Hauntings | Page 7

give a strange refinement, and, at the same
time, an air of mystery, a somewhat sinister seductiveness; they seem
to take, but not to give. The mouth with a kind of childish pout, looks
as if it could bite or suck like a leech. The complexion is dazzlingly fair,
the perfect transparent rosette lily of a red-haired beauty; the head, with
hair elaborately curled and plaited close to it, and adorned with pearls,
sits like that of the antique Arethusa on a long, supple, swan-like neck.
A curious, at first rather conventional, artificial-looking sort of beauty,
voluptuous yet cold, which, the more it is contemplated, the more it
troubles and haunts the mind. Round the lady's neck is a gold chain
with little gold lozenges at intervals, on which is engraved the posy or

pun (the fashion of French devices is common in those days), "Amour
Dure--Dure Amour." The same posy is inscribed in the hollow of the
bust, and, thanks to it, I have been able to identify the latter as Medea's
portrait. I often examine these tragic portraits, wondering what this face,
which led so many men to their death, may have been like when it
spoke or smiled, what at the moment when Medea da Carpi fascinated
her victims into love unto death--"Amour Dure--Dure Amour," as runs
her device--love that lasts, cruel love--yes indeed, when one thinks of
the fidelity and fate of her lovers.
Oct. 13th.--
I have literally not had time to write a line of my diary all these days.
My whole mornings have gone in those Archives, my afternoons taking
long walks in this lovely autumn weather (the highest hills are just
tipped with snow). My evenings go in writing that confounded account
of the Palace of Urbania which Government requires, merely to keep
me at work at something useless. Of my history I have not yet been
able to write a word.... By the way, I must note down a curious
circumstance mentioned in an anonymous MS. life of Duke Robert,
which I fell upon today. When this prince had the equestrian statue of
himself by Antonio Tassi, Gianbologna's pupil, erected in the square of
the Corte, he secretly caused to be made, says my anonymous MS., a
silver statuette of his familiar genius or angel--"familiaris ejus angelus
seu genius, quod a vulgo dicitur idolino"--which statuette or idol, after
having been consecrated by the astrologers--"ab astrologis quibusdam
ritibus sacrato"--was placed in the cavity of the chest of the effigy by
Tassi, in order, says the MS., that his soul might rest until the general
Resurrection. This passage is curious, and to me somewhat puzzling;
how could the soul of Duke Robert await the general Resurrection,
when, as a Catholic, he ought to have believed that it must, as soon as
separated from his body, go to Purgatory? Or is there some semi-pagan
superstition of the Renaissance (most strange, certainly, in a man who
had been a Cardinal) connecting the soul with a guardian genius, who
could be compelled, by magic rites ("ab astrologis sacrato," the MS.
says of the little idol), to remain fixed to earth, so that the soul should
sleep in the body until the Day of Judgment? I confess this story baffles

me. I wonder whether such an idol ever existed, or exists nowadays, in
the body of Tassi's bronze effigy?
Oct. 20th.--
I have been seeing a good deal of late of the Vice-Prefect's son: an
amiable young man with a love-sick face and a languid interest in
Urbanian history and archaeology, of which he is profoundly ignorant.
This young man, who has lived at Siena and Lucca before his father
was promoted here, wears extremely long and tight trousers, which
almost preclude his bending his knees, a stick-up collar and an eyeglass,
and a pair of fresh kid gloves stuck in the breast of his coat, speaks of
Urbania as Ovid might have spoken of Pontus, and complains (as well
he may) of the barbarism of the young men, the officials who dine at
my inn and howl and sing like madmen, and the nobles who drive gigs,
showing almost as much throat as a lady at a ball. This person
frequently entertains me with his amori, past, present, and future; he
evidently thinks me very odd for having none to entertain him with in
return; he points out to me the pretty (or ugly) servant-girls and
dressmakers as we walk in the street, sighs deeply or sings in falsetto
behind every tolerably young-looking woman, and has finally taken me
to the house of the lady of his heart, a great black-mustachioed countess,
with a voice like a fish-crier; here, he says, I shall meet all the best
company in Urbania and some beautiful women--ah, too beautiful, alas!
I