^V 
 
 MON ALDI.
 
 \1 N A L D I 
 
 TALE. 
 
 
 Who knows himself must needs in prophecy 
 Too oft behold his own most sad reverse. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 CHARLES C. LITTLE AND JAMES BROWN. 
 
 MDCCCXLI.
 
 Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1841, by 
 
 WASHINGTON ALLSTON, 
 in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of Massachusetts. 
 
 BOSTON: 
 
 PRINTED BY FREEMAN AND BOI.LES, 
 WASHINGTON STREET.
 
 NOTE. 
 
 This little story was ready for the press as long ago 
 as 1822, but having been written for the periodical of 
 a friend, which was soon after discontinued, the man- 
 uscript was thrown into the author's desk, where it has 
 lain till the present time. It is now published not 
 with the pretensions of a Novel, but simply as a Tale. 
 
 VV. A. 
 
 AUGUST, 1841.
 
 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
 
 INTRODUCTION. 9 
 
 from apprehension. " We must wait," said the 
 postilion, "till some traveller passes." At that 
 moment I heard a shrill whistle from the glen be- 
 low. This was no time for parleying ; so, snatch- 
 ing 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 at- 
 tempt 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
 
 10 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 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 arti- 
 culate. Finding me, however, determined, he pro- 
 ceeded ; 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, involun- 
 tarily 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
 
 INTRODUCTION. 1 1 
 
 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 be- 
 fore 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 convic- 
 tion that all intercourse was hopeless. I felt that 
 I could touch no chord of a mind so fearfully un- 
 strung, and that words would but fall upon his 
 brain like drops of water upon marble. 
 
 Happily I was soon relieved of this painful con- 
 straint by the approach of an old woman, who, as 
 I afterwards learnt, was an inhabitant of the dwell- 
 ing. 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 pro- 
 vincial dialect, was quite unintelligible ; I under-
 
 12 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 stood 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 con- 
 vent, 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 in- 
 vited me to the table. I believe I did ample jus- 
 tice to their hospitality ; for a sense of present 
 security added to my late exercise had given unu- 
 sual 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 enter- 
 tainers, 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 ven- 
 erable old man, apparently above sixty ; of a com-
 
 INTRODUCTION. 13 
 
 manding 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 per- 
 ceiving it ; the worthy father was not wanting in 
 tact, and we became as sociable before the even- 
 ing 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 travel- 
 ler ; " 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
 
 14 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 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 power- 
 ful expression, and marked by a vigor of execution 
 that made every thing around it look like washed 
 drawings. " Yes," said I, supposing this the pic- 
 ture 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 re- 
 turn, 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 pro- 
 ceed, 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
 
 INTRODUCTION. 15 
 
 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 transcend- 
 ant form ; and yet I shuddered as I looked, for its 
 superhuman countenance seemed, as it were, to 
 radiate falsehood ; every feature was in contradic- 
 tion the eye, the mouth, even to the nostril 
 whilst the expression of the whole was of that un- 
 natural 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
 
 16 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 and emaciated, as if prematurely wasted by his 
 unholy devotion, yet still devoted with out- 
 stretched 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 con- 
 science 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 unmov- 
 ed, 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 con- 
 scious of it." 
 
 The effect of this extraordinary work was so 
 unlike what I had hitherto experienced from pic- 
 tures, 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
 
 INTRODUCTION. 17 
 
 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 ac- 
 quainted 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 at- 
 tachment 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 char- 
 acter 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
 
 20 MONALDI. 
 
 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 per- 
 severance ; and all that was known, however va- 
 rious 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 dark- 
 ness ;" 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 defi- 
 ciency was the last of which he suspected himself.
 
 MONALDI. 21 
 
 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 con- 
 founded the ease with which he carried all the 
 prizes of his school with the rare power of com- 
 manding 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 know- 
 ledge, 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 re-
 
 22 MONALDI. 
 
 markable boy. His extraordinary attainments 
 placing him above competition, he supposed him- 
 self 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 arro- 
 gance. 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 feel- 
 ings, 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 distin-
 
 MONALDI. 23 
 
 guished ; 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 ap- 
 peared inefficient, there being a singular kind of 
 passiveness about him easily mistaken for vacancy. 
 But his was like the passiveness of some uncultur- 
 ed 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 sel- 
 dom betrayed themselves by any outward signs, 
 there was nothing sluggish in the soul of Monaldi ; 
 it was rather their depth and strength that pre- 
 vented their passage through the feeble medium of 
 words. He regarded nothing in the moral or phy-
 
 24 MONALDI. 
 
 sical world as tiresome or insignificant ; every ob- 
 ject 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 Na- 
 ture with the eye of a lover ; none of her minutest 
 beauties had escaped him, and all that were stir- 
 ring to a sensitive heart and a romantic imagina- 
 tion were treasured up in his memory, as themes 
 of delightful musing in her absence : and they
 
 MONALDI. 25 
 
 came to him in those moments with that never- 
 failing 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.
 
 26 MONALDI. 
 
 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 dis- 
 tinction, 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 com- 
 prised the well-meaning multitude, who, having no 
 pretensions of their own, are easily awed by au- 
 thority ; 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
 
 MONALDI. 27 
 
 commonplace which distinguished the period of 
 which we speak. The first appearance of Monal- 
 di was consequently met by an opposition propor- 
 tioned to the degree of his departure from the 
 current opinions. But as his good sense had re- 
 strained him from venturing before the public until 
 by long and patient study he had felt himself en- 
 titled 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 for- 
 bearance 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 pecu-
 
 28 MONALDI. 
 
 liar 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 patri- 
 arch 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 interme- 
 diate 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 em- 
 phatic 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, deep- 
 toned 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. 29 
 
 Monaldi was fortunate on the first exhibition of 
 this picture to have for his leading critic the cava- 
 lier 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 pow- 
 erful instruments, I will not say of Art, but of Na- 
 ture, 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 under- 
 value 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 sur- 
 rounding elements. This is the poetry of the art ; 
 the highest nature. There are hours when Nature 
 may be said to hold intercourse with man, modify- 
 ing 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*
 
 30 MONALDI. 
 
 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 collec- 
 tion ; nor did he stop there, for he was one who 
 could not look at a work of genius without a feel- 
 ing of kindness for its author ; and Monaldi was 
 soon enabled, through his friendship and munifi- 
 cence, 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 through- 
 out 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. 
 
 That his reputation finally fell so far short of the 
 measure of his ambition, could not be imputed to 
 the want of early encouragement, much less to any 
 deficiency in himself of industry or confidence. 
 He had scarcely reached his twenty-third year,
 
 32 MONALDI. 
 
 , when he was elected a meLiber of the Delia Crus- 
 ca Academy. This premature honor seemed an 
 earnest of the speedy fulfilling of his hopes ; and it 
 gave a lightness to his heart that persuaded him it 
 was overflowing with benevolence. It is difficult 
 for any man to believe this without, in some de- 
 gree, acting up to his faith, and the partial testi- 
 mony of his actions producing the same conviction 
 in others. Maldura seldom received a compliment 
 on his talents without an accompanying tribute to 
 his virtues. But his reputation was still private ; 
 for his conversation and friendly acts were neces- 
 sarily confined to his personal acquaintance. He 
 had not as yet become the talk of the public ; had 
 heard no eager whispering as he walked the streets ; 
 marked no pointing finger as he entered the the- 
 atre ; and at no conversazione, had the tingling 
 monosyllables, " that 's he," ever once met his ear. 
 But he consoled himself for this by anticipating 
 the sensation which his first work would not fail to 
 produce : this was a long and elaborate poem, in 
 which, it appeared to him, every established rule 
 that could apply to his subject had been strictly ob- 
 served. 
 
 The poem was at length published. Alas, who 
 that knows the heart of an author of an aspiring 
 one will need be told what were the feelings of
 
 MONALDI. 33 
 
 Maldura, when day after day, week after week 
 passed on, and still no tidings of his book. To 
 think it had failed was wormwood to his soul. 
 "No, that was impossible." Still the suspense, 
 the uncertainty of its fate were insupportable. At 
 last, to relieve his distress, he fastened the blame 
 on his unfortunate publisher; though how he was 
 in fault he knew not. Full of this thought, he 
 was just sallying forth to vent his spleen on him, 
 when his servant announced the count Piccini. 
 
 "Now," thought Maldura, "I shall hear my 
 fate ; " and he was not mistaken ; for the Count 
 was a kind of talking gazette. The poem was 
 soon introduced, and Piccini rattled on with all he 
 had heard of it : he had lately been piqued by Mal- 
 dura, and cared not to spare him. 
 
 After a few hollow professions of regard, and a 
 careless remark about the pain it gave him to re- 
 peat unpleasant things, Piccini proceeded to pour 
 them out one upon another with ruthless volubility. 
 Then, stopping as if to take breath, he continued, 
 " I see you are surprised at all this ; but indeed, my" 1 
 friend, I cannot help thinking it principally owing 
 to your not having suppressed your name ; for 
 your high reputation, it seems, had raised such 
 extravagant expectations as none but a first ratej 
 genius could satisfy."
 
 34 
 
 " By which," observed Maldura, " I am to con- 
 clude that my work has failed ? " 
 
 " Why, no not exactly that ; it has only not 
 been praised that is,. I mean in the way you 
 might have wished. But do not be depressed ; 
 there 's no knowing but the tide may yet turn in 
 your favor." 
 
 " Then I suppose the book is hardly as yet 
 known ? " 
 
 "I beg your pardon quite the contrary. 
 When your friend the Marquis introduced it at his 
 last conversazione, every one present seemed quite 
 aufait on it, at least, they all talked as if they had 
 read it." 
 
 Maldura bit his lips. " Pray who were the com- 
 pany ? " " Oh, all your friends, I assure you : 
 Guattani, Martello, Pessuti, the mathematician, Al- 
 fieri, Benuci, the Venetian Castelli, and the old 
 Ferrarese Carnesecchi : these were the principal, 
 but there were twenty others who had each some- 
 thing to say." 
 
 Maldura could not but perceive the malice of 
 this enumeration ; but he checked his rising choler. 
 " Well," said he, " if I understand you, there was 
 but one opinion respecting my poem with all this 
 company ? " 
 
 "Oh, by no means. Their opinions were as 
 various as their characters."
 
 MONALDI. 35 
 
 " Well, Pessuti what said he ? " 
 
 " Why you know he 's a mathematician, and 
 should not regard him. But yet, to do him jus- 
 tice, he is a very nice critic, and not unskilled in 
 poetry." 
 
 " Go on, sir, I can bear it." 
 
 " Why then, it was Pessuti's opinion that the 
 poem had more learning than genius." 
 
 " Proceed, sir." 
 
 " Martello denied it both ; but he, you know, is 
 a disappointed author. Guattani differed but little 
 from Pessuti as to its learning, but contended, that 
 you certainly showed great invention in your fable 
 which was like nothing that ever did, or could 
 happen. But I fear I annoy you." 
 
 " Go on, I beg, sir." 
 
 " The next who spoke was old Carnesecchi, who 
 confessed that he had no doubt he should have 
 been delighted with the poem, could he have taken 
 hold of it ; but it was so en regie, and like a hun- 
 dred others, that it put him in mind of what is 
 called a polished gentleman, who talks and bows, 
 and slips through a great crowd without leaving 
 any impression. Another person, whose name I 
 have forgotten, praised the versification, but ob- 
 jected to the thoughts." 
 
 " Because they were absurd ? "
 
 36 MONALDI. 
 
 "Oh, no, for the opposite reason because 
 they had all been long ago known to be good. 
 Castelli thought that a bad reason ; for his part, 
 he said, he liked them all the better for that it 
 was like shaking hands with an old acquaintance 
 in every line. Another observed, that at least no 
 critical court could lawfully condemn them, as 
 they could each plead an alibi. Not an alibi, said 
 a third but a double ; so they should be burnt 
 for sorcery. With all my heart, said a fourth 
 but not the poor author, for he has certainly satis- 
 fied us that he is no conjurer. 
 
 "Then Castelli but, 'faith, I don't know how 
 to proceed." 
 
 " You are over delicate, sir. Speak out, I pray 
 you." 
 
 " Well, Benuci finished by the most extravagant 
 eulogy I ever heard." 
 
 Maldura took breath. 
 
 " For he compared your hero to the Apollo Bel- 
 vedere, your heroine to the Venus de Medicis, and 
 your subordinate characters to the Diana, the Her- 
 cules, the Antinuous. and twenty other celebrated 
 antiques ; declared them all equally well wrought, 
 and beautiful and like them too, equally cold, 
 hard, and motionless. In short, he maintained 
 that you were the boldest and most original poet
 
 MONALDI. 37 
 
 he had ever known ; [for none but a hardy genius, 
 who consulted nobody's taste but his own, would 
 have dared like you, to draw his animal life from 
 a statue-gallery, and his vegetable from a hortus 
 siccus."7 
 
 Maldura's heart stiffened within him, but his 
 pride controlled him, and he masked his thoughts 
 with something like composure. Yet he dared 
 not trust himself to speak, but stood looking at 
 Piccini, as if waiting for him to go on. " I believe 
 that 's all," said the count, carelessly twirling his 
 hat, and rising to take leave. 
 
 Maldura roused himself, and, making an effort, 
 said, " No, sir, there is one person whom you have 
 only named ^Alfieri ; what did he say ? " v? 
 
 " Nothing ! " Piccini pronounced this word 
 with a graver tone than usual ; it was his fiercest 
 bolt, and he knew that a show of feeling would 
 send it home. Then, after pausing a moment, he 
 hurried out of the room. 
 
 Maldura sunk back in his chair, and groaned in 
 the bitterness of his spirit. " As for the wretches 
 who make a trade of sarcasm, and whose petty 
 self-interest would fatten on the misfortunes of a 
 rival, I can despise them ; but Alfieri the manly, 
 just Alfieri to see me thus mangled, torn piece- 
 meal before his eyes, and say nothing ! Am I then 
 4
 
 38 MONALDI. 
 
 beneath his praise ? Could he not find one little 
 spark of genius in me to kindle up his own, and 
 consume my base assassins ? No he saw them 
 pounce upon, and embowel me, and yet said 
 nothing." 
 
 Maldura closed his eyes to shut out the light of 
 day ; but neither their lids, nor the darkness of 
 night could shut out from his mind the hateful 
 forms of his revilers. He saw them in their as- 
 semblies, on the Corso, in the coffee-houses, knot- 
 ted together like fiends, and making infernal mirth 
 with the shreds and scraps of his verses, while the 
 vulgar rabble, quitting their games of domino, and 
 grinning around, showed themselves but too happy 
 to have chanced there at the sport. In fine, there 
 are no visions of mortified ambition which did not 
 rise up before him. But they did not subdue his 
 pride. Yet it was near a week before he could 
 collect sufficient courage to stir abroad ; nor did 
 he then venture till he had well settled the course 
 he meant to pursue, namely, to treat all his ac- 
 quaintance still with civility ; to appear as little 
 concerned about his failure as possible, well know- 
 ing that in proportion to his dejection would be the 
 triumph of his enemies ; but to accept no favor, 
 and especially to have no friend ; a resolution 
 which showed the true character of the man, who
 
 MONALDI. 39 
 
 could not endure even kindness, unless offered as 
 incense to his pride. 
 
 This artificial carriage had the desired effect? 
 It silenced the flippant, and almost disarmed the 
 malignant ; while those of kinder natures saw in it 
 only additional motives for respect ; indeed there 
 were some even generous enough to think better 
 of his genius for the good temper with which he 
 seemed to bear his disappointment. In short, so 
 quietly did he pass it off, that after a few months 
 no one thought, or appeared to think, of Maldura 
 as an unsuccessful author. 
 
 But it was scored in his heart, never to be for- 
 gotten, and he longed for vengeance. To effect 
 this, however, he must first possess literary power ; 
 and that he knew could be gained only by success 
 in writing. 
 
 But was he in a fit temper for poetry ? There 
 are some minds to which such a blow would have 
 been death. Not such was Maldura's. He had 
 not lost his self-confidence ; and was willing to 
 ascribe his failure to anything but his own defi- 
 ciency ; to the jealousy of his rivals, to their influ- 
 ence over the many ; to the general apathy to his 
 particular subject ; nay, even to his originality, and 
 to the common fear of praising what is new : so 
 that instead of weakening, it tended rather to
 
 40 MONALDI. 
 
 strengthen his powers. He had two works on 
 hand, a satiric poem, and a tragedy ; with the first 
 he could now go on con amore, having no lack of 
 wit, and being now surcharged with gall ; and that 
 no one might suspect him as the author, he deter- 
 mined to go to Rome, and send it thence, under a 
 feigned name, to Florence. 
 
 The poem was soon finished, and sent from 
 Rome accordingly. About a month after, he re- 
 ceived two letters, one bearing his assumed name 
 and the other his real one. He tore them open as 
 a hawk would a sparrow. Glancing at the signa- 
 ture of that in his own name, he read " Piccini." 
 He was about to dash it to the ground when his 
 eye caught the following words : " The whole 
 town rings with the praises of this unknown poet. 
 Every body talks of, and admires him ; even Be- 
 nuci commends, without a dash of irony." Mai- 
 dura grinned with triumph. " Wretch ! " said he, 
 crushing the letter, " you know not that the man 
 whom you would wound with the praise of another 
 is himself that other. But the count Piccini shall 
 one day know the satirist better." The other let- 
 ter was from his bookseller, informing him of the 
 rapid sale and complete success of his work, and 
 enclosing a complimentary sonnet from Castelli. 
 
 Though Maldura had fixed his eye upon a far
 
 MONALDI. 41 
 
 higher mark than the reputation of a mere satirist, 
 which he held almost in disdain in comparison 
 with that to which his genius was entitled, at any 
 rate as insufficient for his ambition, he was yet 
 for the present content to enjoy his triumph, and 
 it pleased him to regard it as an earnest of the 
 success of his tragedy.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 MALDURA was now comparatively gay of heart, 
 and mixed again with society. The reputation of 
 his learning procured him the same attentions in 
 Rome as in Florence ; and as there had been no 
 outward change in him, he had no difficulty in 
 making acquaintance. 
 
 Among the most cordial of these new friends 
 was a distinguished advocate, a near relation of the 
 pope, of the name of Landi. He had taken a par- 
 ticular pleasure in Maldura's conversation, and had 
 often invited him to his house ; but Maldura, with 
 the perverseness which now began to be the rule 
 of his conduct, had as often declined these invita- 
 tions, and for the very reason that would have in- 
 duced another to accept them because they 
 were really cordial. He was greedy of admirers, 
 but his growing habit of distrust shrunk from inti- 
 macy. In a moment of caprice, however, he at 
 last went. 
 
 The advocate received his guest with great
 
 MONALDI. 43 
 
 heartiness, and introduced him to his daughter 
 with such encomiums as plainly marked him a 
 favorite. 
 
 It was impossible for any one to look upon Ro- 
 salia Landi with indifference. Her beauty was of 
 a kind which might be called universal at least, 
 in effect, for it was difficult to determine whether 
 it were more striking or winning ; whether it lay 
 more in the just proportion and harmony of her 
 features, or in the exquisite and ever-varying ex- 
 pression that played over them. 
 
 For the first time in his life Maldura's heart was 
 touched. Hitherto he had regarded woman merely 
 as belonging to the regular materials of poetry ; 
 had examined and analyzed their charms, only to 
 class and describe them. Now he neither studied 
 nor thought of studying ; he could only feel that 
 the object before him was lovely ; and he felt too 
 with surprise that her beauty and mind, as they 
 each alternately won his admiration, each gave 
 him pain almost proportioned to his pleasure. For 
 a short time these contending emotions perplexed 
 him ; but a glance into his heart explained all 
 she was the first woman with whose fate he had 
 ever felt a wish to unite his own. From that mo- 
 ment Maldura marked her for himself. 
 
 Yet, sudden as was his love, it was not wholly
 
 44 MONALDI. 
 
 unmixed. Wherever there is a ruling passion the 
 affections naturally become subordinate, and take 
 their color from that ; they have no singleness of 
 feeling towards any object, and can have no sym- 
 pathy with any except as it ministers to the para- 
 mount appetite. It was so with Maldura. The 
 beauty of Rosalia no sooner touched his heart than 
 it mounted to his brain. He saw her in fancy 
 gracing his future triumphs, and himself, through 
 her, the proud object of envy ; then her father's 
 interest, his high connexions, and their influence, 
 all passed in array before him, to make straight 
 and easy the opening road of his ambition. 
 
 Every time Maldura repeated his visit the stronger 
 became these motives, and the more confirmed his 
 love, till at last, thus mingling with all his hopes of 
 distinction, the image of Rosalia took such hold on 
 his heart, that he could never think of the one 
 without calling up the other. 
 
 A few weeks after, Maldura waited on the ad- 
 vocate to solicit permission to address his daugh- 
 ter. It was readily granted, and in the most flat- 
 tering manner. Landi added, that he " should 
 have his good word, but for the result he must 
 refer him to his child." 
 
 However sagacious in other things, there is 
 generally in proud men a remarkable obtuseness
 
 MONALDI. 45 
 
 as to matters of the heart which often leads them 
 astray where they feel most confident ; their habit of 
 looking at every thing through the misty medium 
 of self-love, prevents their distinguishing those 
 minute degrees of good will, esteem, respect, and 
 so on to exclusive preference, with which a deli- 
 cate woman graduates her manner towards those 
 of the other sex. But that which obscures the 
 distinctive shades of objects enlarges their outlines ; 
 hence little attentions are easily mistaken for some- 
 thing more, and, where often repeated, their bare 
 accumulation soon grows to what is mistaken for 
 love. Maldura was troubled with no doubts about 
 the issue of his suit : how it terminated may be 
 gathered from a part of a conversation between 
 Rosalia and her father. 
 
 " So far, Rosalia," 'said her father, " you have 
 answered well ; you have done Maldura justice. 
 But why stop with his talents ? can you find no- 
 thing more to commend ? " 
 Rosalia still continued silent. 
 " You surely cannot object to his person ? " 
 " Certainly not ; I have rarely seen one so hand- 
 some." 
 
 " Perhaps you dislike his manners ? " 
 " On the contrary, I think them uncommonly 
 agreeable : his address, too, is even more than
 
 46 MOXALDI. 
 
 polished, 't is refined ; and his powers of enter- 
 taining I believe are entirely his own." 
 
 " Very well ! Go on, my dear. Nay, why 
 again silent ? I fear say have you heard any 
 thing against his morals ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Or do you object to his disposition ? " 
 
 " I know nothing of his disposition, and cannot 
 therefore form any opinion of it." 
 
 " Have a care, Rosalia ; there is no species of 
 detraction more hard and cutting than an icy neg- 
 ative." 
 
 " My dear father, for worlds I would not think 
 evil if I could help it." 
 
 " Then you cannot help thinking ill of his dis- 
 position ? " 
 
 " I did not say so. I am willing to believe it 
 good till I have proof to the contrary." 
 
 " As yet ? " 
 
 " Not a shadow of one." 
 
 " Then I am satisfied ; for I believe it to be 
 generous and noble. And I believe, also, that my 
 child is too just to harbor any degree of dislike 
 without cause." 
 
 Rosalia bowed in assent. 
 
 Landi proceeded : " Well, then, since you 
 highly approve of most of his qualities, and object
 
 MONALDI. 47 
 
 to none, what prevents my dear daughter Do 
 
 not be alarmed, Rosalia, I am a father, not a ty- 
 rant. I am, besides, now an old man, and have 
 no other hold on the world but in you ; and in 
 guarding you from ill, and leading you to good, I 
 am only consulting my own happiness." 
 
 " Dearest father ! " said Rosalia, " I know, I 
 feel your goodness ; you have ever been the best 
 of parents ; and I should think myself unworthy 
 any blessing could I wilfully cause you a moment's 
 pain." 
 
 " I believe it, Rosalia. Neither should I think 
 better of myself were I disposed to enforce my 
 own will at the expense of your quiet. Now that 
 we understand each other, let me speak plainly. 
 Signer Maldura has this morning asked permission 
 to address you. I will not trouble you by repeat- 
 ing my opinion of his merits ; you already know 
 it, and know that it could not well be higher. 
 Need I say after this that it would please me to 
 call him my son ? that I think him, of all the 
 men I have known, the very man to make my 
 daughter happy ? Will you not speak, Rosalia ? " 
 
 " Oh, father ! " cried Rosalia, throwing her 
 arms round his neck. 
 
 " Be calm, my child. Let us be rational." 
 
 Landi led her to a chair, and taking a seat by
 
 48 MONALDI. 
 
 her, continued : " I know, my dear Rosalia at 
 least I think I know, the cause of your reluctance. 
 You have a tincture of romance in you, which is 
 natural enough at your age ; and you have formed, 
 I doubt not, certain peculiar notions of love, which 
 you hope one day to realize. You have now just 
 glanced into your heart, and have found in it (as 
 is very probable) nothing like them. I should 
 have been surprised if you had ; for a real lover is 
 not half so accommodating as one of the brain. 
 But the shadows of a youthful imagination pass 
 away with youth. Then comes a sense of the 
 substantial and real ; and with it a wondering that 
 we could ever have rejected even the humblest 
 every-day qualities of the heart and understanding 
 for these brilliant nothings. It may seem hard to 
 ask you, who are yet young, to choose between 
 them. But if I ask it, it is not to give up even 
 your fancies for any commonplace reality. The 
 qualities of Maldura are as rare as real. And if he 
 has not yet thrilled you with any of those tender 
 emotions those pleasing pains which your 
 imagination may have taught you to associate with 
 love, do not therefore think him the less fitted to 
 make you happy. Had he even inspired them, 
 they could not last ; a few months, or a few weeks, 
 would bring them to an end. Not so will it be
 
 MONALDI. 49 
 
 with the. qualities he now offers for your regard ; 
 and not so would you find it, when courted and 
 honored as the wife of the first genius of the 
 age." 
 
 " My dear father," said Rosalia, " I would that 
 I could reason on this subject, but indeed I 
 cannot." 
 
 " Strange ! You hint not even an objection, and 
 yet Do you think I overrate him?" 
 
 " No ; he deserves all you say of him ; but yet " 
 
 " You would still reject him ? " 
 
 Rosalia was silent. 
 
 " If you esteem, you may certainly love ; nay, 
 it will follow of course." 
 
 " Did you always think so, sir ? " 
 
 " Perhaps not. When I was young, I was no 
 doubt fanciful, like others." 
 
 " And yet you did not marry till past thirty." 
 
 " Well, child ?" 
 
 " My mother died when I was too young to 
 know her ; but I have heard her character so often 
 from yourself and others, that I have it now as 
 fresh before me as if she had never been taken 
 from us. Was she not mild and gentle ? " 
 
 " As the dew of heaven." 
 
 " And her mind ? " 
 
 " The seat of every grace and virtue." 
 
 5
 
 50 MONALDI. 
 
 " And her person too was beautiful ? " 
 
 " Except yourself, I have never seen a creature 
 so lovely." 
 
 " And did she make you a good wife ? " 
 
 Landi turned pale. "Rosalia my child 
 why remind me, by these cruel questions, of a loss 
 which the whole world cannot repair ? " 
 
 " She was then all you wished ; and yet I have 
 heard that yours was a love-match." 
 
 "No more," cried Landi, averting his face. 
 " You have conquered." 
 
 Rosalia pressed his hand to her lips. 
 
 " No, my child," said her father, after a few 
 minutes, " though my head is old, I find that my 
 heart is still young as ever. I will not tempt you 
 to a lukewarm vow : you are a living counterpart 
 of her who would have rejected a monarch for 
 your father like her, too, you shall choose ac- 
 cording to the impulse of your own pure heart." 
 
 Landi, wishing to save his friend pain, lost no 
 time in communicating the result of this confer- 
 ence. When Maldura heard it he stood for a 
 moment like one suddenly waked from sleep, 
 doubting if the words, which still echoed in his 
 ears, were really those of another person, or the 
 mere coinage of his brain. But it was only for a 
 moment ; the compassionate tone of Landi, his
 
 MONALDI. 51 
 
 look of sympathy, and the tremulous pressure of 
 his hand, soon convinced him of their reality. Yet 
 even then he doubted ; not that he had heard 
 them, but of their truth ; he doubted Landi's sin- 
 cerity, and thought it a contrivance to rid himself 
 decently of the connexion. This suspicion brought 
 the whole man into his face ; but he constrained 
 himself to be civil, whilst he persisted in refusing 
 to take any denial but from the lady herself. 
 Landi, finding it in vain to remonstrate, at last 
 consented that Maldura should wait on Rosalia the 
 next morning. The interview was short and de- 
 cisive. But never was refusal uttered with more 
 gentleness and delicacy. And never did rejected 
 lover hear his own merits more eloquently set forth 
 than did Maldura, even when the lips of Rosalia 
 pronounced his doom. " Blame not my will," she 
 concluded, " but if any thing my heart, that 
 knows no control but from its own wayward 
 fancies." 
 
 The character of Rosalia was of that nice mix- 
 ture of softness and firmness which makes the per- 
 fection of woman. The first she derived from na- 
 ture ; the last was the result of principle ; and 
 while from the one she was open to every impres- 
 sion of the affections, the regular watchfulness of 
 the other effectually guarded her from all that
 
 52 MONALDI. 
 
 would not stand its scrutiny. This moral subor- 
 dination, or rather just balance between sense and 
 sensibility, not unfrequently subjected her, with 
 superficial observers, to the imputation of coldness. 
 But hers was the coldness of her better judgment, 
 only occasional, and always with a purpose. When 
 her heart was opened, and with the sanction of her 
 principles, the whole woman gave way at once. 
 
 It was, no doubt, the consciousness of her dis- 
 position to this prodigal self-abandonment of the 
 heart that first led her to seek a less fallacious 
 guide than her own sanguine impulses. Happily 
 her father's instructions here came to her aid ; and 
 as Landi was a man of sincere piety, it may 
 readily be inferred that the guide she found in 
 them was religion. Hence that high standard of 
 excellence by which she was accustomed to meas- 
 ure all that approached her.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 HAD Maldura loved Rosalia Landi for herself, 
 manner in which she had rejected him would have 
 exalted her still more in his estimation. But with 
 the loss of her person came a blight on his hopes 
 of distinction. Though he still felt the same con- 
 fidence in his own powers, yet he could not bear :- 
 to forego all those advantages which he had so 
 long counted on from his union with Rosalia ; and 
 he hated her as one who had scattered a glorious 
 vision of ambition which her sorcery had called 
 up as if but to mock him. But, whatever his 
 rage, or hopes of revenge, the fortune of his tra- 
 gedy, which was now on its way to Florence, 
 soon drove her from his mind. He had laid out 
 his whole strength on this performance, sparing 
 neither time nor labor, and giving to it the highest 
 finish ; so that when he sent it he felt that he had 
 done his best, and that should it fail it would be 
 from some fatality which he could not control : it 
 was his last stake, and he was willing to rest his 
 5*
 
 54 MONALDI. 
 
 all upon it ; for the more he considered it, whether 
 in the whole or in parts, the better he was satisfied 
 that it could not fail. 
 
 The success of his satire immediately procured 
 
 the tragedy a good reception at the theatre ; it 
 
 was already announced for representation, and 
 
 Maldura had only to wait for the decision of the 
 
 public. He did not wait long ; the fate of the 
 
 Tplay soon reached him : it had fallen dead on the 
 
 sboards the first night. So wrote the manager. 
 
 This was an unlooked-for blow ; and he sat for 
 near an hour gazing upon the manager's letter, as 
 if endeavoring to recall, he knew not what ; for 
 its purport was gone ere hardly known. But his 
 recollection soon returned. Better had it not, than 
 so to make visible the utter desolation within him 
 to show him a mind without home or object ; 
 for he could look neither back nor forward. If he 
 looked to the future, in place of the splendid visions 
 that once rose like a mirage, he beheld a desert ; 
 if he turned to the past, his laborious realities, once 
 seeming so gorgeous, now left without purpose, 
 only cumbered the ground with their heavy ruins. 
 
 In this hopeless state, however, there was one 
 comforter which never deserted him his indom- 
 itable pride ; it was this sustained him. Had a 
 shadow of self-distrust but crossed Maldura for a
 
 MONALDI. 55 
 
 moment, it might have darkened to insanity ; but 
 no doubts of his genius had ever entered his mind ; 
 he was therefore an ill-used man, and he hated the 
 world which had thus withheld his just rights. 
 His only solace now, was in the wretched resource^ 
 of the misanthrope, in that childish revenge which, 
 in the folly of his anger, he imagines himself 
 taking on the world, by foregoing its kindnesses ; 
 for there is small difference between a thorough 
 misanthrope and a sullen child ; indeed their illo- 
 gical wrath generally takes the same course in 
 both, namely, to retort an injury by spiting them- 
 selves. For the full indulgence of this miserable 
 temper, he retired to an unfrequented part of the 
 city, and, rarely venturing out except at night, 
 it was generally concluded that he had quitted 
 Rome where he was soon forgotten.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 IT was about two years after the events recorded 
 in the preceding chapter, that Monaldi arrived in 
 Rome; where his reception was such as might 
 have amply satisfied him, had he been far more 
 ambitious of popular admiration. To say, how- 
 ever, that he was wholly insensible to praise, would 
 not be true ; so far as he believed it an expression 
 of sympathy, it was justly valued, nay, it was then 
 most dear to him as one of the graces of our so- 
 cial nature ; nor did he affect an indifference to 
 that posthumous sympathy with excellence that 
 purest form of fame to which so many noble 
 minds, under poverty and neglect, have patiently 
 looked and looked, alas, for their only reward. 
 Yet the love of fame was less a passion with Mo- 
 naldi than the result of a sober law of his mind, 
 which won his obedience, because it carried with 
 it the assurance of an enduring nature. But he 
 had no craving for distinction, much less for noto- 
 riety, or what is popularly called reputation ; in-
 
 MONALDI. 57 
 
 deed, he had passed over the graves of too many 
 buried reputations not to have learned how their 
 common tenure, the fashion of one age is valued 
 by another. 
 
 With such an artist it cannot be supposed that 
 a mere adulator of his name could have found 
 much favor, nor, when it is added that Monaldi's 
 was one of those kindly natures to which the duty 
 of repelling is at all times painful, will it be thought 
 singular that a person of this description should 
 have been to him an object of especial annoyance. 
 It was to escape from one of these unmeaning flat- 
 terers, who seldom failed to fasten upon him when- 
 ever they met, that Monaldi one day turned into a 
 gateway in an obscure street, where one of his 
 figure was rarely seen. The passage leading from 
 it was somewhat dark, and he hoped to conceal 
 himself there till his persecutor had passed, when 
 he observed a person from within coming towards 
 him. The awkwardness of his situation obliged 
 him either to retreat, or to explain it, and he spoke. 
 "Your pardon, Signor I pray you excuse this 
 intrusion." The stranger started. " Nay," added 
 Monaldi, " it will be but for a moment. In truth 
 I am an unlucky artist, who would merely avoid 
 a troublesome acquaintance." 
 
 " Begone ! " said the stranger.
 
 58 MONALDI. 
 
 " Good heaven ! " cried Monaldi, " sure that 
 voice " But the stranger had disappeared. 
 
 " It is it must be," said he, and without fur- 
 ther thought he entered the court. They were now 
 under the open sky. The stranger stopped, 
 and Monaldi beheld his long lost friend. 
 
 " Maldura ! " was all his full heart could utter. 
 
 Maldura spoke not a word ; but he suffered his 
 hand to remain passively within the grasp of his 
 friend. 
 
 " I see 't is with you as myself," said Monaldi 
 at last. " But how can words add to the joy of 
 this meeting ? " 
 
 "Words! True they are idle." Maldura 
 was no hypocrite, and his manly spirit revolted at 
 expressing what he did not feel and what he 
 felt his heart was not yet hard enough to utter. 
 Yet something must be said and that neither 
 unkind nor hollow. " You look well, Monaldi ; 
 even better than when we parted at Bologna." 
 
 "That's a long time very long," said Monal- 
 di. " Yet, long as it is, I need hardly tell Maldura 
 that I could not recall many days when he has 
 been out of my mind especially since I lost 
 trace of you. But where have you been all this 
 while ? you know not how many ill bodings I have 
 had on account of your strange disappearance
 
 MONALDI. 59 
 
 no letters no clue sometimes I thought you 
 might have embarked for Spain as you once 
 talked of doing and been shipwrecked ; then in 
 a more cheerful mood, I would suppose you vol- 
 untarily banished to some quiet solitude, that you 
 might give your whole mind to some great work 
 for T remembered your favorite maxim, that the 
 sacrifice of a whole life were but a cheap price for 
 fame; then again my apprehensions would take 
 the worst conclusion that you had been robbed 
 and murdered. Tell me, where have you been ? 
 what have you been doing ? " 
 
 " 'T is of little consequence," replied Maldura. 
 " The past is past and the wisdom of Solomon 
 could not make it better or worse : let it rest 
 then." 
 
 " Nay, I would not ask you to recall what might 
 give you pain, deeply as I am interested." 
 
 " I did not say it would give me pain I said 
 it was useless." 
 
 " I would know then no more than will give you 
 pleasure. So we will talk of what remains of the 
 past. Your active mind cannot have been idle, 
 and the world expects much of you." 
 
 " The world ! " This was touching a galled 
 spot. Maldura's eyes flashed ; but a smile of 
 fiercer scorn succeeded ? " We will talk of the
 
 60 MONALDI. 
 
 world when it shall have become worth something 
 better than an idiot's slaver. But for ourselves 
 we shall be better in the house : 'tis not a palace, 
 as you see but 'twill afford us shelter from the 
 sun." 
 
 " You know I am not dainty," answered Mo- 
 naldi. " Or if I were, the place would be the last 
 thing I should think of at this time." 
 
 " I was not apologizing for it," said Maldura, 
 somewhat proudly, " the knaves and fools that live 
 in palaces might reconcile a wise man to one much 
 worse." 
 
 " Maldura' s mind," said Monaldi and he said 
 it in a tone that spoke anything but abatement of 
 his youthful reverence " such a mind would dig- 
 nify any palace." 
 
 Maldura's heart softened in spite of himself. 
 He hated the world, but not its praise ; and he led 
 the way into the house with less reluctance than 
 he had expected. 
 
 When the friends left school, they had engaged 
 to write to each other, and their correspondence 
 had continued with little interruption up to the 
 time of Maldura's first failure ; when, from the 
 fear of betraying the secret misery occasioned by 
 that event, he discontinued it. Since then, Mo- 
 naldi had never heard any tidings of his friend,
 
 MONALDI. 61 
 
 except that he had quitted Florence, but for what 
 part of the world, he could never learn. Maldura,~\ 
 however, had long been apprized of all the other's 
 movements, his success, and fame ; but the more 
 he heard of them, the less did he incline to renew 
 their intimacy ; indeed the contrast which they 
 formed to his own situation was among the sorest 
 aggravations of his misery. Had it been a stran- 
 ger any other man so courted and followed, 
 he thought he could have borne it ; but to find an 
 object of envy in his humble schoolfellow, on 
 whom he had once looked down, was a degrada- 
 tion which he could not forgive. 
 
 With feelings like these, it is not surprising that 
 Maldura forbore to seek out his friend ; nor, when 
 accident had brought them together, and he recog- 
 nised his voice in the gateway, that he should have 
 sought to avoid him. But his heart was not yet 
 entirely hardened, and his late interview with Mo- 
 naldi had touched it. Yet so new seemed to him 
 the consciousness of any kind feeling, that it was 
 a considerable time after Monaldi's departure be- 
 fore he could realize what had passed ; and then 
 he felt as if something had gone from him which 
 he hardly knew whether to regret or not. With 
 one thing, however, he was satisfied that his 
 friend had conceived no suspicion of the change 
 6
 
 62 MONALDI. 
 
 in his heart ; for, proud as he was, Maldura had 
 still a secret coveting of the esteem of others : so 
 that, upon the whole, he almost doubted if he 
 were sorry for the meeting. In fact, he was much 
 
 f better pleased than he was willing to admit : for 
 however a misanthrope may pride himself on the 
 sovereignty of his hatred, as long as he continues 
 in this world, he can never so entirely destroy his 
 social nature but that some leaven of it will work 
 
 Lwithin him. 
 
 The intercourse thus renewed between the two 
 friends could not but differ in many respects from 
 that of their earlier years. Monaldi, however, 
 hailed it as a promise of many pleasures. His 
 affectionate disposition had long felt the want of a 
 friend ; but his studious habits, added to his natu- 
 ral reserve, had hitherto prevented his forming any 
 second intimacy ; and he now dwelt with delight 
 on the thought of pouring out his heart into the 
 bosom of his early friend. But he soon found 
 that Maldura was not that open, social being he 
 had once known, that he had become cold, absent 
 and gloomy : though the change grieved him and 
 repressed his confidence, it did not lessen his at- 
 tachment ; and, ascribing it to some secret sorrow, 
 he imagined that his sympathy was more than ever 
 needed. His efforts, however, were in vain the
 
 same distant, taciturn demeanor continued to repel 
 every act of kindness. 
 
 It is the natural consequence of a fruitless en- 
 deavor to alleviate the afflictions of those who are 
 dear to us to become ourselves partakers of their 
 sufferings. And if the cause of our pain be not 
 hateful, we feel, or rather fancy that we shall feel, 
 relieved, the nearer we are to it. Monaldi's visits 
 to his friend, however, were seldom followed by 
 the effect he desired ; being for the most part 
 passed in mutual silence, or in a few common re- 
 marks on indifferent topics. 
 
 It was after a morning of more than usual de- 
 pression and concern on his account, that Monaldi 
 one day called on his unhappy friend. Maldura's 
 apathy seemed for the moment overcome ; and he 
 could not help expressing surprise at such an un- 
 wonted visit ; for it was scarcely past mid-day, and 
 he knew that nothing short of necessity could tempt 
 the devoted artist to leave his studio at that hour. 
 Monaldi simply replied, that he had felt indisposed 
 to work ; and he drew a chair to a window. The 
 apartment being in an upper story, and the house 
 somewhat elevated, commanded an extensive view 
 of the southern portion of the city, overlooking the 
 Campo Vaccino, once the ancient forum, with its 
 surrounding ruins, and taking in a part of the
 
 64 MONALDI. 
 
 Coliseum. The air was hot and close, and there 
 f was a thin yellow haze over the distance like that 
 which precedes the scirocco, but the nearer objects 
 were clear and distinct, and so bright that the eye 
 could hardly rest on them without quivering, espe- 
 cially on the modern buildings, with their huge 
 sweep of whited walls, and their red-tiled roofs, 
 that lay burning in the sun, while the sharp, black 
 shadows, which here and there seemed to indent 
 the dazzling masses, might almost have been fan- 
 cied the cinder-tracks of his fire. The streets of 
 Rome, at no time very noisy, are for nothing more 
 remarkable than, during the summer months, for 
 their noontide stillness, the meridian heat being 
 frequently so intense as to stop all business, driv- 
 ing everything within doors, with the proverbial 
 exception of dogs and strangers. But even these 
 might scarcely have withstood the present scorch- 
 ing atmosphere. It was now high noon, and the 
 few straggling vine-dressers that were wont to stir 
 in this secluded quarter had already been driven 
 under shelter ; not a vestige of life was to be seen, 
 not a bird on the wing, and so deep was the still- 
 ness that a solitary foot-fall might have filled the 
 whole air ; neither was this stillness lessened by 
 the presence of the two friends for nothing so 
 deepens silence as man at rest ; they had both sat 

 
 MONALDI. 65 
 
 mutely gazing from the window, and apparently 
 unconscious of the lapse of time, till the bell of 
 a neighboring church warned them of it. 
 
 " Yes," said Monaldi as if the sound had 
 suddenly loosed his tongue " there is a chain 
 that runs through all things. How else should the 
 mind hear the echo of its workings from voiceless 
 rocks ? Mysterious union ! that our very lives 
 should seem but so many reflections from the face 
 of nature ; and all about us but visible types of the 
 invisible man ! Even the works of man, the pas- 
 sive combinations of his hand they too have 
 found a tongue in the elements, and become ora- 
 cular to his heart even as that proud pile of 
 Titus, so dark and desolate within, now speaks 
 from without, in the gorgeous language of the sun, 
 to mine. Look, Maldura : here is to me a book 
 of history and prophecy. You see in that distant 
 mist the prefigurement of my future ; for my pre- 
 sent state you need but look beneath us on this 
 oppressive splendor ; but for the past thank 
 heaven, that is still mine the blessed past ! how 
 soothingly it speaks to me in this humble shade ! " 
 
 Maldura's distorted vision saw nothing in this 
 but a covert sally of pride, and a half suppressed 
 sneer passed over his features ; but his confiding 
 friend gave it a different name. 
 6
 
 66 MONALDI. 
 
 " You seem incredulous why should you doubt 
 that I look on the past with envy ? " 
 
 " Some," answered Maldura, " might think that 
 it needed at least faith ; especially to believe it of 
 the favorite of popes and cardinals for you look 
 back to obscurity." 
 
 " But not you, Maldura. For you know that 
 that obscurity was happy because those I loved 
 were happy ; and because in them I had a true 
 home for all my wishes ; for we build not for our- 
 selves alone at least anything that can satisfy, 
 or is worthy the heart ; and mine was never sub- 
 ordinate to the head. Others, who remember 
 nothing of my youth but its reserve, might perhaps 
 doubt it ; but not you. If I was reserved, you 
 well know it was neither from coldness or gloom ; 
 but that I was so moulded by early and severe 
 misfortunes. I was left an orphan ere I hardly 
 knew the blessing of kindred. This was the first 
 misfortune. Then followed another. That my 
 scanty patrimony might be husbanded, I was 
 doomed to waste the first ten years of my life 
 amongst illiterate boors though, to do them 
 justice, they were honest. And, though unletter- 
 ed then myself, the thousand obscure longings, and 
 " deep and anxious questionings," on what I saw 
 and felt, which everywhere haunted me, and which
 
 MONALDI. 67 
 
 no one could resolve or satisfy, soon discovered to 
 me that I had but little in common with those 
 about me ; nay, the very expression of my thoughts 
 was often answered by a laugh, or by the nick- 
 names of idiot and dreamer You cannot wonder 
 then that I shrunk into myself, nor that I at length 
 became indeed a dreamer ; for my whole world 
 was within me, and would have been so now but 
 for one being bless her memory. That being 
 was my sister." 
 
 Monaldi here appeared to be overcome by some 
 tender recollection ; but after a moment's pause 
 he proceeded, as if in continuation of his thoughts. 
 " No, it would be selfish to wish her back. You 
 remember her, Maldura ? " 
 
 The question seemed to rouse Maldura from his 
 abstraction, and he raised his eyes with a vacant 
 look. But, wishing to avoid an explanation, he 
 nodded in assent. 
 
 " It was in my twelfth year that we met for the 
 first time since my infancy ; for you may remem- 
 ber that she had been brought up by a distant re- 
 lation at Modena. What a strange faculty is this 
 memory ! I can see her now almost as distinctly 
 as if she were before me. She was only five years 
 older than myself, and yet when she kissed me and 
 looked upon me, it was with such a maternal look
 
 68 MONALDI. 
 
 and she inquired about my little concerns in a 
 tone so solicitous, so tender, that I could never 
 from that hour either think or speak of her but 
 with the veneration of a son. Yes," continued 
 Monaldi, while the recollection seemed to give a 
 deeper fervor to his manner, " it was she first 
 taught me that I had a heart and too large for 
 self; who made it the companion, nay, controller, 
 of my intellect, giving it direction and purpose ; 
 and it was her praise that made me long for fame ; 
 for I felt that it would make her happy. But she 
 was taken from me before the world knew that 
 such a candidate for its praise was in being, or she 
 herself had anything to dwell on save the prophetic 
 visions which her sisterly love had travelled for into 
 the future. But it is right, all right she is hap- 
 pier where she is. I need not name the other 
 being who came to supply her loss nor how 
 kindly ! Even now too I can see the stone seat in 
 our play-yard, at Bologna that good seat ! asso- 
 ciated with so many nameless acts of kindness, 
 which no one can understand but an orphan boy ; 
 and one as sensitive as desolate, and left to the 
 cold, boisterous gaiety of a public school. Yes, 
 Maldura, you alone in the wide world seemed to 
 feel for my loss ; and in that you did so you be- 
 came to me more than the world. I exulted in 

 
 MONALDI. 69 
 
 your talents ; I grew proud of the prizes you won ; 
 and I looked to your future fame even with my 
 poor sister's eyes, when she looked to mine. Why 
 the last has not been realized I marvel that such 
 a mind " 
 
 Maldura ground his teeth. 
 
 Monaldi saw the change in his countenance, and 
 stopped : then added, " If I have touched on what 
 is displeasing to you, forgive me. And yet it can- 
 not be that the expression of a regret so natural " 
 
 " The less that is said of it the better," said 
 Maldura, with a bitter smile. " As for yourself 
 you have the world's trumpet. Keep it I would 
 none of its blast ; 't is made up of the breath of 
 fools, or it may be knaves. Keep it, then, and be 
 content. Good or bad, 't is yours, they say ; and 
 will be, even when the grave shall have walled up 
 your ears." 
 
 "No, Maldura you have forgotten, or you 
 mistake, my heart, if you think that fame alone 
 can fill it. The very retrospect I have just made 
 is proof enough. Why else should I dwell on 
 scenes that are past, and quit the palpable present, 
 to commune with shadows ? But I miscall them ; 
 they are shadows only to my bodily eyes to my 
 affections they are substance in effect the truest, 
 so long as through the mysterious memory they
 
 70 MONALDI. 
 
 can give that thrilling play of life which present 
 realities deny. No ; the solitude of neglect were 
 better borne than solitary grandeur. We are not 
 made to enjoy alone least of all things fame ; 
 't is a fierce splendor, that needs to be conducted 
 off by others ; if it rest with ourselves, it becomes 
 a fire that, sooner or later, must shrivel up the 
 heart. Had I parent or kindred could the grave 
 give me back such sharers of my fame but I will 
 not think of it. Or would you, Maldura " 
 
 Maldura started from his seat. 
 
 " Again forgive me," said Monaldi, " I ought 
 not so to obtrude my regrets upon you." 
 
 Maldura turned from him as if he would hear 
 no more ; then, stopping awhile, said, " You have 
 had your marvel ; so too may I. If you count 
 fame nothing, why do you toil ? " 
 
 " Because I could not be idle and live ; and 
 because I love my art for its own sake. I should 
 still paint, had I the means, were I thrown on a 
 desolate island." 
 
 " Yet you have one thing, which many in the 
 world would think included all wealth ; though 
 some indeed have called it trash at least in 
 books." 
 
 " And do you think so, Maldura ? I know you 
 do not. Yet " the thought now glanced on
 
 MONALDI. 71 
 
 Monaldi that his friend might be suffering from 
 poverty ;. his face lighted up, and he grasped Mai- 
 dura' s hand. 
 
 " What is it disturbs you ? " said Maldura, coldly 
 withdrawing his hand. 
 
 " Disturb ! oh no ! I owe you a thousand thanks 
 for this discovery. How could I have been so 
 blind ! This obscure retreat, these sorry lodgings, 
 speak it but too plainly." 
 
 " Speak what ? " asked Maldura, in amazement. 
 
 " Your secret. 'T is now mine." 
 
 The blood rushed to Maldura's forehead, and 
 he felt as if he could have annihilated himself, Mo- 
 naldi, and all who had ever known him. 
 
 " And it has made me happy," added Monaldi ; 
 " for now I have something to live for." 
 
 The conclusion of this sentence relieved Mal- 
 dura from the horror of his suspicion, but it left 
 him still perplexed for its meaning. 
 
 Monaldi continued. " But why should I waste 
 time in useless words. You have unwittingly be- 
 trayed the cause of your distress, Maldura; and, 
 pardon me that I rejoice at it. You suffer from 
 the want of that " trash " with which fortune has 
 overwhelmed, nay, oppressed me. Let me then 
 put it to its right use, to the service of genius and 
 virtue ; and where do these live purer and nobler
 
 72 MONALDI. 
 
 than in Maldura ? Speak then, and say, that you 
 will allow me to call the moiety of it yours." 
 
 As Maldura listened, his face became of an 
 ashy paleness, his lips quivered, and his knees 
 shook. " Pshaw ! " said he ; and he instantly re- 
 covered himself. 
 
 Monaldi was about to repeat his offer, when, 
 suddenly turning upon him, . Maldura gave him a 
 look such a look Monaldi felt as if it had 
 passed through him. 
 
 " Nay, what 's the matter ? " said Maldura, 
 while a half compunctious feeling brought the 
 blood back to his cheek. 
 
 " Tell me, have I offended you, Maldura ? " 
 
 " No. Though I do not jump at your offer, 
 you must not think it offends me ; for, indeed, I 
 ought to that is I do thank you. But " 
 
 " Do not say that you decline it." 
 
 " I must ; for I am above want." 
 
 "In spirit " 
 
 " Ay, and in purse too." 
 
 " Then I will press you no further," said Mo- 
 naldi. 
 
 A silence of several minutes followed. 
 
 " I fear," said Maldura at last, " I fear that I 
 have not appeared so sensible to your kindness as 
 I ought to be ; but, I am rather unwell to-day
 
 MONALDI. 73 
 
 indeed hardly myself you will therefore pardon 
 it." 
 
 " Nay," returned Monaldi, if you did appear a 
 little proud of your independence, I ought not to 
 blame you : though you should not have thought 
 that your sharing my useless pelf would have made 
 you the less free." 
 
 " But I do thank you. Will you not believe it ? " 
 
 " I do," said Monaldi, " from the bottom of my 
 soul." 
 
 Maldura grasped his hand, and, pausing a mo- 
 ment, added, in a hollow voice, " Monaldi ! you 
 have indeed a noble heart ; and you deserve 
 yes, you deserve all you possess." He then 
 turned away and passed into another room. 
 
 " Alas ! " thought Monaldi, as he walked home- 
 ward, " I fear his brain is unsettled." The thought 
 sunk into his heart, and seemed to fix his friend 
 there more firmly than ever. 
 
 " I have said it ! " said Maldura when alone. 
 " Yes, it went from me in spite of Oh, that I 
 had bestowed that word, so justly merited, on any 
 other man. But I have said it ; and, true it 
 ought to have been said." Then, as if he would 
 flee from his thoughts, or, rather, return to his 
 wonted mood by a change of place, he snatched 
 up his hat, and hurried into the street ; he had no 
 
 7
 
 74 MONALDI. 
 
 choice whither, but the half-formed wish led him 
 mechanically to the desolate baths of Caracalla. 
 These baths had long been his favorite haunt, for 
 there was something in their ruins he felt akin with 
 his fortunes, and he would often spend whole days 
 and nights there, sometimes sitting in their dark 
 recesses, and given up to misery, and sometimes 
 wandering to and fro, as if inhaling a kind of sav- 
 age refreshment from walking over the wreck of 
 prouder piles than his own.
 
 CHAPTER VI, 
 
 IT should have been mentioned, in a former part of 
 this narrative, that among the honors bestowed on 
 our artist, soon after his arrival in Rome, was the 
 title of principal painter to the pope ; which was 
 immediately followed by an order for a series of 
 pictures for the pontifical palace at Monte Cavallo. 
 These works, which had occupied him for several 
 years, being now completed, so added to his fame, 
 that commissions flowed upon him from all quar- 
 ters, insomuch that he was obliged to decline many 
 from other distinguished personages both at home 
 and abroad. But there was one order which he 
 would have gladly declined for other reasons, yet, 
 coming from the pontiff, it was a virtual command, 
 and he was fain to accept it, though with more 
 reluctance than the world might believe of one so 
 flattered : this was a " companion " picture to a 
 Madonna by Raffaelle. His notions were perhaps 
 peculiar ; but we give them here as indicative of 
 his character.
 
 76 MONALDI. 
 
 He " accepted the commission," he said, " not 
 with the arrogant hope of producing a rival to the 
 picture of Raffaelle, but in grateful compliance 
 with the wishes of his patron." Be ides, with a 
 just reverence for his art, he looked upon all com- 
 petition as unworthy a true artist ; nay, he even 
 doubted whether any one could command the 
 power of his own genius whilst his mind was under 
 the influence of so vulgar a motive. " For what," 
 he would say, " is that which you call my genius, 
 but the love and perception of excellence the 
 twin power that incites and directs to successful 
 production ? which can never coexist with the de- 
 sire to diminish, or even to contend with, that in 
 another. It would be rather self-love, than a true 
 love of excellence, did I value it less in Raffaelle 
 than in myself." He might have added another 
 reason : that competition implying comparison, 
 and comparison a difference only of degree, could 
 not really exist between men of genius ; since the 
 individualizing power by which we recognise ge- 
 nius, or the originating faculty, must necessarily 
 mark their several productions by a difference in 
 kind. But he needed not this deduction of the 
 understanding ; his own lofty impulses placed him 
 on surer ground.
 
 MONALDI. 77 
 
 Having accepted the commission, however, it 
 was necessary that he should see the picture which 
 he was expected to equal ; he accordingly waited 
 on the gentleman to whose collection it belonged, 
 and was shown into his gallery. Though Monaldi 
 had heard much of this collection, he found that 
 report had for once fallen far short of the truth ; 
 and the pleasure of such a surprise to him may be 
 imagined by those who have witnessed the effect 
 of unexpected excellence on a man of genius. 
 
 He had expected to see only a fine Raffaelle ; 
 but he now found himself surrounded by the mas- 
 ter spirits of Rome and Venice : they seemed to 
 bewilder him with delight, and he was wandering 
 from one to another, as if uncertain where to rest, 
 when, passing a door at the end of the gallery, his 
 eyes fell on an object to which every other imme- 
 diately gave place. It was the form of a young 
 female who was leaning, or rather bending, over 
 the back of a chair, and reading. At first he saw 
 only its general loveliness, and he gazed on it as 
 on a more beautiful picture, till a slight movement 
 suddenly gave it a new character it was the 
 quickening grace that gives life to symmetry. 
 There is a charm in life which no pencil can 
 reach it thrilled him. But when he caught a 
 glimpse of the half-averted face, the pearly fore- 
 
 7*
 
 78 MONALDI. 
 
 head, gleaming through clusters of black, glossy 
 hair the lustrous, intellectual line beneath, just 
 seen through the half-closed eyelids the tremu- 
 lously-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. The eyes of the reader now turned 
 upon him. Still he continued to gaze, and to give 
 way to his new and undefined emotions, till the 
 thought of his intrusion suddenly crossed him, and 
 his face crimsoned. How far the embarrassment 
 may have been shared by Rosalia Landi (for she it 
 was) was hardly known to herself, as the entrance 
 of her father immediately restored her to her usual 
 self-possession. 
 
 " It gives us no common pleasure, signer Mo- 
 naldi," said the Advocate, as he presented him to 
 his daughter, " that we have this opportunity to 
 make some acknowledgment for the many happy 
 hours we owe to you. I may add, that I use the 
 epithet in no indefinite sense ; for when is the 
 mind more innocent than while it loses itself in a 
 pure work of genius ? and mere freedom from 
 evil should be happiness : but your art effects 
 more it unites innocence with pleasure." 
 
 " We owe signer Monaldi much indeed," said 
 Rosalia, bowing.
 
 MONALDI. 79 
 
 Monaldi had none of that spurious modesty 
 which affects to shrink from praise when conscious 
 of deserving it ; yet he could make no reply. 
 
 Without noticing his silence, Landi observed, 
 that, perhaps he ought to apologize for the length 
 of his absence. " And yet," he added, turning to 
 the pictures, " I cannot honestly say that I regret 
 it, since it has left signer Monaldi more at liberty 
 to form a fair opinion ; for I am connoisseur 
 enough to know that the first impression of a pic- 
 ture is seldom aided by words especially those 
 of a fond collector. The pictures I doubt not 
 have fared all the better without me." 
 
 They now stood before the Raffaelle, and the 
 Advocate waited for several minutes for his visiter 
 to speak ; but Monaldi' s thoughts had no connec- 
 tion with his senses ; he saw nothing, though his 
 eyes were apparently fixed on the picture, but 
 the beautiful vision that still possessed his imagi- 
 nation. 
 
 " Perhaps report may have overrated it," at 
 length said Landi, in something like a tone of dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 " Or probably," added Rosalia, observing the 
 blankness of his countenance, " our favorite Ma- 
 donna may not be one with signer Monaldi." 
 
 " It is your favorite then ? " said Monaldi, with
 
 80 MONALDI. 
 
 a sudden change of expression. He had no time 
 to think of the abruptness of this question before 
 Rosalia replied, 
 
 " And we had hoped too of yours ; for it is natu- 
 ral to wish our opinions confirmed by those who 
 have a right to direct them." 
 
 " Nay," said Monaldi, " Raffaelle is one whom 
 criticism can affect but little either way. He 
 speaks to the heart, a part of us that never mis- 
 takes a meaning ; and they who have one to un- 
 derstand should ask nothing in liking him but the 
 pleasure of sympathy." 
 
 "And yet there are many technical beauties," 
 said the Advocate, " which an unpractised 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 chiaro-scuro 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, 
 Raffaelle does more than make us think of him ; 
 he makes us forget his deficiencies or, rather, 
 supply them."
 
 MONALDI. 81 
 
 " I think I understand you when the heart is 
 touched., but a hint is enough," said Rosalia. 
 
 "Ay," said the Advocate, smiling, "'tis with 
 pictures as with life; only bribe that invisible 
 finisher and we are sure to reach perfection. 
 However, since there is no other human way to 
 perfection of any kind, I do not see that it is un- 
 wise to allow the illusion which certainly ele- 
 vates us while it lasts ; for we cannot have a sense 
 of the perfect, though imaginary, while we admit 
 ignoble thoughts." 
 
 " This is a great admission for you, sir," said 
 Rosalia ; " 't is the best apology for romance I have 
 heard." 
 
 " Is it ? Well, child, then I have been romantic 
 myself without knowing it. But the picture be- 
 fore us " 
 
 " I could not forget it if I would," interrupted 
 Monaldi, with excitement " that single-hearted, 
 that ineffable look of love ! yet so pure and pas- 
 sionless so like what we may believe of the love 
 of angels. It seems as if I had never before 
 known the power of my art." 
 
 As he spoke, his eyes unconsciously wandered 
 to Rosalia. The charm was there ; and his art 
 was now as much indebted to the living presence 
 as a little before it had suffered from it.
 
 82 MONALDI. 
 
 " If one may judge from his works," said Ro- 
 salia, " Raffaelle must have been a very amiable 
 man." 
 
 " We have no reason to think otherwise," an- 
 swered Monaldi. " He at least, knew how to be 
 so : if he was not, his self-reproach must have 
 been no small punishment, if at all proportioned 
 to his exquisite perception of moral beauty. But 
 he was all you believe, according to the testimony 
 of his contemporaries, by whom he appears to 
 have been as much beloved as admired." 
 
 " I could wish," said Rosalia, " that tradition 
 had spared us either more or less of the great au- 
 thor 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 rea- 
 son 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 feel- 
 ing it impossible to believe any charge to his dis- 
 credit." 
 
 " 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
 
 MONALDI. 83 
 
 about him, it was because he had but little in com- 
 mon 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 they are neither men nor women at least 
 like us that walk the earth but rather of a race 
 which minds of a high order might call up when 
 they think of the inhabitants of the planet Saturn. 
 To some, perhaps, this may be jargon but not 
 here I venture to hope." Rosalia bowed. 
 " Nay, the eloquent confession I have just heard 
 could not have been made had not the spell of 
 Michael Angelo been understood as well as felt." 
 
 " You have assisted me to understand him bet- 
 ter," 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 sensa- 
 tion." 
 
 Monaldi answered her only by a look, but one 
 of such unmingled pleasure, as would have called 
 up a blush, had not a similar feeling prevented her 
 observing it. He felt as if he had been listening 
 to the echoes of his own mind. 
 
 "Upon my word, Rosalia," said her father, " I
 
 84 MONALDI. 
 
 did not know you were so much of a connoisseur ; 
 't is quite new to me, I assure you." 
 
 Rosalia now blushed, for the compliment made 
 her sensible of her enthusiasm, which now sur- 
 prised herself: she could not recollect that she had 
 ever before felt so much excited. 
 
 " 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. 'T is 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 me- 
 chanical defect. Then they cavil at the form 
 those exquisite proportions. And where would be 
 his celestial lightness, his preternatural majesty 
 without them ? Signer Monaldi will forgive this 
 strain : perhaps, I should not hold it before an 
 artist." 
 
 " I should be very sorry to have it believed," 
 answered Monaldi, " that any artist could be 
 found I mean worthy the name who would 
 refuse to be instructed because the lesson does not 
 come from a professor. I, for one, shall always
 
 MONALDI. 85 
 
 be most happy to become a listener, especially 
 where, from the pledge given, I shall have so just 
 a hope of being enlightened. I am not used to 
 complimenting; and signer Landi will pardon 
 me if I add, that I respect my art too much to 
 affect a deference for any criticism come whence 
 it may which I know to be unsound ; it is 
 founded in truth, and the professor degrades it 
 who palters with its principles." 
 
 " Perhaps you overrate me," said the Advocate. 
 " But, be that as it may, signor Monaldi cannot 
 do me a greater favor than in making me a fre- 
 quent listener to himself." 
 
 Monaldi then took leave. 
 
 " So gentle yet so commanding ! " said Lan- 
 di, his eyes still resting on the door through which 
 his visiter had passed "even lofty yet so 
 wholly free of pretence and affectation not an 
 atom of either, but perfectly natural, even when 
 he talked of the people of Saturn. Did you ob- 
 serve how his face brightened then, as if he had 
 been actually familiar with them ? I can almost 
 fancy that we have been talking with Raffaelle. 
 He has not disappointed you, I am sure." 
 
 "No," replied Rosalia, "on the contrary" 
 She felt provoked with herself that she could say 
 nothing more. 
 
 8
 
 MONALDI. 
 
 " I do not know," added the Advocate, " that I 
 ever met with a young man who won upon me so 
 rapidly. But 'tis an intellectual creature rarely 
 to be met with."
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 WITH men of very vivid imaginations it would 
 seem as if the greater charm were rather in the 
 shadow than the substance. At least, it is true 
 that they are often so well content with a pleasing 
 image as long to overlook in its object the imme- 
 diate attraction, whether of mind or heart, which 
 first gave it interest ; nor is it surprising that, 
 when it is contemplated in the enchanted atmos- 
 phere of revery, it should seem to possess a satisfy- 
 ing charm, to the exclusion, for the time, of all 
 consciousness of any personal relation to the living 
 original. It was in this peculiar atmosphere that 
 Monaldi's spirit was now reposing. Though he 
 could think of nothing with which the image of 
 Rosalia was not in some way or other blended, and 
 spent hours together in rebeholding, and rehearing 
 e,very particular of their late interview, yet he 
 never dreamed of asking wherefore. If he dwelt 
 on her beauty, her grace, her voice, they were 
 never referred to any wishes of his own ; to him-
 
 88 MONALDI. 
 
 self they were as nothing ; indeed his power of 
 reflection seemed for the time suspended ; and he 
 yielded to their influence, feeling only their pres- 
 ence, wrapt as it were, passive and listless, in some 
 delicious spell. 
 
 But this aimless revery had a nearer relation to 
 himself than he was then aware of; and the most 
 imaginative dreamer must awake at last. Though 
 availing himself of Landi's invitation, he had al- 
 ready several times met Rosalia, yet seeing her 
 only in her father's presence, their conversation 
 had been too general to lead to anything which 
 might betray to him the state of his heart. But 
 he was now to see her on a nearer view ; being 
 invited to pass a musical evening at the Advocate's. 
 On entering the drawing room he found the daugh- 
 ter alone. This was so unexpected, that he hardly 
 knew whether to be pleased or not. Before he 
 entered the house he would have thought of such 
 a tete-a-tete with delight ; for he had always con- 
 versed freely with Rosalia, and felt while talking 
 with her as if the charms of her discourse made 
 even his own more than usually eloquent, and he 
 had often wished that the pleasure of listening and 
 replying to her had been less interrupted by a third 
 person. But now that he was without such inter- 
 ruption, he suddenly found that he had not a word
 
 MONALDI. 89 
 
 at command. He felt as if something had bewil- 
 dered him, but, instead of stopping to inquire 
 what, he began to make such violent efforts to feel 
 at ease that the palpitation of his heart became 
 almost audible, and he was fairly wishing himself 
 out of the house, when Landi made his appear- 
 ance. The relief which Monaldi felt at the fa- 
 ther's entrance might now have explained the 
 mystery, had not his attention been diverted by 
 the Advocate's inquiries concerning the progress 
 of his picture. But he was not doomed to remain 
 long in ignorance. 
 
 Skill in music is so common in Italy that Rosa- 
 lia hardly considered it an object of ambition ; she 
 had studied it merely for her own gratification and 
 her father's amusement, and her execution, though 
 good, was far from being what a connoisseur 
 would call brilliant ; but she had something bet- 
 ter an exquisite voice, and the power of en- 
 thralling even the coldest hearer. Her power 
 consisted not in the mere expression of concords, 
 but in that science of the heart which no written 
 music can supply, in those delicate inflexions which 
 seem to imbue sound with life, conveying thought 
 and sentiment ; and when to these was added the 
 accompaniment of her face the tremor of her
 
 90 MONALDI. 
 
 lips, and the scarcely perceptible elevation and 
 depression of the lids of her dark, steel-grey eyes, 
 following the movement through all its subtile 
 undulations what unconscious lover could look 
 and listen, still unconscious ? 
 
 In order that his guest might become acquainted 
 with her style, her father proposed her playing one 
 or two pieces alone, and she began with a passage 
 from Corelli. 
 
 Monaldi took his station behind her chair ; but 
 a mirror back of the piano brought them face to 
 face. This circumstance was too common to dis- 
 compose Rosalia, and she went through the piece 
 in her usual manner, except that once when she 
 caught his eye, she had, some how or other, skipped 
 a few notes. 
 
 To Monaldi, however, whose embarrassment had 
 been increasing with her performance, the situa- 
 tion became so uneasy that nothing but the fear of 
 appearing rude prevented his sitting down. But 
 when she began to sing that tender air from 
 Metastasio, 
 
 No, non vedrete mai 
 
 Cambiar gli affetti mici 
 
 and he beheld her devoted look, and heard her 
 impassioned tones, it seemed as if something 
 within him spoke and all he felt, and what he
 
 MONALDI. 91 
 
 felt, rushed to his brain. " I love her ! " said he 1 
 to himself " I love her ! " 
 
 Monaldi had scarcely made this discovery, when 
 he was called upon for his accompaniment. He 
 started, and taking up his violin, he began hurry- 
 ing over the strings with such rapidity that Rosalia 
 was obliged to request a slower movement. Then 
 he became too slow, drawing out his notes as if 
 performing a requiem. " A little quicker," said 
 Landi. Monaldi changed his time. It became 
 worse ; neither quick, nor slow, but a mixture of 
 both, like the long and short gallop of a battle 
 piece. 
 
 " Signor Monaldi ! " cried the Advocate. Mo- 
 naldi's instrument fell from his hand. 
 
 The dead silence which followed this unlucky 
 crash brought Monaldi to himself, and the whole 
 train of his blunders came at once before him. 
 He felt his ears burn, and stood dumb with confu- 
 sion. Landi, seeing his distress, kindly endeavored 
 to laugh it off: but his efforts were in vain ; Mo- 
 naldi could not even make an attempt to rally ; 
 the thought of having appeared ridiculous, and 
 appeared so before Rosalia had quite overcome 
 him. He remained for a moment irresolute ; then 
 uttering a kind of half intelligible apology about 
 sudden indisposition, he made a hurried bow and 
 withdrew.
 
 92 MONALDI. 
 
 " So," said Landi, as the door closed upon his 
 guest, "I find we are left to finish the evening 
 tete-a-tete. Well, 't is no great hardship ; 't is 
 not the first time I shall be indebted to you for 
 my evening's entertainment. Sit down, my dear, 
 and play me something from Pergolesi. 
 
 Rosalia obeyed. 
 
 " What is it you are playing ? " 
 
 " Your favorite." 
 
 Well, go on." 
 
 Rosalia continued, but her father listened in 
 vain ; he could catch no sound like Pergolesi's. 
 He heard her through, however, with kindness 
 and patience, and then very considerately recol- 
 lected that he had letters to write,
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THERE is a certain region of the heart which may 
 well be called the sanctuary of every individual ; 
 where even the humble and oppressed may (thank 
 heaven) claim a sovereignty ; it is there too, where 
 the hopes and fears, and all that give a color to 
 the outward, may be said to dwell ; and, though 
 in the pressure of crowds, where we can retire 
 unobserved, and feel ourselves distinct, intangible 
 alike if such be our pleasure both to friend 
 and foe. 
 
 Perhaps there is nothing more sedulously guard- 
 ed than this secret recess in pure woman's heart : 
 there indeed it is a sanctuary insomuch that, to 
 keep it inviolate, it would sometimes seem as if she 
 had closed it to herself. Hence it is that some 
 women may even love long before they are aware 
 of it. For in that place of mystery is born, if we 
 mistake not, a pure woman's love ; and hence too 
 it may be, as if partaking of the nature of its 
 birth-place, that it is so long shadowy to the every
 
 94 MONALDI. 
 
 day eye even so shadowy, as to be unconsciously 
 nursed, nay, to grow to maturity, and still continue 
 a shadow, till some magic accident a word, a 
 look, the merest trifle gives it a name and sub- 
 stance. 
 
 In some such wise was Monaldi's image allowed 
 to linger, and linger, in the heart of Rosalia, until, 
 from an undefined shadow, it gradually took shape, 
 and was quickened into life. Long before they 
 met she had seen, and admired his productions ; 
 and when she saw the man, his noble countenance 
 and unassuming manners more than answered to 
 what she had imagined him. 
 
 Where our expectations have been highly 
 wrought, it is no small gain if we are not disap- 
 pointed. It was so in this instance ; and Monaldi 
 had scarcely left her before she found that he had 
 risen in her opinion even as an artist. As they 
 became more acquainted she found in his mind 
 and heart all that she had ever imagined, or asked 
 for. Yet still she knew not that the image he 
 had left in her memory was anything to her but 
 a harmonious picture, which it was natural to 
 dwell on, and to dwell on with pleasure ; not that 
 a transient feeling would not occasionally whisper 
 of something more ; but the hints were vague, and 
 always sure to be repressed by a constant fear
 
 MONALDI. 95 
 
 of she knew not what: absence indeed might 
 soon have quickened her apprehension; but she 
 saw the original almost daily ; and there is no say- 
 ing how long her self-ignorance might have con- 
 tinued had it not been for a trifling incident. 
 
 The more Monaldi dwelt on the mortifying oc- 
 currence of the unfortunate evening, the stronger 
 became his conviction that Rosalia could not but 
 regard him with something like contempt ; and so 
 fully did this thought possess him, that near a fort- 
 night elapsed before he had the courage to wish 
 to see her. But the wish once allowed overcame 
 his fears, and he hurried away to the Advocate's. 
 
 As he approached the scene of his last visit, the 
 recollection of his folly became too overpowering, 
 and he was on the point of turning back, when 
 the sound of Rosalia's voice again changed his 
 purpose. She was singing the well-remembered 
 air from Metastasio and he heard again the 
 the same thrilling tones which had first revealed to 
 him the state of his heart they now drew him 
 onward like a charmed thing. The touching sim- 
 plicity with which the second stanza begins, 
 
 Quel cor, che vi donai, 
 Piu chieder non potrei 
 
 could not be heard with indifference even from a
 
 96 MONALDI. 
 
 less gifted voice than Rosalia's ; but, given by her, 
 and with that look of love, which now more than 
 ever spoke from her eyes it must have been felt 
 by the coldest heart. She had just ended the se- 
 cond line as Monaldi entered the drawing-room, 
 and their eyes a second time met in the mirror. 
 Had an apparition stood before her, the sight had 
 hardly been more startling. She felt as if her 
 conscious application of the words had been act- 
 ually detected. Her voice died on her lips, and 
 her face became colorless as marble. 
 
 " Good Heaven ! Rosalia, you are ill ! " said 
 Monaldi, wholly forgetting himself in alarm. 
 
 It was the first time he had ever addressed her 
 so familiarly, and the blood now mounted like a 
 crimson cloud to her forehead. The quick-sighted 
 lover no longer thought of illness but the 
 thought which followed made him almost doubt if 
 he were awake. 
 
 " I will let my father know that you are here," 
 said Rosalia, rising ; but she was unable to move. 
 
 " But one moment," said Monaldi, taking her 
 hand, though hardly conscious that he did so. 
 " Rosalia." She gently withdrew her hand. " I 
 beg pardon, Signora I should have said. But why 
 affect a form, the bare utterance of which seems 
 to chill me ? The time is come when I must use
 
 MONALDI. 97 
 
 it no more, or with a meaning still dearer. Yes 
 Rosalia, I will speak with that openness, which 
 your own ingenuous, your direct nature knows not 
 how to condemn I love you." 
 
 For one minute Rosalia felt as if she would will- 
 ingly have sunk into the earth. Her secret had 
 been betrayed this confession assured her of it 
 and had been betrayed by herself. 
 
 " 'T is all a dream then ! " said Monaldi, turning 
 away. " But what a dream to awake from ! Yet 
 how I torture her she cannot say yes, and her 
 gentle nature shrinks from saying no. Rosalia, 
 again pardon me. I have but one word more, and 
 will no longer distress you ; think no more of this 
 rash avowal there is nothing due to it 't was 
 involuntary, and one, believe me, which I could 
 not have made in a moment of reflection for 
 without hope no, I should never then have had 
 the presumption to hope forgive it then and, 
 if you can, forget that I have dared to make so ill 
 a return for the notice with which you have but 
 too much honored me." 
 
 Rosalia attempted to speak, but her lips moved 
 without sound. 
 
 "I ask no answer," continued Monaldi mourn- 
 fully ; " I deserve none but rather and let that 
 be my atonement that I leave you, and forever."
 
 98 MONALDI. 
 
 " No, no," said Rosalia in a voice hardly audi- 
 ble. A moment of breathless silence followed, 
 while she caught at the back of a chair, as if it 
 could impart the strength which she needed to pro- 
 ceed ; but the sound of her own voice restored her 
 to herself. 
 
 " Monaldi your frankness " 
 
 " Can you forgive it ? " 
 
 " I will do more, Monaldi, I will return it." 
 
 She held out her hand to him ; but her strength 
 failed her, and he caught her on his bosom.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 WITHIN a short lover's age Monaldi became a 
 husband ; and his happiness would now have been 
 complete could he have felt assured that peace was 
 again restored to his friend. But Maldura had 
 long since disappeared, having left his lodgings 
 the day after Monaldi's offer ; nor could the least 
 trace of him be discovered. Monaldi felt the dis- 
 appointment the more, as he had now persuaded 
 himself that no melancholy, however wayward, 
 could long withstand the sympathy of his wife. 
 
 Maldura's absence was occasioned by a letter 
 from Sienna, announcing the death of a rich rela- 
 tion, and calling him there to take possession of 
 his inheritance. A few years back this accession 
 of wealth would have filled him with joy. But 
 what is wealth to the crumbled hopes of intellect- 
 ual ambition ? It cannot rebuild them. Maldura 
 received the intelligence without the moving a 
 muscle. Though it gave no pain, it could give no 
 pleasure ; for he was no sensualist ; he had never
 
 100 MONALDI. 
 
 had but one vice the lust of praise which, 
 seated in his brain, seemed like a voracious reptile, 
 to swallow up every thought as soon as born, till, 
 bloated with overgorging, it had left no room for 
 the growth of another. To a vice like this money 
 was useless, except with a coxcomb. But Maldura 
 was no coxcomb ; and he disdained to beg or 
 bribe even for praise. Yet he notwithstanding 
 took possession of his fortune ; there was no one 
 on earth whom he loved ; and there was some sat- 
 isfaction, he thought, in possessing that which 
 j many wanted ; he was content to be rich because 
 
 Cothers were poor. 
 
 Having arranged his affairs, he now began to 
 consider whither to direct his course. He had 
 quitted Rome, as he believed, forever, and Florence 
 was associated with too many bitter recollections 
 to be thought of again ; but where to go he knew 
 not, for having no longer any object, there was 
 nothing to draw him to one place more than an- 
 other. In this state of indecision having one 
 evening strolled into a coffee house, a stranger 
 near him mentioned the name of Monaldi. He 
 thought he had schooled himself to hear it with 
 indifference ; yet he leaned over his table towards 
 
 r the speaker. The stranger was giving an account 
 to a person next him of Monaldi's marriage. Mai-
 
 MONALDI. 101 
 
 dura listened with little change of feeling till he 
 heard the name of Rosalia Landi. He could hear 
 no more, but starting up, rushed out of the house. 
 
 " I go to Rome," said Maldura to his servant, 
 as soon as he reached home. " To-night, sir ! " 
 exclaimed the man, staring. "Yes, to-night 
 business calls me." " Why, 't is almost dark, sir." 
 " I want not your attendance," said Maldura, im- 
 patiently; "I go alone. Now see to my port- 
 manteau, and order a horse to the door." The 
 servant obeyed, and Maldura was soon on his 
 way. 
 
 It was enough, he thought, to have been rejected ; 
 but to be rejected for one whom of all others he 
 most envied, and therefore most hated ; to know 
 that the woman he had once loved, and the man 
 he had once almost despised, were now as one ; 
 that they were prosperous and happy ; that without 
 title, rank, almost without family, they were yet 
 objects of the public gaze, of public admiration ; 
 and that go where he would, talk with whom he 
 would, he must hear forever of the painter Monal- 
 di and his beautiful wife ; to know all this whilst 
 himself was unknown, miserable drove him to 
 madness. He uttered no curse ; he did not weak- 
 en by words the deadly purpose which lay at his 
 heart. What that was, he had not yet defined, in 
 9*
 
 102 MONALDI. 
 
 any of its particulars, even to himself; yet he only 
 waited to mature it till he should find a proper 
 instrument to give it action ; till then he was con- 
 tented with brooding over its general form, and 
 steadily looking forward to its birth. 
 
 In this mood Maldura pursued his journey. He 
 had now reached Radicofani, and was slowly mov- 
 ing up the mountain, the reins given to his horse, 
 his eyes closed, and his thoughts busy about the 
 future, when a voice before him suddenly com- 
 manded him to stop. He raised his eyes, but, it 
 being after nightfall, he could only discern the 
 figure of a horseman standing in his path, and 
 presenting what he supposed to be a pistol. 
 
 Maldura was wholly unprepared for defence, for 
 he had quitted Sienna in too much haste, and was 
 too intent on the object of his journey to think of 
 providing himself with arms ; besides, it is doubt- 
 ful whether, in his present state of mind, he would 
 have taken the precaution, had it even occurred to 
 him. 
 
 " Your purse, or your life," cried the stranger. 
 
 " Take which you will," replied Maldura, calm- 
 ly ; " they are both to me worthless." 
 
 " Your purse, then," said the robber. 
 
 Maldura deliberately handed him his purse. 
 " Does that content you ? "
 
 MONALDI. 103 
 
 " If it be gold," returned the other, weighing it 
 in his hand. 
 
 " 'T is all gold, I assure you." 
 
 "Don't lie, friend," said the robber, "the 
 weight of your purse has saved you, whatever its 
 contents." 
 
 " Maldura never uttered a lie to man breathing ! 
 nor could the fear of such a man as Fialto extort 
 one from him." The robber started. " I know 
 you, Count," added Maldura ; " that voice, which 
 has ruined so many women, was never heard to be 
 forgotten." 
 
 " You know me, then ? " said the Count, after a 
 slight pause. " Well, sir, you shall also know that 
 the count Fialto never leaves any witnesses against 
 him above ground." 
 
 " Put down your weapon," said Maldura, coolly. 
 " My life is nothing to me, as I have told you, nor 
 would it be were it prolonged to a century ; but to 
 you it may be worth something. In short, I need 
 your services, Count ; and, more I have where- 
 with to pay for them." 
 
 " Is the devil in you, Maldura, in good sooth ; 
 or are you only playing the part of one, like our 
 worthy friars at an auto da ft?" 
 
 " If you had said a hell, I should answer yes, 
 but I lack a devil."
 
 104 MONALDl. 
 
 " And therefore apply to me ? " 
 
 " Ay ; you are the very one I have been wishing 
 for." 
 
 " Thank you ! Well, I must needs be a very 
 patient devil to bear this." 
 
 " Your patience has served you, Count, in worse 
 cases. Have not I seen your presence empty a 
 coffee house in ten minutes ? Yet you avenged it 
 only by a curl of your lip and wisely ; for none 
 but a madman would have thought of disputing 
 tastes with a score of stilettos. No, you are not 
 the fool, Count, to hazard either life or interest for 
 a reputation past mending. I address you in your 
 vocation and there 's surely no wrong done in 
 adding the title." 
 
 " You have certainly the prettiest way," answered 
 Fialto, " of persuading a man to sign himself rascal. 
 But words are words ! so it matters little by what 
 name I live. Now, my good fellow-caitiff, what 
 is your infernal errand ? " 
 
 " In a word then," said Maldura, " I have been 
 injured." 
 
 " Proceed." 
 
 " And would be revenged." 
 
 " Well, what prevents you ? Are all the drug- 
 gists dead in Italy ? " 
 
 " Pshaw ! I want assistance."
 
 MONALDI. 105 
 
 " Nay, I never stab or poison, except on my own 
 account." 
 
 " I would have you do neither.'* 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 " 'T is a matter that requires considering ; and I 
 would talk it over with you more at leisure, and in 
 a place less exposed. I do not like this parleying 
 in the dark ; there may be ears about." 
 
 " True, you talk like an adept ; the grave is the 
 only place free of them. But dare you trust your- 
 self with me ? " 
 
 " With an hundred such." 
 
 " 'T is more than I would," observed Fialto 
 dryly. " Well then, follow me." 
 
 Though the infamy of Fialto's character had 
 long excluded him from all sober society, his natural 
 and acquired endowments were yet too dazzling 
 not to obtain him a ready reception with the gay 
 and young ; and there were some even among the 
 graver class, more nice perhaps in their taste than 
 their morals, who, attracted by the brilliancy and 
 extraordinary variety of his conversation, scru- 
 pled not to court his acquaintance in private when 
 their prudence would have made them ashamed to 
 acknowledge it in public. Among this latter num- 
 ber had been Maldura. But the fascination of Fi- 
 alto was not confined to listeners of his own sex ;
 
 106 MONALDI. 
 
 if his wit and eloquence made them content to be 
 swindled of their money, the uncommon beauty of 
 his person, and his insinuating manners gave him 
 no less advantage over the hearts of the women. 
 No woman, it was said, could withstand the witch- 
 ery of his eye ; and many a husband and father, 
 have often stolen home from the assembly where 
 chance threw him in their way, but too happy if 
 their wives and daughters had escaped it. But 
 among his many seductions, the most notorious, 
 and the one for which he was most dreaded, was 
 that of a Nun. Of this, however, he was only 
 suspected, for no proof of it appearing, even the 
 Holy Office was obliged to acquit him. 
 
 Maldura had often heard of Fialto's gallantries, 
 and of this among the number; whether they 
 were true or not he cared little ; it was enough 
 that they were imputed to him, that he was con- 
 sidered a dangerous man ; and when he added to 
 this character the certainty that the Count had 
 long since run through his fortune, that he had 
 been a gambler, a swindler, and was now become 
 a robber, he thought it impossible to find an ac- 
 complice better suited to his purpose. 
 
 Such were his thoughts when, entering a thick 
 wood, his companion desired him to dismount. 
 " We must leave our horses here," said Fialto ;
 
 MONALDI. 107 
 
 " my habitation is not far off." They then struck 
 out of the wood, and began to ascend a wild and 
 barren country. 
 
 It was one of those still nights from which a 
 quiet heart seems to imbibe a peace more profound. 
 Not a breath of air was stirring, nor a cloud to be 
 seen ; all nature seemed buried in slumber all 
 but the wakeful eyes of heaven while the fitful, 
 uncertain light they shed upon the grey rocks, that 
 here and there jutted up from the black hollows of 
 the mountain, appeared to give them an undulating 
 motion, as if sleep had softened them into life, and 
 they were heaving with breath. But the repose of 
 the scene touched not the turbulent hearts of the 
 travellers, seeming rather to wall them about, and 
 shutting them up from the external world, to give 
 freer play and bolder daring to the evil spirits 
 within. As Maldura looked out upon the dark- 
 ness he felt as if it had compressed his soul to a 
 point, as if his whole being, once spread abroad, 
 modifying, and modified by, the surrounding ele- 
 ments, were now suddenly gathered back, like the 
 rays of an extinguished lamp, and absorbed in one 
 black feeling of revenge. His libertine companion, 
 not less selfish, but more in humor with the world, 
 availed himself of his abstraction in maturing the 
 unfinished schemes which he hoped to turn to his
 
 108 MONALDI. 
 
 future profit and pleasure. They thus walked on 
 in silence, till winding up a narrow, broken path, 
 they stopped at the foot of a steep rock, forming 
 the base of a cliff. 
 
 " Our journey is ended," said the Count ; " this 
 is my castle when my good friends in the world 
 become importunate." Then, taking a flageolet 
 from his pocket, he ran over a few wild notes, 
 when hearing the tinkling of a sheep-bell, appa- 
 rently from a great distance, he stopped. " I am 
 answered. All is safe." So saying, he led the 
 way to a cleft, overhung with bushes, about mid- 
 way up the rock, the projections on its surface 
 serving for steps. 
 
 " What folly is this ? " said Maldura. 
 
 " Part those bushes," replied his companion. 
 
 He did so ; and a door appearing, they entered 
 a cavern. 
 
 " 'T is he at last ! " cried a female voice. Mal- 
 dura leaned forward to look at the speaker, but he 
 instantly drew back. She stood near the entrance 
 holding a lamp, and as the light fell upon her large 
 dark eyes, it gave them a brightness so fearfully 
 contrasting with her other livid, shrunk features, 
 that he thought he had never beheld so strange a 
 mixture of life and death. 
 
 " Marcellina," said the Count.
 
 MONALDI. 109 
 
 " It is he ! " she cried, recovering her breath. 
 " Thank God ! " Then instantly closing her eyes 
 she added half to herself. " But no to Him 
 I am nothing to him now ; " and a visible tremor 
 ran over her limbs. 
 
 " Tut ! " said Fialto. " Well, Marcellina, and 
 how are you ? " 
 
 " Alas, 't is a long time," said she 
 " Since I have been here ? I know it." 
 " I thought you would never come." 
 " Don't be foolish ; I have brought you a visiter. 
 Have you anything to entertain him with ? " 
 " Such as I have he is welcome to." 
 " Well, whatever it is, Maldura I dare swear 
 needs no cardinal compound of pinochii and truf- 
 fles to sauce it down, He 's a poet ; and those of 
 his tribe seldom feast, except on posthumous din- 
 ners with posterity. But I beg his laced cloak's 
 pardon; I see he has cut the chameleons of 
 course now an ex-poet, for a fat purse makes but 
 lean verses." 
 
 Had Maldura wavered in his purpose this acci- 
 dental allusion to his blasted hopes would soon 
 have fixed it. He affected to smile, but his face 
 darkened with vengeance. 
 
 " What, ashamed of your trade, man ? " said 
 the Count, observing the change in his counte- 
 10
 
 110 MONALDI. 
 
 nance. " Well, 't is the way of the world ; we 
 never quarrel with what we are, but what we 
 have been ; and I can't say but even I might be 
 ashamed of dicing, could I once leave it off. As 
 it is, however, I 'm content to think it a very pretty, 
 gentlemanlike vice. But I see you are impatient 
 so, we '11 e'en to business." 
 
 " Nay, but you will first tell me " said Marcel- 
 Una, making a timid attempt to detain her com- 
 panion. 
 
 " Come, come," said Fialto ; " we will talk 
 about our own affairs another time. My friend, I 
 dare say, is hungry ; this keen air of the mountains 
 whets one's appetite confoundedly." 
 
 Marcellina sighed, and silently began to prepare 
 for supper. 
 
 The travellers in the mean time retired to an 
 inner apartment in order to confer on the subject 
 of their alliance. Maldura then stated his purpose 
 and the Count his conditions ; at length, after 
 some discussion, the affair was arranged to their 
 mutual satisfaction. 
 
 " Such is my plan," concluded Maldura ; " but 
 
 should you do more, and succeed so far as to 
 
 cause their separation, the sum shall be doubled." 
 
 " Nay, if you wish it," replied Fialto, " I will 
 
 even take her to myself."
 
 MONALDI. Ill 
 
 " No," said Maldura, " force would only defeat 
 my object." 
 
 " You mistake me : I mean with her own con- 
 sent." 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " That 's a word I never knew the meaning of. 
 Give me but a month " 
 
 " Never. Proud as you are, Count, and with 
 as much reason as you have to be so, there is yet 
 one woman in the world to whom all your arts, 
 were they ten times more seductive, would be as 
 nothing : that woman is Rosalia." 
 
 " 'Faith, you have touched my pride ; for, do 
 you know, I 'm a purity-fancier." 
 ' "Hold! you must not attempt her; for. as 
 you would certainly fail, she would as certainly 
 betray you to her husband. What then becomes 
 of his jealousy ? " 
 
 " So, I am only to sin by implication ? " 
 
 " She must not even hear your name, at least 
 as connected with hers ; for she knows you as 
 who does not ? " 
 
 " Ay, I dare say she has heard that I carry a 
 rosary of broken hearts, strung like beads, about 
 my neck ; and that I count them every night be- 
 fore a taper of brimstone, to keep good angels from
 
 112 MONALDI. 
 
 obstructing my hopeful course to where certainly 
 I 've no great inclination to push my fortune." 
 
 " You certainly have the credit of a free chart:" 
 
 " The world does me too much honor ! No, I 
 don't more than half deserve it." 
 
 " Well, the half is enough to prevent any de- 
 cent woman putting herself in your way." 
 
 " Oh, if the painter's wife is afraid of me, she 's 
 mine to a certainty." 
 
 " I don't question your logic, Count," said Mai- 
 dura, with a half-suppressed sneer ; " yet you are 
 not, perhaps, aware that a virtuous woman might 
 avoid a libertine from other motives besides fear. 
 There may be such a thing as antipathy" 
 
 " Umph ! " answered Fialto, drumming on the 
 hilt of his dagger. " By the way, that 's a very 
 pretty jewel on your finger." 
 
 " 'T is yours," said Maldura, taking off the ring 
 and presenting it. 
 
 " By no means," said the Count, though some- 
 what hesitating ; " we are not on the road now. 
 Besides, you are my guest I could not in honor 
 accept it." 
 
 " Then wear it as a pledge of my good faith." 
 
 " Well, as a pledge. But what if this Monaldi 
 should refuse to be jealous ? For I have known
 
 MONALDI. 113 
 
 husbands who never dream of a gallant till they 
 stumble over him." 
 
 " I know him too well to doubt your success. 
 Wherever he fixes his affections there will be his 
 whole soul ; and though not suspicious, yet will 
 her constant presence in his mind make him acutely 
 sensitive to the least breath that touches her." 
 
 " Say no more ; I see he is most happily dis- 
 posed to be miserable." 
 
 " Well, do we now understand each other ? " 
 
 " Yes. But you have given such a description 
 of this paragon, that I dare not answer if " 
 
 " Fialto," said Maldura sternly, " if you keep 
 not within the charter " 
 
 " What then ? " retorted the Count, fiercely. 
 
 I _ hold the purse." 
 
 " I bow before thee, most mighty wizard ! That 
 little word would bind even Love, though he had 
 as many wings, and were as strong as a whirlwind. 
 Only repeat it when I become restiff, and you '11 
 find me as docile as the pet-cat of an old maid." 
 
 " Then we are agreed." 
 
 " Agreed ! Why, man, thou art a licensed sor- 
 cerer ! There is nothing on earth, bearing about 
 with it a full wit and an empty stomach, can with- 
 stand thee. Thou hast the true charm, to soften, 
 or harden hearts at pleasure ; and if I obey thee 
 10*
 
 114 MONALDI. 
 
 not, 't will only be because some mightier magician 
 shall have conjured me out of my appetite." 
 
 They now returned to Marcellina, and sat down 
 to supper. 
 
 " But how is this, Marcellina ? " said Fialto ; 
 " this is the very flask of Montepulciano that I 
 brought you a month ago." 
 
 " I reserved it for you," answered Marcellina. 
 
 " That was foolish. You '11 at least partake of 
 it now." She shook her head. " Will you not 
 join us ? " 
 
 " No," she replied ; 't is enough " she would 
 have added, " to see you " when a frown from 
 Fialto checked her. But he could not check the 
 language of her eyes. She had taken her seat at 
 a little distance opposite, and, watching every turn 
 of his countenance, seemed to hang upon it with a 
 fondness so intense and devoted as if in her 
 whole mind there was but one thought that of 
 the object before her. Yet there was a gloom in 
 her love which occasionally gave her an expression 
 almost awful. 
 
 Maldura had marked these looks, and the story 
 of the nun crossed his mind. He looked again, 
 and the more he examined her, the stronger be- 
 came his suspicion that she was the person ; for 
 though her form was wasted, her features shrunk
 
 MONALDI. 115 
 
 and wrinkled, and her hair prematurely gray, the 
 traces of their former beauty were still too visible 
 to leave a doubt that she had once been lovely. 
 
 Had any one but Maldura beheld this piteous 
 object, and then looked on her betrayer, and sur- 
 veyed his elegant, yet muscular, limbs, his fresh 
 black hair, his smooth forehead, the cold sparkle of 
 his eye, the healthful color of his cheeks, the smile 
 that curled his lips, and the gaiety that danced like 
 a youthful spirit over the whole ; and then thought 
 of his heart the black life -spring of all this se- 
 ducing beauty he would have shrunk from him 
 with horror, and turned for relief even to his 
 wretched companion. But Maldura felt not the 
 contrast, or if he did it was only to confirm him in 
 the choice of his instrument. 
 
 Though Fialto scarcely looked towards Marcel- 
 lina, he could not help feeling that her gaze was 
 upon him, and willing to divert his mind from cer- 
 tain uneasy thoughts which that awakened, he 
 suddenly broke the silence into which their meal 
 had relapsed by inquiring, " if Maldura had heard 
 anything lately of a certain Cagliostro ? " 
 
 " Yes," answered Maldura ; " I am told he is 
 now figuring away in England." 
 
 " He is certainly the cleverest scoundrel I ever 
 met with. But he is one of those unfortunate
 
 116 MONALDI. 
 
 geniuses who come into the world at the wrong 
 time ; he should have been born two centuries 
 sooner, when he might have had half Christendom 
 under his foot." 
 
 " You knew him then ? " 
 
 " I met him once in Madrid. What devil car- 
 ried him there with his tricks I never could guess ; 
 but it must have been Beelzebub himself that car- 
 ried him out of it ; for no other could have given 
 him safe conduct through the Inquisition." 
 
 " Can nothing but the devil," asked Maldura, 
 fixing his eye on the Count " can only the devil 
 extricate a man thence ? " Fialto affected to 
 cough. " You can tell," continued Maldura, " for, 
 now I recollect, there was once a foolish story about 
 a nun " 
 
 Marcellina uttered a shriek, and fell senseless. 
 For a moment Fialto stood like one stunned ; then, 
 smothering a curse, he sprang to her assistance. 
 Maldura offered his services, but the Count waving 
 his hand, he prudently drew back. 
 
 " Am I awake ? " said Marcellina, at length re- 
 covering. " I have had a frightful dream. Ah ! 
 never could I live through such another. I thought, 
 dear Fialto, I thought " 
 
 " You must not speak, Marcellina," said the 
 Count ; " you are too weak it hurts you."
 
 MONALDI. 117 
 
 " But I must tell you this to relieve my mind." 
 
 " Nay, you must not." 
 
 " 'T is only a few words I thought that a 
 familiar of the Inquisition " 
 
 Fialto ground his teeth with rage, yet fearing to 
 trust himself with speech, he made a sign for Mar- 
 cellina to be silent ; but she was too intent on 
 her own thoughts to observe him. 
 
 " Where was I ? " she continued ; "oh, well 
 and the familiar I thought came into my cell " 
 
 " Peace ! " cried the Count in a voice of thun- 
 der. Marcellina, you Tcnow me I will never 
 forgive you if you refuse to obey me." 
 
 " Then I should be cursed on earth too you 
 are obeyed." 
 
 " You must go to bed," said Fialto. 
 
 She assented by an inclination of her head ; and 
 he was supporting her to her chamber, when she 
 caught a glimpse of Maldura. 
 
 " There ! there he is again ! " she screamed. 
 
 Fialto hurried her into the chamber, and closed 
 the door after him. 
 
 " It is so ! " said Maldura to himself. " He is 
 now in my power, and shall be faithful." 
 
 It was near an hour before Fialto returned. 
 
 " How is she ? " asked Maldura. 
 
 Without answering the question, Fialto contin-
 
 118 MONALDI. 
 
 ued for some time to pace the cavern with his 
 arms folded ; at length stopping and slowly raising 
 his eyes, " Maldura," said he 
 
 " Proceed, sir," quietly returned Maldura ; for 
 he guessed the subject of Fialto's thoughts, and 
 was prepared. 
 
 " What think you of what has just passed ? " 
 
 " Thoughts, Count, you know are free ; they 
 come unbidden, and stay without leave ; the mind 
 therefore so it use them not cannot be an- 
 swerable for their birth or nature." 
 
 " You are metaphysical, sir." 
 
 " 'T is my humor. This being true, he is but a 
 fool, should their nature be dangerous, who wil- 
 lingly betrays them to another." 
 
 " I understand you, sir. But you should have 
 added," observed Fialto, half drawing his stiletto, 
 " one trifling qualification unless he find it his 
 interest to betray them." 
 
 " Your dagger, Count," said Maldura, " would 
 waste its edge on me ; for I should not care if you 
 had seduced a whole convent." 
 
 " Fool to have brought him here ! " muttered 
 Fialto to himself. 
 
 " Count Fialto," said Maldura, " I am now in 
 your power. If you fear me, this is a most conve- 
 nient place to bury your fears in." Fialto's hand
 
 MONALDI. 119 
 
 went to his dagger. " If there be no other way to 
 secure your peace, strike ! You will do more 
 you will rid me of a hateful existence." 
 
 " Maldura, I will be plain with you," said Fialto. 
 " You say right you are in my power ; and I 
 would bury my secret with your corpse on the spot 
 where you stand but that I know that men, good 
 or bad, never act without motive : and you can 
 have none to betray me at least for the present. 
 Should you have hereafter, why, then, I shall need 
 no prompter ; and my hand has never missed whom 
 my eye has marked. Then, take your life ; not as 
 a gift for which I expect gratitude I know you 
 too well to delude myself with any such improba- 
 bility 't is not in the heart which I have read 
 to-night that frown is idle, sir but I give it, 
 because I hold it of no moment to me." 
 
 " The expression you were pleased to notice," 
 replied Maldura with the same composure, " had a 
 deeper root than you can yet reach. You are free 
 to criticise my morals as you like, provided only I 
 be not bound in return to mend them by those of 
 my judge. But a truce to this. I will meet you, 
 Count, on your own ground, and with equal plain- 
 ness. Your secret with me is as with the dead. 
 My soul has no purpose save the one you know 
 no pleasure, no profit in anything which man could
 
 120 MONALDI. 
 
 name to me ; what then should I gain by your 
 death ? or the death of all the libertines in the . 
 world ? Nothing. I should still be the same 
 the same human weed, fastened to the same spot, 
 and still hating its own rankness." 
 
 " I do trust you," said the Count, extending his 
 hand. " So, good night. You will find a pallet 
 in that recess."
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 NOTHING more occurring, the confederates pro- 
 ceeded the next morning on their way to Rome, 
 taking care, however, always to separate when 
 they came to a town. According to this plan, 
 when they reached Viterbo, Maldura entered and 
 quitted it alone, and had proceeded some miles 
 before Fialto overtook him. 
 
 " We are in luck," said the latter, as he rejoined 
 his companion, "I have seen Monaldi; he was 
 pointed out to me as he was getting into a carriage 
 just as I entered the inn yard. It seems he is on 
 his way to Florence, to see to the putting up of 
 some picture he has painted for a church there. 
 So said the inn-keeper." 
 
 " But his wife," interrupted Maldura 
 
 " There was no lady with him. And he will be 
 absent a fortnight at least. Rare ! eh ? " 
 
 " Yes," said Maldura, " if she remain at home. 
 A fortnight, did you say ? That 's time enough "
 
 122 MONALDI. 
 
 " Ay, for any woman to transfer her affections 
 at least in the calculation of a jealous husband." 
 
 " Well sir, let us on." 
 
 On their arrival in Rome, Maldura took lodgings 
 in a part of the city remote from his former abode, 
 and where from its obscurity he thought he was 
 least likely to fall in with Monaldi, whom he was 
 determined to avoid unless some circumstance 
 should occur to render their meeting necessary. 
 Fialto established himself nearer the scene of ac- 
 tion, and began his operations by making it appear 
 as if he haunted the painter's dwelling ; passing 
 and repassing it a dozen times a day ; sometimes 
 stopping before it under one pretence or another, 
 then giving a side glance towards the windows, 
 and suddenly turning another way if any one 
 chanced to observe him, and sometimes curveting 
 to and fro for several minutes on a restiff horse, 
 and occasionally affecting to take something from 
 his pocket and throw it into the court. All this 
 was done to excite the attention of the neighbors ; 
 nor was it long before it succeeded. The first 
 effect, however, was that of mere surprise to see 
 him so often in the same street ; generally ending 
 with simple exclamations, as, " Oh, here 's the 
 same gentleman" or "here he comes again!" 
 Then they began to wonder what brought him
 
 MONALDI. 123 
 
 there. But when they remembered his frequent 
 glances at Monaldi's house, the mystery was ex- 
 plained ; the transition was but too natural from 
 the handsome cavalier to the painter's wife. 
 
 Such was the state of things when Monaldi re- 
 turned. His arrival was accordingly noted by his 
 neighbors with as many shrugs and winks as are 
 usual in similar cases. But there was one amongst 
 them to whom it seemed to afford particular pleas- 
 ure ; for now, as he thought, was a fair opportunity 
 to give play to his resentment in many a good 
 "fling" at the great man. This person, whom 
 Monaldi had unconsciously offended, was a worker 
 in mosaic, and kept a shop directly opposite him. 
 The cause of the offence was the negative one of 
 sometimes being silent when Romero expected to 
 be praised ; not that Monaldi had ever denied him 
 praise when he thought it due, for he was too con- 
 scientious to withhold it even from an enemy, but 
 only that he had fallen short of the exhorbitant 
 measure which the other demanded ; an injury 
 often more important than one that is positive, for 
 while the latter is bounded by its word or deed, 
 the former is limited only by the vanity of the in- 
 jured. 
 
 " Good morning, signor Monaldi," said Romero, . 
 " so, you have been a long journey. Ay, 't is 
 well you are come back."
 
 124 MONALDI. 
 
 This speech would hardly have been noticed but 
 for its peculiar emphasis. 
 
 Well, sir ? " repeated Monaldi, why well 1 " 
 
 " Oh, nothing only a man, you know, is 
 always better at home especially " 
 
 Sir." 
 
 " Umph ! Don't it look like rain ? Carluccio, 
 why don't you attend to the shop ? " 
 
 " You were observing," said Monaldi. 
 
 " Oh, nothing of consequence at least to me," 
 replied Romero, closing his shop door. " Good 
 day, sir ; I must see to my customers." 
 
 " *T is of a piece," thought Monaldi, " with his 
 usual forwardness ; he wants to talk and has no- 
 thing to say." And the speech and Romero 
 passed from his mind. 
 
 Nothing more occurred for several days, till one 
 morning, as Monaldi was going out, he saw a man 
 standing at the entrance of his gateway. As he 
 approached, the stranger suddenly drew his hat 
 over his eyes, and precipitately retreated ; not how- 
 ever, before the former had distinctly seen his face. 
 Monaldi quickened his pace in order to overtake 
 him, but on entering the street, the man was lost 
 in the crowd ; and before he had time to form any 
 conjecture on the incident, his attention was di- 
 verted by a message from the pope, requiring his 
 attendance.
 
 MONALDI. 125 
 
 But going the next day to a window which over- 
 looked Romero's shop, he observed the same per- 
 son standing at the door, and apparently convers- 
 ing by signs with some one in his own house. 
 The recognition, even connected with such a cir- 
 cumstance, might have passed off without a thought, 
 had not the stranger on catching his eye again 
 drawn his hat over his face and hastily entered the 
 shop. This last action gave an importance to the 
 other which he could not overlook. And for the 
 first time in his life, Monaldi became conscious of 
 suspicion ; but of whom, or of what, he could not 
 tell. He felt that the stranger was somehow or 
 other connected with him or his household, and 
 the sensations excited by the thought became still 
 more painful from its being undefined. 
 
 Who the man was perplexed him. " Yet might 
 it not be some one he had formerly known ? No ; 
 he could not recollect meeting him before the day 
 preceding. Who was he, then? Perhaps Ro- 
 mero could inform him. But Romero was prying 
 and familiar ; and should he ask the motive for the 
 inquiry what answer could be given ? No, 
 he would not question him. Yet the more he 
 thought of it, the more he felt inclined to apply to 
 him ; but something he knew not what always 
 checked him.
 
 126 MONALDI. 
 
 In this mood he continued to pace the room for 
 a considerable time, when, going again to the win- 
 dow, he saw the stranger come out of the shop, 
 and again make a sign as he thought, toward his 
 house. " I will know who he is." But before he 
 had reached the street, the stranger was gone. 
 
 For near a fortnight after Monaldi observed the 
 same person almost daily hanging about the neigh- 
 borhood, and always betraying the same solicitude 
 to avoid him. Still no opportunity offered of 
 learning who he was. Wearied at length with 
 fruitless conjectures, and willing to divert his mind 
 with other thoughts, he was one evening prevailed 
 on to accompany his father-in-law, to see a new 
 opera. Rosalia had also been invited, but she de- 
 clined on account of a headache. 
 
 They had been but a little while in the theatre, 
 when Landi directed Monaldi's attention to a box 
 opposite. 
 
 " Do you observe that gay cavalier ? " 
 
 "Which?" asked Monaldi. 
 
 " He that has just entered, with the embroidered 
 waistcoat." 
 
 Monaldi looked, and beheld the stranger. " Who 
 is he? " he asked quickly. 
 
 " 'T is the notorious count Fialto." 
 
 " Fialto ! " repeated Monaldi.
 
 MONALDI. 127 
 
 " What makes you start so ? " said Landi. 
 
 " N - nothing." 
 
 " But you are ill ? " 
 
 No not at all," answered Monaldi, endeav- 
 oring 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 speaking 
 of this Count." 
 
 " I pointed him out to you," continued Landi, 
 " because I think him an anomaly in physiognomy. 
 To look at his noble countenance, no one, ignorant 
 of his character, would for a moment suspect that 
 such a face could possibly belong to anything vi- 
 cious ; and yet, were all the wickedness in this 
 house extracted from the hearts of each individual, 
 I verily believe it would fall short in the gross of 
 that in his." 
 
 " You seem to know him ? " 
 
 " Not personally. But his character is no secret. 
 There is no crime of which he is not capable." 
 
 " I have heard as much." 
 
 " But his deadliest sins are against those of the 
 other sex. The catalogue of his seductions would 
 appal any common libertine." 
 
 " He seems indeed no common one." 
 
 " Nay, his person, of itself, is a mere subordi-
 
 128 MONALDI. 
 
 nate but a fine statue, on which many women 
 might gaze with impunity ; 't is only when animated 
 by his master-mind when his devil's heart rises 
 to his angel's tongue, that it becomes an object of 
 worship fatal to the rash woman who shall then 
 dare to look and listen." 
 
 Monaldi knew not why, but he felt, while his 
 father-in-law was speaking, as if all his blood were 
 beating at his heart. But the opera was now be- 
 gun, and the exquisite tones of Crescentini soon 
 made him forget that there was such a being as 
 Fialto in the world. 
 
 The first act passed off without anything worth 
 noting, except that Monaldi's attention was again 
 drawn towards the opposite box by the entrance of 
 a person with a letter for Fialto, who, glancing 
 over it hastily, immediately withdrew ; but this 
 excited no sensation in Monaldi except that of 
 pleasure in the other's absence, which left him at 
 ease to enjoy the remainder of the opera. 
 
 There are few cares which do not yield for a 
 time to the influence of fine music. Monaldi had 
 felt it, and he was returning homeward full of happy 
 thoughts, when arriving within a few paces of his 
 house, he perceived a person lurking about his 
 gateway. The impulse of the moment determined 
 him to stop ; and being just then under a lamp
 
 HONALDI. 129 
 
 which hung before the image of a saint, he turned 
 his back towards it, and muffled his face in his 
 cloak. He had scarcely done so when the person 
 passed him. Monaldi was thunder-struck : there 
 could be no mistake the light had fallen full on 
 the other's face it was Fialto. 
 
 There is a little cloud often described by travel- 
 lers, and well known on the Indian seas, which at 
 first appears like a dark speck in the horizon ; as 
 it rises its hue deepens, and its size increases ; yet 
 the approach of it is gradual, and the air mean- 
 while is soft and motionless ; but while the inex- 
 perienced mariner is perhaps regarding it as a mere 
 matter of curiosity, his sails unbent, and loosely 
 hanging to the masts in the twinkling of an eye, 
 it seems to leap upon the ship and, in a moment 
 more, sails, masts, and all, are swept by the board. 
 With like desolation did this little incident smite 
 the heart of Monaldi : he felt as if some sudden 
 calamity had laid his peace in ruins ; yet he could 
 give it no distinct shape, nor even comprehend the 
 evil that would follow. He knew not with what, 
 or with whom to connect Fialto's visit ; but that 
 Fialto had been in his house seemed almost beyond 
 doubt ; he had not indeed seen him come out of 
 it yet why was he hanging about it at this hour ? 
 " But how did this appear to concern himself? "
 
 130 MONALDI. 
 
 He had scarcely asked the question, when twenty 
 circumstances occurred in answer ; but chiefly by 
 the Count's uniform solicitude to avoid him ; his 
 confusion when detected gazing at the house, his 
 disappearance from the theatre soon after Monal- 
 di's entrance ; his absence during the rest of the 
 evening, though it was a new play ; and his sudden 
 reappearance in this place, and at such a time ; 
 these were too evident in their bearing to allow of 
 any misapprehension, and Monaldi was forced to 
 admit that Fialto's purpose, whatever it was, had, 
 in some way or other, relation to himself. There 
 was an obscurity in this conclusion which thick- 
 ened on his brain like an Egyptian darkness ; not 
 a thought could pierce it ; even the avenues to 
 conjecture were closed ; he could only feel that he 
 was surrounded by a thing impenetrable, and he 
 had no resource but to wait till some further cir- 
 cumstance should give form and direction to his 
 undefined misgivings. Nor was he long without 
 one. The closing of a window above roused him 
 from his reverie. He looked up and saw a light 
 in his wife's chamber, and a female figure passing 
 from the window. Rosalia and Fialto now met in 
 his thoughts. 
 
 There is no act of the mind more abhorrent to 
 a delicate man than that of admitting a criminating
 
 MONALDI. 131 
 
 thought against an object once held sacred ; and 
 should a hundred circumstances arise to disturb, 
 and excite him to suspicion, it will at first be gen- 
 eral, and fall anywhere, rather than on her he 
 loves ; for though it is the connection of these cir- 
 cumstances with her which the mind feds, with- 
 out acknowledging that makes his misery ; it is 
 only when their direction is too plain to be mis- 
 taken that he suffers himself to perceive its object. 
 So was it with Monaldi : the devotedness of his 
 love had invested his wife with a charm which had 
 hitherto kept her name and her image far from the 
 troubled circle of his thoughts. But Fialto's man- 
 ner the finding him so near his house the 
 hour the light in his own bed-chamber the fe- 
 male at the window were all too distinctly joined 
 in his mind, not to mark the object of suspicion. 
 The agony which followed was unutterable ; but 
 it could not continue long ; for Monaldi was natu- 
 rally confiding ; then he revolted at injustice ; and 
 to whom, if so, should he be unjust ? The ques- 
 tion drove him from self, to one infinitely dearer ; 
 and his generous nature now pleaded for her with 
 all its energy. " Did he not know her ? as well 
 yes, as well as himself. Her whole heart had 
 been open to him ; he had seen it daily, from the 
 day of their union and he had found it pure ;
 
 132 MONALDI. 
 
 he was no dotard intensely as he loved and 
 he must have seen the stain had there been one 
 no artifice, no hypocrisy could have hidden it so 
 long. And on what did he ground his suspicion ? 
 On a coincidence which a hundred accidents might 
 innocently occasion." He almost hated himself 
 as the word occurred to him. He then remem- 
 bered that he had left his wife unwell ; and it was 
 very natural that she should retire to rest early ; 
 indeed it would have been more strange if she 
 had waited his return. This last thought reas- 
 sured him, and he entered the house. His confi- 
 dence, however, was hardly restored when a con- 
 tradictory circumstance again staggered it; he 
 found his wife sitting in the very room where he 
 had left her. " What, here ! Has she then heard 
 me enter ? and comes she down now to make 
 me believe that she has passed the whole evening 
 here ? " 
 
 " You are home early," observed Rosalia, " I 
 hope you have been entertained." 
 
 "Perhaps too early," replied Monaldi, hesita- 
 ting, and almost shuddering at the strangeness of 
 his own voice ; " you seem surprised. What if / 
 should be so at finding you here 1 " 
 
 " Me ? Why so ? Oh, I suppose you thought 
 my head-ache would have sent me to bed. But it 
 is quite gone off."
 
 MONALDI. 133 
 
 " Indeed ! and pray who has cured it? " 
 
 The question seemed forced from him by tor- 
 ture, and his utterance was so thick that Rosalia 
 asked what he said. 
 
 " Your head ache. I asked who has cured it." 
 
 " Oh, my old doctor nature." 
 
 " Rosalia ! " said Monaldi. 
 
 " What ? but what disturbs you ? " 
 
 " Nay, what should ] " 
 
 " 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 In- 
 ferno 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." 
 
 12
 
 134 MONALDI. 
 
 " Who, I ? No I have not been up stairs this 
 evening." 
 
 "A lie!" groaned Monaldi, turning from her 
 with an agony that would not be suppressed. 
 " Oh, misery ! 't is then too too " 
 
 A maid servant at that instant came in to tell 
 her mistress that, as the night was damp, she had 
 shut her chamber windows, though without orders. 
 
 " You have done well," said Rosalia. 
 
 " Thank God ! " said Monaldi, as he heard 
 this explanation. " Away away forever, infer- 
 nal thoughts ! " 
 
 Monaldi's emotion had not escaped his wife, but 
 the entrance of the servant prevented her hearing 
 his words. His altered expression now struck her. 
 " Surely I have been dreaming," said Rosalia. 
 
 " Of nothing bad, I hope, my love," said Mo- 
 naldi, now like another being, and gently drawing 
 her towards him ; "_for your dreams if that 
 dreams are pictures of the mind should be like 
 those of angels." 
 
 " I know not of what," answered Rosalia, " but 
 it was something very painful. I thought you 
 seemed unhappy. Was it so ? " 
 
 " Never was I less so than now. Less so ! that 's 
 a poor negative. No, my Rosalia, I feel a present, 
 a positive, tangible happiness, which gives the lie
 
 MONALDI. 135 
 
 to all who hold that we enjoy it only in the past 
 and future. My heart is full ; so full, that I ask 
 nothing of time of anything but thee and to 
 hear thee, to look upon thee." 
 
 " Oh, Monaldi, I am blest above women ! " 
 
 " And dost thou think so ? " 
 
 " At least I know not how I could be happier. 
 For what more could I ask, with such a husband ? " 
 
 " Or I, with such a wife ? Amen ! with my 
 whole soul." 
 
 " I have sometimes thought," said Rosalia, " and 
 I hope without pride, that the very bad could not 
 know such bliss ; nay, a love, like mine. For, 
 could I love thee so, pure and exalted as thou art, 
 did I love evil ? I could not : I should then love 
 myself, and thee only as ministering to my selfish^ 
 ness. No ! the love I bear thee is but the efflu- 
 ence of thy virtues given back to thyself ; and it 
 seems to elevate me ; to refine my heart for the love 
 of Him who is purest, best who is Goodness,"
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 A FEW days after this, Monaldi received a message 
 from the worker in mosaic, requesting to speak 
 with him. 
 
 " You will excuse my freedom," said Romero, 
 as Monaldi entered the shop, " but I wished to 
 have your opinion of a work I have lately begun. 
 You may give me a hint, perhaps, that will be of 
 service. 'T is a miniature copy of that Magdalen 
 by Guido." 
 
 Monaldi examined the copy, and comparing it 
 with the original, commended the general fidelity, 
 but pointed out several parts which he thought 
 might be improved. 
 
 Romero thanked him with an air of pique, and 
 observed, " I should not have troubled you for your 
 opinion, had not the work been for a friend of 
 yours the count Fialto." 
 
 " My friend ! " said Monaldi, with some sur- 
 prise "the most You are mistaken, sir ; 
 
 I have no acquaintance with him. 5 '
 
 MONALDI. 137 
 
 " I beg pardon," replied Romero ; " but I con- 
 cluded that he was so from seeing him come out 
 of your house." 
 
 " My house ! " repeated Monaldi. 
 
 " Or, perhaps 't was another person ; for since 
 you don't know him no doubt I was mistaken. 
 Indeed now, I rather wonder how I came to sup- 
 pose him your friend ; for the Count's character is 
 none of the best. But that 's nothing to me, or he 
 should not be so free of my shop ; for he comes 
 here three or four times a week to see how my 
 work gets on ; in faith, so often, that, to say the 
 truth, had I a pretty daughter, or a wife, I 
 should n 't much relish it." 
 
 Monaldi looked up at the word wife, and saw a 
 meaning in Romero's eye not to be mistaken. But 
 the look was unnecessary ; his shaft had already 
 reached the mark. 
 
 " Well, I am much obliged to you, signer Mo- 
 naldi," concluded Romero, returning to his work, 
 and shall be careful in future how I call the Count 
 your friend." 
 
 When Monaldi left the shop the houses seemed 
 to reel and the ground to bend beneath him. A 
 sickening faintness had come over him, and he felt 
 as if it were impossible to cross the street ; but, 
 making an effort, he reached his gateway, and
 
 138 MONALDI. 
 
 leaned against it for support. His strength, how- 
 ever, soon returned ; sooner than his memory, for 
 it was some time before he could fix on the cause 
 of his agitation, only recollecting that some dread- 
 ful truth had suddenly glanced on his brain, and 
 as quickly vanished. But a slight incident will 
 often do more in recovering what is lost in the 
 mind than its most intense efforts. Rosalia was 
 singing a new polacca, which was then popular, 
 but of which Monaldi had often expressed his dis- 
 like. It was the only instance in which their tastes 
 differed. This difference, at another time too 
 slight even to be noticed, now startled his imagina- 
 tion. The hair-line which divided them now 
 opened to a frightful chasm. He turned for a 
 moment towards the court of his house, then, press- 
 ing 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 forgot- 
 ten by a painter but one too which must come 
 upon him in misery as a gorgeous mockery. The
 
 MONALDI. 139 
 
 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 dis- 
 appeared, 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 mo- 
 ment more they tumbled asunder ; in another he 
 was seen again, piercing their fragments, and dart- 
 ing 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. 
 
 Monaldi groaned aloud. " No, thou art nothing 
 to me now, thou glorious sun nothing. To me 
 thou art dead, buried and forever, in her 
 darkness ; her's, whose own glory once made me 
 to love thee ; who clothed me with a brightness 
 even more than thine ; who followed me like a 
 spirit, in sleep even, visiting my dreams, as if to 
 fill up the blank of night to give a continuous 
 splendor to my existence. Oh, idiot, driveller ! so 
 to cling to a shadow a cheat of the senses ! 
 What is she to me now ? what can she ever be ? 
 she that is that ever was " He could 
 not utter the word. 
 
 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
 
 140 MONALDI. 
 
 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. 
 
 But the mind unused to suffering has a difficulty 
 in admitting calamity not to be easily overcome ; 
 one evidence is seldom enough ; for though it may 
 perplex and torture for a time, the very sense of 
 pain will soon force the faculties to return to their 
 wonted action, to pursue again their plans of peace 
 and hope. 
 
 Misery was new to Monaldi ; he had now en- 
 dured it for more than two hours ; and the intense 
 longing for relief brought on a reaction. " No," 
 said he, starting up, " some fiend has tempted me, 
 and I have mocked myself with monsters only in 
 my brain she is pure she must be ! "
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 BY the time Monaldi reached home, he had nearly 
 brought himself to believe that all he had suffered 
 was from mere delusion. 
 
 But he had scarcely crossed his threshold before 
 the violent beating of his heart warned him of a 
 relapse ; and he had stopped, with his hand still 
 resting on the latch of the door of the anteroom, 
 to collect his thoughts, when his wife, who was 
 advancing on the other side, and mistaking him 
 for a servant, bade him come in. 
 
 " Mercy ! " cried Rosalia, drawing back as he 
 entered, " how you frightened me." 
 
 Her surprise at his sudden appearance, though 
 perfectly natural, instantly struck on the troubled 
 brain of her husband as the alarm of guilt, and the 
 worst thought that perhaps he had supplanted 
 her gallant now crossed him. " Ay," said he, 
 with a tone of bitterness, "'tis even // " 
 
 The change in his manner now really alarmed
 
 142 MONALDI. 
 
 her. " Good heaven ! Monaldi what is the 
 matter ? " 
 
 " I did not know," said Monaldi, his lip quiver- 
 ing as he spoke ; " I knew not till this day that I 
 could ever become an object of terror." 
 
 The look of wildness and misery with which 
 this was uttered struck to Rosalia's heart: she 
 could make no answer, but, throwing herself on 
 his neck, burst into tears. Monaldi shrunk from 
 her touch as from the coil of a serpent, and he 
 would have shaken her off had not an undefined 
 something in his memory restrained him. 
 
 " Dearest husband oh, speak to me!" said 
 Rosalia, as soon as she could find words. " Are 
 you ill ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Then why do you look so? Has anything 
 happened ? " 
 
 " Nothing." 
 
 " Oh, do not say so ; something must or you 
 would not be thus." 
 
 " How thus ? " 
 
 " As you never were before." 
 
 " 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
 
 MONALDI. 143 
 
 as from an actual blast, and her arms mechani- 
 cally 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 privi- 
 lege of sharing in your sufferings. Hitherto, up 
 to this sad moment, I have been the wife of your 
 joys ; a twin being with you in happiness, sharing 
 with you the consciousness of a double existence ; 
 for all your thoughts, your wishes, your emotions 
 were mine ; and they were all joyous all up 
 to this hour. And can you think then so poorly 
 of my heart to suppose that for this accumulation 
 of life into which, as I look back, almost an age 
 seems pressed that for all this, which I owe to 
 you alone, it yearns not to make return ? And 
 what is the heart's wealth but sympathy ? Shall 
 mine become niggard in your distress ? No, Mo- 
 naldi ; the heart capable of knowing such felicity 
 in another's being must wither if it share not in 
 his woe as in his weal. 
 
 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
 
 144 MONALDI. 
 
 truth as it were vibrating through him, and he 
 continued gazing on her till a sense of his injustice 
 flushed him with shame. For a moment he cov- 
 ered his face ; then, turning gently towards her, 
 " Rosalia," said he, in a softened accent but his 
 emotion prevented his proceeding. 
 
 " Speak, my dear husband, and tell me that you 
 think me not unworthy to be one with you in sor- 
 row. Oh, Monaldi, it seems as if there would 
 almost be pleasure in the pain endured with you ! 
 But this I know and the conviction is wrought 
 into my nature that my soul would not exchange 
 its community even of misery with thee for all of 
 pleasure or of joy which the world could give with- 
 out thee." 
 
 " 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 any 
 thing 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 bot- 
 tom 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 light- 
 ed up his features, and he turned again to his wife. 
 There needed not a word to interpret his look ;
 
 MONALDI. 145 
 
 she sprang forward, and his arms again opened to 
 receive her. 
 
 " My own Monaldi ! " said the happy Rosalia. 
 
 " Your own indeed ! Oh, Rosalia, you know 
 not you have never known, your whole power. 
 From the moment we first met, it seemed as if my 
 spirit had gone from me, and taken its abode in 
 thee ; giving up every thought, every impulse to 
 be moulded according to thy will. And thou hast 
 made me happier, ay, and wiser, in the mingling 
 with thy pure nature ; so happy, that I have some- 
 times almost doubted if I were not dreaming of 
 the future intercourse between the souls of the 
 blest." 
 
 " Let me then, dear husband, continue to you 
 this happiness." 
 
 " It lives, as it ever must, in thee." 
 
 "Then let me lighten the present load that 
 weighs on your mind ; let me share it with you, 
 as I have shared in your joys." 
 
 " What load ? Am I not happy ? Feel it," 
 said he, placing her hand on his heart ; " is it not 
 light ? " 
 
 "Now. But " 
 
 " But what ? " 
 
 " Your late distress." 
 
 " Did I appear so much distressed ? " asked 
 13
 
 146 MONALDI. 
 
 Monaldi, while his conscience smote him for the 
 question. 
 
 "You looked oh, never may you look so 
 again." 
 
 " Nay, 't was half your imagination." 
 
 " Monaldi," said Rosalia gravely ; I know you 
 too well : you will not say you had no cause for it.' 3 
 
 He felt the rebuke, and a pang went to his 
 heart as the meditated falsehood rose to his tongue. 
 It was the first untruth he had ever deliberately 
 consented to. Yet how could he lay open what 
 had passed within him ? It would make her mise- 
 rable ; and himself no, she would not hate, 
 but she must despise him. " Yes, it must be," 
 said he to himself; " it will at least spare her." 
 He then confessed that he had been a good deal 
 discomposed by a conversation with a brother art- 
 ist, from whom he had learnt certain facts con- 
 cerning the baseness of a person in whom he had 
 once felt an interest ; and that the shock, together 
 with his long walk, had been, as she had seen, too 
 much for him. 
 
 Such was the deception to which Monaldi's un- 
 fortunate situation now tempted him. He felt 
 degraded as he uttered it, and was about to excuse 
 himself from giving the particulars, when Rosalia, 
 by a timely interruption, saved him the mortifica-
 
 MONALDI. 147 
 
 tion of further duplicity. " No more," she said ; 
 " 't is enough for me to know that calamity has 
 spared you. Besides, I have no woman's curi- 
 osity ; or, if I have, a friend's misdeed is best buri- 
 ed in silence ; 't is a cause of sorrow into which a 
 wife even may not with delicacy pry." 
 
 He took her hand without making any answer. 
 
 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 "ontrasted 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 ; 't is the abiding hue 
 with her nature ; and never is it seen so truly 
 feminine as when, like hers, it reveals the con- 
 sciousness of merited praise. 
 
 Their happiness now seemed complete, Monaldi 
 even doubting if he had ever been so blest ; when 
 a loud ringing at the gate gave a sudden turn to 
 his thoughts. The sound, in spite of himself, 
 recalled the suspicion which had crossed him on 
 entering ; for the alarm of his wife was still unex-
 
 148 MONALDI. 
 
 plained ; it had passed from him, but no sooner 
 did it return than a rapid revulsion took place in 
 his feelings. He moved away from her, and, 
 averting his face, rested his head upon his hands 
 against the mantlepiece. But the parting with 
 peace is hard ; and he made an effort to retain it. 
 " Might she not explain it to his satisfaction ? " 
 He looked at her as the question crossed his mind, 
 and his suspicion almost vanished. Yet he could 
 not but wish to know the cause of her alarm ; he 
 should not else feel sure. And he again drew 
 near her. 
 
 Rosalia," said he. 
 
 " What would you ? " 
 
 " I was thinking or rather, it just occurs to 
 me, that when I came in you appeared to be ex- 
 pecting some one. May I ask whom ? " 
 
 What, I ? No. I expected nobody. You 
 know 't is not the hour for visiters." 
 
 " And yet you seemed alarmed when I entered, 
 as if " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " I were the wrong person." 
 
 " Whom could I expect but you ? " 
 
 " Nay, your exclamation showed that you did 
 not then think of me," said Monaldi, endeavoring 
 to assume a jocular air.
 
 MONALDI. 149 
 
 " True I did not, for the length of your absence 
 made me conclude that you were gone to St. 
 Luke's. 1 I was going into the hall as you lifted 
 the latch ; but as you did not come in, I supposed 
 it old Gieuseppe, who, you know, is somewhat 
 slow in his movements : so I spoke." 
 
 This explanation was too simple and natural 
 not to produce the desired effect. Monaldi felt its 
 truth, and his brow again became clear. 
 
 " But why are you so curious ? " asked Rosalia. 
 
 " Nay, don't put me to my trumps for whys 
 and wherefores," replied Monaldi, smiling. " You 
 may place it to the account of idleness, which, 
 you know, generally speaks first and thinks after- 
 wards." 
 
 A servant now entering, informed Monaldi that 
 the person who rang at the gate had inquired for 
 him ; but, on being told he was at home, replied it 
 was no matter, and went away. 
 
 Suspicion seldom returns without increase of 
 poison, especially if it light on a cicatrized wound. 
 The report of the servant seemed instantly to over- 
 throw all that Monaldi had just imagined too firm 
 to be shaken. " What, ask for me, and go away 
 without seeing me ! " His evil star now mounted 
 
 1 The Roman Academy of Art. 
 13*
 
 150 MONALDI. 
 
 the ascendant, and he immediately connected the 
 stranger's inquiry with his wife. " Was it him, 
 then, she was expecting when I returned ? It must 
 be so ; and the inquiry it no doubt means, can 
 she be safely seen and alone." 
 
 Such were his thoughts when he turned from 
 the servant to Rosalia. The sternness of his eye 
 shocked her, and she sank back in her chair. 
 " Can it be possible ? " said he to himself. " But 
 I will sift it calmly." Then turning to the man, 
 he asked, " What sort of person was he a gen- 
 tleman ? " 
 
 " I believe so," was the answer. 
 
 " You believe ! Could you not see ? " 
 
 " No, sir ; his face was so muffled up, I could 
 not get a glimpse of it." 
 
 " Ha ! Do you know," said Monaldi, still ad- 
 dressing the servant, but looking towards his wife, 
 " do you know the count Fialto ? " 
 
 The man answered in the negative. 
 
 " Fialto ! " repeated Rosalia, half audibly. 
 
 Monaldi caught the echo, and, dismissing the 
 domestic, stood before her for some time without 
 speaking. " Ay," said he at length, "Fialto! 
 Does the name disturb you ? " 
 
 "Good heaven!" cried Rosalia; "what does 
 this mean ? "
 
 MONALDI. 151 
 
 " Can it have a meaning ? " 
 
 " Monaldi, I know not what to make of you." 
 
 " Nor I of But you have not answered my 
 question." 
 
 " You have asked none." 
 
 " No ? " Recollect yourself 't was about this 
 Count." 
 
 " What of him ? " 
 
 " I only asked why his name, more than any 
 other, should so alarm you." 
 
 " Alarm me ! No, why should I be alarmed ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I was mistaken, and you were quite 
 tranquil." 
 
 " I was surprised, I confess," replied Rosalia ; 
 " and my surprise was natural, when I heard the 
 name of such a man joined with a visit to you." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 " Because he is so infamous that I cannot but 
 think it degrading to you to hold any intercourse 
 with him, even in the way of your profession ; to 
 which alone I can ascribe this visit." 
 
 For a moment Monaldi's suspicion was stagger- 
 ed. He turned from his wife, and fixed his eyes 
 on the floor. " Could I believe," said he mentally, 
 " that her heart spoke this ; that it is not a gloss, 
 a cunning turn for escape. It might be and it 
 might not. Heaven and hell are not more wide
 
 152 MONALDI. 
 
 asunder than the speech and purpose of a dissem- 
 bling woman. Should she be false ! But I 
 will not be rash. Yet there is a way yes and 
 I will stir her heart, be it of mortal elements ; find 
 out the feverish spot, if there be one lay my 
 finger on it so that she shall wince, ay, as from 
 a coal of fire." 
 
 " Monaldi, why are you thus ? What makes 
 you so absent ? Are you displeased that I have 
 spoken thus of this man ? " 
 
 " Let him speed to hell ! " said he, pacing the 
 room violently. 
 
 " Dearest husband ! " cried Rosalia, stopping 
 him and clinging to him, " what makes you talk 
 thus ? " 
 
 " Words may sometimes have no meaning." 
 
 " But your's have. Something dreadful pos- 
 sesses you." 
 
 " 'T is nothing." 
 
 Oh, Monaldi ! " 
 
 " I have been foolish very foolish. I ought 
 to be happy ought I not ? " 
 
 " Oh, if / can make you so ! You are my all 
 my very all on earth. I have no wish, no will but 
 yours; and my heart oh, the wretchedness it 
 now feels which you make it feel too well 
 bears witness that it is yours, even as if it were
 
 MONALDI. 153 
 
 beating in your own bosom. Tell me then 
 command me what shall I say, or do, to re- 
 store your peace ? " 
 
 Monaldi covered his face, as if he feared to trust 
 himself to look at her ; but his resolution endured 
 but for an instant. " Oh, you are an angel ! or 
 
 yes," said he, pressing her hand to his forehead 
 
 " you are an angel. That face would pass the 
 gates of Paradise unquestioned ! . . . But a face, 
 a mere face ! " he added to himself " it has 
 duped thousands ! " The hand dropped from his 
 grasp. " And words yes, they are the devil's 
 coin, that has bought millions of souls for eternal 
 slavery. I ought not to trust to them so many 
 circumstances weigh against her I ought not. 
 She must be proved. If she stand the proof, then, 
 and not till then " 
 
 " Your words indeed," said Rosalia, " are always 
 kind, even beyond my merit ; but your manner " 
 There was something, though she knew not what, 
 in the impression it had left, which she could not 
 bear to think of, and she stopped. 
 
 " My head is dizzy," said Monaldi, waiving her 
 from him "I cannot talk ; " then, throwing 
 himself, or rather sinking into a chair, he relapsed 
 into silence. What passed in his thoughts was 
 too deep for the eye, for his expression indicated 
 nothing.
 
 154 MONALDI. 
 
 Rosalia watched his countenance, and thought 
 she perceived his emotion subsiding. But he was 
 meditating a desperate stroke, and sought to con- 
 trol his features. 
 
 " Do you not feel better now ? " she asked. 
 
 " Who ? " said Monaldi ; for the question seemed 
 to wake him as from a dream ; but instantly col- 
 lecting himself, he added, " Ay yes, much bet- 
 ter. It was a strange feeling but it has passed 
 off, and I may yet smile perhaps." 
 
 Oh, that I could see you." 
 
 " But not now : it would be too much like the 
 smile of that martyr ; and you would not have me 
 set my face by a picture become the second hand 
 of a shadow ? " 
 
 Rosalia, who did not perceive the bitterness of 
 this levity, began to feel somewhat relieved. 
 " Perhaps," she said, " when you tell me what has 
 so moved you, I may pour a balm into your heart 
 that will make you smile even there." 
 
 " No, not yet ; one day you will know." 
 
 "Why not now?" 
 
 " No, you would not bear it (yes, it would 
 crush her if innocent)." 
 
 " Nay, there is nothing with, or for thee, that I 
 would not bear." 
 
 " No, not now, it must not be. But I will tell 
 you a story."
 
 MONALDI. 155 
 
 " A story ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Monaldi, will you hear it? " 
 
 The wretched wife could only answer with a 
 look of anguish ; for the dreadful surmise crossed 
 her that his brain was unsettled. 
 
 " 'T is the story of a young artist, once a man 
 of some promise but whom misery has now lev- 
 elled with the million. Can you conceive of 
 this?" 
 
 " But too well ! " replied Rosalia, in a voice that 
 spoke the full extent of her fears. 
 
 " Indeed ! Then you think that a painter even 
 may have a heart to break ? " 
 
 " Oh, my husband ! why why " 
 
 " Nay," interrupted Monaldi " what need of'' 
 any other world has a fellow that builds fantastic 
 ones of his own ? Or what has he to do with feel- 
 ings off his canvass? The world think him all 
 head and will tell you of some who have deliber- 
 ately mangled, nay, even murdered, their models 
 for the sake of catching a clever agony. What 
 think you of such grave facts ? " 
 
 " They are senseless calumnies." 
 
 " Perhaps so. But to the painter." 
 
 "Speak on," said Rosalia, watching his lips 
 with a breathless eagerness, yet dreading every in- 
 stant to hear what would confirm her suspicion.
 
 156 MONALDI. 
 
 Monaldi proceeded. " He had a young and 
 beautiful wife, who was every thing life to him ; 
 for he lived only in her ; such too did he think he 
 was to her : in a word, they had married for love. 
 Do you mark ! for love." 
 
 I do." 
 
 " Well, the first year of their union had passed ; 
 and the husband looked back upon it as on a vis- 
 ion dreamed of in some happier planet ; yet the 
 past was but a shadow to what he saw in hope 
 a hint, a type only, to his sanguine imagination, of 
 a more blest reality to come. Foolish mortal ! he 
 should have remembered that he was yet on earth ; 
 that the thing he loved was of earth but anima- 
 ted dust, subject to be mixed with, to be debased 
 by other, and grosser, particles of its own element. 
 But his delusion was short. There was a man 
 I was about to call him a devil ; but I need not 
 rake hell for his qualities ; they are human. Yes, 
 he was a man man in its worst sense; selfish, 
 cruel, sensual. Don't shudder at the picture ; for 
 this triple curse of his nature was hidden from the 
 eye ; it lay close in his heart deep buried in a 
 form of fascinating beauty, and kept from sight by 
 the magic of a tongue that could make even vice 
 seem lovely. Know you one like him ? " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! "
 
 MONALDI. 157 
 
 " No, a woman's eye would not pierce the 
 exterior it could not read his soul till he had 
 wholly, tainted hers. But that no, it could 
 not yet " 
 
 " What could not yet ? " 
 
 "Nothing. Well, this man had fixed his eye 
 on the painter's wife. By some means or other, 
 not material to the story > the husband suspected it 
 had reached her heart. Yet he kept it to himself. 
 Do you attend ? " 
 
 " Go on," said Rosalia, still racked with doubt ; 
 " I hear every word." 
 
 " 'T is a dismal tale but so is life." 
 
 " Oh, do not say so." 
 
 " Perhaps 't is not ; we have yet to prove it. 
 Well, the husband was one night persuaded to go 
 to the theatre : his wife, I know not why, perhaps 
 she pleaded a head-ache remained at home. 
 Do you mind ? she remained at home." 
 
 " Well." 
 
 " In the box opposite him the husband saw this 
 man. The first act was hardly begun when, a bil- 
 let being brought to him, he left the house. The 
 husband saw what passed ; his mind instantly con- 
 nected the note with his wife. Do you hear ? " 
 
 I do." 
 
 " Then you understand 1 " said Monaldi, lower- 
 14
 
 158 MONALDI. 
 
 ing his voice, and looking into her eyes as if he 
 would search her very soul. 
 
 " What am I to understand ? " said Rosalia. 
 
 " That she took advantage of her husband's ab- 
 sence to make an assignation : so he thought 
 
 and so Ha ! she shakes not it does not 
 
 move her a jot," said he to himself. " Can her 
 self-possession be forced ? Could she hear this 
 with eyes so steady ? They did not even wink 
 but kept on mine, fixed and unconscious, as if she 
 were a picture. Could guilt stand so the look, 
 the tone my whole prejudging manner? Im- 
 possible ! Merciful Heaven ! should she be inno- 
 cent ! " 
 
 " Will you not go on ? " said Rosalia. 
 
 " Directly," replied Monaldi, rising, and moving 
 to a window. The twilight had already faded to 
 a faint streak in the horizon, and the smaller stars 
 were fast gathering in the west ; it was what he 
 was wont to call his soul's hour. He threw up 
 the window, and the night-breeze came fresh up- 
 on his flushed forehead. " Sweet air of Heaven ! 
 thou, at least," said he, " art pure. Oh, that I 
 might once more bless thee ! that I might love 
 again the light of these stars, and mount, and mix 
 in spirit with yon happy clouds, sailing in peace 
 over the troubled earth ! " The wish instantly
 
 MONALDI. 159 
 
 forced the past into the present, and the contrast 
 struck him to the quick. " Why," he asked, " am 
 I not now as once?" His lingering doubt soon 
 answered the question. And doubts are never in- 
 active ; if they cannot go forward they are sure to 
 go back. So it was with Monaldi's ; they had no 
 sooner returned than he was flung back in agony 
 to every suspicious word, look, and hint. " No, 
 they are all too connected to be without an ob- 
 ject and what object can they have but her? 
 Do they not all point to her ? They do : and her 
 self-possession must be assumed. But I will put it 
 to a fiercer test. If she has a particle of love for 
 the wretch, that must touch her." 
 
 Rosalia now approached, and taking his hand, 
 begged him to go on with his story ; for her dread- 
 ful misgivings still hung upon her ; and she felt im- 
 patient to hear him speak, in the hope, faint as it 
 was, that the connexion of his thoughts would be 
 such as to do away her fears. "Come, my love," 
 she said, " finish the tale : 't is indeed a sad one ; 
 but I wish to hear how it ends." 
 
 " Do you ? S'death, she mocks me ! 
 
 I see it now, her coolness is acted. Yes, she 
 shall hear it and hear the catastrophe that ought 
 to have been hers." 
 
 " Come, sit by me," said Rosalia.
 
 160 MONALDI. 
 
 Monaldi grasped her hand. " Rosalia " his 
 voice now deepened to a tone almost terrific 
 " Rosalia, there are workings of the elements even 
 in the centre of this solid earth. Think you they 
 work of themselves ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Think you then that He, who gave them im- 
 pulse, cannot see through the miles of thick matter 
 that incrusts them ? " 
 
 " Yes ; the eye of Heaven sees all that is made." 
 
 "And all that is done ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Yet there are creatures, who call themselves 
 rational, that will do deeds that sink their fellows 
 in misery deliberately do them ; nay, watch and 
 fast, ay, and would pray too, did hell need it, for 
 their black hour of luck ; yet wink not even under 
 that all-seeing eye. Perhaps they think not of it ; 
 or foolishly hope to hide them in night. Wretch- 
 ed hope ! Though the sun were extinguished, and 
 a thicker darkness than ever mortal dreamt of 
 wrapt her about, yet would that eye, swifter than 
 light, pierce to the bed of the adulteress." 
 
 Monaldi still perceived no change in her. 
 
 " What is she made of ? " said he to himself. 
 " I talk to the dull ear of a corpse ! But there are 
 hearts, which defy Heaven, that will yet shrink at
 
 MONALDI. 161 
 
 the touch of a human hand. If hers be such, she 
 shall feel it." 
 
 The intense anxiety of Rosalia, together with 
 the harrowing nature of its cause, had given a fixed- 
 ness to her expression, which, contrasted with the 
 rapid and violent transitions of thought and feel- 
 ing in her husband, made her appear to him quite 
 calm and collected. At a time of less excitement, 
 he might have been startled at the almost petrified 
 gaze with which she watched his slightest move- 
 ment ; but now he only felt the contrast of her 
 stillness with his own tumult. 
 
 " But the story," said Rosalia 
 
 " I fear you will not relish it." 
 
 " Nay, I would hear it, nevertheless." 
 
 Where was I ? " 
 
 " At the theatre." 
 
 "True I was there. But 'tis strange you 
 should wish to hear it ; with a woman's nerves 
 too. Yet no nothing 's strange to me now. I 
 have heard of one who had his funeral rehearsed ; 
 I once doubted it ; but I was then inexperienced. 
 Well, listen. So far her case, if guilty now to 
 what should have followed. 
 
 . " In order to give time for the paramours to 
 meet, the husband delayed his return home for 
 near an hour ; then, having a master-key, he let 
 
 14*
 
 162 MONALDI. 
 
 himself in without noise. The parlor, as he ex- 
 pected, was vacant. Mark I am coming to a 
 close. The wife, it seems, was in her chamber ; 
 and the chamber, like ours, at the head of the 
 stairs suppose it ours. When the husband 
 reached the landing-place, hearing a stir in the 
 room, he concealed himself behind the pedestal of 
 a statue as, it might be, the one near our cham- 
 ber. Do you note ? Keep the place in your 
 mind." 
 
 I will." 
 
 " And imagine it in this house." 
 
 Well." 
 
 " Oh, 't will be better ! Where was I ? Oh, 
 behind the statue. He had scarcely taken his 
 station there, before the door opened. His suspi- 
 cion was now confirmed ; the wife was giving her 
 paramour a parting embrace. To hell ! cried the 
 husband, springing upon them with a furious 
 bound and his sword in an instant pinned the 
 wife and the wretch Fialto to the door ! " 
 
 " Horrible ! " said Rosalia, shuddering. 
 
 " Ha ! " cried Monaldi, crushing her hand within 
 both of his, " was it well done ? " 
 
 Rosalia, whose Christian temper revolted at 
 murder, even to avenge the most atrocious wrong, 
 was too much shocked to reply. But her face
 
 MONALDI. 163 
 
 spoke anything but guilt; and Monaldi felt its 
 meaning, yet fearing to trust to it, he hurried on. 
 
 " But Fialto ; speak did he deserve it ? " 
 
 " The galleys even," said Rosalia, with a look 
 of disgust. 
 
 " How ! is that worse than death ? " 
 
 " Is he not still living, and at large ? You spoke 
 of him to-night as if you supposed him the person 
 who rang at the gate." 
 
 " True, true he does live ; he recovered." 
 
 " Infamous wretch ! " 
 
 " What, not forgive him ! His beauty remains 
 the same ; and that, with your sex, will atone for 
 many sins." 
 
 " This to me 1 Oh, Monaldi ! " 
 
 " She is innocent ! " exclaimed Monaldi, falling 
 on his knees, and clasping his hands. " Thank 
 God ! " 
 
 " Who is innocent ? " said the astonished wife. 
 
 "You!" 
 
 "I! Of what?" 
 
 " Of everything of the shadow even of evil. 
 Thou art all purity ! " 
 
 " What is this enigma ? Monaldi, why do you 
 say this to me ? " 
 
 Monaldi's eyes fell : for a moment the question 
 confused him ; but soon recovering, he replied,
 
 164 MONALDI. 
 
 " Can you ask ? Are you not the very opposite of 
 the wretched adulteress ? And can I know it 
 feel it, as I do, without bursting forth in joy ? " 
 
 The coherence of the tale had now satisfied Ro- 
 salia of her husband's sanity. But the time he had 
 chosen his manner of telling it and his unusual 
 excitement, still perplexed her. " It must," she 
 thought, " in some way concern himself, or it 
 would not have taken such hold of him. But how ? 
 Might it not be what he first alluded to ; the same 
 that caused his emotion before he returned home ? 
 It was the perfidy, he said, of one he had formerly 
 esteemed. But could this Count have been that 
 friend ? It must be so ; for it seems he thought 
 him the person who just rang at the gate, and 
 the mention of his name naturally brought the 
 story more vividly to his mind. Then he might 
 have known the unfortunate husband. Yes ; it is 
 so." 
 
 These thoughts passed so rapidly through Rosa- 
 lia's mind, that the first and last seemed almost to 
 meet in the same instant. " It is so," she repeat- 
 ed aloud. " Monaldi, I no longer wonder, for I 
 now understand the cause of your emotion." 
 
 Monaldi stood aghast. He thought she had 
 divined the object of his suspicion, and her con- 
 tempt seemed ready to overwhelm him.
 
 MONALDI. 165 
 
 " You know," she added, " the unfortunate 
 husband." 
 
 He breathed again. " I do." 
 
 " Is he your friend ? " 
 
 " There is but one on earth dearer yourself." 
 
 " Monaldi, I honor this deep feeling, now I 
 know the cause much as I have suffered from 
 it." 
 
 " And did you suffer ? " 
 
 " More than I can express ; for I thought it 
 makes me shudder as I recall it " 
 
 What ! " 
 
 " That your brain was injured." 
 
 " Alas," thought he, " how near the truth ! " 
 
 " What a heart is yours ! If you feel thus for 
 another, what would have been your misery, had 
 you been the poor husband." 
 
 " Do not let us think of it," said he, " it makes 
 my flesh creep to imagine even " 
 
 " Ah," said Rosalia, with a melancholy smile, 
 " that same imagination would be a fearful master 
 over such a heart as yours." 
 
 " Never can it become so," replied Monaldi, 
 kissing her forehead ; " never, while my heart 
 clings to such a reality. Look on me, Rosalia 
 Oh, how beautiful is Truth when it looks out from 
 the eyes of a pure woman ! Such, if ever visi-
 
 166 MONALDI. 
 
 ble, should be its image the present shadowing 
 of that hallowed harmony which the soul shall 
 hereafter know in substance." 
 
 " My husband ! " Rosalia could say no more. 
 
 The night now closed upon them, and they sunk 
 to sleep with hearts too full for another wish.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 MONALDI'S fears were now allayed ; for though 
 some of their causes were still unexplained, he 
 studiously drove them from his mind, as too light 
 to outweigh the evidence which his former experi- 
 ence and Rosalia's whole manner had opposed to 
 them. 
 
 This respite was not a little favored by Fialto's 
 absence, almost a month having passed since Mo- 
 naldi had seen him. But the Count was not idle ; 
 he was only waiting till chance should furnish him 
 with means to strike the last blow. With this 
 view he had contrived to make himself acquainted 
 with all Monaldi's movements, which he effected 
 by means of a domestic who had formerly been one 
 of his creatures. Antonio, the name of the man, 
 had imposed on Monaldi by an artful tale of dis- 
 tress, and been taken into his service from motives 
 of charity. But Antonio was not of a nature to be 
 turned from his course by any act of kindness ; he 
 seldom troubled himself about any motives but his
 
 168 MONALDI. 
 
 own, and his present one, the hope of a large re- 
 ward, was strong enough to keep him faithful to 
 his employer. 
 
 It was not long after this, that Monaldi received 
 a letter from the steward of one of his estates near 
 Genezzano, requiring his presence on some urgent 
 business ; and mentioning the circumstance, to- 
 gether with his intention of setting out on his jour- 
 ney the next day, while Antonio was waiting at 
 dinner, it was accordingly made known to Fialto 
 without loss of time." 
 
 Nothing could have suited the Count better. 
 Genezzano was more than thirty miles from Rome. 
 Monaldi must calculate on being absent at least 
 two days. 
 
 What use Fialto made of these circumstances 
 will appear by the following letter, written as if in 
 answer to one from Rosalia. 
 
 " A thousand, thousand, thousand thanks, dear- 
 est Rosalia, for your precious letter. The rapture 
 but a truce with raptures till we meet for I 
 have only time to say, that I shall be punctual to 
 the hour you have appointed at twelve to a 
 minute. Oh, that tomorrow were come ! Could 
 anything be more fortunate than this journey to 
 Genezzano ! I could almost worship your easy
 
 MONALDI. 169 
 
 man for his accommodating spirit. He is cer- 
 tainly a most obliging husband perhaps 't is to 
 make up for not leaving us longer together the 
 other night, when he went to the theatre. You 
 desire me not to reply to your note, " because 't is 
 unnecessary and you fear needless risks." But 
 for once I must disobey you ; and do so that you 
 might learn to rely more in future on the prudence 
 of your devoted FIALTO." 
 
 The letter being prepared, the next step was to 
 have it seen by the husband. But chance again 
 made that easy, for it was now the very evening 
 on which he was accustomed to make his weekly 
 visit to St. Luke's. Fialto knowing this, had 
 therefore only to take his former station at the 
 gate, and, pretending to mistake Monaldi for a 
 servant, put the letter into his hand. The night 
 was as dark as could have been wished for so evil 
 a purpose. He accordingly took his station at the 
 proper time, when a loud coughing by Antonio 
 gave notice of his master's approach. Immedi- 
 ately after, Monaldi's footstep was heard in the 
 gateway. " So, you are come at last," said Fialto, 
 speaking low and rapidly ; "but not a word, good 
 Gieuseppe, we may be overheard. There, take 
 that to your mistress ; and there 's postage." So 
 15
 
 170 MONALDI. 
 
 saying, he thrust the letter, with a piece of gold, 
 into Monaldi's hand, and in another moment he 
 was gone. 
 
 The rapidity with which this was said and done, 
 left no time for reply, had Monaldi attempted it ; 
 but the words " Gieuseppe " and " mistress " were 
 enough ; he did not even hear the rest, for they 
 seemed to stun him, and he stood for a while pass- 
 ing the letter from one hand to the other in a kind 
 of vacant distress, till the sharp sound of the gold 
 as it fell and rang on the pavement, again brought 
 him to his senses. It was then he began to feel 
 that he was possessed at last of what would decide 
 his fate. He returned to the house, and, shutting 
 himself up in his library, placed the letter on the 
 table before him. Its superscription was plain 
 to his wife ; yet he hesitated for a moment whether 
 he should open it. But his mind was not in a 
 state for refining ; he could perceive only one 
 alternative complete conviction or interminable 
 suspicion ; and he broke the seal. The letter 
 dropt from his hand, and his head sunk on the 
 table in agony. But this blow, though surer, could 
 not have the same effect with the first ; for his 
 mind had been prepared by previous suffering, had 
 been warned, as it were, of the probable evil, and 
 been tempered by that warning to bear what might
 
 MONAJLDI. 171 
 
 else have driven him to madness. He had now 
 indeed a nearer and more certain cause for wretch- 
 edness, but it was what had once been expected, 
 and wanted the force of newness ; besides, it was 
 now distinct, had a positive shape ; and the power 
 of enduring calamity is generally proportioned to 
 its reality ; as the mind can oppose its strength to 
 what is real, as substance resisting substance, but 
 has no strength, no power to repel the intangible 
 and ever-multiplying phantoms of the imagination. 
 Monaldi felt that his doom was now sealed, and 
 he rose from his seat with a desperate calmness ; 
 for his last doubt was gone, and with it seemed to 
 have fled every conflicting emotion. In this state 
 he continued for almost half an hour, his arms 
 folded, and his eyes wandering without object, 
 when a glance at the letter gave a fiercer impulse 
 to his thoughts. He took it up, and again at- 
 tempted to read it ; but he had scarcely finished 
 the first sentence, when, dashing it with fury to 
 the floor, he stamped upon it with a violence that 
 shook the very walls. " Witch, sorceress, devil ! " 
 he cried, half choked with rage " thus, thus will 
 I crush thee ! " At that moment the door opened 
 and Gieuseppe entered. " Wretch ! " cried Mo- 
 naldi, seizing him by the throat. " I beg pardon," 
 said the man, trembling. "I did not know you
 
 172 MONALDI. 
 
 were at home, sir, but hearing a noise, I thought 
 something had fallen." 
 
 This speech gave Monaldi time to recover him- 
 self. " True," said he, " it was that bust ; it must 
 have been carelessly put up ; but you need not 
 stay to replace it now, I am engaged." 
 
 "Yes," said Monaldi, as the servant withdrew, 
 " and I too will play the hypocrite. Truth is no 
 match for falsehood ; 't is only hypocrisy can cir- 
 cumvent treachery. I will still appear the easy 
 man, the obliging husband and the pander Gieu- 
 seppe shall still think his master the blind gull. 
 Yes, I will seem to go this journey still seem to 
 make amends for returning so soon from the the- 
 atre. Oh, my true Genius, how clearly didst thou 
 note to me that polluted hour ! Yet how she bore 
 herself with what a face she looked when I told 
 the tale that painted it ! Oh, woman, could your 
 heart be seen in your face, we should love toads 
 sooner. But thou, painted toad ! like a scorpion 
 will I meet thee. The appointment, it seems, was 
 made by her ; and she forbids an answer. Yes, 
 she knew he was not the man to fail. This 
 letter then is not expected of course its miscar- 
 riage will not be discovered. Nothing could have 
 fallen out better better ! for what ? For the 
 sealing of my misery ! Then be it so ha ! ha !
 
 MONALDI. 173 
 
 Oh, that I had an enemy how impotent would 
 now be his wrath ! what would be the gall of ten 
 thousand deadly hearts now poured upon mine 
 mine, that is filled with it ? that already sweats it ? 
 But I will not keep it long there ; it shall soon 
 out like a flood shall drench, shall drown this 
 hot bird of paradise ay, even in her very nest ! 
 Yes, I will go this journey, and she, Gieuseppe, 
 and all, shall see me go with a cheerful face, and 
 a light heart yes, light of the world ; for no- 
 thing here can again touch it, it moves now in 
 an element of its own. And when they think 
 me at Genezzano ha ! ha ! I shall then reach 
 my zenith." 
 
 So saying, he rang the bell, and left Gieuseppe 
 to clear away the fragments of the bust. Then 
 quitting the house, he proceeded to the Academy. 
 
 It may seem strange, but it is nevertheless true^ 
 that with some natures there is a point in misery 
 where they will sport with their sufferings, and ap- 
 pear to take a kind of dreadful pleasure in magni- 3 ^j 
 fying them, nay, even task the future, and fly to it 
 with the hope for something more, some deeper 
 woe, to keep their minds in action which solves 
 the mystery. 
 
 Monaldi needed no additional proof of his wife's 
 infidelity ; his conviction was complete ; yet he 
 15*
 
 174 MONALDI. 
 
 thirsted for more for the last drop of the bitter- 
 est of all draughts. 
 
 But the part of a dissembler was still new to 
 him, and difficult, and had always been revolting 
 to his nature ; it was now become more so that 
 it seemed to be forced upon him by her in whom, 
 of all on earth, he had most confided. Yet he 
 went through it : that he did so was not a little 
 owing to the shortness of his trial, it being near 
 midnight before he returned home ; perhaps, how- 
 ever, more owing to the trusting temper of his 
 wife, who, seeing only his apparent cheerfulness, 
 could hardly have suspected an opposite feeling 
 without a change in her character ; for, except in 
 very glaring cases, the senses may be said to live 
 in an atmosphere of the mind. 
 
 Had Monaldi's suffering been unmixed with the 
 hope of vengeance, he might have found disguise 
 impossible ; but falsehood is of the family of re- 
 venge, and a snare and a mask are never wanted 
 when needed ; it was this prepared him for the 
 meeting, and he entered the house with a smile. 
 Rosalia looked up, and gave it back from her 
 heart ; for the smile of one we love cannot be seen 
 unanswered. 
 
 " How beautiful," thought Monaldi, " may even 
 a lie look ! Oh, Sin, take always this form, and
 
 MONALDI. 175 
 
 the world, with all its grave philosophy, its solemn 
 pomp of reason, is yours. But / know its hollow- 
 ness, its " The thought was too revolting ; yet 
 still the smile remained but it was the smile 
 which misery gives as her last token, the mark, 
 which she sets upon her own. 
 
 Before Monaldi returned home, he had worked 
 himself up to this interview by desperately recall- 
 ing every past endearment, every audible and 
 silent manifestation of tenderness ; in short, all 
 that he was wont to go to and brood over in se- 
 cret ; but they came not now as once, like definite 
 and luminous points in his life ; for now every 
 word, and look, and delicate caress brought with 
 them the hateful image of Fialto. " They are no 
 longer mine," said he ; " they never were ! And 
 I can hear them, see them do all, but feel them 
 again. Can she touch again the heart that loves 
 only purity ? The fictitious life which her false 
 spirit gave to it is gone forever. 'T is now 
 dead. Could it feel this stony stillness were it not 
 so ? Let her talk and look then she will talk to 
 ears that hear not, look to eyes that are glazed. 
 But yet yes, I will mock her ; mock her with a 
 phantom of the love she has murdered murdered 
 while she smiled ; she shall still think it lives, and 
 lives for her ! "
 
 176 MONALDI. 
 
 Morally his heart was dead. But what must 
 have been the agony with which a heart so gentle, 
 so generous and noble, stiffened into death ! 
 
 \ Let no one marvel at this change, sudden as it 
 may seem ; for there is no limit to human incon- 
 sistency. A single circumstance has often trans- 
 formed the firmest nature, making the same being 
 his own strongest contrast ; many things injury, 
 ingratitude, disappointment may do it; in a 
 word, anything which robs a man of that which 
 gives a charm to his existence ; and chiefly and 
 most rapid will the change be with those of deep 
 and social feelings, who live in others. Such is 
 man when left to himself; and there is but one 
 thing which can make him consistent RELIGION ; 
 
 tthe only unchanging source of moral harmony. 
 But Monaldi, unhappily, knew little of this. Not 
 that he was wholly without religion ; on the con- 
 trary, his understanding having assented to its 
 truths, he believed himself a good Christian ; but 
 he wanted that vital faith which mingles with every 
 thought and foreruns every action, ever looking 
 through time to their fruits in eternity. The kind- 
 ness and generosity of his disposition had hitherto 
 stood in its stead ; he had delighted in making 
 others happy, and thought nothing a task which 
 could add to their consolation or welfare. But
 
 MONALDi. 177 
 
 hitherto he had been happy, and his life had seem- 
 ed to him like one of fresher ages ; like the first 
 stream that wandered through Eden, sweet and 
 pure in itself, and bearing on its bosom the bright 
 and lovely images of a thousand flowers. Would 
 one so full not sometimes overflow ? or would one 
 so filled often thirst for what is spiritual, for what 
 belongs to the dim and distant future ? preparing 
 in the hour of peace for the hour of temptation ? 
 Then he had met with no adversity, with no crosses 
 to wean him gradually from this delightful para- 
 dise ; no sorrow to lift his soul to that where trou- 
 ble cannot enter. But though the present world 
 seemed enough, and more than enough for him, in 
 reality it was nothing ; it was only through one of 
 earth that he saw and loved all else ; she alone 
 filled his heart, modified his perceptions, and shed 
 her own beauty over every vision of his mind. 
 Now she was lost to him ; torn away by a single 
 wrench : And could this have been without leav- 
 ing a fearful void ? To Monaldi's heart she was" 
 all ; and his all was now gone, leaving it empty. 
 An empty human heart ! an abyss the earth's 
 depths cannot match. And how was it now to be^ 
 filled ? His story will show. 
 
 The further operations of Fialto depending on 
 the success of his letter, he had instructed Antonio
 
 178 MONALDI. 
 
 to watch his master's motions, and report accord- 
 ingly. It was possible, he thought, that Monaldi 
 might escape the snare by openly accusing his 
 wife, and examining Gieuseppe ; in which case the 
 conspiracy would end at once ; a result, however, 
 but barely possible. It was more probable that 
 Monaldi would set out on his journey without 
 coming to an explanation ; if he did so, only one 
 conclusion could follow that he would return 
 secretly, and at the hour of the assignation ; 
 whether to satisfy his doubts or revenge was im- 
 material ; and for this event Fialto was provided, 
 having ordered Antonio to engage a person to 
 watch his master and follow him back to the city, 
 in order to give notice of his return, the signal 
 agreed upon being a little Venetian air, which 
 the man was to play as soon as Monaldi should 
 have entered his house. 
 
 At an early hour the next morning Antonio 
 made his report, and Fialto found his hopes con- 
 firmed. Monaldi had set out on the journey ap- 
 parently in good spirits, and unattended. The 
 spy was also gone ; and a truer hound was never 
 put on the trail. 
 
 It was now again night, and it only remained 
 for Fialto to gain admittance into the house. To 
 make this easy, Antonio had purposely lost a bet
 
 MONALDI. 179 
 
 to Gieuseppe, to be paid in a flask of Orvietto. 
 While the servants were engaged with the wine, 
 Antonio stole out, and admitted the Count secretly, 
 in the disguise of a friar. 
 
 Antonio having locked the door of his master's 
 dressing-room, had secured the key early in the 
 morning, in order that Rosalia might suppose he 
 had taken it with him ; of course she would not 
 think of going to it now. In this room, or rather 
 closet, Fialto took his station ; he then threw off 
 his disguise, and locked the door. The closet 
 opened into Rosalia's bed-chamber, and the cham- 
 ber was up only one flight of stairs, and looked 
 upon the street ; a circumstance which the Count 
 had considered with a view to his escape, to facili- 
 tate which he had provided a ladder of ropes, for, 
 bold as he was, he had little taste for perils that 
 promised nothing. 
 
 The clock struck eleven, and Fialto heard the 
 chamber door open, and a light step pass the clo- 
 set ; this was followed by a slight movement as of 
 one undressing. " 'T is she," he thought. Then 
 it was still again. He looked through the key- 
 hole to see if she was in bed, and saw her kneeling 
 before a crucifix. " How like my poor nun ! 
 Pshaw that 's past. What eyes ! But what 's 
 her beauty to me at least now? The yellow
 
 180 MONALDI. 
 
 face of a sequin is more to my present liking. 
 Yes, Maldura's gold has made me a match for St. 
 Antony. There," added he, withdrawing his eyes, 
 " go to bed in peace ; I doubt 't is the last time. 
 But there are millions who never taste it and 
 why should she ? she may find a substitute, as I 
 do, in pleasure." 
 
 A few minutes after, he heard her rise and get 
 into bed. " She has left the lamp burning. So 
 much the better ; there will be no mistake as to 
 my person. 'T is a foolish business though ; but 
 Ha! what's that?" It was only the faint sigh 
 that usually precedes sleep. He put his ear to the 
 key-hole, and heard a low, regular breathing. " So 
 soon gone ? And she sleeps like an infant. Would 
 that I but that 's folly." 
 
 Fialto's thoughts now took a rapid flight to long 
 past and almost forgotten scenes ; and Rosalia, 
 Monaldi, and his purpose, all seemed to have van- 
 ished from his mind, when the chiming of the last 
 quarter brought him back to the present. 
 
 " Dare I trust myself now," thought he, after a 
 pause ; " dare I venture to look at her ? And why 
 not ? Are not all my passions bagged in Maldura's 
 purse ? I will look at her." 
 
 There is a majesty in innocence which will 
 sometimes awe the most reprobate. As Fialto
 
 MONALDI. 181 
 
 stood by the bed, a strange sensation came over 
 him, and something like compunction crossed his 
 brain; but it sunk not deeper for nothing of 
 like nature had reached his heart for many years ; 
 and the feeling, whatever it was, passed off in 
 words. 
 
 " How like death," said he, " to all around her p 
 and yet how living in herself. And her thoughts 
 how they play over her face ; to her, perhaps, they 
 are the parts of a world a world all her own. 
 Pity she should ever wake to another. That smile, 
 I never saw but one like it." Some early recollec- 
 tion here probably crossed his mind, and he turned 
 away. " Curse thee, Maldura, for a villain in es- 
 sence ! Wert thou starving, like me, there might 
 be some excuse. But I I am starving; and 
 that 's enough. Nay, suppose I were weak enough 
 to forego this exaction of my necessities, would 
 those eyes ever deign to drop a tear for me after I 
 am gone ? No, her precious morality would bid 
 her rejoice. Yes ; and the most moral world too 
 would all join her ; ay, all." Fialto's evil genius 
 here touched the right chord ; for nothing makes 
 vengeance so indiscriminate as the consciousness 
 of being generally hated. " Yes, they would tram- 
 ple on my grave, and make a jest of the dead 
 libertine. But I '11 spoil their sport for the present. 
 16
 
 182 MONALDI. 
 
 Ha ! the signal ! " At that moment the spy's gui- 
 tar was heard from the street. Fialto immediately 
 raised the window, and, throwing out his disguise, 
 let down the ladder of ropes. This was hardly 
 done when he heard a cautious step ascending the 
 staircase. He then slipped off his coat, and took 
 his station beside the bed, till hearing the step ap- 
 proach the door, he awoke Rosalia. In the same 
 instant Monaldi burst into the room. Rosalia 
 shrieked, and Fialto, springing to the window, in 
 the next moment was in the street. 
 
 " Mercy ! oh, mercy ! " cried Rosalia, throwing 
 herself at Monaldi's feet, whom the confusion of 
 her terror made her mistake for a robber. 
 r " Ay, strumpet ! " said he, in a voice scarcely 
 articulate, " more than you have shown to me." 
 So saying, with a frantic laugh, he plunged his 
 dagger into her bosom. She fell back with a 
 groan, and her blood, spirting up, covered hig 
 hands. A horrible silence now followed, and Mo- 
 naldi stood over her, as if a sudden frost had stif- 
 fened his face and figure in the very expression 
 and attitude with which he gave the blow. 
 
 Rosalia had been stunned by the fall ; but the 
 flowing from her wound soon brought back her 
 senses ; she looked up, and for the first time re- 
 cognised her husband. " Merciful heaven ! you
 
 MONALDI. 183 
 
 from you ! " The blow now reached her soul, and 
 she covered her face with her hands. " Oh, Mo- 
 naldi why have you done this ? " 
 
 "Repent repent," said he, moving away. 
 
 " Stay, oh stay ! " cried Rosalia, with a pierc- 
 ing energy. 
 
 " What would you ? " 
 
 " Much. But look at me I am your wife, 
 Monaldi." 
 
 " Wife ! Never. But I have forgiven it. You 
 are nothing to any one now but to Him who 
 made you. Look to it, then waste not your 
 limited hour on one you never loved." 
 
 " Never loved whom ? " 
 
 " Oh, woman, cannot death make thee honest ? 
 Me ! " 
 
 "You! oh, Monaldi. But, ha! there must 
 be something yet my brain is so confused that 
 man it was not a dream ; no, I was awake. 
 Tell me who siezed me just now in the bed ? it 
 could not have been you." 
 
 " Oh, hardened to the core ! Rosalia, know you 
 that you are dying ? " 
 
 " Too well I feel 't is my last hour." 
 
 " Repent then." 
 
 " Oh, tell me," said Rosalia " 't is too late 
 I am very faint ; " and she sunk back exhausted.
 
 184 MONALDI. 
 
 Monaldi now looked on her with a compassion 
 that made him shudder ; for, base as he thought 
 her, he felt as if he could give his heart's blood to 
 save her soul. " No," said he, " she must not die 
 so." Then, hastily making a bandage with his 
 handkerchief, he succeeded, with some difficulty, 
 in stanching the wound. In a few minutes her 
 strength returned. 
 
 Thank God ! there may yet be time ; I '11 for 
 a surgeon ; " and he made a movement as if to 
 leave the room. 
 
 But Rosalia perceiving it, with a violent effort 
 threw herself forward, and, clasping his knees, 
 locked them with an agony that shook his whole 
 frame. 
 
 " Why is this ? " said Monaldi ; " why trifle 
 thus ? Make your peace with heaven." 
 
 " Heaven is merciful ; be thou so too. No, 
 my husband, you are not cruel ; this last act shows 
 it you have bound up the wound, and bless you 
 for it. Then deny me not but tell me why 
 was this deed ? Oh, speak." 
 
 " And you do not know ? " 
 
 " As I have hope of heaven." 
 
 " Woman ! " said Monaldi, shaking her off with 
 horror, " thou standest even now in presence of the 
 Eternal ; darest thou then lie ? "
 
 MONALDI. 185 
 
 " I do not lie before heaven, I do not." 
 
 " Horrible ! And you know not perhaps him I 
 found here ? " 
 
 "As God is my judge. I was asleep when he 
 seized me, and that seemed at the very instant you 
 entered." 
 
 " Yet you asked for mercy " 
 
 " My terror confounded me, and I supposed you 
 both robbers." 
 
 " Know you then that writing ? " It was Fial- 
 to's letter. 
 
 Rosalia took the letter, and, glancing at the sig- 
 nature, for a moment seemed convulsed with emo- 
 tion ; but it was only for a moment, and she read 
 it through with steadiness. She then calmly placed 
 it beside her, and attemped to kneel, but her 
 strength failing her, she could only clasp her hands 
 and raise her eyes to heaven. 
 
 " I murmur not," she said "I murmur not, 
 oh, Father, that thou hast been pleased to permit 
 this work of darkness against me ; for thou art all- 
 wise as thou art good. And not for myself do I 
 now call on thy name thou knowest that I am 
 guiltless but for him I leave. Spare him, mer- 
 ciful Being ; impute not this blow to him ; for 
 even now he repents it ; and, oh spare him, in thy 
 great mercy, when he shall know my truth, when 
 16*
 
 1 86 MONALDI. 
 
 he shall find too late that the love I bore him had 
 only thee for its sharer that, but for thy grace, 
 it had been idolatry. Oh, spare him then, for he 
 will need thy mercy." 
 
 Monaldi listened as she spoke, like one in a 
 trance ; he lost not a word, and they fell on his 
 heart like arrows of fire ; for so comes truth when 
 it comes too late ; yet he neither spoke nor moved, 
 as if the agony of conviction had brought with it 
 a doubt whether the falsehood he had believed 
 were not less intolerable. 
 
 Rosalia now turned to him, and in a feebler, 
 though still unbroken, voice continued. " Monal- 
 di, hear me, for the hand of death is upon me. I 
 die innocent innocent of all but too much loving 
 thee. Your deed 'tis my last prayer may 
 God, as I do, forgive it. You were greatly tempt- 
 ed ; for the seeming proof of my guilt could not 
 be stronger. Why it was contrived, only the 
 Searcher of hearts can tell ; for I know not an 
 enemy that we have. Yet that you or I have 
 and a deadly one is sure. But him, too, I for- 
 give." 
 
 " No ! " said Monaldi, in a voice of anguish, 
 " never could a wanton so speak ! " 
 
 " Now, oh, now," said Rosalia, " I die in peace ; 
 you believe me."
 
 MONALDI. 187 
 
 " I do," he cried, straining her to his bosom, 
 " with my whole soul ! Oh, Rosalia, my wife " 
 but he could not go on ; for though his eyes were 
 dry, a convulsive sobbing choked his utterance. 
 
 " Nay, my husband, do not take it so to heart. 
 Think of my hopes of my blessed change. Oh, 
 no death has no sting for a Christian." 
 
 "Death!" cried Monaldi, starting up 
 " death ! " The word seemed, as it were, to 
 explode in his brain, and his head whirled. Then 
 came fearful imaginings, and with them a confused 
 rush of the past, mingling with the present. 
 
 Rosalia now felt her strength fast ebbing ; but 
 her heart still clung to her husband, and she beg- 
 ged that she might die in his arms. He made no 
 answer ; she called to him again but he was 
 talking to the air. 
 
 " Dead ! dead, did you say ? No, she lives. 
 But what 's here ? These accursed hands look, 
 Rosalia see the heart they tore from you. Red, 
 red it beats ; look, look, how it leaps ! No ; 
 you shall not go speak to me ha, gone ! now 
 now I have you again." 
 
 " His brain wanders ! " 
 
 " Ha ! it speaks strange ! strange ! " 
 
 " Save him, oh, save him ! " cried Rosalia. She
 
 188 MONALDI. 
 
 could add no more ; her head sunk upon her 
 shoulder, and her eyes closed. 
 r " Who brought it here ? " said Monaldi, shrink- 
 ing from the body ; " 't is cold. Let the bones be 
 buried, though Fialto's ; they should not lie on the 
 ground. Landi, why are you here ? Oh, 't is you, 
 Rosalia so you stabbed him ! Well ! ha ! ha ! 
 very well. How he bleeds ! Blood ! blood ! Give 
 me your hand. Nay, that's bloody too. But 
 hark ! those bloody daggers don't you hear 
 them ? " look ; there are a thousand. Monstrous ! 
 they fight in the air they follow us ! Oh, save 
 her ! save her ! " he cried, with a piercing shriek, 
 and rushed from the chamber.
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FIALTO had been returned about an hour, and 
 was deliberating whether to call on Maldura then 
 or to wait till morning, when Antonio, livid and 
 breathless, staggered into the room. 
 
 " How now ! " said the Count, somewhat start- 
 led at his appearance. " What brings you here ? 
 speak, man what makes you look so like a thing 
 dug up?" 
 
 " She 's dead," said Antonio. 
 
 "Who is dead?" 
 
 " She, my mistress." 
 
 In spite of Fialto's hardness he felt a twinge at 
 his heart. " Poor thing ! " said he, after a short 
 pause. " This is more than I bargained for. But 
 how was it, Antonio ? " 
 
 " That is more than I know," replied Antonio. 
 " All I can tell is, that about one o'clock, just as I 
 had fallen asleep, I was suddenly roused by a 
 frightful shriek such another I never heard. 
 What it might be, never entered my head ; for I
 
 190 MONALDI. 
 
 was so confused that I had quite forgotten your 
 plot, and what was likely to come of it ; so I sprang 
 out of bed, and ran to the staircase. Holy Fran- 
 cesco, how he looked ! " 
 
 "Who?" 
 
 "My master his face and hands bloody, and 
 his eyes so wild the great lamp was burning in 
 the corridor, and I saw him rush past it." 
 
 " Come, leave crossing your lizard's liver," said 
 Fialto, " and go on." 
 
 "I have done," answered Antonio: "he was 
 gone before I could reach the corridor. 
 
 " Dolt ! your mistress how know you she is 
 dead?" 
 
 " I entered her chamber with the other servants, 
 whom the same noise had brought from their beds. 
 She was lying on the floor, and " 
 
 " Enough," said the Count, " I have other busi- 
 ness for you now." 
 
 " I hope," stammered Antonio "I hope 't is 
 nothing like " 
 
 A look from Fialto cut short the sentence. " I 
 must hence to-night," said he, " so I shall want 
 horses : look to it that they are in readiness within 
 an hour. In the meantime I will see Maldura. 
 Do you hear? within an hour." 
 
 " His hands bloody ! " said Fialto, after Antonio
 
 MONALDI. 191 
 
 left him. "Then the deed was his. I did not 
 think the painter had so much of the devil in 
 him. Maldura said he was all milk ; that he 
 would part and pine, but never dare shed blood. 
 Had he been a fool it might have been so ; but 
 there is no trusting your gentle tempers where 
 there 's a spark of genius : they are like quiet 
 waters over volcanoes. Thou art a precious hell- 
 hound, Maldura ! Yet I might have foreseen this, 
 for I have known such men but I did not. 
 Well, 't is done ; and let it go. C&o there 's anj 
 end on 't."
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THERE are some men who can daily await, and 
 even count the hoars up to, a threatened bereave- 
 ment, with little discomposure ; not so much from 
 want of feeling as from a constitutional repug- 
 nance to the admission of any definite form to a fu- 
 ture evil ; they know it will come, but it is virtually 
 a mere name so long as they possess the present. 
 Yet there is a moment when the present and fu- 
 ture may be said to unite, and to produce, like the 
 mingling of light and darkness, a kind of twilight 
 image of both : 't is in the last counted hour. As 
 in grief, so it is in guilt : and so was it with Mai- 
 dura. Whilst his revenge was maturing, he had 
 watched its progress with a moody quietness ; but 
 now that the deadly fruit was ripe, and he saw it 
 hanging by the last fibre, ready at the breath of 
 the next minute to drop into his hand, he could 
 not help shrinking back with a fearful misgiving of 
 its bitterness. 
 
 He had retired to bed at his usual hour. But
 
 MONALDI. 193 
 
 he had closed his eyes and composed his limbs in 
 vain ; he could not sleep ; the tide of his thoughts 
 was not to be stopped, neither could he force them 
 into other than the troublous channel they had 
 taken ; they still rushed on in spite of his will ; till, 
 wearied and maddened by his fruitless efforts, he 
 sprang out of bed. He then dressed himself, and, 
 taking a book, began to read aloud ; but the sounds 
 he uttered conveyed no meaning to his brain. 
 At last the clock struck one the half hour 
 two. " 'T is over ! " said he, throwing the book 
 from him. " Fool ! torment yourself no longer 
 for what is past recall. Pshaw ! this shaking is 
 mechanical the coward body. Well, here 's a 
 remedy for that," seizing a goblet of wine. " Yes, 
 the soul is still firm ; as it should be in triumph. 
 Ay, triumph ; for revenge what is it ? A mere 
 speculation ? a freak of the mind, beginning in a 
 day-dream, and ending as it began in nothing? 
 Has it not relation to time, place, object ? and can 
 a thing unreal hold such relation ? No. 'T is then 
 a reality ; if so, can it come of nothing ? No ; 't is 
 a consequence of something. What then is that 
 something ? Injury ! Let the Monaldis then 
 blame themselves. If they would know the cause 
 of my revenge, let them remember, that she reject- 
 17
 
 194 MONALDI. 
 
 ed me that he supplanted me. Tush ! no more 
 of this." 
 
 With such wretched sophistry did Maldura en- 
 deavor to silence his conscience, when Fialto en- 
 tered. 
 
 " Nay, start not," said the Count, as Maldura 
 drew back to let him pass ; " 't is your good ge- 
 nius the best, I '11 be sworn, in your whole cal- 
 endar of devils. What, dumb ? No greeting for 
 your faithful Abaddon your plenipotentiary to 
 the powers below ? Why, man, you look as if I 
 had actually come thence, and brought with me 
 an atmosphere unpolite." 
 
 " You have license, Count," observed Maldura, 
 " to speak of yourself as you please." 
 
 " And of you too, I hope." 
 
 " You come, I suppose, to tell me the aflair is 
 over." 
 
 " A word first," said Fialto. " I take it, Mal- 
 dura, you are a man of honor ? " 
 
 " Why that question, sir ? " 
 
 " Because it often happens, that when a pupil 
 first enters Lucifer's school, he thinks it regular to 
 begin in the lowest forms, such as lying, word- 
 breaking, cheating, &c." 
 
 " Fialto," interrupted Maldura fiercely, " if I 
 thought you dared suspect me "
 
 MONALDI. 195 
 
 " Not so hot, man. I suspect no one. I only 
 wish to be sure of my ground." 
 
 " Well, sir, what is your drift ? " 
 
 " Merely to know if you mean to abide by your 
 contract." 
 
 " Dare you doubt it ? " 
 
 "You know I dare anything. But you have 
 well spoken ; and I do not doubt you. Now to 
 business. The draughts on your banker at Bo- 
 logna, I think, are already signed ? " 
 
 " There, sir ; look at them." 
 
 " Right. But there were five hundred sequins 
 in gold for present expenses. Ah, they are in this 
 bag. All right." 
 
 " To a baiocco, sir," said Maldura. 
 
 " I don't doubt it," said the Count, sweeping 
 the gold and bills from the table. " And thus 
 ends my diplomacy ; for the game is up, and the 
 wages of sin are won ! " 
 
 Though Maldura had anticipated this, and 
 thought himself prepared, he needed all his pride 
 to conceal the numbing horror that now seized him. 
 J T is over then," said he, faintly ; well " but 
 he could not proceed. 
 
 " Ha ! he quails," said Fialto to himself. " 'T is 
 well ; he shall shake yet to his midriff for putting
 
 196 MONALDI. 
 
 me on this cursed business. But how 's this, my 
 gallant principal you don't seem to rejoice ? " 
 
 "You don't know me," replied Maldura, en- 
 deavoring to force a laugh ; but the sound only 
 rattled in his throat. 
 
 " Ay, that was a merry laugh, but rather too 
 dry. You should drink, man ; joy is thirsty by 
 nature especially of the grim breed. There, 
 pledge me now in a reeling bumper to the black 
 knight of revenge." 
 
 " 'T is sweet ! " said Maldura, emptying the 
 goblet, and assuming an air of hardihood. 
 
 What ? " 
 
 " Revenge." 
 
 " Oh, delicious, no doubt. But I hav 'nt given 
 you the particulars." 
 
 " Why, no matter for them now ; 't is enough 
 that the affair is over." 
 
 " As you please. But there 's one thing I must 
 touch on. There was, I think, an additional 
 clause, a kind of codicil to our contract that if 
 your friends parted, the reward was to be doubled. 
 Was it not so ? " 
 
 " It was ; but you cannot claim that yet" 
 
 " Suppose I could ? You remember you are a 
 man of honor."
 
 MONALDI. 
 
 197 
 
 " You may see I have not forgotten it," answer- 
 ed Maldura, producing another draught. 
 
 " 'T is mine then," said Fialto, seizing it. 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Then impossibilities have come to pass." 
 
 " Count Fialto," said Maldura, rising. " I doubt 
 you trifle with me." 
 
 " In honorable earnest," replied Fialto, care- 
 lessly. " They parted exactly at one o'clock ; 
 that is, if Antonio's watch be right." 
 
 " Parted ! and you know it so soon ? " 
 
 " Even so ; and, what 's better, so parted, that 
 all the priests in Christendom could never reunite 
 them." 
 
 " How ! what mean you ? " 
 
 " The woman 's dead that 's all." 
 
 Dead ! " 
 
 " Ay, dead as Santa Rosalia herself. Glorious ! 
 is n't it ? What, dumb with joy ? I thought you 
 would be, and kept it for a bonne bouche that 
 would send its savor to your very heart. But that 
 is not all the best is to come; she was mur- 
 dered murdered too by her milksop husband ! " 
 
 Maldura staggered, and fell back into his seat. 
 
 " Ha ! " continued Fialto, advancing, and rais- 
 ing his voice, " why don't you laugh shout ? 
 Hey ? shout dance, sing io triumphe, man ! for 
 17*
 
 198 MONALDI. 
 
 the deed is done past all undoing ; ay, done, and 
 bruited, and chronicled too by this time in all the 
 infernal gazettes ! " 
 
 "> Monster ! " exclaimed Maldura, recoiling from 
 him." 
 
 " Which of us ! " 
 
 " Leave me, fiend ! blasted be the hour that 
 brought us together." 
 
 " What, ho ! did you think to raise the devil, 
 and expect him to leave his work half done ? I 
 thought you knew him better ; for I never saw one 
 who looked and talked so like his cater-cousin. 
 Marvellous ! Why, you were wont to brood over 
 this precious plot like some dark hell-bird in the 
 incubation of an imp ; and now that the thing 
 is hatched, you shrink, and turn craven before 
 your own offspring." 
 
 " Begone, villain ! " cried Maldura, starting up, 
 and moving to a distance. 
 
 " Softly, my worthy compeer," said the Count. 
 " Devil as often as you please ; but my honor 
 brooks no vulgar appellation of earth." 
 
 " Leave me then, devil ! and curse me no more 
 with your hateful presence." 
 
 "Hateful! What, hateful to Maldura?" said 
 Fialto, with a sneer. " Then I must be above him. 
 On my life, this is supposing me to have reached
 
 MONALDI. 199 
 
 an elevation in iniquity to which I never dared 
 aspire. But you do yourself injustice. Why, 1 
 am but a thing of clay a mere receptacle of ap- 
 petites ; and, evil though they be, they are yet 
 human ; in other words, I 'm a man bad, if you 
 will, but too gross, too material, to be named -with 
 what shall I call thee ? The very sentiment, 
 the idea, the unimpassioned essence of sin ! If I 
 prey on others, I only transfer something from 
 their needs to my own ; if I deceive, 't is only for 
 a craved advantage ; and if I pull down, 't is only 
 to build up for myself; so that nothing is lost. In 
 short, my utmost scope is barely to anticipate time, 
 and now and then, perhaps, to forestall fortune in 
 her eternal mutations. But thou thou art above 
 profiting by thy actions ; for thou deprivest for the 
 pleasure of bereaving destroyest for the gust of 
 destruction ; in a word, thy sins find their end in 
 nothing, and vanish, like abstractions, in the dark, 
 joyless abyss of thy soul." 
 
 Maldura, trembling with rage, unsheathed his 
 dagger but guilt had cowed him ; he stood a 
 moment irresolute, and the weapon dropped from 
 his hand. 
 
 " I would that I could pity thee," said Fialto, 
 observing the action and fixing his eye on the dag- 
 ger ; " but pah ! my soul sickens at a coward."
 
 200 MONALDI. 
 
 " Ruffian ! robber ! " screamed Maldura, snatch- 
 ing up the dagger, and rushing on him with fury. 
 
 "Another step," said the Count, presenting a 
 pistol, " and your brains shall spatter these walls." 
 
 Maldura retreated a few paces, and, seizing a 
 chair, with a horrible execration, dashed it in 
 shivers against the wall. " Thus ! thus ! " said 
 he, " shall it be with thee ! Remember the nun I " 
 
 " Dost thou threaten ? " replied Fialto, advanc- 
 ing ; then stopping short " No," he added, " I 
 will not hazard my life by taking thine in this 
 place. Besides, thy menace is too impotent to 
 claim a thought ; my secret is safe enough in thy 
 cowardly keeping. The nun wants no better 
 guard than the ghost of Rosalia ; they are now 
 leagued ; summon the one, then, and raise the 
 other if thou darest. Ha ! does the name of 
 Rosalia shake thee ? How then wilt thou stand it 
 when all Rome shall couple it with thine her 
 destroyer? That thou art so, and without ben- 
 efit to thyself, is why I hate thee. As for 
 my part in the business I acted in my need, 
 and under thee, thou superlative tempter ! so 
 the world would not waste a curse on me. But 
 what tempted thee ? Oh, I forgot thou art a 
 poet. Well, thou hast reached the ideal of sin ; 
 and I give thee joy of thy bloody chaplet."
 
 MONALDI. 201 
 
 " Leave me, or poniard me, unmerciful dog ! " 
 cried Maldura, in a voice hoarse and scarcely arti- 
 culate. 
 
 "Thou shall have thy wish," said Fialto, turn- 
 ing contemptuously towards the door. " But I 
 leave thee this advice, Maldura : Ride not wide of 
 Rome. Should we meet again at Radicoffani, my 
 stilletto, perhaps, may do, for once, some service 
 to the world." So saying, he left the house, and 
 a moment after the clatter of hoofs gave notice of 
 his departure. 
 
 As the sounds caught his ear, Maldura felt as if 
 there was one fiend less to tug at his heart ; but 
 the relief was transient, for another minute brought 
 their echoes to his brain, hurrying him back in 
 memory to his first meeting with Fialto then 
 from place to thought from thought to word, 
 and plot, and action through their whole horri- 
 ble meanderings to his present hell. His agony 
 now became choking, and, grasping his throat as 
 though he would tear it open, he thought he would 
 give the world for a groan ; but even that was 
 denied him, and he fell on the floor without utter- 
 ing a sound. 
 
 Thus ended this compact of sin. It could not ) 
 have ended otherwise ; for there is no sympathy 
 in evil, whose natural consequence is hatred.
 
 202 MONALDI. 
 
 Yet the evil may not hate themselves ; if they do 
 not, however, 't is only because of that instinctive 
 sophistry with which the mind is ever ready to de- 
 fend itself from whatever is painful ; but the delu- 
 sion is limited to themselves ; for the vices of 
 others they have a clear-sightedness which even the 
 minutest deformities cannot escape. Indeed, evil 
 is but another name for moral discord ; its law, 
 revulsion ; and its final issue the shutting up the 
 i_ soul in impenetrable solitude.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 WHEN Antonio, with his fellow servants, entered 
 his mistress's apartment and saw her weltering in 
 blood, and stretched, apparently, lifeless on the 
 floor, he was too much shocked at the part he had 
 borne in her catastrophe to wait for a second look, 
 but, concluding her dead, availed himself of the 
 general confusion to slip away and convey the in- 
 telligence to his employer. The consternation of 
 the other domestics may easily be imagined ; but, 
 fortunately, there was one amongst them, an aged 
 housekeeper, who, on removing the body, and per- 
 ceiving it still warm, had the presence of mind to 
 send for a surgeon. In the mean time Rosalia 
 was put into a warm bed, and such other restora- 
 tives being applied as are usual in similar cases, 
 she soon began to show symptoms of life. Imme- 
 diately after, the surgeon arrived. " One minute 
 more," said he, "and I should have been too late." 
 He then proceeded to probe the wound, when, 
 drawing a long sigh, Rosalia opened her eyes.
 
 204 MONALDI. 
 
 On further examination, the surgeon pronounced 
 her wound a flesh one ; but she had suffered so 
 much from loss of blood, he observed, that nothing 
 but the utmost care and absence of all excitement, 
 could possibly save her. He then ordered the 
 room to be cleared, and enjoined that on no ac- 
 count she should be allowed to speak. This last 
 injunction became necessary in consequence of 
 several ineffectual attempts she had made to in- 
 quire after her husband. The surgeon further 
 added, on catching the word husband, and con- 
 necting it with certain surmises which had been 
 hinted to him of Monaldi's concern in the affair, 
 that he would recommend it to her not to see any 
 one " not excepting even her husband." Rosa- 
 lia answered with an imploring look, but the surgeon 
 observing, that her life depended on her obedience 
 in this particular, she was obliged to acquiesce. 
 For the same reason the interdiction was also ex- 
 tended to her father. It was with great difficulty, 
 however, that Landi could be prevailed on to 
 forego seeing his daughter ; but the surgeon was 
 peremptory, and he was forced to obey. It was 
 fortunate for Rosalia that the knowledge of her 
 husband's absence was thus kept from her ; Mo- 
 naldi having disappeared, and gone no one knew 
 whither ; as to his insanity, the few incoherent
 
 MONALDI. 205 
 
 words he had uttered previous to her fainting, had 
 either passed from her mind, or, considered merely 
 as the effect of violent emotion, were little heeded. 
 
 We left Maldura in a state of misery only to be 
 conceived by the guilty, or by those to whom a 
 holy abhorrence of sin reveals its frightful nature. 
 It was in vain he summoned the casuistry which 
 had hitherto supported him in the contemplation 
 of crime. It came now, as formerly, and with a 
 sound of might, but it spent itself like the wind 
 against a solid rock ; for he had now to do, not 
 with hypothesis, but a based reality, darkening the 
 present, and stretching its long shadow into the 
 future. Before the accomplishment of his purpose 
 his life had seemed a burden, and he would have 
 welcomed death as a release from trouble ; but 
 now, though the burthen was heavier and more 
 galling, the thought of death only filled him with 
 dismay, and he shrank from it as the traveller 
 shrinks from an abyss whose edge his foot feels in 
 the dark, but whose depth neither his eye nor his 
 imagination can fathom. 
 
 Thus will the sense of guilt sometimes cow the 
 proudest philosophy. The atheist may speculate, 
 and go on speculating till he is brought up by an- 
 nihilation ; he may then return to life, and reason 
 away the difference between good and evil ; he 
 
 18
 
 206 MONALDI. 
 
 may even go further, and imagine to himself the 
 perpetration of the most atrocious acts ; and still 
 he may eat his bread with relish, and sleep soundly 
 in his bed ; for his sins wanting, as it were, sub- 
 stance, having no actual solidity to leave their 
 traces in his memory, all future retribution may 
 seem to him a thing with which, in any case, he 
 can have no concern ; but let him once turn his 
 theory to practice let him make crime palpable 
 in an instant he feels its hot impress on his soul. 
 Then it is, that what may happen beyond the 
 grave becomes no matter of indifference ; and, 
 though his reason may seem to have proved that 
 death is a final end, then comes the question : 
 what does his reason know of death ? Then, last of 
 all, the little word if, swelling to a fearful size, 
 and standing at the outlet of his theories, like a 
 relentless giant, ready to demolish his conclusions. 
 But Maldura's sufferings were now to be sus- 
 pended, for the report of Rosalia's recovery at last 
 reached him. This unlooked-for intelligence was 
 followed by a spasm of joy scarcely to have been 
 exceeded had he been suddenly reprieved from an 
 ignominious death. He felt like one emerging 
 from the hopeless darkness of a dungeon to the 
 light and free air of day ; and though the hope 
 which had once sustained him was gone forever,
 
 MONALDI. 207 
 
 and he had nothing to look to, he yet began to 
 fancy, and even to feel, without stopping to ask 
 why, that his former relish of life was now return- 
 ing. But his respite was short. It was natural 
 that release from a great, though only imagined, 
 evil should render him for a time less sensible to 
 such as were minor and actual ; but they were 
 light only from comparison, and no sooner did the 
 weight of the former begin to pass from his mem- 
 ory, than the pressure of the latter became more 
 perceptible, till at last, in spite of every effort to 
 resist them, they became the subjects of his daily 
 and hourly contemplation. 
 
 Amongst these, the sorest, and that which time 
 rather added to than diminished, was the destruc- 
 tion of Monaldi's peace, perhaps of his life ; for 
 Monaldi had never been heard of since the fatal 
 night, and whither he had gone, or what had be- 
 come of him, was still uncertain. 
 
 Whilst Maldura believed himself injured, and 
 the victim of the world's injustice, he gave him- 
 self up to a moody sullenness, either shut up at 
 home, or brooding in darkness in the solitude of 
 ruins. But now that his sufferings were occasion- 
 ed by his own crimes their effect was different. 
 He became restless ; deserting his former haunts, 
 and mixing with the world ; visiting every place of
 
 208 MONALDI. 
 
 public amusement, giving entertainments, and form- 
 ing new acquaintance; then, tiring of these, he 
 would change his abode, engage in new diversions, 
 and collect new associates ; then he would remove 
 to another, then run the same round, till that was 
 exhausted ; then to another, then from city to city, 
 from village to village, wandering and journeying, 
 day and night, and seeking and catching at every 
 kind of object, however insignificant, that might, if 
 possible, draw his thoughts from himself: and such 
 is the last object of guilt ; for novelty while pursued 
 is the world's substitute for hope ; when possessed, 
 its opiate for remorse the opiate indeed of a mo- 
 ment yet for that moment will the guilty toil 
 more intently and desperately than in their days of 
 innocence for the promise of heaven. 
 
 It was in one of these wanderings that Maldura, 
 returning towards Naples, in company with a party 
 of pleasure, was separated from his companions 
 by a circumstance of no uncommon occurrence. 
 
 The day had begun sultry, but was now closing, 
 after a refreshing shower, with one of those de- 
 licious atmospheres known only in the south ; so 
 sweet! so bright! as if the common air had 
 suddenly given place to the humid sighs of answer- 
 ing orange groves and the intermingled breath of 
 enamored flowers as if the dripping trees and
 
 MONALDI. 209 
 
 fields had actually been flooded by liquid gold 
 from the sun ; then the hum of insects, the twit- 
 tering of birds, and the ceaseless darting of innu- 
 merable lizards, so filling the ear and eye with 
 sound and motion, as if the very ground and air 
 were exulting in life ! Such a scene was not for 
 Maldura, and, trusting to his horse to follow in the 
 track of his companions, he had closed his eyes, 
 when, reaching the brow of a hill, a general ex- 
 clamation from the company made him look up. 
 " Glorious ! magnificent ! " now burst from one 
 and another. It was the bay of Naples ; a scene^ 
 not to be painted by words even though its 
 waters were likened to a sea of sapphire, its moun- 
 tains to amethysts, and its skirting city to a fillet 
 of snow ; these indeed might give their color, but 
 not the harmony of lines, nor the light and shadow, 
 nor the dazzling expanse and never the living, 
 conscious joy with which they seemed to send up 
 their shout of praise to the immeasurable depths 
 above. There is a voice in nature ever audible to 
 the heart which no hardness can shut out and 
 for its weal or wo, as the heart may be. Maldura 
 heard it now breaking upon him like a clap of 
 thunder. He instinctively turned from the scene, 
 and looked towards Vesuvius. But even from that 
 he shrank ; for the terrible Vesuvius was now smiling 
 J8*
 
 210 MONALDI. 
 
 in purple, and reposing beneath his pillar of smoke 
 as under a gorgeous canopy: the very type of 
 himself gay and peaceful without, yet restless 
 and racked with fire within. A groan was rising 
 to his lips, but a resolute effort enabled him to sup- 
 press it ; yet dreading to trust himself any longer 
 to the observation of his party, he hastily dis- 
 mounted, under pretence of decyphering a half-ef- 
 faced inscription on the road, and bade them ride on. 
 His companions being now out of sight, Maldu- 
 ra was about to remount, when the girth of his 
 saddle gave way. This accident made it necessary 
 for him to seek assistance, and he was proceeding 
 for this purpose to a village a little off the road, 
 when he thought he descried through the trees 
 something peeping above the ruins of an ancient 
 tomb like the roof of a hut. As he approached 
 he perceived it to be the shed of a half-demolished 
 hovel ; but thinking it might possibly still afford 
 shelter to some wandering swine-herd, he fastened 
 his horse to the branch of a wild fig-tree that grew 
 out of a crevice in the ruin, and, walking round, 
 had just come to the side of the hut, when he 
 heard a low murmuring sound as of voices within. 
 He stopped a moment, doubting if it were safe to 
 enter; should he encounter robbers, the odds 
 would be against him. Whatever the sounds
 
 MONALDI. 211 
 
 might proceed from, he thought it at least but pru- 
 dent to reconnoitre, and observing a rent in the 
 wall he looked through it ; but he could only per- 
 ceive a dark heap lying in a corner, and something 
 like a human leg thrust from beneath it. Being 
 satisfied that he had nothing to fear, Maldura 
 entered. On a nearer view the heap in the corner 
 proved, as he had conjectured, to be a man asleep. 
 "Ho! fellow!" said he; "awake I need your 
 assistance." With a languid motion the figure 
 turned upon his back, and slowly drawing down 
 the dark and tattered mantle, that enveloped his 
 head and body, a little below the eyes, appeared to 
 look up. Maldura, catching a glimpse of his ashy 
 forehead, as it gleamed through the flakes of his 
 long black hair, bent forward to see if the man 
 were awake ; but his eyes were so dark and sunk- 
 en that he could only discern two bright specks. 
 " Come, rouse thee, fellow," said he, impatiently, 
 " I want your aid." The man made an effort to 
 rise, and the garment fell from his face. " Monal- 
 di ! " exclaimed Maldura, recoiling with horror. 
 
 " Who calls me ? " said the other. " What do 
 you want? oh, you are are a Sbirro. But you 
 come too late I am dead ha ! ha ! You can- 
 not touch me now ! " 
 
 " Fiend, devil that I am ! " groaned Maldura.
 
 212 MONALDI. 
 
 "His wits are gone and I open gape, hell, 
 and swallow me ! *5 
 
 " Go, go," said the maniac. 
 
 " I will, I will," cried Maldura, " and rid you 
 of a monster ! " So saying, he rushed from the 
 hovel, when, stumbling over a loose stone, he fell 
 to the ground. He sprang upon his feet again, 
 but the accident had given a moment for reflec- 
 tion. " No ! " he said, while a multitude of 
 thoughts passed with the rapidity of lightning 
 through his brain. "No I will still endure the 
 torturing sight though it transform me to the 
 like and endure it, if possible, to save him." 
 
 This resolution calmed him in an instant ; but 
 it was not till after a considerable time that he 
 could summon sufficient fortitude to return to the 
 hut. When he did so he found Monaldi again 
 covered and seemingly asleep. On lifting the 
 mantle, however, he perceived that he was still 
 awake but so exhausted, either by disease or 
 famine, that he could no longer move. 
 
 As Maldura beheld the ravages which misery 
 had so rapidly made on his late happy friend, and 
 gazed upon the livid remains of his noble counten- 
 ance, the gaunt and angular outline of his once 
 graceful form, he felt that he had need of all his 
 courage to hold to his resolution.
 
 MONALDI. 213 
 
 " Horrible ! " said he, turning away with a suffo- 
 cating feeling. " But this is no time even for re- 
 morse he must not lie here." Then hastily 
 quitting the hut, and, vaulting on the bare back of 
 his horse, he set off at full speed for the village. 
 
 It was now the first time since Maldura left 
 Florence that anything like a feeling of self-ap- 
 probation had even glanced on his heart ; for now, 
 in spite of his remorse, the consciousness of per- 
 forming a duty forced a passage to his breast ; 
 and feeble as this was even as the thread of light 
 that ravels its way through hundreds of fathoms of 
 darkness to the half quenched eye of the con- 
 demned miner it yet seemed to cheer his heart 
 almost with hope. 
 
 Having ordered such accommodations as the 
 village post-house afforded, Maldura returned with 
 assistance to the hovel, and soon saw his wretched 
 friend comfortably lodged. 
 
 A messenger was then despatched for a physician, 
 but, there being none nearer than Naples, it was 
 near midnight before he arrived. The apparently 
 exhausted maniac had in the meantime, through 
 the mistaken indulgence of his attendants, been 
 suffered to gorge himself with food. This brought 
 on a lethargy, then suffocation and spasms, ending 
 in a frightful paroxysm of raving ; in the height of 
 which the physician entered,
 
 214 MONALDI. 
 
 The agony of Maldura during this scene had be- 
 come almost insupportable ; but when the physician 
 observed that the injudicious treatment of the 
 patient was the probable cause of his frenzy, and 
 gave hope of his recovery, he dropped senseless. 
 He had borne misery, as we have seen, and almost 
 despair, with a degree of firmness ; but the trans- 
 ition of the latter to hope, even feeble as it was, 
 proved too much for him. As he had, however, 
 only fainted, he was soon revived, when, observing 
 that he still appeared to be much weakened, the 
 doctor advised his going immediately to bed. 
 
 " No," said Maldura "I must remain where 
 I am, though the sounds I hear rive me like fire 
 from heaven." 
 
 " Alack ! " said the hostess, who was then 
 bathing his temples, " he has caught the other's 
 madness." 
 
 " No, woman," replied Maldura with a ghastly 
 smile, " mine is from hell." 
 
 " My good sir," said the physician, " this is no 
 place for one in your state you must to bed." 
 
 " Look at him," continued Maldura, turning 
 towards Monaldi, and without regarding the speak- 
 er " look at that human ruin." 
 
 The maniac now, attempting to rise, appeared 
 first to discover that he was bound. For a moment
 
 MONALDI. 215 
 
 he endeavored to free himself with a kind of 
 childish impatience, but finding himself baffled, he 
 sent forth a cry so shrill and piteous that the 
 attendants involuntarily put their hands to their 
 ears. 
 
 " Nay, hear it," said Maldura, who alone seemed 
 to listen unmoved, but whom the sound had smote 
 deeper ; " hear it ' tis the crash of a wrecked 
 mind yet even that even him I envy For 
 what is his state to mine ? No the world can- 
 not see the hell from which my spirit looks 
 nor know the longing with which it strains over 
 the gulf between us. Bid me not leave him, in 
 the fear that suffering like his can injure me." 
 
 Thus did the pride of Maldura, stony and 
 colossal as it seemed, fall before the voice of con- 
 science, even as the walls of Jerico before the horn 
 of Joshua. 
 
 But the triumph of conscience was not yet com- 
 plete. Though his presumption was gone, and he 
 no longer sought to resist or evade the sense of 
 his crime, he could not wholly subdue a worldly 
 feeling of shame at the thought of appearing des- 
 picable in the eyes of others. He had therefore 
 no sooner given vent to this burst of remorse, and 
 perceived its effect on the astonished hearers, than 
 he felt as if he could have sunk into the earth.
 
 216 MONALDI. 
 
 " Poor gentleman ! " said the landlady, crossing 
 herself with a mixture of fear and compassion 
 " he seems to have some terrible sin on his mind." 
 
 " Peace woman ! " said Maldura, " leave the 
 room." 
 
 " San' Gennaro protect us ! " muttered the 
 hostess." I can at least take a good conscience 
 away with me which is more than I shall leave 
 here." 
 
 Whatever the physician may have thought, he 
 was prudent enough to keep it to himself; he 
 however again urged Maldura to retire ; but, find- 
 ing him still obstinate, he left his patient in his 
 charge, promising to repeat his visit at an early 
 hour the next day. 
 
 This was the first penance to which Maldura 
 had ever brought himself to submit. And never 
 did desperate contrition encounter a greater. For, 
 taking his station at the foot of the bed, and keep- 
 ing his eyes fixed on Monaldi, he scarcely moved 
 during the whole night ; and, though every sound 
 and look seemed to go through him, he still con- 
 tinued to stand listening and gazing, hour after 
 hour, till the wretched maniac, exhausted by 
 raving and the violence of the fever, sunk at last 
 to sleep. 
 
 The day was already far advanced before the
 
 MONALDI. 217 
 
 physician arrived. " Your friend," said he, turn- 
 ing to Maldura, " if I mistake not, will awake in 
 his senses : it may be, only to know that he is 
 dying ; yet, as it is possible he may recover, we 
 will hope for the best. All depends on the strength 
 of his constitution, and his being kept quiet." 
 
 Maldura attempted to speak " My dear sir," 
 continued the doctor, perceiving his emotion, " I 
 will not ask if you wish the recovery of your 
 friend ; but, if you do, you must remain here no 
 longer. His crisis is at hand, and I dare not 
 answer for the issue should either your presence, 
 or any other cause produce the least agitation. 
 " Tis not for your sake, but his " " No more," 
 said Maldura, "You shall be obeyed. But when " 
 " You may see him to-morrow," interrupted the 
 physician.
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 WHEN Monaldi awoke the next morning, his 
 reason was returned ; but he was so feeble that 
 his attendants could only perceive it in the change 
 of his countenance. The sympathy in such a 
 transition is not confined to friends or relatives ; 
 for there is no species of calamity more univer- 
 sally touching than madness, and no joy more gen- 
 eral than that which follows the restoration of rea- 
 son. Though surrounded by strangers, no sooner 
 did Monaldi open his eyes and begin to speak 
 through them like an intelligent being, than, with 
 the exception of his, there was not a dry eye seen 
 in the room ; and when he at last spoke, and in- 
 quired where he was, their joy became so tumult- 
 uous that the physician was obliged to order them 
 away. 
 
 This is but one instance of the many anomalies 
 of human nature; for amongst all these whose 
 humane sympathy was here excited, there was 
 scarcely one, perhaps, who might not, in other cir-
 
 MONALDI. 219 
 
 cumstances, have easily been tempted to cheat, or 
 slander, or betray the very object of their present 
 compassion. 
 
 Whether this feeling be called virtuous, or not, 
 it is not to be relied on as any evidence of good- 
 ness. There is nothing indeed deserving the 
 name that is not equally so under all circum- 
 stances ; an integrity which principle alone can 
 ensure ; the true proof of which is where, op- 
 posed to our interest, it triumphs over self. 
 And yet this incidental virtue has its use, nay, it 
 seems to be a common providential tax, that not 
 even the bad should escape adding something, 
 however small, to the general stock of happiness ; 
 for even the most selfish must be limited in his 
 conflicts, and find thousands about him to whom 
 he may be kind and compassionate without the 
 cost even of a calculation ; the world would else 
 be at a stand, and the mass of men locked up in 
 individual jealousies amidst the universal barter of 
 benefits. 
 
 When the Physician had pronounced Monaldi 
 out of danger, and he had so far recovered as to 
 sit up and converse without difficulty, Maldura 
 ventured to enter his chamber. 
 
 "Is it you, Doctor" said Monaldi, for the dim 
 light of the room prevented his seeing distinctly.
 
 220 MONALDI. 
 
 " No," replied Maldura ; " the doctor is in Na- 
 ples, and will not return before to-morrow. 
 
 " Sure I should know those tones," said Monal- 
 di, reaching forward, " and yet it cannot be. 
 Who is it then ? " Maldura then drew nearer. 
 "Blessed Heaven! Maldura! But, speak is 
 it indeed my friend ? or does this uncertain light 
 mock me ? " 
 
 " You are not deceived," said Maldura : " 't is 
 even he whom you once It is Maldura." 
 
 " It is indeed ! " said Monaldi, as soon as his 
 emotion allowed him utterance. "My best, my 
 earliest friend. But how came you here ? Yet I 
 need not ask ; for the kindness of Maldura's heart 
 would have traced me." 
 
 Maldura turned away and covered his face in 
 agony ; for he had now to taste the bitter draught 
 of praise unmerited of praise made still more 
 bitter in coming from the unsuspecting victim of 
 his own villany. 
 
 " Nay, do not weep," said Monaldi, mistaking 
 the cause of his emotion. " I seem, it is true, a 
 sorry spectacle, but that is nothing : I have been 
 snatched from death and more I am restored 
 with reason. Do not weep then, but rather re- 
 joice, and aid me in giving thanks to that merciful 
 Being who has still spared me, guilty as I am."
 
 MONALDI. 221 
 
 Maldura, making an effort to collect himself, 
 again took the hand of his friend. "Monaldi," 
 said he, "I would pray with thee, but " 
 
 " You believe not 1 " said Monaldi mournfully. 
 " Alas, I had hoped that your early opinions had 
 passed away with the vainglory of youth." 
 
 "You mistake me," replied Maldura, "I 
 thought not to deny your request, but only to 
 defer for awhile " 
 
 " But why ? " interrupted Monaldi. " Is not 
 praise due for signal mercy ? 
 
 " Because you know not yet the full measure of 
 that mercy." 
 
 " What mean you ? " cried Monaldi, starting up 
 in the bed. "Is there can there be alas! 
 no ; the world is nothing now to me. Yet I will 
 not repine ; for this is mercy oh, how far beyond 
 my deserts, that I am still permitted, though with 
 a life of sorrow, even here to atone for that ac- 
 cursed deed. But I speak perhaps of what to you 
 is a mystery." Maldura was silent, for he knew 
 not how to reply. " It must be so," continued 
 Monaldi, " else you would not be here." 
 
 " Not so," answered Maldura. 
 
 " You know it then ? " 
 
 "But too well." 
 
 " And yet, because your friend you come to
 
 222 MONALDI. 
 
 comfort a murderer. So pure yourself, yet so 
 compassionate of guilt ! There is but one Maldu- 
 ra." 
 
 Maldura only replied with a groan. " Would," 
 he thought, " there were never one ! " 
 
 " But no," added Monaldi ; " I do injustice to 
 your principles. You come to call him to repent- 
 ance." 
 
 " No you need not at least in the degree." 
 
 " Say not so," cried Monaldi ; " you know not 
 the damning nature of my crime. The guilt of 
 blood is on me that were enough but that 
 blood too was innocent. Yet, dreadful as is this 
 aggravation, still do I bless Heaven that I was per- 
 mitted to know it ere we parted. No, Maldura, 
 deeply as it sinks me in misery, I would not ex- 
 change this blissful conviction, wrought as it was 
 in agony and blood, and breathed into my soul by 
 her dying lips for all the joys (might even my 
 spirit taste them) which the whole world could 
 give." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! " thought Maldura, " he be- 
 lieves her innocent. He has now only to bear the 
 shock of joy." 
 
 " Doubt you then," continued Monaldi, " that I 
 need repentance ? " 
 
 " I do not doubt though I repeat my words,"
 
 MONALDI. 223 
 
 " I cannot understand you." 
 
 " Nor will you until you know but I wander 
 from my purpose." 
 
 " What purpose ? " 
 
 " You shall hear. But have you courage ? Do 
 you think you could bear " 
 
 "What?" 
 
 " The fulness of joy." 
 
 " Oh, torture me not," said Monaldi, grasping 
 his hand with violence. " A dream of hope has 
 come to me speak quickly for I fear that I 
 could not survive its vanishing." 
 
 " Then, live," said Maldura, " for your wife " 
 
 " Speak ! " said Monaldi, with a piercing scream. 
 
 " She lives ! " said Maldura. 
 
 Monaldi, losing his hold, fell back speechless on 
 the bed. Maldura instantly sprang to his assist- 
 ance ; but he had not fainted. " Heaven be 
 praised ! " said Maldura, " at least one mountain is 
 off my soul." 
 
 For a long time Monaldi lay without word or 
 motion ; at length, drawing a deep sigh, he gently 
 clasped his hands, and raising his eyes upwards, 
 seemed to be engaged in prayer. His wretched 
 companion knelt beside the bed, and bending over 
 it, continued in that posture till, overwhelmed by 
 the sense of guilt, he sunk exhausted on the
 
 224 MONALDI. 
 
 floor. This was the first prayer that Maldura had 
 uttered since his days of childhood ; and the con- 
 sciousness that it was so, carried his thoughts back 
 over a dreary and long-forgotten waste of years : 
 no wonder then, that he sank appalled, when, at 
 every step, some buried sin, now rising up before 
 him, added to the long array, like an army of 
 spectres. 
 
 "My friend," said Monaldi, reaching out his 
 hand, " come near me. My strength has return- 
 ed." 
 
 " Blessed be God ! " said Maldura, " if that / 
 might say so." 
 
 Monaldi, pressing his hand, made a sign to him 
 to sit by the bed. " I am strong enough," said 
 he, " to hear the particulars. How was it ? how 
 did she survive the blow ? I thought I saw her 
 die but my reason was gone." 
 
 Maldura then related in a few words what he 
 had gathered from report ; and concluded by tell- 
 ing him that he had already written to Rosalia and 
 her father to acquaint them with his situation, and 
 that he had since despatched another messenger 
 with the tidings of his recovery. 
 
 " And yet her ashy cheek the leaden eye, 
 which has so long haunted me," said Monaldi, 
 " were they not real ? Speak to me, Maldura
 
 MONALDI. 225 
 
 for this strange place all I have heard, seem so 
 like a dream." 
 
 " T is all real," answered Maldura. 
 
 " Mysterious Providence, how dost thou watch 
 over and baffle the sinner for his good ! And you 
 saw. her?" 
 
 " No. I said not that I saw her " 
 
 " Nay, then," interrupted Monaldi, with a dis- 
 trustful look. 
 
 " But I had the account from your family sur- 
 geon. I think his name is Vannini." 
 
 " 'T is true then ! " cried Monaldi, " the whole 
 world would not make me doubt it now. Bless 
 him! Oh, Maldura " He stopped, for the 
 fulness of his joy verged to pain, for a minute 
 almost to agony, when a flood of tears relieved 
 him. 
 
 " Devil ! " thought Maldura, " and I would have 
 broken this heart." 
 
 "Give me your hand," said Monaldi. "Yes, 
 't is real." 
 
 The touch shot maddening to Maldura's brain. 
 He withdrew his hand, and covered his face. 
 
 " What is the matter are you ill ?" asked Mo- 
 naldi. 
 
 " Think not of me," said Maldura. " I would 
 have but one thought of yourself."
 
 226 MONALDI. 
 
 " So like you ! yourself ever last. Then be it 
 so. You tell me that my poor wife was soon re- 
 covered. Did she yes, she forgave me she 
 must have inquired after me." 
 
 " You were sought after through every town 
 and village. Even now, I believe the search is 
 continued." 
 
 " Thank Heaven ! she was spared that shock. 
 Had she discovered me at one time Oh, my 
 friend, you know not what I have suffered." 
 
 " But too well," thought Maldura. " And yet," 
 he added aloud, as if willing to take from the load 
 on his conscience, " the loss of reason must have 
 blunted you too much." 
 
 " You say right. What I endured at that time 
 I know not ; 't is now but a dark dream to my 
 memory. But this is not my first return to reason. 
 I had a lucid interval of many days such 
 days ! No, your innocent heart cannot even 
 shadow them you have not felt remorse." 
 
 " I must bear it," said Maldura to himself. 
 " Then let it come all! Goon." 
 
 " When I came to myself I awoke, as I thought, 
 with a sensation of extreme cold. I was lying on 
 the snow, on one of the desolate ridges of the 
 Apennines. How I came there I knew not and 
 I thought I was dreaming ; but I soon found that
 
 MONALDI. 227 
 
 I had recovered from madness. I shuddered. 
 Yet my recollections of it were dim and shadowy, 
 and they passed away. Not so what followed 
 the remembrance of the night which sent me forth 
 a maniac ; my poor wife murdered, and inno- 
 cent yet forgiving her murderer. This was the 
 misery, Maldura. I had taken vengeance upon 
 me, when I should have forgiven even my deadli- 
 est enemy. I was a murderer of one who loved 
 me ! No you must first know remorse to know 
 what I have gone through. But I will not recall 
 it." 
 
 " Nay, on I would know all" said Maldura, 
 whose self-abhorrence now became greedy of pen- 
 ance. 
 
 " Perhaps you are right," answered Monaldi. 
 'T is wholesome for the mind to look on past suf- 
 fering and most so when happy. And I 't is 
 hardly painful to recall it now. But one instance 
 is enough. About sunrise one day I found myself 
 standing on the edge of a precipice ; I looked 
 down, and saw, some hundred feet below me, and 
 rising from out a bed of mist, a multitude of 
 jagged rocks. On the peak of one of them I per- 
 ceived something white ; I drew nearer, and found 
 it to be the skeleton of a mule. The surest foot, 
 thought I, may stumble at last. It seemed a type
 
 228 MONALDI. 
 
 of myself. As the mist cleared away, I looked 
 again, and a little lower down I descried the bones 
 and tattered garments of a man. The skull had 
 fallen from the body, and lay grinning upward as 
 if in mockery of my horror. Presently it appeared 
 to move ; a moment after, a small snake wound 
 itself out of one of the eye-holes. At another time 
 this would have made me shudder ; but I now 
 caught at it with a perverse avidity : it seemed to 
 call up the living man before me. I saw him with 
 all his innumerable nerves, and those sensitive 
 messengers speeding with the abhorred touch of 
 the reptile to his brain. I saw his hair bristling 
 with terror, and heard his cry echo among the 
 rocks. I then thought of his form in death, now 
 blanched and mottled with weather-stains, impen- 
 etrable to injury, though man and beast were 
 leagued against it, though the mountain I stood 
 on should topple down and grind it to powder. A 
 horrid feeling of envy gushed from my heart. I 
 called it happy, and hung over it with a kind of 
 furious longing gazing, and gazing till, me- 
 thought, something I know not what seem- 
 ed to force me from the precipice, and I fell on 
 my knees. It was the first time I had dared to 
 do so." 
 
 " 'T was for me to have envied it ! " said Mai- 
 dura, thinking unconsciously aloud.
 
 MONALDI. 229 
 
 " You ! " exclaimed Monaldi. 
 
 " Go on," said Maldura. 
 
 " I know not how long I continued in prayer," 
 resumed Monaldi, " but when I arose my despair 
 was gone ; my remorse was now changed to re- 
 pentance. Then followed hope such hope 
 oh, my friend, as only the broken heart can know 
 when the healing comes from Heaven." 
 
 " But such as mine," said Maldura, in a half- 
 smothered voice his heart failed him, and he 
 stopped. 
 
 Monaldi continued. " How my reason again 
 wandered But I see it distresses you. We 
 will leave the past then, and talk of the future 
 or rather of the present. But why do you shake 
 so, and look so pale ? Nay, forgive me that I have 
 asked such a question as if you could hear my 
 tale unmoved. Oh, Maldura, you have the heart 
 of a child." 
 
 " This is too much," said Maldura, moving 
 away from the bed. 
 
 " Nay," said Monaldi, " do not think of my 
 sufferings ; they are passed. Think only of my 
 present happiness ; for I know not the mortal with 
 whom I would now exchange lots. Come, my 
 friend, dwell no more on the past, but think of the
 
 230 MONALDI. 
 
 world I possess. For is not that a world, beyond 
 which the heart has no craving ? And what more 
 could I ask, with such a wife, and such a friend ? " 
 " You never had a friend," said Maldura. 
 "Never had ! " repeated Monaldi, with a feel- 
 ing rather of perplexity than astonishment. " Mal- 
 dura, why do you talk so wildly ? " 
 
 Maldura made no reply, but, returning to the 
 bed, drew a chair near it. His eyes were bent 
 downward, and he seemed inwardly struggling 
 with some violent emotion. " 'T is done ! " he 
 said at last, while a flush of gloomy satisfaction 
 passed over his brow : " the proud neck bends to 
 the yoke." 
 
 " Whose neck ? " asked Monaldi. 
 
 " Monaldi," said Maldura, without heeding the 
 question, " you said you believed your wife inno- 
 cent. On what was your faith founded ? " 
 
 " On her own words." 
 
 " On nothing more ? " 
 
 The faint color, which the excitement of the 
 moment had brought to Monaldi's cheek, now 
 suddenly gave place to a corpse-like whiteness. 
 
 " 'T is even as I thought," said Maldura to him- 
 self; "another fiend might rekindle his suspicions 
 with a breath." And he repeated the question.
 
 MONALDI. 231 
 
 " Wherefore do you ask ? " said Monaldi. 
 
 " You shall know. But answer me. Had you 
 no other ground of faith ? " 
 
 "Tliey were her dying words at least so 
 thought she as well as I. I needed no more." 
 
 " And would they serve you, think you, as a 
 lasting panoply ? And you would no insinua- 
 tion, no future circumstance touch you with 
 doubt?" 
 
 " I think nay, I know they would not. Yet 
 why oh, do not torture me but if you know 
 aught speak at once." 
 
 " You have said enough," replied Maldura, " to 
 determine my course. You would not again mur- 
 der, for your heart is changed ; but for the rest 
 Monaldi, you need more than your wife's words ; 
 and you shall have it. You believe but / know 
 her to be innocent." 
 
 " You ! " 
 
 " You shall have proof which you cannot doubt. 
 Listen You first saw Fialto in your gateway ? " 
 
 " Fialto ! How know you " 
 
 " No matter. Answer me." 
 
 I did so." 
 
 " You saw him then almost daily in Romero's 
 shop, or sauntering by your house ; looking up at 
 your windows, and always seeming confused when
 
 232 MONALDI. 
 
 detected. Next you met him at the theatre 
 then as you were returning home near your house." 
 
 Monaldi listened with amazement. "Good 
 heaven ! you could have learnt these particulars 
 only from the wretch himself." 
 
 " You will know how I came by them. Had 
 not you a servant called Antonio ? " 
 
 Yes." 
 
 " He was a creature of Fialto's. Through him 
 his employer became apprized of all your move- 
 ments your visit to the theatre your projected 
 journey to Genezzano : this last intelligence sug- 
 gested the letter, which was put into your hand, 
 as if by mistake. You were addressed as Gieu- 
 seppe " 
 
 " Monstrous ! " 
 
 " Ay there are devils that walk the earth 
 even now. But listen. Then followed the last 
 damning proof. The effect of the letter was anti- 
 cipated it needed but little knowledge of man 
 to have done it your suppressing it ; your feign- 
 ed journey ; your return. Accordingly Fialto was 
 prepared to meet you, the wretch Antonio having 
 admitted and secreted him at an early hour in 
 your dressing-room." 
 
 " Enough," cried Monaldi ; " I need no more." 
 
 " Nay, I must through. Your approach was
 
 then announced by a preconcerted signal from one 
 who had dogged you from Rome, and back. Soon 
 after, your step being heard on the stairs, Fialto 
 stole forth from the closet ; you were at the door ; 
 he sprang towards the bed, and seized your sleep- 
 ing wife." 
 
 " Merciful heaven ! that human malice should 
 have so pursued me ! " 
 
 " Was it not a web worthy of fiends ? " 
 "Horrible!" 
 
 "You had been unlike man to have broken 
 through it." 
 
 " The frightful scene still makes me shudder. 
 But, tell me what was the motive for this cruel 
 villany ? " 
 " Revenge." 
 
 " Revenge ! for what ? I had never injured 
 him. I knew not even the name of Fialto till we 
 met in the theatre." 
 
 " Think not of him ; he was but the instrument 
 and a fit one too, for his name alone were 
 enough to blast the peace of any house he might 
 enter. What he did was for that with which hell 
 is paved for gold." 
 
 " Of whom speak you then ? " 
 "Of the devil that employed him to whose 
 20*
 
 234 MONALDI. 
 
 black and envious soul the libertine Fialto's seems 
 almost bright ; of one who hated you." 
 
 " Hated me ! I have never harmed living crea- 
 ture, knowingly." 
 
 f " Know you not then that virtue, genius, suc- 
 cess, are all, to the evil mind, causes of hatred ? 
 You doubt it. Oh, the pure in heart are slow of 
 faith in evil. But you shall have proof living 
 proof. Do not interrupt me. There was a time 
 when you, Monaldi, were but one of the multitude. 
 You may recall it if you look back to your days of 
 boyhood to the school at Bologna. You were 
 then deemed one of little promise next to no- 
 thing. No doubt your quiet and retired habits led 
 to the opinion ; but so it was and the opinion 
 was general. You may remember too the reputa- 
 tion which I then held ; your own estimation of 
 my talents ; that of our masters ; of the whole 
 school. I stood alone the first without a rival. 
 Could there have been a greater contrast ? No. 
 The general voice had placed us at opposite ex- 
 tremes : and I thought it just. Yet, because of 
 your praise, I courted your acquaintance. Your 
 confiding heart readily opened to receive me, and 
 in an evil hour, you called me friend." 
 L " Stop ! " cried Monaldi, convulsively grasping 
 Maldura's arm ; for a suspicion of the truth now
 
 MONALDI. 235 
 
 flashed upon him, and his horror became intoler- 
 able. 
 
 " 'T will soon be over," replied Maldura. 
 
 " I cannot hear it," said Monaldi "I must 
 not." 
 
 " I must on," answered Maldura ; " for the 
 finger of Power is upon me and I cannot choose 
 but speak." Then, averting his face and looking 
 from Monaldi, he continued with increasing rapid- 
 ity. " Elated with praise, full nay, drunk with 
 hope and sure of fulfilling every early predic- 
 tion I began my career. But I will not go over 
 the horrible ground at every step I sunk lower 
 and lower 'till yes, I must speak it till my 
 very name was blurred with the common mass. 
 What followed then ? Envy and loathing of all 
 above me." 
 
 Monaldi groaned. " Impede me not," said 
 Maldura, hurrying onward, " but listen. I now 
 return to you. What was then your course ? From 
 obscurity, neglect, almost from contempt ; when 
 no one even thought of, dreamt of such a being 
 with the suddenness of a meteor you burst upon 
 the world. In a moment all eyes were upon you 
 every tongue, every heart was yours. How think 
 you I heard, saw, felt all this ? how beheld 
 this fame this boon of the world, for which alone
 
 236 MONALDI. 
 
 I had coveted life snatched from my grasp, and 
 lavished unmeasured on the very man with whom 
 my proud spirit would have once disdained to con- 
 tend ? I cursed you from my heart." 
 
 Monaldi gasped for breath. 
 
 Maldura continued. " You can now understand 
 my greeting when we first met in Rome why, 
 knowing your voice, I fled from the gate-way 
 why I rejected your daily kindnesses why almost 
 spurned your last generous proffer. But your fame 
 was not all that haunted and goaded me ; though 
 I could not forgive, I should yet have endured it 
 in silence. Your reputation was followed by an- 
 other offence still deadlier to my pride : you sup- 
 planted me in my love. For in my days of hope 
 I had loved your wife had offered my hand 
 and been rejected. You afterwards saw and won 
 her. This was the blow that felled me. The news 
 of your marriage passed through my heart like 
 lightning, scathing every human feeling and I 
 swore by my misery that I would blast your hap- 
 piness." 
 
 Monaldi's teeth chattered as with an ague : his 
 hands were crossed upon his breast, his head sunk 
 between his shoulders, and his whole body drawn 
 up as if under the influence of terror ; yet his 
 eyes remained fastened on Maldura, as though a
 
 MONALDI. 237 
 
 fearful charm made it impossible to withdraw them. 
 But Maldura saw not thought not of this effect 
 of his disburthening conscience ; his thoughts were 
 on himself, and, his eyes turned from Monaldi to 
 the opposite wall, he continued to speak like one 
 impelled by the rack. " It was for this purpose I 
 sought Fialto. 'Twas I / was his employer. 
 'Twas J caused him to hang about your house 
 to waylay you from the theatre to write the 
 letter. Yes, it was I " repeated Maldura, when, 
 with a terrific shout, Monaldi leaped from the bed. 
 " Avaunt fiend ! " 
 
 Maldura stood aghast. 
 
 " Back ! back to hell ! " vociferated Monaldi. 
 
 " Yes, I deserve it," said Maldura, " Hell is 
 my place. Even now " 
 
 " What 's your name ? " 
 
 " Is it can it be ! " said Maldura " Heaven 
 forbid. Do you not know me ! 'T is I - Mal- 
 dura." 
 
 " You Maldura ! " cried the maniac, with a 
 scornful laugh. Maldura' s hair rose with horror. 
 " Thou liest ! Maldura was my friend he was 
 honest, righteous. He had no wings as thou hast. 
 Avaunt, devil ! " 
 
 " 'T is over ! " said Maldura, clasping his hands 
 in agony " my measure is full " and he rushed 
 from the chamber.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 " WHERE which way ? Show me to him," said 
 Rosalia. 
 
 " Be patient, my child," said her father. We 
 must not be abrupt. So sudden a meeting might 
 prove fatal. Let us wait till our good hostess has 
 apprized him of our arrival." 
 
 " With all my heart," replied the landlady ; 
 " though, I should think, the better person for this 
 office would be his friend, Signer Maldura." 
 
 " True," observed Landi. " But first, tell me 
 How is he ? " 
 
 The landlady then related the particulars of 
 Monaldi's illness, and was just concluding with an 
 account of his entire recovery, when, pale and 
 ghastly, Maldura entered. 
 
 " Horrible ! " said Maldura, drawing back at the 
 sight of Landi. " His wife too Monster! now 
 am I doubly cursed ! " 
 
 " Speak ! What 's the matter ? " exclaimed 
 Rosalia and Landi in the same breath.
 
 MONALDI. 239 
 
 " You will know but too soon," replied Maldura, 
 retreating towards the door. 
 
 " For mercy's sake ! " cried Rosalia. " Stop, 
 tell " 
 
 " Stay me not," said Maldura in a choaking 
 voice " there 's a curse about me." So saying, 
 he dashed open the door, and ran with frantic 
 swiftness from the house. 
 
 If it be hard to part with the dead, and to see 
 one borne to the grave with whom we have been 
 accustomed to associate all our wishes and schemes 
 of happiness, and without whom nothing in life 
 seems capable of imparting enjoyment, there is 
 yet a consolation in the thought that our grief is 
 only for our own suffering, since it cannot reach 
 one to whom our loss is a gain. What then must 
 it be to feel this entire avulsion from the living ; to 
 know that the object with whom our very soul was 
 mixed, and who is thus parted from our common 
 being, still walks the same earth, breathes the same 
 air, and wears the same form ; yet lives, as to us, 
 as if dead closed, sealed up from all our thoughts 
 and sympathies, like to a statue of adamant. What 
 must it be to know too that this second self, though 
 callous and impenetrable from without, is yet within 
 all sense ? The partial palsy-death of the body 
 is but a faint image of this half-death of the twin-
 
 240 MONALDI. 
 
 being wife and husband. And Rosalia soon felt it 
 in all its agony. 
 
 The alarm occasioned by this last scene was so 
 sudden that neither father nor daughter thought 
 more of first making known their arrival, but, fol- 
 lowing the landlady, entered Monaldi's chamber. 
 He was sitting on the bed, his hands clenched on 
 his knees, and his eyes fixed on vacancy. Rosalia 
 sprang forward, but at the sight of his countenance 
 she shrunk back and stood gazing on him in silence. 
 And next to madness was the dreadful conviction 
 within her. She would have folded him in her 
 arms ; but the thought of the touch of the be- 
 numbed, vacant being before her sickened her, and 
 she sunk back in her father's arms. But she had 
 not fainted : the energy of hope that he might 
 again recover, came like a ministering spirit, and 
 nerved her for the occasion. 
 
 " You must go with me," said Landi. 
 
 " No," replied Rosalia, in a low, but firm, voice ; 
 " I am his even in madness. Do not fear for me ; 
 the shock is now over. But, speak to him." Landi 
 then advancing spoke to him by name ; but Monaldi 
 making no answer, he drew nearer and took his 
 hand. For a moment Monaldi turned to look at 
 him, then withdrawing his eyes as if with terror 
 " away, away ! " he cried. " Why come you
 
 MONALDI. 241 
 
 again ? thou liest Maldura did not do it 't was 
 I murdered her. Look look at her 't was I 
 she was my wife she '11 confess it herself. But 
 no, she cannot she 's dead." 
 
 " No, she lives she is still yours ! " cried Ro- 
 salia, going to him. 
 
 " Ha ! there are two ! " cried the maniac with a 
 frightful shriek. " Take them away I did not 
 murder both." 
 
 The father and daughter stood silent and mo- 
 tionless ; their very breath seemed suspended ; and 
 for several minutes not a sound was heard but the 
 quick, low panting of the affrighted maniac. Lan- 
 di, alarmed for the reason of his daughter, drew 
 her into another room, when she fell on his neck 
 and wept. But we close the scene ; for we can- 
 not describe that which no tears relieved even 
 that blessed dew, which, in most other cases, soft- 
 ens agony.
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 LITTLE now remains to be told of the unfortu- 
 nate Monaldi. He was taken home by his friends, 
 and every means used to restore his reason ; but 
 without effect. He would remain for days togeth- 
 er, fixed in one spot, with his eyes bent on the 
 ground, and without speaking, or appearing con- 
 scious of what was passing about him. Whilst in 
 this state nothing could rouse him but the voice of 
 his wife, which never failed to bring on a paroxysm 
 of raving, when he would sometimes fancy himself 
 Fialto, then Maldura, but more often that he was 
 one among the dead, and that Rosalia had come 
 to upbraid him ; for he had in some way or other 
 connected her image with a spirit. 
 
 This was a bitter aggravation to Rosalia's 
 wretchedness, since, by forcing her to avoid him, 
 it deprived her of her last melancholy pleasure, 
 that of administering to his comforts. Her strug- 
 gle was long and severe, before she could bring
 
 MONALDI. 243 
 
 herself to quit him ; she at last, however, consent- 
 ed to remove to her father's. But nothing could 
 prevail with her to forbear visiting the house, where 
 she would often pass entire days, sometimes sitting 
 in an adjoining room, and listening to his footsteps, 
 or wandering to and fro, and hanging with fond- 
 ness over every spot and object with which she 
 could associate his slightest word or look. Oh, 
 woman, when thy heart is pure, and thy love true, 
 what is there in nature to match thee ! Though 
 he whom thou lovest become maimed, wasted by 
 disease, or blanked by madness, yet wilt thou cling 
 to him, and see in the ruin only that image which 
 he first left in thy heart. 
 
 It was after one of the longest of these parox- 
 ysms, that Monaldi was one day seen to go into 
 his painting-room. This unusual circumstance 
 was immediately caught at as a symptom of re- 
 turning reason ; and the hopes of his friends were 
 raised on finding, a few days after, that he was at 
 work on a picture. But his impenetrable silence, 
 and the deep gloom which still hung about him, 
 soon shewed, that, if he had recovered at all, it 
 was only in part ; for though his look was no longer 
 vacant, nor his actions without purpose, he yet 
 moved and looked as if he noticed nothing. What 
 he was employed on no one knew, for, without
 
 244 MONALDI. 
 
 speaking, he once discovered so much distress at 
 the intrusion of a servant, that no one after dared 
 enter his room. In this mood did Monaldi pass 
 month after month, regularly shut up, and occu- 
 pied as if in his perfect senses. At length, after 
 a fit of weeping, that seemed to fill the whole 
 house with wailing, he one day came out of his 
 room, and desired that his father-in-law might be 
 sent for. Though the order was rational, there 
 was still something so frightful in his expression, 
 that the servants at first all drew back ; nor was it 
 till they recollected its coherence that any one pre- 
 pared to obey him. 
 
 With a beating heart, and eyes lighted up with 
 hope, Landi instantly followed the messenger. 
 Monaldi met him at the door. 
 
 " You know me then ? " said the Advocate. 
 
 Monaldi spoke not a word, but led him in si- 
 lence to his painting-room. 
 
 He watched Landi's countenance. " You feel 
 it?" said he, "though only a picture /have 
 known the original. What is there, I have seen." 
 As he said this, his lips quivered and his knees 
 smote each other. 
 
 Monaldi's insanity could no longer be doubted, 
 and Landi turned from the picture with a hopeless 
 sigh.
 
 MONALDI. 245 
 
 " Nay, speak not," said Monaldi, thinking he 
 was about to reply : " my time is measured ; fo 
 my work on earth is done and I must burthen 
 it no longer. Landi thou art reputed wise. 
 Yes, amongst the living thou art so. But what is 
 thy wisdom with the dead ? Folly ! Your earthly 
 philosophy teaches that the Prince of evil is 
 hideous. And you think to serve the world by it. 
 Miserable folly ! Men flee from what is frightful. 
 So would they from sin, did it take the shape you 
 have given it. But I I have seen it, face to 
 face enthroned in the majesty of hell. Look ! 
 That is the form in which he whom men call 
 Satan appears to the living. Ay, 'tis with that 
 deadly beauty he wins your souls. But the evil 
 mind, which you now see mixed with it, transpires 
 not on earth, when he tempts you ; 't is only in 
 hell that his victims behold, and hate it when 
 too late. Look to it then, you of earth you, to 
 whom I leave this warning look to it." 
 
 The wild mixture of reason and madness in 
 this speech, and the extraordinary work before 
 him, so confounded Landi that it was several 
 minutes before he became sufficiently collected 
 to perceive that Monaldi had disappeared. His 
 last words then occurred to him, and though ob- 
 scure, he yet understood enough to be alarmed,
 
 y 
 
 246 MONALDI. 
 
 and set off immediately in search of him. But in 
 vain. 
 
 From that day nothing was heard of Monaldi 
 till more than a year after ; when, he was accident- 
 ally discovered at the cottage of a lone woman 
 among the mountains of Abruzzo ; but as neither 
 menace nor entreaty could prevail on him to return 
 home, his friends were compelled to humor him, and 
 to content themselves with making his situation as 
 comfortable as the nature of his abode admitted. 
 
 Of Rosalia [continues the manuscript] little 
 more need be said. Her affliction is still un- 
 abated ; for time, which wears away all grief for 
 the dead, has no power with her who is at once 
 both wife and widow. Monaldi is never out of 
 her thoughts ; and, her only consolation being that 
 of feeling herself near him, she has become a 
 boarder at a convent in his neighborhood. 
 
 Maldura's fate may be told in a few words. 
 He became a brother of this convent soon after 
 his last interview with Monaldi, and died about 
 two years ago ; if not lamented, at least pitied for 
 his sufferings, and respected for his penitence. It 
 was at his instance that the picture just mention- 
 ed was procured for the convent. He wished to 
 have it near him, he said, that he might never for- 
 ,jget what a mind he had blasted.
 
 MONALD1. 247 
 
 So died Maldiira ; from whose miserable life 1 
 may be learned this useful lesson ; that without 
 virtue, the love of praise is a curse ; that distinc- 
 tion is the consequence not the object, of a 
 great mind ; that it cannot be made so without 
 the desire of supplanting ; and that envy, jealousy, 
 or any similar feeling whatever the pursuit 
 may always be regarded by those who have them, 
 as sure warnings that the true love of excellence 
 is not in them without which nothing great and 
 permanent ever was produced. 
 
 The career of his accomplice was sooner ended, 
 and, if less painful, it was still less enviable ; for, 
 though Fialto had always laid the unction of minor 
 villany to his soul when he compared himself with 
 Maldura, he was, for many reasons, of a character 
 more hopeless. If ambition hardens the heart, 
 sensuality kills it. The natural and social feelings 
 of the ambitious man, nay, also the conscience, 
 may all indeed be lost in selfish insulation ; yet 
 there are causes which sometimes revive them 
 such as time, disappointment, or even the attain- 
 ment of his object whether it be power or re- 
 venge ; when they often react, as in Maldura's 
 case, by repentance. But there is little hope of 
 these in the course of the libertine ; to whom 
 failure supplies excitement, and success adds
 
 248 MONALDI. 
 
 habit, which time only confirms ; and it must be 
 so ; for it being the nature of his vices to identify 
 the affections with the senses, the whole heart 
 becomes animal, thence a pander to the body, till 
 its baser functions are wasted ; nor stopping even 
 then, but, in the restlessness of habit sending at 
 last its prurient desires to the brain, and mocking 
 the wretched remnant of the man to the very 
 grave. The old age of a confirmed libertine is 
 therefore seldom better than a loathsome phantas- 
 magoria of a vicious youth. The Count Fialto 
 was saved at least this second childhood of sin. 
 He had embarked soon after quitting Rome, with 
 the poor Nun, and his ill-got wealth, on board a 
 small vessel bound for Marseilles. The vessel was 
 never more heard of ; but the bodies of the Count 
 and his companion were found by some fishermen, 
 washed up, about three weeks after, on the island 
 of Gorgona. 
 
 THE END OF THE MANUSCRIPT.
 
 CONCLUSION, BY THE TRAVELLER. 
 
 HAVING been pressed by my friendly host to pro- 
 long my visit at the convent, it was only two days 
 after I had finished reading the manuscript, and 
 whilst I was still musing on its melancholy con- 
 tents, that the prior entered my apartment. 
 
 " I have come," said he, " to make known to 
 you one of those remarkable coincidences which 
 the inexperienced are apt to imagine confined 
 to romances, but which I have lived long enough 
 to know are more common to real life. You have 
 just read the imperfect story of my poor friend in 
 time to be a witness to its closing scene. He is 
 now dying." 
 
 " Dying ! " 
 
 " So it is supposed ; for his senses are returned ; 
 and I have just been sent for to administer the 
 last rites of the church." 
 
 " After what you have said," I replied, " I sup- 
 pose I may be allowed to attend you." 
 
 " Not as a stranger," returned the good priest ; 
 " but you have shewn that you have a better title.
 
 250 MONALDI. 
 
 A tear shed in sympathy makes men brethren who 
 have never before met ; 't is a touching evidence 
 of our common descent." 
 
 My heart was too full from what I had been 
 reading to continue the discourse, and I followed 
 the prior in silence. 
 
 As we entered the cottage, we were met by the 
 old woman, who desired us to wait a moment till 
 she had acquainted the lady with our arrival. 
 
 It seemed strange that a mere narrative should 
 attach us so deeply to one we never saw ; but so 
 it was ; the thought of meeting Rosalia made my 
 heart beat as if I had known her for years, and I 
 felt I know not what ; perhaps it was most like the 
 feeling we have for a beloved sister the purest, 
 and most delicate sentiment of which our nature 
 is capable. 
 
 After a few minutes Rosalia came out, and, 
 taking the good priest by the hand, led him to 
 the sick man's chamber. On their way he in- 
 quired the state of her husband. She did not 
 speak, but, lifting her eyes upward, answered by a 
 look which said more than any words could have 
 told. I could wish always to remember that look : 
 it was not one of grief, nor even of melancholy ; 
 it was all rapture yet so solemn that it filled me 
 with awe ; seeming to announce, while she pro-
 
 MONALDI. 251 
 
 phetically saw, the approaching beatification of 
 him she loved. 
 
 " Thou art worthy," thought I, " to have been 
 loved to madness. There is no self in that look ; 
 't is all Monaldi's, for thy soul is too rapt with the 
 thought of what awaits him to be conscious even 
 of thy own privation." 
 
 The religious rites being over, the Prior re- 
 turned to conduct me to the chamber. At first 
 I hesitated, for I began to doubt if my presence 
 might not be an intrusion. 
 
 " Not so," said the kind old man ; " as my 
 friend you cannot intrude. Besides your interest 
 in the poor sufferer is already known to his wife ; 
 and for him he is now in a state reckless of all 
 human forms. I would have you see him; for 
 the death of a Christian the death in hope 
 has no parallel in sublimity on our earth." 
 
 As we entered the chamber Rosalia was kneel- 
 ing beside her husband, her head resting on his 
 bosom. She raised her head at our approach, but 
 did not rise. A faint smile passed over the face 
 of the dying man, and he beckoned the prior to 
 the other side of the bed ; then, taking a hand of 
 each, he closed his eyes for a moment, and seemed 
 absorbed in prayer. 
 
 " I have been praying," said Monaldi, when he
 
 252 MONALDI. 
 
 looked up, "I have been praying that my life 
 might not pass away without profit to those I leave 
 behind me ; not to thee, father, for thou hast long 
 known the virtue of sorrow ; nor to thee, my 
 beloved, who comest now to partake with me this 
 triumph of affliction ; but to the world ; that they 
 might see in my life that Supreme Love, which 
 turneth the very misery from our misdeeds into a 
 cleansing fountain ; that they might learn from 
 it, that affliction, rightly understood, is a spiritual 
 blessing." 
 
 " Thou sayest well, my son," said the Prior ; 
 " for the sufferings of this world are healthful 
 medicine to the soul ; even the holy apostles 
 tasted it. Let those who grieve then remember 
 the words of Him who suffered for us ' blessed 
 are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted.' " 
 
 Monaldi continued, " Of worldly happiness I 
 have had my portion perhaps, as much as mor- 
 tal could bear but my strength fails." Here he 
 stopped. 
 
 I now looked at Rosalia ; but no description 
 can give a picture of her face at that moment. 
 
 After a few moments, the husband proceeded ; 
 "Rosalia," she pressed his hand in token of 
 her attention. " Have we not known such happi- 
 ness ? 'T is nothing to that we shall know when
 
 MONALDI. 253 
 
 we meet again. You will not grieve then for the 
 little space that parts us even now" he added, 
 in a fainter voice ; " for I feel that my hour is 
 come. Yet grieve not that it is so 't is but the 
 beginning of peace, which passeth all under- 
 standing. And blessed be thy name, Parent of 
 good ! for now know I that thou lovest whom 
 thou chastenest." 
 
 He then crossed his hands upon his breast, and, 
 raising his eyes, fixed them upward, with such an 
 expression as I could hardly believe belonged to 
 the human countenance. 
 
 " This is not the mere crumbling of a mortal 
 body," thought I " its passage to dust but a 
 revelation touching our highest instinct, and 
 giving it evidence of the invisible world ;" for it 
 seemed as if I could see his soul raying through 
 his eyes, and already pass into it ; holding com- 
 munion, even by those bodily organs, with the just 
 made perfect. I was so overpowered by this holy 
 vision (for so I might almost call it) that my eyes 
 involuntarily fell when I raised them again he 
 was gone. 
 
 THE END.
 
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