GENEVRA;
OR, THE
HISTORY OF A PORTRAIT,
BY AN AMERICAN LADY.
A RESIDENT OF WASHINGTON CITY.
COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME.
Philadelphia:
T. B. PETERSON, No. 98 CHESNUT STREET.
ONE DOOR ABOVE THIRD.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1851, by
T. B. PETERSON,
In the Office of the Clerk of the District Court of the United States,
in and for the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
TO
MARIE DE CARVALLO,
MINISTERESS FROM CHILI;
AS A SLIGHT BUT SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION AND ESTEEM, THIS
WORK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED, BY
THE AUTHOR.
GENEVRA; OR, THE HISTORY OF A PORTRAIT.
CHAPTER I.
“Clarence, my dear fellow, pray ring the bell, and let us know when that
confounded dinner will be ready; the carriage will be here before we are
ready for a drive to the Campagna.”
I felt out of spirits and in an ill mood; but mechanically I rose
and rang the bell. Our Italian attendant soon made his appearance.
“Peppo,”—demanded my friend, the Hon. Augustus Morton, in a mixture
of bad Italian and French, which he had learned during our two weeks’
sojourn at Rome,—“Peppo, when will dinner be ready? Don’t you know I told
you this morning to prepare for us a nice English dinner, and have it
early too?”
“Si Signor,” replied Peppo, standing with his toes bent in, twisting a
dirty velvet cap in his hand, ornamented round the edge with tarnished
gilt lace, “ma Signor Inglese, say cinque bra, non rolamente che tre ora
adesso.”
“O, it’s only three, eh—how came I to make such a mistake?” He looked
at his watch: it had stopped. “Well, Peppo,” he continued, in Italian,
“can’t you tell them to hurry their operations, and let us have our
dinner now. We have an engagement. Go and see if they cannot serve it at
once.”
Peppo made his obeisance, and disappeared through the low, narrow door.
“It is unfortunate that I did not think to set the time. We need not have
returned from Tivoli for an hour.”
“I am not at all sorry, for my part,” I rejoined. “I take but little
interest in broken columns, decayed monuments, and old ruins, places of
assignations for owls and bats; in fact, one half the persons who visit
Rome care no more about these remains of Rome’s ancient grandeur than the
doves who make their nests amid the ruins. It has become fashionable of
late years to visit Rome, and carry home from the city a collection of
antique relics, busts, and every variety of curiosities, all of which are
treasured as rare trophies of travel in classic land; a feeling I cannot
at all sympathize with. You have the enthusiasm of the grandeur of Rome
almost entirely to yourself, my friend. I assure you I have had but few
attacks of the fashionable epidemic since my arrival.”
“You are in an ill humor to day, I see, Clarence,” goodnaturedly replied
Morton, as he walked to and fro in our dingy dining-room with his hands
under his coat tails; “but it is not Rome that vexes you, half as much as
the comfortless dreary way in which they manage everything here. If we
could only transport our English neatness and comfort to this beautiful
climate, it would be a heaven on earth.”
At this moment Peppo returned with the intelligence that the cook
absolutely could not serve dinner a moment before the time appointed.
“Well, what can’t be cured, must be endured,” responded Morton, with a
shrug of the shoulders. “But since we have two hours on our hands, and
nothing to amuse us in-doors, suppose we take a walk toward the Coliseum,
and take another look at it. It bears observation more than once. There
is a fine artist, Signor Carrara, who lives in that vicinity, and, with
your leave, we will drop in at his studio, and examine his gallery of
paintings.”
“As you please, Augustus,” I answered; for Morton being five years my
senior, naturally took the lead. We had graduated at Oxford together; and
on leaving England for a two years’ jaunt to the continent, my father had
particularly recommended his darling son to Morton’s fraternal care. We
had spent some time in Paris, flirting with the prettiest women we saw;
but that’s not saying much for them, after all; for the French women do
not depend for their attractions on beauty. They are sprightly, piquant,
and witty generally, but they do not possess that native beauty of form
and face, we meet with so frequently among the higher classes of the
German and English women. Taste in dress and the arts of coquetry, so
well understood and practised by the French women, supply the place of
greater personal beauty. While in Paris, Morton had purchased and shipped
for England a perfect cabinet shop of curiosities; but I, being less
influenced by the mania for everything foreign, bought but little.
We had descended the Rhine together, and together admired the wild
majesty of its scenery. And sometimes as our bark glided past one of
those perpendicular mountains, whose summit seems to kiss the clouds,
on top of which, you frequently see perched the ruins of one of those
castles built in the olden days of feudal war and terror. Sometimes, I
say, I felt a desire to fix my abode, and pass my days in solitude, far
from the busy haunts of men, on the banks of that noble river. But then,
the thought recurred to my mind: A life spent in dreamy abstraction is a
useless one. A life without action, is like a body without a soul. The
busy world; the cares, disappointments, and numberless vexations one
meets with, all tend to develope many faculties of mind, which, buried in
the depths of solitude, might remain forever undiscovered.
We had visited Vienna, the seat of elegance and learning; and after
spending sometime in the smaller towns of Germany and Switzerland, we
found ourselves one bright day at Rome. During a fortnight we had been
occupied every day in sight-seeing; visiting the Vatican, Saint Peter’s,
his Holiness the Pope, and all the wonders of the eternal city; and
eternal to me, in sober truth, it seemed, as, entering the ancient town
by Romulus’ gate, the city dawned upon my view like a vast ocean before
me.
But where did I leave my friend? Oh, he took his hat, and so, cautious
reader, will I take mine, and follow him. We traversed several grass
grown streets, faced on each side, by old houses, built in the Italian
style, now fast tottering to decay. Before one of these, stood a company
of street singers. A man advanced in years, whose gray hair was illumined
by the bright rays of the sun, stood playing on a hand-organ, while a
sweet little girl of eight or nine years, with light hair and fine blue
eyes, jingled a tambourine at his side. There was something in the sad
subdued look of the child, as she timidly advanced toward us, perceiving
we were strangers, that almost called the tears to my eyes, as Morton
and myself simultaneously threw a gold piece into the old tambourine she
extended to receive it.
We passed on, and the next corner hid them from our view. “What a pity
such a pretty child should be trained to beggary,” remarked I, as we
walked on.
“Yes, it is; but such things are so common in this country, they have
ceased to astonish me: indeed, it would be difficult to say what had best
be done for the amelioration of the Italians; like everything else, they
have had their day; and now night and darkness are hanging over them.”
I scarcely heard him; for now we came full in view of that massive
structure, the Coliseum. One side of it is much decayed and crumbled
away, and forms a gap in the round outline. We entered through one of
the ivy-hung arches, and found ourselves in the vast interior. Several
little shrines, the devout offerings of humble superstition, occupied
the vast space, where, so many hundred years ago, the gladiators had
fought in the yearly games. At one of these, covered with a white cloth,
on which were placed a crucifix and bottle of holy water, knelt a young
woman with her hands clasped in prayer. She wore the picturesque costume
of the Neapolitans. The attitude of devotion contrasted strangely with my
recollection of the scenes of which that place had once been the theatre
of action.
“This is a most extraordinary structure, so immense!” exclaimed Morton,
whose ideas were of the most matter-of-fact description.
I made no reply. My mind was abstracted, it had flown back to the olden
times. I thought I saw the dying gladiator leaning on his sword, while
the arena rung with shouts of triumph for his conqueror. I saw start
up from all parts of the old ruin, that vast wall of human faces, all
gazing upon the dying man; but what mattered it to him, the world and all
its cares was vanishing fast from his view; his glazed eyes close, his
clenched hands stiffen, and his spirit leaves its earthly tenement with
the last shout of applause for his conqueror.
I started from my day-dream, and looking for my friend, saw him standing
at the other end of the amphitheatre, gazing wistfully up at the sky,
through the gap which yawned above us. As I approached him, he exclaimed,
“We had better go, or we shall not have time to see Signor Carrara’s
paintings before dinner, as we have been here an hour.”
“An hour! impossible, it is not more than ten minutes.”
“I know it seems no more than that to you; but it is, nevertheless, an
hour since we entered here; and I am afraid of taking cold from the
dampness of the ground; but you were dreaming of the ‘Sorrows of Werter,’
or some other sentimental subject, and of course, thought not of time.
Come, mon ami, let us depart.” He linked his arm in mine and we passed
out into the street, leading to that part of the city he had designated
as the abode of Signor Carrara.
After a few minutes’ walk, he stopped before an old mansion, built in the
Venetian style, with a balcony and latticed windows, jealously closed.
The appearance of the house was antique and gloomy, even more so than
any of the private mansions I had yet seen in Rome. Morton ascended
the door-steps, and vigorously rang the bell. The sound seemed to echo
through the whole house, as though it were deserted. A moment after I
heard the grating of bolts being undone, the door swing back heavily
on its hinges; and, standing on its threshold, I saw an old domestic,
with a grave, sad countenance, and dressed with greater neatness than
the generality of Italian servants. He smiled gaily, and greeted Morton
with a respectful obeisance, saying something in Italian, which I did
not understand; for Morton was an old friend of the Signor’s, having
visited Rome four years before. His question, “Was the Signor at home?”
he answered, “Yes,” and requested us to follow him. We traversed a
long gallery, then ascended a lofty staircase, ornamented with fine
paintings and statues, placed in niches along the wall. At the end of
another gallery, the Italian stopped at a door, and knocked. An elderly
man, whose hair was slightly tinged with gray, attired in a plain suit
of black velvet, opened the door, and, upon seeing Morton, shook him
heartily by the hand, and welcomed him back to Rome, in terms of the
most polite affability. His manner seemed to partake more of English
cordiality than of the grave distant manner the Italians generally
preserve to strangers. To my surprise, he spoke to me in good English,
upon Morton’s presenting me as Mr. Mowbray of London. Augustus entered
the room with the air of one perfectly familiar to its precincts, and
seated himself in a crimson velvet arm-chair, near the artist’s easel.
Persia’s carpets covered the floor; curtains of crimson velvet fell in
heavy folds from the windows; but the splendid paintings with which the
walls of the studio were hung, constituted its greatest ornament. There
were the faces of youth, and the faces of age. Side by side they hung.
There were Cardinals in their black velvet hats, and the heavy folds
of their black robes. There were the handsome faces of many of Italy’s
proudest sons, and the fair, unfurrowed brow, the black eye, large and
languishing, of many a one of its fair daughters.
“You have not been long in Rome, I presume, Signor,” remarked Carrara, as
he returned to his easel, with his palette in his hand.
“But two weeks.”
“Two weeks! indeed, you owed an old friend a visit sooner,” addressing
Morton.
“I should have done myself the pleasure of calling on you before this,
but I have been engaged in such a continual round of business, that
I really could not snatch time.” What a confounded lie, thought I to
myself, as I stood with my back to them, attentively regarding a picture,
which hung encased in a magnificent frame, opposite me. But Morton would
say anything as an excuse, to avoid offending a friend, and Signor
Carrara, as I afterward discovered, had been to him a very kind one.
The picture upon which I gazed, was the portrait of a lady in the dawn of
youth. I felt certain that it was, or had been taken as the resemblance
of some earthly object. She was young and very beautiful. She could not
have numbered more than twenty summers when that was painted. She sat,
inclining forward, as if to speak. Her finger pressed to her rosy lip,
as though she said ‘beware.’ Her robe hung in light folds over the full
bust, and was confined at the waist by a scarf. A circlet of gems clasped
the small aristocratic head, and sparkled on the auburn hair. The hair,
put smooth back from the face, was gathered in two long braids behind,
which fell below the waist. The complexion, white as alabaster. The
eyes, so deeply beautifully blue. All these attributes combined to form
an expression of angelic purity and sweetness, such as I had never seen
expressed in any human countenance before.
“Of whom is this a portrait, Signor?” I inquired of the Italian,
interrupting his conversation with Morton.
Carrara’s black eyes rested sadly upon the picture a moment, then turned
suddenly away.
“It is the portrait of an Austrian lady. A Viennese,” he answered
abruptly.
“Is she living still?” I asked.
“No, she has been dead many years.”
“Is it not flattered? was she as beautiful as this?”
“She was far more beautiful than I have been able to portray her.”
“How long since it was painted?”
“More than twenty years ago.”
“What picture is it you are talking about, Clarence?” demanded Morton,
looking up from a portfolio of prints which lay upon the artist’s table.
“This one,” I replied, pointing to it.
“Ah, yes. I see a very handsome woman. I admire your taste. Pray, may
I ask her name, Signor Carrara, unless, indeed,” he added archly, “she
happened to be a beau ideal of yours; in that case, I waive the question.”
The Italian blushed to his very eyebrows, and looked almost angry for an
instant; but he answered immediately,
“You are welcome to ask the name of that or any other portrait in my
studio. Her name was Genevra Sfonza.”
“I like the style in which it is taken. Very fanciful and airy. She
almost seems to be floating on a cloud,” observed my friend, as he came
and stood by my side before it. “If I had a wife and were going to have
her portrait taken, I should choose such an attitude. But I am thankful
to be a bachelor, untrammelled and free. A single man can visit, seek
lady’s society, if he wants it; in short, do what he pleases, without
having some jealous Juno tearing after him, if he happen to look at any
other set of features than his ‘cara spanta’s.’”
Carrara smiled, and I laughed, as I always did at my friends’ drolleries.
“Come Clarence,” he exclaimed, seizing me by the arm, “let’s take a
general look at all the pictures, and then, if you are willing, return
home. Dinner will be waiting for us.”
“We took a general survey of the rest of the paintings, among which were
some valuable originals, by the old masters. But none of them, in grace
of attitude, or beauty of expression, could compare with that of the
lovely Viennese.
“I am quite in love with this picture,” I remarked to the artist, as I
again stopped before it; after looking at all the politicians, warriors,
sculptors, artists, and beauties portrayed on canvass.
“Almost every one who visits my room, admires it,” responded Carrara.
I felt almost jealous, as he said this, that any one but myself should be
allowed the pleasure of gazing upon that sweet face. I wished to have it
exclusively to myself, where I alone could come and look upon its beauty.
What selfish creatures men are.
The kind hearted Italian offered us a collation of Smyrna figs, grapes,
oranges, and light Catalonia wine. We partook slightly, and then took our
hats to depart.
“I hope to have the pleasure of seeing you frequently, during your stay
in Rome,” was his parting invitation, as he accompanied us through the
long galleries, and down the lofty stair-case we had ascended.
“We shall certainly trespass frequently on your politeness, Signor,” was
our parting response, as we passed into the street and wended homeward.
Arrived at our hotel by the same route we came; we entered our
comfortless dingy saloon, which served in the double capacity of
dining-room and parlor. The table was set for dinner, but no dinner
served, and Morton impatiently pulled the bell. Peppo answered the
summons, bearing in his hands a dish of roast beef, burnt almost black,
while treading close on his heels, came his female colleague, Jeannetta,
her hands loaded also with plates of different sizes, and looking as if
she bore the fate of Cato and of Rome upon her shoulders, attired in
all that dirty finery, for which the lower classes of the Italians are
distinguished. Peppo deposited, what he considered, this elegant repast,
upon the table, with the air of a conqueror offering his mistress the
spoil of foreign lands.
“Here, Signor, here be one English dinner, la veritable chose, tout
entierement l’Inglese,” exclaimed Peppo, who valued himself upon his
acquirements in the languages, understanding about a dozen words of
English, French, and Spanish; but like many another fool, if he was
happy in his ignorance, and imagined himself wise, why it was just the
same—at least to him the same. I have often wondered, whether it were not
better to slumber on in ignorance, rather than make some little progress
in knowledge, and after all, discover (even should we reach the highest
point of earthly wisdom) that all is doubt and conjecture.
“Come Mowbray, my friend,” cried Augustus, as he drew a chair to the
table, “come let us commence operations, for I am nearly famished. Peppo
where are the wine coolers and goblets, make haste and bring them. You
can go Jeannetta. Clarence what will you take?”
I requested a piece of the before-mentioned burnt beef, and helped myself
to some peas, which looked as if they had been grown beneath the burning
suns of Syria, dashed over with some description of Italian sauce; as
for potatoes, they are an eatable unknown in Italy; nature, however, has
kindly supplied the place of many of our northern vegetables, by the
luxurious fruits of the country; one scarcely needs any other food beside
the luscious champagne grape, the yellow orange, pine-apple, zapota, and
a dozen other fine fruits, the names of which escape my recollection.
“Here, Peppo, come take away this elegant English dinner of yours, and
serve dessert,” said Morton laughingly, after having tried in vain to
masticate some of the tough meats, and dried up vegetables. “Don’t make
another attempt in the English style, I beg of you, for really this one
is quite killing.”
“Le diner no good,” ejaculated Peppo, holding up both hands in amazement,
“apres tous les soins que j’ai pris; je vous assure, Signor, que c’est
une diner a l’Anglaise.”
“I assure you, my good fellow, that it is perfectly uneatable; here
take it all away, and hand the fruit and wine. I am sorry I told you to
attempt any thing in English style. I might have known we should get
nothing to suit us; however, make haste, for our carriage is at the door,
to take us to the campagna.”
Peppo, in great agitation, at the failure of his attempt, removed
the dishes, and as soon as we had dispatched dessert, we entered our
Stanhope, and drove to the campagna.
I kept my promise, and often visited Signor Carrara. I liked him more,
the better I became acquainted with him; there are some characters who
only show their fine traits upon a close acquaintance. We all of us,
more or less, feel an attraction of sympathy, or repulsion of antipathy
at first sight, an indefinite presentiment that we shall either like or
dislike; there was something in Carrara’s manner, so different to the
giddy light-heartedness of the generality of his countrymen, calculated
to inspire one with confidence in his integrity: his calm countenance
expressed benevolence, patience, and philosophical indifference. I might
have sought in vain for those deep traces of satiety and discontent,
which pleasure imprints upon the faces of her votaries. He seemed to be
at peace with all mankind, and among all his extensive acquaintance in
Rome, I never once heard him unkindly spoken of. I frequently passed
hours in his studio, while Morton was engaged in a continual round of
pleasure.