[Written in Modem Greek.]
“ROMA.―Feast of S. Chrysogone.
“DEAREST OF MOTHERS, Joy and sorrow mingle in my breast as I take my pen to write to thee once more―joy that thou dost so long after me and desire to see my face, sorrow. that thou canst not come to me; nor can I go to thee, so fax as seems to me at present. But I am about somewhat from which, if I succeed, I hope great things. You know the zeal of his Holiness against the Turks, whom all Christendom has cause to hate—though with hatred less desperate and deadly than yours. I have nearly completed an ode, delineating his Holiness in the character of Nestor animating the Greeks, after a partial defeat, to reunite their scattered forces and overwhelm the Trojans. It is written in Greek, but there must be a translation into the choicest Latin to please the Master, who only think of it, mother!―has all his life refused the study of the tongue of Homer and Plato, lest it should spoil his Latinity. Should this affair prosper, and be favorably received in the proper quarter, I may find purse of scudi wherewith to go and make holiday at Venice with thee, mother dear.
“I have, perhaps somewhat idly, undertaken another work of late, which has not furthered my studies. It is a secret, even from the Master; but I have no secrets from thee, mother. Thou rememberest of old how I used to beg bits of clay from good Messer Giacomo, and try to fashion them into the likeness of things that pleased me? Well―but I must tell my story from the beginning. Among our academicians are the two young Porcari, kinsmen of him who, under Pope Nicholas, came to so sad and terrible an end. The Master reverences the memory of Stefano Porcaro, and says he died a true Roman, and for trying to restore the old Roman liberties, as did Rienzi a hundred years ago. And his Holiness is so humane and liberal a prince, that he punishes no man for words and opinions, be they never so bold. The Porcari have been allowed to return to the city and rebuild their palace, which they occupy unmolested. But Porcaro’s father-in-law, the most deeply implicated in his rebellion of any who escaped his doom, died in exile only a few months ago; and with him to the last was his granddaughter, Stefano Porcaro’s only child. Mother, dost thou not remember sweet Signorina Viola, whom I guarded to her home the day of the Doge’s inauguration? Thou sawest her, afterward, at San Marco, and saidst to me, ‘No fairer bud ever waited for the sunshine to unclose it.’ Those were thy words. If thou couldest but see her now, mother! Her kinsfolk have brought her hither, and though she lives in strictest seclusion, she attends mass every day at the church of Santa Maria Trastevere, where at last they buried her father’s outraged remains; and there she prays without ceasing for his soul. It weighs sore upon her heart that he died without shrift or sacrament. And indeed―” (The words that followed here were carefully erased. Scholars, it is true, allowed themselves large liberties of tongue and pen; but even under a liberal Pope like Pius II a reflection on the cruelty of one of his infallible predecessors, and one whose friend and minister he had been, was at least not seemly). “I have seen many a Roman maid, with raven hair and laughing eye and coral lip, but Viola di Porcaro’s loveliness is of a different, and, as it seems to me, a far higher type. Our good Giacomo’s art may do justice to the others, and his brush transfer to canvas their rich and vivid coloring; but that still, calm face, with its look of sorrow, purity, and peace―that slight girlish form, so full of grace and dignity, would need the chisel of a Phidias and a block of the whitest marble to do it justice. I have neither; still, though my better judgment disapproves, I cannot help spending my leisure upon a bit of clay, which is slowly taking features that might serve for those of the guardian angel of a good man who had fallen into mortal sin. They say she is to go into a convent; but that would be a sore pity. However, I have written too much of this already; I must pass on to other matters. I pray thee to make known to our friend Giacomo that I have done all that in me lay to fulfill his commission, but have failed to discover any Salvi or Morgagna among the artists or cunning craftsmen of this city. And now I must tell thee what the Master said the other day in the lecture hall.”
“What the Master said” would not possess the same interest for us that it did for Raymond, so it need not be given here. At this point the gray-haired, noble-featured woman whose wistful eyes had been devouring every word in the closely-written sheet, looked up and paused. “Poor boy―poor child!” she murmured. Then a large tear fell slowly, blistering the page. With an effort, and apparently without very close attention, she read what yet remained, then put the letter carefully aside and left the room.
She went to her almost empty jewel case, to try if anything remained there precious enough to change for gold―gold that might defray the heavy expenses of a journey to Rome. But her search proved fruitless; everything of considerable value had been parted with long since.
She was right in the inference which she drew from Raymond’s letter, though wrong in some of the conclusions to which it led her a new element had entered the young man’s life, an element like fire in glory and in strength, but also, like fire, terrible and dangerous. Henceforward the master’s praise was no longer to be his dearest hope; neither was the love that watched his childhood to be any more his most precious treasure. So much the mother’s boding heart understood too well.
What she did not understand was the “romantic” ingredient in her son’s character, perhaps a legacy from his crusading ancestor. Raymond Chalcondyles was no Romeo, with passions rapid in their growth as Jonah’s gourd, and fierce as the Eastern sun that smote it into death. He was rather a knight of medieval chivalry, enraptured with the sweet, far-off worship of his star, and well content to dwell for a while in the enchanted borderland of reverence, hope and aspiration.