“Come in, carissima!” said the low, silver-toned
voice of the deformed sculptor, as a female figure, in
the hood and cloak of an old woman, crossed the
threshold of his chamber.

“Dear Giulio!” And she leaned slightly over the
diminutive form of her brother, and first kissing his
pale forehead, while she unfastened the clasp of
Bettina's cloak of black silk, threw her arms about
him as the disguise fell off, and multiplied, between
her caresses, the endearing terms in which the language
of that soft clime is so prodigal.

They sat down at the foot of his group in marble,
and each told the little history of the hours they had
spent apart. They grew alike as they conversed;
for theirs was that resemblance of the soul, to which
the features answer only when the soul is breathing
through. Unless seen together, and not only together,
but gazing on each other in complete abandonment
of heart, the friends that knew them best would have
said they were unlike. Yet Amieri's nymph on the
canvass was like both, for Amieri drew from the picture
burnt on his own heart by love, and the soul of Violanta
lay breathing beneath every lineament.

“You have not touched the marble to-day!” said
the countess, taking the lamp from its nail, and shedding
the light aslant on the back of the statue.

“No! I have lifted the hammer twenty times to
break it in pieces.”

“Ah! dearest Giulio! talk not thus! Think it is
my image you would destroy!”

“If it were, and truly done, I would sooner strike
the blessed crucifix. But, Violanta! there is a link
wanting in this deformed frame of mine! The sense
of beauty, or the power to body it forth, wants room in
me. I feel it—I feel it!”

Violanta ran to him and pressed the long curls that
fell over his pallid temples to her bosom. There was
a tone of conviction in his voice that she knew not how
to answer.

He continued, as if he were musing aloud:—

“I have tried to stifle this belief in my bosom, and
have never spoken of it till now—but it is true!
Look at that statue! Parts of it are like nature—
but it wants uniformity—it wants grace—it wants
what I want—proportion! I never shall give it that,
because I want the sense, the consciousness, the emotion,
of complete godlike movement. It is only the
well formed who feel this. Sculptors may imitate
gods! for they are made in God's image. But oh,
Violanta! I am not!”

“My poor brother!”

“Our blessed Savior was not more beautiful than
the Apollo,” he passionately continued, “but could I
feel like the Apollo! Can I stand before the clay and
straighten myself to his attitude, and fancy, by the
most delirious effort of imagination, that I realize in
this frame, and could ever have conceived and moulded
his indignant and lofty beauty? No—no—no!”

“Dear—dear Giulio.” He dropped his head again,
and she felt his tears penetrate to her bosom.

“Leave this melancholy theme,” she said, in an
imploring tone, “and let us talk of other things, I have
something to tell you, Giulio!”

“Raphael was beautiful,” he said, raising himself
up, unconscious of the interruption, “and Giorgione,
and Titian, both nobly formed, and Michael Angelo
had the port of an archangel! Yes, the soul inhabits
the whole body, and the sentiment of beauty moves
and quickens through it all. My tenement is cramped!—
Violanta!”

“Well, dear brother!”

“Tell me your feelings when you first breathe the
air in a bright morning in spring. Do you feel graceful?
Is there a sensation of beauty? Do you lift
yourself and feel swan-like and lofty, and worthy of
the divine image in which you breathe. Tell me
truly, Violanta.”

“Yes, brother!”

“I knew it! I have a faint dream of such a feeling—
a sensation that is confined to my brain somehow
which I struggle to express in motion—but if I lift
my finger, it is gone. I watch Amieri sometimes,
when he draws. He pierces my very soul by assuming,
always, the attitude on his canvass. Violanta!
how can I stand like a statue that would please the
eye?”

“Giulio! Giulio!”

“Well, I will not burden you with my sadness.
Let us look at Biondo's nymph. Pray the Virgin he
come not in the while—for painting, by lamp-light,
shows less fairly than marble.”

He took the lamp, and while Violanta shook the
tears from her eyes, he drew out the pegs of the easel,
and lowered the picture to the light.

“Are you sure Amieri will not come in, Giulio?”
inquired his sister, looking back timidly at the door
while she advanced.

“I think he will not. The Corso is gay to night,
and his handsome face and frank carriage, win greetings,
as the diamond draws light. Look at his picture,
Violanta! With what triumph he paints! How
different from my hesitating hand! The thought that

[figure description] Page 126.[end figure description]

is born in his fancy, collects instant fire in his veins
and comes prompt and proportionate to his hand. It
looks like a thing born, not wrought! How beautiful
you are, my Violanta! He has done well—brave
Biondo!”

“It is like me, yet fairer.”

“I wish it were done! There is a look on the lips
that is like a sensation I feel sometimes on my own I
almost feel as if I should straighten and grow fair as it
advances. Would it not be a blessed thing, Violanta?”

“I love you as you are, dear Giulio!”

“But I thirst to be loved like other men! I would
pass in the street and not read pity in all eyes. I
would go out like Biondo, and be greeted in the street
with `Mio bravo!' `Mio bello!' I would be beloved
by some one that is not my sister, Violanta! I would
have my share—only my share—of human joy and regard.
I were better dead than be a hunchback. I
would die, but for you—to-night—yes, to night.”

With a convulsive hand he pulled aside the curtain,
and sent a long, earnest look up to the stars. Violanta
had never before heard him give words to his melancholy
thoughts, and she felt appalled and silenced by
the inexpressible poignancy of his tones, and the feverish,
tearless, broken-heartedness of his whole manner.
As she took his hand, there was a noise in the street
below, and presently after, a hurried step was heard
on the stair, and Amieri rushed in, seized the rapier
which hung over his bed and without observing Violanta,
was flying again from the apartment.

“Biondo!” cried a voice which would have stayed
him were next breath to have been drawn in heaven.

“Contessa Violanta!”

“What is it, Amieri? Where go you now?”
asked Giulio, gliding between him and the door.
Biondo's cheek and brow had flushed when first arrested
by the voice of the countess, but now he stood
silent and with his eyes on the floor, pale as the statue
before him.

“A quarrel, Giulio!” he said at length.

“Biondo!” The countess sprang to his side with
the simple utterance of his name, and laid her small
hand on his arm. “You shall not go! You are dear
to us—dear to Guilio, Signor Amieri! If you love us—
if you care for Giulio—nay, I will say it—if you
care for me, dear Biondo, put not your life in peril.”

“Lady!” said the painter, bowing his head to his
wrist, and kissing lightly the small white fingers that
pressed it, “if I were to lose my life this hour, I should
bless with my dying lips the occasion which had drawn
from you the blessed words I hear. But the more
life is valuable to me by your regard, the more need
you should not delay me. I am waited for. Farewell!”

Disengaging himself from Violanta's grasp, quickly
but gently, Amieri darted through the door, and was
gone.