Monaldi: a tale

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^V

MON ALDI.

\1 0 N A L D I

Introduction

of those mental illusions which the resemblance between past and present objects is wont to call forth. Italy seemed for the time forgotten ; I was journeying homeward, and a vision of beaming, affectionate faces passed before me ; I crossed the threshold, and heard — oh, how touching is that soundless voice of welcoming in a day-dream of home — I heard the joyful cry of recognition, and a painful fulness in my throat made me struggle for words — when, at a sudden turn in the road, my carriage was brought to the ground.

Fortunately I received no injury in the fall ; but my spell of happiness was broken, and I felt again that I was in Italy. On recovering my legs, I called to the postilion to help me right the carriage. He crossed himself very devoutly, and said it was impossible without other assistance ; and how to get that he knew not, as we were several miles from any habitation. The vettura was light, and I thought we could manage it ourselves; but I remonstrated in vain. He said it could not be done ; and quietly seating himself on a stone, began striking a light for his pipe. This movement seemed suspicious. Though Italy at that time was but little infested with banditti, the armies of the revolution having drained off the worst of her population, I yet could not quite free" my mind from apprehension. " We must wait," said the postilion, "till some traveller passes." At that moment I heard a shrill whistle from the glen below. This was no time for parleying ; so, snatching up my portmanteau, I cocked my pistols, and bade the postilion go on before me at his peril. I then followed him with all speed. As we passed an angle of the road, I thought he made an attempt to slip aside down a narrow defile to the left, whence I distinctly heard another whistle, as in answer to the first. This satisfied me of his treachery, and, pointing to my pistol, " the instant I am attacked," said I, " you are a dead man ; so, if you value your life, take the first path that leads to a house."

The tone in which I uttered this threat had the desired effect. He quickened his pace, and in a few minutes, cautiously whispering " to the right," he led the way into a narrow sheep-track, winding up the side of the mountain. Though swift of foot, it was as much as I could do to keep up with him, fear seeming to have lent him wings. And though the path was often obstructed by loose stones and brambles, we continued to ascend at the same pace, as I should guess, for near half an hour, when we entered upon a small plain, or mountain heath. The moon was just up, and I thought I could discern something like a human dwelling. I asked what it was. " For the love of heaven, go not near it," said the postilion ; " 't is the house of the mad." — Suspecting him of some artifice, I presented my pistol and bade him go on. Twice he stopped and attempted to speak, but his teeth chattered so with fear that he could not articulate. Finding me, however, determined, he proceeded ; but we had scarcely reached the spot, when, uttering a cry of terror, he gave a sudden spring back, and darted by me like an arrow. I looked behind me, but he was out of sight. I then turned towards the building, when I, too, involuntarily drew back : it was indeed no other than the unhappy object of the postilion's panic.

He was sitting on a stone, in a little spot of moonshine, before the door of his hovel, so that I had a full view of his figure, except the legs, which appeared to be half buried in a hole, worn into the earth by long and continued treading. But there was no motion now in his feet, nor in any part of him ; he was fixed, like the stone he sat on ; his eyes riveted as if on some object before him. — Such eyes ! I shall never forget them ; they were neither fierce nor fiery, but white and shining, like the eyes of a dead man, with their last expression fixed upon them. Of the rest of his face I have only a general impression that it was pale, and his beard black and bushy ; for I seemed then only to see his eyes, in their ghastly whiteness ; and even now while I write, I shudder at the recollection of their passive, enduring look of misery.

There is a fascination in fearful objects so strong with some as oftentimes to counteract the will. I would have passed on, but something seemed to fasten me, as it were, to the spot, and I stood before him like one statue gazing upon another. Neither could I speak ; not that I was checked by anything like fear ; it was rather by the sad conviction that all intercourse was hopeless. I felt that I could touch no chord of a mind so fearfully unstrung, and that words would but fall upon his brain like drops of water upon marble.

Happily I was soon relieved of this painful constraint by the approach of an old woman, who, as I afterwards learnt, was an inhabitant of the dwelling. The sound of her voice seemed to have an instant effect on the unhappy being ; he started as from a trance, and giving me a hurried look, as if perceiving me for the first time, darted into the cottage. I would gladly have staid to satisfy my curiosity with some particulars of his history, but the old woman, who spoke only a barbarous provincial dialect, was quite unintelligible ; I understood enough of it, however, to obtain from her a direction to the nearest convent, which to my great comfort I found was within a short distance.

Following her direction, I soon reached the convent, where my reception was so courteous as soon to drive from my mind the vexatious cause of my intrusion, the superior himself coming forward to do the honors of his house, and conducting me to the refectory. The monks, who had just sat down to supper, rose as I entered, and respectfully invited me to the table. I believe I did ample justice to their hospitality ; for a sense of present security added to my late exercise had given unusual keenness to my appetite. The good fathers seemed to take a pleasure in seeing me eat, and I thanked them in my heart.

The gratuitous kindness of a stranger will often touch us more sensibly for the moment than the welcome even of a friend ; it seems to give a wider play to our good feelings, to generalize as it were our affections, and make us ashamed of all narrow or exclusive likings. It was quickly perceived that I had a proper sense of the courtesy of my entertainers, and all my reserve was soon banished. I felt as if I was amongst friends. But I was more particularly attracted by the prior. He was a venerable old man, apparently above sixty ; of a commanding and even lofty presence, yet tempered by benignity ; but the cast of his countenance seemed inclining to melancholy ; perhaps this might have been owing to the expression of his eyes, which had somewhat of an inward look, as if he had been used to dwell rather on past images in the memory than on those about him. As I looked on his face I could not help thinking there had once been a time when his interest in the world was as strong as mine ; when hopes and fears, and all that make up the tide of passion, had their ebbs and flows about his heart. These thoughts seemed to force my respect, and I forgot, as I listened to him, all my prejudices against monks and monasteries. It is not easy for one to inspire esteem without perceiving it ; the worthy father was not wanting in tact, and we became as sociable before the evening closed as if we had known each other for years.

Having expressed a wish to see the curiosities of the place, the good prior the next morning offered his services as my cicerone. As I followed him to the chapel, he observed, that his convent had little to gratify the taste of an ordinary traveller ; " but if you are a connoisseur," he added, " you will find few places better worth visiting. I perceive you think the picture opposite hardly 2 bears me out in this assertion. I agree with you. It is certainly very insipid, and the mass of our collection is little better ; but we have one that redeems them all — one picture worth twenty common galleries." As he said this, we stopped before a crucifixion by Lanfranco. Next to his great work at St. Andrea della Valle, it was the best I had seen of that master. Though eccentric and somewhat capricious, it was yet full of powerful expression, and marked by a vigor of execution that made every thing around it look like washed drawings. " Yes," said I, supposing this the picture alluded to, " and I can now agree with you, 't is worth a thousand of the flimsy productions of the last age." " True," answered the prior ; " but

I did not allude " Here he was called out on

business of the convent.

After waiting some time for my conductor's return, and finding little worth looking at besides the Lan franc, I turned to leave the chapel by the way I had entered ; but, taking a wrong door, I came into a dark passage, leading, as I supposed, to an inner court. This being my first visit to a convent, a natural curiosity tempted me to proceed, when, instead of a court, I found myself in a large apartment. The light (which descended from above) was so powerful, that for nearly a minute I could distinguish nothing, and I rested on a form attached to the wainscoating. I then put up my hand to shade my eyes, when — the fearful vision is even now before me — I seemed to be standing before an abyss in space, boundless and black. In the midst of this permeable pitch stood a colossal mass of gold, in shape like an altar, and girdled about by a huge serpent, gorgeous and terrible ; his body flecked with diamonds, and his head, an enormous carbuncle, floating like a meteor on the air above. Such was the Throne. But no words can describe the gigantic Being that sat thereon — the grace, the majesty, its transcendant form ; and yet I shuddered as I looked, for its superhuman countenance seemed, as it were, to radiate falsehood ; every feature was in contradiction — the eye, the mouth, even to the nostril — whilst the expression of the whole was of that unnatural softness which can only be conceived of malignant blandishment. It was the appalling! beauty of the King of Hell. The frightful discord vibrated through my whole frame, and I turned for relief to the figure below ; for at his feet knelt one who appeared to belong to our race of earth. But I had turned from the first only to witness in this second object its withering fascination. It was a man apparently in the prime of life, but pale and emaciated, as if prematurely wasted by his unholy devotion, yet still devoted — with outstretched hands, and eyes upraised to their idol, fixed with a vehemence that seemed almost to start them from their sockets. The agony of his eye, contrasting with the prostrate, reckless worship of his attitude, but too well told his tale : I beheld the mortal conflict between the conscience and the will — the visible struggle of a soul in the toils of sin. I could look no longer.

As I turned, the prior was standing before me. " Yes," said he, as if replying to my thoughts, " it is indeed terrific. Had you beheld it unmoved, you had been the first that ever did so."

" There is a tremendous reality in the picture that comes home to every man's imagination ; even the dullest feel it, as if it had the power of calling up that faculty in minds never before conscious of it."

The effect of this extraordinary work was so unlike what I had hitherto experienced from pictures, that it was not until some time after I had returned to my companion's apartment, that I thought of making any inquiry concerning the artist.

" Your curiosity is natural," said the prior ; " but I cannot talk on this subject." The good man here turned away to conceal his emotion. I could not with decency press him further, and rose to retire ; when he requested me to stop. After a little while, unlocking a cabinet, he put into my hands the following manuscript. " There," said he, " if you wish to know more of the picture and its author, is what will satisfy you. I do not offer it to gratify your curiosity : it will touch, if I mistake not, a worthier feeling. The narrative is brief, and, perhaps, somewhat sketchy ; but it is sufficiently particular for the purpose for which it was written. It was drawn up by one well acquainted with most of the persons you will find described in it."

MONALDI.

Chapter I

AMONG the students of a seminary at Bologna were two friends, more remarkable for their attachment to each other, than for any resemblance in their minds or dispositions. Indeed there was so little else in common between them, that hardly two boys could be found more unlike. The character of Maldura, the eldest, was bold, grasping, and ostentatious ; while that of Monaldi, timid and gentle, seemed to shrink from observation. The one, proud and impatient, was ever laboring for distinction ; the world, palpable, visible, audible, was his idol ; he lived only in externals, and could neither act nor feel but for effect ; even his secret reveries having an outward direction, as if he could not think without a view to praise, and anxiously referring to the opinion of others ; in short, his nightly and his daily dreams had but one subject — the talk and the eye of the crowd. The other, silent and meditative, seldom looked out of himself either for applause or enjoyment ; if he ever did so, it was only that he might add to, or sympathize in the triumph of another ; this done, he retired again, as it were to a world of his own, where thoughts and feelings, filling the place of men and things, could always supply him with occupation and amusement.

Had the ambition of Maldura been less, or his self-knowledge greater, he might have been a benefactor to the world. His talents were of a high order. Perhaps few have ever surpassed him in the power of acquiring ; to this he united perseverance ; and all that was known, however various and opposite, he could master at will. But here his power stopped; beyond the regions of discovered knowledge he could not see, and dared not walk, for to him all beyond was " outer darkness ;" in a word, with all his gifts he wanted that something, whatever it might be, which gives the living principle to thought. But this sole deficiency was the last of which he suspected himself.

With that self-delusion so common to young men of mistaking the praise of what is promising for that of the thing promised, he too rashly confounded the ease with which he carried all the prizes of his school with the rare power of commanding at pleasure the higher honors of the world.

But the honors of a school are for things and purposes far different from those demanded and looked for by the world. Maldura unfortunately did not make the distinction. His various knowledge, though ingeniously brought together, and skilfully set anew, was still the knowledge of other men ; it did not come forth as in new birth, from the modifying influence of his own nature. His mind was hence like a thing of many parts, yet wanting a whole — that realizing quality which the world must feel before it will reverence. In proportion to its stores such a mind will be valued, and even admired ; but it cannot command that inward voice — the only true voice of fame, which speaks not, be it in friend or enemy, till awakened by the presence of a master spirit.

Such were the mind and disposition of Maldura ; and from their unfortunate union sprang all the after evils in his character. As yet, however, he was known to himself and others only as a remarkable boy. His extraordinary attainments placing him above competition, he supposed himself incapable of so mean a passion as envy ; indeed the high station from which he could look down on his associates gave a complacency to his mind not unfavorable to the gentler virtues ; he was, therefore, often kind, and even generous without an effort. Besides, though he disdained to affect humility, he did not want discretion, and that taught him to bear his honors without arrogance. His claims were consequently admitted by his schoolfellows without a murmur. But there was one amongst them whose praises were marked by such warmth and enthusiasm as no heart not morally insensible could long withstand ; this youth was Monaldi. Maldura naturally had strong feelings, and so long as he continued prosperous and happy, their course was honorable. He requited the praises of his companion with his esteem and gratitude, which soon ripened into a friendship so sincere that he believed he could even lay down his life for him.

It was in this way that two natures so opposite became mutually attracted. But the warmth and magnanimity of Monaldi were all that was yet known to the other ; for, though not wanting in academic learning, he was by no means distinguished ; indeed, so little, that Maldura could not but feel and lament it.

The powers of Monaldi, however, were yet to be called forth. And it was not surprising that to his youthful companions he should have then appeared inefficient, there being a singular kind of passiveness about him easily mistaken for vacancy. But his was like the passiveness of some uncultured spot, lying unnoticed within its nook of rocks, and silently drinking in the light, and the heat, and the showers of heaven, that nourish the seeds of a thousand nameless flowers, destined one day to bloom and to mingle their fragrance with the breath of nature. Yet to common observers the external world seemed to lie only

" Like a load upon his weary eye ; "

but to them it appeared so because he delighted to shut it out, and to combine and give another life to the images it had left in his memory ; as if he would sleep to the real and be awake only to a world of shadows. But, though his emotions seldom betrayed themselves by any outward signs, there was nothing sluggish in the soul of Monaldi ; it was rather their depth and strength that prevented their passage through the feeble medium of words. He regarded nothing in the moral or physical world as tiresome or insignificant ; every object had a charm, and its harmony and beauty, its expression and character, all passed into his soul in all their varieties, while his quickening spirit brooded over them as over the elementary forms of a creation of his own. Thus living in the life he gave, his existence was too intense and extended to be conceived by the common mind : hence the neglect and obscurity in which he passed his youth.

But the term of pupilage soon came to an end, and the friends parted — each, as he could, to make his way in the world.

The profession which Monaldi had chosen for the future occupation of his life was that of a painter ; to which, however, he could not be said to have come wholly unprepared. The slight sketch just given of him will show that the most important part, the mind of a painter, he already possessed ; the nature of his amusements (in which, some one has well observed, men are generally most in earnest,) having unconsciously disciplined his mind for this pursuit. He had looked at Nature with the eye of a lover ; none of her minutest beauties had escaped him, and all that were stirring to a sensitive heart and a romantic imagination were treasured up in his memory, as themes of delightful musing in her absence : and they came to him in those moments with that neverfailing freshness and life which love can best give to the absent. But the skill and the hand of an artist were still to be acquired.

But perseverance, if not a mark of genius, is at least one of its practical adjuncts ; and Monaldi possessed it. Indeed there is but one mode of making endurable the perpetual craving of any master-passion — the continually laboring to satisfy it. And, so it be innocent, how sweet the reward ! giving health to the mind without the sense of toil. This Monaldi enjoyed ; for he never felt that he had been toiling, even when the dawn, as it often happened, broke in upon his labors.

Without going more into detail, in a very few years Monaldi was universally acknowledged to be the first painter in Italy. His merit, however, was not merely comparative. He differed from his contemporaries no less in kind than in degree. If he held anything in common with others, it was with those of ages past — with the mighty dead of the fifteenth century ; from them he had learned the language of his art, but his thoughts, and their turn of expression were his own. His originality, therefore was felt by all ; and his country hailed him as one coming, in the spirit of Raffaelle, to revive by his genius her ancient glory.

It is not, however, to be supposed, that the claims of the new style were allowed at once, since it required not only the acquisition of a new taste, but the abandoning an old one. In what is called a critical age, which is generally that which follows the age of production, it is rarely that an original author is well received at once. There are two classes of opponents, which he is almost sure to encounter : the one consists of those who, without feeling or imagination, are yet ambitious of the reputation of critics ; who set out with some theory, either ready made to their hands and purely traditional, or else reasoned out by themselves from some plausible dogma, which they dignify with the name of philosophy. As these criticise for distinction, every work of art becomes to them, of course, a personal affair, which they accordingly approach either as patrons or enemies ; and woe to the poor artist who shall have had the hardihood to think for himself. In the other class is comprised the well-meaning multitude, who, having no pretensions of their own, are easily awed by authority ; and, afraid to give way to their natural feeling, receive without distrust the more confident dicta of these self-created arbiters. Perhaps at no time was the effect of this peculiar usurpation more sadly illustrated than in the prescriptive commonplace which distinguished the period of which we speak. The first appearance of Monaldi was consequently met by an opposition proportioned to the degree of his departure from the current opinions. But as his good sense had restrained him from venturing before the public until by long and patient study he had felt himself entitled to take the rank of a master, he bore the attacks of his assailants with the equanimity of one who well knew that the ground he stood upon was not the quicksand of self-love. Besides, he had no vanity to be wounded, and the folly of their criticisms he disdained to notice, leaving it to time to establish his claims. Nor was this wise forbearance long unrewarded, for it is the nature of truth, sooner or later, to command recognition ; some kindred mind will at last respond to it ; and there is no true response that is not given in love ; hence the lover-like enthusiasm with which it is hailed, and dwelt upon, until the echo of like minds spreads it abroad, to be finally received by the many as a matter of faith. It was so with Monaldi.

As our business, however, is rather with the man than the painter, we shall only stop to notice one of his works ; and that less as being the cause of his final triumph, than as illustrating the peculiar character of his mind. The subject of the picture was the first sacrifice of Noah after the subsiding of the waters ; a subject of little promise from an ordinary hand, but of all others, perhaps, the best suited to exhibit that rare union of intense feeling and lofty imagination which characterized Monaldi. The composition consisted of the patriarch and his family, at the altar, which occupied the foreground ; a distant view of mount Ararat, with the ark resting on its peak ; and the intermediate vale. These were scanty materials for a picture ; but the fulness with which they seemed to distend the spectator's mind left no room for this thought. There was no dramatic variety in the kneeling father and his kneeling children ; they expressed but one sentiment — adoration ; and it seemed to go up as with a single voice. This gave the soul which the spectator felt ; but it was one that could not have gone forth under common day light, nor ever have pervaded with such emphatic life other than the shadowy valley, the misty mountain, the mysterious ark, again floating as it were on a sea of clouds, and the lurid, deeptoned sky, dark yet bright, which spoke to the imagination of a lost and recovered world — once dead, now alive, and pouring out her first song of praise even from under the pall of death.

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. 3*

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

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 coulcP 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.