To all the luxuriant vegetation and cultivated beauty of Massa, glowing
in the “golden glories” of its orange-groves,--steeped in the perfume of
its thousand gardens,--Carrara offers the very strongest contrast.
Built in a little cleft of the Apennines, it is begirt with great
mountains,--wild, barren, and desolate. Some, dark and precipitous, have
no traces in their sides but those of the torrents which are formed by
the melting snows; others show the white caves, as they are called, of
that pure marble which has made the name of the spot famous throughout
Europe. High in the mountain sides, escarped amidst rocks, and
zig-zagging over many a dangerous gorge and deep abyss, are the rough
roads trodden by the weary oxen,--trailing along their massive loads
and straining their stout chests to drag the great white blocks of
glittering stone. Far down below, crossed and recrossed by splashing
torrents, sprinkled with the spray of a hundred cataracts, stands
Carrara itself,--a little marble city of art, every house a studio,
every citizen a sculptor. Hither are sent all the marvellous conceptions
of genius,--the models which mighty imaginations have begotten,--to
be converted into imperishable stone. Here are the grand conceptions
gathered for every land and clime, treasures destined to adorn the great
galleries of nations, or the splendid palaces of kings.
Some of these studios are of imposing size and vast proportions, and not
devoid of a certain architectural pretension,--a group, a figure, or a
bas-relief usually adorning the space over the door, and by its subject
giving some indication of the tastes of the proprietor. Thus, Madonnas
and saints are of frequent occurrence; and the majority of the artists
display their faith by an image of the saint whose patronage they claim.
Others exhibit some ideal conception; and a few denote their nationality
by the bust of their sovereign, or some prince of his house.
One of these buildings, a short distance from the town, and so small as
to be little more than a mere crypt, was distinguished by the chaste and
simple elegance of its design, and the tasteful ornament with which its
owner had decorated the most minute details of the building. He was
a young artist who had arrived in Carrara friendless and unknown, but
whose abilities had soon obtained for him consideration and employment.
At first, the tasks intrusted to him were the humbler ones of friezes
and decorative art; but at length, his skill becoming acknowledged, to
his hands were confided the choicest conceptions of Danneker, the most
rare creations of Canova. Little or nothing was known of him; his habits
were of the strictest seclusion,--he went into no society, he formed
no friendships. His solitary life, after a while, ceased to attract any
notice; and men saw him pass, and come and go, without question,--almost
without greeting; and, save when some completed work was about to be
packed off to its destination, the name of Sebastian Greppi was rarely
heard in Carrara.
His strict retirement had not, however, exempted him from the jealous
suspicions of the authorities; on the contrary, the seeming mystery of
his life had sharpened their curiosity and aroused their zeal; and more
than once was he summoned to the Prefecture to answer some frivolous
questions about his passport or his means of subsistence.
It was on one of these errands that he stood one morning in the
antechamber of the Podestà's court, awaiting his turn to be called
and interrogated. The heat of a crowded chamber, the wearisome
delay,--perhaps, too, some vexation at the frequency of these irritating
calls,--had partially excited him; and when he was at length introduced,
his manner was confused, and his replies vague and almost wandering.
Two strangers, whose formal permission to reside were then being filled
up by a clerk, were accommodated with seats in the room, and listened
with no slight interest to a course of inquiry so strange and novel to
their ears.
“Greppi!” cried the harsh voice of the President, “come forward;” and
a youth stood up, dressed in the blue blouse of a common workman, and
wearing the coarse shoes of the very humblest laborer; but yet, in the
calm dignity of his mien and the mild character of his sad but handsome
features, already proclaiming that he came of a class whose instincts
denote good blood.
“Greppi, you have a servant, it would seem, whose name is not in your
passport. How is this?”
“He is an humble friend who shares my fortunes, sir,” said the artist.
“They asked no passport from him when we crossed the Tuscan frontier;
and he has been here some months without any demand for one.”
“Does he assist you in your work?”
“He does, sir, by advice and counsel; but he is not a sculptor. Poor
fellow! he never dreamed that his presence here could have attracted any
remark.”
“His tongue and accent betray a foreign origin, Greppi?”
“Be it so,--so do mine, perhaps. Are we the less submissive to the
laws?”
“The laws can make themselves respected,” said the Podestà, sternly.
“Where is this man,--how is he called?”
“He is known as Guglielmo, sir. At this moment he is ill; he has caught
the fever of the Campagna, and is confined to bed.”
“We shall send to ascertain the fact,” was the reply.
“Then my word is doubted!” said the youth haughtily.
The Podestà started, but more in amazement than anger. There was,
indeed, enough to astonish him in the haughty ejaculation of the poorly
clad boy.
“I am given to believe that you are not--as your passport would imply--a
native of Capri, nor a Neapolitan born,” said the Podestà.
“If my passport be regular and my conduct blameless, what have you or
any one to do with my birthplace? Is there any charge alleged against
me?”
“You are forgetting where you are, boy; but I may take measures to
remind you of it,” said the Podestà, whispering to a sergeant of the
gendarmes at his side.
“I hope I have said nothing that could offend you,” said the boy,
eagerly; “I scarcely know what I have said. My wish is to submit myself
in all obedience to the laws; to live quietly and follow my trade. If
my presence here give displeasure to the authorities, I will, however
sorry, take my departure, though I cannot say whither to.” The last
words were uttered falteringly, and in a kind of soliloquy, and only
overheard by the two strangers, who now, having received their papers,
arose to withdraw.
“Will you call at our inn and speak with us? That's my card,” said one,
as he passed out, and gave a visiting-card into the youth's hand.
He took it without a word; indeed, he was too deeply engaged in his own
thoughts to pay much attention to the request.
“The sergeant will accompany you, my good youth, to your lodgings, and
verify what you have stated as to your companion. To-morrow you will
appear here again, to answer certain questions we shall put to you as to
your subsistence, and the means by which you live.”
“Is it a crime to have wherewithal to subsist upon?” asked the boy.
“He whose means of living are disproportionate to his evident station
may well be an object of suspicion,” said the other, with a sneer.
“And who is to say what is my station, or what becomes it? Will _you_
take upon you to pronounce upon the question?” cried the boy, boldly.
“Mayhap it is what I shall do very soon!” was the calm answer.
“Then let me have done with this. I'll leave the place as soon as my
friend be able to bear removal.”
“Even that I 'll not promise for.”
“Why, you 'll not detain me here by force?” exclaimed the youth. \
A cold, ambiguous smile was the only reply he received to this speech.
“Well, let us see when this restraint is to begin,” cried the boy,
passionately, as he moved towards the door; but no impediment was
offered to his departure. On the contrary, the servant, at a signal
from the Prefect, threw wide the two sides of the folding-doors, and the
youth passed out, down the stairs, and into the street.
His mind obscured by passion, his heart bursting with indignation, he
threaded his way through many a narrow lane and alley, till he reached a
small rustic bridge, crossing over which he ascended a narrow flight of
steps cut in the solid rock, and gained a little terrace, on which stood
a small cottage of the humblest kind.
As usual in Italy, during the summer-time, the glass sashes of the
windows had been removed, and the shutters closed. Opening one of these
gently with his hand, he peeped in, and as suddenly a voice cried out,
“Are you come back? Oh, how my heart was aching to see you here again!
Come in quickly, and let me touch your hand.”
The next moment the boy was seated by the bed, where lay a man greatly
emaciated by sickness, and bearing in his worn features the traces of a
severe tertian.
“It's going off now,” said he, “but the fit was a long one. This morning
it began at eight o'clock; but I 'm throwing it off now, and I 'll soon
be better.”
“My poor fellow,” said the boy, caressing the cold fingers within his
own hands, “it was in these midnight rambles of mine you caught the
terrible malady. As it ever has been, your fidelity is fatal to you. I
told you a thousand times that I was born to hard luck, and carried more
than enough to swamp all who might try to succor me.
“And don't I say, as the ould heathen philosopher did of fortune,
'Nullum numen habes, si sit prudentia'?” Is it necessary to say that the
speaker was Billy Traynor, and the boy his pupil?
“_Prudentia_,” said the youth, scoffingly, “may mean anything, from
trickery to downright meanness; since, by such acts as these, men grow
great in life. _Prudentia_ is thrift and self-denial; but it is more
too,--it is a compromise between a man's dignity and his worldly
success--it is the compact that says, Bear _this_ that _that_ may
happen; and so I 'll none of it.”
“Tell me how you fared with the Prefect,” asked Billy.
“You shall hear, and judge for yourself,” said the other; and related,
as well as his memory would serve him, the circumstances of his late
interview.
“Well, well!” said Billy, “it might be worse.”
“I knew you 'd say so, poor fellow!” said the youth, affectionately;
“you accept the rubs of life as cheerfully as I take them with
impatience. But, after all, this is matter of temperament too. _You_ can
forgive,--I love better to resist.”
“Mine is the better philosophy, though,” said Billy, “since it will last
one's lifetime. Forgiveness must dignify old age, when your virtue of
resistance be no longer possible.”
“I never wish to reach the time when I may be too old for it,” said the
boy, passionately.
“Hush! don't say that. It's not for you to determine how long you are to
live, nor in what frame of mind years are to find you.” He paused, and
there was a long unbroken silence between them.
“I have been at the post,” said the youth, at last, “and found that
letter, which, by the Neapolitan postmark, must have been despatched
many weeks since.”
Billy Traynor took up the letter, whose seal was yet unbroken, and
having examined it carefully, returned it to him, saying, “You did n't
answer his last, I think?”
“No; and I half hoped he might have felt offended, and given up the
correspondence. What have we to do with ambassadors or great ministers,
Billy? Ours is not the grand highway in life, but the humble path on the
mountain side.”
“I'm content if it only lead upwards,” said the sick man; and the words
were uttered firmly, but with the solemn fervor of prayer.