But I Am Running Away From My Subject With
The Recollection Of Youthful Follies, Said The Baronet, Checking
Himself; "Let Me Come To The Point."
Among my familiar resorts was a Cassino under the Arcades on one side
of the grand square of St. Mark.
Here I used frequently to lounge and
take my ice on those warm summer nights when in Italy every body lives
abroad until morning. I was seated here one evening, when a group of
Italians took seat at a table on the opposite side of the saloon. Their
conversation was gay and animated, and carried on with Italian vivacity
and gesticulation.
I remarked among them one young man, however, who appeared to take no
share, and find no enjoyment in the conversation; though he seemed to
force himself to attend to it. He was tall and slender, and of
extremely prepossessing appearance. His features were fine, though
emaciated. He had a profusion of black glossy hair that curled lightly
about his head, and contrasted with the extreme paleness of his
countenance. His brow was haggard; deep furrows seemed to have been
ploughed into his visage by care, not by age, for he was evidently in
the prime of youth. His eye was full of expression and fire, but wild
and unsteady. He seemed to be tormented by some strange fancy or
apprehension. In spite of every effort to fix his attention on the
conversation of his companions, I noticed that every now and then he
would turn his head slowly round, give a glance over his shoulder, and
then withdraw it with a sudden jerk, as if something painful had met
his eye. This was repeated at intervals of about a minute, and he
appeared hardly to have got over one shock, before I saw him slowly
preparing to encounter another.
After sitting some time in the Cassino, the party paid for the
refreshments they had taken, and departed. The young man was the last
to leave the saloon, and I remarked him glancing behind him in the same
way, just as he passed out at the door. I could not resist the impulse
to rise and follow him; for I was at an age when a romantic feeling of
curiosity is easily awakened. The party walked slowly down the Arcades,
talking and laughing as they went. They crossed the Piazzetta, but
paused in the middle of it to enjoy the scene. It was one of those
moonlight nights so brilliant and clear in the pure atmosphere of
Italy. The moon-beams streamed on the tall tower of St. Mark, and
lighted up the magnificent front and swelling domes of the Cathedral.
The party expressed their delight in animated terms. I kept my eye upon
the young man. He alone seemed abstracted and self-occupied. I noticed
the same singular, and, as it were, furtive glance over the shoulder
that had attracted my attention in the Cassino. The party moved on, and
I followed; they passed along the walks called the Broglio; turned the
corner of the Ducal palace, and getting into a gondola, glided swiftly
away.
The countenance and conduct of this young man dwelt upon my mind. There
was something in his appearance that interested me exceedingly. I met
him a day or two after in a gallery of paintings. He was evidently a
connoisseur, for he always singled out the most masterly productions,
and the few remarks drawn from him by his companions showed an intimate
acquaintance with the art. His own taste, however, ran on singular
extremes. On Salvator Rosa in his most savage and solitary scenes; on
Raphael, Titian, and Corregio in their softest delineations of female
beauty. On these he would occasionally gaze with transient enthusiasm.
But this seemed only a momentary forgetfulness. Still would recur that
cautious glance behind, and always quickly withdrawn, as though
something terrible had met his view.
I encountered him frequently afterwards. At the theatre, at balls, at
concerts; at the promenades in the gardens of San Georgio; at the
grotesque exhibitions in the square of St. Mark; among the throng of
merchants on the Exchange by the Rialto. He seemed, in fact, to seek
crowds; to hunt after bustle and amusement; yet never to take any
interest in either the business or gayety of the scene. Ever an air of
painful thought, of wretched abstraction; and ever that strange and
recurring movement, of glancing fearfully over the shoulder. I did not
know at first but this might be caused by apprehension of arrest; or
perhaps from dread of assassination. But, if so, why should he go thus
continually abroad; why expose himself at all times and in all places?
I became anxious to know this stranger. I was drawn to him by that
Romantic sympathy that sometimes draws young men towards each other.
His melancholy threw a charm about him in my eyes, which was no doubt
heightened by the touching expression of his countenance, and the manly
graces of his person; for manly beauty has its effect even upon man. I
had an Englishman's habitual diffidence and awkwardness of address to
contend with; but I subdued it, and from frequently meeting him in the
Cassino, gradually edged myself into his acquaintance. I had no reserve
on his part to contend with. He seemed on the contrary to court
society; and in fact to seek anything rather than be alone.
When he found I really took an interest in him he threw himself
entirely upon my friendship. He clung to me like a drowning man. He
would walk with me for hours up and down the place of St. Mark - or he
would sit until night was far advanced in my apartment; he took rooms
under the same roof with me; and his constant request was, that I would
permit him, when it did not incommode me, to sit by me in my saloon. It
was not that he seemed to take a particular delight in my conversation;
but rather that he craved the vicinity of a human being; and above all,
of a being that sympathized with him.
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