That very night I left the
paternal roof. I got on board a vessel about making sail from the
harbor, and abandoned myself to the wide world. No matter to what port
she steered; any part of so beautiful a world was better than my
convent. No matter where I was cast by fortune; any place would be more
a home to me than the home I had left behind. The vessel was bound to
Genoa. We arrived there after a voyage of a few days.
As I entered the harbor, between the moles which embrace it, and beheld
the amphitheatre of palaces and churches and splendid gardens, rising
one above another, I felt at once its title to the appellation of Genoa
the Superb. I landed on the mole an utter stranger, without knowing
what to do, or whither to direct my steps. No matter; I was released
from the thraldom of the convent and the humiliations of home! When I
traversed the Strada Balbi and the Strada Nuova, those streets of
palaces, and gazed at the wonders of architecture around me; when I
wandered at close of day, amid a gay throng of the brilliant and the
beautiful, through the green alleys of the Aqua Verdi, or among the
colonnades and terraces of the magnificent Doria Gardens, I thought it
impossible to be ever otherwise than happy in Genoa.
A few days sufficed to show me my mistake. My scanty purse was
exhausted, and for the first time in my life I experienced the sordid
distress of penury. I had never known the want of money, and had never
adverted to the possibility of such an evil. I was ignorant of the
world and all its ways; and when first the idea of destitution came
over my mind its effect was withering. I was wandering pensively
through the streets which no longer delighted my eyes, when chance led
my stops into the magnificent church of the Annunciata.
A celebrated painter of the day was at that moment superintending the
placing of one of his pictures over an altar. The proficiency which I
had acquired in his art during my residence in the convent had made me
an enthusiastic amateur. I was struck, at the first glance, with the
painting. It was the face of a Madonna. So innocent, so lovely, such a
divine expression of maternal tenderness! I lost for the moment all
recollection of myself in the enthusiasm of my art. I clasped my hands
together, and uttered an ejaculation of delight. The painter perceived
my emotion. He was flattered and gratified by it. My air and manner
pleased him, and he accosted me. I felt too much the want of friendship
to repel the advances of a stranger, and there was something in this
one so benevolent and winning that in a moment he gained my confidence.
I told him my story and my situation, concealing only my name and rank.
He appeared strongly interested by my recital; invited me to his house,
and from that time I became his favorite pupil. He thought he perceived
in me extraordinary talents for the art, and his encomiums awakened all
my ardor. What a blissful period of my existence was it that I passed
beneath his roof. Another being seemed created within me, or rather,
all that was amiable and excellent was drawn out. I was as recluse as
ever I had been at the convent, but how different was my seclusion. My
time was spent in storing my mind with lofty and poetical ideas; in
meditating on all that was striking and noble in history or fiction; in
studying and tracing all that was sublime and beautiful in nature. I
was always a visionary, imaginative being, but now my reveries and
imaginings all elevated me to rapture.
I looked up to my master as to a benevolent genius that had opened to
me a region of enchantment. I became devotedly attached to him. He was
not a native of Genoa, but had been drawn thither by the solicitation
of several of the nobility, and had resided there but a few years, for
the completion of certain works he had undertaken. His health was
delicate, and he had to confide much of the filling up of his designs
to the pencils of his scholars. He considered me as particularly happy
in delineating the human countenance; in seizing upon characteristic,
though fleeting expressions and fixing them powerfully upon my canvas.
I was employed continually, therefore, in sketching faces, and often
when some particular grace or beauty or expression was wanted in a
countenance, it was entrusted to my pencil. My benefactor was fond of
bringing me forward; and partly, perhaps, through my actual skill, and
partly by his partial praises, I began to be noted for the expression
of my countenances.
Among the various works which he had undertaken, was an historical
piece for one of the palaces of Genoa, in which were to be introduced
the likenesses of several of the family. Among these was one entrusted
to my pencil. It was that of a young girl, who as yet was in a convent
for her education. She came out for the purpose of sitting for the
picture. I first saw her in an apartment of one of the sumptuous
palaces of Genoa. She stood before a casement that looked out upon the
bay, a stream of vernal sunshine fell upon her, and shed a kind of
glory round her as it lit up the rich crimson chamber. She was but
sixteen years of age - and oh, how lovely! The scene broke upon me like
a mere vision of spring and youth and beauty. I could have fallen down
and worshipped her. She was like one of those fictions of poets and
painters, when they would express the beau ideal that haunts their
minds with shapes of indescribable perfection.
