Wanderings of a beauty

Immediately subsequent to the conclusion of the ceremonies of the Easter week, Rome is suddenly deserted by the crowd of strangers who have thronged her churches, and elbowed each other in her galleries and palaces. They fly to Naples, Florence, Paris, London, as may be. And yet the environs of the Eternal City are well worth a more than casual visit.

It was now the month of May, and the glowing sun of Italy had already clothed the trees with their spring foliage, and scattered flowers into the lap of Earth. An excursion to the beautiful and romantic grotto of Egeria was planned—and our little party, accompanied by di Balzano, started in the early morning on our expedition. What an apparently happy society!—two lovers, on the eve of a marriage of inclination, a beloved child, a sincere friend, all united for the express purpose of enjoyment. Above us, the purple canopy of an Italian heaven—around, the varied beauties of scenery whilst the tepid and perfumed breeze of the South fanned our cheeks, and breathed new life into our frames. Surely no element of enjoyment was wanting; and yet, strange to relate, of all that party Ella alone appeared free from care. Evelyn’s attic brow was clouded, and her eyelids “drooped with unshed tears.” The usually cheerful and light-hearted Balzano was serious and silent—myself nervous and restless—for I had a task before me, which, however unpleasant, I had resolved on performing: it was a duty, and I would not shrink from it. Thus was our drive any thing but social.

On arriving at the spot where travellers quit their carriages to walk to the grotto, we alighted—and after patiently undergoing the usual amount of victimization from those harpies the guides, who remorselessly rob you of your illusions while they empty your pockets, we succeeded in debarrassing ourselves of their services on the promise of a second bottiglia,^[2] on our return to the carriage. We were thus enabled to wander unmolested through the cool and secluded paths in the vicinity of the fountain and grotto of the nymph. Ella at once seized upon her friend Balzano, and insisted that he should take her on an exploring expedition! Evelyn and myself, soon weary with our wanderings, seated ourselves near the moss-clad basin, from which for ever flows the crystal spring, sacred to the mysterious loves of the immortal maiden and her Roman lover.

“I have often wondered,” she observed, “whether this legend of ancient Rome is founded on truth, or whether Egeria was but the symbol of the inspired teachings received by Numa in his solitary communings with nature.”

“I have always considered this as a myth,” I replied. “All the fables of ancient Greece and Rome had some hidden meaning other than a merely sensuous one—and this was probably as you have stated, an allegory.”

“And yet,” said Evelyn, “it suits my fancy—at least while here—to believe, that all-potent love drew the heaven born maiden from her solitudes, and that as she pillowed her fair head upon the manly bosom of her human lover, her throbbing heart timidly confessed that even Paradise had for her no higher joy. I believe with Byron, that love is ‘no habitant of earth.’”

“Ah! Evelyn,” I exclaimed, “you at least have no right to say so—for never was mortal woman more truly, more devotedly loved, than you have been, and still are.”

“Why not add,” said she, smiling sadly, “that never has mortal woman made a more ungrateful return? Granted, dear Mentor—and what then?”

“What then? What a question!—when you are on the eve of marriage with one who possesses almost every quality you can desire. I say almost, for perfection is not to be found here below.”

Evelyn was silent for a few moments; then rising, she said, as one inspired, her cheek glowing, her eyes flashing, while her voice trembled with an emotion to which she rarely gave way—

“Hear me, Mary. Do not think me insensible. The passion so frequently misnamed love on earth is but its counterfeit. Love, as I understand it, is a spiritual passion—a union of souls—that magnetic or electric affinity which is as irresistible as it is indissoluble; for it makes of two imperfect creatures one perfect being—it replaces the original self with another and dearer self; so that where once all thoughts and feelings culminated in the ego, they are now centered in Tu. This love knows neither change nor death—nor jealousy, strong as death; for it places implicit trust in the beloved one—and if, by chance, that trust is misplaced—ah! then,” shuddering, and placing her hand on her bosom—“then the fountain of life is quenched, and the world say, ‘Ah! she died of a broken heart.’ But this love,” she continued, pointing to heaven, “is there, and there only. While here,

“Such our sad destiny!”

Evelyn paused, and, coming close to me, seated herself; and taking my hand, she said, as her eyes slowly filled with tears: “Poor Balzano! would that he had loved you, Mary. You have more heart to bestow than I have. Mine has depths, few—none may ever sound. And now, tell me, candidly, ought I to marry him?”

She looked anxiously into my face. I scarcely knew what to reply. The strength of her—what shall I say?—imagination surprised me; or rather, are not the mind’s ideal shapes more real than that which we term reality?

Evelyn withdrew her hand, and turned away disappointed. “I feared you would not understand me,” she sighed.

“Yes, dear,” I replied. Though your character is a rare one, I can comprehend, and even sympathize with you. Still, it seems to me that you are wilfully throwing away another chance of happiness for a chimera—a visionary bliss you can never hope to realize. You will learn to love Balzano devotedly when you are once his wife—the angel of the sanctuary of his home.”

“Alas! Mary, I shall never—never love him as I could—love, as I ought to love a husband. Still, I have a sincere affection for him, am deeply grateful for his devotion, and value all his noble qualities; but our souls would forever remain apart. He could never dwell enshrined within the temple of my heart. I would give him all in my power to give. More than that I could not do. Pity me! for the pain it will cost me to break this off. Indeed, I dread, above all, not being able to make him happy. Could I do so, if wretched myself?”

“Well, dearest,” I said, “if this be so, you must let him know, without further delay. My intention was to say this to you to-day; but you have forestalled me. Let me, however, entreat you to consider well—the time may come when you will, perhaps, deeply regret having rejected so honorable and noble a heart, for a caprice, a fancy.”

“Alas!” she rejoined, bitterly—“I feel that, whether I unite my fate with the noble Balzano, or whether I decide to remain alone and unloved, regret will equally be mine. Such is my cruel destiny!”

Just then we heard Ella’s ringing laugh, and rose to meet them.

On leaving the grotto, we perceived Balzano; his hat, his pockets, his hands, all crammed with wild flowers and mosses for his pet’s herbarium. As I looked on his fine open countenance, beaming with good nature, and now animated with the pleasure of amusing a child, I almost wondered at Evelyn’s insensibility, even admitting he was no type of that spiritual beauty she had taken as her beau ideal.

During our drive homeward, it struck me that Evelyn’s manner was softer and kinder towards her lover than it had been for some time. Did she relent? or was it the tender pity a woman ever feels toward a suitor she is determined to reject, knowing at the same time she is fondly loved?

We retired early to rest; but, before we parted for the night, I received Evelyn’s promise that she would, on the following morning, enter into a full explanation with her betrothed. Of the particulars of that conversation I was made aware later.

Punctually at twelve, to the minute, as per agreement, the duke entered our salon. Evelyn was alone. She was very pale, but calm and collected.

“Mon ami,” she began, “I wish to speak to you very seriously.”

“Why so, anima mia?” (my soul)—taking her hand, and dropping on one knee, as he gallantly raised the jeweled fingers to his lips—“why should we be serious, when everything smiles on our projected union?”

“Hush, Balzano!” she replied, gently withdrawing her hand, and motioning him to a chair. “Listen to me for one moment. It is important to our happiness—indeed it is.”

Her solemn manner alarmed him; for the ready tear stood in his dark eyes, and he said sadly:

“I see it all—you do not love me!”

“Yes, dear friend—indeed—indeed I do. I think no one so good, so noble, so devoted as you.”

“Then what is it, cuore mio?” (my heart)—“speak.”

“I cannot!” said Evelyn, blushing, and not daring to look her lover in the face—for she knew that she was deceiving him—“the fact is, I cannot be a Catholic just yet; I should not like to confess.”

“If that is all, lady mine,” said Balzano, again smiling, “it can soon be arranged. Indeed, what sins shall you have to confess, unless, perhaps,” and he laughed—his old gay laugh—“you intend to like some one better than your husband?”

“Dear Balzano, forgive me, and let me have my own way this once—return to Naples, and let me go to Paris. I can profess Catholicism there; and besides, that is the only place where your bride could get the elegant toilette she will require to do you honor. Remember, Signor Duca, I shall be a Duchess.”

“Take your own way, my only beloved; I will do as you bid me. But, ah! I dread leaving you—I have a presentiment of evil.”

He flung himself on his knees before her; and they mingled sobs and tears. How long they remained thus, Evelyn never knew. She only felt him strain her for a moment to his breast, imprint a kiss on her brow, and then he was gone; the door closed on the manly form, and the light of the kind and loving face no longer beamed upon her.

They never met on earth again.