"'"This is that Falieri who vanquished Morbassan; this is the valiant

leader whose victorious banners waved in the breezes of the Black Sea."

Wherever the populace were collected some one would tell of old

Falieri's heroic deeds; the sky rang with wild shouts of joy, as if

Doria were beaten already. Moreover, Nicolo Pisani (who--heaven only

knew why--had sailed quietly off to Sardinia, instead of going with his

fleet to encounter Doria) came back at last. Doria withdrew from the

gulf; and what the return of Pisani's fleet had effected was

unanimously ascribed to the terrible name "Falieri." The populace and

the Signoria were seized by a sort of fanatical ecstasy at the

fortunate selection; and it was determined that the new Doge should be

welcomed on his arrival as if he were some messenger of heaven bringing

with him honour, wealth, and victory. The Signoria sent twelve nobles,

each escorted by a numerous and brilliant retinue, to Verona, where the

envoys of the Republic were to announce to Falieri, on his arrival, his

elevation to the leadership of the State. Fifteen richly decorated

galleys, prepared for the occasion by the Podesta of Chioggia, and

under command of his son, Taddeo Giustiniani, received the Doge and his

following at Chiozzo. He thence proceeded to St. Clemens (where the

Bucentoro was waiting for him) in a triumphal procession like those of

the mightiest and most victorious monarchs.

"Just at this time, namely, when Marino Falieri was about to step on

board the Bucentoro (and this was on the evening of the third of

October, as the sun was beginning to set), a poor unfortunate fellow

was lying stretched out upon the marble pavement under the pillars of

the Palace. A few rags of striped canvas, whose colour had ceased to be

distinguishable, and which seemed to have belonged to a costume such as

the commonest sort of boatmen and porters wear, hung about his

attenuated limbs. Nothing in the nature of a shirt was visible save the

poor fellow's own skin, which peeped out everywhere, but was so fine

and white and delicate that the very noblest in the land might have

displayed it without shyness or shame. Also the very leanness of his

limbs set off the pureness of their symmetry. And when one saw the

bright chestnut locks, all wild and dishevelled, which shaded the

beautiful forehead; the blue eyes, darkened only by comfortless

poverty; the aquiline nose; the delicately formed mouth, of this

unfortunate, it was clear that it must have been some most adverse fate

which had sent this well-born stranger crashing down in amongst the

lower classes of the people.

"'As we have said, this poor youth was lying in front of the pillars of

the Palace, with his head resting on his right arm, gazing motionless

far out to seaward with a fixed gaze, from which thought was absent.

One would have thought that life had left him, and that the death-agony

had turned him into a stone image, had he not sighed deeply now and

then, as in the most unutterable sorrow. This was probably from the

pain in his left arm, which he had stretched out on the pavement, and,

being wrapped in blood-stained rags, seemed to be badly hurt.

"'All labour was at rest, the noise of business was silent; all Venice

was afloat in boats and gondolas, going to meet and welcome the

much-prized Falieri. Thus the unfortunate youth in question was sighing

forth his sufferings in uncomforted helplessness. But even as his weary

head sank back on the pavement, and he seemed near to fainting, a

hoarse, grating voice called, several times:

"'"Antonio! my dear Antonio!"

"At length he raised himself into a half-sitting position, and, turning

his head towards the pillars of the Palace, from behind which the voice

seemed to proceed, he said, in a faint, weary voice, scarcely audible:

"'"Who is it who calls me? Who has come to cast my body into the sea?

For it will soon be all over with me."

"Then an old, old woman, coughing and wheezing, and leaning on a stick,

came hobbling up to him, and, as she leant over him, broke out into a

repulsive, unpleasant kickering and laughing.

"'"Silly boy!" she whispered; "going to die here, just when golden

good-fortune is dawning upon you? Look before you; look before you

there! That is all I ask of you! Look at those flames that light

up the evening sky. They are _zecchini_ for you. But you must

eat, dear Antonio; you must eat and drink. It is nothing but

hunger--fasting--that has brought you so low, and laid you down here

on the cold stones. Your arm is better now; better again now."

"Antonio recognised in this old woman the strange beggar wife, who was

always sitting on the steps of the Franciscan Church, asking alms of

the pious, always chuckling and laughing as she did so; and to whom he

had often, from a strange indescribable inward inclination, thrown a

hard-earned _quattrino_: he had not a great many to spare.

"'"Leave me in peace, crack-brained creature!" he said. "I suppose it

is fasting, more than the hurt, which makes me weak and miserable. I

haven't earned a single _quattrino_ for the last three days. I wanted

to go over to the monastery, to see if I could get a spoonful or two of

soup; but the comrades are all away. Not a soul would take me into his

boat for compassion. So I have fallen down here; very likely I shall

never get up again."

"'"He-he-he-he!" snickered the old woman: "why despair at once and lose

heart? You are hungry and thirsty. There's help at hand for that.

Here's some nice dried fish, bought this morning at the Zecca. Here's

lemon-juice, and a nice white loaf. Eat, my son; eat and drink, my son!

and then we'll have a look at the wounded arm."

"'She had taken the fish, the bread, and the lemon-juice out of the

sort of bag which she wore at her back, sticking up over her head

something like a cowl. As soon as Antonio had moistened his lips with

the lemon-juice his hunger awoke with redoubled might, and he eagerly

devoured the fish and the bread. The old woman meanwhile was busily

removing the bandages from his arm, when it was evident that, though

the hurt had been severe, it was healing now, fast. As she rubbed it

with a salve which she took out of a little box, warming it with her

breath, she said:

"'"Who was it who gave you the blow, poor little son?"

"'Antonio, refreshed, and aglow with new fire of life, had risen

upright. Raising his clenched right hand, he cried, with gleaming eyes:

"'"That scoundrel Nicolo wanted to kill me, because he grudges and

envies me every _quattrino_ which any benevolent hand gives me. You

know that I used to gain a hard-earned livelihood by carrying cargo

from the ships and boats to the German's warehouse, the Fontego, as

they call it; you know the building, of course?"

"'When Antonio pronounced the word "Fontego," the old woman began to

kicker and laugh in a horrible manner, and went on repeating the word

"Fontego, Fontego, Fontego," in a chattering, senseless way.

"'"Silence that nonsensical laughter of yours, old lady, if I am to go

on with my story," Antonio cried. She was silent at once, and he

continued.

"'"Well, I had earned a _quattrino_ or two, bought a new jacket, and

came among the gondoliers as one of themselves. And, because I was

always in good spirits, worked hard, and knew plenty of nice songs, I

earned many a _quattrino_ more than the others. And this awakened their

envy; they slandered me to my master, and he turned me away. Wherever I

went they cried "German dog! damned heretic!" after me; and three days

ago, when I was helping to haul a boat on shore near San Sebastiano,

they set upon me with stones and sticks. I defended myself like a man,

but that brute of a Nicolo hit at me with an oar, grazing my head, and

struck me so hard on the arm that he knocked me down. But now you have

filled me with a good meal, old lady; and there can be no doubt that I

feel your salve has done my arm good. See how I can move it; I shall be

able to row as well as ever almost directly."

"'He had risen from the ground, and was swinging his hurt arm backwards

and forwards vigorously. But the old woman cackled and laughed loud

again, and cried, tripping and dancing about in narrow circles, in a

strange way:

"'"Row! row! my little son! Row, like a man! It is coming! it is

coming!--the bright gold, glowing in grand flames! Row! row! like a

man!--just _once_ more, and then, never again."

"'Antonio was paying no further attention to the old woman's

proceedings, for a splendid spectacle had now begun to be visible to

his eyes. Up from San Clemens the Bucentoro was advancing with

resounding stroke of oars, and the Lion of the Adriatic on her

fluttering standard; like some golden swan of powerful pinions,

surrounded by thousands of boats and gondolas, she seemed, as she

lifted her proud, royal head on high, to lord it over a jubilant

multitude which had arisen, with glittering heads, from the deep

abysses of the ocean. The evening sun was casting glowing rays over the

sea, and over Venice, so that everything lay steeped in naming fire.

But as Antonio, in utter forgetfulness of his troubles, was gazing at

this sight, the glow grew bloodier and bloodier. A sullen hum came

through the air, given back like some fearful echo by the deeps of the

sea. A storm came sweeping up on black clouds, shrouding everything in

thick darkness; the waves rose higher and higher, like hissing, foaming

monsters, threatening to overwhelm everything. The boats and the

gondolas were driven in all directions, like feathers before a gale.

The Bucentoro, unfit, from her build, to weather the squall, drove

hither and thither. Instead of the glad festive tones of the trumpets

and cornets, rose cries of terror from those in danger on board of her.

"'Antonio looked before him in amazement. Close to him he heard a

clanking of chains. He looked down, and saw that there was a little

skiff made fast to the quay, bounding up and down on the surges. Like a

lightning-flash a thought struck his mind. He jumped into the skiff;

cast it adrift; took hold of the oars, and stood bravely out to sea,

making straight for the Bucentoro. The nearer he got to it, the more

distinctly he heard the cries for help of those on board--

"'"Save the Doge!--Save the Doge!"

"'It is well known that, in squalls of this description, small boats

such as the one he was in are much more sea-worthy, and easier to

handle, than such large craft as the Bucentoro; and consequently many

of them came hurrying up from every direction to save the beloved

Marino Falieri. But it is the case, in this life, that the Eternal

Power always vouchsafes the success of a brave action to one alone, so

that others cumber themselves about it in vain. On this occasion the

rescue of the new Doge was allotted to Antonio, and therefore he, and

nobody else, succeeded in making his way, in his little fishing-boat,

to the Bucentoro. Old Falieri, well accustomed to dangers of this kind,

stepped with much coolness out of the magnificent but dangerous

Bucentoro into Antonio's boat, which bore him, lightly as a dolphin,

over the breaking waves, and landed him in a few minutes safe and sound

on the Piazza di San Marco. With dripping clothes, and great salt-drops

in his grey beard, the old man was taken into the church, where the

nobles, pale with alarm, concluded the ceremony of his triumphal entry.

The populace, as well as the Signoria, were wholly upset by this

unfortunate break-down of the triumphal entry. And, in addition to

this, the Doge, in his hurry and confusion, was led through between

the two columns where malefactors were usually put to death. In

consequence, Signoria and populace grew silent in the midst of their

rejoicing. The day, which had begun in such festivity, ended in sadness

and gloom.

"'On the Doge's preserver nobody seemed to bestow a thought. Antonio

himself was not thinking about the matter; he was lying in the entrance

of the ducal palace, tired to death, half fainting from pain. It was

all the more marvellous to him when, as it was almost dark night, a

ducal halberdier took hold of him by the shoulder, and, with the words

"Come along, good friend," pushed him into the palace, and to the

Doge's chamber. The old man came up to him in a friendly manner, and,

pointing to several well-filled purses which were on the table, said:

"'"You have behaved like a man, my good son. Here, take these three

thousand _zecchini_. If you want more, say so. But do me the favour

never to let me see your face again."

"'As he spoke those latter words, sparks blazed from the old man's

eyes, and the point of his nose grew even redder than it was before.

Antonio did not see the old man's drift, but he did not let that

circumstance much trouble him; so he took up, with some difficulty, the

purses, thinking he had earned them very fairly.

"'Shining in all the radiance of his newly-attained dignity, old

Falieri looked down next morning upon the populace, from one of the

windows of his palace, as they were crowding and thronging about,

practising warlike exercises and the carriage of weapons. Soon Bodoeri

who had been his most intimate friend from his earliest days--arrived;

and as Falieri was so absorbed in himself and in his grandeur that he

did not seem to notice him, he clapped his hands crying:

"'"Hey, hey, Falieri! what are the sublime ideas brooding in that head

of yours, now that it wears the Doge's cap?"

"'As if awakening from a dream, Falieri came to meet Bodoeri,

constraining himself to an appearance of friendliness. He felt that it

was to Bodoeri that he owed the cap in question, and his words had the

effect of being a slight reminder of that circumstance. But every

obligation pressed like an intolerable burden on his proud, overbearing

spirit, and as he could not turn upon the senior member of the Council,

and his own oldest friend, in the way in which he had sent Antonio

about his business, he constrained himself to a word or two of thanks,

and at once began to talk of the measures to be adopted against the

overweening enemy.

"'Bodoeri gave a significant smile. "That," he said, "and the other

matters demanded of you by the State, we will maturely consider and

discuss, in full Council, an hour or two hence. I have not come here,

at this early hour of the day, to discover, with you, the measures

necessary for the checking of the presumptuous Doria, or for the

bringing to reason of Ludwig the Hungarian, whose chops are watering

for our Dalmatian sea-ports again. No, Falieri; I have been thinking of

yourself only--and, in fact, of what perhaps you would not imagine I

had been thinking of--of your marriage."

"'"How could you think of such a thing?" said the Doge, in anger; and,

turning his back to Bodoeri, he looked out of the window. "It is a

long time to Ascension Day. By that time, I trust--the enemy being

conquered--victory, honour, new wealth, and brighter power will have

fallen to the share of the sea-born Lion of the Adriatic. My chaste

bride should find her bridegroom worthy of her."

"'"Ah!" said Bodoeri; "you are speaking of the grand Feast of

Ascension, when you have to cast the golden ring from the Bucentoro

into the waves, and consider that you wed yourself to the Adriatic Sea.

But, Marino, you, who are the sea's kinsman, can you think of no other

bride than that cold, treacherous element, which you fancy you command,

but which rebelled against you in such a threatening manner only

yesterday? What pleasure can you imagine there should be found in the

arms of such a bride--a foolish, self-willed thing who, as soon as you,

gliding along in the Bucentoro, did but gently caress her chill, blue

cheek, rose up in storm and wrath? No, no, Marino; _my_ notion is that

you should marry the loveliest daughter of earth that can be

discovered."

"'"My old friend," said Falieri, in a murmur, "this is a mere senile

dream of yours." As he spoke, he still looked out of the window. "An

old man of eighty, bent and worn with labour and anxiety, who has never

been married, can hardly be capable of love."

"'"Stay," answered Bodoeri; "do not calumniate yourself. Does not

winter, for all his rawness and cold, at last stretch arms all longing

towards the beautiful goddess who comes to him borne on the wings of

the warm, gentle zephyrs? And when he clasps her to his chilled breast,

and the soft rapture runs through his members, where are his ice and

snow? You say you are nearly eighty; and it is true. But do you reckon

man's age merely by his years? Do you not hold your head as high and

walk with as firm a tread as you did forty years ago? Or perhaps you

feel (though I know you do not) that your strength has begun to fail;

that you have to wear a lighter sword; that a rapid pace wearies you;

that you cough and fetch breath as you mount the steps of the ducal

palace?"

"'"By Heaven, I do not!" Falieri interrupted his friend, leaving the

window, and striding up to him with a rapid, vigorous step. "No, by

Heaven! I trace nothing of that."

"'"Well then," said Bodoeri, "enjoy, with an old man's enjoyment, and

with all _your_ capacity for enjoyment, all the earthly pleasures which

are appointed for you. Take to you, as your Dogaressa, the wife whom I

have found for you; and in her the ladies of Venice will have to

recognise their first and foremost, in beauty and in every virtue, just

as the men must acknowledge you their master in valour, intellect, and

power."

"'Here Bodoeri began to sketch the portrait of a lady; and he blended

the colours with such skill, and laid them on with such vividness, that

old Falieri's eyes sparkled, and his lips smacked as if he were

savouring beaker after beaker of fiery wine of Syracuse.

"'"And who," he enquired, "is this paragon of loveliness?"

"'"No other than my beloved niece," Bodoeri answered.

"'"Your niece!" cried Falieri. "Why she was married to Bertuccio

Nenolo when I was Podesta of Treviso."

"'"Ah," said Bodoeri, "you are thinking of my niece Francesca. But it

is her daughter whom I am talking of. You remember that the war brought

the rough, fierce Nenolo to his end, at sea. Francesca, in her sorrow,

immured herself in a convent at Rome, and I brought up little

Annunziata in deep retirement at my villa at Treviso."

"'"What?" Falieri again impatiently interrupted; "you propose that I

should marry your niece's daughter? How long is it since Nenolo's

marriage? Let us see! Annunziata must be, at the outside, a child of

about ten! Nenolo's marriage was not even dreamt of when I was

appointed Podesta of Treviso; and that must be----"

"'"Five-and-twenty years ago," cried Bodoeri. "Time has passed so

quickly with you that you forget how long that time was ago. Annunziata

is a girl of nineteen, beautiful as the sun, modest, gentle,

inexperienced in love, for she has scarcely seen a man. She will cling

to you with child-like affection, and utter devotion."

"'"I must see her; I must see her," the Doge cried. The portrait of

her, limned by the astute Bodoeri, came back to his mind's eye.

"'His wish was gratified that same day; for scarce had he returned from

the Council to his own abode when Bodoeri (who had abundant reasons of

his own for desiring to see his niece Dogaressa) brought the lovely

Annunziata to him in private. When old Falieri saw this beautiful young

creature he was astounded at her marvellous loveliness, and was

scarcely able, in stammering, unintelligible words, to ask her to marry

him. Annunziata, doubtless schooled beforehand by Bodoeri, fell on her

knees before the aged prince, with deep blushes on her cheeks. She took

his hand, pressed it to her lips, and said:

"'"Oh, my liege! would you so far honour me as to raise me to your side

on this throne? I will revere you from the depths of my soul, and be

your true maid and servant till my life's end."

"'Old Falieri was beside himself with rapture. When she took his hand

he felt all his members thrill; and then he began so to shake and

tremble with his head, and all his body, that he had to seat himself in

his great chair as quickly as ever he could. It seemed as though

Bodoeri's views concerning the greenness of the Doge's age were about

to be controverted. And he could not repress a strange smile which

twitched about his lips. The innocent Annunziata remarked nothing, and

there was no one present besides. It may have been that old Falieri

felt the undesirability of posing before the populace as the bridegroom

of a girl of nineteen; that a sense arose within him that there was a

certain risk in furnishing the Venetians--fond of fun and jesting--with

a subject such as this for their sallies; and that it was best to keep

the critical point of the date of his marriage in the shade. At all

events, it was determined, with Bodoeri's consent, that the wedding

should be celebrated in the profoundest secrecy, and that the Dogaressa

should, some days afterwards, be presented to the Signoria and populace

as having been long since married to Falieri, and recently come from

Treviso, where she had been waiting whilst he was absent on his mission

to the Papal Court.

"'Let us turn our glance to this well-dressed young gentleman,

classically handsome, who is walking up and down the Rialto, with a

purse of _zecchini_ in his hand, talking with Jews, Turks, Greeks, and

Armenians; who turns aside his gloomy brow, stops, and at last steps

into a gondola and bids the gondoliers take him to the Palazzo di San

Marco. Arrived there, he strolls up and down, with folded arms, and

devious, uncertain step, with eyes fixed on the ground, unobservant,

not dreaming that many a whisper, many a clearing of the throat, from

many a window, and many a richly-draped balcony, are love-signals

directed to his address. It is not so very easy to recognize in this

youth the Antonio who, a few days ago, was lying in rags, poor and

miserable, on the marble pavement of the Dogana.

"'"Little son!--my golden little son Antonio!--good-day! good-day!" the

old beggar-woman called out to him from the steps of St. Mark's, where

she was sitting, as he was pacing past her without taking any notice of

her. Turning quickly round and seeing her, he put his hand in his purse

and brought it out full of _zecchini_, which he was about to throw to

her.

"'"Let your money stay where it is," she cried, with her usual cackling

laughter. "What do I want it for? Am I not rich enough? If you really

want to do me a kindness, get me a new hood; this one won't hold out

much longer against wind and weather. Yes! do that, my golden little

son. But keep away from the Fontego!--keep away from the Fontego!"

"'He stared into her pale yellow face, where the wrinkles were all

twitching and working in a strange, gruesome fashion; and, as she went

on clapping her withered, "bony hands, and gabbling out, in a whining

tone, accompanied with her odd, repulsive chuckling,

"'"Keep away from the Fontego!"

"'Antonio cried,

"'"Will nothing induce you to cease your idiotic nonsense, and behave

like a reasonable being, you old witch?"

"'But the instant he uttered this, the old woman rolled from the top to

the bottom of the flight of lofty marble steps where she was sitting,

as if struck by a flash of lightning. Antonio darted up to her and

caught her in his arms, breaking her heavy fall.

"'"Oh, little son! what a terrible word you used!" cried the old woman,

in a faint, tearful voice. "Oh! kill me rather than say that terrible

word again! Ah! you do not know how dreadfully you hurt me!--me, who

bear you so faithfully in my heart. Ah! you do not know----"

"'She broke off suddenly, covered her head with the corner of her old

cloak, and sighed and whimpered as in the deepest sorrow. Antonio was

strangely moved: he took her in his arms, and carried her up the steps

to the portico of the church, where he set her down on a marble bench.

"'"You were very kind to me," he said, releasing her head from the

folds of the cloak. "You were very kind to me. It is you whom I have to

thank for my good fortune. For if you had not helped me in my dire

necessity I should have been at the bottom of the sea at this moment. I

should never have rescued the Doge; I should never have got the

_zecchini_. But even if you never had done anything for me, I feel that

I must always have a strange, strong liking for you all my days, though

that extraordinary cackle of yours and your senseless style of

behaviour often make me feel plenty of inward gruesomeness with regard

to you. The fact is, old woman, that in the days when I was gaining a

mere livelihood by portering and rowing I always felt that I must work

harder than I otherwise should have had to do, just that I might have a

spare _quattrino_ now and then to give to you."

"'"Oh, my Tonino! my golden little son!" she cried, lifting her

hands to heaven, so that her staff fell clattering down the marble

steps, and rolled far away; "oh, my Tonino! I know that, whatever

you think, you must always be devoted to me with your whole heart,

because----silence--silence--silence!"

"'She bent stiffly down, in search of her staff; Antonio fetched it;

she leant her sharp chin upon it, and, fixing her eyes on the ground,

said, in a subdued, hollow voice:

"'"Tell me, my child, have you no remembrance of the earlier time?--how

it passed?--how things were with you before you became a poor wretched

fellow here, scarce able to keep body and soul together?"

"'Antonio heaved a profound sigh, sat down beside her, and said:

"'"Ah, mother! I know but too well that my parents were in the most

prosperous circumstances; but as to who they were, or how I lost them,

not the faintest remembrance remains to me, or could remain to me. I

distinctly remember a tall, handsome man, who used to take me up in his

arms, and pet me, and give me sweetmeats; and also I recollect a kind,

pretty woman, who dressed me and undressed me, put me into a little

soft bed every evening, and was good to me in every way. They both

talked to me in a rich-sounding foreign language, and I myself used to

stammer many words of this language after them. In the days when I was

a boatman, my comrades--who hated me--used to say always that, from my

hair, my eyes, and the build of my body, I must be of German blood. I

think so too, and I have little doubt that the language of those people

who cared for me (I am certain the man was my father) was German. My

most vivid remembrance of those times is a picture of terror; of a

night when I was roused from a deep sleep by screams of anguish. People

were hurrying up and down in the house; doors kept opening and

shutting. I grew terribly frightened, and began to cry. Then the woman

who took care of me came rushing in, lifted me from my bed, stopped my

mouth, wrapped me in clothes, and ran with me from thence. From that

moment my memory is a blank, till I find myself again in a fine house,

surrounded by beautiful country. The image of a man comes out, whom I

called 'father,' and who was a stately gentleman, noble-looking and

kind. He, and every one in the house, spoke Italian. Once, when there

had been several weeks when I had not seen him, a day came when

repulsive-looking strangers arrived, who made a great disturbance,

turning everything upside down. When they saw me they asked who I was,

and what I was doing there. I said I was Antonio, the son of the house.

On my repeating this they laughed in my face, tore the clothes off my

back, and turned me out of doors, telling me that I should be beaten if

I showed my face there any more. I ran away, crying loudly. Scarce a

hundred paces from the house an old man met me whom I recognized as one

of my foster-father's servants. 'Come, Antonio; come, poor boy!' he

cried, taking me by the hand. 'That house is closed to both of us for

ever. We must do the best we can to get a bit of bread.' This old man

brought me here. Scarce had we come when I saw that he pulled out

_zecchini_ from his ragged doublet, and went up and down all day on the

Rialto, doing business, sometimes as a broker, sometimes as a merchant.

I had to be always close at his heels; and whenever he did a bit of

business, he always asked for a trifle for the _figliulo_, as he called

me. Everybody whom I looked boldly in the eyes would pull out a

_quattrino_ or two, which he used to pocket with much satisfaction,

stroking my cheeks, and saying he was saving them up to buy me a new

doublet. I was happy enough with this old man, whom people called

'Father Bluenose,' I don't know why.

"'"You remember that terrible time when one day the earth began to

tremble; when the palaces and the towers wavered backwards and forwards

as if shaken to their foundations, and the bells tolled as if swayed by

invisible giant arms. It must be about seven years ago; or not quite so

long. Fortunately the old man and I escaped in safety from the house

where we were living; it fell almost about our ears. But this terrible

event was merely the announcement of the coming of the monster which

soon breathed its poison over town and country. It was known that the

plague, which had been brought to Sicily from the Levant, had reached

Tuscany. Venice was still free from it. One day Father Bluenose was

bargaining on the Rialto with an Armenian. They settled their business,

and shook hands warmly. Bluenose had sold some goods at a favourable

rate to the Armenian, and, as usual, asked for a trifle for the

'_figliulo_.' The Armenian--a big strong man, with a thick, curly beard

(I see him before me at this moment)--looked kindly at me, kissed me,

and took out a _zecchino_ or two, which he put into my hand, and which

I quickly pocketed. We took a gondola to go over to San Marco. As we

were crossing, the old man asked me to give him the money, and I don't

know why it was that I came to maintain that I ought to keep it myself,

because the Armenian had wished me to do so. The old man was angry;

but, as he was arguing with me, I noticed that his face took on a

horrible, earthy-yellow colour, and that he mixed up all sorts of wild

incoherent things in what he was saying. When we landed at the Piazza

he staggered about like a drunken man, till, just in front of the Ducal

Palazzo, he fell down dead. I threw myself on his body with loud

outcries of grief. The people came running up; but the terrible cry

'The plague! the plague!' broke out, and they all went scattering away

in every direction. At the same instant I was seized by a dull

stupefaction, and my senses left me. When I awoke from this condition I

found myself in a spacious chamber, on a little mattress, covered with

a woollen rug. Around me some twenty or thirty pale forms were lying,

on similar mattresses. Afterwards I learned that some compassionate

monks, who happened to be passing at the time of my seizure, finding

some traces of life in me, had taken me to a gondola and over to the

Monastery of San Giorgio Maggiore, where the Benedictines had

established an hospital. But how can I ever describe to you, old woman,

that moment when I came back to consciousness? The fury of the disease

had completely taken away from me all memory of the past. As if life

had suddenly come to some statue, I possessed only the consciousness of

the present moment, knitted on to nothing besides. You may fancy what

disconsolateness this condition--only to be called a consciousness

floating in vacant space, with nothing to hold on to--brought to me.

The monks could only tell me that I had been found beside Father

Bluenose, whose son I was supposed to be. My thoughts collected

themselves by slow degrees, so that I remembered something of my former

life. But what I have told you is all I know of it; nothing but one or

two detached pictures, without connection or coherency. Alas! this

disconsolate sense of being alone in the world keeps me from all

happiness, well as things are going with me now."

"'"Tonino, my dear! content yourself with what the bright present-time

affords you," the old woman said.

"'"Be quiet," he answered. "There is something more, which makes my

life wretched, continually tortures me, and will, sooner or later, be

my destruction. Ever since I awoke to consciousness in the hospital, an

unutterable longing, a yearning, which consumes my very heart, for a

something which I can neither name nor understand, has continually

filled my whole being. When I used to throw myself down at night on my

hard bed, poor and wretched, worn and broken by the bitter labour of

the day, there came a dream, fanning my fevered brow, and giving back

to me, in gentle whisperings, all the bliss of a brief moment of utter

happiness, which the Eternal Power permitted me to realize in my

fancy--for the consciousness that I did once possess it rests ever in

the depths of my heart. I sleep on soft cushions now, and bitter labour

no longer consumes my strength. But when I awake from my dream, or

when, in the waking state, the consciousness of that moment comes into

my soul, I feel that my poor, wretched existence is, to me, now as

then, an unbearable burden which I long to shake away from me. All

reflection, all researching, are in vain. I can not fathom what, so

gorgeously happy, occurred to me in my early life, of which the dim

reflected echo--incomprehensible to me, alas!--fills me with such

delight. But this delight becomes burning torture when I am compelled

to recognize the truth that every hope of finding that Eden again--nay,

of even searching for it--is over. Can there be traces of that which

has disappeared _without_ a trace?"

"'Antonio ceased speaking, and sighed profoundly from the depths of his

heart.

"'During his narration the old woman had borne herself as one who is

wholly carried away by the pain of another, and, like a mirror,

reflects every movement to which that other is constrained by his

suffering.

"'"Tonino! dear Tonino!" she now said, in a tearful voice; "why do you

despair because something delightful, of which you have lost the

memory, happened to you in early life? Silly boy! Silly boy! Listen!

he, he, he."

"'And she commenced her usual disagreeable kickering and laughing, as

she danced about on the marble pavement. People came--she crouched down

again--they gave her alms.

"'"Antonio, Antonio!" she cried, "take me to the sea, take me to the

sea!"

"'Antonio, scarce knowing what he was doing, lifted her in his arms and

carried her slowly across the Piazza di San Marco. As they went, she

murmured, softly and solemnly--

"'"Antonio, you see those dark stains of blood on the ground here? Yes,

yes; quantities of blood, everywhere! But he, he, he! out of the blood

grow roses--beautiful red roses! garlands for you, for your darling!

Oh, thou Lord of Life! what a beautiful angel comes to him, with the

loveliest smiles, opening her lily arms to take him to her heart! Oh,

Antonio, fortunate boy, play the man, play the man! and myrtle shall

you gather in the sweet evening tide. Myrtle for your bride--for the

virgin widow--he, he, he! Myrtle gathered in the red light of evening,

to blossom in the deep midnight. List to the whisper of the night wind,

to the longing sighs of the summer sea! Row! Row! Work your oar,

doughty boatman! Row, row! sturdily on!"

"'Antonio was filled with a sense of deep awe at those words of the old

woman, which she murmured in a strange voice, different from her usual

one, chuckling all the while. They had come to the pillar which bears

the Adriatic Lion. The old woman, murmuring still, wanted to be carried

further; but Antonio, pained at her behaviour, and jeered at by the

passers-by on the score of this strange 'dama' of his, stopped, and

said, rather harshly--

"'"There, old woman! I shall set you down on those steps. Oh _do_ stop

that chatter of yours! I feel as though it would turn my head! It is

true you saw my _zecchini_ in the flame-pictures of the clouds; but

just for that reason, what are you chattering of an angel, a bride, a

virgin widow, roses, myrtles? Would you befool me, horrible creature,

so that some mad deed shall hurl me down into the abyss? A new cloak

you shall have, bread, _zecchini_, everything you want. But let _me_

alone!"

"'He was making rapidly off, but she seized him by the mantle, and

cried out in piercing tones--

"'"Tonino, my Tonino, only look at me carefully once again, or I must

crawl to the brink of the Piazza there, and throw myself into the sea."

"'Antonio, to avoid drawing more enquiring regards upon him than those

which were bent upon him already, paused in his flight.

"'"Tonino," she said, "sit down beside me here. It is breaking my

heart. I _must_ tell it to you. Oh, sit down here beside me!"

"'He sat down therefore on the steps with his back turned to her, and

took out his pocket-book, of which the blank leaves shewed how little

attention he paid to his business transactions on the Rialto.

"'"Tonino," she said, "when you look at this wrinkled face of mine,

does not the faintest gleam dawn within you of a sense that you may

have known me in your very early days?"

"'"I have told you already," he answered, in a whisper like her own,

"that I feel drawn to you in a manner inexplicable to myself; but your

ill-favoured, wrinkled face has nothing to do with that. Rather, when I

look at your strange black flashing eyes, your pointed nose, your blue

lips, your long chin, your streaming ice-grey hair--when I listen to

your horrible cackling and laughing, and the strange, incoherent things

you say, I could almost turn from you with horror, and fancy that it is

some unholy art which you have at your command that draws me to you."

"'"Oh, Lord of Heaven!" she cried; "what evil spirit of hell suggests

such thoughts to you? Ah, Tonino! the woman who cared for you and

tended you in your infancy, who saved your life on that night of

terror, was I!"

"'In the sudden terror of his amazement he turned quickly round. But

when he looked in her horrible face, he angrily cried--

"'"Do you think you can befool me thus, you wicked old lunatic? The few

pictures from my childhood which remain with me are vivid and fresh.

That fine, handsome woman who took care of me--oh! I see her before my

eyes distinctly. She had a full face, with a rich colour, eyes with a

gentle, mild look in them, beautiful dark-brown hair, pretty hands;

she could not have been more than thirty; and you--an old hag of

ninety----"

"'"Oh, all ye saints!" she interrupted, with sobs; "what am I to do to

get my Tonino to believe that I am his faithful Margareta?"

"'"'Margareta'!" murmured Antonio; "'Margareta'! the name falls upon my

ear like music heard long ago, and long forgotten. But can it be

possible? It _cannot_ be possible."

"'She went on more tranquilly, with eyes fixed on the ground, on which

she traced marks and figures with the point of her staff. "The tall,

handsome man who petted you, carried you in his arms, and gave you

sweetmeats really was your father, Antonio; and it _was_ the beautiful

rich-toned German that we spoke. He was a well-known merchant of

Augsburg. His beautiful wife died when you were born. He left the place

because he could not bear to stay where she was buried, and came to

Venice, bringing one, your nurse, your faithful foster-mother, with

him. On that terrible night, which you remember, your father sank

beneath a dreadful fate, which threatened you also. I managed to save

you. A Venetian noble adopted you; and as I had nothing to live on, I

was obliged to stay on in Venice. My father, a surgeon, whom people

accused of practising forbidden arts as well, taught me hidden

secrets of Nature. As we roamed through the fields and meadows he

told me the properties of many a health-giving plant, of many an

insignificant-looking moss, the hours when they ought to be gathered,

the different ways of mingling their juices. But to this knowledge was

added a special gift, with which Heaven, in its inscrutable providence,

has endowed me. I have the power of often seeing future events, as it

were, in a far-away dim mirror; and, almost without any will of my own,

at such times the unknown Power, which I cannot resist, constrains me

to speak what I thus see, in words often unintelligible to myself. Left

alone in Venice, abandoned by all the world, I bethought me of gaining

my bread by this power of mine. I cured the most dangerous diseases and

maladies in a very short time; and as the mere sight of me produced a

favourable effect upon the sick, a gentle stroking with my hands often

brought on a favourable crisis in a few moments. So my fame was soon

noised abroad through the place, and abundance of money flowed in upon

me. Then awoke the envy of the doctors, the _ciarlatani_, who sold

their pills and potions on the Rialto, the Piazza di San Marco, and the

Zecca, and poisoned the sick instead of curing them. They said I was in

league with the Evil One, and the superstitious folk believed them.

Soon I was apprehended, and brought before the ecclesiastical

tribunals. Oh, my Antonio! how terrible were the tortures with which

they tried to make me admit that this accusation was true. But I was

steadfast. My hair turned white, my body crumpled up to a mummy, my

feet and my hands were paralysed. Then came the rack--that most

ingenious of all inventions of the Spirit of Hell. And this dragged

from me an avowal at the thought of which I still shudder with horror.

They were going to burn me; but when the earthquake shook the

foundations of the palaces and the great prison, the doors of the

underground cell where I was opened of themselves, and I tottered out

of that deep grave through among the stones and rubbish. Ah, Tonino!

you called me an old hag of ninety; but I am scarcely more than fifty

at this day. This skeleton of a body, these crippled feet, this

snow-white hair--ah! not years, but unspeakable tortures transformed

the strong robust woman to a scarecrow in a few moons. And this

repulsive cackling laughter was forced out of me by that final terrible

torture, at the remembrance of which my hair still stands on end, and

my body burns as in a coat of red-hot mail. Ever since then it comes

upon me involuntarily, like a continual, irresistible spasm. Don't be

afraid of me any more, my Tonino. Ah, your heart told you long since

that you lay upon my breast as a little boy."

"'"Woman," said Antonio, "I feel that I must believe you. But who was

my father? What was his name? What was the terrible destiny which

overwhelmed him on that awful night? Who was he who adopted me? What

was it which happened in my life that still controls all my being, like

some mighty spell from some strange, unknown world, so that all my

thoughts flow away from me into some dark ocean of night? Answer all

these questions, mysterious woman; and then I shall believe you."

"'"Tonino," she said, "for your own sake I _must_ keep silence; but

soon, soon it will be time. The Fontego! the Fontego! Keep away from

the Fontego!"

"'"Ah!" he cried angrily; "I want no more of your dark sayings, to

tempt me with your unholy arts. My heart will break! You _shall_

speak--or----"

"'"No, no," she pleaded, "don't threaten me! I am your nurse--your

foster-mother----"

"'But, not waiting to hear further, Antonio rose and hurried quickly

away. From a distance he called to her, "You shall have your new cloak,

and _zecchini_ into the bargain, as many as you like."

"'To see the old Doge Marino Falieri with his youthful consort was a

wonderful sight enough. He, strong and robust enough, no doubt, but

with his grey beard, and his bronzed red face covered with a thousand

wrinkles, stepping pathetically along, keeping his head and neck erect

with some difficulty; she, loveliness personified, an angelic

expression of goodness and kindliness in her heavenly face, charm,

irresistible in her longing eyes, nobleness and dignity on her open,

lily forehead, shaded by the dark tresses, sweet smiles upon lips and

cheeks, her little head bending in exquisite meekness; bearing her

slender figure gracefully and lightsomely as she moved along--a

beautiful creature, belonging to another, higher world. Yon know the

type of angel which the old painters had the skill to imagine and

represent. Such was Annunziata. No one who saw her could fail to be

amazed and enraptured. The hearts of the fiery youths among the

Signoria blazed up in brightest flame; each, as he surveyed the old man

with mocking glances, vowed in his own breast to play the Mars to this

Vulcan, at whatever cost. Annunziata was soon the centre of a group of

adorers to whose flattering speeches she listened in courteous silence,

without paying much heed to them, one way or another. Her angelic

purity had suffered her to form no other conception of her relation to

her aged, princely consort than to reverence him as her lord and

master, and cleave to him with the unconditional faithfulness of a

submissive handmaid. He was kind--nay, tender with her. He pressed her

to his icy breast, called her fond names, gave her every sort of costly

present; what more could she desire of him? what further claim had she

upon him? The idea of being faithless to him could take no form within

her. All that lay beyond the restricted circle of the relationship

above set forth was a foreign region, whose forbidden boundaries lay

shrouded in dark mist, unseen, undreamt of by this pure and pious

child. All suit for her favour was fruitless. But none of her adorers

was so violently fired by love for the beautiful Dogaressa as Michaele

Steno. Young as he was, he held the important and influential position

of a member of the Council of Forty. Building upon this, and upon his

personal beauty, he was certain of victory. Of old Falieri he felt no

fear. Indeed the latter seemed, as soon as he was married, to have

wholly laid aside his fierce ebullient irritability and his rough

untameable wildness of disposition. He would sit by the fair

Annunziata's side, dressed out in the richest attire, smiling and

smirking, appearing to ask people, with gentle glances of his grey eyes

(to which the tears would often rise), if any of _them_ could boast of

such a wife. In place of his former domineering style of talking, he

now spoke very gently, scarcely moving his lips, calling every one

"_Carissimo Mio_," and granting the most preposterous petitions. Who

would have recognized, in this tender, affectionate old man, that

Falieri who, in Treviso, on the feast of Corpus Christi, smote the

bishop on the face, in a rage--the conqueror of the formidable

Morbassan? This ever-increasing gentleness stimulated Michaele Steno to

the maddest undertakings. Annunziata had no comprehension of what

Michaele--who persecuted and pursued her continually with words and

glances--wanted of her. She maintained her uniform, gentle

peacefulness; and the very hopelessness engendered by this constantly

unchanging attitude of hers drove him to despair. He planned the vilest

measures. He succeeded in establishing a love affair with Annunziata's

most trusted lady-in-waiting, who at last allowed him to pay her

nocturnal visits. He thought this was a paving of the way to

Annunziata's own unprofaned chamber; but it was Heaven's will that this

vileness should recoil on the head of him who devised it.

"It chanced, one night, that the Doge--who had just received the news

of Nicolo Pisani's having been beaten in the engagement with Doria at

Portelongo--was walking about the halls of the palace in much distress

and anxiety, unable to sleep. He saw a shadow, apparently coming from

Annunziata's chamber, creeping towards the staircase. He hastened up to

it; it was Michaele Steno, coming from his inamorata. A terrible

thought struck Falieri; with a cry of "Annunziata," he rushed at Steno

with a naked stiletto. But Steno--stronger and more active than

the old man--avoided the thrust, threw the Doge to the ground by a

smart blow of his fist, and dashed down the steps, laughing aloud,

and crying "Annunziata! Annunziata!" The old man raised himself, and

made for Annunziata's chamber, with flames of hell in his heart.

Everything there was silent as the grave. He knocked. A stranger

lady-in-waiting--not the one who usually slept near Annunziata's

room--opened the door.

"'"What are my princely consort's wishes at this late, unwonted hour of

the night?" said Annunziata, in a calm, angelically sweet voice, as she

came out, hurriedly attired in a light night-robe. The old man gazed

hard at her--then raised his hands to heaven, and cried--

"'"No! It is impossible, it is impossible!"

"'"What is impossible, my lord?" she asked, amazed at the Doge's

hollow, solemn accents. But Falieri, without answering her, turned to

the lady-in-waiting--

"'"Why is it you are sleeping here to-night instead of Luigia?"

"'"Your Highness," the girl answered, "Luigia wished to exchange duties

with me to-night; she is sleeping in the front chamber on the

staircase."

"The Doge hastened to the room indicated. Luigia opened to his loud

knocking, and when she saw her master's face glowing with anger, and

his eyes flashing fire, she fell on her knees and confessed her fault,

as to which an elegant pair of gentleman's gloves on a chair (their

perfume of ambergris betrayed their owner) left no room for doubt. Much

irritated at Steno's atrocious licentiousness, the Doge wrote to him

next morning, commanding him to avoid all approach to the palace and

the Dogaressa, on pain of banishment. Steno was furious at the

miscarriage of his deep-laid plot, and the shame of banishment from his

idol. And as he could not but see, from his enforced distance, that the

Dogaressa spoke gently and courteously (as was her nature) with other

young members of the Signoria, his envy and the wicked violence of his

passion made him think that she had refused to listen to him because

others had been before him, with better fortune. He had the effrontery

to speak of this loudly and in public.

"'Whether it was that old Falieri heard of these shameless sayings,

that the remembrance of that night came to him in the guise of a

warning hint of destiny, or that, whilst fully convinced of his lady's

uprightness, and while savouring to the full all the comfort and

happiness falling to his share, he nevertheless saw, in a clear light,

the extent of the danger arising from the unnatural relations between

them, the fact was that he became sullen and irritable. All the

thousand demons of jealousy tortured him sorely. He shut Annunziata up

in the inner chambers, and nobody was allowed to see her. Bodoeri took

his grandniece's part, and took Falieri soundly to task. But he would

hear of no alteration in his system of conduct.

"'All this happened shortly before Giovedi Grasso. Now it was the

custom that, on that great Festa, which the populace celebrated on the

Piazza di San Marco, the Dogaressa sat beside the Doge under a canopy

erected over one of the lesser galleries overlooking the Piazza.

Bodoeri reminded him of this, and thought and urged that if he excluded

Annunziata from taking her part in this ceremony, against all use and

wont, it would be in very bad taste, and he would be much ridiculed by

both Signoria and populace for his preposterous jealousy.

"'Old Falieri's sense of honour suddenly woke up. "Think you," he said,

"that I am such an idiotic old fool as to hesitate to shew my precious

jewel, lest I should not be able to keep thievish hands at bay with my

good sword? No, old lord, you are mistaken. To-morrow I and Annunziata

shall cross the Piazza di San Marco, in habits of ceremony; the people

shall see their Dogaressa; and on Giovedi Grasso she shall receive from

the hands of the daring gondolier who lowers himself down to her

through the air the flowers which it is the custom she should so

accept."

"'The old custom which the Doge was alluding to was that, on Giovedi

Grasso, some daring man of the people ascended, by ropes extending from

the water to the top of the tower of San Marco, in a machine in the

form of a little ship, and then shot down, with the speed of an arrow,

to where the Doge and Dogaressa were seated, and handed her a bouquet

of flowers. If the Doge were alone, it was handed to him.

"'Next day the Doge did as he had said he would. Annunziata had to put

on her most gorgeous robes of state and pass, with Falieri, escorted by

the Signoria, and attended by guards and pages of honour, across the

crowded Piazza di San Marco. People shoved and crowded their lives out

almost to get a glance at the beautiful Dogaressa, and, when they saw

her, they thought they had been in Paradise, and beheld the loveliest

of all the angels therein. According to the nature of the Venetians,

amid all the wildest outbreaks of the maddest delight, plenty of

facetious and jocular sayings and rhymes were to be heard, touching

outspokenly enough on the theme of the old Falieri and his young wife.

He seemed to pay no heed to them, however, pacing along as pathetically

as you please at Annunziata's side, divested, for the time, of all

jealousy (although he saw glances of burning admiration bent upon her

on every side), every feature of his face smirking and smiling with

complacency. Before the principal gate of the palace the guards had

some difficulty in dividing the crowd, so that when the Doge passed in

with his consort there were only small groups standing about of the

better dressed citizens, whom it was not so easy to keep out of the

inner court. And, at the moment when the Dogaressa entered this inner

court, a young man, who was standing there in the pillared passage,

with a few other persons, suddenly cried, "Oh, Thou God of Heaven!" and

fell down senseless on the marble pavement. Everybody rushed up and

surrounded him, so that the Dogaressa could not see him. But when he

fell, a glowing dagger-thrust went through her heart; she turned pale,

and tottered; and nothing but the scent bottles of the women who

hurried up to her prevented her from fainting. Old Falieri, shocked and

terrified, wished the young man in question, and this attack of his, at

the devil, and helped his Annunziata--hanging her head, with closed

eyes, over her breast, like a wounded dove--up the stairway, into the

inner chamber.

"'Meanwhile a strange sight was seen by those of the crowd who had

crushed into the inner court of the palace. The young man (who was

supposed to be dead) was about to be carried away, when an old, hideous

beggar-woman, in rags, came hobbling up with loud outcries of sorrow,

elbowed a passage for herself through the thickest of the crowd, and,

on reaching the young man, who was lying insensible, cried--

"'"Let him alone, you fools! let him alone! He is not dead." She

cowered down, took his head into her lap, and stroked his brow, calling

him by the fondest names.

"At sight of the horrible, hideous face of the old hag bending over the

beautiful features of the young man, which seemed to be petrified in

death (whereas a repulsive muscular twitching played over hers); her

dirty rags fluttering above the handsome dress which he had on; her

withered, brown-yellow arms trembling about his brow and his bared

bosom, everyone thrilled with an inward horror. It seemed as though he

was lying in the arms of the grinning form of Death itself. The people

who were standing round crept, one by one, away, and but a very few

were left when at length he opened his eyes with a deep sigh. At the

old woman's request they carried him to the Grand Canal, where he was

placed in a gondola, and, with the old woman, conveyed across the water

to the house which she indicated as his dwelling.

"'I need not explain to you that the young man was Antonio, and the old

woman the beggar who said she was his old nurse.

"'When he had come to his senses, and saw by his bedside the old woman

(who had given him some strengthening drops), he said--after fixing for

a long while a melancholy gaze upon her--in a hollow voice, sustained

with difficulty:

"'"You are with me, Margareta! That is well. Where should I find a

more faithful nurse? Oh! forgive me, mother, that I--a weak, foolish

boy--should have doubted, even for a moment, what you revealed to me.

Yes, yes! you _are_ that Margareta who nursed me. I always knew that it

was so. But the Devil confused my thoughts. I have seen _her_--it was

she--it was she! I told you that there was some dark spell within me,

controlling me in a manner that I could not comprehend. It has come

gleaming out of the darkness now, with noonday brilliance, to

annihilate me, in nameless rapture. I know all now--everything! Was not

Bertuccio Nenolo my foster-father, who brought me up at a country house

near Treviso?"

"'"Ah, yes!" she said; "Bertuccio Nenolo it was, the grand sea-hero,

whom the ocean swallowed, just as he thought to place the laurel-wreath

on his brow."

"'"Do not interrupt me," he continued. "Hear me patiently out. Things

went well with me while I lived with Bertuccio Nenolo. I wore fine

clothes. Whenever I was hungry, the table was always laid. When I had

said my three little prayers, I might go out and roam about in the

woods and meadows as I chose. Close to the house there was a dark wood

of pines, full of perfume and music. I lay down there one evening, as

the sun was sinking, weary with running about, under a great tree, and

gazed up at the blue sky. Whether it was the earthy scent of the herbs

that was the cause I do not know, but my eyes closed, and I sunk into a

dreamy reverie, from which I was roused by the sound of something

striking the ground close beside me, in the grass. I started up. A

child, with the face of an angel, was standing beside me. She looked

down upon me with a heavenly smile, and said in a sweet voice--

"'"How softly and quietly you were sleeping, you dear boy; and yet

death was very near to you--a horrible death."

"'"Close to my breast I saw a small black snake, with its head

shattered. The girl had killed it with the branch of a nut tree just as

it was going to strike at me. I trembled, in a delicious awe. I knew

that angels often came from Heaven to rescue human beings from the

attacks of enemies. I fell on my knees. I raised my clasped hands. "Ah!

you are an angel," I cried, "whom the Lord hath sent to deliver me from

death! "The beautiful creature stretched her arms to me, and whispered,

with rosy blushes suffusing her cheeks--

"'"No, you dear boy! I am not an angel. I am only a girl--a child, like

yourself."

"'"My reverential awe passed into unspeakable rapture. I rose; we

clasped each other in our arms; we pressed our lips upon each other's,

speechless, weeping, sobbing, in delicious, nameless pain. A voice,

clear as silver, culled through the trees, 'Annunziata! Annunziata!'

"'"I must leave you now, you darling boy; my mother is calling me,"

whispered the girl. An unspeakable pain pierced my heart.

"'"Oh, I do so love you!" I sobbed out, while the girl's hot tears fell

burning on my cheeks.

"'"I am so fond of you, darling boy," the girl cried, pressing a

parting kiss on my lips.

"'"Annunziata!" the voice called again, and the girl disappeared among

the trees. Margareta! that was the moment when that mighty love flame

passed into my soul, which will for ever burn on there, always kindling

fresh flame. A few days after this I was driven away from that house.

Father Bluenose said (when I could never cease talking of the angel

that had appeared to me, whose sweet voice I heard in the rustling of

the trees, in the purling of the streams, in the mystic sighs of the

sea) that the girl could have been none other than Nenolo's daughter

Annunziata, who had come with her mother the day before, and had gone

away on the day following. "Oh, mother Margareta! this Annunziata is

the Dogaressa!"

"'Antonio hid his face in his pillow, and sobbed and wept in

inexpressible pain.

"'"Dear Tonino," the old woman answered, "be a man, and resist this

foolish pain bravely. No one should despair in love troubles. To whom

do Hope's golden blossoms bloom but to those who love? At evening one

docs not know what the morning will bring. What we see in dreams comes

to pass in our lives. The castle which floated in the clouds stands,

all in a moment, on the earth, bright and glorious. You do not believe

in my sayings; but my little finger tells me (and somebody else, I dare

say, into the bargain) that the bright banner of Love is coming

fluttering towards you, with gladsome wavings, over the sea. Have

patience, my son Tonino, have patience."

"'In such sort did the old woman try to comfort poor Antonio, to whom

her words sounded like beautiful music. He did not allow her to quit

him any more. The beggar of the Franciscan porch disappeared, and in

her stead people saw Antonio's housekeeper, in good clothes, limping

about San Marco, and buying the household necessaries.

"'Giovedi Grasso came; the fetes in celebration of it were to be more

brilliant than usual. In the middle of the lesser Piazza di San Marco a

lofty scaffold was erected for a special display of fireworks, of a

sort unseen hitherto, which a Greek, versed in the mysteries of such

matters, was going to exhibit. When the evening came, old Falieri

mounted to the gallery with his beautiful wife, mirroring himself in

the splendour of her loveliness, and of his own happiness, with radiant

glances, challenging all beholders to amazed admiration. Just as he was

about to seat himself on his throne, however, he saw that Michaele

Steno was in the same gallery, so placed that he had the Dogaressa

continually in his sight, and that she must necessarily see him.

Burning with wild anger and mad jealousy, Falieri screamed out

imperiously that Steno must be immediately turned out of that gallery.

Steno raised his arm at Falieri; but the guards forced him away,

gnashing his teeth in fury, and threatening vengeance with frightful

imprecations.

"'Meanwhile Antonio, whom the sight of his beloved Annunziata had set

wholly beside himself, had made his way through the crowd, and, with a

thousand torments in his heart, was pacing alone in the dark night, up

and down beside the sea. He was thinking whether it would not be better

to extinguish the flame which consumed him in the ice-cold waves than

to be slowly tortured to death by inconsolable sorrow and pain. A small

thing would have made him throw himself into the sea. He was standing

on the last of the steps which led down to it, when a voice, coming

from a little boat, cried:

"'"Ah! a fair good evening, Signor Antonio!"

"'In the light reflected from the palace, Antonio recognised the merry

Pietro, one of his former comrades, standing in the boat, feathers and

gold leaf on his shining head-dress, his new striped jacket decked with

gay ribbons, and a great, beautiful bouquet of exquisite flowers in his

hand.

"'"Good evening, Pietro," answered Antonio. "What grand folks are you

going to row to-night, that you are dressed so gaily?"

"'"Well, Signor Antonio," said Pietro, getting up, so that the boat

rocked under him, "I'm going to earn three _zecchini_. I'm bound for

the top of the tower of San Marco, and then down again, to hand those

flowers to the beautiful Dogaressa."

"'"Is not this to risk your neck, comrade Pietro?" Antonio enquired.

"'"Well," said Pietro, "of course one risks one's neck more or less.

And then, _this_ time, one has to go up in the middle of all those

confounded fireworks! The Greek _does_ say that they won't singe a hair

of one's whiskers. Still----" and Pietro gave a shrug.

"'Antonio had got into the boat beside him, and now saw that he was

close to the machinery, and the rope which rose out of the sea. Other

ropes, for moving the machinery, went disappearing off in the darkness.

"'"Listen, comrade Pietro," said Antonio, after a brief silence; "would

it not suit you better to earn ten _zecchini_, and not risk your life?"

"'"Of course," said Pietro, with a hearty laugh.

"'"Well," said Antonio, "here are ten _zecchini_; change clothes with

me, and let me take your place. I'll go aloft instead of you. Do, now,

good comrade Pietro!"

"'Pietro shook his head dubiously, and, weighing the money in his hand,

said: "You are very kind, Signer Antonio, to call a poor devil like me

your comrade still; and you are generous too. I want the money, of

course; but what one risks his neck for is the putting the flowers into

the beautiful Dogaressa's hand, and hearing her sweet voice. But

however, as it is _you_, Signer Antonio, be it as you wish."

"'They changed clothes rapidly, and scarcely was this done when Pietro

cried, "Get into the machine; there goes the signal!"

"At that moment the sea glowed with the flaming reflection of thousands

of flashes, and the shores re-echoed to thousands of crackling

detonations. Antonio flew up, with the rapidity of the storm-wind,

amongst the crackling, hissing fireworks, reached the gallery without

so much as a singe, and hovered before the Dogaressa, She had risen and

come forward; he felt her breath on his cheek--he handed her the

flowers; but, blissful as that instant was with the most unutterable

rapture of heaven, the burning torture of love seized him as with

red-hot arms. Out of his senses--mad with longing, rapture, torture--he

seized the Dogaressa's hand, pressed burning kisses on it, and cried,

in a tone of inconsolable sorrow, "Annunziata!" Then the machinery,

like a blind minister of destiny, tore him away from her, down to the

sea, where he fell into Pietro's arms--who was waiting for him in the

boat--stupefied and exhausted.

"'Meanwhile in the Doge's gallery all was uproar and confusion. A

little written paper had been found, fastened to the Doge's chair, on

which were the following words, in the popular dialect of Venice:

"'"Il Dose Falier della bella muier,

I altri la gode, e lui la mantien."

"'"The Doge, old Falier, sits in state with the fair

Who of love takes her fill, while my lord pays the bill."

"Old Falieri started up in glowing anger, and swore that the direst

punishment should be the lot of the person who committed this insulting

outrage. As he looked round him, his eyes lighted on Michaele Steno

standing below the gallery, on the Piazza, in the full blaze of the

illuminations. He immediately ordered the guards to seize him, as the

culprit. Every one protested against this order; for the Doge, by thus

yielding to his anger, was outraging both the Signoria and the

populace--interfering with the privileges of the former, spoiling the

Festa for the latter. The Signoria quitted their places, Bodoeri alone

remaining, and mingling with the populace, speaking eagerly of the

bitter insult to the Chief of the State, and trying to turn all the

anger upon Steno. Falieri had not been mistaken; for it was the truth

that Steno, when ordered away from the Doge's gallery, had hurried home

and written the paper in question, which he had afterwards fastened to

the Doge's seat when all eyes were fixed on the fireworks, and then

gone away again unnoticed. He had devised this resentful trick very

artfully and maliciously; it struck at the hearts of both Doge and

Dogaressa, wounding them to the core. He at once admitted his deed,

laying all the blame on the Doge, who had insulted him so bitterly in

the first instance. The Signoria had long been dissatisfied with a

chief who, instead of fulfilling the just expectations of the State,

daily gave proof that the fiery, warlike spirit in his chilled and

enfeebled heart was too much like the train of sparks which rush

crackling out of the rocket, but immediately die away into dead,

useless spots of black charcoal. In addition to this, his marriage to

his lovely wife (it had long been discovered that it had only taken

place after his appointment as Doge), and his jealousy, made him much

more the old "_Pantalone_" than the warlike general; so that the

Signoria, nourishing all this poison in their hearts, were more

disposed to side with Steno than with the Doge. The Council of Ten

referred the matter to the Council of Forty, of which Steno was one of

the chiefs. This Council decided that Steno had suffered enough

already, and that a month's banishment was ample punishment for his

offence. And this embittered Falieri afresh, and more strongly against

a Signoria which not only did not take his side, but punished repeated

outrages upon him as offences of the most trivial kind.

"'Now, as it is wont to happen that a lover upon whom has beamed one

single ray of love-fortune goes on dreaming heavenly dreams for days,

weeks, and months, enwrapped in a golden shimmer, so could Antonio

scarce recover from his stupefaction of amazement at his instant of

bliss. The old woman had rated him soundly for his rashness, and

muttered and muttered unceasingly about the utter needlessness of what

he had done. But one day she came in skipping and dancing on her stick,

as she did when under the influence of her strange spell. She paid no

attention to Antonio's questions, went on chuckling and laughing,

lighted a little fire in the fire-place, set a little pan on it, cooked

a salve, throwing in ingredients from all sorts of phials, of various

shapes and colours, put it in a small box, and limped away with it,

snickering and laughing as she went. She did not return till late in

the evening, when she threw herself into an arm-chair, coughing and

wheezing. At last, as if coming to herself from great exhaustion, she

began:

"'"Tonino! Tonino, my dear son, where have I been, do you think? Whom

have I been seeing? Try if you can guess!"

"'Antonio stared at her, full of a strange presentiment.

"'"Well," she continued, "I come from herself, from the beautiful dove,

the lovely Annunziata!"

"'"Do not drive me frantic!" Antonio cried.

"'"What? what?" she went on. "I am always thinking of you, my Tonino!

So, this morning, as I was bargaining in the pillared passage of the

Palace, the people were murmuring about the misfortune which had

befallen the beautiful Dogaressa. I asked and asked, and then a great

uncouth, red-looking fellow, who was leaning against one of the

pillars, chewing a lemon, said: 'Why, a little young scorpion tried his

teeth on the little finger of her left hand, and, you see, that got

into her blood a bit. But Signer Dottore Giovanni Baseggio went up to

her a few minutes ago; he will have the little hand off by this time

finger and all.' And just as the big fellow was saying this a great

scream sounded from the broad staircase, and a little, very little

gentleman came rolling down it like a ball, impelled by the kicks of

the guards, right in amongst our feet, crying and lamenting. The people

gathered round him, laughing loud. He struggled and stamped with his

legs, unable to rise; but the big red fellow ran and lifted the little

doctor, took him in his arms, and made off with him as hard as he could

(he still shrieking and howling) to the canal, where he put him in his

gondola, and rowed away with him. What I thought had happened was, that

when Signor Baseggio was going to put his knife into the pretty little

hand, the Doge had had him kicked downstairs. But I thought something

else besides. 'Quick! quick!' I thought; as quick as I could off home,

make my salve, and be off with it in my hand to the Palace. When I got

there with it, old Falieri was just coming down. He flashed out at me

with 'What is this old hag doing here?' I made a curtsey deep, deep

down to the ground as well as I could, and said I had a medicine which

would cure the beautiful Dogaressa very speedily. When the old fellow

heard that, he gazed steadfastly at me with most terrible eyes, and

stroked his grey beard smooth. Then he seized me by the shoulders, and

dragged me up to her chamber in such a way that I nearly fell down all

my length on the floor of it. Ah, Tonino! there lay the pretty young

creature stretched on her couch, pale as a corpse, sighing and groaning

with pain, and gently complaining, "Ah! I am certain I am poisoned

through and through!" But I set to work in a moment and took off the

stupid doctor's useless plaster. Oh, heaven! the beautiful delicate

hand! swollen, red as blood! Well, well! my ointment cooled it--eased

the pain. 'That is very comforting!' the little dove whispered. 'A

thousand _zecchini_ are yours if you save the Dogaressa,' old Falieri

cried, as he left the room. When I had been sitting there for three

hours, with the little hand in mine, stroking and nursing it, the

little soul awoke from a slumber into which she had fallen, and felt no

further pain. When I had put on a fresh bandage, she looked at me with

eyes sparkling with gladness. Then I said:

"'"Ah, gracious Lady Dogaressa! you once saved a boy's life, when you

killed a serpent which was going to strike him while he was sleeping."

"'"Tonino! you should have seen how her pale cheeks glowed red, as if a

beam of the evening sun had shone in upon them--how her eyes flashed

with sparkling fire."

"'"'Ah! yes! old woman,' she cried. 'I was only a child, at my father's

place in the country. Ah! he was a dear, beautiful boy! Oh, how I think

of him still! It seems to me as if nothing happy had ever come into my

lot since that day.'

"'"Then I spoke of you; told her that you were in Venice that your

heart is still full of all the love and blissfulness of that moment,

and that you risked your life on Giovedi Grasso merely to look into the

eyes of your guardian angel, and put the flowers into her hand."

"'"'Tonino! Tonino!' she cried, enthusiastically; 'I knew it! I knew

it! I felt it! When he pressed his lips on my hand, when he called me

by my name--I did not know what it was that pierced my heart so

strangely. Perhaps it was happiness--but it was pain too. Bring him

here to me, the beautiful boy.'

"'When the old woman said this, Antonio threw himself on his knees, and

cried out like one bereft of his senses:

"'"Oh, Lord of Heaven! only let me not perish _now_, _now_, in my

terrible destiny, until I have seen her and pressed her to my heart."

He implored her to take him to the Dogaressa the very next day. But she

strongly advised him against this, inasmuch as old Falieri went to see

her almost hourly.

"'Many days had elapsed. The Dogaressa was almost completely cured by

the old woman, but it was still impossible to take Antonio to see her.

The old woman comforted him as well as she could, always repeating how

she spoke with the Dogaressa of him whose life she had saved, and who

loved her so fervently. Antonio, tortured by a thousand torments of

longing, passed his time as best he might, in gondolas, and in

wandering about the Piazzas. His steps always led him, involuntarily,

towards the Ducal Palace. One day, by the bridge at the back of it, he

came upon Pietro, leaning on a gaily painted oar near a gondola, which

was dancing on the waves, made fast to a pillar. It was a small

gondola, but beautifully carved and ornamented, and flying the Venetian

standard almost as if it had been the Bucentoro.

"'When Pietro saw his old comrade, he cried out, "A thousand fair

greetings to you, Signor Antonio! Those _zecchini_ of yours brought me

good luck." Antonio, thinking of other matters, asked what the luck

was, and learned nothing less than that Pietro took the Doge and

Dogaressa nearly every evening across to the Giudecca, in this gondola;

for the Doge had a country house there, over against San Giorgio

Maggiore. Antonio gazed hard at Pietro, and burst out quickly:

"'"You can earn other ten _zecchini_, comrade, and more, if you like.

Let me take your place, and row the Doge over!"

"'Pietro thought this could not be managed, as the Doge knew him, and

would trust himself to nobody else. But at length, when Antonio, in all

the wild passion which sparkled from his heart, tortured with a

thousand pains of love, swore that he would spring after the gondola,

and drag it over into the sea, Pietro cried, laughing:

"'"Eh! Signer Antonio, how the Dogaressa's beautiful eyes have turned

that head of yours!" and agreed to take Antonio on board as his

assistant, under the pretext that he was unwell, and unable to do the

heavy work alone. For the Doge never thought the gondola went quick

enough. Antonio hurried away; and scarcely had he got back in a mean

suit of boatman's clothes, with his face stained brown, and a long

drooping moustache, when the Doge and the Dogaressa came down, both

splendidly dressed. "Who is this stranger?" the Doge asked; and it was

only when Pietro swore by all the saints that he was unfit to row that

day without somebody to help him that the Doge could be persuaded to

let Antonio remain.

"'It is sometimes the case that the very excess of happiness so

invigorates the mind that it can control itself, and keep a command

over the fires of its passion, such that they shall not burst forth

visibly. Antonio managed to control himself (though he was so close to

Annunziata that the very hem of her garment touched him) by giving his

whole attention to his rowing, and avoiding any more adventurous

proceeding than an occasional rapid glance at her. Old Falieri chuckled

and laughed, kissed and stroked Annunziata's little white hand, and put

his arm about her slender waist. When they were half-way across, and

magnificent Venice was spread out before them with all her towers and

palaces, he raised his head and said:

"'"Is it not a fine thing, my darling, to be on the sea with her ruler

and consort? Do not be jealous, sweet one, of this Lady of mine who

bears us on her bosom so meekly and submissively. Listen how sweetly

the waves plash and murmur! She is whispering words of love to the

consort who rules her. You, my darling, wear my ring on your finger;

but _she_ cherishes the betrothal ring which I cast to her in the

profoundest depths of her heart.'

"'"How can the cold, treacherous sea be your consort, my noble lord?"

said Annunziata. "I cannot help a shudder at the thought of your being

betrothed to that arrogant, domineering element."

"'Old Falieri laughed; his beard and chin went up and down.

"'"Have no anxiety, little one," he said; "rest in your soft, tender

arms is sweeter than on the icy breast of that consort beneath us; yet

it is fine to float on the sea, with the sea's lord and master."

"'As he spoke, distant music floated across the water, and the tones of

a soft male voice came near, singing the words--

"'"Ah, senza amare andar sulla mare,

Col sposo del mare non puo consolare."

"'Other voices joined in, and the words were repeated again and again

till they died away over the sea at last, like the breath of the

breeze. Old Falieri seemed to pay no attention. He was telling

Annunziata, at much length, about the ceremony of the Doge's betrothal

to the sea, when he throws a ring into it from the Bucentoro on

Ascension Day. He spoke of the victories of the Republic, of the time

when the ceremony was first instituted, after the taking of Istria and

Dalmatia, under Peter Urseolus the Second. If the words of the song

made no impression on Falieri, the tale he told was utterly lost on the

Dogaressa. She sate with all her attention fixed upon the sweet tones

floating over the sea. When the song ceased, she gazed before her with

the expression of one who awakes from a dream, and is still striving to

see and understand its images.

"'"_Senza Amare_," she whispered gently. "_Senza Amare_--_non puo

consolare_." Tears, like pearls, rose in her heavenly eyes; sighs

heaved her breast, which rose and fell, oppressed. Still chuckling and

laughing, the old Doge landed with her at the verandah of his house

opposite San Giorgio Maggiore, not observing Annunziata, how she stood

beside him in silence, moved by the dim sensations awaking within her,

her gaze, heavy with tears, fixed upon a distant realm. A young man,

dressed as a boatman, blew a shell-shaped horn, whose tones echoed far

over the waters. At this signal another gondola came up, a man,

carrying a sunshade, and a woman appeared, and, attended by them, the

Doge and Dogaressa went into the palace. The second gondola came to the

shore, and from it there landed Bodoeri and other persons, amongst whom

were merchants, artists, and people of the lower classes even. These

followed the Doge.

"'Antonio could scarcely wait for the next evening, for he expected

some private message from his beloved Annunziata. At last, however,

the old woman came hobbling in, set herself down, coughing, in the

arm-chair, clapped her bony, withered hands two or three times, and

cried--

"'"Ah, Tonino! what has happened to our poor little dove? When I went

to her to-day, she was lying on her cushions, with half-shut eyes,

leaning her head on her arm, neither sleeping nor waking, neither ill

nor well. 'What has befallen you, gracious Lady Dogaressa?' I cried.

'Is it your wound, not quite whole yet, which is paining you?' But she

looked at me with eyes such as I had never seen in her, and scarce had

I peeped into these moist moonbeams than they hid themselves behind

silken lashes, as if amongst dark clouds. And then she heaved a deep

sigh, turned her beautiful face to the wall, and whispered softly, very

softly, but so mournfully that it went sharply to my very heart--

"'"'_Amare! Amare! Ah! Senza Amare!_'

"'"I got a little stool and sate down beside her. I began to talk of

_you_. She hid her face in the cushions. Her breathing came quicker and

quicker, till it became sighing. I told her that you had been in the

gondola, disguised; that you were dying of love and longing, and that I

should bring you to her at once.

"'"'No, no! for the love of Christ and the saints, I implore you tell

him I must never see him again--never! Tell him he must leave Venice

immediately.'

"'"'Then my darling Tonino must die,' I interrupted. She fell back in

the most unspeakable pain, and sobbed, in a voice hidden in tears:

"'"'"And I must die too, the bitterest of deaths!' Just then the old

Doge came in, and I was obliged to leave."

"'"She spurns me," cried Antonio, in wild despair. "Away! away! to the

sea!"

"'The old woman cackled and laughed as usual. "You silly child!" she

cried. "Do you not see that she loves you with the most fervent love

and torment that ever fired a woman's heart? Tomorrow night, when it is

dark, I will slip you into the Ducal Palace. You will find me in the

second gallery on the left of the great staircase, and then we shall

see what happens further."

"'When Antonio crept up the great staircase the following evening, it

suddenly struck him that he was on the brink of a monstrous misdeed. He

could scarce mount the stair. He had to lean against a pillar close

before the indicated gallery. Suddenly a bright light shone round him,

and before he could move away, old Bodoeri stood before him, attended

by some domestics carrying torches. Bodoeri looked him in the face, and

said--"Ha! you are Antonio; I knew you were to be brought here. You

have only to follow me." Antonio, convinced that his meeting with the

Dogaressa had got wind, followed, with some hesitation. What was his

astonishment when, as soon as they had reached a chamber at some

distance, Bodoeri embraced him, and told him of an important duty which

was allotted to him that night, and which he was to execute with

courage and determination. But his astonishment turned to dread and

horror when he learned that a conspiracy had been formed against the

Signoria, with the Doge himself at its head, and that it had been

arranged, at Falieri's house at the Giuclecca, that on that very night

the Signoria should be overthrown, and Falieri elected Sovereign Duke

of Venice.

"Antonio gazed at Bodoeri in speechless amazement. Bodoeri took the

youth's silence to be hesitation as to taking part in this fell deed,

and cried, in anger--

"'"Cowardly fool! you cannot now get out of this place. You must either

die or take up arms with us. But, before you decide, speak with _him_."

"'A tall, noble form now advanced from the dark background of the

chamber. As soon as Antonio recognised the features of this man's face

he fell on his knees crying, "Oh, my father and benefactor, Bertuccio

Nonolo!"

"'Nenolo raised him, took him in his arms, and said, in gentle tones--

"'"Yes, I am that Bertuccio Nenolo whom you believed to be buried in

the ocean depths, and who has just escaped from the captivity in which

he has been held by Morbassan; the same Bertuccio Nenolo who adopted

you, and could never have supposed that the silly servants whom Bodoeri

sent to take possession of the house (which he had bought) would have

driven you out into the world. Blind youth! do you hesitate to take up

arms against the despotic caste which murdered your father? Go to the

Fontego, and you will see the stains of your father's blood on the

stones of its flooring to this hour. When the Signoria made over the

building which you know by the name of the Fontego to the German

merchants, every one to whom chambers in it were allotted was forbidden

to take his keys away with him when he went on any journey. This law

your father contravened, and, by so doing, had rendered himself liable

to severe punishment. But when his chambers were opened, on his return,

a chest full of counterfeit Venetian money was found among his effects.

It was in vain that he protested his innocence; it was but too clear

that some malicious devil or other--very probably the Fontegaro

himself--had placed the chest there, with a view to your father's

destruction. The inexorable judges, satisfied with the evidence that

the chest had been found in your father's rooms, sentenced him to

death. He was executed in the court of the Fontego; and you would have

been no more if the faithful Margareta had not saved you. I, being your

father's most faithful friend, adopted you; and your father's name was

concealed from you that you might not, yourself, betray yourself to the

Signoria. But now, Anton Dalbirger, the time has come. Take up arms,

and avenge your father's shameful end."

"'Antonio, inspired by revenge, swore fidelity to the conspirators.

It is known that an insult which Bertuccio Nenolo received from

Dandulo--who was at the head of the naval armaments--(he struck him on

the face during an argument)--moved him to conspire, with his

son-in-law, against the Signoria. Both Nenolo and Bodoeri desired that

Falieri should be raised to the supreme power, that they might rise

along with him. The arrangement was, that a rumour should be circulated

that the Genoese fleet was close outside the Lagoons; and that then the

great bell of San Marco should be tolled, in the night, to call the

populace to an imaginary defence. At this signal, the conspirators--who

were numerous, and in all quarters of the city--were to possess

themselves of the Piazza di San Marco and the principal parts of the

place, put the chiefs of the Signoria to death, and proclaim Falieri

the sovereign ruler of Venice. But it was not the will of Heaven that

this murderous project should be accomplished, and the fundamental

constitution of the State trodden under foot by aid Falieri's arrogant

pride. The meetings at the Doge's house had not escaped the notice of

the Council of Ten, although it had been impossible to learn anything

with certainty. One of the conspirators, a furrier from Pisa, had

qualms of conscience; he wished to save his friend Niccolo Leoni, a

member of the Council of Ten. He went to him in the evening twilight,

and implored him not to leave his house that night, whatever happened.

Leoni would not let the furrier go, and managed to extract from him an

account of the whole project. In company with Giovanni Gradenigo and

Marco Cornaro, he assembled the Council of Ten at San Salvador; and

there, in less than three hours, measures were concerted for the

thwarting of all the proceedings of the conspirators.

"The duty allotted to Antonio was to go, with a troop, to San Marco,

and set the bell ringing. But when he arrived there he found the

building strongly occupied by troops from the arsenal, who stopped him

with their halberds. His followers dispersed, and he himself escaped in

the darkness. Close behind him he heard the steps of a man pursuing

him; then he felt himself seized. As he was about to run his captor

through the body, he suddenly, in the dim light, recognized him to be

Pietro, who cried--

"'"Save yourself, Antonio! get into my gondola. Everything is

discovered. Bodoeri and Nenolo are in the hands of the Signoria. The

Palace doors are guarded; the Doge is shut up in his rooms, watched

like a criminal by his own faithless body-guard. Away! away!"

"'Half unconscious, Antonio suffered himself to be slipped into the

gondola. There were distant voices, clangour of weapons, one or two

cries of terror, and then, with the deepest darkness of the night,

heavy, soundless silence.

"'Next morning the populace, broken with deadly fear, saw a terrible

spectacle, which made the blood in all veins run cold. During the night

the Council of Ten had passed sentence of death on all of the

conspirators who had been taken; they were strangled, and thrown down

to the Lesser Piazza di San Marco, from the gallery whence the Doge

used to witness the festivities--alas! where Antonio had hovered before

the beautiful Dogaressa when he handed her the flowers. Among the

bodies were those of Marino Bodoeri and Bertuccio Nenolo. Two days

afterwards old Marino Falieri was sentenced by the Council of Ten, and

executed on the so-called Giant Staircase of the Palace.

"'Antonio had been creeping about, almost unconscious. He was not

apprehended, for no one knew that he was one of the conspirators. When

he saw Falieri's grey head fall, he awoke as from a heavy dream. With a

cry of the wildest terror, and a shout of "Annunziata!" he burst into

the Palace and ran through the galleries. No one stopped him. The

guards stared at him, like men stupefied with the horrors which had

been going on. The old woman came limping up to meet him, weeping, and

loudly lamenting. She took him by the hand. In a few paces he was in

Annunziata's chambers. She was lying senseless on the couch.

"'Antonio rushed to her, covered her hands with glowing kisses, and

called her by the fondest and tenderest names. Slowly she opened her

beautiful eyes. She saw Antonio; but at first it cost her an effort to

realise who he was. But suddenly she rose, put both her arms about him,

pressed him to her heart, bedewed him with hot tears, kissed his

cheeks, his lips.

"'"Antonio!" she cried, "my Antonio, I cannot tell you how I love you!

There is still a heaven here on earth! What are the deaths of my

father, my uncle, my husband, in comparison with your love! Oh, come,

let us fly from this scene of murder!"

"'With bitterest sorrow and most fervent love, with thousand kisses and

thousand tears, they vowed eternal truth, and forgot the frightful

events of that terrible time. Turning their sight from earth, they

raised their eyes and looked into the heaven of love which had opened

to them. The old woman advised flight to Chiozza. Antonio wished to

gain the mainland, and thence reach his own country. Friend Pietro

found him a boat, and it was waiting for them at the bridge behind the

Palace. When it was night, Annunziata, deeply cloaked, crept down the

steps with her lover and old Margareta, whose cloak was filled with

jewel cases. They got on board; Antonio took the oars and away they

fled, at a rapid, vigorous rate. Before them upon the waters the bright

moonlight danced, like a gladsome herald of Love.

"'When they reached the open sea a strange hissing and whistling began

to make itself heard in the air overhead; dark shadows gathered and

came over the bright face of the moon, hanging like gloomy shrouds. The

dancing shimmer the gleaming herald of Love--sank down into the dark

depths, pregnant with hollow thunders. A storm arose, and, in angry

rage, drove dark clouds before it. The boat laboured violently, and

plunged up and down.

"'"Help! Oh Lord of Heaven!" the old woman screamed. Antonio, unable to

work the oars, clasped Annunziata to his heart. Animated by his burning

kisses, she pressed him to her heart in the most blissful rapture. "Oh,

my Antonio!" "Oh, my Annunziata!" they cried, heedless of the raging

tempest. Then the sea the jealous widow of beheaded Falieri--lifted up

her foaming billows, like great, gigantic arms, grasped the lovers, and

dragged them, with the old woman, down, down, to the fathomless abyss.'

"When the man in the cloak had thus ended his tale, he rose quickly,

and left the room with strong, rapid steps. The friends looked after

him in speechless amazement, and then went back again to examine the

picture. The Doge still chuckled at them, in silly ostentation, and

senile vanity. But when they looked closely into the face of the

beautiful Annunziata, they saw that the shadow of a sorrow--unknown as

yet, merely in the form of a presentiment--was upon her lily brow; that

longing love-dreams shone under her dark eyelashes, and hovered about

her beautiful lips. From the distant sea a hostile power seemed to

threaten destruction and death; and from the misty clouds which lay

over San Marco, and partly concealed it, the deeper meaning of the

picture slowly dawned upon them, whilst all the sorrow of the love-tale

of Antonio and Annunziata filled their hearts with sweet awe."

The friends applauded this story, and unanimously voted that Ottmar had

utilised, in true Serapiontic fashion, the veracious history of the

proud and unfortunate Doge, Marino Falieri.

"He spared himself no trouble over writing it," said Lothair. "For,

besides being inspired to it by Kolbe's picture, Le Bret's 'History of

Venice' was always open on his table, and he had views of the streets

and palaces of Venice hanging all about his room; heaven only knows

where he had got hold of them all. That is why the story is so bright

with local colouring."

Midnight having tolled, the friends separated in the most genial frame

of mind, and in true Serapiontic manner.

* * * * *

SECTION FOURTH.

Vincent and Sylvester having joined the Brotherhood, Lothair delivered

a long harangue to them, in which he set forth, in most entertaining

fashion, at great length, and with much minuteness, the duties

incumbent upon a true Serapion Brother. "And now," he concluded, "give

me your solemn word, dear and worthy novices of our Order, confirming

the same by solemn handgrip, that you will faithfully observe and

follow the rule of Saint Serapion; that is to say, that you will, at

all times, and in all circumstances, devote your every endeavour to

be--at the meetings of the Brotherhood--as genial, witty, kindly, and

sympathetic as may be in your power."

"I, for my part," said Vincent, "enter into this undertaking with all

my heart. I mean to pay over my entire stock of brains and imagination

into the coffers of the Brotherhood; expecting to be therefrom, at

all times, and on all occasions, not only fed and supported, but

actually crammed. On every occasion when I purpose to come among you I

shall--according to the proverb--give my ape a full allowance of sugar,

that he may be sufficiently primed for the execution of the merriest

capers. And, inasmuch as our patron saint has acquired his fame and

glory from a decided _quantum_ of insanity, I shall copy him, in this

respect, to the utmost of my power, so that the Brotherhood may never

have to complain of an absence of this important element of their

being. I am prepared, if that should be your desire, to dish you up a

most varied and extensive assortment of the most interesting 'fixed

ideas.' I can imagine myself to be a Roman emperor, like Professor

Titel; or a cardinal, like Father Scambati. I can believe, like the

woman mentioned by Trallianus, that the universe is upheld upon my left

thumb; or that my nose is made of glass, and irradiates the walls and

the ceiling with beautiful prismatic colours. Also, I can think I am a

looking-glass, like the little Scotchman, Donald Munro, and reflect,

and copy all the glances, grimaces, and postures of those who look into

my face. More than this, I feel capable of convincing myself, as the

Chevalier D'Epernay did, that my anima sensitiva has shorn my head

bare, so that I shall merely have to rely upon the hair or two left on

my lips to inspire you with a certain amount of respect. As true

Serapion brethren, you will know how to indulge, and give due honour to

all these little delusions. And pray don't think of curing me, by

applying the remedies recommended by Boerhaave, Mercurialis, Antius of

Amyda, Friedrich Kraft, and Herr Richter; inasmuch as they all

prescribe a considerable amount of castration, or, at all events,

gentle slapping of the face, and boxing of the ears. And the fact is,

without doubt, that a certain amount of threshing has a beneficial

effect on both heart and mind, and awakens the activity of some of the

most important functions of the body. I just ask you, what would have

become of us--should we ever have learnt a single one of our lessons,

in the fifth form, but for a due amount of threshing? I recollect quite

well that when, at the age of twelve, I read the 'Sorrows of Werther,'

I went off and immediately fell in love with a young lady of thirteen,

and wanted to shoot myself. Luckily my father cured me of this

super-excitation of my heart on the system of treatment recommended by

Rhases and Valuscus de Taranta, who prescribed castigation as a

sovereign remedy for love. At the same time the old gentleman shed

warm, paternal tears of joy on discovering that I was not an ass: for

experience proves that love, in said animal, increases in proportion as

he is beaten."

"Oh, most delightful of all fabulists!" cried Theodore. "How you are

caprioling and curvetting! Please to go on doing so always! Flash your

lightnings in amongst us whenever the atmosphere is growing sultry, in

all the quaintest of your phrases. And, above all, freshen our

Sylvester up a little; for, after his usual wont, he has not uttered a

single word as yet."

"The fact is," said Ottmar, "that I can scarcely convince myself that

it really _is_ Sylvester who is sitting in that chair, smiling at us so

benignantly. It seems to me almost incredible that he can have come

away, so soon from his country dwelling, which he so much preferred to

our city life; and I keep believing that he is merely some pleasing

apparition, presently to vanish from our sight amongst those clouds

which he is blowing from his cigar."

"Heaven forefend!" cried Sylvester, laughing. "Do you suppose that a

quiet, happy personage, such as I am, has assumed the form of an

enchanter, and is deluding honest folks with his mere _simulacrum_? Do

you think I have anything of the Philadelphia, or the Swedenborg about

me? If you blame me for my silence, Theodore, let me say that I am

sparing my breath because I want to read you a story, suggested to me

by one of Kolbe's pictures, which I wrote during my long stay in the

country. If it surprises you, Ottmar, that I have come back here,

although I am so fond of the quiet and the leisure of the country,

remember that, though the constant turmoil, and the endless, empty

business of this great town are uncongenial to my whole nature, still,

if I am to turn my being a poet and a writer to any account, I stand in

need of many incitements which I can meet with here only. The tale

which I wish to read to you--and which I believe to possess a certain

amount of merit--would never have been written if I had not seen

Kolbe's picture at the Exhibition, and then worked the affair out in

the quiet of the country."

"Sylvester is right," said Lothair, "in seeking--as a writer of plays

and tales--suggestions and incitements in the whirl of city life, and

then in giving quiet leisure to his mind, in which to work those

suggestions out. Of course he might have seen the picture in the

country; but he would not have seen, there, the living characters whom

it inspired with life and movement, and into whom the people portrayed

in the picture passed and entered. A poet such as he is ought not to

retire into solitude. He ought to live in the most stirring and varied

society, so as to see, and grasp, its endlessly manifold aspects."

"Ha!" cried Vincent, "as Jaques, in 'As You Like It,' calls out when he

sees Touchstone,

'A fool, a fool! I met a fool i' the forest,

A motley fool; oh, lamentable world!'

So I cry 'a poet! a poet! I met a poet! He came stumbling out of the

third wineshop at high noon, looked up with his moist, drunken eyes at

the sun, and cried, in his inspiration "Oh, sweet, gentle moon, how

fall thy rays upon my heart, illumining, in marvellous sort, that

universe which lives and moves within this soul of mine. Lead on before

me, thou brave luminary, that I may steer my course to where experience

of life and knowledge of mankind stream towards my ken, in rich

abundance, for advantageous employment! Character-studies, lifelike

drawing--not possible without living models! Glorious drink! Noble,

splendid ardour, opening the heart and kindling the fancy! Yes, that

man eating sausages in there lives within my soul! He is tall and lean,

has on a blue frock coat with gilt buttons, English boots, takes snuff

out of a black lacquered snuff-box, speaks German fluently, and is

consequently a German, in spite of his boots and the Italian sausages;

a glorious, lifeful German character for my next novel! But, more

knowledge of mankind! More character!"' And with that my poet sailed,

with a fair wind, into the harbour of the fourth wineshop."

"Stop! you Oliver Martext," cried Lothair. "I call you so, because you

have completely marred _my_ text. I know well enough what you are

driving at with your poet who collects experience of life in wineshops,

and by his man in the blue frock coat; and I don't care to expatiate

further on the Thema. But there are other, very different, people too,

who think that, when they have accurately described the personality

of this or that unimportant 'subject' they have drawn a strikingly

life-like character. The peculiar pigtail which this or that old man

wears--the colours in which this or that girl dresses--are not enough.

It requires a certain special faculty, and a penetrating eye, to see

the forms of life in their deeper individuality. And even this seeing

is not enough. It is the poet's spirit--that spirit which dwells within

every true poet--which brings the pictures which he has seen, in their

endlessly, infinitely, varied changefulness, as they have shown

themselves to him--on to the stage. And then, by a process like

chemical precipitation, those forms appear as _substrata_ belonging to

life and the world in their complete extension. Such are those

wonderful characters--wholly unconnected with place and time--whom

every one knows, and looks upon as friends, who move on amongst us for

ever, in perfect fulness of life. Need I instance Sancho Panza and

Falstaff? And as you, Vincent, spoke of a blue frock coat, it is rather

curious that forms, which a true poet has drawn in the way I have just

instanced, appear to _costume_ themselves of their own accord, just in

the way most appropriate to their characters."

"Yes," said Ottmar, "and that is the case in actual life as well.

Doubtless we have all felt most distinctly, with respect to characters

we have met, that those people could not have been dressed differently,

to be in keeping with their inner being; that such and such a man could

not have had on another sort of hat or coat than he actually had. That

this is the case is not so wonderful, as that we should see that it is

so."

"But don't you think it is only because we notice it, that it happens?"

interrupted Cyprian.

"Oh! unapproachable subtlety!" cried Vincent.

"I cordially agree with all that Lothair has maintained on this

subject," cried Sylvester. "Don't forget, however, that--besides our

meetings and conversations--there is another source of enjoyment which

I miss in the country--one which greatly penetrates and elevates me. I

mean the musical performances, the renderings of the glorious works of

musicians. This very day I heard Beethoven's Mass in C in the Catholic

Church. It made a deep impression on me."

"And that," said Cyprian, moodily, "does not surprise me, just because

to have to do without things of the kind makes one enjoy them the more.

Hunger is the best sauce. To speak candidly, Beethoven--in his Mass in

C--has given us a very charming, I may, perhaps, say a genial, work;

but it is not a Mass. Where is the strict ecclesiastical style?"

"I know, Cyprian," said Theodore, "you only care for the old composers,

and are horrified at the sight of a black note in a church-score; and

that you are unjustly strict and severe in your opinions about the more

modern church music."

"At the same time," said Lothair, "I think there is too much of the

jubilant--of earthly rejoicing--in Beethoven's Mass. I should very much

like to know wherein the utter diverseness of the spirit in which the

masters have composed the different portion of the Mass lies; they

contrast with each other in their treatment of it so completely!"

"Exactly," said Sylvester, "that is what has so often struck me, too,

as inexplicable. One would suppose, for example, that the words,

'_Benedictus qui venit in nomine domini_' could only be set in the same

sort of pious, tranquil style. Yet, I not only know that they have been

set in the most diverse manners by the greatest masters, but also

that--penetrated by the most diverse feelings--I can never think the

setting of them, by this or by the other great writer, to be in any way

a mistake. Theodore might, perhaps, enlighten us to this."

"I should be glad to do so as far as I can," said Theodore, "but I

should have to deliver a little lecture on the subject, and I fear it

would be too serious to fit well in with the facetious tone in which

our conversation began."

"It is true Serapionism that jest and earnest should alternate," said

Ottmar; "so please to deliver yourself confidently, Theodore, on a

subject in which we are all so deeply interested; except, perhaps,

Vincent, who knows nothing about music."

Theodore accordingly went on, as follows:

"Prayer and worship doubtless affect the mind according to its

predominant, or even momentary, mood, or tuning--as this results from

physical or mental well-being, comfort, happiness, or suffering. So

that, at one time, prayer or worship is inward contrition--even to

self-despite and shame, grovelling in the dust before the lightnings of

the Lord of the worlds, angry with the sinner; and, at another time,

vigorous elevation towards the infinite; child-like trust in the

mercy of the Omnipotent, anticipation of the promised bliss. The

words of the Mass present--in their cycle--merely the occasion--the

opportunity--or, at highest, the _clue_, for devotion, and will awaken

the due concord in the soul, according to its frame of thought at the

time. In the Kyrie, God's mercy is implored; the Gloria celebrates His

omnipotence and majesty; the Credo gives expression to the faith on

which the pious soul firmly builds; and after--in the Sanctus and the

Benedictus--the holiness of God has been exalted, and blessings

promised to those who approach Him in confident faith; prayer is

offered, in the Agnus and the Dona, to the Mediator, that He may send

down His peace and gladness to the believing soul. Now even (to begin

with), on account of this very universality (which in no way encroaches

upon the inner significance, and the deeper application which each one

lays into it, according to his own peculiar condition of mind and

conscience), the text lends and adapts itself to the most infinite

variety of musical treatment; and this is the reason why there are

Kyries, Glorias, &c., so widely dissimilar in character, tone, and the

rest. For instance, one has but to compare the Kyries in Haydn's Masses

in C major and D minor; also his Benedictuses. From this it follows

that the composer who (as ought always to be the case) sets to work,

inspired with true devoutness, to write a Mass, will let the individual

religious attunement of his own mind predominate (all the words being

ready to adapt themselves to that); not suffering himself to be led

away in the Miserere, the Gloria, Qui Tollis, and so forth, into a

many-tinted medley of the most heart-rending sorrow of the contrite

heart, with jubilant clangour and jingle. All works of the latter sort,

which, in recent times, there have been numbers of, carpentered

together in the most frivolous fashion, are abortions, engendered by

impure minds; and I reject them just as unhesitatingly as Cyprian does.

But I render deep admiration to the glorious church compositions of

Michael and Joseph Haydn, Hasse, Neumann, and others, not forgetting

the old works of the pious Italian masters, Leo, Durante, Benevoli,

Perli, and others, whose lofty, beautiful, noble simplicity, whose

wonderful power of impressing the very depths of the soul by their

simple modulations, wholly devoid of strikingness of display, seem to

constitute an art which is altogether lost in recent (and _most_

recent,) times. Without desiring to adhere to the early, primitive,

pure church style, merely because what is holy disdains the varied

dress of mundane niceties of subtlety, one cannot--to begin with--doubt

that _simple_ music has a better effect, musically speaking, in

churches, than that which is elaborate; for the more rapidly notes

succeed one another the more they are lost in the lofty spaces of

buildings, so that the whole effect becomes confused and

unintelligible. Hence, in a measure, the grand effect of Chorales in

church. I unconditionally agree with you, Cyprian, as to the

superiority of the noble church music of ancient times over that

of recent date, just on account of its constantly maintaining its

truly holy style. At the same time, I think that the richness and

fulness which music has gained in more recent times--chiefly by the

introduction of instruments--should be made use of in churches, not to

produce mere idle display, but in a noble and worthy manner. Perhaps

the bold simile--that the old church music of the Italians holds

somewhat the same relation to that of the more modern Germans as Saint

Peter's at Rome holds to Strasburg Cathedral--may not be inapt. The

grandiose proportions of Saint Peter's elevate the mind, because it

finds them commensurable; but the beholder gazes with a strange inward

disquiet upon the Strasburg Minster, as it soars aloft in the most

daring curves, and the most wondrous interfacings of varied, fantastic

forms and ornamentation. And this very unrest awakens a sense of the

Unknown, the Marvellous; and the spirit readily yields itself to this

dream, in which it seems to recognise the Super-earthly, the Unending.

Now this is exactly the effect of that purely romantic element which

pervades Mozart and Haydn's compositions. It is easy to see that it

would not, now, be a very simple matter for a composer to write a

church composition in the lofty, simple style of the old Italians.

Without saying that the real, pious faith which gave to those masters

the power to proclaim the holiest of the holy in those earnest, noble

strains may probably seldom dwell in the hearts of artists in more

modern times, it is enough to refer to that incapacity which results

from the lack of true genius, and, similarly, from the absence of

self-renunciation. Is it not in the most absolute simplicity that real

genius plies its pinions the most wonderfully? But who does not

take delight in letting the treasure which he possesses glitter

before the eyes of all? Who is content with the approval of the

rare _knowers_--the few in whose eyes that which is truly good and

successful work is the more precious--or rather, the only precious,

work? The reason why there is scarcely what can be termed 'a style'

remaining, is that people have everywhere taken to employing the same

means of expression. We often hear solemn Themas stalking majestically

along in comic operas, playful little ditties in opera seria, and

masses and oratorios of operatic cut in the churches. Now the proper

application--ecclesiastically--of musical figuration, and all the

resources of instrumentation, demands a rare degree of genius, and an

exceptional profundity of intellect. Mozart--gallant and courtier-like

as he is in his two well-known Masses in C major--has, nevertheless,

solved this problem magnificently in his Requiem. For that is romantic

sacred music, proceeding from the depths of the master's heart and

soul; and I have no need to say how finely Haydn, too, speaks in his

Masses of the highest and holiest things; although he cannot be

acquitted of a good deal of trifling--writing for writing's sake--here

and there. As soon as I knew that Beethoven had written a Mass, and

before I had heard or read a note of it, I felt certain that, as

regards the style and general moulding, the master had taken old Joseph

Haydn as his model. Yet I found I was wrong, as regards the manner in

which he had apprehended the text of the Mass. His genius generally

prefers to employ the levers of awe and terror; so, thought I, the

vision of the super-earthly will have filled his soul with awe, and

this is what he will speak out in his music. On the contrary, the whole

work expresses a mind filled with childlike clearness and happiness,

which, building on its purity, confides in faith on the grace of God,

and prays to Him as to a father who wills the best for his children,

and hears their petitions. From this point of view, the general

character of the composition, its inner structure, and intelligent

instrumentation, are quite worthy of the master's genius, when

considered as a composition meant to be employed in the service of the

Church."