THE ITALIAN LOVER.
Steeped in a mild unclouded moonlight, the storied domes, arches and pinnacles of Venice, once mistress of the Adriatic, and still the most interesting of Italian cities, lay sleeping in surpassing loveliness. Venice, like Melrose, is best viewed when lit up by the pale lunar beam which permits the dark shadows of its palaces to hide the decay of their crumbling foundations—which softens its few faults of architecture, and blends each airy and ethereal turret with the dusk of the deep sky itself. The soft illumination, mellowing and mingling their wave-worn halls and arches, awakes the luxurious inhabitants to life and animation. Dark gondolas, filled with masks and music begin to glide along the shadowy canals, marking the course they take by the undulating reflection of their lamps in the water. Here and there, from the windows of some haughty palace, whence a flood of radiance is poured upon the night, contrasting with the moonbeams as it fallsupon the stream without, may be heard the resounding din of instrumental music, timing the steps of dancers in the halls within.
Where the shadow fell darkest from a mighty pile, shrouding all below, a noble maiden bent from a balcony, and listened to a lover’s serenade. She stood, screened from the light, and motionless, rapt in mute attention, while the cavalier beneath her struck his guitar with matchless skill, and sang a canzonet that breathed the very soul of passion. At length the music died meltingly away, and the lady was about to retire from the balcony.
“Hist, Contessa!” whispered the singer of the gondola; “you will not leave me so suddenly?”
“I cannot converse with a stranger, though he be masked,” answered the lady, “for it is not carnival time.”
“You jest, beautiful Antonia,” replied the cavalier. “You would not have listened to my serenade had you not recognized my voice.”
“You are right, Count,” said the lady, with a light laugh. “I know you. But be brief; for my uncle is within, and I dare not delay. Why are you here?”
“Why, Antonia? Doyouask me? I amgoing to quit Venice to-night: it is like quitting hope, for I know not when I shall see you again.”
“Then you will not be at Rome at the carnival? I am going thither with my uncle,” said the lady.
“If I dared,” muttered the cavalier with hesitation. “But it shall be so, Antonia—I will brave every thing. At Rome, then, we will meet again—at the carnival.”
“Fail not!” said the Venetian lady.
“I will meet you again if I live,” replied the cavalier passionately. “And if I die, why, my spirit shall be with you.”
Here a slight sound was heard from the apartment behind the balcony. The lady wished her lover a hasty good-night, and vanished. The serenader gave an order to his attendant in a low voice, and as the light barque shot from the gloomy shadow of the palace into a bright streak of moonlight, a voice from the stern commenced the favorite “buona notte” of the Venetian gondoliers. The youth and maiden were the Count Carriale and the beautiful Contessa Antonia Gazella. We shall rejoin them at the carnival.
The lady Antonia appeared at Rome beforethe commencement of the carnival, and, as she was rich and a celebrated beauty, her arrival at the eternal city was soon known and talked about. Even the English at Rome were infected by the general enthusiasm, and forgot their national taciturnity when they saw the Gazella in her open carriage on the Corso. She was the theme of general admiration. Artists and officers, counts and cardinals, Britons and Americans, sounded the praises of the fair Contessa, and not a few of the impoverished nobility, fortune-hunters by profession, ranked themselves in the train of the lovely Antonia.
But cold was the maid, and though legions advanced,All drilled by Ovidean art,Though they languished and ogled, protested and danced,Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glancedFrom the cold polished ice of her heart.
But cold was the maid, and though legions advanced,All drilled by Ovidean art,Though they languished and ogled, protested and danced,Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glancedFrom the cold polished ice of her heart.
But cold was the maid, and though legions advanced,All drilled by Ovidean art,Though they languished and ogled, protested and danced,Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glancedFrom the cold polished ice of her heart.
But cold was the maid, and though legions advanced,
All drilled by Ovidean art,
Though they languished and ogled, protested and danced,
Like shadows they came, and like shadows they glanced
From the cold polished ice of her heart.
In fact the beautiful Contessa turned a deaf ear to every compliment; and if she listened for a moment to the Baron Von Konigsmarke, a lieutenantcolonel of Austrian hussars, it was because the haughty noble professed to be actuated by a pure friendship; and, moreover, being a man of repulsive manners and a dead shot, served to keep more troublesome admirers at a distance. But even the Baron Von Konigsmarke, handsome, talented, mustachioed, and blazing with orders, was forced to give way, at the opening of the carnival, to a nameless mask, who attached himself inseparably to the lovely lady.
In no other Italian city does the carnival effect so great a revolution as it does in Rome. From whatever causes it arises—whether from the effect of dissipation, the force of superstition, or the daily contemplation of vast and venerable ruins—the dwellers in the Holy City are grave to a proverb, except during the brief saturnalia licensed by the Romish Church. Then, indeed, they rush to the opposite extreme of the wildest gaiety and the utmost extravagance. The carnival presents the singular spectacle of a whole city systematically mad. It is afestafor the noble, a “beggar’s opera” for the mendicants—and it is hard to say which of the two classes enjoy it most. Fiddling, fluting, dancing, drinking, driving, racing, intrigue, and pelting with comfits,are a few of the most innocent and intellectual enjoyments of the reign of misrule.
The commencement of the saturnalia brought an unfeigned pleasure to the gay Antonia, not only because she entered heartily into the fun of the practical jests, but because she knew that there beat beside her in her carriage that to which no passionate Italian is indifferent—a youthful and noble heart, warm, happy, and devoted to herself. It is needless to say that the companion of her festive hours was the Count Carriale. The gaieties opened with brighter auspices than ever; for not one wretched criminal had been led to the block, to pour out his life for the edification of the assembled gazers, according to the tender edict of the sovereign pontiff, who wished, by the wholesome terror of an execution, to withhold the multitude from the perpetration of those crimes to which the license of a carnival might lead them. His holiness, we are credibly informed, was much chagrined to think that no felon was in prison whom, by a little extension of pontifical justice, he could send in safety to the guillotine. Unfortunately for his wishes, the pleasures began without the zest of a single death by the axe;they did not close, however, without a serious accident.
As the Count Carriale was whispering some tender words in the ear of his beautiful mistress, the horses attached to their carriage took fright, and they ran at full speed through the crowded streets, putting to flight the gay masqueraders and their motley equipages wherever they appeared. At length, in turning a sharp corner, the vehicle was overset, and the lady and the Count thrown with considerable violence to the pavement. The former, fortunately, was unhurt; but a captain of the papal horseguards, who had dismounted to render his assistance, perceived with dismay that a stream of blood flowed from the head of the wounded Count. The compassionate old soldier endeavored to remove the mask of the sufferer; but the Count seemed singularly unwilling to expose his face. The mask was at length drawn off by force; and then it was that the dragoon, with a cry of surprise and indignation, recognized in the pretended Count Carriale, the lover of Antonia at Venice and at Rome, the features of Maffeo Accaioli, a formidable brigand whom he had recently encountered on the mountains. Theannunciation was no sooner made than the beautiful Contessa fainted.
How pleased were all the Romans when it was announced that his holiness the Pope had, by a special exercise of his power, ordained that the condemned brigand, the formidable Accaioli should be guillotined during the carnival. How kind of him! The ladies were in ecstacies. Even the Countess Gazella was far from lamenting this ungenerous precipitation, for a woman once duped never forgives her deceiver; and as she had already commenced an intimacy with the Baron Von Konigsmarke, she adopted the opinion of the old song:—
“’Tis well to be off with the old loveBefore you are on with the new.”
“’Tis well to be off with the old loveBefore you are on with the new.”
“’Tis well to be off with the old loveBefore you are on with the new.”
“’Tis well to be off with the old love
Before you are on with the new.”
A vast crowd assembled to witness the dying agonies of the brigand. He was escorted to the scaffold by the papal dragoons, and a long file of penitents in their robes of sackcloth, bound at the waist with cords, their gloomy eyes peering through holes cut for the purpose in their cowls. These pious monks begged alms of all goodCatholics to aid their endeavors in getting the soul of the condemned through purgatory. The prisoner entered on the scaffold, attended by his confessor. He kissed the cross, he received the last consolations of religion, he looked firmly on the multitude, and lay down to die—the axe descended, and it was all over.
His eminence, the Cardinal Riario, sat in secret consultation with the confessor of the dying brigand. He held a miniature in his hand.
“Yes,” he cried, “these are the lovely features of Rosa Vanelli—Rosa, whom I deceived and abandoned to despair.”
“The Cardinal’s hat and the scarlet robe cover a multitude of sins,” replied the penitent, sneeringly.
“I could laugh at your bitterness,” said the Cardinal, “did I not hold in my hand this sad memorial. Tell me, from whom did you receive it?”
“From her son.”
“Her son!” cried the Cardinal, starting to his feet; “mine as well as hers! Would to God I could see his face! Speak, Gregory, where did you part with him?”
“On the scaffold!” said the penitent, fixing his savage eyes upon the Cardinal. “Maffeo Accaioli was your son and the child of her I loved. What say you? Are not Rosa and myself avenged?”
The Cardinal heard but the first part of the sentence, for ere it was concluded, he had fallen back in his huge chair, helpless and unconscious: still his fixed and rayless eyes, half starting from their sockets, glared on the penitent with an expression that would have appalled a feebler heart.
“The comedy is over,” said the monk. “His eminence is dead.”