A Love Story
The lake was tranquil and unruffled--all on its margin, hushed and
moveless. What a contrast to that exciting hour, which Sir Henry was
conjuring up again; when the clang of arms, and crash of squadrons,
commingled with the exulting shout, that bespoke the confident hope of the
wily Carthaginian; and with that sterner response, which hurled back the
indomitable spirit of the unyielding, but despairing Roman!
Our travellers quitted the Papal territories; and entering Tuscany, passed
through Arezzo, the birth-place of Petrarch; arriving at Florence just
previous to sunset.
As they reached the Lung' Arno, Pietro put his horses to a fast trot, and
rattling over the flagged road, drew up in front of Schneidorff's with an
air of greater importance, than his sorry vehicle seemed to warrant.
The following morning, George Delmé was taken by his brother, to visit
the English physician resident at Florence; and again was Delmé informed,
that change of scene, quiet, and peace of mind, were what his brother
most required.
George was thinner perhaps, than when at Rome, and his lip had lost its
lustrous red; but he concealed his physical sufferings, and always met
Henry with the same soft undeviating smile.
On their first visit to the Tribune, George was struck with the Samian
Sibyl of Guercino.
In the glowing lip--the silken cheek--the ivory temple--the eye of
inspiration--the bereaved mourner thought he could trace, some faint
resemblance to the lost Acmé. Henceforward, it was his greatest pleasure,
to remain with eyes fixed on that masterpiece of art.
Sir Henry Delmé, accompanied by the custode, would make himself
acquainted with the wonders of the Florentine gallery; and every now and
then, return to whisper some sentence, in the soothing tones of brotherly
kindness. At night, their usual haunt was the public square--where the
loggio of Andrea Orcagna presents so much, that may claim attention.
There stands the David! in the freshness of his youth! proudly regarding
his adversary--ere he overthrow, with the weapon of the herdsman, the
haughty giant.
The inimitable Perseus, too! the idol of that versatile genius, Benvenuto
Cellini:--an author! a goldsmith! a cunning artificer in jewels! a founder
in bronze! a sculptor in marble! the prince of good fellows! the favored
of princes! the warm friend and daring lover! as we gaze on his glorious
performance, and see beside it the Hercules, and Cacus of his rival Baccio
Bandanelli,--we seem to live again in those days, with which Cellini has
made us so familiar:--and almost naturally regard the back of the bending
figure, to note if its muscles warrant the stinging sarcasm of Cellini,
which we are told at once dispelled the pride of the aspiring
artist--"that they resembled cucumbers!"
The rape of the Sabines, too! the white marble glistening in the
obscurity, until the rounded shape of the maiden seems to elude the strong
grasp of the Roman!
Will she ever fly from him thus? will the home of her childhood be ever as
dear? No! the husband's love shall replace the father's blessing; and the
affections of the daughter, shall yield to the tender yearnings of the
mother's bosom.
We marvel not that George's footsteps lingered there!
How often have _we_--martyrs to a hopeless nympholepsy--strayed through
that piazza, at the self same hour--there deemed that the heart would
break--but never thought that it might slowly wither.
How often have _we_ gleaned from those beauteous objects around, but
aliment to our morbid griefs;--and turning towards the gurgling fountain
of Ammonati, and gazing on its trickling waters, have vainly tried to
arrest our trickling tears!
Chapter VIII.
Arguà.
"There is a tomb in Arquà: rear'd in air,
Pillar'd in their sarcophagus, repose
The bones of Laura's lover."
* * * * *
"I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs."
How glorious is the thrill, which shoots through our frame, as we first
wake to the consciousness of our intellectual power; as we feel the
spirit--the undying spirit--ready to burst the gross bonds of flesh, and
soar triumphant, over the sneers of others, and our own mistrust.
How does each thought seem to swell in our bosom, as if impatient of the
confined tenement--how do the floating ideas congregate--how does each
impassioned feeling subdue us in turn, and long for a worthy utterance!
This is a very bright moment in the history of our lives. It is one in
which we feel--indubitably feel--that we are of the fashioning of
God;--that the light which intellect darts around us, is not the result of
education--of maxims inculcated--or of principles instilled;--but that it
is a ray caught from the brightness of eternity--that when our wavering
pulse has ceased to beat, and the etherialised elements have left the
baser and the useless dust--that ray shall not be quenched; but shall
again be absorbed in the full effulgence from which it emanated.
Surely then, if such a glorious moment as this, be accorded to even the
inferior votaries of knowledge--to the meaner pilgrims, struggling on
towards the resplendent shrines of science:--how must _he_--the divine
Petrarch, who could so exquisitely delineate love's hopes and story, as to
clothe an earthly passion, with half the attributes of an immortal
affection:--how must _he_ have revelled in the proud sensations called
forth at such a moment!
It is the curse of the poet, that he must perforce leave the golden
atmosphere of loftiest aspirations--step from the magic circle, where all
is pure and etherial--and find himself the impotent denizen, of a sombre
and an earthly world,
It was in the early part of September, that the brothers turned their
backs on the Etrurian Athens. Their destination was Venice, and their
route lay through Bologna and Arquà.
They had been so satisfied, under the guidance of their old vetturino,
that Sir Henry made an arrangement, which induced him to be at Florence,
at the time of their departure;--and Pietro and Thompson were once more
seated beside each other.
Before commencing the ascent of the Appennines, our travellers visited the
country seat of the Archduke; saw the gigantic statue executed by John of
Bologna, which frowns over the lake; and at Fonte-buona, cast a farewell
glance on Florence, and the ancient Fiesole.
As they advanced towards Caravigliojo, the mountains began to be more
formidable, and the scenery to lose its smiling character.
Each step seemed to add to the barrenness of the landscape.
The wind came howling down from the black volcanic looking ridges--then
swept tempestuously through some deep ravine.
On either side the road, tall red poles presented themselves, a guide to
the traveller during winter's snows; while, in one exposed gully, were
built large stone embankments for his protection--as a Latin inscription
intimated--from the violence of the gales.
Few signs of life appeared.
Here and there, her white kerchief shading a sun-burnt face, a young
Bolognese shepherd girl might be seen on some grassy ledge, waving her
hand coquettishly; while her neglected flock, with tinkling bell, browsed
on the edge of the precipice. As they neared Bologna, however, the
scenery changed.
Festoons of grapes, trained to leafy elms, began to appear--white villas
chequered the suburbs--and it was with a pleasurable feeling, that they
neared the peculiar looking city, with its leaning towers, and old
façades. It is the only one, where the Englishman recals Mrs. Ratcliffe's
harrowing tales; and half expects to see a Schedoni, advancing from some
covered portico.
The next day found them in the Bolognese gallery, which is the first which
duly impresses the traveller, coming from the north, with the full powers
of the art.
The soul of music seems to dwell in the face of the St. Cecilia; and the
cup of maternal anguish to be filled to the brim, as in Guide's Murder of
the Innocents, the mother clasps to her arms the terrified babe, and
strives to flee from the ruthless destroyer.
It was on the fourth morning from their arrival in Bologna, that they
approached the poet's "mansion and his sepulchre."
As they threaded the green windings of vine covered hills, these gradually
assumed a bolder outline, and, rising in separate cones, formed a sylvan
amphitheatre round the lovely village of Arquà.
The road made an abrupt ascent to the Fontana Petrarca. A large ruined
arch spanned a fine spring, that rushes down the green slope.
In the church-yard, on the right, is the tomb of Petrarch.
Its peculiarly bold elevation--the numberless thrilling associations
connected with the poet--gave a tone and character to the whole scene. The
chiaro-scuro of the landscape, was from the light of his genius--the shade
of his tomb.
The day was lovely--warm, but not oppressive. The soft green of the hills
and foliage, checked the glare of the flaunting sunbeams.
The brothers left the carriage to gaze on the sarcophagus of red marble,
raised on pilasters; and could not help deeming even the indifferent
bronze bust of Petrarch, which surmounts this, to be a superfluous
ornament in such a scene.
The surrounding landscape--the dwelling place of the poet--his tomb facing
the heavens, and disdaining even the shadow of trees--the half-effaced
inscription of that hallowed shrine--all these seemed appropriate, and
melted the gazer's heart.
How useless! how intrusive! are the superfluous decorations of art, amid
the simpler scenes of nature.
Ornament is here misplaced. The feeling heart regrets its presence at the
time, and attempts, albeit in vain, to banish it from after recollections.
George could not restrain his tears, for he thought of the dead; and they
silently followed their guide to Petrarch's house, now partly used as a
granary. Passing through two or three unfinished rooms, whose walls were
adorned with rude frescoes of the lover and his mistress, they were shown
into Petrarch's chamber, damp and untenanted.
In the closet adjoining, were the chair and table consecrated by the poet.
There did he sit--and write--and muse--and die!
George turned to a tall narrow window, and looked out on a scene, fair and
luxuriant as the garden of Eden.
The rich fig trees, with their peculiar small, high scented fruit, mixed
with the vines that clustered round the lattice.
The round heads of the full bearing peach trees, dipped down in a leafy
slope beneath a grassy walk;--and this thicket of fruit was charmingly
enlivened, by bunches of the scarlet pomegranate, now in the pride of
their blossom.
The poet's garden alone was neglected--rank herbage choking up its
uncultivated flowers.
A thousand thoughts filled the mind of George Delmé.
He thought of Laura! of his own Acmé!
With swimming glance, he looked round the chamber.
It was almost without furniture, and without ornament. In a niche, and
within a glass case, was placed the skeleton of a dumb favourite of
Petrarch's.
Suddenly George Delmé felt a faintness stealing over him:--and he
turned to bare his forehead, to catch the slight breeze from below
redolent of sweets.
This did not relieve him.
A sharp pain across the chest, and a fluttering at the heart, as of a bird
struggling to be free, succeeded this faintness.
Another rush of blood to the head:--and a snap, as of some tendon, was
distinctly felt by the sufferer.
His mouth filled with blood.
A small blood-vessel had burst, and temporary insensibility ensued.
Sir Henry was wholly unprepared for this scene.
Assisted by Thompson, he bore him to the carriage--sprinkled his face with
water--and administered cordials.
George's recovery was speedy; and it almost seemed, as if the rupture of