I was but nineteen years of age; shy, diffident,
and inexperienced. I was treated with attention and encouragement, for
my youth and my enthusiasm in my art had won favor for me; and I am
inclined to think that there was something in my air and manner that
inspired interest and respect. Still the kindness with which I was
treated could not dispel the embarrassment into which my own
imagination threw me when in presence of this lovely being. It elevated
her into something almost more than mortal. She seemed too exquisite
for earthly use; too delicate and exalted for human attainment. As I
sat tracing her charms on my canvas, with my eyes occasionally riveted
on her features, I drank in delicious poison that made me giddy. My
heart alternately gushed with tenderness, and ached with despair. Now I
became more than ever sensible of the violent fires that had lain
dormant at the bottom of my soul. You who are born in a more temperate
climate and under a cooler sky, have little idea of the violence of
passion in our southern bosoms.
A few days finished my task; Bianca returned to her convent, but her
image remained indelibly impressed upon my heart. It dwelt on my
imagination; it became my pervading idea of beauty. It had an effect
even upon my pencil; I became noted for my felicity in depicting female
loveliness; it was but because I multiplied the image of Bianca. I
soothed, and yet fed my fancy, by introducing her in all the
productions of my master. I have stood with delight in one of the
chapels of the Annunciata, and heard the crowd extol the seraphic
beauty of a saint which I had painted; I have seen them bow down in
adoration before the painting: they were bowing before the loveliness
of Bianca.
I existed in this kind of dream, I might almost say delirium, for
upwards of a year. Such is the tenacity of my imagination that the
image which was formed in it continued in all its power and freshness.
Indeed, I was a solitary, meditative being, much given to reverie, and
apt to foster ideas which had once taken strong possession of me. I was
roused from this fond, melancholy, delicious dream by the death of my
worthy benefactor. I cannot describe the pangs his death occasioned me.
It left me alone and almost broken-hearted. He bequeathed to me his
little property; which, from the liberality of his disposition and his
expensive style of living, was indeed but small; and he most
particularly recommended me, in dying, to the protection of a nobleman
who had been his patron.
The latter was a man who passed for munificent. He was a lover and an
encourager of the arts, and evidently wished to be thought so. He
fancied he saw in me indications of future excellence; my pencil had
already attracted attention; he took me at once under his protection;
seeing that I was overwhelmed with grief, and incapable of exerting
myself in the mansion of my late benefactor, he invited me to sojourn
for a time in a villa which he possessed on the border of the sea, in
the picturesque neighborhood of Sestri de Ponenti.
I found at the villa the Count's only son, Filippo: he was nearly of my
age, prepossessing in his appearance, and fascinating in his manners;
he attached himself to me, and seemed to court my good opinion. I
thought there was something of profession in his kindness, and of
caprice in his disposition; but I had nothing else near me to attach
myself to, and my heart felt the need of something to repose itself
upon. His education had been neglected; he looked upon me as his
superior in mental powers and acquirements, and tacitly acknowledged my
superiority. I felt that I was his equal in birth, and that gave an
independence to my manner which had its effect. The caprice and tyranny
I saw sometimes exercised on others, over whom he had power, were never
manifested towards me. We became intimate friends, and frequent
companions. Still I loved to be alone, and to indulge in the reveries
of my own imagination, among the beautiful scenery by which I was
surrounded.
The villa stood in the midst of ornamented grounds, finely decorated
With statues and fountains, and laid out into groves and alleys and
shady bowers. It commanded a wide view of the Mediterranean, and the
picturesque Ligurian coast. Every thing was assembled here that could
gratify the taste or agreeably occupy the mind. Soothed by the
tranquillity of this elegant retreat, the turbulence of my feelings
gradually subsided, and, blending with the romantic spell that still
reigned over my imagination, produced a soft voluptuous melancholy.
I had not been long under the roof of the Count, when our solitude was
enlivened by another inhabitant. It was a daughter of a relation of the
Count, who had lately died in reduced circumstances, bequeathing this
only child to his protection. I had heard much of her beauty from
Filippo, but my fancy had become so engrossed by one idea of beauty as
not to admit of any other. We were in the central saloon of the villa
when she arrived. She was still in mourning, and approached, leaning on
the Count's arm. As they ascended the marble portico, I was struck by
the elegance of her figure and movement, by the grace with which the
mezzaro, the bewitching veil of Genoa, was folded about her slender
form.
They entered. Heavens! what was my surprise when I beheld Bianca before
me. It was herself; pale with grief; but still more matured in
loveliness than when I had last beheld her.
