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Front matter

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Contents

THE YOUNG ARTISTS

DREAMS AND FOREBODINGS.

Ex IGNOTIS PARENTIBUS .

Chapter I. The Young Artists

““ “OME, Valerio, stop your chattering, and examine my picture. I shall do no more to it.”

This was said by a young artist seated before an easel upon which rested the portrait of a very beautiful young woman. He had just given it the last touches, and was now leaning back, palette in hand, earnestly regarding his work. His companion was working carelessly upon a landscape; but turning round, and sitting astride his chair, he kept on “chattering,” regardless of his friend’s request.

“Nothing like chattering, my dear Silvio: it helps my work,” he replied. “That is the beauty of my profession: I can work and talk at the same time; and, if I do not keep my tongue running, I am lost.”

“T, on the contrary, work better in silence. I can concentrate my ideas more closely,” observed Silvio.

“Because you paint figures,’ returned the other ; “and you must express ideas, thoughts, conceptions, in them: but for a landscape you have only to sketch from nature, and then copy at will; the eye and hand can do all, without giving your mind to it.”

“T may not think as you do,” said Silvio in his quiet voice; “but we need not discuss that. Though you do not paint figures, I value your judgment of them very highly.” “Oh! as to that,” replied Valerio, who, all quickness and vivacity, presented a strong contrast to his friend, “I do not say it to boast, but I do know a figure from a scarecrow; and that is just the reason why I will not attempt them. Figures require application, study of anatomy, of facial expression, types, characters, and human passions. Such a scatterbrain as I would break down under such a strain in less

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THE YOUNG ARTISTS. 7 than a month: so I daub canvas with ‘fresh woods and pastures new,’ and let it go for what it is worth.”

“You rate yourself too low, my dear Valerio ; for, when you are in the vein, you know you paint admirably. Your landscapes would do honor to any artist, if you would not be so careless, and only half finish your pictures.”

“Why should I slave like a dog to produce fine work, when nowadays people buy pictures by the yard, and not by merit?” cried Valerio, who had one of those impulsive Italian natures so easily excited. ‘They pay me as much for a bad picture as for a good one, —two feet by four, twenty-five scudi; three feet by six, fifty, —so I cover as large a canvas as I can, and let it go.”

“Q Valerio, what heresy!” exclaimed Silvio, whose noble, inspired face, type of the youthful Raphael, was radiant with love for his art. “If I did not know that your heart is better than your tongue, I should place you among the miserable crowd whose only aim is ‘filthy lucre.’ The true artist loves Art for her own sake.”

“Hold on, hold on! about art for the love of it,’ cried Valerio with animation. “It is all very well for you, who have a banker at your command to furnish all the money you want; but for a poor devil like me, with my aged parents to support, I assure you, money is my principal object and chief stimulus to labor. If I were like you, instead of working so hard on figures, groups, portraits, and battle-pieces, I should be roaming all over the world, crossing every ocean, —one day on the summit of the Alps, another on the plains of France, ascending the ruin-crowned Rhine, descending the dark Danube; I would visit the stormy shores of the Baltic, the Pyramids on the banks of the Nile; I would cross the Atlantic, and behold Nature in her primeval freshness among the forests of the North, the plains of the West, down the Mississippi, up the Amazon; I would penetrate to the very heart of the Andes.” He was continuing to hold forth in a mock oratorical manner, waving his palette in his left hand, and brandishing his brush in his right, as if pointing out the different places as he mentioned them. He stopped short in his

THE YOUNG ARTISTS. 9 harangue, however, arrested by the pallor and depression that shadowed his friend’s face, as he sat silent and dejected, making no effort to stop the flow of Valerio’s eloquence. Throwing brush and palette upon a chair, he ran to Silvio, and, laying his hands affectionately upon his shoulders, said, “What is the matter, my dear fellow? Why are you so sad?” Then, striking his forehead, he cried in a tone of remorse, “Oh, how abominably thoughtless I am! Forgive me, my dear Silvio: I know that you never like any allusion made to your bank- | er. Forgive me: I ought to have remembered. I know it always makes you low-spirited: do pardon me, my friend.”

Silvio rose, and, taking both hands of his friend, said gently, “No more excuses, dear Valerio: I know that you would never hurt my feelings intentionally. We have not been friends from childhood for nothing.”

“Indeed we have not, and I have always respected your secret about your banker. It was quite by accident”? —

“Secret!” interrupted Silvio. “If there had been a secret, I should already have conwa

IO LEONE.

fided it to you. But I have no secret: I am as much in the dark as you.”

“What! No secret!” exclaimed Valerio in amazement. “Then, what are your relations with him, if I may be allowed the question ?”

“Purely of a business nature. Whenever I need money, I go to him, and he furnishes me with any sum I ask, on my signing a receipt for it.”

Valerio, at this assertion, opened his black eyes to their fullest extent, crying, “‘ Wonderful banker! Extraordinary banker! The very paragon of bankers! And it makes you despondent to have such an unheard-of banker at your service! For my part, I wish I had half a dozen.”

“You would be as unhappy as I am, if you knew nothing of the source of these funds, and would be as unwilling to use them as I have become since I grew old enough to consider.”

“Pooh, nonsense! Indeed I would not,” retorted Valerio. “When I am thirsty, and come across a cool, shady brook of living water to drink from, I do not worry about its source.”

“Ah, Valerio! Your images are always of

THE YOUNG ARTISTS. II

Arcadian life, of brooks and flowery fields, of nymphs and satyrs, the innocent, golden age of Nature, when sylvan gods and lovely shepherdesses wooed in shady nooks and leafy bowers. But we live in a wicked, corrupt world, where at every step you may stumble on a crime.” Here Silvio dropped his voice almost to a whisper, and added with intense feeling, ““Who furnishes this money? What right have Itoit? WhoamI[?”

His friend hardly allowed him to finish speaking, but broke forth with, “Who are you? Why, one of the noblest men ever created. Have I shared your room while we were boys at college, students at the academy, artists in our studio, not to know what a loving soul, a fine intellect, a kind friend, an honest man, a brave artist, you are?”’ So saying, he clasped Silvio in his arms with a spontaneous movement of affection and enthusiasm, prompted by his ardent, lofty nature.

“If that is enough for you, generous friend, it is not enough for the world—it is not enough for me,” returned Silvio with deep emotion.

“Pooh, nonsense!” rejoined Valerio, resuming his wonted cheerfulness. ‘Drive . away these gloomy thoughts. Let the obscure past take care of itself. Live for art and the future. Nature has endowed you with the vital spark of genius, which she denies to millions. Be thankful for that, and ask no more. Why dive into mysteries which you cannot solve, and which, if solved, might become sources of misery? Let us speak no more of it; and forgive my carelessness, which started a subject that should be sacred between us. Come, let me see your picture.”

Silvio stepped aside, and Valerio stood gazing at it with the enthusiastic admiration which appreciative natures feel when in the presence of a creation of genius. He remained silent a long time ; then, turning to his friend, he said, —

“It is worthy of Guido Reni, my dear fellow. How wonderfully beautiful! What softness, what delicacy! But why that cloud of melancholy in her expression? Yet—wait’’—and he examined the picture still more attentively, then resumed, smiling, “Why, Silvio! did you use the looking-glass fora model? It is your

THE YOUNG ARTISTS. 13 own face idealized. It might be the portrait of your sister, if you had one. Is it a portrait, or a fancy of your own?”

“A mere copy of an ideal that has been haunting me,” replied Silvio.

“T see that it is an ideal, for no such angelic creature ever graced this earth. Well done, Silvio, well done. It is your masterpiece, and will surely place you at the head of our profession.”

“You are too partial, Valerio, too enthusiastic,”” |

“Not on a question of art, I assure you. I would not have said so, if it were not my honest conviction,” replied Valerio; then, glancing at his watch, he added hurriedly, ‘“‘ Why, it’s twelve o’clock! and I must be off for my lesson to the fair American.”

“Don’t forget to give her my best regards.”

‘‘Love, you mean. I will remember,” said Valerio with a smile full of meaning.

“Don’t be foolish, Valerio. You know I — have no such thought. Moreover, you pay her far more attention than I do.”

“YT did until I saw that she preferred you.

So I stopped short at friendship, and now we talk and laugh, and are as merry as crickets; but I resign her to you for the softer sentiments.”

“You rattlepate!’”” remonstrated Silvio in a reproachful tone. ‘You know perfectly well that there can never be any thing between us. There is a barrier too strong ever to be broken through.”

“Oh, nonsense! Don’t talk so. If you cannot break through it, Love will lend you his light wings to fly over it, were it as high as the Alps. Good-morning. Meet us on the Pincio, for we are going there to sketch.”

He changed his coat, looked into a dusty glass to adjust his cravat, took a cane, and left the room. At the foot of the stairs he met a venerable Capuchin father coming up. “Father Francesco!” he exclaimed, kissing his rosary.

“The peace of the Lord be with you,” replied the friar in a winning tone. ‘“ Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“Oh! I have a lesson to give; but I am very glad you have come, Silvio is so low-spirited. Do cheer him up while Iam gone.” And kissing his beads again, he hurried off.

CHAPTER IL THE CAPUCHIN FATHER.

ATHER FRANCESCO was one of those

venerable monks whose type is fast disappearing from Italy. His face reminded one of the head of the Moses of Michael Angelo. His beard, white as snow, fell to a great length over his breast. He had a broad, high forehead, an aquiline nose, a mouth retaining still the fresh coloring of youth and an expression of singular sweetness. His hands and bare sandalled feet were unusually white, his movements slow and dignified, contrasting strongly with the coarse maroon-colored tunic, and girdle of white cord, whence depended the long rosary of rough wooden beads. He made a picture worthy of the pencil of a Raphael, as he slowly ascended the stairs, and stood for a moment on the threshold of the young artist’s studio, before saying, in a gentle voice, “ Deo gratias.”

Silvio, who had reseated himself thoughtfully before the portrait, started up, and ran towards him as a child would to his mother, seizing his rosary to kiss; but the monk prevented him, raising him from his bending posture, and embraced him tenderly, saying, —

“What now, my son? How goes it with you? Your last letter gave me a great deal of anxiety, and I hastened my usual visit to Rome on purpose to see you. What has happened ?”

“Oh! nothing outwardly; but I wanted so much to see you, to speak to you, to ask your advice. But first sit down, and tell me how you are.”

He closed the door, seated the venerable man in a straw arm-chair, and, drawing forward a low stool, sat down close beside him, looking up affectionately into his face.

“T am very well for my age, thank God; but tell me about yourself. Why were you so anxious to see me?”

“Ah, father! for the last month or two my mind has been harassed by dreadful fancies,” replied the youth, coloring

THE CAPUCHIN FATHER. ay 4

“Drive them away as evil temptations, my son.”

“Oh, if I only could!” cried Silvio; then, as if carried away by his feelings, and glad to be able to unburden his heart to one whom he so loved and revered, he continued with agitation, “Father Francesco, the darkness that envelops my past life has of late weighed heavily upon my spirit. I can recall only your benevolent face appearing to me at school, at the Academy, in my studio, watching over my education, my welfare, ever kind, ever loving, but with never a word that could dispel the mystery. I have dutifully respected your secrets ; but now the time has come when my prospects in life, my fame, my future happiness, depend on the knowledge that you alone possess. Look at my paintings. There they hang; for I dare not exhibit them at the Academy, though every one says they are worthy of a place there.”

“And why not, my son?”

At this question, the young man looked up, respectfully but somewhat reproachfully, at Father Francesco, as he slowly replied in a lower tone, —

“Do you ask me why? By what name shall I sign them ?”

The pious monk calmly returned his imploring gaze, and, resting his hand gently on his head, replied, —

«Silvio. Is not Silvio a good name for an artist? It was after mature deliberation that I chose for you this profession, in which you already excel, and promise to rival the old masters. Art needs no genealogy. The world says Raphael, Guido, Michael Angelo, Titian ; and that suffices. Work, my son; imitate their example; be a great artist and a good man; and Silvio will be a name praised, admired, revered, by all who love worth and genius.”

The young man shook his head doubtfully, saying, “Ah, Father Francesco! your benevolent heart inspires your head; and you always find words to quiet my restless. spirit, and arouse better aspirations. But if fame can excite my ambition, it can never satisfy my heart. The world may admire the artist, but will avoid the man; for it is not enough to say I am honest, virtuous, intelligent, inspired by genius, if a cloud hangs over my birth. Men will sneer” —

THE CAPUCHIN FATHER. I9

At this point the aged monk checked his growing excitement by a gentle touch, and with a sympathizing voice interrupted him.

“Be patient and humble, my son. Bear with firmness both the good and the evil which may befall you. Had it been in my power to relieve your mind, I would have done so long ago. But I am a servant of the Lord’s poor: my duty requires me to assist them in their misfortunes, without inquiring too closely into their causes; and thanks be unto Him, that, with His assistance, I have been able to do so.”

“Indeed you have, my benefactor!” exclaimed Silvio, repenting his impatience — “indeed you have. I owe to you all that I am, — to your paternal care, to your advice, to your good example.”

“Not to me alone, my son; for Iam only a humble instrument in the hands of others,” replied the monk, unwilling to take credit that did not belong to him.

“Who, who? The banker?” inquired Silvio anxiously.

“Oh, no! not he. He is merely a business agent.”

“Who is it, then?” cried Silvio, his tone rising almost to imperiousness as he asked the question. But as he met the calm eyes and compassionate expression of the venerable old man, he checked his impetuosity, and implored, “OQ Father Francesco, by the love you have borne me from my infancy, by the filial affection with which I have returned it, tell me, I beseech you, tell me!”

Father Francesco sat tenderly regarding the slender youth, whose delicately cut features and long chestnut hair reminded the observer of Leonardo’s St. John, and, gently smoothing his ruffled locks with his soft white hand, spoke slowly and gravely :—

“Calm yourself, my son: you know well that what has been revealed to us under the seal of confession is buried in our bosoms as in the grave. Ask no more.” Then in a lighter tone, as if to change the conversation, he added, “But why so anxious about yourself all of a sudden? You never showed much concern about it before.”

Silvio, at this question, rose from his low seat, retreated a step, and, facing the good father with almost the look and attitude of an tmprovisatore, replied, —

‘“‘ Because a new sensation has been awakened within me, a new dawn has opened on the dark horizon of my existence, the rays of a new sun have penetrated to the dormant faculties of my soul, and awakened me to a new life. Until now I have worshipped only Art, and to her Silvio was all-sufficient; but will Silvio be enough for the living realization of my ideal?”

Father Francesco sat watching as the changing expressions chased each other over the young man’s face. At first he seemed serious and concerned, but at these last words a genial smile lit up his face. He rose from his chair, threw his arms round him, saying, —

“Why, Silvio, you in love! Well, well, poor boy! I understand you now, and feel for you deeply. It would have been better if you had entered the monastery, as I first proposed ; but you had no vocation for it, and I did not insist. Now what I might have expected has happened: you are in love, and naturally fear that the unknown past will be an obstacle in your way.”

Then, after a long pause of deep thought, he resumed, “Do not despair: I am going back to Sonnino in a day or two, and you had better come to me there as soon as you can. The mountain air will do you good; and who knows but that I may be able to arrange something in regard to this matter?”

“At Sonnino?”’ repeated Silvio with great surprise, unable to imagine what possible connection he could have with that isolated mountain village. But Father Francesco, seeing the direction of his thoughts, somewhat dryly replied, —

“Why, yes! the quiet of the convent life will soothe your excitement, and steady your brain. Come, no more of this: what have you been painting lately?” 7

“This is my last work: I have just finished it,’ said Silvio, pointing to the picture on the easel, and drawing the shades so as to throw the proper light upon it.

Father Francesco examined it with much interest, and with the eye of a connotsseur, then said approvingly, —

“Beautiful, Silvio, beautiful! a masterpiece !

Is it a portrait, or an ideal for a Madonna? But if a Madonna,” he added in a moment or two, “you have shown a vanity unworthy of you. You have painted your own features softened into a woman’s face.”

“No, no! Father Francesco. I must not deceive you. It is not an ideal face: it is a life-size portrait, enlarged from this miniature that has always hung round my neck.” He took a locket from his bosom, and handed it to Father Francesco. The monk opened it, and, while comparing it with the portrait, observed, —

“Oh, yes! I remember now. You had it on when you were intrusted to my care. Your copy is very accurate, a perfect likeness. You have succeeded admirably, my dear Silvio, admirably; only you have given her a sadder expression than in the original.”

While the father was speaking, Silvio watched him earnestly, then, bending towards him, asked eagerly, —

“Was she truly my mother?”

Not a muscle of Father Francesco’s face changed as he calmly replied, —

“T have told you so often. Besides, your likeness to her is sufficient to remove every doubt from your mind.”

And he returned the miniature. Silvio pressed it to his lips, exclaiming, ‘“O mother, mother! Why did I never know you?”

Father Francesco rested one hand on the youth’s shoulder, and, bending over him until his long white beard blended with the young painter’s bright curls, said with tender sympathy, —

“Remember that many lose their mothers in childhood. Grieve not, for she is in heaven among the blessed. Pay her the tribute of love you owe by reproducing her dear face, invested with the halo with which genius immortalizes its subjects.”

While they were thus standing before the easel gazing at the picture, the door, which was behind them, opened noiselessly, and a strangelooking man, standing for a moment on the threshold as they were speaking, stepped forward softly, and looked over their shoulders at the portrait. The sight of it seemed to startle him terribly; and an irrepressible exclamation,

“Ah, Silvia!” escaped his lips. Engrossed as they were, the cry, though quickly suppressed, reached their ears; and turning, they found themselves face to face with a model.

Chapter III. The Model

ATHER FRANCESCO was the first to speak. He exclaimed in a voice of extreme astonishment, “ What! You here!” Silvio, however, who had also turned, recognized the intruder, and said carelessly, — “Why, is that you, Antonio? Where the deuce did you drop from?” Then, noticing Father Francesco’s amazement, he said to him, “You know Antonio, it seems. He is my favorite model. I have painted him in every imaginable character.”

“Antonio! model!” repeated Father Francesco almost mechanically. Then a rapid interchange of glances passed between him and the model, who hastily interrupted him, saying, — “Why not? DoInot make a good model? When work is scarce in our mountains, I come to the city, and earn something this way.”

Italians, especially those of the southern provinces, have a peculiar faculty of speaking by almost imperceptible glances. Any one acquainted with that faculty, which they have reduced almost to a science, would have understood Father Francesco to say, with that single flash of his eyes, “Do you dare to come to the city?”’ and Antonio to reply, “Hush! Fear not for me;”’ and all so quickly done, that Silvio, though an Italian himself, having no cause to suspect any secrets between the two, did not perceive it. Father Francesco, after this silent recognition, turned to the artist, and in a quiet, indifferent manner, said, —

“T was surprised to see Antonio here. He belongs in our neighborhood; but I was not aware that he came to town as a model.”

“Oh, yes!” replied Silvio. “I have known him ever so long. Anda splendid model he is. Look at him.’”’ So saying, he seized Antonio by the arm, and turned him round and round before Father Francesco, praising every detail of his figure, and the artistic arrangement of his peasant dress, much to the inward astonishment of the good monk, who wondered that

Antonio allowed himself to be so unceremoniously handled.

The admiration of the young artist was not undeserved, for Antonio was indeed a specimen of the finest type of the Roman contadinz, as he appeared then; for models have the same privilege as actors, and make themselves up for the characters they are meant to represent. He had an oval face, a complexion bronzed by the Italian sun, an aquiline nose, piercing black eyes, and a black beard slightly tinged with gray, but intentionally rough and tangled, as if no comb or brush had touched it for weeks. His hair, evidently a wig, was very black, long, and hung in a mass of tight ringlets. He was dressed in the traditional contadino costume: the olive jacket with its small brass buttons, the red vest, coarse shirt, blue leggings, and sheepskin coverings strapped on his feet, giving facility in climbing steep rocks, and treading the pavements as noiselessly as if shod with velvet. He had not, however, the hard hands of a laborer; and through a slight opening in his shirt one could perceive under-linen, very white, and of a much finer quality than such people generally wear.

After Silvio had finished his exhibition to Father Francesco, he resumed, ‘Well, what do you think of him? Is he not a fine model? Though he is very uncertain ; for he is here for a few days, and then we do not see him for months. But he is very faithful to me, coming always to my studio when he is in town.”

“You are so good and generous,” insinuated Antonio.

Silvio, not to be outdone in courtesy, returned, “And you are so patient and good-natured, — standing for hours in one position while I sketch. But I am sorry I have nothing for you just now, for I have been painting a female figure. Look at it, Antonio. What do you think of it?”

Antonio needed no invitation ; for, ever since he had been in the room, his eyes had eagerly turned to the picture whenever he had had an opportunity. At this question, he replied involuntarily, with suppressed agitation, ‘‘ Wonderful! Wonderful likeness!”

Silvio started in astonishment, crying, ‘“ Likeness? To whom? Have you ever seen the original ?”

But Antonio had recovered his self-possession, and replied, “Oh, no! I meant—likeness —to yourself. It resembles you so strongly: it is yourown image. It must be a sister of yours, eh?”

“No, Antonio. It is the portrait of my mother, which I have copied from a miniature.”

“Your mother! Oh, yes! But you are wonderfully like her,—a striking likeness.” As he spoke, he glanced alternately at Silvio and at the picture with intense admiration. Then, as if afraid of showing too much interest, he asked carelessly, —

“Jt is quite finished, isn’t it?”

Mey CS, -QUILE.-

“Then, why don’t you begin something new, and employ me? I may stay several days in thescity.’:

“No, Antonio. JI have promised to pay Father Francesco a visit at Sonnino.”

“At Sonnino?” repeated Antonio, surprised.

“Yes, at Sonnino, at the convent,” said Father Francesco.

“At your convent? Then perhaps I may meet you there.”

“Very well, Antonio,” replied Silvio; ‘and, if you bring some of your handsome coztadinas, I may paint a group of you among your native rocks.”

“Any thing you like, Signor Silvio: always at your service,” ejaculated Antonio, hat in hand, bowing obsequiously.

« Good-by then, @ rzvederci,” said Silvio ; and, dismissing him, he put a gold napoleon ‘into his hand, which Antonio received with humble thanks.

“ Always good, always generous! The Lord reward you!” But as he left the room, he slipped it carelessly into one of his many pockets.

Father Francesco had stood intently watching the two, particularly the model. A cloud of suspicion darkened his broad forehead, and he seemed uneasy and perplexed. When Antonio, after taking leave of Silvio, respectfully kissed his hand to Father Francesco (as is the custom of the contadini when they meet an ecclesiastic), another interchange of glances passed between them, Father Francesco intimating, ‘I must speak to you soon,” and Antonio promising compliance.