves. It is often difficult for men in his station
to believe that they are not known and recognized; and so he stood
wondering at her, and thinking who she could be that did not know him to
be the Prince. “You mistake me,” said he, gently, and with that dignity
which is the birthright of those born to command. “I am but a very
indifferent artist. I have studied a little, it is true; but other
pursuits and idleness have swept away the small knowledge I once
possessed, and left me, as to art, pretty much as I am in morals,--that
is, I know what is right, but very often I can't accomplish it.”
“You are from Carrara, I conclude?” said the young girl, timidly, still
curious to hear more about him.
“Pardon me,” said he, smiling; “I am a native of Massa, and live here.”
“And are you not a sculptor by profession?” asked she, still more
eagerly.
“No,” said he, laughing pleasantly; “I follow a more precarious trade,
nor can I mould the clay I work in so deftly.”
“At least you love art,” said she, with an enthusiasm heightened by the
changes he had effected in her group.
“Now it is my turn to question, Signorina,” said he, gayly. “Why, with
a talent like yours, have you not given yourself to regular study? You
live in a land where instruction should not be difficult to obtain.
Carrara is one vast studio; there must be many there who would not alone
be willing, but even proud, to have such a pupil. Have you never thought
of this?”
“I have thought of it,” said she, pensively, “but my aunt, with whom
I live, desires to see no one, to know no one;--even now,” added she,
blushing deeply, “I find myself conversing with an utter stranger, in
a way--” She stopped, overwhelmed with confusion, and he finished her
sentence for her.
“In a way which shows how naturally a love of art establishes a
confidence between those who profess it.” As he spoke, the curtain was
drawn back, and a lady entered, who, though several years older, bore
such a likeness to the young girl that she might readily have been taken
for her sister.
“It is at length time I should make my excuses for this intrusion,
madame,” said he, turning towards her; and then in a few words explained
how the accidental passing by the spot, and the temptation of the open
wicket, had led him to a trespass, “which,” added he, smiling, “I can
only say I shall be charmed if you will condescend to retaliate. I,
too, have some objects of art, and gardens which are thought worthy of a
visit.”
“We live here, sir, apart from the world. It is for that reason we have
selected this residence,” replied she, coldly.
“I shall respect your seclusion, madame,” answered he, with a deep bow,
“and only beg once more to tender my sincere apologies for the past.” He
moved towards the door as he spoke, the ladies courtesied deeply, and,
with a still lowlier reverence, he passed out.
The Duke lingered in the garden, as though unwilling to leave the spot.
For a while some doubt as to whether he had been recognized passed
through his mind, but he soon satisfied himself that such was not the
case, and the singularity of the situation amused him.
“I am culling a souvenir, madame,” said he, plucking a moss-ross as the
lady passed.
“I will give you a better one, sir,” said she, detaching one from her
bouquet, and handing it to him. And so they parted.
“_Per Bacco!_ Stubber, I have seen two very charming women. They are
evidently persons of condition; find out all about them, and let me
hear it to-morrow.” And so say-ing, his Highness rode away, thinking
pleasantly over his adventure, and fancying a hundred ways in which it
might be amusingly carried out. The life of princes is rarely fertile
in surprises; perhaps, therefore, the uncommon and unusual are the
pleasantest of all their sensations.