A number of carriages, caleches, and drojkis were drawn up in the
vicinity of a handsome mansion in one of the best quarters of St
Petersburg. It had been the residence of a rich virtuoso, lately
deceased, and whose pictures, furniture, and curiosities, were now
selling by auction. The large drawing-room was filled with the most
distinguished amateurs of art in St Petersburg, mingled with brokers and
dealers on the look-out for bargains, and with a large sprinkling of
those idlers who, without intending to purchase, frequent auctions to
kill a morning. The sale was in full activity, and there was eager
competition for the lot then up. The biddings succeeded each other so
rapidly, that the auctioneer was scarcely able to repeat them. The
object so many were eager to possess, was a portrait, which could hardly
fail to attract the attention even of persons who know nothing of
pictures. This painting, which possessed a very considerable amount of
artistical merit, and had apparently been more than once restored,
repaired, and cleaned, represented the tawny features of an Oriental,
attired in a loose costume. The expression of the face was singular, and
by no means pleasant. Its most striking feature was the extraordinary
and unaccountable look of the eyes, which, by some trick of the artist,
seemed to follow the spectator wherever he went. Every one of the
persons there assembled was ready to swear that the eyes looked straight
at him; and, what was yet more unaccountable, the effect was the same
whether the beholder stood on the right, or on the left, or in front of
the picture. This peculiarity it was that had made so many anxious to
possess a portrait whose subject and painter were alike unknown.
Gradually, however, many of the amateurs ceased their biddings, for the
price had become extravagant, and at last only two continued to
compete--two rich noblemen, both enthusiastic lovers of the eccentric in
art. These still continued the contest, grew heated with their rivalry,
and were in a fair way to raise the price to something positively
absurd, when a by-stander stepped forward and addressed them. "Before
this contest goes farther," he said, "permit me to say a few words. Of
all here present, it is I, I believe, who have the best right to the
portrait in dispute."
All eyes were turned towards the speaker. He was a tall, handsome man,
of about thirty-five, with a pleasant, cheerful countenance, a careless
style of dress, and long black curls flowing down his neck. He was
personally known to many present, and the name of B----, the artist,
was circulated through the room.
"Extraordinary as my words may appear to you," he resumed, perceiving he
had fixed the general attention, "I can explain them if you are disposed
to give me five minutes' audience. I have every reason to believe that
this portrait is one I have long sought in vain."
Curiosity was expressed on every countenance; the auctioneer stood
open-mouthed and with uplifted hammer; all entreated B---- to tell his
tale. The artist at once complied.
"You are all acquainted," he said, "with the quarter of St Petersburg
known as the Kolomna, and aware that it is chiefly occupied by persons
either in poverty, or whose resources are exceedingly limited, many of
whom, compelled by unforeseen circumstances to outstrip their limited
income, frequently find themselves in want of immediate and temporary
assistance; compelled, in short, to apply to money-lenders. In
consequence of this, there has settled amongst them a particular class
of usurers, who supply petty sums on satisfactory pledges, and at
enormous interest. These pawnbrokers on a small scale are generally far
more pitiless than the aristocratic usurer, whose customers drive to his
door in their carriages. Compunction, humanity, a feeling of pity for
the unfortunates upon whose need they fatten, never by any chance enter
their breast. Amongst these callous extortioners there was one who, at a
certain period of the last century, under the reign of the Empress
Catherine II., had been settled for some years in the Kolomna. He was an
extraordinary and enigmatical personage, of whom none knew any thing; he
wore a flowing Asiatic dress, his complexion was swarthy as an Arab; but
to what nation he really belonged, whether Hindoo, or Greek, or Persian,
none could decide. His tall stature, his tawny, withered, wiry face,
with its tint of greenish bronze, his large eyes full of sullen fire,
shadowed by thick and overhanging brows; every point in his appearance,
in short, made a strong and marked distinction between him and the other
inhabitants of the quarter. His very dwelling was quite unlike the
little wooden houses which surrounded it. It was a large brick building,
in the style of those often constructed by the Genoese merchants, with
windows of different sizes disposed at irregular distances, with iron
shutters and hasps. This usurer was distinguished from all others by the
circumstance that he could always supply any sum of money required, and
would accommodate alike the needy groom and the extravagant noble. At
his door were often to be seen brilliant equipages, through whose
windows might sometimes be discerned the head of a luxurious and
fashionable lady. Rumour said that his iron chests teemed with countless
heaps of money, plate, diamonds, and all kinds of valuable pledges, but
nevertheless he was reported less greedy than the other money-lenders.
He made no difficulty, people said, to lend, and was apparently far from
oppressive in fixing the terms of payment. But on the day of reckoning,
it was observed, that by some extraordinary arithmetical calculation, he
made the interest mount up to an enormous sum: such, at least, was the
popular report. The strangest thing about him, however, and which struck
every body, was the fatality that seemed to attach to his loans; all who
borrowed of him finished their lives in an unhappy manner. Whether this
was a mere popular notion, a stupid superstitious gossip, or a rumour
intentionally disseminated, has ever remained a mystery. But it is a
fact that many things occurred to give it validity, and that within a
comparatively short period of time. Amongst the aristocracy of the day,
there was one young man who particularly attracted the attention of
society. He was of ancient descent and noble blood; had very early
distinguished himself in the service of the empire, as a warm protector
of every thing honourable and elevated, and as a passionate lover of art
and genius. He was soon distinguished by the personal notice of the
Empress, who confided to him the duties of an office peculiarly adapted
to his tastes and talents--an office which gave him power to be of the
greatest service not only to science, but to humanity itself. The young
noble surrounded himself with artists, poets, scholars, and men of
learning. To all of them he promised employment, patronage, protection.
He undertook, at his own expense, a number of important publications,
gave a multitude of orders to artists, founded prizes for excellence,
spent enormous sums in this unselfish manner, and at length got into
difficulties. Full, however, of generous enthusiasm, and unwilling to
leave his work half finished, he borrowed money in all directions, and
at length found his way to the famous usurer in the Kolomna. Having
obtained from this man a very extensive loan, the young noble all at
once underwent a complete transformation. He became, as by enchantment,
the enemy of rising intellect and talent, the persecutor of all he had
previously protected. It was just then that the French Revolution broke
out. This event gave him a handle for suspicion. In every thing he
detected some revolutionary tendency; in every word, in every expressed
opinion, he saw a dangerous hint or perfidious insinuation. The disease
gained on him till he almost began to suspect himself. He laid false
informations, fabricated the foulest charges, and caused the ruin of
numbers of innocent people. At first, his guilty manoeuvres were
undetected, and, when found out, they were thought to proceed from
insanity. Report was made to the Empress, who deprived him of his
office. But his severest sentence was the contempt he read in the faces
of his countrymen. I need not describe the sufferings of this vain and
insolent spirit, the tortures he endured from crushed pride, defeated
ambition, ruined expectations. At last his monomania--for such it must
surely have been--aggravated by regret and chagrin, became insanity, and
in a frightful paroxysm the unhappy maniac committed suicide.
"Not less remarkable than the fate of this wretched young man was that
of a lady who passed at that time for the most beautiful woman in St
Petersburg. My father has often assured me, that he never beheld any
thing to be compared to her. Possessing, besides her beauty, the not
less fascinating charms of wit, intellect, wealth, and high rank, she
was of course surrounded by a swarm of admirers. The most remarkable of
these was Prince R., the flower of all the young nobles of that day, and
to whom the palm was universally conceded, not only for beauty of
person, but for high qualities and chivalry of character. He was well
qualified for a hero of romance, or a woman's beau-ideal. Deeply and
passionately enamoured of the young countess, his affection met with as
pure and ardent a return. But her relations disapproved the match. The
prince's paternal estates had passed out of his hands,--his family was
in disgrace at court, and the derangement of his finances was no secret
to any body. Suddenly he left the capital, apparently for the purpose of
putting his affairs in order; and, after a brief absence, reappeared and
commenced a life of splendid extravagance. His balls and entertainments
were so magnificent as to attract the notice of the court, and, it was
rumoured, to mollify imperial displeasure. The countess's father became
suddenly gracious, and soon nothing was talked of in St Petersburg but
the marriage of the two lovers. Of the origin of the enormous fortune of
the bridegroom, to which this change in the sentiments of his future
father-in-law was unquestionably to be attributed, nobody could give a
distinct account, though it was pretty generally whispered that he had
entered into a compact with the mysterious money-lender of the Kolomna,
and from him obtained a large loan. Be this as it may, the wedding
formed the whole talk of the town. Bride and bridegroom were the object
of universal envy. Every body had heard of their beauty and virtues, of
their ardent and constant love; and all rejoiced that the obstacles to
their union were removed. Numerous were the prophetic pictures drawn of
the blissful existence the young couple were certain to enjoy. The event
proved very different. In one twelvemonth a total and terrible change
took place in the character of the prince. Hitherto noble, generous, and
confiding, he became, on a sudden, jealous, suspicious, impatient, and
capricious. He was the tyrant and tormentor of his wife; and, to the
unbounded astonishment of every body who had known him before his
marriage, treated her with inhuman brutality, and was even known to
strike her! In one year the beautiful and dazzling girl, who was
followed by a crowd of obedient adorers, could not be recognised in the
careworn and unhappy wife. At length, unable longer to support the cruel
yoke of such a marriage, she sought a separation. At the first
notification of this step, the prince gave way to the most uncontrolled
fury,--burst into her chamber, and would infallibly have stabbed her,
had he not been seized and removed by force. Mad with rage, he turned
his weapon upon himself, and lay a corpse at the feet of his
horror-stricken friends. Besides these two incidents, which attracted
great notice in the higher circles, a number of other instances were
cited as having occurred amongst the lower classes, where the loans of
the mysterious usurer had brought misfortune in their train. One man,
previously a sober and honest artisan, had become a confirmed drunkard,
and died in the hospital; a shopman had robbed his master; an
izvoztchik, for years noted for his honesty, had cut the throat of a
customer in order to rob him of an insignificant sum. All these persons,
and many others, who sank into misery and crime, or perished by violent
deaths, had been customers of the mysterious Asiatic, of whom these
stories, related, as they often were, with additions and exaggerations,
inspired the quiet and peaceable inhabitants of the Kolomna with an
involuntary horror. Nobody doubted the real presence of the evil spirit
in this man. They said that he exacted conditions which made one's very
hair stand on end, and which none of his unhappy clients dared disclose;
that his money had a mysterious property of attraction; that the coins
were marked with strange characters, and grew red-hot of their own
accord. In short, there were a thousand extravagant reports. But what is
most remarkable is, that this population of Kolomna, made up of
pensioners, half-pay officers, petty functionaries, obscure artists, and
others equally necessitous, preferred bearing the utmost distress to
having recourse to the dreaded money-lender. They all declared they
would rather mortify their bodies than destroy their souls. Those who
met him in the street hurried by with an uneasy sensation, making way
for him with anxious submissiveness, and looking long over their
shoulders at the tall lean figure as it lost itself in the distance. His
singular frame might well have been the receptacle of a supernatural and
unholy spirit. The wild and deeply-cut features had something different
from humanity; the extraordinary thickness of the shaggy eyebrows; the
bronzed glow of the countenance; the frightful eyes, with their steady
unsupportable glare; even the broad folds of the Oriental dress were,
each in turn, the subject of uneasy and suspicious comment. My father
told me, that when he met him he could not avoid stopping to gaze at
him; and it invariably occurred to him that he had never seen, either in
painting or life, a face that so completely came up to his notion of a
demon. But I must make you, as briefly as possible, acquainted with my
father, who is the real hero of my tale. He was a remarkable man, a
self-taught painter, seeking principles in his own mind, and
elaborating, without master or school, rules and laws of art, led onward
by the mere thirst for excellence, and advancing, under the influence of
causes which he himself, perhaps, could not have defined, along a path
marked out for him only in his own mind. He was one of those children of
genius whom contemporaries so often stigmatise as ignorant, because they
have struck out a track for themselves, and whose ardour is to be
chilled neither by censure nor failures; whence, on the contrary, they
derive fresh vigour and courage. Aided only by his own lofty instincts,
he attained to the true understanding of what historical painting should
be. Scriptural subjects, the last and loftiest step of high art, chiefly
occupied his pencil. Free from the feverish irritable vanity and paltry
envy so common amongst artists, he was a firm, upright, honourable man,
a little rough and unpolished in externals--the husk rather rugged--and
with a share of honest pride and independent feeling which sometimes
imparted to his manner an air of mingled bluntness and condescension. 'I
care nothing for your fine folks,' he would say. 'I don't work for them.
I don't paint drawing-room pictures. Those who understand my work best
reward me for it. I do not blame fashionable people for not
understanding art: how should they? They understand their cards; they
are judges of wine and horses. 'Tis enough. When they do pick up a crude
notion or two on the subject of painting, they become intolerable by
their assumption. I prefer, a thousand times, the man who honestly
confesses he knows nothing about art, to your ignoramus who comes in
with a solemn affectation of connoisseurship, claiming to be a judge,
talking about things he does not understand, and consequently talking
nonsense.' By no means a covetous man, my father painted for very modest
remuneration, contented to earn sufficient for the support of his
family, and for providing the means of exercising his art. Generous in
the extreme, his hand was ever open to less successful artists. Imbued
with a fervent and profound sense of religion, it was that, perhaps,
which enabled him to communicate to the faces he painted an elevation of
religious sentiment that the most brilliant pencils often fall to give.
In course of time, and aided by obstinate industry and unflinching
perseverance, his talent attracted the attention and commanded the
respect even of those who had at first sneered at him as a _home-made_
artist. He received numerous orders for altar-pieces and other church
pictures, and laboured incessantly. One picture, in particular, engaged
his closest attention. The subject I forget, but I know that the great
enemy of mankind was to be introduced. Long did my father meditate on
this figure; he desired to embody in the countenance the expression of
every evil passion that afflicts fallen humanity. Whilst reflecting on
the subject, and conjuring up horrible countenances in his imagination,
the strange features of the mysterious money-lender frequently recurred
to him; and, as often as they did so, he said to himself, 'The usurer
would be a fine model for my Devil.' One day, whilst he was busy
planning his great work, and making sketches, with which he had
difficulty in pleasing himself, there was a knock at his studio door,
and the next instant, to his infinite astonishment, the usurer entered
the room. My father has since told me that on beholding him he felt an
inexplicable chill and shudder come over his whole frame.
"'You are an artist?' said the intruder, abruptly.
"'I am,' replied my father, and wondered what was coming next.
"'I want my portrait painted. I have not long to live. I have no
children, and I do not wish to die altogether. Can you paint a portrait
of me that shall be exactly like life?"
"My father reflected for a moment. 'Nothing could be more opportune,'
thought he to himself; 'he comes of his own accord to sit to me for my
Devil.' And he at once agreed to satisfy his singular visitor. Hour and
price were stipulated, and the next day, my father, bearing palette and
brushes, repaired to the abode of his new sitter. The gloomy court-yard,
surrounded by high walls; the watch-dogs; the iron doors and shutters;
the arched windows; the huge coffers, covered with strange,
outlandish-looking carpets; and, above all, the grim, gloomy visage of
the master of the house, seated immoveable before him,--all these
conspired to produce a strong impression on his mind. The windows were
closed and darkened; a single pane in the upper part of one of them
admitted a strong ray of light. My father forgot the strange repute of
his sitter in zeal for his art. 'How splendidly the fellow's face is
lighted up!' he thought to himself, and set to work with furious
eagerness, as though fearful of losing the favourable moment. 'What
vigour! what light and shade!' he exclaimed, inaudibly. 'If I can get
him in only half as vigorously as he sits there, the portrait will beat
every thing I have done: he will walk out of the canvass. What
extraordinary features; what depth in the lines and furrows! he repeated
to himself, redoubling his fervour at every stroke, as he observed trait
after trait rapidly transferring itself to the canvass. But, whilst
proceeding with his work, he insensibly became aware of a strange
feeling of oppression and uneasiness that crept over him, he knew not
how or wherefore. Disregarding it, he persisted in following, with the
strictest fidelity and most scrupulous care, every line, and tone, and
shade in the extraordinary countenance of his model. To the eyes he gave
his chief attention. At first they nearly made him despair. So peculiar
and penetrating was their expression, so unlike were they to any eyes he
had ever encountered, that it seemed an almost hopeless task to attempt
to render them in a picture. Nevertheless he persevered, resolved, at
whatever cost of pains and time, to follow them in their minute details,
and thus to penetrate, if possible, the mystery and secret of their
expression. But whilst engaged in this work, whilst diving, as it were,
with his pencil, into the recesses of those mysterious orbs, the
uneasiness he had before felt rapidly increased, and there arose in his
soul such an inexplicable loathing, such an overpowering sensation of
vague horror, that he was several times obliged to suspend his work, and
it was only by a violent effort he could bring himself to resume it. At
last this unaccountable feeling fairly mastered him; he could no longer
bear to look upon those horrible eyes, whose demon-like gaze filled him
with dismay. He closed the sitting. But the next day, and the one after
that, the same thing occurred; after painting for a short time he
invariably became agitated, excited, and unable to proceed. Each day
these sensations increased in strength, until they became positive
torture, and at last my father threw down his brush, declaring he would
paint no more. Extraordinary was the effect produced upon the mysterious
usurer by this declaration. By the most touching and humble entreaties,
and by promises of munificent reward, he essayed, but in vain, to induce
my father to retract his decision and resume his task. He even
prostrated himself before him and implored him to terminate the
picture, saying that upon its completion hung his fate, and his very
existence. And then he threw out dark and confused hints of supernatural
agency, by which, if his living features were once faithfully
represented, his soul would be in some sort transferred to the portrait,
and be saved from complete annihilation, or a yet worse doom.
Terror-stricken at these strange and fearful words, my father threw down
pencil and palette and rushed from the house. He could not sleep that
night for meditating on this occurrence. The next morning he received
back the unfinished portrait, brought to his house by an old woman, the
only human being who lived with the usurer. She left also a message,
that her master returned the portrait, because he did not want and would
not pay for it. A few hours afterwards, on going out, my father learned
that the usurer of the Kolomna had died that morning. There was a
mystery in all this which my father neither was able nor desired to
solve.
"Dating from that day, a perceptible and unfavourable change took place
in my father's character. Without apparent cause he became irritable,
restless, and unhappy, and a very short time elapsed before he became
guilty of an act of which none supposed him capable. About this period,
the works of one of his pupils had attracted the attention of a small
circle of judges and amateurs of art. My father from the first had
perceived and appreciated this young man's talent, and had shown himself
particularly well-disposed towards him. Suddenly, as if by a spell, envy
and hatred were generated in his mind. The general interest excited by
the pupil became intolerable to the master, who could not hear with
patience the name of the rising genius. At length, to fill up the
measure of his mortification, he learned that the young man had been
preferred to paint a picture for a splendid church then just completed.
This drove my father frantic. Previously the most upright and honourable
of men, he now condescended to the pettiest intrigues and manoeuvres--he
who, up to that time, had regarded with horror and contempt all that
bore the semblance of intrigue. By dint of caballing, he succeeded in
obtaining an open competition for the work in question; whoever chose,
was at liberty to send in his picture, and the best would obtain the
preference. Having brought this about, he secluded himself in his studio
and applied himself to the task with intense ardour, summoning up all
his great energy, skill, and experience of art. As was to be expected,
the result was one of his very finest pictures. As a work of art, it was
unquestionably the best. When my father saw it placed beside those of
the other competitors, a smile of triumph curled his lip, and he
entertained no doubt that his would be the picture chosen to adorn the
altar. The committee appointed to decide arrived, and cast approving
glances at my father's painting. Before giving their verdict, however,
they proceeded to examine it minutely, and at last, one of the
members--an ecclesiastic of high rank, if I remember rightly--waved his
hand to secure the attention of his fellow-judges, and spoke thus: 'The
picture presented by this artist,' he said, 'has undoubtedly very high
merit as a mere work of art; but it is unsuited to the place and purpose
for which it was designed. Those countenances have nothing sacred or
holy in their expression. On the contrary, you may discern in every one
of them, and especially in the eyes, the traces, more or less modified,
of some evil passion, a something unhallowed and almost fiendish.'
Struck by this observation, all present looked at the picture: it was
impossible to deny the justice of the criticism. My father rushed
furiously forward eager to deny and disprove the unfavourable judgment.
But he saw for the first time, with feelings of intense horror, that he
had given to almost all his countenances the eyes of the money-lender.
They all looked out of the canvass with such a devilish and abominable
stare, that he himself could scarcely help shuddering. The picture was
rejected, and, with unspeakable rage and envy, he heard the prize
awarded to his former pupil. He returned home in a state of mind worthy
of a demon. He abused and even ill-treated my poor mother, who sought to
console him for his disappointment, drove his children brutally from
him, broke his easel and brushes, tore down from the wall the portrait
of the money-lender, called for a knife, and ordered a fire to be
instantly lighted, intending to cut up the picture and burn it. In this
mood he was found by a friend, a painter like himself, a careless,
jovial dog, always in good-humour, untroubled with ambition, working
gaily at whatever he could get to do, and loving a good dinner and merry
company.
"'What the deuce are you at? what are you about to burn?' said he, going
up to the portrait. 'Why, are you mad? This is one of your very best
pictures! The old money-lender, I declare. By Jove! an exquisite thing!
Admirably hit off! you have caught the old fellow's eyes to perfection.
One would almost swear you had transplanted them from the head to the
picture. They look out of the canvass.'
"'We'll see how they look in the fire,' said my father surlily, making a
movement to thrust the picture into the grate.
"'Stop, stop!' cried his friend, checking his arm. 'Give it me, rather
than burn it.' My father was at first unwilling, but at last consented;
and the jolly old painter, enchanted with his acquisition, carried off
the portrait.
"The picture gone, my father felt himself more tranquil. 'It seemed,' he
said, 'as if its departure had taken a load off his heart.' He was
astonished at his recent conduct, at the malice and envy that had filled
his soul. The more he reflected, the stronger became his sorrow and
repentance. 'Yes,' he at last exclaimed, with sincere self-reproach,
'God has punished me for my sins; my picture was really a shameful and
abominable thing. It was inspired by the wicked hope of injuring a
fellow-man, and a brother artist. Hatred and envy guided my pencil; what
better feelings could I expect it to portray?' Without a moment's delay
he went in search of his former pupil, embraced him affectionately,
entreated his forgiveness, and did all in his power to efface from the
young man's mind the remembrance of his offence. Once more his days
glided on in peaceful and contented toll, although his face had assumed
a pensive and melancholy expression, previously a stranger to it. He
prayed more frequently and fervently, was more often silent, and spoke
less bluntly and roughly to others; the rugged suffice of his character
was smoothed and softened.
"A long time had elapsed without his seeing or hearing any thing of the
friend to whom he had given the portrait, and he was one day about to go
out and inquire after him, when the man himself entered the room. But
his former joviality of manner was gone. He looked worn and melancholy,
his checks were hollow, his complexion pale, and his clothes hung
loosely upon him. My father was struck with the change, and inquired
what ailed him.
"'Nothing now,' was the reply: 'nothing since I got rid of that infernal
portrait. I was wrong, my friend, not to let you burn it. The devil fly
away with the thing, say I! I am no believer in witchcraft and the like,
but I am more than half persuaded some evil spirit is lodged in the
portrait of the usurer.'
"'What makes you think so?' said my father.
"'The simple fact, that from the very first day it entered my house, I,
formerly so gay and joyous, became the most anxious melancholy dog that
ever whined under a gallows. I was irritable, ill-tempered, disposed to
cut my own throat, and every body else's. My whole life through, I had
never known what it was to sleep badly. Well, my sleep left me, and when
I did get any, it was broken by dreams. Good Heavens! such horrible
dreams; I could not bring myself to believe they were mere dreams,
ordinary nightmares. I was sometimes nearly stifled in my sleep; and
eternally, my good sir, the old man, that accursed old man, flitted
about me. In short, I was in a pitiable state, lost flesh and appetite,
and cursed the hour I was born. I crawled about, as if drunk or stupid,
tormented with a vague incessant fear, a dread, and anticipation of
something frightful about to happen, of some uncommon danger besetting
me at every turn. At last, I bethought me of the portrait, and gave it
away to a nephew of mine, who had taken a great fancy to it. Since then
I have been much relieved; I feel as if a great stone had been rolled
off my heart; I can sleep and eat, and am recovering my former spirits.
It was a rare devil you cooked up there, my boy!'
"My father listened to his friend's confession with the closest
attention.
"'The portrait, then, is now in your nephew's possession?' he at last
inquired.
"'My nephew's! No, no! He tried it, but could stand it no better than
your humble servant. Assuredly the spirit of the old usurer has
transmigrated into the picture. My nephew declares that he walks out of
the frame, glides about the room; in short the things he tells me, pass
human understanding and belief. I should have taken him for a madman, if
I had not partly experienced the thing myself. He sold the picture to
some dealer or other; and the dealer could not stand it either, and got
it off his hands.'
"This narrative made a deep impression upon my father. About this time
he became subject to long fits of abstraction, and incessant reveries,
which gradually turned to hypochondria. At last, he was firmly convinced
that his pencil had served as an instrument to the evil spirit; that a
portion of the usurer's vitality had actually passed into the picture,
which thus continued to torment and persecute its possessors, inspiring
them with evil passions, tempting them from the paths of virtue and
religion, rousing in their breasts feelings of envy and malice and all
uncharitableness. A great misfortune which afflicted him shortly after,
the loss, by a contagious disorder, of his wife, daughter, and infant
son, he accounted a judgment of heaven upon his sin. He determined to
quit the world, and devote himself to religion and prayer. I was then
nine years of age. He placed me in the Academy of Arts, wound up his
affairs, and retired to a remote convent, where he shortly afterwards
assumed the tonsure. There, by the severity of his life, and by the
unwearied punctuality with which he fulfilled the rules of his order, he
struck the whole brotherhood with surprise and admiration. The superior
of the monastery, hearing of his skill as a painter, requested him to
execute an altar-piece for the convent chapel. But the devout brother
declared that his pencil had been polluted by a great sin, and that he
must purify himself by mortification and long penance, before he could
dare apply it to a holy purpose. He then, of his own accord, gradually
increased the austerity of his monastic life. At last, the utmost
privations he could inflict on himself appearing to him insufficient, he
retired, with the blessing of the superior, to court solitude in the
desert. There he built himself a hermitage out of the branches of trees,
lived on uncooked roots, dragged a heavy stone with him wherever he
went, and stood from sunrise to sunset with his hands uplifted to
heaven, fervently praying. His penances and mortifications were such as
we find examples of only in the lives of the saints. For many years he
followed this austere manner of life, and his brethren at the convent
had given up all hopes of again seeing him, when one day he suddenly
appeared amongst them. 'I am ready,' he said, firmly and calmly to the
superior: 'with the help of God, I will begin my task.' The subject he
selected was the Birth of Christ. For a whole year he laboured
incessantly at his picture, without leaving his cell, nourishing himself
with the coarsest food, and rigid in the fulfilment of his religious
duties. At the end of that time the picture was completed. It was a
miracle of art. Neither the brethren nor the superior were profound
critics of painting, but they were awe-struck by the extraordinary
sublimity of the figures. The sentiment of divine tranquillity and
mildness in the Holy Mother, bending over the Infant Jesus--the profound
and celestial intelligence in the eyes of the Babe--the solemn silence
and dignified humility of the three Wise Men prostrate at His feet--the
holy, unspeakable calm breathed over the whole work--the combined
impression of all this was magical. The brethren bowed the knee before
the picture, and the superior, deeply affected, pronounced a blessing on
the artist. 'No mere human art,' he said, 'could have produced a
picture like this. A power from on high has guided thy pencil, my son,
and the blessing of heaven has descended on the work of thy hands.'
"About this time I finished my education in the Academy; I received the
gold medal, and at the same time saw realised the delicious hope of
being sent to Italy--the cherished dream of the boy-artist. Before
departing, I wished to take leave of my father, whom I had not seen for
twelve years. I had heard divers reports of the extreme austerity of his
life, and expected to see the withered figure of a hermit, worn-out,
exhausted, macerated with fast and vigil. My astonishment was great when
I beheld my father. No trace of exhaustion was on his countenance, which
beamed with a joy whose source was not of this world. A beard as white
as snow, and long thin hair of silvery hue floated picturesquely down
his breast and along the folds of his black robe, and descended even to
the cord girding his monastic gown. Before we parted, I received from
his lips precepts and counsels for the conduct of my life and for my
guidance in art--precepts I have religiously remembered, and which will
ever remain indelibly engraven on my soul. Three days I abode near him;
on the third, I went to ask his blessing before my departure for the
artist's home, the distant and much-desired shores of Italy. Already, in
the course of our long communings, he had told me the story of his life,
especially dwelling on the remarkable passage I have just related. 'My
son, these were his last words, 'my conscience, tranquillised in great
measure by years of prayer and penitence, has yet its uneasy moments,
when I recall the circumstances connected with that portrait. I have
been told that it still passes from hand to hand, occasioning misery to
many, exciting feelings of envy and hatred, fostering unlawful desires
and unholy thoughts. By the memory of thy mother, and by the love thou
bearest me, I entreat thee, my son, truly and faithfully to perform my
last request. Seek out that portrait; sooner or later you must find it;
you cannot fail to recognise it by the strange expression, and by the
extraordinary fire and vividness of the eyes. Purchase it, at whatever
cost, and commit it to the flames! So shall my blessing prosper thee,
and thy days be long in the land.'
"How could I refuse the pledge thus touchingly required by the venerable
old man? Throwing myself into his arms, I swore by the silver locks that
flowed over his breast, faithfully to do his bidding. We live in a
positive age, and believers in any thing bordering on the supernatural
grow each day rarer. But my path was plain before me; I had promised,
and must perform. For fifteen years I have devoted a certain portion of
each, to a search for the mysterious picture, with constant ill-success,
until to-day--at this auction."
Here the artist, suspending his sentence, turned towards the wall where
the portrait had hung. His movement was imitated by his hearers, who,
looked round in search of the wonderful picture, concerning which they
had just been told so strange a tale. But the portrait was no longer
there. A murmur of surprise, almost of consternation, ran through the
throng.
"Stolen!" at last exclaimed a voice. And stolen the picture doubtless
had been. Some dexterous thief, profiting by the profound attention with
which the eyes of all were fixed upon the narrator, whilst all ears,
drank in his singular story, had managed to take down and carry off the
portrait. The company remained plunged in perplexity, almost doubting
whether they had really seen those extraordinary eyes, or whether the
whole thing were not a fantasy, a vision, the phantom of a brain heated
and fatigued by the long examination of a gallery of old pictures.
FOOTNOTES:
[24] A kind of bazaar or perpetual market, where second-hand furniture,
old books and pictures, earthenware, and other cheap commodities, are
exposed for sale in small open booths.
[25] A personage who figures, like two or three others afterwards
alluded to, in the popular legends and fairy tales of Russia.
[26] Twenty-five rubles.
[27] A silver coin, about the size of a shilling, the quarter of a
silver ruble (_und e nomen_) worth ninepence.
[28] The officer commanding the police of the quarter.
[29] The Russian house-spirit. This "lubber fiend" is frequently the
popular name of the nightmare.
[30] The "was-ist-das," a single pane of glass fixed in a frame, to
admit of its being opened, very necessary in a climate where double
casements are fixed during eight months out of the year.
HOUNDS AND HORSES AT ROME.
ENGLISH KENNEL.
"The Dog-Star rages!"--POPE.
To do at Rome as the Romans do, is an adage which we English can no
longer apply to our proceedings in that city; we now reverse this, and
carrying thither our games, field-sports, and other whimsies, not only
practise these ourselves, but would impose them upon her senate and
people; for a senate she still has, and the Romans take a strange
pleasure in exhibiting, on state occasions, the well-known letters,
which tell of formerly allied, but long since departed glories. What
would her ancient senate, the stern descendants of the wolf-nursed
twins--
"Curius quid sentit, et ambo Scipiadae?--"
have said to the subserviency of their present _mis_-representatives,
who go forth, not to give races, but to witness the feats of barbarian
jockeyship, on a turf that once resounded only to the hoofs of their own
favourite racers;
"Whose easy triumph and transcendant speed
Palm after palm proclaimed; whilst Victory,
In the horse circus, stood exulting by."[31]
If the senator Damisippus once received such a castigation at the hands
of the bard of Aquinum, for merely driving his own phaeton at noon, and
for nodding _varmintly_ to a friend as he passed, how would that poet's
indignation or muse--
"Si natura negat, facit indignatio versum--"
have dealt with you, Princes Borghese and Cesarini, Doria and Colonna,
who, changing your long robes for the scarlet jacket, (worse than any
_Trechidipna_), have learned to vie with each other in acquiring a
field-note, of which Alaric had been proud, to strive for precedence in
a fox-hunt, and to glory more in winning his brush, than ever did your
ancestors on wresting a trophy from the Sicambri. But, thanks to Popes
who have wisely prohibited satirists and satire, ye are free to follow,
unscathed by the Iambic muse, this or any other pastime you please,
however unsuited in character to the dignity of your descent. To one
merely paying a transitory visit to Rome in the grand tour of twenty
years ago, it might not have occurred as a likely contingency that a
pack of English fox-hounds should be one day kennelled close up to her
gates; but to him who witnessed the sporting monomania of some of our
countrymen, and the difficulty they found (having nothing else to
_kill_) in killing _time_, it would never have seemed improbable. The
enthusiasm which every one, gets up for the Coliseum, or the Arch of
Titus, generally expends itself on the spot, and is not afterwards to be
resuscitated. This leads many during a six weeks' sojourn in the eternal
city, (which seems to them already an eternity), to ask themselves, with
Fabricius, their business there; while some, following his example still
farther, leave it in disgust. Till certain very recent arrangements had
been completed for his equipment, no one's position was more to be
compassionated--if you adopted his own view of it--than that of the
English sportsman; it was really lamentable to hear him describe, while
it would occasionally prompt a smile to see his expedients, to relieve
it. Finding little that was congenial to his tastes or his talents in
the arts or the society of the place, he would sometimes seek to abridge
the tedium and length of his stay at Rome, by episodes of lark-shooting
at Subiaco, or by looking after wild-boars at Ostia; and some, to whom
hunting was indispensable, would hire dogs and make them chase _each
other_, while they harked on the ragged pack, on the best hacks they
could procure for the purpose. This, however, which might have proved
excellent sport had the dogs always chosen to run properly, was
oft-times tried and relinquished, in consequence of a practical
difficulty, originating in the pack itself, which refused to supply from
its ranks the necessary _quota_ of amateur hares required by the riders.
By this token, it was high time something should be done! At length the
auspicious day dawned when the sporting world (already on the alert to
contrive less unturf-like proceedings than the last mentioned) was
agreeably saved from the embarrassment of further thought on the
subject, by a spirited announcement, noticed with becoming gratitude in
_Galignani_, from Lord C---- that he had actually sent for his dogs from
England. No time was lost; the groom, despatched in haste with the
necessary instructions, returned within six weeks, leaving the kennel
and _canaille_ that accompanied it only a few days behind on the road.
One morning, shortly after, it was announced at the Vatican, that a pack
of hungry hounds was at the Popolo Gate, barking for admittance, and
apparently threatening to eat up the whole Apostolic Doganieri if they
kept them much longer. The matter pressed: a deputation of Englishmen
waited on the governor, requesting permission for the establishment of a
kennel in a spot already fixed upon for the purpose, (it was somewhere
about the site where Constantine's mother was buried, and where, by
tradition, Nero's ghost is supposed to brood, beyond the Pons Nomentana,
and the Sacred mount); and having obtained the desired leave, the dogs
were at once established in their new settlement. When they had
recovered the fatigues of their journey, a notice was posted up,
advertising the first "throw off" for the next day. On this occasion
they hunted an old fox round the Claudian Aqueduct, into the body of
which, on getting over his surprise, he scoured a retreat, thus baffling
the pursuers. The next field-day his successor was not so fortunate,
losing both brush and life at the end of a long run. The third was
distinguished by the feat of a Roman prince, who contrived to be in at
the death, and received the brush for his encouragement. After this the
weekly obituary of foxes increased permanently in number. Meanwhile a
few dogs disappeared in subterranean mystery, awkward falls occurred,
wrists and ankles were dislocated; but no brains spilt. At last forty
persons, having nothing better to do with themselves, agree to meet
regularly twice a-week and to set up a subscription. While it is yet
early in the winter, dogs come dropping in by couples, from various
well-wishers in England; while large orders in the shape of scarlet
coats and hunting-caps, duly executed and forwarded, are stopped at the
Dogana Apostolica, and after a suitable demur on account of the
Cardinalesque colour, allowed to pass, on paying a handsome duty. These
_liveries_ at first produced a great sensation in Rome, not only amongst
the hierarchy, who were jealous of the profanation, but with the
populace, both within and without the walls: from the prince to the
peasant, every body had something to say about them. As they paced along
the streets the men stared in silent admiration, while the women clapped
their hands and cried, "_Guardi! Guardi!_" When they trotted out to
cover, the delighted swine-herd whistled to his pigs to make way for
them to pass; while the mounted buffalo-driver, from some crag above the
road, would point them out with his long-spiked pole, to the man in the
sheepskin who was on foot. We do not know what comments _these_ might
make, but those of the Roman townsfolk were by no means in keeping with
the flattering admiration they expressed. "What a gay livery!" said a
Roman citizen, emerging from the Salara Gate, as a detachment of the
"red-coats" was turning in. "Cazzo! how well they ride, and what a
number too!" "Yes," said his friend at our elbow; "to whom do they
belong--_a chi appartengono_?" "'Tis the livery of a Russian prince who
came last week to Rome, and has put up at Serny's," said the other,
affecting to know all about it. "Well, to my mind, they beat Prince
Torlonia's postilions out-and-out." "_Altro_--I agree with you there;
_ma abbia pazienza_--wait a bit, and depend on it our Prince, when he
has seen them, will not be long in taking the hint!" We hope he will;
for, however we may elsewhere admire a mounted field, _here_ it shocks
every notion of propriety. That fox-hunters should have their _meeting_
where the Fabii met; Gell's map of Rome's classic topography be studied,
with no other reference than to _runs_; and Veii be scared in her lofty
citadel by the cry of hounds and harum-scarum fellows sweeping along her
ravines, are evident improprieties; while the having all one's senses
assailed and offended together by the scent of highly-ammoniated
bandy-legged fellows in fustian or corduroy, (their necessary
satellites,) who inundate street and piazza with the slang of the London
mews, is something still worse.
"Quoi! Venue d'un peuple roi,
Toi, reine encore du monde!"
Thou who hast taken the lead by turns, in legislature, literature, and
the fine arts, doomed at last to become the sovereign seat for
hunting--the Melton Mowbray of the South! May thy _genius loci_ forbid
it; may thy goddess of fever visit the hounds in one of her ugliest
types; loimos or limos destroy them; old Tiber rise with his yellow
waves to drown, catacombs yawn to ingulf, and aqueducts fall to crush
them! Or, should inanimate nature disregard our row, two other hopes
remain: the one, that the foxes, made aware by this time of the love
with which the Roman princes contemplate _il loro brush_, will send them
a yearly tribute of a certain number of these appendages, on condition
that they forthwith dismiss the dogs; the other, that the Dominicans,
who are well known to be jealous of our movements, will come to regard
hunting as an heretical sport, especially as here practised by
Protestant dogs and riders--and in Lent, too, against orthodox
foxes--and persuade the Pope to abolish it!
THE STEEPLE-CHASE.
In that grassy month of the Campagna, ere the sun has seared the
standing herbage into hay--when anemones, cyclamens, crocuses, and Roman
hyacinths, as prescient of the coming heat, lose no time in quickening,
and burst out suddenly in myriads to cover the plain with their
loveliness; while the towering _ferula_ conceals the sandy rock whence
it springs, with its delicate tracery yet unspecked by the solar rays;
and the stately teazle, bending under the clutch of goldfinch and
linnet, or recoiling as they spurn it, in quest of their
butterfly-breakfast, has still some sap in its veins. Early on one of
the most exhilarating mornings of this truly delicious season, (alas,
how brief in its continuance!) we are awaked by unusual sounds in the
street. These proceeded from the young Romans vociferating to their
friends to bestir themselves to procure places at the steeple-chase
programmed for this 14th of March. An hour before Aurora had opened her
_porte cochere_ to Phoebus, and those sleek piebald coursers whose
portraits are to be seen in the Ludovisi and Ruspigliosi palaces, all
the vetturini and cabmen of Rome had already opened _theirs_; and while
some were adjusting misfitting harness to every specimen of horseflesh
that could be procured for the occasion, others were trundling out from
their black recesses in stable and coach-house, every mis-shapen vehicle
that permitted of being fastened to their backs, in order to proceed out
of the Porta Salara betimes. By six all Rome was awake, and by seven, in
motion towards the race-course. On that memorable morning artists
forewent their studies, the Sapienza its wisdom, the Roman college its
theology; shopkeepers kept their windows closed; Italian masters
barouched with their pupils, mouthed Ariosto, and seemed highly
delighted; while the professions of law and physic sent as many of their
members as public safety could spare. In short, it had been long ago
settled that all the world would be present; and all the world was
present, sure enough, and long before the time. It was a lively and a
pleasing spectacle, to which novelty lent another charm, when, about
two miles beyond the Salara gate, we looked from our double-lined
procession of Broughams and Britskas, fore and aft, and saw, for miles,
scattered over that usually deserted plain, groups of peasants in the
gay costumes of the adjacent villages, now animating it in every
direction; some emerging from under the arches of aqueducts, or the
screen of ruined columbaria, alternately lost to sight and again rising
above those abrupt dips in which the ground abounds, all tending in one
direction, all bent on one object. At length our carriage, (which has
been intimating its purpose shortly to stop,) pulls up definitely, and
Joseph, having already told us that he can neither move backward nor
forward, touches his hat for orders. On such an occasion, we resigned
ourselves to wait, without any feeling of impatience, finding sufficient
amusement, both from the distant prospect and in the immediate vicinity;
sometimes watching the wheeling of those sporting characters, the
Peregrine Hawks overhead, now listening to the warbling of the loudest
lark music we ever remember to have heard; then exchanging a few words
with some roadside acquaintance, and anon giving ourselves up
exclusively to the silent enjoyment of the weather. We were kept long
enough in all conscience, waiting till even the quietly expectant
Romans, drilled by their church into habits of great forbearance, at
length began to murmur aloud disapprobation, and we could hear one
coachman ask another "_Quando quel benidetto stippel-chess_" was to be;
while the respondent, shrugging his shoulders, growled out for answer a
"_Chi lo sa_!" Meanwhile our attention was fitfully resuscitated by a
rider in costume doing a bit of turf, by an unsaddled racer led across
the ground, or by men on horseback carrying small flags to stake at the
different leaps; sometimes by an English oath, startling the _Genius
loci_ or whoever heard it; or more agreeably by a display of voluble
young countrywomen, standing tiptoe on their carriage seats, eager to
see the first fall, and permitting the young men who swaggered by to
scare them into the prettiest attitudes of dismay, by a prophetical
announcement of the bones that would be broken before the race was won.
Some little buzz there is about unfairness and jockeyship, when we
catch, from the mouth of our Anglo-Roman livery-stable-man, who chanced
to be near, that "the osses is a-saddling." It took long to saddle; long
to mount; and some time still before they started, during which interval
"The jockeys keep their horses on the fret,
And each gay Spencer prompts the noisy bet,
Till drops the signal; then, without demur,
Ten horses start,--ten riders whip and spur;
At first a line an easy gallop keep,
Then forward press, to take th' approaching leap:
Abreast go red and yellow; after these
Two more succeed; one's down upon his knees;
The sixth o'ertops it; clattering go two more,
And two decline; now swells the general roar."
And every horse on the right side of the hurdle strives to get his head,
and every rider is wiser than to indulge this instinct. Soon another
leap presents itself; up they all go and down again,--four close
together! Hurrah! blue and yellow! Hurrah! green and red! A third leap,
not far from the last, and no refusals! Over and on again. Another! and
this time three favourites are abreast, the fourth is a second behind,
but may still be in, for he has cleared the fence and is coming up with
the others; the motion appears smoother as they recede; the riders,
diminished to the size of birds, are still seen gliding on--on:--
"No longer soon their colours can we trace,
Lost in the mazy distance of the race
Till at Salara's far-off bridge descried,
Like coursing butterflies, they seem to glide;
Then, dwindling farther, in the lengthening course,
Mere floating specks supplant both man and horse;
Till, having crossed the Columbarium gray,
They swerve, and back retrace their airy way."
At this point of the contest we cross the road--and there far away, two
dots, a yellow and a blue one, are seen with increasing distinctness
every second; which may be in advance of the other we cannot say,
notwithstanding the clearness of the air; they _seem_, from where we
stand, in the same line of distance; the coloured dots disappear
momentarily behind a slope, and on emerging the yellow is distinctly
first; the green not far behind. Where are the others? have they broken
their necks? No! there they come, in the rear. They were a little thrown
out at the last leap, but two are making ground upon the green usurper;
and now they are once more all in full sight and full speed, while the
Roman welkin rings to strange sounds! "_Guardi il Verde_;" "_Per me
guadagna il Giallo_." "I'll take you two to one on the Maid of the
Mill." "Done." "Who's riding the bay-mare?" "Mr A. for Lord G. and a
pretty mess he's making of it." "_Das ist wunderbar, nicht wahr?_" "_Ya,
gut!_" "_Les Anglais savent manier leurs chevaux, parbleu!_" "I'll be
blowed if Lord G. don't win after all!" "Well, Miss Smith, I shall call
for my gloves to-morrow." "_Bravi tutti quanti!_" "_Cazzo! che
cavalli!_" "_Forwartz! Forwartz._" "_Allons, Messieurs! avancez._"
"_Allez! Allez!_" "_Guardi! Guardi!_" And here a distant shout, fleeter
in its journey than the fleetest of the horses that it sped onwards,
reaches our ears; another moment brings the two foremost to the last
leap, the blue hesitates--the red springs into the air, drops
_d'aplomb_, then on again swifter than before. The blue sticks close to
him, is near, nearer still; comes up--
"Then anxious silence breaks in deafening cries,
His whip and spur each desperate rider plies;
The prescient coursers foaming, cheek by jowl,
Now see the stand and guess th' approaching goal;
True to their blood, and frantic still to win,
Goaded, they fly, and spent, will not give in;
Exactly matched, with fruitless efforts strain
In rival speed, a single inch to gain.
Once more, the fluttering Spencers urge the goad,
Bend o'er their saddles, lift them, light their load
Just at the goal--one spur and it is done!
The rowel'd _Red_ starts forward, and has won!"
After this exploit, the red, green, and yellow liveries could have done
what they would with the uninitiated Romans. Captain Cooke's arrival at
Otaheite; the first steamer seen on the Nile; the introduction of gun
and gunpowder amongst people hitherto hunting or making war with bow and
arrow,--are only parallel cases of that enthusiasm mixed with awe, with
which the Romans viewed the English gentleman jockeys on this day. They
would have been delighted to have it over again six times, but had to
learn that races (unlike songs) are never _encored_.
ROMAN DOGS.
A "dog's life" has become a synonym for suffering; nor does the
associating him with another domestic animal (if a second proverbial
expression may be trusted) appear to mend his condition; but ill as he
may fare with the cat, his position is less enviable when man is
co-partner in the menage, against whose kicks and hard usage should he
venture upon the lowest remonstrative growl, he is sure to receive a
double portion of both for his pains; and thus it has ever been, for the
condition of a dog cannot have changed materially since the creation.
Being naturally domestic in his habits, he was born to that contumely
"which patient merit from the unworthy takes," and can never have known
a golden age. "Croyez-vous," (demanda quelqu'un a Candide,) "que les
hommes ont toujours ete rans?" "Croyez-vous," (repliqua Candide,) "que
les eperviers ont toujours mange les pigeons." We entertain no more
doubt of the one than of the other, and must therefore applaud the
sagacity of Esop's wolf, who, when sufficiently tamed by hunger to think
of offering himself as a volunteer dog, speedily changed his mind, on
hearing the uses of a collar first fully expounded to him by Trusty. Not
that every dog is ill-used; no; for every rule has its exception, and
every tyrant his favourite. Man's selfishness here proves a safer ally
than his humanity, and oft-times interposes to rescue the dog from those
sufferings to which the race is subject. Thus in savage countries, where
his strength may be turned to account, size and sinew recommend him to
public notice and respect;
"----animalia muta
Quis generosa putat nisi fortia"
while among civilised nations, eccentricity, beauty, cleverness, or love
of sport, may establish him a lady's pet or a sportsman's companion.
Happy indeed the dog born in the kennel of a park; no canister for his
tail, no halter for his neck; physiologists shall try no experiments on
his eighth pair of nerves; his wants are liberally supplied; a Tartar
might envy him his rations of horseflesh, shut up with congenial and
select associates with whom he courses twice a-week,
"Unites his bark with theirs; and through the vale,
Pursues in triumph, as he snuffs the gale."
He enjoys himself thoroughly while in health, and when he is sick a
veterinary surgeon feels his pulse, and prescribes for him in dog-Latin!
Benign too the star, albeit the "dog star," under which are born those
equal rivals in their mistress' heart, the silky-eared spaniel and the
black-nosed pug, who sleep at opposite ends of a costly muff, lie on the
sofa, bow-wow strangers round the drawing-room, and take their daily
airing in the park! Nor are the several lots of the spotted dog from
Denmark, who adds importance to his master's equipage; of the ferocious
bull-dog, the Frenchman's and the butcher's friend; or of the
quick-witted terrier from Skye, less enviable. But where caprice or
interest do not plead for the dog, his condition is universally such as
fully to justify the terms in which men speak of it. To see this
exemplified, observe the misery of his _life_ and _death_, in a country
where he is neither petted nor employed. Throughout Italy, and
particularly in Rome, (where we now introduce him to the reader,) he
lives "to find abuse his only use;" to be hunted, and not to hunt; now
dropping from starvation without the gates, and now the victim of poison
within. Ye unkennelled scavengers of the Pincian Hill,--ye that have no
master to propitiate the good Saint Anthony, on his birth-day, to bless,
nor priest to asperse you with holy water, (in consequence of which
omissions, no doubt, your plagues multiply upon you)--poor friendless
wanderers, who come up to every lonely pedestrian, at once to remind him
that it is not good for man to be alone, and to alleviate his solitude
with your company; good-natured, rough, ill-favoured dogs, with whom our
acquaintance has been extensive, dull indeed would the Pincian appear,
were it deprived of your grotesque forms and awkward but well-meant
gambols! The life of a Campagna sheep-dog, kept half starved in the
sight of mutton which he dare not touch, is hard enough, but that of the
members of this large, unowned republic more so. Hungry and gaunt as
she-wolves, but with none of their fierceness, these poor animals seek
the city gates, and, molesting nobody, find a foul and precarious
subsistence from the _Immondezze_ of the streets; but when their
condition and appearance are improved, and they are beginning to think
of an establishment, the fatal edict goes forth; nux vomica is
triturated with liver, and the treacherous _bocconi_ are strewn upon the
dirt-heaps where they resort; the unsuspecting animals greedily devour
the only meal provided for them by the State, and in a few hours
experience the anguish of the slowly killing poison; an intense thirst
urges them to the fountains, but the water only serves to dilute and
render it more potent: their bodies swell, they totter, fall, try to
recover their feet, but cannot; then piteously howling are carried off
in the height of a titanic convulsion. Often on returning at this season
from an evening party, we discern dark receding forms and hear voices
too, "visae _canes_ ululare per umbras," as _they_ glide moaning away and
are lost in the obscurity of the off streets. Occasionally they
anticipate their doom, by premature madness, when the authorities issue
orders to use steel, and sometimes fifty will perish in a single night.
It is remarkable that notwithstanding these summary proceedings, the
canine ranks, as Easter comes round again, are renewed for fresh
destruction. Some few dogs of superior cunning contrive from year to
year to elude these "_Editti fulminanti_," which make such havoc among
their companions; these, by securing the favour and protection of the
soldiers and galley-slaves of the district, obtain besides an occasional
meal from the canteens, and plenary indulgence for themselves, and for
an unsightly progeny, which they screen from public remark, and bring up
amidst the _latebrae_ of the brushwood; but aware at the same time of the
precarious tenure by which such clandestine concessions must be held,
they seek to keep alive the interest, exerted in their behalf, by the
exhibition of many strange antics, evidently got up for the occasion, by
affecting an extraordinary interest in man and his affairs, which they
cannot feel, and by the display of a most obsequious gentleness,
humouring, while they play with your favourite dog, and though his
superior in strength, lying under on purpose to give him the advantage;
but above all, they seek to make interest with the Pincian _bonnes_,
whom they readily conciliate by withdrawing the attention of the
children from any _collateral_ object of interest which may engage
theirs. Petted and patted by many little hands, which _bongre malgre_
must give up their buns to his voracity, the large quadruped, in return
for these snatched courtesies, follows the small urchin, who is learning
to trundle his hoop, barking for it to proceed, and stopping when it
stops. Any one observing their clever gambols and extreme docility,
wishes straightway that their forms were less uncouth, and might next be
tempted, as we were, to overlook external disadvantages, and to adopt
one of the ragged pack in consideration of mental endowments; the
experiment would fail if he made it; these animals resemble the
_uneducated_ negro, who shows to most advantage in difficulties--well
housed, well fed, caressed, and cared for, both forget their master and
the part he has taken in securing their prosperity. Stand forth,
ungrateful _Frate_, while, for the reader's caution, and your own
misconduct, we rehearse your history.
We met Frate at the end of the fever season upon the unhealthy heights
of Otricoli; a poor lean beast, with a penetrating gray eye, rough brown
coat, a tail with no grace in its rigid half curl, and an untidy grizzly
white beard. We had halted to bait the horses, and finding nothing for
ourselves, preceded the carriage, and were winding down the steep hill,
when he came suddenly upon us through a break in the hedge, and having
first looked all around and satisfied himself that no fellow town-dog
was in sight, raised his ill-shaped head, barked an unmistakable "_bon
giorno_;" then, turning tail on the city of his birth, ran on gambolling
a few yards in front, to look back, bark again, and encourage us to
proceed. "What an ugly brute! what a _hideous_ dog!" but as he engages
the attention of our party, these expressions become modified, and
before reaching the bottom of the hill, nobody cares about the remains
of Otricoli, nor looks any longer at the yellow reaches of the
pestiferous Tiber, that was winding far along the plain; the dog alone
occupies every thought. "Such a discerning creature! What clever eyes he
has! See how well he understands what we are saying about him; suppose
we take him on to Rome? We might get his grizzly beard shaved; his rough
coat would become sleek after a month's good feeding, his legs could be
clipped below the knees. Oh! he is full of capabilities. See! he is now
acting Sphinx, and looking up at us, as if he could delve into what is
passing in our minds, and would turn these vague suggestions to
account." Suddenly he sprang to his feet, barked, and seemed much
agitated; in a minute we, too, hear the sound of wheels, which his more
acute ear had already caught; as the carriage approached, his excitement
increased; at first he only barked back as if to entreat it not to come
on so quickly, but as it plainly did not heed his civil remonstrance,
the bow-wow became still more earnest in its expostulatory accents.
B[=o]w (long) w[)o]w (short). "Why such haste?" Then he tried his
eloquence upon us; and while reiterating his canine _accidente_ in his
own way at the horses now close at hand, his voice assumes an elegiac
whine as he turns to supplicate, in a tone that none accustomed to
Italian beggars can mistake; "_non abbandonatemi_," being plainly the
purport of its most dolorous and plaintive accents. We hesitate, the
carriage draws up, down go the steps, and lo! in a twinkling, our new
friend has darted in before us, taken possession, and there he sits
ready to kiss our hand. Such audacity was sure to succeed, so, letting
him gently down from the steps we left him to follow if he chose.
Follow! trust him for that! he bounded along the Appian way, barking to
encourage the horses, coquetting with a favourite pony, and winning over
our Joseph, by the time we had arrived at _Civita Castellana_, to let
him remain in their company for the night. Next morning he starts
betimes, nor permits the carriage to overtake him, till all fear of
being sent back is removed, by our near approach to Rome. Arrived there,
he at once finds his way to the livery stables, and establishes himself
permanently with the horses. Throughout the winter, we take with good
humour the flippant comments of _flaneurs_ and over-fastidious friends,
touching the bestowal of our patronage upon such an ill-favoured cur,
while we thought ourselves the objects of his gratitude and affection;
but Frate's character (we gave him this name from the length of his
beard, the colour of his coat, and because he had lived upon alms) did
not improve upon acquaintance. One bad trait soon showed itself, he
refused to hold communication with the less-favoured dogs of the
Pincian, turning a deaf ear to their advances, or if they yet
persevered, meeting them with set teeth and an unamiable growl; as he
filled out, his regard for his patrons diminished perceptibly;
attentions bestowed on a smaller colleague excited his jealousy; and we
began to believe the truth of a report circulated to his prejudice, that
Frate was really on the look-out for a place where no other dog was
kept, and where he might have it all his own way. No longer proud of
notice, he seldom sought our society, but was glad to slink off whenever
this could be done without observation. Toward the close of the winter,
indeed, we were deceived by some renewed advances into the belief of a
return of affection, which determined us, when we left Rome, to take him
once more in our suite; we soon, however, found out our mistake. Already
unprincipled in no ordinary degree, the society of the cafes and
table-d'hotes at Lucca completed his corruption. His misconduct at last
became town-talk, and his misdeeds were in every body's mouth; so, when
he had lamed half-a-dozen labourers, scared the whole neighbourhood like
a second Dragon of Wantley, and fought sundry battles with dogs as ugly,
for Helens scarce better-looking than himself, we yielded to public
remonstrance, and removing our protective collar from his unworthy neck,
consigned him to a village sportsman, who hoped to turn his fierceness
to account in attacking the wild-boar. With him Frate remained for about
six weeks, by which time, tiring of the _Cacciatore's_ rough handling,
he had the temerity, two days before our departure, to present himself
again at our door. Too much disgusted to receive him after what had
passed, we showed him a whip from an open window, which to a dog of his
sagacity was enough; in one instant he was on his legs, and in the next
out of sight, but whether to return to the sportsman, or the mountain,
or to seek and find a new master to cozen, we never heard, as this was
our last visit to Lucca. The lesson inculcated by Frate's misconduct has
not been lost upon us; so whenever any queer canine scarecrow now meets
us on the Pincian, and by his dejected looks seeks to enlist our
sympathy, we cut short the appeal, stare him in the face, and then utter
the word "never" with sufficient emphasis to send him off shaking his
head, as if a brace of fleas, or a "fulminating edict" from the governor
were ringing in both ears.
FOOTNOTES:
[31] Badham's _Juvenal_, Sat. 8.
SONG,
FOR THE DINNER GIVEN TO THE EARL OF DALHOUSIE, AT EDINBURGH, 14th
SEPTEMBER 1847, BEFORE HIS PROCEEDING TO INDIA AS GOVERNOR-GENERAL.
BY DELTA.
I.
Long, long ere the thistle was twined with the rose,
And the firmest of friends now were fiercest of foes,
The flag of Dalwolsey aye foremost was seen;
Through the night of oppression it glitter'd afar,
To the patriot's eye 'twas a ne'er-setting star,
And with Bruce and with Wallace it flash'd through the fray,
When "Freedom or Death" was the shout of the day,
For the thistle of Scotland shall ever be green!
II.
A long line of chieftains! from father to son,
They lived for their country--their purpose was one--
In heart they were fearless--in hand they were clean;
From the hero of yore, who, in Gorton's grim caves,
Kept watch with the band who disdain'd to be slaves,
Down to him, with the Hopetoun and Lynedoch that vied,
Who should shine like a twin star by Wellington's side,
That the thistle of Scotland might ever be green!
III.
Then a bumper to him in whose bosom combine
All the virtues that proudly ennoble his line,
As dear to his country, as stanch to his Queen;
Nor less that Dalhousie a patriot we find,
Whose field is the senate, whose sword is the mind,
And whose object the strife of the world to compose,
That the shamrock may bloom by the side of the rose,
And the thistle of Scotland for ever be green!
IV.
It is not alone for his bearing and birth,
It is not alone for his wisdom and worth,
At this board that our good and our noble convene;
But a faith in the blessings which India may draw
From science, from commerce, religion, and law;
And that all who obey Britain's sceptre may see
That knowledge is power--that the truth makes us free;
For rose, thistle, and shamrock, shall ever be green!
V.
A hail and farewell! it is pledged to the brim,
And drain'd to the bottom in honour of him
Who a glory to Scotland shall be and hath been:
Untired in the cause of his country and crown,
May his path be a long one of spotless renown;
Till the course nobly rounded, the goal proudly won,
Fame, smiling on Scotland, shall point to her son,
For the thistle--Her thistle!--shall ever be green!
MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN.
"And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?"
"Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame
Van Haubitz."
"You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true
position?"
"Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a
scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch
of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old
story; going out for wool and returning shorn."
The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in
the public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the
Hill--an insignificant handful of houses, officiating as capital of the
important landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hote had been over
some time; the guests had departed to repose in their apartments until
the hour of evening promenade should summon them to the excellent band
of music, provided by the calculating liberality of the gaming-house
keepers, and to loiter round the _brunnens_ of more or less nauseous
flavour, the pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and
gamblers. The waiters had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from
the public table, and to doze away the time till the approach of supper
renewed their activity. My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the
deserted apartment, was a man of about thirty years of age, whose dark
hair and mustaches, marked features, spare person, and complexion
bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled him to pass for a native of southern
Europe, or even of some more ardent clime. Nevertheless he answered to
the very Dutch patronymic of Van Haubitz, and was a native of Holland,
in whose principal city his father was a banker of considerable wealth
and financial influence.