Adrian found that the Becchino had taken care that famine should not
forestall the plague; the banquet of the dead was removed, and
fresh viands and wines of all kinds,--for there was plenty then in
Florence!--spread the table. He partook of the refreshment, though but
sparingly, and shrinking from repose in beds beneath whose gorgeous
hangings Death had been so lately busy, carefully closed door and
window, wrapped himself in his mantle, and found his resting-place on
the cushions of the chamber in which he had supped. Fatigue cast him
into an unquiet slumber, from which he was suddenly awakened by the
roll of a cart below, and the jingle of bells. He listened, as the cart
proceeded slowly from door to door, and at length its sound died away in
the distance.--He slept no more that night!
The sun had not long risen ere he renewed his labours; and it was yet
early when, just as he passed a church, two ladies richly dressed came
from the porch, and seemed through their vizards to regard the young
Cavalier with earnest attention. The gaze arrested him also, when one of
the ladies said, “Fair sir, you are overbold: you wear no mask; neither
do you smell to flowers.”
“Lady, I wear no mask, for I would be seen: I search these miserable
places for one in whose life I live.”
“He is young, comely, evidently noble, and the plague hath not touched
him: he will serve our purpose well,” whispered one of the ladies to the
other.
“You echo my own thoughts,” returned her companion; and then turning to
Adrian, she said, “You seek one you are not wedded to, if you seek so
fondly?”
“It is true.”
“Young and fair, with dark hair and neck of snow; I will conduct you to
her.”
“Signor!”
“Follow us!”
“Know you who I am, and whom I seek?”
“Yes.”
“Can you in truth tell me aught of Irene?”
“I can: follow me.”
“To her?”
“Yes, yes: follow us!”
The ladies moved on as if impatient of further parley. Amazed, doubtful,
and, as if in a dream, Adrian followed them. Their dress, manner, and
the pure Tuscan of the one who had addressed him, indicated them of
birth and station; but all else was a riddle which he could not solve.
They arrived at one of the bridges, where a litter and a servant on
horseback holding a palfrey by the bridle were in attendance. The ladies
entered the litter, and she who had before spoken bade Adrian follow on
the palfrey.
“But tell me--” he began.
“No questions, Cavalier,” said she, impatiently; “follow the living in
silence, or remain with the dead, as you list.”
With that the litter proceeded, and Adrian mounted the palfrey
wonderingly, and followed his strange conductors, who moved on at a
tolerably brisk pace. They crossed the bridge, left the river on one
side, and, soon ascending a gentle acclivity, the trees and flowers
of the country began to succeed dull walls and empty streets. After
proceeding thus somewhat less than half an hour, they turned up a green
lane remote from the road, and came suddenly upon the porticoes of a
fair and stately palace. Here the ladies descended from their litter;
and Adrian, who had vainly sought to extract speech from the attendant,
also dismounted, and following them across a spacious court, filled on
either side with vases of flowers and orange-trees, and then through a
wide hall in the farther side of the quadrangle, found himself in one of
the loveliest spots eye ever saw or poet ever sung. It was a garden plot
of the most emerald verdure, bosquets of laurel and of myrtle opened on
either side into vistas half overhung with clematis and rose, through
whose arcades the prospect closed with statues and gushing fountains; in
front, the lawn was bounded by rows of vases on marble pedestals filled
with flowers, and broad and gradual flights of steps of the whitest
marble led from terrace to terrace, each adorned with statues and
fountains, half way down a high but softly sloping and verdant hill.
Beyond, spread in wide, various, and luxurious landscape, the vineyards
and olive-groves, the villas and villages, of the Vale of Arno,
intersected by the silver river, while the city, in all its calm, but
without its horror, raised its roofs and spires to the sun. Birds of
every hue and song, some free, some in net-work of golden wire, warbled
round; and upon the centre of the sward reclined four ladies unmasked
and richly dressed, the eldest of whom seemed scarcely more than twenty;
and five cavaliers, young and handsome, whose jewelled vests and golden
chains attested their degree. Wines and fruits were on a low table
beside; and musical instruments, chess-boards, and gammon-tables, lay
scattered all about. So fair a group, and so graceful a scene, Adrian
never beheld but once, and that was in the midst of the ghastly
pestilence of Italy!--such group and such scene our closet indolence may
yet revive in the pages of the bright Boccaccio!
On seeing Adrian and his companions approach, the party rose instantly;
and one of the ladies, who wore upon her head a wreath of laurel-leaves,
stepping before the rest, exclaimed, “well done, my Mariana! welcome
back, my fair subjects. And you, sir, welcome hither.”
The two guides of the Colonna had by this time removed their masks; and
the one who had accosted him, shaking her long and raven ringlets over a
bright, laughing eye and a cheek to whose native olive now rose a slight
blush, turned to him ere he could reply to the welcome he had received.
“Signor Cavalier,” said she, “you now see to what I have decoyed you.
Own that this is pleasanter than the sights and sounds of the city we
have left. You gaze on me in surprise. See, my Queen, how speechless
the marvel of your court has made our new gallant; I assure you he
could talk quickly enough when he had only us to confer with: nay, I was
forced to impose silence on him.”
“Oh! then you have not yet informed him of the custom and origin of the
court he enters!” quoth she of the laurel wreath.
“No, my Queen; I thought all description given in such a spot as our
poor Florence now is would fail of its object. My task is done, I resign
him to your Grace!”
So saying the lady tripped lightly away, and began coquettishly sleeking
her locks in the smooth mirror of a marble basin, whose waters trickled
over the margin upon the grass below, ever and anon glancing archly
towards the stranger, and sufficiently at hand to overhear all that was
said.
“In the first place, Signor, permit us to inquire,” said the lady who
bore the appellation of Queen, “thy name, rank, and birth-place.”
“Madam,” returned Adrian, “I came hither little dreaming to answer
questions respecting myself; but what it pleases you to ask, it must
please me to reply to. My name is Adrian di Castello, one of the Roman
house of the Colonna.”
“A noble column of a noble house!” answered the Queen. “For us,
respecting whom your curiosity may perhaps be aroused, know that we six
ladies of Florence, deserted by or deprived of our kin and protectors,
formed the resolution to retire to this palace, where, if death comes,
it comes stripped of half its horrors; and as the learned tell us that
sadness engenders the awful malady, so you see us sworn foes to sadness.
Six cavaliers of our acquaintance agreed to join us. We pass our days,
whether many or few, in whatever diversions we can find or invent. Music
and the dance, merry tales and lively songs, with such slight change of
scene as from sward to shade, from alley to fountain, fill up our time,
and prepare us for peaceful sleep and happy dreams. Each lady is by
turns Queen of our fairy court, as is my lot this day. One law forms the
code of our constitution--that nothing sad shall be admitted. We would
live as if yonder city were not, and as if (added the fair Queen, with a
slight sigh) youth, grace, and beauty, could endure for ever. One of our
knights madly left us for a day, promising to return; we have seen him
no more; we will not guess what hath chanced to him. It became necessary
to fill up his place; we drew lots who should seek his substitute;
it fell upon the ladies who have--not, I trust, to your
displeasure--brought you hither. Fair sir, my explanation is made.”
“Alas, lovely Queen,” said Adrian, wrestling strongly, but vainly,
with the bitter disappointment he felt--“I cannot be one of your happy
circle; I am in myself a violation of your law. I am filled with but one
sad and anxious thought, to which all mirth would seem impiety. I am a
seeker amongst the living and the dead for one being of whose fate I
am uncertain; and it was only by the words that fell from my fair
conductor, that I have been decoyed hither from my mournful task. Suffer
me, gracious lady, to return to Florence.”
The Queen looked in mute vexation towards the dark-eyed Mariana,
who returned the glance by one equally expressive, and then suddenly
stepping up to Adrian she said,--
“But, Signor, if I should still keep my promise, if I should be able to
satisfy thee of the health and safety of--of Irene.”
“Irene!” echoed Adrian in surprise, forgetful at the moment that he had
before revealed the name of her he sought--“Irene--Irene di Gabrini,
sister of the once renowned Rienzi!”
“The same,” replied Mariana, quickly; “I know her, as I told you. Nay,
Signor, I do not deceive thee. It is true that I cannot bring thee to
her; but better as it is,--she went away many days ago to one of the
towns of Lombardy, which, they say, the Pestilence has not yet pierced.
Now, noble sir, is not your heart lightened? and will you so soon be a
deserter from the Court of Loveliness; and perhaps,” she added, with a
soft look from her large dark eyes, “of Love?”
“Dare I, in truth, believe you, Lady?” said Adrian, all delighted, yet
still half doubting.
“Would I deceive a true lover, as methinks you are? Be assured. Nay,
Queen, receive your subject.”
The Queen extended her hand to Adrian, and led him to the group that
still stood on the grass at a little distance. They welcomed him as a
brother, and soon forgave his abstracted courtesies, in compliment to
his good mien and illustrious name.
The Queen clapped her hands, and the party again ranged themselves
on the sward. Each lady beside each gallant. “You, Mariana, if not
fatigued,” said the Queen, “shall take the lute and silence these noisy
grasshoppers, which chirp about us with as much pretension as if they
were nightingales. Sing, sweet subject, sing; and let it be the song our
dear friend, Signor Visdomini, (I know not if this be the same Visdomini
who, three years afterwards, with one of the Medici, conducted so
gallant a reinforcement to Scarperia, then besieged by Visconti
d’Oleggio.) made for a kind of inaugural anthem to such as we admitted
to our court.”
Mariana, who had reclined herself by the side of Adrian, took up the
lute, and, after a short prelude, sung the words thus imperfectly
translated:--
The Song of the Florentine Lady.
Enjoy the more the smiles of noon If doubtful be the morrow; And know
the Fort of Life is soon Betray’d to Death by Sorrow!
Death claims us all--then, Grief, away! We’ll own no meaner master; The
clouds that darken round the day But bring the night the faster.
Love--feast--be merry while on earth, Such, Grave, should be thy moral!
Ev’n Death himself is friends with Mirth, And veils the tomb with
laurel. (At that time, in Italy, the laurel was frequently planted over
the dead.)
While gazing on the eyes I love, New life to mine is given--If joy the
lot of saints above, Joy fits us best for Heaven.
To this song, which was much applauded, succeeded those light and witty
tales in which the Italian novelists furnished Voltaire and Marmontel
with a model--each, in his or her turn, taking up the discourse, and
with an equal dexterity avoiding every lugubrious image or mournful
reflection that might remind those graceful idlers of the vicinity of
Death. At any other time the temper and accomplishments of the young
Lord di Castello would have fitted him to enjoy and to shine in that
Arcadian court. But now he in vain sought to dispel the gloom from
his brow, and the anxious thought from his heart. He revolved the
intelligence he had received, wondered, guessed, hoped, and dreaded
still; and if for a moment his mind returned to the scene about him, his
nature, too truly poetical for the false sentiment of the place,
asked itself in what, save the polished exterior and the graceful
circumstance, the mirth that he now so reluctantly witnessed differed
from the brutal revels in the convent of Santa Maria--each alike in its
motive, though so differing in the manner--equally callous and equally
selfish, coining horror into enjoyment. The fair Mariana, whose partner
had been reft from her, as the Queen had related, was in no mind to lose
the new one she had gained. She pressed upon him from time to time the
wine-flask and the fruits; and in those unmeaning courtesies her
hand gently lingered upon his. At length, the hour arrived when the
companions retired to the Palace, during the fiercer heats of noon--to
come forth again in the declining sun, to sup by the side of the
fountain, to dance, to sing, and to make merry by torchlight and the
stars till the hour of rest. But Adrian, not willing to continue the
entertainment, no sooner found himself in the apartment to which he
was conducted, than he resolved to effect a silent escape, as under
all circumstances the shortest, and not perhaps the least courteous,
farewell left to him. Accordingly, when all seemed quiet and hushed in
the repose common to the inhabitants of the South during that hour, he
left his apartment, descended the stairs, passed the outer court, and
was already at the gate, when he heard himself called by a voice that
spoke vexation and alarm. He turned to behold Mariana.
“Why, how now, Signor di Castello, is our company so unpleasing, is our
music so jarring, or are our brows so wrinkled, that you should fly as
the traveller flies from the witches he surprises at Benevento? Nay, you
cannot mean to leave us yet?”
“Fair dame,” returned the cavalier, somewhat disconcerted, “it is in
vain that I seek to rally my mournful spirits, or to fit myself for the
court to which nothing sad should come. Your laws hang about me like a
culprit--better timely flight than harsh expulsion.”
As he spoke he moved on, and would have passed the gate, but Mariana
caught his arm.
“Nay,” said she, softly; “are there no eyes of dark light, and no neck
of wintry snow, that can compensate to thee for the absent one? Tarry
and forget, as doubtless in absence even thou art forgotten!”
“Lady,” answered Adrian, with great gravity, not unmixed with an
ill-suppressed disdain, “I have not sojourned long enough amidst the
sights and sounds of woe, to blunt my heart and spirit into callousness
to all around. Enjoy, if thou canst, and gather the rank roses of the
sepulchre; but to me, haunted still by funeral images, Beauty fails to
bring delight, and Love,--even holy love--seems darkened by the Shadow
of Death. Pardon me, and farewell.”
“Go, then,” said the Florentine, stung and enraged at his coldness; “go
and find your mistress amidst the associations on which it pleases your
philosophy to dwell. I did but deceive thee, blind fool! as I had hoped
for thine own good, when I told thee Irene--(was that her name?)--was
gone from Florence. Of her I know nought, and heard nought, save from
thee. Go back and search the vault, and see whether thou lovest her
still!”