Monaldi was fortunate on the first exhibition of
this picture to have for his leading critic the cavalier
S — , a philosopher and a poet, though he
had never written a line as either.

“I want no surer evidence of genius than this,”
said he, addressing Monaldi; “you are master of
the chiaro' scuro and color, two of the most powerful
instruments, I will not say of Art, but of Nature,
for they were her's from her birth, though
few of our painters since the time of the Caracci
appear to have known it. If I do not place your
form and expression first, 't is not that I undervalue
them; they are both true and elevated; yet,
with all their grandeur and power, I should still
hold you wanting in one essential, had you not
thus infused the human emotion into the surrounding
elements. This is the poetry of the art;
the highest nature. There are hours when Nature
may be said to hold intercourse with man, modifying
his thoughts and feelings; when man reacts,
and in his turn bends her to his will, whether by
words or colors, he becomes a poet. A vulgar
painter may perhaps think your work unnatural;
and it must be so to him who sees only with his
eyes. But another kind of critic is required to
understand our rapt Correggio, or even — in spite
of his abortive forms — the Dutch Rembrant.

[figure description] Page 030.[end figure description]

These are men, whose hearts and imaginations
seem to have been so dependent on each other,
that I could easily conceive excess of misery might
have driven them to madness.”

But the cavalier S — was not content with
admiring only, he added the picture to his collection;
nor did he stop there, for he was one who
could not look at a work of genius without a feeling
of kindness for its author; and Monaldi was
soon enabled, through his friendship and munificence,
to follow his own inclinations and give free
scope to his powers.

By the aid of this generous friend, added to his
own persevering industry, Monaldi's works, and
consequently his fame, were soon spread throughout
Italy; wealth and distinction followed of
course; and, to complete his triumph, he was
finally honored with a special commission from the
pope himself. In short, no artist since the time
of Raffaelle ever drew after him such a train of
admirers. But with all this incense the head and
heart of Monaldi remained the same; it could not
soil the pure simplicity of his character; he was
still the same gentle, unassuming being.

CHAPTER II.

[figure description] Page 031.[end figure description]

When the friends parted, Maldura, whose course
in life had long been predetermined, set out for
Tuscany. His patrimony having placed him above
the necessity of laboring for his subsistence, he
had chosen the profession of letters: and he now
selected Florence as the place most eligible for the
display of his powers, and where, if not the most
easy, it would at least be the most honorable to
realize the future object of his ambition — the fame
of a Poet. But, unlike his friend, Maldura could
not find his chief reward in the pleasure of his
pursuit; he did not love his art for its own sake, as
the spontaneous growth of his proper nature, but
rather for its contingent fruit in the applause of
others.

That his reputation finally fell so far short of the
measure of his ambition, could not be imputed to
the want of early encouragement, much less to any
deficiency in himself of industry or confidence.
He had scarcely reached his twenty-third year,

[figure description] Page 032.[end figure description]

when he was elected a member of the Della Crusca
Academy. This premature honor seemed an
earnest of the speedy fulfilling of his hopes; and it
gave a lightness to his heart that persuaded him it
was overflowing with benevolence. It is difficult
for any man to believe this without, in some degree,
acting up to his faith, and the partial testimony
of his actions producing the same conviction
in others. Maldura seldom received a compliment
on his talents without an accompanying tribute to
his virtues. But his reputation was still private;
for his conversation and friendly acts were necessarily
confined to his personal acquaintance. He
had not as yet become the talk of the public; had
heard no eager whispering as he walked the streets;
marked no pointing finger as he entered the theatre;
and at no conversazione, had the tingling
monosyllables, “that's he,” ever once met his ear.
But he consoled himself for this by anticipating
the sensation which his first work would not fail to
produce: this was a long and elaborate poem, in
which, it appeared to him, every established rule
that could apply to his subject had been strictly observed.

The poem was at length published. Alas, who
that knows the heart of an author — of an aspiring
one — will need be told what were the feelings of

[figure description] Page 033.[end figure description]

Maldura, when day after day, week after week
passed on, and still no tidings of his book. To
think it had failed was wormwood to his soul.
“No, that was impossible.” Still the suspense,
the uncertainty of its fate were insupportable. At
last, to relieve his distress, he fastened the blame
on his unfortunate publisher; though how he was
in fault he knew not. Full of this thought, he
was just sallying forth to vent his spleen on him,
when his servant announced the count Piccini.

“Now,” thought Maldura, “I shall hear my
fate;” and he was not mistaken; for the Count
was a kind of talking gazette. The poem was
soon introduced, and Piccini rattled on with all he
had heard of it: he had lately been piqued by Maldura,
and cared not to spare him.

After a few hollow professions of regard, and a
careless remark about the pain it gave him to repeat
unpleasant things, Piccini proceeded to pour
them out one upon another with ruthless volubility.
Then, stopping as if to take breath, he continued,
“I see you are surprised at all this; but indeed, my
friend, I cannot help thinking it principally owing
to your not having suppressed your name; for
your high reputation, it seems, had raised such
extravagant expectations as none but a first rate
genius could satisfy.”

[figure description] Page 034.[end figure description]

“By which,” observed Maldura, “I am to conclude
that my work has failed?”

“Why, no — ot exactly that; it has only not
been praised — that is, I mean in the way you
might have wished. But do not be depressed;
there's no knowing but the tide may yet turn in
your favor.”

“Then I suppose the book is hardly as yet
known?”

“I beg your pardon — quite the contrary.
When your friend the Marquis introduced it at his
last conversazione, every one present seemed quite
au fait on it, at least, they all talked as if they had
read it.”

Maldura bit his lips. “Pray who were the company?”
“Oh, all your friends, I assure you:
Guattani, Martello, Pessuti, the mathematician, Alfieri,
Benuci, the Venetian Castelli, and the old
Ferrarese Carnesecchi: these were the principal,
but there were twenty others who had each something
to say.”

Maldura could not but perceive the malice of
this enumeration; but he checked his rising choler.
“Well,” said he, “if I understand you, there was
but one opinion respecting my poem with all this
company?”

“Oh, by no means. Their opinions were as
various as their characters.”

[figure description] Page 035.[end figure description]

“Well, Pessuti — what said he?”

“Why you know he's a mathematician, and
should not regard him. But yet, to do him justice,
he is a very nice critic, and not unskilled in
poetry.”

“Go on, sir, I can bear it.”

“Why then, it was Pessuti's opinion that the
poem had more learning than genius.”

“Proceed, sir.”

“Martello denied it both; but he, you know, is
a disappointed author. Guattani differed but little
from Pessuti as to its learning, but contended, that
you certainly showed great invention in your fable—
which was like nothing that ever did, or could
happen. But I fear I annoy you.”

“Go on, I beg, sir.”

“The next who spoke was old Carnesecchi, who
confessed that he had no doubt he should have
been delighted with the poem, could he have taken
hold of it; but it was so en regle, and like a hundred
others, that it put him in mind of what is
called a polished gentleman, who talks and bows,
and slips through a great crowd without leaving
any impression. Another person, whose name I
have forgotten, praised the versification, but objected
to the thoughts.”

“Because they were absurd?”

[figure description] Page 036.[end figure description]

“Oh, no, for the opposite reason — because
they had all been long ago known to be good.
Castelli thought that a bad reason; for his part,
he said, he liked them all the better for that — it
was like shaking hands with an old acquaintance
in every line. Another observed, that at least no
critical court could lawfully condemn them, as
they could each plead an alibi. Not an alibi, said
a third — but a double; so they should be burnt
for sorcery. With all my heart, said a fourth —
but not the poor author, for he has certainly satisfied
us that he is no conjurer.

“Then Castelli — but, 'faith, I don't know how
to proceed.”

“You are over delicate, sir. Speak out, I pray
you.”

“Well, Benuci finished by the most extravagant
eulogy I ever heard.”

Maldura took breath.

“For he compared your hero to the Apollo Belvedere,
your heroine to the Venus de Medicis, and
your subordinate characters to the Diana, the Hercules,
the Antinuous, and twenty other celebrated
antiques; declared them all equally well wrought,
and beautiful — and like them too, equally cold,
hard, and motionless. In short, he maintained
that you were the boldest and most original poet

[figure description] Page 037.[end figure description]

he had ever known; for none but a hardy genius,
who consulted nobody's taste but his own, would
have dared like you, to draw his animal life from
a statue-gallery, and his vegetable from a hortus
siccus.”

Maldura's heart stiffened within him, but his
pride controlled him, and he masked his thoughts
with something like composure. Yet he dared
not trust himself to speak, but stood looking at
Piccini, as if waiting for him to go on. “I believe
that's all,” said the count, carelessly twirling his
hat, and rising to take leave.

Maldura roused himself, and, making an effort,
said, “No, sir, there is one person whom you have
only named — Alfieri; what did he say?”

“Nothing!” Piccini pronounced this word
with a graver tone than usual; it was his fiercest
bolt, and he knew that a show of feeling would
send it home. Then, after pausing a moment, he
hurried out of the room.

Maldura sunk back in his chair, and groaned in
the bitterness of his spirit. “As for the wretches
who make a trade of sarcasm, and whose petty
self-interest would fatten on the misfortunes of a
rival, I can despise them; but Alfieri — the manly,
just Alfieri — to see me thus mangled, torn piecemeal
before his eyes, and say nothing! Am I then

[figure description] Page 038.[end figure description]

beneath his praise? Could he not find one little
spark of genius in me to kindle up his own, and
consume my base assassins? No — he saw them
pounce upon, and embowel me, and yet said
nothing.”

Maldura closed his eyes to shut out the light of
day; but neither their lids, nor the darkness of
night could shut out from his mind the hateful
forms of his revilers. He saw them in their assemblies,
on the Corso, in the coffee-houses, knotted
together like fiends, and making infernal mirth
with the shreds and scraps of his verses, while the
vulgar rabble, quitting their games of domino, and
grinning around, showed themselves but too happy
to have chanced there at the sport. In fine, there
are no visions of mortified ambition which did not
rise up before him. But they did not subdue his
pride. Yet it was near a week before he could
collect sufficient courage to stir abroad; nor did
he then venture till he had well settled the course
he meant to pursue, namely, to treat all his acquaintance
still with civility; to appear as little
concerned about his failure as possible, well knowing
that in proportion to his dejection would be the
triumph of his enemies; but to accept no favor,
and especially to have no friend; — a resolution
which showed the true character of the man, who

[figure description] Page 039.[end figure description]

could not endure even kindness, unless offered as
incense to his pride.

This artificial carriage had the desired effect.
It silenced the flippant, and almost disarmed the
malignant; while those of kinder natures saw in it
only additional motives for respect; indeed there
were some even generous enough to think better
of his genius for the good temper with which he
seemed to bear his disappointment. In short, so
quietly did he pass it off, that after a few months
no one thought, or appeared to think, of Maldura
as an unsuccessful author.

But it was scored in his heart, never to be forgotten,
and he longed for vengeance. To effect
this, however, he must first possess literary power;
and that he knew could be gained only by success
in writing.

But was he in a fit temper for poetry? There
are some minds to which such a blow would have
been death. Not such was Maldura's. He had
not lost his self-confidence; and was willing to
ascribe his failure to anything but his own deficiency;
to the jealousy of his rivals, to their influence
over the many; to the general apathy to his
particular subject; nay, even to his originality, and
to the common fear of praising what is new: so
that instead of weakening, it tended rather to

[figure description] Page 040.[end figure description]

strengthen his powers. He had two works on
hand, a satiric poem, and a tragedy; with the first
he could now go on con amore, having no lack of
wit, and being now surcharged with gall; and that
no one might suspect him as the author, he determined
to go to Rome, and send it thence, under a
feigned name, to Florence.

The poem was soon finished, and sent from
Rome accordingly. About a month after, he received
two letters, one bearing his assumed name
and the other his real one. He tore them open as
a hawk would a sparrow. Glancing at the signature
of that in his own name, he read “Piccini.”
He was about to dash it to the ground when his
eye caught the following words: “The whole
town rings with the praises of this unknown poet.
Every body talks of, and admires him; even Benuci
commends, without a dash of irony.” Maldura
grinned with triumph. “Wretch!” said he,
crushing the letter, “you know not that the man
whom you would wound with the praise of another
is himself that other. But the count Piccini shall
one day know the satirist better.” The other letter
was from his bookseller, informing him of the
rapid sale and complete success of his work, and
enclosing a complimentary sonnet from Castelli.

Though Maldura had fixed his eye upon a far

[figure description] Page 041.[end figure description]

higher mark then the reputation of a mere satirist,
which he held almost in disdain in comparison
with that to which his genius was entitled, at any
rate as insufficient for his ambition, — he was yet
for the present content to enjoy his triumph, and
it pleased him to regard it as an earnest of the
success of his tragedy.

CHAPTER III.

[figure description] Page 042.[end figure description]

Maldura was now comparatively gay of heart,
and mixed again with society. The reputation of
his learning procured him the same attentions in
Rome as in Florence; and as there had been no
outward change in him, he had no difficulty in
making acquaintance.

Among the most cordial of these new friends
was a distinguished advocate, a near relation of the
pope, of the name of Landi. He had taken a particular
pleasure in Maldura's conversation, and had
often invited him to his house; but Maldura, with
the perverseness which now began to be the rule
of his conduct, had as often declined these invitations,
and for the very reason that would have induced
another to accept them — because they
were really cordial. He was greedy of admirers,
but his growing habit of distrust shrunk from intimacy.
In a moment of caprice, however, he at
last went.

The advocate received his guest with great

[figure description] Page 043.[end figure description]

heartiness, and introduced him to his daughter
with such encomiums as plainly marked him a
favorite.

It was impossible for any one to look upon Rosalia
Landi with indifference. Her beauty was of
a kind which might be called universal — at least,
in effect, for it was difficult to determine whether
it were more striking or winning; whether it lay
more in the just proportion and harmony of her
features, or in the exquisite and ever-varying expression
that played over them.

For the first time in his life Maldura's heart was
touched. Hitherto he had regarded woman merely
as belonging to the regular materials of poetry;
had examined and analyzed their charms, only to
class and describe them. Now he neither studied
nor thought of studying; he could only feel that
the object before him was lovely; and he felt too
with surprise that her beauty and mind, as they
each alternately won his admiration, each gave
him pain almost proportioned to his pleasure. For
a short time these contending emotions perplexed
him; but a glance into his heart explained all —
she was the first woman with whose fate he had
ever felt a wish to unite his own. From that moment
Maldura marked her for himself.

Yet, sudden as was his love, it was not wholly

[figure description] Page 044.[end figure description]

unmixed. Wherever there is a ruling passion the
affections naturally become subordinate, and take
their color from that; they have no singleness of
feeling towards any object, and can have no sympathy
with any except as it ministers to the paramount
appetite. It was so with Maldura. The
beauty of Rosalia no sooner touched his heart than
it mounted to his brain. He saw her in fancy
gracing his future triumphs, and himself, through
her, the proud object of envy; then her father's
interest, his high connexions, and their influence,
all passed in array before him, to make straight
and easy the opening road of his ambition.

Every time Maldura repeated his visit the stronger
became these motives, and the more confirmed his
love, till at last, thus mingling with all his hopes of
distinction, the image of Rosalia took such hold on
his heart, that he could never think of the one
without calling up the other.

A few weeks after, Maldura waited on the advocate
to solicit permission to address his daughter.
It was readily granted, and in the most flattering
manner. Landi added, that he “should
have his good word, but for the result he must
refer him to his child.”

However sagacious in other things, there is
generally in proud men a remarkable obtuseness

[figure description] Page 045.[end figure description]

as to matters of the heart which often leads them
astray where they feel most confident; their habit of
looking at every thing through the misty medium
of self-love, prevents their distinguishing those
minute degrees of good will, esteem, respect, and
so on to exclusive preference, with which a delicate
woman graduates her manner towards those
of the other sex. But that which obscures the
distinctive shades of objects enlarges their outlines;
hence little attentions are easily mistaken for something
more, and, where often repeated, their bare
accumulation soon grows to what is mistaken for
love. Maldura was troubled with no doubts about
the issue of his suit: how it terminated may be
gathered from a part of a conversation between
Rosalia and her father.

“So far, Rosalia,” said her father, “you have
answered well; you have done Maldura justice.
But why stop with his talents? can you find nothing
more to commend?”

Rosalia still continued silent.

“You surely cannot object to his person?”

“Certainly not; I have rarely seen one so handsome.”

“Perhaps you dislike his manners?”

“On the contrary, I think them uncommonly
agreeable: his address, too, is even more than

[figure description] Page 046.[end figure description]

polished, 't is refined; and his powers of entertaining
I believe are entirely his own.”

“Very well! Go on, my dear. — Nay, why
again silent? I fear — say — have you heard any
thing against his morals?”

“Nothing.”

“Or do you object to his disposition?”

“I know nothing of his disposition, and cannot
therefore form any opinion of it.”

“Have a care, Rosalia; there is no species of
detraction more hard and cutting than an icy negative.”

“My dear father, for worlds I would not think
evil — if I could help it.”

“Then you cannot help thinking ill of his disposition?”

“I did not say so. I am willing to believe it
good till I have proof to the contrary.”

“As yet?”

“Not a shadow of one.”

“Then I am satisfied; for I believe it to be
generous and noble. And I believe, also, that my
child is too just to harbor any degree of dislike
without cause.”

Rosalia bowed in assent.

Landi proceeded: “Well, then, since you
highly approve of most of his qualities, and object

[figure description] Page 047.[end figure description]

to none, what prevents my dear daughter — Do
not be alarmed, Rosalia, I am a father, not a tyrant.
I am, besides, now an old man, and have
no other hold on the world but in you; and in
guarding you from ill, and leading you to good, I
am only consulting my own happiness.”

“Dearest father!” said Rosalia, “I know, I
feel your goodness; you have ever been the best
of parents; and I should think myself unworthy
any blessing could I wilfully cause you a moment's
pain.”

“I believe it, Rosalia. Neither should I think
better of myself were I disposed to enforce my
own will at the expense of your quiet. — Now that
we understand each other, let me speak plainly.
Signor Maldura has this morning asked permission
to address you. I will not trouble you by repeating
my opinion of his merits; you already know
it, and know that it could not well be higher.
Need I say after this that it would please me to
call him my son? — that I think him, of all the
men I have known, the very man to make my
daughter happy? — Will you not speak, Rosalia?”

“Oh, father!” cried Rosalia, throwing her
arms round his neck.

“Be calm, my child. Let us be rational.”

Landi led her to a chair, and taking a seat by

[figure description] Page 048.[end figure description]

her, continued: “I know, my dear Rosalia — at
least I think I know, the cause of your reluctance.
You have a tincture of romance in you, which is
natural enough at your age; and you have formed,
I doubt not, certain peculiar notions of love, which
you hope one day to realize. You have now just
glanced into your heart, and have found in it (as
is very probable) nothing like them. I should
have been surprised if you had; for a real lover is
not half so accommodating as one of the brain.
But the shadows of a youthful imagination pass
away with youth. Then comes a sense of the
substantial and real; and with it a wondering that
we could ever have rejected even the humblest
every-day qualities of the heart and understanding
for these brilliant nothings. It may seem hard to
ask you, who are yet young, to choose between
them. But if I ask it, it is not to give up even
your fancies for any commonplace reality. The
qualities of Maldura are as rare as real. And if he
has not yet thrilled you with any of those tender
emotions — those pleasing pains — which your
imagination may have taught you to associate with
love, do not therefore think him the less fitted to
make you happy. Had he even inspired them,
they could not last; a few months, or a few weeks,
would bring them to an end. Not so will it be

[figure description] Page 049.[end figure description]

with the qualities he now offers for your regard;
and not so would you find it, when courted and
honored as the wife of the first genius of the
age.”

“My dear father,” said Rosalia, “I would that
I could reason on this subject, but — indeed I
cannot.”

“Strange! You hint not even an objection, and
yet — Do you think I overrate him?”

“No; he deserves all you say of him; but yet — ”

“You would still reject him?”

Rosalia was silent.

“If you esteem, you may certainly love; nay,
it will follow of course.”

“Did you always think so, sir?”

“Perhaps not. When I was young, I was no
doubt fanciful, like others.”

“And yet you did not marry till past thirty.”

“Well, child?”

“My mother died when I was too young to
know her; but I have heard her character so often
from yourself and others, that I have it now as
fresh before me as if she had never been taken
from us. Was she not mild and gentle?”

“As the dew of heaven.”

“And her mind?”

“The seat of every grace and virtue.”

[figure description] Page 050.[end figure description]

“And her person too was beautiful?”

“Except yourself, I have never seen a creature
so lovely.”

“And did she make you a good wife?”

Landi turned pale. “Rosalia — my child —
why remind me, by these cruel questions, of a loss
which the whole world cannot repair?”

“She was then all you wished; and yet I have
heard that yours was a love-match.”

“No more,” cried Landi, averting his face.
“You have conquered.”

Rosalia pressed his hand to her lips.

“No, my child,” said her father, after a few
minutes, “though my head is old, I find that my
heart is still young as ever. I will not tempt you
to a lukewarm vow: you are a living counterpart
of her who would have rejected a monarch for
your father — like her, too, you shall choose according
to the impulse of your own pure heart.”

Landi, wishing to save his friend pain, lost no
time in communicating the result of this conference.
When Maldura heard it he stood for a
moment like one suddenly waked from sleep,
doubting if the words, which still echoed in his
ears, were really those of another person, or the
mere coinage of his brain. But it was only for a
moment; the compassionate tone of Landi, his

[figure description] Page 051.[end figure description]

look of sympathy, and the tremulous pressure of
his hand, soon convinced him of their reality. Yet
even then he doubted; not that he had heard
them, but of their truth; he doubted Landi's sincerity,
and thought it a contrivance to rid himself
decently of the connexion. This suspicion brought
the whole man into his face; but he constrained
himself to be civil, whilst he persisted in refusing
to take any denial but from the lady herself.
Landi, finding it in vain to remonstrate, at last
consented that Maldura should wait on Rosalia the
next morning. — The interview was short and decisive.
But never was refusal uttered with more
gentleness and delicacy. And never did rejected
lover hear his own merits more eloquently set forth
than did Maldura, even when the lips of Rosalia
pronounced his doom. “Blame not my will,” she
concluded, “but — if any thing — my heart, that
knows no control but from its own wayward
fancies.”

The character of Rosalia was of that nice mixture
of softness and firmness which makes the perfection
of woman. The first she derived from nature;
the last was the result of principle; and
while from the one she was open to every impression
of the affections, the regular watchfulness of
the other effectually guarded her from all that

[figure description] Page 052.[end figure description]

would not stand its scrutiny. This moral subordination,
or rather just balance between sense and
sensibility, not unfrequently subjected her, with
superficial observers, to the imputation of coldness.
But hers was the coldness of her better judgment,
only occasional, and always with a purpose. When
her heart was opened, and with the sanction of her
principles, the whole woman gave way at once.

It was, no doubt, the consciousness of her disposition
to this prodigal self-abandonment of the
heart that first led her to seek a less fallacious
guide than her own sanguine impulses. Happily
her father's instructions here came to her aid; and
as Landi was a man of sincere piety, it may
readily be inferred that the guide she found in
them was religion. Hence that high standard of
excellence by which she was accustomed to measure
all that approached her.

CHAPTER IV.

[figure description] Page 053.[end figure description]

Had Maldura loved Rosalia Landi for herself, the
manner in which she had rejected him would have
exalted her still more in his estimation. But with
the loss of her person came a blight on his hopes
of distinction. Though he still felt the same confidence
in his own powers, yet he could not bear
to forego all those advantages which he had so
long counted on from his union with Rosalia; and
he hated her as one who had scattered a glorious
vision of ambition which her sorcery had called
up as if but to mock him. But, whatever his
rage, or hopes of revenge, the fortune of his tragedy,
which was now on its way to Florence,
soon drove her from his mind. He had laid out
his whole strength on this performance, sparing
neither time nor labor, and giving to it the highest
finish; so that when he sent it he felt that he had
done his best, and that should it fail it would be
from some fatality which he could not control: it
was his last stake, and he was willing to rest his

[figure description] Page 054.[end figure description]

all upon it; for the more he considered it, whether
in the whole or in parts, the better he was satisfied
that it could not fail.

The success of his satire immediately procured
the tragedy a good reception at the theatre; it
was already announced for representation, and
Maldura had only to wait for the decision of the
public. He did not wait long; the fate of the
play soon reached him: it had fallen dead on the
boards the first night. So wrote the manager.

This was an unlooked-for blow; and he sat for
near an hour gazing upon the manager's letter, as
if endeavoring to recall, he knew not what; for
its purport was gone ere hardly known. But his
recollection soon returned. Better had it not, than
so to make visible the utter desolation within him—
to show him a mind without home or object;
for he could look neither back nor forward. If he
looked to the future, in place of the splendid visions
that once rose like a mirage, he beheld a desert;
if he turned to the past, his laborious realities, once
seeming so gorgeous, now left without purpose,
only cumbered the ground with their heavy ruins.

In this hopeless state, however, there was one
comforter which never deserted him — his indomitable
pride; it was this sustained him. Had a
shadow of self-distrust but crossed Maldura for a

[figure description] Page 055.[end figure description]

moment, it might have darkened to insanity; but
no doubts of his genius had ever entered his mind;
he was therefore an ill-used man, and he hated the
world which had thus withheld his just rights.
His only solace now, was in the wretched resource
of the misanthrope, in that childish revenge which,
in the folly of his anger, he imagines himself
taking on the world, by foregoing its kindnesses;
for there is small difference between a thorough
misanthrope and a sullen child; indeed their illogical
wrath generally takes the same course in
both, namely, to retort an injury by spiting themselves.
For the full indulgence of this miserable
temper, he retired to an unfrequented part of the
city, and, rarely venturing out except at night,
it was generally concluded that he had quitted
Rome — where he was soon forgotten.

CHAPTER V.

[figure description] Page 056.[end figure description]

It was about two years after the events recorded
in the preceding chapter, that Monaldi arrived in
Rome; where his reception was such as might
have amply satisfied him, had he been far more
ambitious of popular admiration. To say, however,
that he was wholly insensible to praise, would
not be true; so far as he believed it an expression
of sympathy, it was justly valued, nay, it was then
most dear to him as one of the graces of our social
nature; nor did he affect an indifference to
that posthumous sympathy with excellence — that
purest form of fame to which so many noble
minds, under poverty and neglect, have patiently
looked — and looked, alas, for their only reward.
Yet the love of fame was less a passion with Monaldi
than the result of a sober law of his mind,
which won his obedience, because it carried with
it the assurance of an enduring nature. But he
had no craving for distinction, much less for notoriety,
or what is popularly called reputation;

[figure description] Page 057.[end figure description]

indeed, he had passed over the graves of too many
buried reputations not to have learned how their
common tenure, the fashion of one age is valued
by another.

With such an artist it cannot be supposed that
a mere adulator of his name could have found
much favor, nor, when it is added that Monaldi's
was one of those kindly natures to which the duty
of repelling is at all times painful, will it be thought
singular that a person of this description should
have been to him an object of especial annoyance.
It was to escape from one of these unmeaning flatterers,
who seldom failed to fasten upon him whenever
they met, that Monaldi one day turned into a
gateway in an obscure street, where one of his
figure was rarely seen. The passage leading from
it was somewhat dark, and he hoped to conceal
himself there till his persecutor had passed, when
he observed a person from within coming towards
him. The awkwardness of his situation obliged
him either to retreat, or to explain it, and he spoke.
“Your pardon, Signor — I pray you excuse this
intrusion.” The stranger started. “Nay,” added
Monaldi, “it will be but for a moment. In truth
I am an unlucky artist, who would merely avoid
a troublesome acquaintance.”

“Begone!” said the stranger.

[figure description] Page 058.[end figure description]

“Good heaven!” cried Monaldi, “sure that
voice” — But the stranger had disappeared.

“It is — it must be,” said he, and without further
thought he entered the court. They were now
under the open sky. The stranger stopped, —
and Monaldi beheld his long lost friend.

“Maldura!” — was all his full heart could utter.

Maldura spoke not a word; but he suffered his
hand to remain passively within the grasp of his
friend.

“I see 't is with you as myself,” said Monaldi
at last. “But how can words add to the joy of
this meeting?”

“Words! — True — they are idle.” Maldura
was no hypocrite, and his manly spirit revolted at
expressing what he did not feel — and what he
felt his heart was not yet hard enough to utter.
Yet something must be said — and that neither
unkind nor hollow. “You look well, Monaldi;
even better than when we parted at Bologna.”

“That's a long time — very long,” said Monaldi.
“Yet, long as it is, I need hardly tell Maldura
that I could not recall many days when he has
been out of my mind — especially since I lost
trace of you. But where have you been all this
while? you know not how many ill bodings I have
had on account of your strange disappearance —

[figure description] Page 059.[end figure description]

no letters — no clue — sometimes I thought you
might have embarked for Spain — as you once
talked of doing — and been shipwrecked; then in
a more cheerful mood, I would suppose you voluntarily
banished to some quiet solitude, that you
might give your whole mind to some great work —
for I remembered your favorite maxim, that the
sacrifice of a whole life were but a cheap price for
fame; then again my apprehensions would take
the worst conclusion — that you had been robbed
and murdered. Tell me, where have you been?
what have you been doing?”

“ 'T is of little consequence,” replied Maldura.
“The past is past — and the wisdom of Solomon
could not make it better or worse: let it rest
then.”

“Nay, I would not ask you to recall what might
give you pain, deeply as I am interested.”

“I did not say it would give me pain — I said
it was useless.”

“I would know then no more than will give you
pleasure. So we will talk of what remains of the
past. Your active mind cannot have been idle,
and the world expects much of you.”

“The world!” This was touching a galled
spot. Maldura's eyes flashed; but a smile of
fiercer scorn succeeded? “We will talk of the

[figure description] Page 060.[end figure description]

world when it shall have become worth something
better than an idiot's slaver. But for ourselves —
we shall be better in the house: 't is not a palace,
as you see — but 't will afford us shelter from the
sun.”

“You know I am not dainty,” answered Monaldi.
“Or if I were, the place would be the last
thing I should think of at this time.”

“I was not apologizing for it,” said Maldura,
somewhat proudly, “the knaves and fools that live
in palaces might reconcile a wise man to one much
worse.”

“Maldura's mind,” said Monaldi — and he said
it in a tone that spoke anything but abatement of
his youthful reverence — “such a mind would dignify
any palace.”

Maldura's heart softened in spite of himself.
He hated the world, but not its praise; and he led
the way into the house with less reluctance than
he had expected.

When the friends left school, they had engaged
to write to each other, and their correspondence
had continued with little interruption up to the
time of Maldura's first failure; when, from the
fear of betraying the secret misery occasioned by
that event, he discontinued it. Since then, Monaldi
had never heard any tidings of his friend,

[figure description] Page 061.[end figure description]

except that he had quitted Florence, but for what
part of the world, he could never learn. Maldura,
however, had long been apprized of all the other's
movements, his success, and fame; but the more
he heard of them, the less did he incline to renew
their intimacy; indeed the contrast which they
formed to his own situation was among the sorest
aggravations of his misery. Had it been a stranger—
any other man — so courted and followed,
he thought he could have borne it; but to find an
object of envy in his humble schoolfellow, on
whom he had once looked down, was a degradation
which he could not forgive.

With feelings like these, it is not surprising that
Maldura forbore to seek out his friend; nor, when
accident had brought them together, and he recognised
his voice in the gateway, that he should have
sought to avoid him. But his heart was not yet
entirely hardened, and his late interview with Monaldi
had touched it. Yet so new seemed to him
the consciousness of any kind feeling, that it was
a considerable time after Monaldi's departure before
he could realize what had passed; and then
he felt as if something had gone from him which
he hardly knew whether to regret or not. With
one thing, however, he was satisfied — that his
friend had conceived no suspicion of the change

[figure description] Page 062.[end figure description]

in his heart; for, proud as he was, Maldura had
still a secret coveting of the esteem of others: so
that, upon the whole, he almost doubted if he
were sorry for the meeting. In fact, he was much
better pleased than he was willing to admit: for
however a misanthrope may pride himself on the
sovereignty of his hatred, as long as he continues
in this world, he can never so entirely destroy his
social nature but that some leaven of it will work
within him.

The intercourse thus renewed between the two
friends could not but differ in many respects from
that of their earlier years. Monaldi, however,
hailed it as a promise of many pleasures. His
affectionate disposition had long felt the want of a
friend; but his studious habits, added to his natural
reserve, had hitherto prevented his forming any
second intimacy; and he now dwelt with delight
on the thought of pouring out his heart into the
bosom of his early friend. But he soon found
that Maldura was not that open, social being he
had once known, that he had become cold, absent
and gloomy: though the change grieved him and
repressed his confidence, it did not lessen his attachment;
and, ascribing it to some secret sorrow,
he imagined that his sympathy was more than ever
needed. His efforts, however, were in vain — the

[figure description] Page 063.[end figure description]

same distant, taciturn demeanor continued to repel
every act of kindness.

It is the natural consequence of a fruitless endeavor
to alleviate the afflictions of those who are
dear to us to become ourselves partakers of their
sufferings. And if the cause of our pain be not
hateful, we feel, or rather fancy that we shall feel,
relieved, the nearer we are to it. Monaldi's visits
to his friend, however, were seldom followed by
the effect he desired; being for the most part
passed in mutual silence, or in a few common remarks
on indifferent topics.

It was after a morning of more than usual depression
and concern on his account, that Monaldi
one day called on his unhappy friend. Maldura's
apathy seemed for the moment overcome; and he
could not help expressing surprise at such an unwonted
visit; for it was scarcely past mid-day, and
he knew that nothing short of necessity could tempt
the devoted artist to leave his studio at that hour.
Monaldi simply replied, that he had felt indisposed
to work; and he drew a chair to a window. The
apartment being in an upper story, and the house
somewhat elevated, commanded an extensive view
of the southern portion of the city, overlooking the
Campo Vaccino, once the ancient forum, with its
surrounding ruins, and taking in a part of the

[figure description] Page 064.[end figure description]

Coliseum. The air was hot and close, and there
was a thin yellow haze over the distance like that
which precedes the scirocco, but the nearer objects
were clear and distinct, and so bright that the eye
could hardly rest on them without quivering, especially
on the modern buildings, with their huge
sweep of whited walls, and their red-tiled roofs,
that lay burning in the sun, while the sharp, black
shadows, which here and there seemed to indent
the dazzling masses, might almost have been fancied
the cinder-tracks of his fire. The streets of
Rome, at no time very noisy, are for nothing more
remarkable than, during the summer months, for
their noontide stillness, the meridian heat being
frequently so intense as to stop all business, driving
everything within doors, with the proverbial
exception of dogs and strangers. But even these
might scarcely have withstood the present scorching
atmosphere. It was now high noon, and the
few straggling vine-dressers that were wont to stir
in this secluded quarter had already been driven
under shelter; not a vestige of life was to be seen,
not a bird on the wing, and so deep was the stillness
that a solitary foot-fall might have filled the
whole air; neither was this stillness lessened by
the presence of the two friends — for nothing so
deepens silence as man at rest; they had both sat

[figure description] Page 065.[end figure description]

mutely gazing from the window, and apparently
unconscious of the lapse of time, till the bell of
a neighboring church warned them of it.

“Yes,” said Monaldi — as if the sound had
suddenly loosed his tongue — “there is a chain
that runs through all things. How else should the
mind hear the echo of its workings from voiceless
rocks? Mysterious union! that our very lives
should seem but so many reflections from the face
of nature; and all about us but visible types of the
invisible man! Even the works of man, the passive
combinations of his hand — they too have
found a tongue in the elements, and become oracular
to his heart — even as that proud pile of
Titus, so dark and desolate within, now speaks
from without, in the gorgeous language of the sun,
to mine. Look, Maldura: here is to me a book
of history and prophecy. You see in that distant
mist the prefigurement of my future; for my present
state you need but look beneath us — on this
oppressive splendor; but for the past — thank
heaven, that is still mine — the blessed past! how
soothingly it speaks to me in this humble shade!”

Maldura's distorted vision saw nothing in this
but a covert sally of pride, and a half suppressed
sneer passed over his features; but his confiding
friend gave it a different name.

[figure description] Page 066.[end figure description]

“You seem incredulous — why should you doubt
that I look on the past with envy?”

“Some,” answered Maldura, “might think that
it needed at least faith; especially to believe it of
the favorite of popes and cardinals — for you look
back to obscurity.”

“But not you, Maldura. For you know that
that obscurity was happy — because those I loved
were happy; and because in them I had a true
home for all my wishes; for we build not for ourselves
alone — at least anything that can satisfy,
or is worthy the heart; and mine was never subordinate
to the head. Others, who remember
nothing of my youth but its reserve, might perhaps
doubt it; but not you. If I was reserved, you
well know it was neither from coldness or gloom;
but that I was so moulded by early and severe
misfortunes. I was left an orphan ere I hardly
knew the blessing of kindred. This was the first
misfortune. Then followed another. That my
scanty patrimony might be husbanded, I was
doomed to waste the first ten years of my life
amongst illiterate boors — though, to do them
justice, they were honest. And, though unlettered
then myself, the thousand obscure longings, and
“deep and anxious questionings,” on what I saw
and felt, which everywhere haunted me, and which

[figure description] Page 067.[end figure description]

no one could resolve or satisfy, soon discovered to
me that I had but little in common with those
about me; nay, the very expression of my thoughts
was often answered by a laugh, or by the nicknames
of idiot and dreamer You cannot wonder
then that I shrunk into myself, nor that I at length
became indeed a dreamer; for my whole world
was within me, and would have been so now but
for one being — bless her memory. That being
was my sister.”

Monaldi here appeared to be overcome by some
tender recollection; but after a moment's pause
he proceeded, as if in continuation of his thoughts.
“No, it would be selfish to wish her back. You
remember her, Maldura?”

The question seemed to rouse Maldura from his
abstraction, and he raised his eyes with a vacant
look. But, wishing to avoid an explanation, he
nodded in assent.

“It was in my twelfth year that we met for the
first time since my infancy; for you may remember
that she had been brought up by a distant relation
at Modena. What a strange faculty is this
memory! I can see her now almost as distinctly
as if she were before me. She was only five years
older than myself, and yet when she kissed me and
looked upon me, it was with such a maternal look

[figure description] Page 068.[end figure description]

— and she inquired about my little concerns in a
tone so solicitous, so tender, that I could never
from that hour either think or speak of her but
with the veneration of a son. — Yes,” continued
Monaldi, while the recollection seemed to give a
deeper fervor to his manner, “it was she first
taught me that I had a heart — and too large for
self; who made it the companion, nay, controller,
of my intellect, giving it direction and purpose;
and it was her praise that made me long for fame;
for I felt that it would make her happy. But she
was taken from me before the world knew that
such a candidate for its praise was in being, or she
herself had anything to dwell on save the prophetic
visions which her sisterly love had travelled for into
the future. But it is right, all right — she is happier
where she is. I need not name the other
being who came to supply her loss — nor how
kindly! Even now too I can see the stone seat in
our play-yard, at Bologna — that good seat! associated
with so many nameless acts of kindness,
which no one can understand but an orphan boy;
and one as sensitive as desolate, and left to the
cold, boisterous gaiety of a public school. Yes,
Maldura, you alone in the wide world seemed to
feel for my loss; and in that you did so you became
to me more than the world. I exulted in

[figure description] Page 069.[end figure description]

your talents; I grew proud of the prizes you won;
and I looked to your future fame even with my
poor sister's eyes, when she looked to mine. Why
the last has not been realized I marvel — that such
a mind — ”

Maldura ground his teeth.

Monaldi saw the change in his countenance, and
stopped: then added, “If I have touched on what
is displeasing to you, forgive me. And yet it cannot
be that the expression of a regret so natural — ”

“The less that is said of it the better,” said
Maldura, with a bitter smile. “As for yourself —
you have the world's trumpet. Keep it — I would
none of its blast; 't is made up of the breath of
fools, or it may be knaves. Keep it, then, and be
content. Good or bad, 't is yours, they say; and
will be, even when the grave shall have walled up
your ears.”

“No, Maldura — you have forgotten, or you
mistake, my heart, if you think that fame alone
can fill it. The very retrospect I have just made
is proof enough. Why else should I dwell on
scenes that are past, and quit the palpable present,
to commune with shadows? But I miscall them;
they are shadows only to my bodily eyes — to my
affections they are substance — in effect the truest,
so long as through the mysterious memory they

[figure description] Page 070.[end figure description]

can give that thrilling play of life which present
realities deny. No; the solitude of neglect were
better borne than solitary grandeur. We are not
made to enjoy alone — least of all things fame;
't is a fierce splendor, that needs to be conducted
off by others; if it rest with ourselves, it becomes
a fire that, sooner or later, must shrivel up the
heart. Had I parent or kindred — could the grave
give me back such shares of my fame — but I will
not think of it. Or — would you, Maldura — ”

Maldura started from his seat.

“Again forgive me,” said Monaldi, “I ought
not so to obtrude my regrets upon you.”

Maldura turned from him as if he would hear
no more; then, stopping awhile, said, “You have
had your marvel; so too may I. If you count
fame nothing, why do you toil?”

“Because I could not be idle and live; and
because I love my art for its own sake. I should
still paint, had I the means, were I thrown on a
desolate island.”

“Yet you have one thing, which many in the
world would think included all — wealth; though
some indeed have called it trash — at least in
books.”

“And do you think so, Maldura? I know you
do not. Yet — ” the thought now glanced on

[figure description] Page 071.[end figure description]

Monaldi that his friend might be suffering from
poverty; his face lighted up, and he grasped Maldura's
hand.

“What is it disturbs you?” said Maldura, coldly
withdrawing his hand.

“Disturb! oh no! I owe you a thousand thanks
for this discovery. How could I have been so
blind! This obscure retreat, these sorry lodgings,
speak it but too plainly.”

“Speak what?” asked Maldura, in amazement.

“Your secret. 'T is now mine.”

The blood rushed to Maldura's forehead, and
he felt as if he could have annihilated himself, Monaldi,
and all who had ever known him.

“And it has made me happy,” added Monaldi;
“for now I have something to live for.”

The conclusion of this sentence relieved Maldura
from the horror of his suspicion, but it left
him still perplexed for its meaning.

Monaldi continued. “But why should I waste
time in useless words. You have unwittingly betrayed
the cause of your distress, Maldura; and,
pardon me that I rejoice at it. You suffer from
the want of that “trash” with which fortune has
overwhelmed, nay, oppressed me. Let me then
put it to its right use, to the service of genius and
virtue; and where do these live purer and nobler

[figure description] Page 072.[end figure description]

than in Maldura? Speak then, and say, that you
will allow me to call the moiety of it yours.”

As Maldura listened, his face became of an
ashy paleness, his lips quivered, and his knees
shook. “Pshaw!” said he; and he instantly recovered
himself.

Monaldi was about to repeat his offer, when,
suddenly turning upon him, Maldura gave him a
look — such a look — Monaldi felt as if it had
passed through him.

“Nay, what's the matter?” said Maldura,
while a half compunctious feeling brought the
blood back to his cheek.

“Tell me, have I offended you, Maldura?”

“No. Though I do not jump at your offer,
you must not think it offends me; for, indeed, I
ought to — that is — I do thank you. But — ”

“Do not say that you decline it.”

“I must; for I am above want.”

“In spirit — ”

“Ay, and in purse too.”

“Then I will press you no further,” said Monaldi.

A silence of several minutes followed.

“I fear,” said Maldura at last, “I fear that I
have not appeared so sensible to your kindness as
I ought to be; but, I am rather unwell to-day —

[figure description] Page 073.[end figure description]

indeed hardly myself — you will therefore pardon
it.”

“Nay,” returned Monaldi, if you did appear a
little proud of your independence, I ought not to
blame you: though you should not have thought
that your sharing my useless pelf would have made
you the less free.”

“But I do thank you. Will you not believe it?”

“I do,” said Monaldi, “from the bottom of my
soul.”

Maldura grasped his hand, and, pausing a moment,
added, in a hollow voice, “Monaldi! you
have indeed a noble heart; and you deserve —
yes, you deserve — all you possess.” He then
turned away and passed into another room.

“Alas!” thought Monaldi, as he walked homeward,
“I fear his brain is unsettled.” The thought
sunk into his heart, and seemed to fix his friend
there more firmly than ever.

“I have said it!” said Maldura when alone.
“Yes, it went from me in spite of — Oh, that I
had bestowed that word, so justly merited, on any
other man. But I have said it; and, true — it
ought to have been said.” Then, as if he would
flee from his thoughts, or, rather, return to his
wonted mood by a change of place, he snatched
up his hat, and hurried into the street; he had no

[figure description] Page 074.[end figure description]

choice whither, but the half-formed wish led him
mechanically to the desolate baths of Caracalla.
These baths had long been his favorite haunt, for
there was something in their ruins he felt akin with
his fortunes, and he would often spend whole days
and nights there, sometimes sitting in their dark
recesses, and given up to misery, and sometimes
wandering to and fro, as if inhaling a kind of savage
refreshment from walking over the wreck of
prouder piles than his own.

CHAPTER VI.

[figure description] Page 075.[end figure description]

It should have been mentioned, in a former part of
this narrative, that among the honors bestowed on
our artist, soon after his arrival in Rome, was the
title of principal painter to the pope; which was
immediately followed by an order for a series of
pictures for the pontifical palace at Monte Cavallo.
These works, which had occupied him for several
years, being now completed, so added to his fame,
that commissions flowed upon him from all quarters,
insomuch that he was obliged to decline many
from other distinguished personages both at home
and abroad. But there was one order which he
would have gladly declined for other reasons, yet,
coming from the pontiff, it was a virtual command,
and he was fain to accept it, though with more
reluctance than the world might believe of one so
flattered: this was a “companion” picture to a
Madonna by Raffaelle. His notions were perhaps
peculiar; but we give them here as indicative of
his character.

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

He “accepted the commission,” he said, “not
with the arrogant hope of producing a rival to the
picture of Raffaelle, but in grateful compliance
with the wishes of his patron.” Besides, with a
just reverence for his art, he looked upon all competition
as unworthy a true artist; nay, he even
doubted whether any one could command the
power of his own genius whilst his mind was under
the influence of so vulgar a motive. “For what,”
he would say, “is that which you call my genius,
but the love and perception of excellence — the
twin power that incites and directs to successful
production? which can never coexist with the desire
to diminish, or even to contend with, that in
another. It would be rather self-love, than a true
love of excellence, did I value it less in Raffaelle
than in myself.” He might have added another
reason: that competition implying comparison,
and comparison a difference only of degree, could
not really exist between men of genius; since the
individualizing power by which we recognise genius,
or the originating faculty, must necessarily
mark their several productions by a difference in
kind. But he needed not this deduction of the
understanding; his own lofty impulses placed him
on surer ground.

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]