“I awoke in the morning, persuaded that it was all a fairy dream,
when, glancing at my toilet table, I was convinced of the reality of
my adventure, by seeing the flowers still lying where I had left them.
I examined the jewels, and found them as radiant by daylight as they
had been the night before, wondering at this unknown and munificent
gift. I laid them carefully away in my dressing-case, and descended to
the breakfast table, where I found my guardian and Madame Bonni busily
engaged in discussing the merits of my performance; both were praising
me—she with a woman’s impulse and enthusiasm, Monsieur in a man’s quiet,
reasoning way.
“‘How do you feel after last night’s effort?’ inquired the gentleman.
“‘Very well, sir, but rather fatigued,’ I answered.
“‘How sweet you looked in the last act, my dear; those white lace robes
were so becoming to you; and when the flowers were thrown on the stage,
and the actor placed that superb wreath upon your head, I thought the
effect exquisite,’ observed Madame, with feminine admiration of dress.
“‘I am glad you were pleased with me.’
“‘You sing again to-night, do you not, in the same opera?’
“‘Yes, for five nights in Norma.’
“‘I should like to see the morning journals, to know what they say of
you.’
“‘So should I,’ said Monsieur, as he rose from the table; ‘and as it is
unnecessary for you to attend rehearsal this morning, I will go out and
look in the newspapers, to see what is said about you, and when I return,
bring them to you.’
“He departed, and I spent the morning in practising some of my songs. At
noon he returned, and I had the satisfaction of reading a long panegyric
on my personal appearance, manner, and singing. They called me the
Austrian nightingale, a name which I was afterwards known by for many
years. That night, I played again, to a house crowded to overflowing. The
applause was as great as the evening previous, and flowers were again
thrown me, but when, as on leaving the stage, I timidly glanced upward to
the stage box, my eyes encountered, instead of the beautiful orbs which
had enchanted me the night before, an impertinent opera-glass directed
at my face. I felt disappointed, I scarce knew why; for what reason had I
to suppose that the same stranger should not be there again?
“A month after my first appearance, I received an invitation, through
Monsieur Belmont, to sing at the private soiree of a lady of rank, the
Countess Bramonti; and although the idea of being merely a singer for the
entertainment of others, was not gratifying to my sensitive pride, still,
to oblige my kind benefactor, who had been to me a perfect saviour, I
consented to go. I had suddenly become the rage of Naples. ‘I awoke one
morning,’ as a great poet has since said, ‘and found myself famous;’
numerous gentlemen had called on me, attracted, I suppose, by rumors of
my youth, my isolated position, and my good looks, for I can say without
vanity that, at sixteen, I possessed personal attractions. I only repeat
what others said, and one cannot remain long ignorant of that which is
universally known: we seldom appreciate the value of beauty, and the
great influence it exercises upon the minds of men, until it is on the
decline, and then we cling to and treasure its wrecks with jealous care.
“I dressed myself for the party in a white satin robe, and placed an
artificial wreath of silver oats in my hair. I had arranged it in smooth
bandeau, the heat of the weather rendering ringlets uncomfortable. When
attired, I glanced at myself in the mirror, and feeling satisfied with
my appearance, was, consequently, in a good humor; for it is said, that,
when pleased with one’s self, one is always pleased with others.
“Seeking for my gloves on the toilet table, my eyes rested momentarily on
the withered wreath, which I still preserved. The leaves hung lifeless;
the bright hues of the flowers had faded. Alas! poor ephemeral flowers,
is not your brief but beautiful existence a type of woman’s life also?
When young and lovely they are loved and cherished; led forth like
queens to be admired and adored, every wish anticipated, every caprice
gratified; but when Time’s rude hand has robbed these charms of their
pristine glory, lovers gradually disappear like twinkling stars at dawn
of day, and woman is left alone in the evening of her days, to think and
dream over the past.
“The Countess Bramonti resided in a noble mansion at the court end of
the city. To the marble steps of this aristocratic abode our carriage
whirled on the night of which I speak. The moon shone brightly; and as I
stepped from it, I saw, by its light, long lines of carriages, extending
from the house each way down the street. The liveried servants in the
grand hall escorted me to the dressing room, where I left my hood and
shawl. Several beautiful women, some of them of the nobility of Naples,
were dispersed about the apartment, conversing in subdued tones, and
arranging their dress before the long mirrors. Monsieur came for me at
the door, and, leaning on his arm, I entered the grand hall of reception.
At the head of this magnificent room, upon an elevated dias, covered with
crimson velvet, stood the Countess herself, a large, finely-formed woman,
perhaps forty years of age, becomingly dressed in full, flowing robes
of scarlet velvet, and ostrich plumes waved majestically in her dark,
luxuriant hair. She received me with that urbanity and politeness which
is ever the result of good breeding, and the attribute of an elegant mind.
“As I passed through the gay and apparently happy crowd of smiling,
lovely faces, many turned to look after me; but I felt the attention my
presence excited, was paid rather to my sudden notoriety as a cantatrice,
than to myself. Actresses, however virtuous, proud and talented they
may be, will always, from their false position, experience a feeling of
humiliation when introduced in private circles of society. They see and
feel how much more beautiful and attractive woman is when sheltered from
the rude gaze of the world, illumining only one mansion with her beauty,
and diffusing love and kindness only to her own family and friends.
Such a life is evidently, both from her mental and physical formation,
more suitable for her than the empty plaudits of a gaping mob, or that
applause of the world which exhilarates momentarily, and leaves an aching
void when gone. But we are all mere creatures of circumstance, and the
noblest souls are most frequently subjected to the stings and arrows of
outrageous fortune.
“These thoughts glanced across my mind, as the gay waltzers whirled
past me, and the fine band stationed in the gallery poured forth its
bewitching strains of music. The Countess had descended from her
position, and mingled in the crowd, attended by several gentlemen. As she
swept past me, gracefully supporting the train of her dress upon her arm,
a tall, handsome young man, of elegant bearing, who walked at her right
hand, bent his expressive blue eyes upon me for an instant, and then
appeared to inquire of her who I was. The lady had passed me, but she
looked back over her shoulder, as if to ascertain of whom he spoke, and
then whispered something in reply. He again turned, and looked at me, not
impertinently, but observingly. Numerous persons now intervened between
me and my lady hostess, and I lost sight of her and the gentleman. After
several quadrilles and waltzes had been danced, the music paused for a
while, and the Countess resumed her seat upon the throne. My guardian
told me she wished to hear me sing. I wondered how I should sing with no
instrument to accompany me; but that difficulty was soon solved; he led
me through the crowd, and ascended the dias, where I saw a grand piano,
which had been provided for the occasion. Monsieur Belmont seated himself
at it, and I stood by his side. We sang a duet from Lucia de Lammermoor.
I could not help observing that, during the whole song, the eyes of the
gentleman who had been previously observing me, and who still stood by
the Countess, were fixed upon me steadfastly—his earnest gaze almost
annoyed me. At its conclusion, the Countess, apparently at his request,
presented him to me as Monsieur de Serval.
“‘I have, then, the pleasure of seeing our new star in the world of song;
this is to me an unexpected pleasure,’ said the gentleman, as he inclined
his graceful form toward me. I bowed, and my eyes fell before his; no
reply was needed.
“‘We have to-night a gay assemblage,’ he continued, ‘and yourself one
of the fairest among us. During the last week, almost nothing has been
talked of but your personal appearance and your exquisite voice; and I
trust, Mademoiselle, you will confide in my sincerity, when I say that
the reality has not disappointed my ideal expectations.’
“I felt that this was an extravagant compliment, yet it was so
delicately, charmingly paid, I wished to accept it as truth. From early
youth, I have ever observed physiognomy, wishing to draw conclusions
from the countenance as to the mind, and now I attentively regarded
Monsieur de Serval. He was tall and delicately formed; his complexion
was fair, like my own; his eyes were large, deep blue in color, with an
expression of pensive thoughtfulness in their silent depths. This air
of pensiveness, almost melancholy, pervaded his whole appearance. When
speaking, his face would suddenly be lit up with a smile; then this look
of joyousness would as quickly die away; it was grave, severe, and gay;
it wore all expressions, it seemed to me, all at once. He was evidently
a singular man, different to any one I had yet seen in life; there was
a nameless something about him different to any man in that brilliant
assembly of rank and fashion; yet he was not by any means the handsomest
man there. When in repose, all expression seemed to vanish from his
face, to return as quickly when he spoke again. How many indescribable
nothings go to form a perfect whole. During ten minutes’ conversation on
indifferent topics, I had made up my mind that Monsieur de Serval was a
charming person.
“‘I perceive the company are wending their way to the banquet hall, will
you allow me to escort you?’ said he, after a moment’s pause.
“I assented, took his arm, and we joined the gay crowd which was pouring
through the parted leaves of the folding doors, into the gallery; this
gallery was elegantly adorned with statues and paintings; at the opposite
end another folding door stood open, and we entered a superb hall. The
choice and tastefully arranged supper, ornamented with flowers and
festoons of gold and silver tinsel, together with the dazzling light
of the chandeliers, the gay dresses and jewels of the guests, their
sprightly tones of conversation, and merry laughter, all formed a bright
and exhilarating scene.
“The Countess stood at the head of one of the long tables, chatting,
laughing to her beaux, and displaying her white teeth; while the diamond
necklace which adorned her neck, reflected a thousand prismatic rays.
The undulating motion of waving plumes, rich head dresses, and beautiful
necks and arms, alternately entranced my eager gaze.
“‘The Countess is looking well to-night; she is considered a fine looking
woman, do you not think so?’ asked the gentleman, as he handed me a dish
of ice cream.
“‘Yes, she is a handsome lady.’
“‘And no less benevolent and talented, than good looking.’
“‘Of the two, I would prefer being talented and benevolent without
beauty, to possessing beauty without them,’ I observed, almost
unconsciously.
“‘Ah, indeed, that is singular; young girls generally value their
personal attractions, far above the attributes of mind.’
“‘I must be very different to other women, then.’
“‘One need only look at your face, and hear you speak, to perceive that,
Mademoiselle Genevra.’
“‘Different in my oddity alone, I presume.’
“‘No, not in your eccentricity, but in your superiority to any girl of
your age I have ever seen; but of course you know this, and I am merely
repeating a trite compliment, which you will not thank me for, as you
must have heard it a hundred times before.’
“‘Indeed, you mistake me, sir, the language of compliment is entirely new
to me; and in fact, I am a perfect novice in the world’s ways; this is my
first appearance in the gay world, as my preceptor not long since removed
me from the boarding-school, where I was educated, at Vienna.’
“‘You say you are inexperienced in the world’s ways; well, remain so if
you can, young lady, for they are not a desirable acquisition.’
“A cloud seemed to gather over his face, as he said this; I was confirmed
in my indefinite presentiment, that he was a singular man. We seemed to
be conspicuous objects to the gay assembly, for the eyes of hundreds
were directed at us; they were probably commenting and wondering, how
the elegant man of fashion should be so pointedly attentive to an opera
singer. I had learned a great deal within one week of active life; my
fairy dreams were rapidly fading away; the world, I saw, was not what I
had imagined it. I saw no where those benevolent hearts, and generous
actions, which I had fondly dreamed of; and here, at this very ball, how
many bitter envies, rivalries, and antipathies, were agitating the hearts
of those very people, masked on the surface by smiles.
“‘Who is that Monsieur de Serval is with?’ I heard a voice, immediately
behind me, inquire of another.
“‘Ah, do you not know the new opera singer? the Countess invited her here
to-night to sing; do you like her voice?’
“‘Yes, well enough; but do you think her beautiful?’
“‘No, I do not, but every one to their fancy; the men have been raving
about her angelic looks for the last week.’
“I looked at Monsieur de Serval; a significant smile sat upon his firm
and finely chiseled lips, and I saw by the expression of his features,
that he had also heard this little by-play. The banquet hall gradually
thinned of its occupants; the guests returned to the ball room; we also
went thither. Shortly after my teacher came for me to depart.
“‘Permit me to see your pupil to the carriage,’ said Monsieur de Serval,
still retaining my hand upon his arm.
“‘I am extremely obliged for the civility, Monsieur,’ answered my
teacher. He led the way down the grand staircase, through the marble
hall, into the street; it was late, past two o’clock; the moon had
disappeared, and dark masses of heavy clouds overhung the deep blue vault
of heaven. Our carriage was ordered, and while it was driving up to the
pavement, Monsieur de Serval said to me in a low tone, my teacher being a
little in advance.
“‘I hope you will not deem me impertinent, Mademoiselle, if I ask
permission to visit you at the house where you now stay with your
preceptor.’
“‘I should be happy to see you, Monsieur.’
“‘Well then,’ said he, as he handed me into the carriage, ‘I will do
myself the honor of calling to-morrow; good evening, Mademoiselle; good
evening, Monsieur Belmont.’
“The musical tones of his voice rang in my ears, as the carriage drove
away.
“‘It was a splendid affair, was it not, my child? and the Countess is a
fine noble lady?’ said Monsieur, as we rattled over the stones.
“‘I admire her much,’ I replied.
“‘I perceive you are becoming a star here, a perfect magnet of
attraction; every one speaks of you in praise,’ was the next observation
of this worthy man, who was somewhat slow in making discoveries of any
kind, unless some one else had previously enlightened him.
“I made no reply to what he said; for by a train of ideas in thinking of
Monsieur de Serval, and what he had said to me, my thoughts reverted to
Blanche, and I wondered, and wished for her arrival in Naples; it was a
long time since I had seen her; she must have altered much; I wondered
if she still loved, and thought of me. My teacher had not specified any
particular day for her arrival, but merely said, he expected her in a few
days, or weeks. I longed for the society of some gentle one of my own
sex. I began to perceive the brilliance, but isolated loveliness of my
position; cut off from all social intercourse with other women; an object
of admiration in the eyes of men; of indifference, envy, or contempt to
women; I, therefore, longed to see my school-girl friend. Inez’s mind
had never so well assimilated to my own; there was too much of earth
about her; her feelings were too sensual, to suit my dreamy, abstract
speculations of an ideal love. Visions, I then had, in those fresh
young days of platonic sentiment, before my soul was rendered practical
by earthly passion; still Inez had grown a fine, handsome woman; and,
from what I had heard, notwithstanding the many temptations to which an
actress is ever exposed, had sustained an unblemished reputation. How
often have I seen individuals of both sexes, who possessed cultivated
minds, personal attractions, and elegant manners; the world considered
them irresistible; and I acknowledged, and appreciated their perfections,
yet their fascinations never reached my heart. It is a sympathetic tone
of mind which mutually attracts us; for does not every one think the
object they love beautiful? ‘Beauty is only in the gazer’s eye;’ and
the vanity of human nature induces us to believe that the object of our
preference must be charming.
“In the afternoon of the following day, as I sat alone in the parlor,
Madame Bonni being employed in domestic affairs, and Monsieur gone out
on theatrical business; Arla, a pretty female attendant of the house,
ushered into the room Monsieur de Serval. I was sitting by the window,
dressed in a sky blue tissue; my arms and neck bare. When he entered, I
was amusing myself by singing to the canary bird; and the winged warbler
hopped about his gayly gilded prison, and almost looked amazed, probably
imagining he heard a free brother of the forest. I scarcely heard the
light step of the gentleman, and he had already taken a seat near me, ere
I looked around. I had unconsciously fallen into a reverie, and I presume
my face wore an expression of sadness, for the first observation he made
in his sweet low voice, was,
“‘Your face wears a sadder expression by daylight, Mademoiselle, than it
did last night, at the brilliant ball.’
“‘That is its natural expression, Monsieur; the other was a momentary
exhilaration.’
“‘Ah, it is strange that one so young should ever feel sad; sadness
generally comes with experience and satiety.’
“‘But it seems to me that there is such a thing as living years in
advance of time, and so I feel sometimes; an indefinite presentiment of
unhappiness seems sometimes to hang over me, and so I have felt this
afternoon.’
“You should struggle against such feelings; they only render one morbid
to no purpose; they make us dissatisfied with the present, and skeptical
of the future; it only requires a slight effort of the will to overcome
these presentiments; if you indulge in them, Mademoiselle, they will
wither your freshness of heart, and impart to your gentle face an
expression of gloom.’
“A pause succeeded for a moment; Monsieur de Serval bit his lip, and
looked down at the floor; he appeared to be absent in mind and thinking.
I could not help admiring his elegant appearance, and classical face; he
was the first handsome, accomplished man, I had ever seen, secluded for
so many years within the walls of my school. The men I had seen there at
the monthly exhibitions, were generally commonplace and unattractive,
although many of them were of the nobility of Vienna. Elegance and grace
are indeed rare attributes, and almost as rarely to be met with among the
nobility, as among the commonalty.
“How fascinating is beauty, and the winning ways some persons possess;
how frequently it conceals a depraved heart and bad disposition. Oh,
had I known at that moment of time, what I now know, how many days of
sorrowful unhappiness might I have been spared the misery of enduring;
but youth is presumptuous, self-confident, and conceited. Knowledge of
the heart is only acquired by experience, and that generally comes too
late to be of use to one; but let me not anticipate: everything has its
time.
“Glancing around the room, Monsieur de Serval observed the canary bird,
who resting upon his perch, seemed to regard us attentively.
“‘Is that little feathered songster yours, Mademoiselle?’
“‘No, Monsieur, it is Madame Bonni’s little favorite.’
“‘Madame Bonni,’ he repeated, abstractedly.
“‘The lady to whom this house belongs, with whom my teacher and I board.’
“‘Ah, yes, I think I recollect having seen her once; she is a pleasant
woman, and companionable for you sometimes, I presume.’
“Since my arrival she has been extremely kind and attentive.’
“‘And how do you feel upon being thus suddenly brought forward, a bright
star in the etherial world of song?’
“‘The same as I did when a simple school girl; the change, although an
agreeable variation to school monotony, has made but little alteration in
me.’
“‘You are too philosophical to allow anything to disturb your equanimity
of mind, I suppose.’
“‘I do not know that I am a philosopher; I think the elevated tone of
mind, necessary to form such a character, is beyond my powers of thought;
but I endeavor to take the world as I find it, and quietly glide through
my lot in life.’
“‘A wise conclusion, Mademoiselle; the very remark shows you possess
a fine mind, and, if you follow your precepts, you will doubtless be
as happy as any human being ever is,’ he sighed, and a cloud seemed
to gather over his face. It struck me that he possessed himself a
considerable share of that morbidness of feeling, which he had a moment
before criticised and reproved in me; he seemed melancholy; perhaps, I
thought, he has been slighted in love; women invariably attribute any
sadness of look or manner, to some affair of the heart. I have grown
wiser since then, and now, with more truth and justice, trace back this
depression and gloom to an abuse of the affections, and consequently
satiety.
“An alabaster vase of rare exotic flowers, stood upon a small chinese
table, by my side; mechanically I had plucked one of the beautiful
camilla japonicas, and was twirling it between my thumb and fore finger;
the large blue eyes of Monsieur de Serval seemed to be attentively
contemplating this pretty vegetable beauty.
“‘I wish I were that flower, Mademoiselle,’ said he.
“‘Why, Monsieur?’ I asked, rather astonished by the abrupt remark.
“‘That I might experience the delight of being played with by those fairy
fingers.’
“‘I know of no enchantment by which I can metamorphose you into a flower;
but since I cannot turn witch, at least allow me to offer you the one
which elicited your compliment.’
“Playfully, I handed him the japonica; he took it with a smile, and
placed it in the button hole of the dark blue coat he wore.
“‘I shall preserve this as a precious souvenir, Mademoiselle Genevra.’
“‘A very trivial keepsake.’
“‘Ah!’ he replied, ‘it is our recollection of the donor, not the absolute
value of a gift, which endears it to our memory.’
“What a just remark: how often have I treasured valueless things with
loving care, from gratitude and love to the one who had bestowed them.
Shortly after, Monsieur de Serval took his leave. ‘Adieu, Monsieur,’ said
I, as he was about leaving the room, ‘a bientot.’
“‘Those words, ‘a bientot,” recall “la belle France,” and old
associations. Farewell, Mademoiselle.’ His tall and graceful form
disappeared from my view; unconsciously, I fell into a chair, and mused
upon the singularity of my new acquaintance, and his many fascinations,
when Madame Bonni joined me. She appeared surprised when I told her of
the visit of Monsieur de Serval.
“‘My dear child, he is a fascinating, attractive gentleman; but do you
know his reputation?’
“‘No, he is an utter stranger to me; I was introduced to him at the
Countess’ party. I know nothing of him.’
“Well, I must tell you, to warn you against these gay men of the world,
who are in fact not unfrequently like birds of prey; he has for many
years been considered a profligate man of fashion; he has run through
with a large fortune of his own, and draws largely upon an aunt of his,
for means to support his expensive way of living. He is said to have
squandered his money in gambling; among women of improper character; in
horse racing, and divers other fashionable vices. Knowing your virtuous
character, I take the liberty of cautioning you, Mademoiselle. You will
not be offended at me, I trust, for thus speaking?’
“‘On the contrary, I feel grateful for your kind admonitions; but it
seems strange to me that so interesting and graceful a gentleman can be
so depraved.’
“‘You may depend upon my veracity, I assure you; I know this to be a
fact; he is a man of seductive manners, and has always had the reputation
of being eminently successful among women; and I should suppose from his
gentle ways that he would be a favorite. I would not have mentioned this,
but your beauty, your isolated position in life; having no protector but
your innate sense of virtue, and Monsieur Belmont, who looks upon these
things in a philosophical point of view, and would care little what you
did; your great musical abilities, and the celebrity you are rapidly
acquiring, all these conspire to render you a conspicuous object of
pursuit to these gay men of fashion. Had I a daughter, as young, and as
beautiful as yourself, I should wish that some matron, experienced in the
world’s ways, might advise her of the snares of life; and, since you have
been here, I feel toward you almost the same affection a mother feels
for a child; you possess the sentiments and character of a lady; you
should have been born the daughter of some noble house, in which position
you might have passed your life in luxurious elegance, without being
subjected to this laborious and disagreeable profession.’
“I felt the truth of the good woman’s remarks, and thought upon them long
after she had left me; still I could not consent to believe _all_ that
she had said concerning Monsieur de Serval; perhaps he had been wild,
most young men are, and he was yet under thirty, perhaps extravagant; but
that he was a systematic, practised _roué_, I really could not think of
believing. The expression of his features was so sweet, so sincere; his
manner was so amiable; Madame might have been misinformed, or personal
prejudice had blinded her. Thus ever do we cheat ourselves where our
affections, or predilections are interested, we use every possible
sophism to convince ourselves, that those whom we fancy, are everything
our fond imaginations picture them as being; determinately closing our
eyes and ears against facts which speak to the contrary.
“I had not been to church since my arrival in Naples, so entirely had my
new profession engrossed my attention; my conscience almost reproached
me for this neglect of what I had been taught to consider so important
a duty. In Naples, I perceived that religion was regarded by the higher
classes as a matter of custom and form; few, save among the humble
peasantry, went to church from sincere faith, or love of prayer; the
poor, humble worms of earth, believe with blind confidence, whatever
their priests tell them; they are generally contented and happy, amid
the humble pursuits, the lowly joys, of their restricted sphere in life;
and sometimes, when contemplating these unsophisticated children of
nature, I have wondered whether they are not after all, wiser than those
great philosophers, who propel their minds into the regions of science,
and yet ultimately discover that we can learn nothing positive of that
futurity, which no mortal has the ability to comprehend; no one can doubt
but that they are happier, if not wiser than those learned skeptics,
however humble the former, or great the latter may be; and surely
that belief, be it Protestant or Catholic, which teaches us to bear
patiently the misfortunes and ills of life; to confide and trust in that
beneficent Spirit, the creator, from the beginning of time to eternity,
of all things; that abstract and immaterial principle which we, without
understanding, can only venerate and adore. Surely that wrapt devotion,
that blind reliance, is better than skepticism, in which we have nothing
to console us in regard to futurity, and yet are satisfied with our own
conclusions.
“Pardon me, my kind friend, these many digressions and reflections; yet I
cannot forbear making them, when I recall those old days.
“Madame Bonni had repeatedly invited me to attend mass with her: until
now I had declined; but on the Sunday following the conclusion of my two
weeks’ engagement, which had ended with much eclat for me and profit to
my teacher, I promised to go with her to early mass, at the French church
of Sacre Cœur.
“We rose with the dawn, and together bent our steps to the house of
prayer, which was situated perhaps half a mile from home. She attired in
her usual dress of gray silk, wearing a mantilla, thrown over her head,
without a bonnet. I in spotless white, a scarf of blue crape around my
shoulders, and a white chip pamela bonnet, then in vogue. Even at that
early hour, the streets were alive with pedestrians, summoned by the
bells to their devotions. Splendid equipages and humble calesso’s jostled
each other as they rattled along. Ladies, attended by their footmen,
carrying their prayer books, passed the poor sempstress; the lady’s maid;
the Neapolitan peasant, with her madonna-like coiffure, and classic face;
the pretty attendants of shops, hurrying to their devotions before they
began the business of the day; the gay, happy-looking peasant beaux,
dressed in their holiday clothes, sauntered along; and, in contrast to
them, the dignified, grave Italian noble, glided past with quick and
quiet pace.
“The enormous leaves of the bronze-gilt doors of the church were opened
wide, and a crowd of devotees were entering the edifice, as we also
went in. We walked up the great middle aisle, where, kneeling upon its
polished marble surface, were numerous worshippers, devoutly telling
their beads, and murmuring their prayers in whispered tones. Madame Bonni
walked to the foot of the sanctuary, and kneeling before it, repeated
her rosary. The bright sunlight began to cast a thousand different rays
through the stained glass of the gothic windows. Leaning against one
of the corinthian pillars of the centre aisle, I looked around; all was
still as the chamber of death; the sun had not yet fully illumined the
beautiful church; the distant corners, and niches, wherein statues were
placed, remained in dim twilight; even the sanctuary would not have been
clearly distinguishable, had it not been lighted by an alabaster lamp,
suspended over the altar. The priests had not yet made their appearance,
nor had the choir began to sing.
“Near me, inlaid upon the wall, was an oblong marble tablet; and engraved
upon it, I read the epitaph of one of the deceased cardinals of the
church. I do not know why, but the sight of that tablet, the associations
of time and place, the early hour of day, the solitude and silence of
the church, brought home more vividly to my mind than I had ever felt
before—the thought of death. I had seen grave stones and epitaphs a
hundred times before, but had always glanced at them carelessly, without
fully realizing that they were actually the abodes of the dead; of
beings who, when living, had been animated with the same hopes, fears,
and passions as myself; but who now slumbered on unheeded and unheeding.
Yet why should we mourn for the dead, even for those we most love and
cherish? to die in this life, is only to begin a new existence in
some other state of being; and since we cannot penetrate beyond that
dark abyss, the boundary of life, we must look forward with hope, and
confidently trust in our Creator.
“I had stood facing the sanctuary, and absently gazing upon it, when the
door of the vestry opened, and the train of priests and boys entered;
at the same moment the music began. In looking at the splendid robes
which the priest wore, as the representative of Christ, I could not help
recalling to mind the manner of _His_ life, who, when he was upon earth,
had not where to lay his head. His holiness, his self-denial, his purely
spiritual life, so poorly exemplified by the modern Italian priesthood;
the most miserable among whom fares sumptuously every day, compared to
the life his Master led.
“The mournful chant of the officiating priest re-echoed from
vaulted-ceiling to paved aisles, filling the empty space with the sad
sound; and alternately the thrilling tones of the voices in the choir,
sang the hymns of the service. Madame Bonni, in an attitude of wrapt
devotion, her head bowed down, still knelt at the sanctuary, and I at
the base of the pillar. A magnificent painting of the crucifixion, hung
over the altar; and upon the inanimate image of the Divine sufferer,
I fixed my eyes. During the service, the incense had been offered
before the altar; the priest and boys had disappeared, bearing with
them the consecrated host; and the last sweet cadences of the voices in
the gallery were hushed, ere I aroused myself from my reverie. There
was something beautifully solemn about that mass, celebrated at dawn;
the classic interior of the church, built in the grecian style; its
silence, the dim twilight which reigned, the sweet voices, concealed
from view by the crimson silk curtains of the gallery, the elegant robes
of the officiating priests and their attendants, and the grateful odor
of frankincense and myrrh, with which the altar was perfumed, together
formed a scene of impressive solemnity.
“One by one, the people stole away; we also departed. It was now bright
day: two hours had elapsed during mass. Madame Bonni proposed, before
returning home, to pay a visit to the convent of Sacre Cœur, to which the
church belonged. I willingly assented, and accompanied her.
“It was an antique mass of brick, of almost shapeless form; so many
different additions had at various times been made to the original
edifice. The little iron-grated window, set in the middle of the strong,
iron-barred gate, was opened by a small, thin-faced nun. She looked at
us with a quick sharp glance; after Madame had spoken to her a moment,
she turned away within the portal, leaving the window open, through
which I was enabled to see the interior. It was a small anti-chamber,
furnished with nothing, save the floor, the four walls, and three heavy
oaken chairs, chained to the wall. After several questions had been asked
by another nun, and responded to by the first, two or three bells rung,
and other mysterious preliminaries gone through with, our nun devoutly
crossed herself, and admitted us. Madame asked for the Lady Superior;
we were conducted through several long narrow passages, to the convent
parlor, where the nun left us, and went to summon her Superior. The room
was small and dark, very plainly furnished with a waxed floor of dark
wood, pictures of the saints on the walls, and an enormous crucifix in
one corner. The chairs were chained to the walls, as in the anti-chamber;
everything wore an air of monastic serenity. I heard the rustling of
silk, and looking round, saw a tall, slender woman, thin, almost to
attenuation. She wore the sombre dress of the order; the expression of
her features was at once benevolent and austere; her eyes were blue,
quiet, and grave; her face was of an oval form, and full; there was at
once, shrewdness, benevolence, and sternness, all expressed and impressed
upon that face.
“She greeted Madame Bonni with cordiality; me, with politeness; in her
right hand she carried a rosary of ivory beads, which, from time to time,
she passed mechanically through her small white hands. Having seated
herself upon a chair, she quietly regarded us.
“‘We have called thus early, Mother Cecilia,’ began Madame, in
extenuation of our unseasonable visit, ‘that we might obtain of you a
permit to go through the convent on Wednesday next, my young friend being
desirous of seeing it.’
“‘Ah!’ said she, fixing her eyes upon me, ‘is she a stranger in Naples?’
“‘She has been here but a short time.’
“The holy mother would probably have been horrified, had she known I
was an actress. Ah, blind bigotry of party faith, of sectarianism; ye,
who look at the occupation, the condition in life, without regarding
the honesty, the character, the heart; the mind’s the standard of the
man or woman, and not the accidental contingencies of fortuitous or
disadvantageous circumstances.
“I will with pleasure give you a permit, and you need not apologise
for the earliness of the hour, as we have long since begun the duties
of the day; the sisters attend mass at three o’clock, in the chapel of
the convent,’ she continued, still looking at me. ‘This young girl so
forcibly reminds me of one of my beloved ones, who is now, I hope, in a
state of beatitude, among the blessed around the throne of God. So great
a resemblance do you bear to her, I almost thought when I entered, that
it was herself revisiting earth; may I ask your name, Mademoiselle?’
“‘Genevra Sfonza.’
“‘Genevra,’ she absently repeated, ‘what a singular coincidence; it was
under that name she took the veil and left the world; yes, she was a holy
child; one of the few pure spirits which seem to emanate immediately from
the bosom of our Heavenly Father: may she rest in peace, and her soul be
made happy in the true faith.’
“She crossed herself; her lips moved: perhaps she murmured a prayer for
her favorite.
“‘Who was the young lady of whom you spoke, mother Cecilia?’ inquired
Madame Bonni.
“‘She was Signorina Lavona Carraggi, daughter of Prince Carraggi, one of
the oldest and noblest families in Naples: from early infancy she was
ever pious, very attentive to her devotional exercises, and absented
herself, as much as her high station would permit, from the vanities
of the world: at sixteen, her father, yielding to her solicitations,
consented she should take the white veil, which she did, but died of
consumption within the first year of her noviciate; but although she
is gone from us for ever, her memory still lives in the hearts of the
sisterhood, by whom she was tenderly beloved, and with justice, too, for
surely she was an admirable being.’
“‘I heard that it was some disappointment in an affair of the heart,
which induced the Lady Lavona to leave the world,’ observed Madame Bonni.
“‘Ah, no!’ replied the Abbess, with a pious shudder at the frightful
imputation upon the character of her deceased favorite; ‘that is mere
report; she left the world for the solitude of the cloister, because she
knew that its vanities and frivolities are incompatible with the practice
of true religion, and she wished to become worthy of being the bride of
Christ.’
“‘What a mistaken notion of religion,’ thought I, as I listened;
‘surely, the simple fact that the beneficent Creator has placed us here,
sufficiently demonstrates that the world of society is our proper sphere
of action, and not the seclusion and austerities of a convent.’
“‘How long has the young lady been dead?’ asked Madame.
“‘It is now a year ago: she died on the Eve of the Annunciation, at
midnight; while she was expiring in her cell, the nuns were celebrating
midnight mass in the chapel; suddenly her apparition appeared unto them,
standing in their midst, and then as suddenly vanished away; by this
miracle they knew that her spirit had departed, and it would seem as if,
lingering on the verge of eternity, it came back to take a last farewell
of that sisterhood by whom she was so much beloved. Upon going to her
cell, I found her quite dead, sustained in the arms of the nun who nursed
her. She is buried in the garden of the convent, and on reception days
numerous visitors come to see her grave.’
“My faith was not of sufficient india-rubber-like expansion to embrace
the miraculous apparition; but I could easily understand and appreciate
the fact, that the young lady had been beautiful and lovely, and that her
death was regretted by those who knew and loved her.
“After a few remarks, mutually exchanged, upon indifferent topics, the
Superior wrote a permit for Wednesday, and we rose to go. At parting, she
pressed my hand in hers, and again exclaimed,
“‘Ah! what resemblance; I should think it was herself: farewell, my
daughter, and if, in after years, the world and its frivolities satiate
and disgust you,—if your soul becomes weary with the cares of life,—come
then to the peaceful shade of the cloister; here you will find quiet and
repose.’
“‘I am too young, yet, to have become tired of a world which I am only
beginning to see.’
“‘So thought I, at your age; not so do I regard it now; and I look back
with regret upon those years spent in idle pleasures, which I should have
dedicated to the service of God. Few young people possess sufficient
self-denial to practice the austerities of religion. Lady Lavona was a
brilliant exception: she left a high station, the pomp and glitter of
nobility, to bear her cross and follow her Saviour.’
“There was something solemn and impressive in the look and manner of the
Abbess, as she spoke these grave words of advice; her face, marble-like
when in repose, lit up when she spoke, like those beautiful Chinese
vases, which only show the flowers painted upon the exterior when filled
with water within.
“‘Good morning, mother Cecilia.’
“‘Farewell, daughter: the peace of God be with you.’ The attendant nun
conducted us back the way we came, the heavy portal opened and shut
behind us, and we directed our steps homeward.
“The appearance and conversation of the Superior made a deep impression
on my mind. All the way home I thought of what she had said about the
lady whom I resembled; her description of her loveliness and purity of
life had interested me, still I had no desire to emulate her example
of sanctity, and become a nun; I have always thought the life of a
religieuse a useless one; to be pure, virtuous, and truly religious,
it is not necessary to seclude oneself from society within a convent’s
walls, perform penance and say prayers a hundred times a day; the duties
of a sincere, upright and active life, are the best offerings we can make
our Almighty Father, and, I feel confident, the most acceptable him.
“Monsieur Belmont had breakfasted and gone out, when we reached home; we
took ours; then Madame left me to attend to her domestic affairs, and I
went to my room to practice my part in a new opera. I had been engaged
thus two or three hours, when, looking out of my window, I saw a calesso
drive up and stop before the door; my teacher got out, accompanied by a
female, dressed in white, and enveloped in an enormous black lace veil. I
caught a glimpse of her tiny feet as she lightly tripped out. Something
familiar struck my memory as I glanced at that veiled form, an indefinite
association of something or some one, I could not tell which, or what.
They quickly entered the house, and I continued my musical studies,
imagining it was some visitor of Madame’s, when Arla requested me to
come to the parlor, a lady wished to see me. Many gentlemen had visited
me since my arrival in Naples, but possessing not a single female
acquaintance in the city, I puzzled myself in conjecture.
“Wondering who it could be, I descended the stairs; the sound of merry
voices and laughter greeted my ears from the parlour: on entering it, I
saw a group of three, standing in the middle of the room, their backs
toward me. The lady I had seen from the window, was playfully arranging
upon Monsieur’s broad shoulders her large lace veil; my guardian was
gayly conversing, while Madame stood by talking and laughing with Italian
enthusiasm. They formed a happy-looking, graceful trio. I paused a moment
to look at them. The lady, happening to turn her head, saw me, uttered
an exclamation of surprise, dropped the veil, and we rushed into each
other’s arms;—it was Blanche!
“‘Ah!’ cried Monsieur, still trembling with laughter, from some unknown
cause, ‘now I know Genevra will be happy; she has been wishing and
longing for your arrival. Are you not mutually glad to see each other?’
“‘Ah, yes,’ answered Blanche, as she raised her head from my shoulder,
and uplifted her beautiful dewy eyes to mine. ‘Genevra knows as well,
better than I can tell her, how very happy I am at seeing her once more,
after so many years of separation.’
“I said nothing myself, for it has ever been my nature to say the least
when I feel most. And now, after the first congratulations were over, I
looked at Blanche, to see what effect Time had wrought on her. She had
grown much taller, and her form was rounder in its voluptuous beautiful
outlines; her face still preserved its old expression of infantile
innocence and sweetness, yet there was something altered about it:
and, on attentively criticizing that fair face, I perceived a slight
expression of scorn in the almost imperceptible curl of the delicate
upper lip, and a melancholy languor, bordering on gloom, in the blue
depths of those large eyes. Had some disappointment crossed her, or
was she already weary of the world’s applause? She was a very handsome
woman,—no wonder she should be admired.
“Her laugh was the same as ever; her merry, child-like laugh; how often
had that joyous sound amused me amid the monotony of school discipline!
“Oh, my beloved friend! my beautiful Blanche! years have rolled their
dark mists on my soul since that re-union. I have lived to weep over thy
solitary grave: thy only mourner the hoarse resounding waves of the sea.
That graceful form has long ago been food for worms: those lovely eyes
glazed in death, and those long ringlets rotted to decay;—yet, whenever
I recall thy gentleness, thy winning ways, and lofty soul, tears will
start from their briny bed, to consecrate with grief thy sweet memory.
Yes, if there be ‘a land of pure delight’ beyond this terrestrial sphere,
I feel assured thy blest shade has entered beatitude.
“We went up stairs together to my room, and there she gave me a
description of the principal events in her life since leaving Vienna. She
was too sincerely unaffected and devoid of egotism to entertain me with
her own conquests or matrimonial offers; but she spoke with tenderness
of Inez; her well maintained popularity; her good temper; her still
cherished fondness for myself; and, lastly, her approaching marriage with
a wealthy merchant of Berlin, and consequent withdrawal from the stage.
“‘It is really true, then,’ I remarked, ‘that she is to be married.
I heard so, but did not know how true the report might be. And you,
Blanche, have you any idea of following her example?’
“A rose-tint, like the delicate hue of one of ocean’s shells, lingered
for an instant on the snowy cheek of Blanche. It quickly disappeared, and
she gravely, I thought, almost sorrowfully, replied:
“‘My dear Genevra, I seldom bestow a thought on matrimony. To say that I
_never_ think of marrying, would be an absurdity. All women _must_ think
sometimes of that which is most certainly their manifest destiny; but
my thoughts dwell but seldom on that subject. Single life presents no
terrors to me: and you know actresses scarcely ever have an opportunity
of marrying any save a professional character. Inez is an extraordinary
instance of virtue and beauty being rewarded; and most fortunate is
she in having obtained so generous and fine a gentleman for her future
husband.’
“‘Monsieur Belmont told me your beauty and your voice has set all Naples
wild,’ she continued. ‘Is it so, dear? But I need not ask; the journals
informed me of that fact. And does the applause that greets you in public
fully satisfy your heart? Do you never come home to the solitude of your
own room, from these grand triumphs, and there, safe from the observation
of others, sit and dream, and long for something, you scarce can divine
what yourself; and _then_, do you not feel how brilliant, yet how
isolated, are the lives we actresses lead? Have you never felt so?’
“‘Often,’ I replied, staring at her in amazement, at the sympathy of mind
there evidently existed between us. ‘Yes, I have often felt so, although
I am as yet on the outset of my new career. But I imagined I alone had
this misanthropy;—I little thought you shared it; but let us banish all
these gloomy reflections, which can do no good, and only tend to sadden
us, and speak of something more cheerful; and now I want to ask about
Munich, as I never was there. What sort of town is it?’
“‘A very beautiful, delightful place, to those who fancy it. It contains
many very splendid buildings, fine gardens, and much good society. I was
so constantly engaged in my profession, however, I scarcely noticed what
it was; and in truth, since I left you I have been in so many places,
that they seem all alike to me, and one town is as agreeable as another.’
“Here our conversation for the moment was suspended, and Blanche, at our
hostess’ request, went to take some refreshments after her journey, but
I plainly perceived, both from the words and looks of my friend, that
there was something wrong at heart; either the gay world had wearied her,
or else some disappointed or clandestine love was gnawing at her heart.
Which it was, I could not decide; so I trusted to events to develope this
mystery.
“Blanche became completely domesticated with us, and we were to each
other as sisters; yet she did not confide to me the cause of this
concealed sadness. In the meantime, Monsieur de Serval became a regular
visiter of mine. I presented him to Blanche,—he seemed pleased with
her, yet I perceived that, although he treated her with respectful
admiration, his eyes never rested on her with the same expression of
love and tenderness as they always did when wandering after me. They say
‘that love begets love.’ To a certain extent I think the saying true;
and perhaps the eager admiration of Monsieur de Serval quickened my
perception of his merits, and gave him additional interest in my eyes.
Be that as it may, my feelings had not as yet shaped themselves into
a downright sentiment of love. They were as yet in embryo, quiescent
friendship, when a strange and unexpected event turned the current of my
destiny.
“I was sitting alone in the little parlor before mentioned. Blanche had
a headache, and was in her own room. Monsieur was away somewhere,—he
generally spent his evenings out; and Madame Bonni had left the
apartment. I sat alone: it was now midsummer; the weather was extremely
hot; but I recollect on the evening of which I speak, a brisk north
breeze had sprung up at twilight, and blown steadily off the shore for
several hours, rendering the air quite chill and cool. The wind sighed
drearily around the little cottage, and seemed to dwell momentarily in
the tall poplar trees of the garden.
“One wax candle, from its silver candelabra, shed a subdued light
around, in its immediate vicinity, leaving the rest of the room in
shadow, and the full moon, from a window opposite me, darted long streaks
of silver rays along the floor; my book had fallen from my hand, being
unable to read by the feeble light, and with my hands folded together in
my lap, I was lost in contemplation, when a knock came at the door, and
without waiting for permission, it was opened, and Monsieur de Serval
entered. He did not look as well as usual, nor was his toilette as
carefully made. He scarcely returned my salutation, and drawing a chair
near me, seated himself in it, and leaning back, with his small right
hand, pushed back from his forehead the glossy waves of his flaxen hair.
“I spoke of several things: the opera, political debates, fashionable
literature; he answered abstractedly in monosyllables, and then relapsed
into silence. Suddenly starting from his chair, he began pacing the room
with rapid strides; his face looked flushed and strange. I had always
felt toward him an indefinite fear, arising probably from the magnetic
influence of his stern temper, and now the same sensation came creeping
over me as I sat, and wonderingly gazed upon the singular behaviour of
my visiter. Suddenly pausing in his walk, he came toward me, and again
seated himself at my side. He grasped both my hands in his, and bent the
stern gaze of his lustrous eyes on mine. I now began to apprehend what
was coming, and to tremble.
“‘Genevra,’ said he, in the low, deep tone of impassioned feeling, —and
as he said this, he took both my hands in his left hand, and with the
other he played with the curls of my hair—‘Genevra, I am about leaving
town, perhaps for some months; perhaps from contingency or fatality I
may never return to Parthenope. I have come to say farewell. I could, I
think, almost feel happy at going, could I for a moment suppose that a
heart so pure as yours, would cherish towards a forlorn, unhappy being
like myself a single sentiment of kindness or regret. Say, Mademoiselle,
may I hope I shall not be forgotten?’
“He grasped my hands fiercely as he said this, and looked closely in
my face. I felt frightened, and scarcely knew what to say. At last I
stammered out,—
“‘You have my best wishes, Monsieur, for your future happiness.’
“‘Best wishes! Is that all? Yes, I see I was a fool to suppose—’ He
stopped abruptly, and bending down his stately head to a level with my
eyes, riveted his gaze on mine. I could feel his warm breath hotly fan
my cheek, and the beams of moonlight showed his broad full chest as it
rose and fell with contending passions. Nearer and nearer did he draw me
to him, till his head sank upon my shoulder, his beautiful mouth sought
mine, and with his arms tightly clasped around my waist, I felt myself
irresistibly drawn into an embrace, which, by a strange paralyzation of
all power of will, I had no strength to avoid. He drew me forcibly off
my chair upon his lap, and there imprinted on my lips a hundred kisses
before I could summon strength and determination to break away. I forced
myself from his iron grasp and ran to the other side of the room. He
followed me, his beautiful face distorted by passion, and falling on his
knees, again seized my hands in his, and exclaimed,—‘Pardon me—oh! pardon
me, beautiful Genevra! but I love you with a wild, intense passion.
Forgive me if I have offended your pride or modesty. Take pity on me,
Genevra, and encourage me to hope that my love may meet with a return.’
“‘Monsieur de Serval!’ I cried, at length recovering breath to speak,
‘your conduct is incomprehensible, inexplicable:—what _can_ you mean
by it? Is it gentlemanly—is it honorable, thus wantonly to insult the
modesty and wound the pride of a defenceless girl?’
“‘By Jupiter, you misconstrue me!” he vehemently exclaimed; and starting
to his feet, he again traversed the room with rapid strides. ‘Has my
bearing toward you ever been anything save respectful?’
“‘Does not this look marvellously like insulting familiarity?’ I
indignantly demanded.
“‘I forgot myself for a moment. And are you so remorseless as to refuse
forgiveness for an unintentional fault? Yes, here in this very room, bear
me witness, all ye gods and goddesses, all ye saints and angels:—I do
swear I love you, and you alone. With a crazy passion have I adored since
our first meeting at the countess’;—till now I have stifled it, concealed
it as much as possible from your observation; but now, on the eve of
departure from Naples, I tell you how I love you, and honorably offer
you my heart and hand in marriage. If you will accept me, I will return;
otherwise, I presume, I never shall.’
“I had sunk into a chair, overpowered by this strange scene. Again, as if
impelled by some invisible influence, he came and put his arms around my
waist, and kissed me as before. This time, after what he had just said, I
did not resist him.
“‘I have sometimes thought,’ he whispered, ‘from the expression of your
eyes, that you loved me. Say, dearest, is it so? Put your beautiful arms
around my neck, and say, ‘Dear Rinaldo, I love thee!’
“Unconscious, almost stupefied, I mechanically complied, and whispered
after him, ‘Dear Rinaldo, I love thee!’ Then he remained motionless for
some minutes, seeming to have lost all recollection in a delirium of
sense, his arms tightly locked around my waist, his head resting in my
lap. His wild, impassioned manner had in some degree magnetized, and
inspired my naturally cold temperament with something like a return of
the volcano-like passion which animated him.
“‘Monsieur de Serval,’ I said, finding he made no effort to rise,
‘recollect yourself, I beg of you. Come, seat yourself here on the sofa,
and let us talk quietly. Why should you rage and storm thus? What is it
disquiets you? You say you love me; but surely love is a gentle feeling.
Where is the necessity of these tempestuous emotions? These bursts of
passion alarm me. Be composed, and tell me why you are miserable and
unhappy, as you just said you were. Explain your grief; and at least let
me endeavor to console you.’
“My quiet manner served to soothe him. He rose from his knees, and sat
reclining on the sofa, still holding my hands in his, while I wiped the
perspiration from his agitated countenance. I was not exactly in love
with him then, but my disposition always prompted me to compassionate the
sorrowful. He appeared to be unhappy, and I would have given much to have
known, shared, and alleviated his sorrow.
“‘You never heard, I suppose,’ he began, ‘anything of my private history?’
“‘No,’ I hesitatingly replied, ‘I never did.’
“‘You are not used to equivocating; I see that, Genevra. I am certain
that you _have_ heard from envious tongues, every thing that is bad
concerning me,—that I am a _roué_; a gambler; a worthless, reckless man
of fashion. My faults I do not pretend to conceal. Not to acknowledge an
error, is only worthy of a knave or a fool. I trust I am not either. Sit
nearer me;—let me hold your hand and see my eyes riding on the balls of
yours. Now I will begin. I will go back in imagination—thank God I am not
obliged to do it in reality—to childhood.’