CHURCH. 151

the ground, and the form vanished with a benignant
smile ! My most ardent prayer was realized.

u Florentin entered the grotto, and was surprised
at Berthold, who, with beaming countenance, pressed
him to his heart, while the tears streamed from his
eyes. My friend ! my friend ! he stammered
forth ; I am happy I am blessed she is found
found ! He hurried to his atelier, and stretching
the canvas, began to paint as if inspired by divine
power, he charmed before him the superterrestrial
woman for so he thought her with the full glow of
life. From this moment his inmost soul was entirely
changed. Far from feeling that melancholy which
preyed upon his heart, he was serene and cheerful.
He industriously studied the chefs-d oeuvre of the old
painters. Many of his copies were perfectly success
ful, and now, for the first time, he began to produce
paintings which caused astonishment among all the
connoisseurs. As for landscapes, they were no more
to be thought of, and Hackert himself confessed that
the youth had not till now discovered his proper vo
cation. He had to paint many large works, such as
altar-pieces for churches, and generally selected the
more cheerful subjects of Christian tradition. From
all of these, however, the noble form of his ideal
beamed forth. It was discovered that the face and

figure of the Princess Angiola T were represented

to the life ; nay, this fact was communicated to the
young painter himself, and knowing folks waggishly



152 THE TOKEN.

insinuated that the German was smitten to the
heart by the brilliant eyes of the lovely dame.
Berthold was highly indignant at this silly gossip
of people who wished to lower the heavenly into
the mere earthy. i Do you believe/ he said, ( that
such a being could wander here upon earth ? No ;
the highest was revealed in a wondrous vision ;
it was the moment when the artist receives con
secration/ Berthold lived happy, until the French
army, after Bonaparte s conquest in Italy, ap
proached the kingdom of Naples, and the revolution,
which so fearfully destroyed all the peaceful rela
tions of the place, broke out. The king and queen
had left Naples, and the Citta was appointed. The
vicar-general concluded a disgraceful truce with the
French commander, and the French commissaries
soon came to receive the sums that were to be paid
them. The vicar-general fled to escape the rage
of the people, who believed themselves deserted by
the Citta, and, in short, by all who could defend
them against the approaching enemy. Then were
all the bands of society loosened. The people, in a
state of wild anarchy, set law and order at defiance,
and with the cry, Viva la Santa Fede ! wild
hordes ran through the streets plundering and burn
ing the houses of the nobles, who they thought had
sold them to the enemy. Vain were the endeavors
of Moliterno and Rocca Romana, who were the
favorites of the people, and had been elected for



THE JESUITS CHURCH. 153

leaders : vain were their endeavors to restore order.
The dukes Delia Torre and Clement Filomarino were
murdered, but the thirst for blood among the rag
ing people was not satisfied. Berthold had just been
able to escape, half-dressed, from a burning house,
when lie met a mob, that with kindled torches and
glittering knives, was hurrying to the palace of the

Duke of T . These madmen, taking him for

one of their own class, carried him along with them,
shouting, e Viva la Santa Fede ! and in a few
minutes the duke, the servants, every one who re
sisted, were murdered, and the palace, into which
Berthold was more and more forced by the throng,
was in flames. Thick clouds of smoke rolled through
the long passages. Berthold, in danger of being
burned to death, darted through the now open doors
in hopes of finding an outlet, but all in vain ; a
piercing shriek of agony struck his ear, and he
rushed into the hall. A woman was struggling
with a Lazzarone, who held her fast, and was about
to plunge a knife in her heart. It was the princess
it was Berthold s ideal ! Losing all consciousness
with horror, he sprang towards them, and it was but
the work of a moment to seize the Lazzarone, to
fling him to the ground, to plunge his own knife in
his throat, to catch the princess in his arms, to fly
with her through the flaming ruins, to dash down
the steps, and to go on on through the dense
crowd of people. None attempted to stop him in
8



154 THE TOKEN.

his flight. With the bloody knife in his hand, with
his face begrimed by smoke, with his clothes torn,
he was taken for a plunderer and murderer by the
people, who willingly conceded him his prey. In a
deserted corner of the city, beneath an old wall, to
which as if by instinct he had run to escape danger,
he fell exhausted. On recovering, he found the
princess kneeling at his side, and washing his fore
head with cold water. { 0, thanks ! thanks !
said she, in the softest and most lovely voice ;
c thanks to the saints that thou hast recovered, my
preserver, my all ! Berthold raised himself, he
fancied he was dreaming, he looked with fixed eyes
upon the princess yes, it was herself the celestial
form which had kindled the divine spark in his
breast. Is it possible ? Is it true ? Do I live ?
he exclaimed. Yes/ replied the princess, thou
livest for me. That which thou didst not venture
even to hope, has happened through a miracle. Oh !
I know thee well, thou art the German painter,
Berthold, who loved me, and ennobled me in his
beautiful works. Was it then possible for me to be
thine ? But now I am thine for ever let us fly !
A strange feeling, as when a sudden pain disturbs
sweet dreams, darted through Berthold as the
princess spoke. But when the lovely woman clasped
him with her full, snow-white arms, when he pressed
her passionately to his bosom, then did a delicious
trembling, hitherto unknown, take possession of



THE JESUITS CHURCH. 155

him, and in the mad delight of possessing the
greatest earthly felicity, he cried : Oh, it was no
delirious dream ! No ! it is my wife whom I em
brace, and whom I will never leave !

" Escape from the city was at first impossible,
for at the gate stood the French army, whose en
trance the people, although badly armed and with
out leaders, were able to dispute for two days.
Berthold, however, succeeded in flying with Angiola
from one hiding-place to another, and at last out of
the city. Angiola, deeply enamored of him, could
not think of remaining in Italy ; she wished her
family to consider her dead, that Berthold s posses
sion of her might be secure. A diamond necklace,
and some valuable things which she wore, were suffi
cient to provide them with all necessaries at Rome
whither they had proceeded by slow degrees and
they arrived happily at M , in Southern Ger
many, where Berthold intended to settle, and to
support himself by his art. Was it not a state of
felicity, not even to be dreamed, that Angiola, that
creature of celestial loveliness, that ideal of his most
delightful visions, now become his own, when all
social laws had seemed to raise an insurmountable
barrier between him and his beloved ? Berthold
could hardly comprehend his happiness, he was
abandoned to inexpressible delight, until the inner
voice become louder and louder, urging him to
think of his art. He determined to found his fame



156 THE TOKEN.

at M by a large picture which he designed for

the Maria church there. The whole subject was to be
the very simple one of Mary and Elizabeth sitting
on the grass in a beautiful garden, with the infants
Christ and John playing before them ; but all his
efforts to obtain a pure spiritual view of his picture
proved fruitless. As in that unhappy period of the
crisis the forms floated away from him, and it was
not the heavenly Mary no, it was an earthly
woman, his Angiola herself, fearfully distorted, that
stood before the eyes of his mind. He fancied that
he could defy the gloomy power that seemed to
grasp him, he prepared his colors and began to paint ;
but his strength was broken, and all his endeavors
were as they had been formerly only the puny
efforts of a senseless child. Whatever he painted
was stiff and inanimate, and even Angiola, An
giola his ideal, became, when she sat to him, and he
tried to paint her, a mere wax image on the can
vas, staring at him with its glassy eyes. His soul
became more and more the prey of a despondency,
that consumed all the happiness of his life. He
would not, nay, he could not, work any more ; and
thus he fell into a state of poverty, which was the
more crushing, because Angiola did not utter a
word of complaint.

" The grief that gnawed more and more into
my soul, that grief that was the offspring of a hope
invariably deceived, when I summoned powers that



THE JKSUITS CHURCH. 157

were no longer mine, soon reduced me to a state
that might be compared to madness. My wife bore
me a son, that increased my misery, and my long
suppressed discontent broke out into open, burning
hate. She she alone had been the cause of my
unhappiness. She was not the ideal which had ap
peared to me, but had only assumed the form and
face of that heavenly woman. In wild despair I
cursed her and her innocent child. I wished them
both dead, that I might be free from the insup
portable pains that tortured me, like so many burn
ing knives. Thoughts of hell arose in my mind.
In vain did I read in Angiola s corpse-like face, and
in her tears, the madness and impiety of my con
duct. ( Thou hast cheated me out of my life, cursed
woman ! I thundered forth, and thrust her away
with my feet, when she fell fainting to the ground
and clasped my knees/

" Berthold s mad, cruel conduct towards his
wife and child excited the attention of the neigh
bors, who informed the magistrates of the circum
stance. They wished to imprison him ; but when
the police entered his dwelling, he had vanished
with his wife and child, without leaving so much as
a trace behind. Soon afterwards he appeared at

N , in Upper Silesia ; he had got rid of his wife

and child, and cheerfully began to paint the picture
which he had vainly attempted at M . How
ever, he could only finish the Virgin Mary, and the



158 THE TOKEN.

children Christ and John for he fell into a dread
ful illness, which brought him near the death he
desired. Every thing that belonged to him, includ
ing the unfinished picture, was sold for his subsist
ence ; and, after he had recovered, in some measure,
he departed, a sick, miserable beggar. He after
wards gained a poor livelihood by a few jobs of wall-
painting/

" There is something terrible in the history of
Berthold," said I to the professor. " Although so
much is not plainly expressed, I believe that he
was the reckless murderer of his innocent wife and
child."

" He is a mad fool," replied the professor, " to
whom I do not give credit for enough courage to
perform such an act. On this point he never speaks
plainly ; and the question is, whether it be not a
mere fancy that he took any part in the death of
his wife and child. He now returns to painting
marble ; and this very night he will finish the altar.
This puts him in a good-humor, and you may learn
something about this critical affair from his own
mouth."

I must confess that the thought of passing mid
night in the church alone with Berthold made me
shudder a little, now I had read his history. I
thought that there might be a little of tho devil in
him in spite of his good-humor and frank deport-



159



ment ; and I chose rather to be in his company
that very noon in the clear sunlight.

I found him upon the scaffold, reserved and in
an ill-humor, painting the veins of marble. Climb
ing up to him, I reached him the pots, while he
stared at me with amazement. " I am your help
mate," said I softly, and this drew a smile from him.
Now I began to talk of his life, so as to let him
know that I was acquainted with all ; and he seemed
to believe that he himself had, on that night, com
municated every thing. Very, very gently I came
to the frightful catastrophe, and then said suddenly
" Did you actually, in your unholy madness,
murder your wife and child ? "

At this he let the paint-pot and the pencil fall ;
and, staring at me with a hideous countenance, as
he raised both his hands, cried out, " No, these hands
are unstained by the bloood of my wife of my son !
Another such word, and I will dash myself down
from the scaffolding with you, so that both our
heads shall be shattered on the stone floor of the
church."

At this moment I felt my situation rather odd,
and deemed it advisable to change the subject.
"Look here, dear Bert hold," said I, as quietly and
coolly as possible ; "see how that ugly dark yellow
is running on the wall."

He turned his eyes to the spot, and while he
painted out the yellow, I slipped gently down the



160 THE TOKEN.

scaffold, left the church, and went to the professor,
to have a hearty laugh at my well-chastised pre
sumption.

My vehicle was repaired, and I left G , after

Professor Aloysius Walter had solemnly promised
that in case any thing happened to Berthold, he
would communicate it in writing immediately.

Ahout half a year elapsed, when I actually re
ceived a letter from the professor. He expressed him
self in very prolix terms of praise about our meeting
at G , and wrote as follows about Berthold :
" Soon after your departure affairs took a singular
turn with our whimsical painter. He became sud
denly quite cheerful, and finished, in the most splendid
style, the great altar-piece, which is now the wonder
of every body. He then vanished ; and as he took
nothing with him, and a few days afterwards we

found a hat and stick lying near the stream,

we are all of opinion that he met a voluntary
death/



THE CAMPAGNA OF FLOKENCB.

Tis morning. Let us wander through the fields,
Where CIMABUE found a shepherd-boy
Tracing his idle fancies on the ground ;
And let us from the top of FIESOLE,
Whence GALILEO S glass by night observed
The phases of the moon, look round below
On ARNO S vale, where the dove-colored steer
Is ploughing up and down among the vines,
While many a careless note is sung aloud,
Filling the air with sweetness and on thee,
Beautiful FLORENCE ! all within thy walls,
Thy groves and gardens, pinnacles and towers,
Drawn to our feet.

For that small spire, just caught
By the bright ray, that church among the rest
By one of old distinguished as The Bride,
Let us in thought pursue (what can we better ?)
Those who assembled there at matin-time ;
Who, when vice revelled and along the street
Tables were set, what time the bearer s bell
Eang to demand the dead at every door,
8*



162 THE TOKEN.

Came out into the meadows ; and, a while
Wandering in idleness, but not in folly.
Sate down in the high grass and in the shades
Of many a tree sun-proof day after day,
When all was still and nothing to be heard
But the cicala s voice among the olives,
Kelating in a ring, to banish care,
Their hundred tales.

Hound the green hill they went,
Eound, underneath first to a splendid house,
Grherardi, as an old tradition runs,
That on the left, just rising from the vale ;
A place for luxury the painted rooms,
The open galleries and middle court,
Not unprepared, fragrant and gay with flowers.
Then westward to another, nobler yet ;
That on the right, now known as the Palmieri,
Where Art with Nature vied a Paradise
With verdurous walls, and many a trellised walk
All rose and jasmine, many a twilight-glade
Crossed by the deer. Then to the Ladies Vale ;
And the clear lake, that as by magic seemed
To lift up to the surface every stone
Of lustre there, and the diminutive fish
Innumerable, dropt with crimson and gold,
Now motionless, now glancing to the sun.

Who has not dwelt on their voluptuous day ?
The morning banquet by the fountain-side,
While the small birds rejoiced on every bough ;



THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE. 163

The dance that followed, and the noontide slum
ber;

Then the tales told in turn, as round they lay
On carpets, the fresh waters murmuring ;
And the short interval of pleasant talk
Till supper-time, when many a siren-voice
Sung down the stars ; and, as they left the sky,
The torches, planted in the sparkling grass,
And everywhere among the glowing flowers,
Burnt bright and brighter. He whose dream it

was

(It was no more) sleeps in a neighboring vale ;
Sleeps in the church, where in his ear, I ween,
The friar poured out his wondrous catalogue ;
A ray, imprimis, of the star that shone
To the Wise Men ; a vial-full of sounds,
The musical chimes of the great bells that hung
In SOLOMON S Temple ; and though last not least,
A feather from the Angel GABRIEL S wing,
Dropt in the Virgin s chamber. That dark ridge,
Stretching south-east, conceals it from our sight ;
Not so his lowly roof and scanty farm,
His copse and rill, if yet a trace be left,
Who lived in Val di Pesa, suffering long
Want and neglect and (far, far worse) reproach,
With calm, unclouded mind. The glimmering

tower

On the gray rock beneath, his landmark once,
Now serves for ours, and points out where he ate



164 THE TOKEN.

His bread with cheerfulness. Who sees him not
(Tis his own sketch he drew it from himself)
Laden with cages from his shoulder slung,
And sallying forth, while yet the morn is gray,
To catch a thrush on every lime-twig there ;
Or in the wood among his wood-cutters ;
Or in the tavern by the highway-side
At tric-trac with the miller ; or at night,
Doffing his rustic suit, and, duly clad,
Entering his closet, and, among his books,
Among the great of every age and clime,
A numerous court, turning to whom he pleased,
Questioning each why he did this or that,
And learning how to overcome the fear
Of poverty and death ?

Nearer we hail

Thy sunny slope, ARCETRI, sung of old
For its green wine ; dearer to me, to most,
As dwelt on by that great astronomer,
Seven years a prisoner at the city-gate,
Let in but in his grave-clothes. Sacred be
His villa (justly was it called The Gem !)
Sacred the lawn, where many a cypress threw
Its length of shadow, while he watched the stars I
Sacred the vineyard, where, while yet his sight
Glimmered, at blush of morn he dressed his vines,
Chanting aloud in gayety of heart
Some verse of ARIOSTO ! There unseen,
In manly beauty MILTON stood before him,



THE CAMPAGNA OF FLOEENCE, 165

Gazing with reverent awe MILTON, his guest,

Just then come forth, all life and enterprise ;

He in his old age and extremity,

Blind, at noon- day exploring with his staff j

His eyes upturned as to the golden sun,

His eyeballs idly rolling. Little then

Did GALILEO think whom he received ;

That in his hand he held the hand of one

Who could requite him who would spread his

name

O er lands and seas great as himself, nay greater ;
MILTON as little that in him he saw,
As in a glass, what he himself should be,
Destined so soon to fall on evil days
And evil tongues so soon, alas ! to live
In darkness, and with dangers compassed round,
And solitude.

Well pleased, could we pursue
The AKNO, from his birthplace in the clouds,
So near the yellow TIBER S springing up
From his four fountains on the Apennine,
That mountain-ridge a sea-mark to the ships
Sailing on either sea. Downward he runs,
Scattering fresh verdure through the desolate wild,
Down by the City of Hermits, and the woods
That only echo to the choral hymn ;
Then through these gardens to the TUSCAN sea,
Keflecting castles, convents, villages,
And those great rivals in an elder day,



166 THE TOKEN.

FLORENCE and PISA who have given him fame,
Fame everlasting, but who stained so oft
His troubled waters. Oft, alas ! were seen,
When flight, pursuit, and hideous rout were there,
Hands, clad in gloves of steel, held up imploring ;
The man, the hero, on his foaming steed
Borne underneath, already in the realms .*..
Of darkness. Nor did night or burning noon
Bring respite. Oft, as that great artist saw,
Whose pencil had a voice, the cry " To arms ! "
And the shrill trumpet hurried up the bank
Those who had stolen an hour to breast the tide,
And wash from their unharnessed limbs the blood
And sweat of battle. Sudden was the rush,
Violent the tumult ; for, already in sight,
Nearer and nearer yet the danger drew ;
Each every sinew straining, every nerve,
Each snatching up, and girding, buckling on
Morion and greave and shirt of twisted mail,
As for his life no more perchance to taste,
ARNO, the grateful freshness of thy glades,
Thy waters where, exulting, he had felt
A swimmer s transport, there, alas ! to float
And welter. Nor between the gusts of war,
When flocks were feeding, and the shepherd s pipe
Gladdened the valley, when, but not unarmed,
The sower came forth, and following him that

ploughed,
Threw in the seed, did thy indignant waves



THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE. 167

Escape pollution. Sullen was the splash,

Heavy and swift the plunge, when they received

The key that just had grated on the ear

Of UGOLINO, ever closing up

That dismal dungeon thenceforth to be named

The Tower of Famine. Once indeed twas thine,

When many a winter-flood, thy tributary,

Was through its rocky glen rushing, resounding,

And thou wert in thy might, to save, restore

A charge most precious. To the nearest ford,

Hastening, a horseman from Arezzo came,

Careless, impatient of delay, a babe

Slung in a basket to the knotty staff

That lay athwart his saddle-bow. He spurs,

He enters ; and his horse, alarmed, perplexed,

Halts in the midst. Great is the stir, the strife ;

And, lo ! an atom on that dangerous sea,

The babe is floating ! Fast and far he flies ;

Now tempest-rocked, now whirling round and

round

But not to perish. By thy willing waves
Borne to the shore, among the bulrushes
The ark has rested ; and unhurt, secure
As on his mother s breast, he sleeps within,
All peace ! or never had the nations heard
That voice so sweet, which still enchants, inspires ;
That voice, which sung of love, of liberty.
PETRARCH lay there ! And such the images
That here spring up forever, in the young



168 THE TOKEN.

Kindling poetic fire ! Such they that came
And clustered round our MILTON, when at eve,
Eeclined beside thee, ARNO ; when at eve,
Led on by thee, he wandered with delight,
Framing Ovidian verse, and through thy groves
Gathering wild myrtle. Such the poet s dreams ;
Yet not such only. For, look round and say,
Where is the ground that did not drink warm

blood,

The echo that had learnt not to articulate
The cry of murder ? Fatal was the day
To FLORENCE, when ( twas in a narrow street
North of that temple, where the truly great
Sleep, not unhonored, not unvisited ;
That temple sacred to the Holy Cross
There is the house that house of the DONATI,
Towerless, and left long since, but to the last
Braving assault all rugged, all embossed
Below, and still distinguished by the rings
Of brass, that held in war and festival-time
Their family-standards) fatal was the day
To Florence, when, at morn, at the ninth hour,
A noble darne in weeds of widowhood,
Weeds by so many to be worn so soon,
Stood at her door .; and, like a sorceress, flung
Her dazzling spell. Subtle she was, "and rich,
Kich in a hidden pearl of heavenly light,
Her daughter s beauty .; and too well she knew
Its virtue ! Patiently she stood and watched ;



THE CAMPAGNA OF FLORENCE. 169

Nor stood alone but spoke not. In her breast
Her purpose lay ; and, as a youth passed by,
Clad for the nuptial rite, she smiled and said,
Lifting a corner of the maiden s veil,
" This had I treasured up in secret for thee.
This hast thou lost ! " He gazed and was undone !
Forgetting not forgot he broke the bond,
And paid the penalty, losing his life
At the bridge-foot ; and hence a world of woe !
Vengeance for vengeance crying, blood for blood ;
No intermission ! Law, that slumbers not,
And, like the angel with the flaming sword,
Sits over all, at once chastising, healing,
Himself the avenger, went ; and every street
Ran red with mutual slaughter though some
times

The young forgot the lesson they had learnt,
And loved when they should hate like thee,

IMELDA,

Thee and thy PAOLO. When last ye met
In that still hour (the heat, the glare was gone,
Not so the splendor through the cedar-grove
A radiance streamed like a consuming fire/
As though the glorious orb, in its descent,
Had come and rested there) when last ye met,
And thy relentless brothers dragged him forth,
It had been well hadst thou slept on, IMELDA,
Nor from thy trance of fear awaked, as night