forehead, gleaming through clusters of black, glossy hair-the lustrous, intellectual line beneath, just seen through the half-closed eyelids-the tremulously-parted lips, and the almost visible soul that seemed to rush from them upon the page before her-even the wonders of his art appeared like idle mockeries." This is the same Rosalia Landi who had refused the addresses of Maldura. Her father, who is the owner of the collection, comes in just in time to relieve his daughter and the young artist from embarrassment. The conversation which ensues must not be wholly omitted. Nay,' said Monaldi, Rafaelle is one whom criticism can affect but little either way. He speaks to the heart, a part of us that never mistakes a meaning; and they who have one to understand should ask nothing in liking him but the pleasure of sympathy.' "And yet there are many technical beauties,' said the Advocate, which an unpracticed eye needs to have pointed out.' "Yes-and faults, too,' answered Monaldi; 'but his execution makes only a small part of that by which he affects us. But had he even the color of Titian, or the magic chiar' oscuro of Correggio, they would scarcely add to that sentient spirit with which our own communes. I have certainly seen more beautiful faces; we sometimes meet them in nature-faces to look at, and with pleasure-but not to think of like this. Besides, Rafaelle does more than make us think of him; he makes us forget his deficiencies—or, rather, supply them.' 6 "I could wish,' said Rosalia, 'that tradition had spared us either more or less of the great author of that Prophet ;'-they had turned to a cartoon by Michael Angelo. They say he was morose; and many affect to find in that the reason why he does not touch their hearts. Yet, I know not how it is, whether he stirs the heart or not, there is a something in his works that so lifts one above our present world, or at least, which so raises one above all ordinary emotions, that I never quit the Sistine Chapel without feeling it impossible to believe any charge to his discredit." "Never believe it!' said Monaldi, with energy. He had too great a soul—too rapt for an unkind feeling. If he did not often sympathize with those about him, it was because he had but little in common with them. Not that he had less of passion, but more of the intellectual. His heart seems to have been so sublimated by his imagination that his too refined affections-I can almost believe-sought a higher sphere--even that in which the forms of his pencil seem to have had their birth; for ““I think I understand you: when the heart they are neither men nor women--at least like is touched, but a hint is enough,' said Rosalia. us that walk the earth-but rather of a race "Aye,' said the Advocate, smiling, 'tis which minds of a high order might call up with pictures as with life; only bribe that in- when they think of the inhabitants of the planet visible finisher, and we are sure to reach per- Saturn. To some, perhaps, this may be jarfection. However, since there is no other hu- gon-but not here, I venture to hope.' Rosaman way to perfection of any kind, I do not lia bowed. Nay, the eloquent confession I see that it is unwise to allow the illusion-have just heard could not have been made had which certainly elevates us while it lasts; for not the spell of Michael Angelo been underwe cannot have a sense of the perfect, though stood as well as felt.' imaginary, while we admit ignoble thoughts.' "This is a great admission for you, sir,' said Rosalia; 'tis the best apology for romance I have heard.' "Is it? Well, child, then I have been romantic myself without knowing it.-But the picture before us▬▬▬’ 666 6 You have assisted me to understand him better,' said Rosalia, and if I do, perhaps I might say, that he makes me think instead of feel. In other words, the effect is not mere sensation.' "Monaldi answered her only by a look, but one of such unmingled pleasure, as would have "I could not forget it if I would,' inter- called up a blush, had not a similar feeling prerupted Monaldi, with excitement that single-vented her observing it. He felt as if he had hearted, that ineffable look of love! yet so pure been listening to the echoes of his own mind. and passionless-so like what we may believe Upon my word, Rosalia,' said her father, of the love of angels. It seems as if I had 'I did not know you were so much of a connever before known the power of my art.' noisseur; 'tis quite new to me, I assure you.' "As he spoke, his eyes unconsciously wandered to Rosalia. The charm was there; and his art was now as much indebted to the living 66 6 "Rosalia now blushed, for the compliment made her sensible of her enthusiasm, which now surprised herself: she could not recol lect that she had ever before felt so much ex- | her who had rejected himself, is inspiracited. tion to him. He rushes from the coffee 6 "Nay, my dear, I am serious-and I need not say how pleased. How you have escaped the cant of the day I can't guess. 'Tis now the fashion to talk of Michael Angelo's extravagance, of his want of truth, and what not -as if truth were only in what we have seen! This matter-of-fact philosophy has infected the age. Let the artists look to it! They have already begun to quarrel with the Apollo-because the skin wants suppleness! But what is that? A mere technical defect. Then they cavil at the form-those exquisite proportions; and where would be his celestial lightness, his preternatural majesty without them? Signor Monaldi will forgive this strain: perhaps I should not hold it before an artist.' Monaldi presently retires, leaving the Advocate delighted with his visitor. "I can almost fancy that we have been talking with Rafaelle. He has not disappointed you, I am sure.' ""No,' replied Rosalia, 'on the contraryShe felt provoked with herself that she could say nothing more. After this interview, and a few subsequent visits at Landi's house, Monaldi thinks of nothing but Rosalia. He becomes nervous in her presence, and she is no less so in his. One evening they attempt to play a duet before the old upright piano, which has a mirror in the back; he lets fall his violin, and, with a stammered apology, something about indisposition, rushes out of the house. When he is gone, Landi asks for his favorite air, but Rosalia is unable to play aught that he recognizes. The next interview leads to a declaration, and, in short, it is not long before Monaldi and Rosalia are man and wife; and he now only desires to find his friend, as he feels assured that no melancholy could long withstand Rosalia's sympathy. Maldura has gone to Sienna, to take possession of a large estate, left him by a rich relative; but this sudden accession of fortune works no change in his embittered heart. One evening, in a coffee-house, he overhears some one tell of the marriage of Monaldi, the great painter, to Rosalia Landi, daughter of the rich advocate. From that moment his only purpose is revenge to think that one whom he had always looked down upon, should be rich, honored, and above all, the husband of house, and though it is almost dark, mounts his horse and sets off, unattended, for Rome. Somewhat after nightfall, going up the mountains beyond Radicofani, he is stopped by a robber, in whom he recognizes the famous Count Fialto, the most notorious outlaw and libertine in Italyinfamous particularly for his power over This man was sometimes tolerated by the the sex, and his numberless seductions. gay cavaliers at Rome for his brilliant conversation and it was there Maldura had seen him. The story was, that he had even seduced a nun. Maldura now tells him that he has need of his services, and money to pay for them. Fialto leads the way to a concealed cavern among the rocks, where they are met and waited on by a haggard and wasted woman whom the robber calls MarHere Maldura unfolds his unholy scheme, cellina, and who obeys him like a slave. which is to employ Fialto to make Monaldi jealous of his beautiful wife. But to secure himself, he ascertains, by suddenly mentioning the Inquisition, that Marcellina is the stolen nun: the life of each thus becomes the pledge of good faith. towns. They travel together towards Rome, always separating when they come to At Viterbo Fialto sees Monaldi in the inn yard, and learns that he is on his way to Florence to attend to the putting up of a picture in some church; he will be away from home a fortnight at least, and his wife is not with him. That will give them time, and they therefore push on eagerly to take advantage of it. Arrived in Rome, Maldura takes lodgings in a distant part of the city, while Fialto establishes himself near the painter's house, which he begins to seem to haunt-passing slowly up and down a dozen times a day, stealing glances at the windows, caracoling before it on a restiff horse, affecting to throw something from his pocket into the court-yard, and the like; all to excite the suspicions of the neighbors, so that when Monaldi returns, his arrival is noted among them with shrugs and winks, and one, Romero, a poor mosaic worker, whose shop is opposite, and who dislikes Monaldi, for not, as he thought, praising him enough, now vents his spleen in dark inuendos. One day Monaldi going out, sees a man at his gateway, who draws down his hat and retreats; the next day he observes from a window the same person standing over by Romero's door, and conversing, apparently, by signs, with some one in his house. Who can he be? He rushes down to the street, but before he reaches it the man is gone. He observes him, also, many times after, always hanging about and avoiding him. One evening, Landi and he go alone to the opera, Rosalia having declined on account of a headache. They are scarce seated when Landi points out a handsome cavalier in an opposite box. Monaldi looks and sees the "Who is he?" he stranger. inquires quickly. ""Tis the notorious Count Fialto.' "Fialto repeated Monaldi. "What makes you start so?' said Landi. "N-nothing.' 666 "But you are ill?' "No, not at all,' answered Monaldi, endeavoring to assume a cheerful look; 'quite well, I assure you.' "I fear you labor too much,' said Landi. "Perhaps so. But go on; you were speak ing of this Count.'” Landi then enlarges upon the striking contrast of his noble countenance and his innumerable crimes, especially his sins against women. In the middle of the act, Monaldi observes a person bring him a letter, upon glancing at which, he hastily withdraws. But all is presently forgotten in the delightful music, till, on returning home alone, he perceives a man at his gateway; he steps under a lamp-the man passes quickly, and he sees that it isFialto. His heart sinks within him, and he stands in a bewildered revery, till suddenly the closing of a window above arouses him. He looks up and sees a light in his wife's chamber, and a female figure passing from the window. For the first time, the poison takes deep hold. But his nature does not readily yield; it cannot be his wife had merely retired early on account of her being unwell-that was all. He enters his house, and finds her sitting in the very room where he had left her. "Perhaps too early,' replied Monaldi, hesitating, and almost shuddering at the strangeness of his own voice. You seem surprised. What if I should be so at finding you here?" "Me? why so? Oh, I suppose you thought my headache would have sent me to bed. But it is quite gone off." "Indeed! and pray-who has cured it ?' "The question seemed forced from him by torture, and his utterance was so thick that Rosalia asked what he said. it.' "Your headache. I asked who has cured "Oh, my old doctor-nature.' "What? but what disturbs you ?' "I am sure I know not.' "If you know not-but I'm afraid you have passed but a dull evening alone.' "Oh, no, I have been amusing myself-if it may be called amusement to have one's flesh creep-with Dante. I had just finished the Inferno as you came in.' "As I came in? The Inferno, I must own, seems hardly a book of entertainment for a lady's bed-chamber.' I don't understand you.' "Or will not.' “Dear husband!' said Rosalia, looking up with surprise, and a feeling as yet new to her, 'you talk in riddles.' "Is it a riddle to ask why you should choose · to read in your chamber? For there you were when I entered.' "Who, I? No, I have not been up stairs this evening.' "Alie!' groaned Monaldi, turning from her with an agony that would not be suppressed. 'Oh, misery! 'tis then too-too tell her mistress, that as the night was damp, "A maid servant, at that instant, came in to she had shut her chamber windows, though without orders. 666 You have done well,' said Rosalia. "Thank God!' said Monaldi, as he heard this explanation. 'Away-away, forever, infernal thoughts!' * * * ** * * * A few days after, Romero sends for Monaldi to give his opinion upon a miniature copy of a Magdalen by Guido, telling him it is ordered by his friend, the Count "You are home early,' observed Rosalia; I Fialto. Monaldi, surprised, denies that he hope you have been entertained.' has any acquaintance with the man. The collect his thoughts, with his hand upon the latch of the door of the ante-room, his vant, bids him come in, and starts back with an exclamation of surprise when she sees it is he. This awakens his former despair; he thinks she has mistaken him for her gallant. His manner fills her with alarm. mosaic worker apologizes, saying that he took him to be his friend from seeing him come so frequently out of his dwelling-wife, from within, mistaking him for a seradding that he came to his shop oftener than he should relish, had he a pretty daughter, or-wife. Monaldi is almost stunned by this news, and has barely strength to reach his gateway, where, leaning against a pillar, he hears his wife singing a new polacca, the only air upon which their tastes disagreed; another time he would not have noticed it, but now "He turned for a moment towards the court of his house, then pressing his hand to his brain rushed from the gate. Whither he was going he knew not; yet it seemed as if motion gave him the power of enduring what he could not bear at rest; and he continued to traverse street after street, till, quitting the city, he had reached Ponte Molle, where, exhausted by heat and fatigue, he was at length compelled to stop. "It was one of those evenings never to be forgotten by a painter-but one, too, which must come upon him in misery as a gorgeous mockery. The sun was yet up, and resting on the highest peak of a ridge of mountain-shaped clouds, that seemed to make a part of the distance; suddenly he disappeared, and the landscape was overspread with a cold, lurid hue; then, as if molten in a furnace, the fictitious mountains began to glow; in a moment more they tumbled asunder; in another he was seen again piercing their fragments, and darting his shafts to the remotest east, till, reaching the horizon, he appeared to recall them, and with a parting flash to wrap the whole heavens in flame. Rosalia, as soon as she could find words; ' are "Dearest husband, oh, speak to me!' said you ill?' "No.' 66 6 "True, I never-pshaw-there's nothing the matter; and I have told you I am very well.' 'Nothing!'-This was the first instance of reserve since their marriage. Rosalia felt its chill as from an actual blast, and her arms mechanically dropped by her side. Ah, Monaldi! you have yet to know your wife. And yet I ought-I do honor your motive; you would spare her pain. But if you knew her heart, you would feel that your unkindest act would be to deny her the privilege of sharing your sufferings.' * * * * "There is a certain tone-if once heard, and heard in the hour of love-which even the tongue that uttered it can never repeat, should its purpose be false. Monaldi heard it now; there was no resisting that breath from the heart; he felt its truth as it were vibrating through him, and he continued Monaldi groaned aloud. 'No, thou art gazing on her till a sense of his injustice flushed nothing to me now, thou glorious sun--noth-him with shame. For a moment he covered ing. To me thou art dead, buried-and forever, in her darkness; hers whose own glory once made me to love thee.' 66 "A desolate vacancy now spread over him, and leaning over the bridge, he seemed to lose himself in the deepening gloom of the scene, till the black river that moved beneath him appeared almost a part of his mind, and its imageless waters but the visible current of his own dark thoughts. his face; then turning gently towards her, Rosalia,' said he, in a softened accent-but his emotion prevented his proceeding. 66 6 'Speak, my dear husband, and tell me that you think me not unworthy to be one with you in sorrow.' "My wife! thou art indeed my own!' said Monaldi, clasping her to his bosom. "Oh, what a face is this! How poor a veil would it be to anything evil. Falsehood could not hide there.' Then quitting her for a moment, he walked up the room. 'I have read her every thought,' said he to himself; had they been pebbles at the bottom of a clear stream, they could not have been more distinct. With such a face she cannot be false.' As he said this, an expression of joy lighted up his features, and he turned again to his wife. There needed not a word to interpret his look ;---she sprang forward, and his arms again opened to receive her. swer. "One day back this sentiment would hardly have struck him; it would have entered his mind only as a part of the harmonious whole which made her character; now it came contrasted with his own dissimulation, and he thought, as he looked on her, that he had never before felt the full majesty of her soul. "The meaning of his eyes was felt at her heart, and the blushing wife hid her face in his bosom; for, whether maid or wife, a blush is the last grace that forsakes a pure woman; 'tis the abiding hue with her nature; and never is it seen so truly feminine as when, like hers, it reveals the consciousness of merited praise." But in the midst of this a loud ringing is heard at the door, and presently a servant comes in to say that a person had inquired for Monaldi, but on being told he was at home, had said it was no matter, and went away. This raises again the devil in the husband's breast that his wife's unconscious innocence had just laid. He becomes half frantic, and, in spite of her utmost tenderness, he puts her to the test by naming Fialto, and fiercely recounting a story of a wrong, similar to what he fancies is his own, committed by this man -how he had fixed his eye on a painter's wife--how she would not go to the theatre one evening--" perhaps she pleaded a headache," how the painter saw Fialto leave the box, and so on-looking into her eyes at every particular as though he would read her soul. Poor Rosalia at first thinks he is crazy, but as he approaches the end of the tale, a light breaks upon her, and she confounds him utterly by saying she understands it all, and no longer wonders at his emotion-the unfortunate husband must be his friend. After this Monaldi is master of his suspicions for nearly a month, during which time nothing occurs to excite them afresh. But at length, the evening before he intends to visit Genezzano on business, and be away a day and night from home, Fialto suddenly meets him under his gateway, and thrusts a letter and money into his hand, addressing him as Giuseppe, his servant. The letter is addressed to Rosa lia, and purports to be in answer to one from her; it alludes to a meeting while her husband was at the theatre, and agrees to another at twelve the next night. This was Fialto's plan: having corrupted Antonio, one of Monaldi's household, he learns that he was expected to be away that night; by delivering such a letter in such a way, he knows very well that jealousy will bring him home at the hour of the assignation; meantime, through Antonio, he will himself contrive to be caught in Rosalia's bed-chamber, whence he can easily escape, by having a rope ladder ready from the window, and a spy in the street who shall whistle a certain air when Monaldi enters the house. And so it falls out. The letter convinces Monaldi of his wife's perfidy; yet he will not act without the very last proof of guilt. He dissembles and pretends to leave for Genezzano, but returns at twelve. Fialto, warned of his approach, roughly wakens Rosalia, whose beauty as she lay sleeping almost turns him from his purpose, and leaps from the window just as Monaldi bursts into the room. The frightened Rosalia, supposing her husband to be a robber, throws herself at his feet crying mercy, and is met by his dagger in her bosom. |