Francesca Carrara

Title Pages

BY

THE AUTHOR OF

ROMANCE AND REALITY, THE VENETIAN BRACELET, &c. &c.

4"Must we in tears Unwind a love knit up by many years? I cannot break my faith—cannot re-send The truest heart that lover e'er did lend." King.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. (SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.)

1834.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, Castle Street, Leicester Square.

TO

MRS. WYNDHAM LEWIS.

Dear Madam,

May I inscribe to you the present Work?—a slight remembrance of your kindness to

Your affectionate

L. E. L.

Chapter 1

FRANCESCA CARRARA.

8

CHAPTER I.

"The remembrance of youth is a sigh." Arabian Proverb.

Toil is the portion of day, as sleep is that of night; but if there be one hour of the twenty-four which has the life of day without its labour, and the rest of night without its slumber, it is the lovely and languid hour of twilight. The shadows have not yet deepened into darkness, as yet the boughs droop not, and the fragrant leaves of the flower are still unclosed. The magnificence of the noon which excites, the mystery of the midnight which awes, are distinct from the softness of evening. It is earth's brief breathing space, after the heat and hurry of her busier time; like that repose known only to the young and happy, when the nerves gradually compose themselves, the thoughts gather into some vague but delicious train, and the eyes are closed by languor before sleep.

The day had been oppressively hot, but now a heavy dew fell, and a cool wind stirred the trees. The flowers raised their heads, and repaid the moisture by exhaling their hoarded sweetness; the thrush sang a few notes, low and soft, like the unconscious expression of enjoyment; and the cypresses, whose spiral heads had declined in the heat, now stood upright, stately and refreshed. The last hue of crimson had died away in the west, and the depth of the rich purple atmosphere was unbroken.

"It is too dark," said the young sculptor, as he let his hand fall listlessly by his side, and stood gazing on the bust, as only the lover who looks on the face beloved, and the artist who looks on his own work, can gaze. The tenderness of the one, and the pride of the other, were blended in the youth's countenance. Again he resumed his seat, but not his employment; the lulling influence of the time was upon him. Sunshine, like truth, would have been too strong for such dreams as those in which he was indulging; but they harmonised with the dim shades now flitting round. Suddenly one of those rose-edged clouds in which a chance sunbeam lingers to the last, flung, as it floated by, the full richness of its colouring on the marble. The artist was recalled, by his sense of beauty, to reality.

"O, my sister, do come and see how exquisite is this effect!" exclaimed he, with all that youthful eagerness which is impatient for sympathy in its delight.

Slowly the maiden came from the adjacent window, where she had been leaning silent and apart. But her reverie had been deeper far than his. He had dwelt on fancies—she on thought; and the charm of the one was sooner removed than the weight of the other.

"Very beautiful, Guido!" said she, kindly;—but kindness was not enough for one who wanted admiration.

Strange mystery of our nature, that those in whom genius developes itself in imagination, thus taking its most ethereal form, should yet be the most dependent on the opinions of others! Praise is their very existence; and those who have the wings of the dove, with which they might "flee away and be at rest," delight rather to linger on the high road, forgetting that where the sunshine falls, there too gathers the dust, and that the soil remains when the silver lustre has passed. Alas! thus ever does the weakness of our nature rebuke its strength, and genius is brought to the level—ay, below the level—of common humanity, by an unquenchable thirst for its applause.

"If she had been really my sister," thought Guido, "she would have entered into my feelings;" and he turned almost resentfully away. One glance at the pale cheek and glistening eyelashes of his cousin (for such she really was, though the names of brother and sister came familiar to their familiar intercourse) brought him again to her side.

"Why do you weep, dearest Francesca?" he whispered, in those low and musical tones which only affection can utter.

For reply she leant her head on his shoulder; and as he threw his arm round her waist, he could feel that strong, though suppressed, emotion shook the slight frame which he supported. He led her tenderly to the window, and they sat down together. Suddenly a few notes of distant music arose on the air. Both started as if each had some peculiar interest in the sound. The flush died as rapidly as it came on the cheek of Francesca:

"It is not yet time for vespers—it is only the song of some boatmen."

Guido gazed upon her earnestly. "Francesca, sister, dearest, you weep! Can it be that you will leave us?"

The girl raised her large eyes, yet shining with tears. Their affectionate reproach was answer enough.

"Alas!" continued he, "we are not happy as we were once wont to be; how indifferent are we grown to so much that we used to love! how altered we are, and in such brief space! No affection have we now for the snow-white doves, or the agile squirrel, in which we once took such delight; we feed them, but it is as a duty, not as a pleasure. No longer do we nurse the last glimmer in the lamp to pore over the enchanted page of Tasso. No more do we rise with the first red on the sky, and, hurrying to the green wood, call ourselves knights and enthralled princesses, and our mimic sports adventures. I keenly feel how the actual is superseding our imaginative world. Already the weight of the future is upon us; we plan and calculate, rather than hope. We find how little we have to do with our destiny, and yet, forsooth, we seek to direct it. Ever since that English stranger arrived2"

A shrill, harsh voice from the farther extremity of the chamber interrupted their discourse. "English! English!—who names under my roof the only word which is there forbidden? Talk, children, of what you list, but never let my old ears be startled by the mention of those accursed islanders!"

The speaker was an aged man—aged he seemed beyond the common lot of humanity—and thin, shrivelled, and contracted, as if the popular belief were true, that his life was prolonged by chemical secrets, and that he won from subtle drugs and essences a meagre and protracted existence. The anger of Carrara (for such was the old man's name) was of brief duration, and almost the following moment he became immersed in his former occupation.

It was a strange scene, the contrasts which met in that large but dilapidated chamber. It had been the banqueting-hall in the ancient palace of the La Franchi, but the revelry and the splendour had long since passed away. The history of its former possessors had been the history of most noble families. First pomp, finally want—the gorgeous retinue reduced to the scanty train—daughter after daughter to convent—son after son to the wars; one remnant of olden state vanishing after another, till the last of the line died a forgotten exile in some obscure skirmish far away from his native land. One or two aged dependents still lingered amid the lonely walls; they died too; and for years the deserted palace had been left to the bird, the insect, and the weed. The bat and the owl made it their home, the spider wove its dreary tapestry, the grass made its way through the tessellated floors, the moss grew over the untrodden pavement, and the ivy—the fragile and creeping ivy—was now the chief support of the battlements which it had overrun.

Fifteen years previous to the commencement of this narrative, a stranger far advanced in years had suddenly arrived in the neighbourhood, and had taken up his abode in the left wing, which part of the building was by some chance in a better state of preservation than the rest. There were none to dispute his place of refuge, whose principal attraction seemed to be a high tower yet remaining, where he could take his astronomical observations. It was soon ascertained that he subsisted on a moderate sum of money, lodged in the hands of a Lombard merchant, and that his habits were eccentric and unsocial to a degree that almost denoted an unsettled mind.

Francisco da Carrara was in reality one of those visionaries whose imagination gave its own fascination to science; he gazed on the stars with the eye of the sage, but the heart of the poet, till he deemed that to him was given the key of their mysteries, and that he read on their bright scroll the secrets of the future. His life had for years been devoted to one mystic search—the discovery of the philosopher's stone—and, like most of the enthusiasts in that wild pursuit, he firmly believed that every hour brought him nearer to an immortality upon earth, which in reality drew him closer and closer to the grave. Enduring poverty—at least privation—unremitting in his toil at the furnace, or his watch upon the night—worn, withered, and become what would now be but an object of derision—that pale alchemist was happier than many of those whose triumphs over science in our day win the gold medal, and the alphabet for an array to their name. He sufficed unto himself; no mortification, that inevitable result of competition, embittered even success.

I do believe there is no existence so content as that whose present is engrossed by employment, and whose future is filled by some strong hope, the truth of which is never proved. Toil and illusion are the only secrets to make life tolerable, and both of these were his.

He had, too, his own small sphere of usefulness; for his advice and medicines were eagerly sought by his neighbours, and their vague dread of his mysterious pursuits and supposed spiritual intercourse was merged in thankfulness for kindness and assistance. Two lovely companions had he in his solitude, his grandchildren. When he first arrived, the boy was five, and the girl nearly two, years of age. They were cousins; Guido being the child of Carrara's son, and Francesca of his daughter. More than this no one knew. The nurse who arrived with him died before she had become sufficiently confidential with any of the peasantry round to do more than hint at terrible domestic misfortunes, which had driven them from their dwelling in Padua.

The old man himself never alluded to his former life. When he went back upon the past, it was to recall honours long departed, and the deeds of an heroic house, whose splendour he often vaguely hinted he was destined to revive. There was an antique parchment, illuminated with various devices illustrative of the records of the Carrara family—there was the banner with its red fish from which they took their name—there was the celebrated Francisco, in full armour, mounted on a steed whose head was covered with white plumes—there was the likeness of the heroic Madonna Tadie—and last, not least in interest, the gloomy dungeons of Venice, where perished the brave and youthful chieftains of Padua. From this parchment, the history of the house of Carrara, he delighted to hear his young descendants read. Thus from childhood was their imagination filled with the honours of the past and the hopes of the future—hopes the more magnificent, from the vague hints which at times escaped from their usually taciturn parent.

The side of the Tiber on which they lived was thinly inhabited; a family of decayed nobility, named Mancini, and a convent of poor nuns, where the little Francesca acquired some knowledge of embroidery and of music, were their only neighbours. Guido had been entirely educated by his grandfather, who applied to the task by fits and starts; and in like manner the boy had taken frequent fancies of instructing his cousin, or, as she was always called, his sister. Guido was twenty, and Francesca seventeen. The three were now assembled in the old banqueting-hall, which, from its state of better preservation, had become their ordinary chamber.

The old man was seated in a large low armchair, whose rich carvings of black oak were almost architectural in their dimensions; it was drawn close to the huge and gloomy chimney, where was placed a small pan of charcoal, whose red glare served to show rather than disperse the gloom around. Over this was simmering a preparation of herbs, which diffused a strong but pleasant odour. A single line of light wandered amid the obscurity—it came from an open door, beyond which a winding staircase led to the tower where Carrara spent much of his time.

Farther on, the room became lighter; it was just the contrast between youth and age. The two oriel windows were especially appropriated by the cousins. At the one the day was admitted freely, and fell on the various products of the sculptor's skill; all touched with something of melancholy, which in youth seems to prophesy the fate it afterwards, perhaps, serves to fulfil. There were casts of the Gladiator—he whose native courage struggled against the doom which was yet welcome—a mournful allegory of honour. The Niobe stricken by that inexorable destiny which the ancients so well knew was never yet shunned nor propitiated by human effort. The Antinoüs, where death is in a face of youthful beauty—the shadow of the tomb resting upon hope and love. Below were two or three graceful urns, but wreathed with cypress; and a vase, but a serpent was coiled around it. In the midst was a nearly finished bust, and the sculptor might well direct the eye to mark the spiritual expression it wore in the purple shadows of evening; so pale, so pure, yet so tender. Another moment, and that transparent cheek would surely redden into blushes. The hair fell in curls over the face, and was gathered up behind in a knot, from which hung some rich ringlets. These, however, did not conceal the haughty turn of the head, erect like that of a young Semiramis. The features were somewhat less regular than is usual with an Italian face, but their expression in the marble was full of sweetness.

Over the other window an odoriferous creeping-plant had been carefully trained, and the slender leaves and clusters of pale blue flowers were like a fretted arabesque on the clear and amber-hued air. A few books were ranged on one side; a lute leant against the other, near which was a frame half hidden by a piece of unfinished embroidery. In the centre was a small table, and on it was placed a vase filled with roses.

The two cousins were resting on the window-seat. The family likeness between them was slight, though it might be traced in the Greek nose and short upper lip. The youth had the clear olive skin of the south, but warmed with that flushed and variable crimson which is the outward sign of the feverish and sensitive temperament—while the large dark eyes were strangely mournful for one whose years and sorrows had been so few. The girl was without a tinge of colour, but very fair; the soft white of the Parian marble strongly contrasted with hair of the most ebon black—at first the long and shadowy lashes made the downcast eye seem also dark, but when raised it was of that intense and violet blue, so rarely seen but in children, or in April skies. There was more energy, and therefore more hope, in her face than in that of Guido. The mind depends more on the body than we like to admit—and Francesca's childhood had been unbroken by the weakness and pain which had so often stretched Guido on a bed of sickness, beside which only affection could have hoped—affection, that believes not in death, until it be present in the house.

It is as truly as it is beautifully said, that "perfect love casteth out fear" even in our frail nature; and the love between those two orphans was as perfect as human love could be. At no sacrifice for the one could the other have hesi , and no sacrifice would it have seemed—the most entire devotion would have appeared a simple act of their ordinary affection. Guido knew that the image of another was graven on the inmost heart of each. With that knowledge came no coldness—no distrust—but firmer reliance and deeper confidence.

Again music rose on the air; this time they really heard the convent chimes. Francesca rose from her seat, and took her veil.

"Shall I go with you, dearest?"

"Not now; I will tell you all, to-morrow," was the almost inaudible reply. Both turned from the door, though each took a different path.

At first Guide's step was slow, and he walked as one absorbed in mournful thought; but at a turn in his path, which commanded the country below, his face brightened, and he sprung on his way, as if every moment of his time were precious. He soon arrived at the villa of the Mancini, where his evenings were usually spent; how much more cheerful was it than his own home!

The Marchese was, as usual, closeted in his own chamber, where, since his wife's death at least, he enjoyed that indolent quiet in which he delighted. His daughters were assembled in a large hall, opening on the garden; the two younger were seated by a cage of rare foreign birds from the golden isles of Canary, half-caressing, half-teasing them—the two elder were standing beneath the verandah, seemingly in earnest discourse. It was easy to recognise in the tallest the original of the bust; but either the look she bent on the young sculptor was not such as she often wore, or else he had given its softness from his own heart, for scorn was native to those features, and disdain familiar to her keen and falcon-like eyes.

"Ah, no!" said her sister, a fair, timid-looking girl, who though in reality the elder by two years, yet appeared the junior; "I should like a home like a nest, in some quiet valley. Do you remember the fairy tale of the two lovers, who, surrounded by enemies, were saved from the terrible giant who, pursued the princess, by being turned into doves? How happily must they have dwelt in the greenwood together!"

"Yes; hunting for worms or barleycorns, hatching their eggs, and trembling at every schoolboy that came near. Give me the vest glittering with jewels; the high place at the tournament, the gaze of every knight turned upon me, till even he who fought against the one wearing my colours, felt, as he laid lance in rest, that the strife was vain; how could he combat in honour of that beauty which his own eyes saw was far surpassed?"

"And he who wore your colours?"

"That five hundred should be proud to do; the best and proudest of the land. Pity it were for starry eyes not to emulate the stars, and shine on many. I own one lover is difficult to manage; for to one lover you may have yielded more of your heart than I care to surrender of mine. But the many—why, I should hold them as we do yonder branch of roses—we like their general effect, and care not if one drop off, so that another supply its place. Fancy now a lighted hall, and a group of white-plumed cavaliers; I would have a smile for one, a sigh for a second, a frown for a third."

"And in the meantime, till these honours arrive, you have me to rehearse with, and Guido Carrara to practise upon."

"Nonsense!"

"Yes, to you who have no stronger motive than amusement—no deeper feeling than vanity; but, Marie, you are cruel to trifle with a love so earnest, so devoted2"

"That you would like to be its object. Pray take him—you are very welcome; ah, yonder he comes! now I will be disinterested, confide to him the passion he has inspired, protest against being your rival, and generously resign him."

"The sacrifice would be too great, for there is no one here to supply his place," interrupted her sister, somewhat more angrily than the occasion required: but at this moment Guido ascended the steps which led to the little terrace where they now stood.

"We have been expecting you some time," said Henrietta, kindly.

"I saw you in eager discourse, as I approached."

"We were," replied Marie, "employed in aërial architecture—the future for our groundwork; I was fancying a lover for myself."

"A lover!" answered Guido, in a low and altered voice.

"Ay, such a lover as these degenerate times are little likely to produce; one who, as the princely Medici, or the gallant Doria, were the glory of their cities, would be the glory of his. One to whom superiority was a birthright, and success a comrade; brave, generous, aspiring; one to whom nothing could seem impossible."

"And what," exclaimed the youth, gazing upon her, "could be impossible with such inspiration? Love lends its own strength to the effort it excites. I have ever deemed it was for love's sweet sake that Columbus sought and found the bright world so long parted from her paler sister, that even tradition had forgotten the cause. What but some delicious dream, whose hues rose only dazzling upon solitude, made him linger on the twilight coast? When he marked the waves swallow up the leaf and bough that floated upon them—what looked he on the waters to see, but one beloved face mirrored by his fancy? Deem you not, in after years, his glorious triumph brought a dearer joy than pride—was not that sunny hemisphere a worthy offering to the proudest beauty in Castile?"

Henrietta had left her sister's side, whose eyes sank beneath those of Guido—and she now wore the look of the exquisite marble he had fashioned into softness. There are some moments, the hues of which are like those on the wing of a butterfly—a touch brushes them away. There are words to paint the misery of love, but none to paint its happiness; that childish, glad, and confiding time, to which youth gave its buoyancy and hope its colours. Its language repeated, ever seems exaggerated or foolish; albeit there are none who have not thought such sounds "honey-sweet" in their time. The truth is, we never make for others the allowance we make for ourselves; and we should deny even our own words, could we hear them spoken by another. We will therefore leave the young Italian to paint the future as the imagination ever paints. Troth but it was fitting speech for the moonlight: moonlight, the bright and clear, but the cold—which, unlike the sun, opens no flowers, and ripens no fruit.

Title Pages

BY

THE AUTHOR OF

ROMANCE AND REALITY, THE VENETIAN BRACELET, &c. &c.

4"Must we in tears Unwind a love knit up by many years? I cannot break my faith—cannot re-send The truest heart that lover e'er did lend." King.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. II.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. (SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.)

1834.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, Castle Street, Leicester Square.

Title Pages

BY

THE AUTHOR OF

ROMANCE AND REALITY, THE VENETIAN BRACELET, &c. &c.

4"Must we in tears Unwind a love knit up by many years? I cannot break my faith—cannot re-send The truest heart that lover e'er did lend." King.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. III.

LONDON:

RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. (SUCCESSOR TO HENRY COLBURN.)

1834.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY JAMES MOYES, Castle Street, Leicester Square.

Chapter 2

CHAPTER II.

"Farewell! For in that word—that fatal word—howe'er, We promise, hope, believe—there breathes despair." Byron.

The history of a minute—why, it would give a bird's-eye view of every possible variety in human existence. Wonderful the many events that are happening together—life and death—joy and sorrow; the great and the mean; the common and the rare; good and evil; are all in the record of that brief segment of time.

We left the moonlight shining on the bright eye and the crimsoning blush—we proceed to where it fell on the glittering lash and the pale and tearful cheek. There was something cheerful in the scene which we have just left—the window opening into the garden-room filled with many gladdening signs of daily amusement and occupation, and the silence broken by the light laugh and mirthful tones of the children who were watching the birds. But here all was mournful and desolate—for nothing is more mournful than man's work and man's skill going to ruin for want of man's care—and nothing is more desolate than the moss and the green weed choking the fountain, and half hiding the fallen column.

The silver waters of the spring had long since disappeared, but there still were left a few of the Corinthian pillars, some stretched on the ground and overgrown with creeping-plants, while two or three yet remained erect, and showed how graceful the whole must have been. There was a fragment, too, of broken wall, on which were seated Francesca and the young cavalier, one whose long fair hair and clear blue eye spoke of a more northern clime than her own.

"Let my father once see you," urged the youth, "and I am sure of his consent; we will then return hither, where you will be the dearer for your brief absence; your grandfather will renounce his strange antipathy to my country in witnessing your happiness—and—for the stars shine as brightly on Evelyn Abbey as they do on yonder old tower—who knows but the philosopher's stone may be discovered in England?"

Francesca let him speak on; she was happy at least while she listened; but silence was no answer, for here, at least, it gave no consent.

"You forget the other side," said she; "what if Sir Robert Evelyn refuse to receive for his daughter the unknown and portionless Italian; how shall I brook to be the first cause of difference between a father and son, to whom the averted look and the harsh word have been hitherto unknown?"

The young Englishman gazed for a moment tenderly on her beautiful face.

"The averted look, the harsh word, such are not for you, Francesca!"

"Methinks," returned the Italian, "they would he but my fitting reward. How could your father expect a daughter's love from one who had left her own in his old age; left him, too, without his blessing; nay, without his knowledge; his solitude embittered by anxiety for one who had no pity on his age, no memory for his care. I have heard, Evelyn, and have often read, in the tales of my own land, how, for her strange and sudden passion, a maiden has left home and parents, forgetting how her infancy was watched and her youth cherished. So could not I. Few and feeble are the steps which my father must measure towards the grave; but during those few, I must be at his side, Evelyn. How holy the claim, when age asks from youth but a little time, and a little tendance to smooth the passage to the tomb!"

Both were silent—a pause which was broken by the convent-clock striking nine.

"It is late!" exclaimed Francesca, forcing a smile. "I must not stay here talking of duty—and all my household ones awaiting me; you do not know what an important person I am at home!" but the effort was too much, and dropping her head on Evelyn's arm, she gave way to a burst of weeping.

"Look up, love," at length said her companion; "I would fain link the memory of our parting with something less earthly than word or gift. Do you see yonder large clear star near the moon,—it shines here as I have seen it shine a thousand times in my own island—let it be a token between us. When, dim and cloudy, its place is not seen in the sky—we will be sorrowful, and think even so are we far away and hidden from each other; but when it looks forth rejoicing and glorious, it shall be unto us as a sign and as a hope, and we will believe in a bright future and a fair destiny."

"I shall watch it to-morrow night," whispered Francesca.

A few more hurried words—blessings scarce noted at the time, but dearly remembered afterwards, and they parted. The ilex boughs closed behind the light form of the maiden, while the young Englishman sprang rapidly down the narrow path leading to the inn whence he was to start on the morrow by daybreak.

It matters little to trace the rapidity of the land journey, or the monotony of the sea voyage—alike unmarked by adventure. Robert Evelyn landed at Southampton, and immediately procured horses for himself and two servants; for his father's house lay some twenty miles inland.

"I would have you look to your pistols, young gentleman," said the landlord. Robert stared at such advice in England; but the many suspicious-looking individuals and groups that he passed, made him rejoice at having followed it. It was obvious that their bold and prepared bearing kept more than one party at bay.

Well known as every inch of the country was to Evelyn, he paused more than once to gaze upon its unfamiliar appearance. Fields which he remembered yellow with the waving corn lay fallow, though the month was June; and one or two that bore signs of a luxuriant crop were trampled down, and the wheat was rotting on the ground. The hedges were full of gaps, made in the most reckless manner; and the meadows, which had evidently not been mown, were either quite bare, or covered with irregular patches of rank, coarse grass, whose vegetation was exhausting itself. Many of the cottages were deserted, and the thatch blackening with neglect and damp; the lattices gone from their frames, the pear-trees loosened from the walls, and their branches, grey with moss, and heavy with leaves, not fruit, trailing upon the grass-grown walks, told that the desolation was no work of yesterday. A few dwellings of the very lowest order were yet inhabited, but at the riders' approach the doors were hastily closed, and not a creature could be seen, even at the windows. "And yet this is market-day!" and the traveller remembered what a cheerful scene the road used to present—from the substantial yeoman on his good brown cob, to the peasant girls, with baskets and red cloaks, whose voices and laughter were heard long before themselves were seen. Now the chief occupiers of the path were a few meagre cows, picking up a scanty subsistence.